“Louie ’asn’t come in yet, Bertie,” she said, and the lacking aspirate sent a blush to Winnie’s cheek. “Fine day, isn’t it?” she added, by way of beginning the conversation.
Winnie agreed that it was, and Bertram suggested that they should have tea at once.
“It’s all ready,” said his mother.
She looked somewhat uncertainly at the bell, as though not sure whether it would be discreet to ring, and gave her son a questioning glance. Then, making up her mind, she pulled it.
The shrill sound was heard easily in the parlour, and Mrs. Railing remarked complacently: “It ’as rung.”
But there was no other answer than the sound of voices in the kitchen.
“Is any one here?” asked Bertram.
“Mrs. Cooper popped in to see me, and she’s been ’elpin’ me get the tea ready.”
Bertram’s face darkened, and his mother turned to Winnie with an explanation.
“Bertie can’t abide Mrs. Cooper, somehow,” she said, in her voluble, good-tempered way. “You don’t know Mrs. Cooper, do you? She lives in Shepherd’s Bush. Such a nice woman, and a thorough lady!”
“Oh, yes,” said Winnie, politely.
“But Bertie can’t abide ’er. I don’t deny that she does take a little drop more than’s good for ’er; but she’s ’ad a rare lot of trouble.”
Bertram said nothing, and in an awkward pause they waited for the tea.
“I think I’d better go an’ see if anything ’as ’appened,” said Mrs. Railing. “We don’t generally ’ave tea in here, except when we ’ave company. And that girl of mine can’t be trusted to do anything unless I’m watchin’ of her all the time.”
But Railing rang the bell again impatiently. After a further sound of voices raised in acrimonious dispute, the door was opened about six inches, and the dishevelled head of a frowsy girl was thrust in.
“D’you want anything?”
“Do I want anything!” cried Mrs. Railing, indignantly, “I suppose you think I ring the bell for me ’ealth! I suppose I’ve got nothing better to do than to ring the bell all day long. Didn’t I tell you to bring the tea the moment that Bertie come in?”
“Well, I’m bringing it,” came from the head, crossly, and the door was closed with a bang.
“Oh, them girls!” said Mrs. Railing. “They’re more trouble than they’re worth, and that’s the truth. The number of girls I’ve ’ad—well, I couldn’t count ’em. They eat you out of ’ouse and ’ome, and they’re always grumbling, and you ’ave to pay ’em five shillings now—they won’t come for less—and they’re not worth it. I ’ave to do all the work meself. And they’re that particular in their eating, I never see anything like it. They must ’ave the best of everything, just the same as we ’ave, if you please.”
Mrs. Railing’s red face grew redder still as she described the tribulations which attend the mistress of servants.
“She broke another plate to-day, Bertie,” she said. “I shall give ’er notice this week. If she stays ’ere much longer I shan’t ’ave a plate in the ’ouse.”
There was a knock at the door, with a clatter of cups, and Mrs. Railing opened it. A tall gaunt woman carefully brought in the tray with the tea things. She wore a bonnet and a shabby cloak, decorated with black beads.
“Oh, you’ve not brought it yourself, Mrs. Cooper!” cried Mrs. Railing, hastily taking the tray from her. “Why didn’t you let the girl bring it? What’s she here for? And I pay ’er five shillings a week.”
“Oh, I thought she’d break something.”
Mrs. Cooper gave Winnie an inquisitive look and turned to go.
“Now you’re not going, Mrs. Cooper?”
“I know where I’m not wanted, Mrs. Railing,” replied the other, with a sour glance at Bertram.
“Now don’t say that, Mrs. Cooper. You don’t want ’er to go, Bertie, do you?”
“I should be pleased if you’d stay and have tea, Mrs. Cooper,” said Bertram, driven into a corner.
“I’ve ’ad ’im in me arms many a time when ’e was a baby,” said Mrs. Cooper, with a defiant glare at Bertram. “An’ I’ve bath’d ’im.”
Mrs. Railing stirred the tea, put milk in each cup, and poured out.
“I ’ope you won’t mind if it’s not very grand,” said she to Winnie, apologetically.
“Not the Queen of England could make a better cup of tea than you, Mrs. Railing,” replied Mrs. Cooper, sitting down with a certain aggressiveness.
“Well, I ’ave got a silver tea-pot,” said Mrs. Railing, smiling proudly. “Bertie and Louie gave it me only last week for me birthday.”
Mrs. Cooper sniffed and pursed her lips.
“I don’t know why you call it silver, when it’s not ’all-marked, Mrs. Railing,” she said.
“And I know it’s not that because I’ve looked.”
“It’s electro-plate, but we call it silver by courtesy,” laughed Bertram.
“I’m a woman as calls a spade a spade,” answered Mrs. Cooper, with sombre dignity.
The bread was cut with the best intentions, but it was thick and plastered with slabs of butter. The tea, by way of showing hospitality, was so strong that no amount of sugar could remove the bitterness.
“I say, what a beautiful cake!” cried Bertram.
“I made it with my own ’ands,” said Mrs. Railing, much gratified.
“There’s no one like mother for making cakes,” said Bertram, regaining his spirits, which had been damped by the appearance of Mrs. Cooper.
But this remark was taken by that lady as a deliberate slight to herself.
“You’ve got no cause to say that, Bertie,” she remarked, bitterly. “Many’s the cake you’ve eaten of my making in my ’ouse at Shepherd’s Bush. And they was quite good enough for you then.”
“You make excellent cakes too, Mrs. Cooper,” he answered.
But she was not to be so easily appeased.
“I take it very ’ard that you should treat me like this, Bertie,” she added, in a lachrymose way. “And you wouldn’t ’ave been alive to-day if it ’adn’t been for me.”
“No, that you wouldn’t, Bertie!” acknowledged his mother.
“I’ll tell you ’ow it was,” said Mrs. Cooper, turning to Winnie. “I just popped in ’ere to ’ave a little chat with Mrs. Railing, and there was Bertie in such a state—I never see anything like it. He ’ad convulsions and he was blue all over, and stiff. Oh, he was a sight, I can tell you. Well, ’e was only four months old and Mrs. Railing was in a rare state. You see, ’e was ’er first and she didn’t know what to do no more than a cat would. And I said: ‘It’s no good sending for the doctor, Mrs. Railing,’ I said, ‘he’ll be dead before the doctor comes. You put ’im in a ’ot bath,’ I said, ‘with a pinch of mustard in it.’ And it saved ’is little life.”
“I will say that for you, Mrs. Cooper, you do know what to do with babies,” said Mrs. Railing.
“And I take it very ’ard that ’e should call me a drunken old woman,” added Mrs. Cooper, putting a handkerchief to her eyes. “I’ve known you for thirty years, Mrs. Railing, and I ask you, ’ave you ever seen me with more than I can carry?”
“That I ’aven’t, Mrs. Cooper, and you mustn’t mind what Bertie says. He didn’t mean to speak sharply to you.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Railing, and I never thought I should live to ’ear Bertie say such things to me. Last time I come ’ere, he said: ‘Don’t you come to my ’ouse again, Mrs. Cooper. You’re a drunken old woman.’ ”
The tears coursed down her cheeks and she blew her nose loudly.
“And I’ve ’ad ’im to stay in my ’ouse at Shepherd’s Bush over and over again. And I used to wash ’im meself, and comb his ’air, and I made a rare lot of ’im. I take it very ’ard that he should say I’m not to pop in and ’ave a chat with an old friend when I’m in the neighbourhood.”
Bertram looked at her anxiously, afraid to speak in case there was a scene. But this apparently was just what Mrs. Cooper wanted.
“I’ve ’ad a very ’ard life,” she said, with maudlin tears, “I’ve ’ad a lot of trouble with my ’usband, and I’ve brought up seven children—and brought them all up to earn their own living. And if I do take a little drop now and then it’s because I want it. And I don’t take gin like some people do.”
This was obviously a home thrust, for Mrs. Railing, with a gasp, drew herself together like a war-horse panting for the fray.
“I don’t know what you mean by that, Mrs. Cooper. But no one can call me a drunken old woman.”
“I know all about you, Mrs. Railing. And I know a great deal more than Bertie does, and if he wants to know I’ll tell him.”
Mrs. Railing turned so purple that it was quite alarming.
“Oh, you’re a wicked woman, Mrs. Cooper, and what your ’usband said to me only the week before last is quite true. Your ’usband ’ad something to put up with, I lay, and ’e’s told me over and over again what sort of a lady you are.”
“Now then, mother, for Heaven’s sake don’t quarrel with her now,” cried Bertram.
“And what did my ’usband say to you, Mrs. Railing?”
“Never you mind, Mrs. Cooper; I’m not one to go and repeat what’s been said to me privately.”
Winnie had watched them with increasing alarm, and now, growing terrified, as there seemed every prospect of a battle royal, stood up.
“Bertram, it’s time for me to go away.”
“I’ll take you to the station,” he said, pale with anger.
Winnie shook hands with Bertram’s mother, ruffled and hot; but pointedly ignored Mrs. Cooper. She walked past her as though no one was in the way.
When they were in the street Bertram turned to her with pleading eyes.
“I’m so sorry this has happened, darling. I had no idea that awful person would be here. My mother’s the best creature in the world, but she’s had a very hard time, and, like many women of that age, is inclined sometimes to drink a little more than is good for her. My sister and I are trying to get her to become a teetotaller. And Mrs. Cooper leads her on. I’ve told her never to come to the house, but my mother doesn’t like to hurt her feelings. She made that horrible scene just to spite me, because you were here.”
“It doesn’t much matter, does it?” said Winnie, very wearily. “I’m not going to marry your relations.”
“You’re not angry with me, dearest?”
“Not at all,” said Winnie, forcing a smile to her lips. “Please get me a cab; I’ll drive home.”
“It’s too far, dearest; you must go by train. A cab would cost you a fortune.”
“Well, what does it matter?” she answered, irritably. “I can afford to pay for it.”
“I’m afraid there won’t be one here. You see, it’s so out of the world.”
“Must I walk all the way along those dreary roads to the station?”
“It’s not far.”
They went in silence, both of them very unhappy, and Winnie angry as well, angry with herself and with all the world.
And when at length they came again to the High Street, the scene in Winnie’s eye had changed its hue. The din of the traffic was insufferable to her ears, and the press of people, making it difficult to thread one’s way, irritated her insanely. In their faces she saw now only a stupid mediocrity; and the petty cares which occupied them stamped their features with commonness. The gay shops were become sordid and mean. Jewellers showed silver bangles and silver brooches, low-priced and tawdry, red and green glass which masqueraded impudently under the beautiful names of emerald and ruby. Milliners offered the purchaser hats and bonnets in loud colours, imitating inexpensively what they thought the fashion of Paris. Other shops exposed the hideous details of commonplace existence, pots and pans, mangles, crockery, brushes and brooms. All things which artists had touched with their fashioning fingers, carpets, and furniture, pictures and statuettes, were cheaply parodied. Nowhere could be found restraint or modesty, but everything was flaunting and pretentious, gaudy, cheap and vulgar.
Winnie bit her lip to prevent herself from speaking, but what she wished to say was this:
“How can you talk of ideals with these people who only want to make a show, whose needs are so ignoble and paltry? Their very faces tell you how little they care for beauty, and grace, and virtue.”
At the station Bertram asked uncertainly whether she would not like him to accompany her to South Kensington.
“Please not!” she answered. “I can get home quite well alone. Will you excess my ticket?”
They had come third class, but now she wished to be in a carriage by herself. He put her in when the train came, and wistfully leaned forward.
“Won’t you kiss me, dearest?”
Listlessly, with unsmiling mouth, she offered her lips. He kissed them, with eyes painfully yearning; but she, for the moment the train still lingered, kept hers averted.
“I’m so dreadfully tired,” she said by way of excuse.
Quickly the guard whistled, and the train steamed away. Winnie, thankful at last to be alone, huddled into the corner as though to hide herself. She burst out weeping, passionately, hopelessly.
X
CANON SPRATTE was dispirited. Certain words which Lady Sophia had used in a discussion upon Winnie’s engagement dwelt in his mind with discomforting persistence. The deliberate fashion with which she spoke gave a peculiar authority to her sayings; and though he roundly scoffed at them, the Canon could not help the feeling of uneasiness they left behind.
“After all, you can say what you like, Theodore, but in point of fact we belong to just the same class as Bertram Railing. Are you sure that Winnie is not merely sinking to our proper level? It’s a tendency with families like ours, that have come up in the world; and with most of us, to keep up our nobility is just swimming against the stream.”
“You’re mixing your metaphors, Sophia, and I haven’t an idea what you mean.”
“Well, in our heart of hearts we’re bourgeois, we’re desperately bourgeois. But I suspect it’s just the same with others as it is with us. In the last fifty years so many tinkers, tailors, and spectacle-makers have pitchforked themselves into the upper classes; and very few of them are quite at home. Some are continually on the alert to uphold their dignity, trying to hide by the stupid pretentiousness of a bogus genealogy in Burke, the grandfather who was a country attorney, or a plate-layer, or a groom. Some, with the energy still in them of all those ancestors who were honest shopkeepers or artisans, throw themselves from sheer boredom into every kind of dissipation.”
“You talk like a Radical tub-thumper,” said Canon Spratte, with disdain.
Lady Sophia shrugged her shoulders.
“And after all, however much they struggle, the majority, sooner or later, sink back into the ranks of the middle classes. And, once there, with what a comfortable ease they wallow!”
“Facilis descensus Averni,” he murmured.
“Lord Stonehenge can make earldoms and baronies galore, but what’s the good when the instincts of these new noblemen, their habits and virtues and vices, are bourgeois to the very marrow!”
Lady Sophia looked at her brother for an indignant denial of these statements, but to her surprise he answered nothing. He was very thoughtful.
“Don’t you know shoals of them?” she said. “Young men who would make quite passable doctors or fairly honest lawyers, and who wear their hereditary honours like clothes several sizes too large for them? They meander through life aimlessly, like fish out of water. Look at Sir Peter Mason, whose father was President of some medical body at the Jubilee, and managed with difficulty to scrape up the needful thirty thousand pounds to accept a baronetcy. Peter was then a medical student whose ambition it was to buy a little practice in the country and marry his cousin Bertha. Well, now he’s a baronet and Bertha thinks it bad form that he should drive about in a dog-cart to see patients at five shillings a visit. So they live in Essex because it’s cheap, and try to keep up their dignity on a thousand a year, and they’re desperately bored. Have you never met rather dowdy girls who’ve spent their lives in Bayswater or in some small dull terrace at South Kensington, till their father in the see-saw of politics was made a peer? How clumsily they bear their twopenny titles, how self-consciously! And with what relief they marry some obscure young man in the City!”
Canon Spratte looked at his sister for a moment, and when he answered, it was only by a visible effort that his voice remained firm.
“Sophia, if Winnie marries beneath her it will break my heart.”
“Yes, you’re the other sort of nouvelle noblesse, Theodore: you’re the sort that’s always struggling to get on equal terms with the old.”
“Sophia, Sophia!”
“What do you suppose Lady Wroxham said when Harry told her he wanted to marry Winnie?”
“She’s a charming woman and she has a deeply religious spirit, Sophia.”
“Yes, but all the same I have an idea that she raised those thin eyebrows of hers and in that quiet, meek voice, asked: ‘Winnie Spratte, Harry? Do you think the Sprattes are quite up to your form?’ ”
“I should think it extremely snobbish if she said anything of the sort,” retorted the Canon, with all his old fire.
The conversation dropped, but he could not help it if some of these observations rankled. Lionel, on whom depended the future of the stock, proposed to marry a brewer’s daughter, and Winnie was positively engaged to a man of no family. It looked indeed as though his children were sinking back into the ranks whence with so much trouble his father had emerged. Nor did the second Earl conceal his scorn for the family honours. His coronet, with the strawberry leaves and the lifted pearls, he kicked hither and thither, verbally, like a football; and the ermine cloak was a scarlet rag which never ceased to excite his derision.
“I’m the only member of the family who has a proper sense of his dignity,” sighed the Canon.
But when he heard that Winnie, on her return from Peckham Rye, had gone to her room with a headache, he chased away these gloomy thoughts. Even paternal affection could not prevent him from rubbing his hands with satisfaction.
“I thought she wouldn’t be very well after a visit to Mr. Railing’s mamma,” he said.
When she entered the drawing-room he went towards her with outstretched hands.
“Ah, my love, I see you’ve returned safely from the wilds of Peckham. I hope you encountered no savage beasts in those unfrequented parts.”
Winnie, with a little groan of exhaustion, sank into a chair. Her head was aching still and her eyes were red with many tears. Canon Spratte assumed his most affable manner. His voice was a marvel of kindly solicitude, and only in a note here and there was perceptible a suspicion of banter.
“I hope you enjoyed yourself, my pet. You know the only wish I have in the world is to make you happy. And did your prospective mother-in-law take you to her capacious bosom?”
“She was very kind, father.”
“I imagine that she was not exactly polished?”
“I didn’t expect her to be,” answered Winnie, in so dejected a tone that it would have melted the heart of any one less inflexible than Theodore Spratte.
“But I suppose you didn’t really mind that much, did you? True disinterestedness is such a beautiful thing, and in this world, alas! so rare.”
A sullen, defiant look came into Winnie’s face.
“I mean to marry Bertram in spite of everything, papa.”
“My darling, whoever suggested that you shouldn’t? By the way, do they call him Bertie?”
“Yes, they call him Bertie.”
“I thought they would,” answered the Canon, with the triumphant air of a man who has found some important hypothesis verified by fact. “And Mrs. Railing’s husband I think you said was connected with the sea?”
“He was first mate on a collier.”
“Oh, yes. And does she smack of the briny or does she smack of Peckham Rye?”
The Canon burst into song, facetiously, with a seaman’s roll, hoisting his slacks. His singing voice was melodious and full of spirit.
And I’ve never been upon the sea;
And if I fall therein, it’s a fact I couldn’t swim,
And quickly at the bottom I should be.”
He threw back his head gaily.
“My dear, how uncommunicative you are, and I’m dying with curiosity. Tell me all about Mrs. Railing. Aitchless, I presume?”
“Oh, papa, how can you, how can you!” cried Winnie, hardly keeping back the tears.
“My dear, I have no doubt they are rough diamonds, but you mustn’t be discouraged at that. You must make the best of things. Remember that externals are not everything—even in this world. I’m sure the Railings are thoroughly worthy people. It is doubtless possible to eat peas with a knife, and yet to have an excellent heart. One of the most saintly women I ever knew, the old Marquise de Surennes, used invariably to wipe her knife and fork with a table-napkin before eating.”
His words, notwithstanding the tone of great tenderness, were bitter stabs; and Canon Spratte, as he spoke, really could not help admiring his own cleverness.
“I should imagine that your fiancé was devoted to his mother and sister. People of that class always are. You will naturally be a good deal together. In fact, I think it probable that they will make you long and frequent visits. One’s less desirable relations are such patterns of affection; they’re always talking of the beauty of a united family. But I’m quite sure that you’ll soon accustom yourself to their slight eccentricities of diction, to their little vulgarities of manner. Remember always that ‘kind hearts are more than coronets and simple faith than Norman blood.’ ”
But Winnie could hold herself in no longer.
“Oh, they were awful,” she cried, putting her hands to her eyes. “What shall I do? What shall I do?”
Canon Spratte, still in the swing of his rhetoric, stood in front of her. A faint smile was outlined on his lips. Was this the critical moment when the final blow might be effectively delivered? Should he suggest that it was the easiest thing in the world to break off the engagement with Bertram? He hesitated. After all, there was no need to take things hurriedly, and Providence notoriously sided with discretion and the large battalions. If Winnie suffered, it was for her good, and it was a cherished maxim with Canon Spratte that suffering was salutary. He had said in the pulpit frequently, (he was too clever a man to hesitate to repeat himself,) that the human soul was brought to its highest perfection only through distress, mental or bodily.
“Man is ennobled by pain,” he said, looking so handsome that it must have been a cynic indeed who doubted that he spoke sense. “Our character is refined to pure gold. The gross lusts of the flesh, the commonness which is in all of us, the pettiness of spirit, disappear in these profitable afflictions. From a bed of sickness may spring the most delicate flowers of unselfishness, of devotion, and of true saintliness. Do not seek to avoid pain, but accept it as the surest guide to all that is in you of beauty, of heavenliness, and of truth.”
For his own part, when forced to visit his dentist for the extraction of a tooth, he took good care to have gas properly administered.
In the present instance he looked upon himself as a surgeon who applies irritation that the ragged edges of an ulcer may inflame and heal. Possibly there was also in his determination to strike no sudden blow, a certain human weakness from which Canon Spratte often confessed he was not exempt. He had not the heart to interrupt the scheme which he had so ingeniously devised. He was like a debater who has convinced his adversary by the first section of an argument, but for his own pleasure, and in the interests of truth, duly exposes the rest of his contention.
He sat down at the little writing-table which was in the drawing-room and scribbled a note. He took out an envelope.
“By the way, my love, what is the address of dear Mrs. Railing?”
Winnie looked up with astonishment.
“What do you want it for?”
“Come, my darling, it’s nothing improper, I hope.”
“Balmoral, Rosebery Gardens, Gladstone Road.”
“It sounds quite aristocratic,” he said, suavely. “Their Liberalism is evidently a family tradition.”
He fastened the envelope, and, blotting it, rose from the desk.
“I consider it my duty to be as cordial as possible to your future relations, Winnie, and I have a natural curiosity to make their acquaintance. I have asked Mrs. Railing to bring her daughter to tea, and I shall ask your uncle to meet them.”
“Oh, father, you don’t know what they’re like!”
“My dear, I don’t expect to find them highly educated. I take it they are rough diamonds with hearts of gold. I’m prepared to like Mrs. Railing.”
“Papa, don’t ask any one else—she drinks.”
“Well, well, we all have our little failings in this world,” returned the Canon, blandly.
He had gone too far. Winnie gave him a long, keen look, and the old note of defiance came back to her face.
“I hope you don’t think I can ever break my engagement with Bertram. Nothing on earth shall induce me to do that. I’ve given him my solemn promise and I’d sooner die than break it.”
The Canon raised his eyebrows in a very good imitation of complete amazement.
“My dear, I have not the least intention of thwarting you in any way. I think it wrong and even wicked for a father to attempt to influence his children’s matrimonial choice. Their youth and inexperience naturally make them so much more capable of judging for themselves.”
XI
ONE evening, to his sister’s amazement, Canon Spratte volunteered to accompany Winnie to a party. The Vicar of St. Gregory’s was at his best in smaller gatherings, where his personality could more easily make itself felt. He liked an attentive audience; and even one careless pair, more anxious to talk with one another than to hear his sage words, was apt to disconcert him. When he found himself in a crowd, jostled and pushed, able to speak with but one person at a time, and reduced even then to social commonplace, he quickly grew bored. He could only suffer a multitude when from the safe eminence of the pulpit, the first in place as well as in dignity of oratorial machines, he was lifted above the press of mankind. He was assured then of their attentiveness and protected from their interruption.
Winnie was very simply dressed. Her pallor was unusual, but in the soft light of shaded electricity she gained thereby a peculiar delicacy. The pose of her head was a little wearied. The blue eyes were filled with melancholy. The Canon thought her frail beauty had never been seen to greater advantage; and when, alert for all that was proceeding, he saw Wroxham coming towards them, he quickly vanished from her side. He smiled as he noticed the singular way in which the young man held his nose in the air. Wroxham was very short-sighted, and his prominent blue eyes had an odd helplessness of expression. Winnie did not see him. She was watching the throng of dancers, taking a new delight in the gaiety of those many people gathered there in lightness of heart to enjoy the fleeting moments. Never before had she found such satisfaction in the magnificence of the ball-room, hung with red roses, nor in the charming dresses of the women. She could not crush a pang that entered her breast when she thought that all this must be given up, and in sudden contrast she saw the little sordid parlour in Rosebery Gardens. Before her eyes arose the High Street at Peckham with its gaudy shops. It was hideous, hideous, and she shuddered.
Suddenly she heard in her ear a well-known voice.
“Winnie!”
Her pallor gave way before a blush that made her ten times prettier. She did not answer, but looked at Harry. In his eyes, herself quickened by suffering, she thought there was a new sadness, and a great sympathy filled her. If he lacked good looks he had at all events the kindly face of an old friend. And he was admirably dressed. Discovering for the first time that his clothes had never before attracted her attention, she observed now with what an incomparable ease he bore them. The cruel advice of Lady Sophia to get Bertram a good tailor recurred to her, and she remembered the suggestion that he could not wear a frock coat becomingly.
“I wonder if he knows it,” passed through her mind. “Perhaps that’s why he always wears a jacket.”
It was an unwelcome thought that Bertram could be influenced by vain notions, and she upbraided herself for the pettiness of the suspicion. Wroxham, without fear of ridicule and with simplicity, could wear any clothes he chose.
“I knew I should find you here,” he was saying. “You’re not angry with me for coming? I wanted to see you so badly.”
“Good heavens, why should I be angry?” smiled Winnie. “You have just as much right to come as I.”
She could not help being flattered by the passionate love which coloured every word he spoke, and her own voice gained a sweeter tenderness.
“I can’t keep away from you, Winnie. I didn’t know I loved you so much.”
“Oh, don’t, please,” she murmured, “we’ve been friends for ages. It would be absurd if we never saw one another again because—because of the other day. You know I’m always glad to see you.”
“I couldn’t take your answer as final. Oh, I don’t want to bother you and make you miserable, but don’t you care for me at all? Don’t you think that after a time you may get to like me?”
His humility touched Winnie so much that it made her answer very difficult.
“I told you the other day it was impossible.”
“Oh, I know. But then I couldn’t say what I wanted. I couldn’t understand. Like a fool, I thought you cared for me. I loved you so passionately that it seemed impossible I should be nothing to you at all.”
“Please don’t say anything more, Harry,” she said, very gently. “It’s awfully kind of you, and I don’t know how to thank you. But I can’t marry you.”
Wroxham, with a little instinctive motion, set the glasses more firmly on his nose, and looked at her sadly. She smiled.
“Won’t you dance with me?” she said.
His face lit up as he placed his arm round her waist and they began to waltz. The rhythm of the haunting melody carried Winnie’s soul away. She knew that she was giving great happiness, and it filled her with pleasure. The music stopped, and with a sigh of delight she sank into a chair.
“I want to tell you something,” he said presently, with much seriousness. “If ever you change your mind I shall be waiting for you. I can never love any one else. I don’t want you to make any promise or to give me any encouragement. But I shall wait for you. And if ever the time comes that you think you can care for me, you will find me ready and eager to be—your very humble servant.”
“I didn’t know you were so kind,” said she, with tears in her eyes. “I misjudged you, I thought you treated me like a fool. I’m sorry, I want you to be happy. But don’t be wretched because I can’t marry you; I’m not worth troubling about.”
He looked at her fixedly, divining from her tone that something was troubling her.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked.
“No, what should be?” she answered, trying to smile, but blushing to the roots of her hair.
“You’ve been crying.”
“I had a headache. There’s really nothing else.”
It was very hard to resist her impulse to confess that she was already engaged. She wished him to know why she had refused him, and wanted his loving sympathy. But at this moment a partner claimed her for the dance that was just beginning.
“Good-bye,” she whispered, as she left him. “I shall never forget your kindness.”
Wroxham followed her with his eyes, then, puzzled and uncertain, walked towards the door. Canon Spratte did not believe in trusting the affairs of this world to the blind hazard of chance, and it was by no accident that he found himself at this very moment in the young man’s way.
“Ah, my dear fellow, I’m delighted to see you,” he said. “What a crowd, isn’t there? I’ve been dying to find some one to smoke a quiet cigarette with me.”
Wroxham gave him a smile. He felt at once that cordial glow which Canon Spratte invariably suffused on all with whom he came in contact. They went to the smoking-room. Even if Wroxham had been unwilling he would have found it hard to resist the breezy authoritativeness with which the Canon, waiting for no answer, led the way.
“Now let us make ourselves at home.”
He seated himself in the most comfortable arm-chair, and, for all the world as if he were in his own house, pointed Wroxham to another. In his gracious way he offered the young man a cigarette from their host’s box, and having lit his own, smoked for a while in silence. He was willing to let things take their time, and waited contentedly for Wroxham to speak. He set his mind to making a number of admirable smoke rings.
“I’ve been talking to Winnie,” said the other at last, gravely.
“Well? Well?”
“I don’t understand her.”
Canon Spratte put his hand impressively on Wroxham’s knee.
“My dear fellow, there’s nothing to understand. They say that women are incomprehensible. They’re nothing of the sort. I’ve never met a woman that I couldn’t understand at a glance.”
“I fancied she’d been crying,” said Wroxham, shyly.
“All women cry when they have nothing better to do. It’s the only inexpensive form of amusement they have.”
Wroxham knocked the ash off his cigarette with peculiar care.
“I asked her to marry me, Canon Spratte.”
“And of course she refused. That was to be expected. No nice girl accepts a man the first time he proposes to her. My dear Harry, the way with women is to insist. Stand no nonsense from them. Treat them kindly, but firmly. Remember that the majority never know their own minds, and between you and me I think the majority haven’t much to know.”
The Canon was no feminist. It was one of his cherished convictions that women should be kept in their place, which, with regard to the lords of creation, was chiefly the background. He felt that the attitude which best became them was one of submission. Like the natural savage, unspoiled by the vice of civilization, he considered that man should hunt, fight, and be handsome, while the weaker sex toiled for the privilege of contemplating his greatness. He had never imparted these theories to Lady Sophia.
“When you want something from a woman insist upon having it,” he added. “Hammer away and in the long run you’ll get it.”
“But Winnie is so different from other girls,” replied Wroxham, unconvinced.
“Nonsense! Every man thinks the girl he wants to marry different from every other. But she’s nothing of the kind. Women are very much of a muchness, especially the pretty ones. I have no patience with this ranting about the equality of the sexes. It is not only irreligious but vulgar. I lay my faith on the Bible, which tells us that women shall be subject unto man. I’ve never met the woman that I couldn’t turn round my little finger.”
He looked at that particular digit. It was adorned with a handsome ring, on which in all their monstrous fraudulence were the arms of his family. His voice rang with manly scorn.
“No, my dear Harry, you have my full approval. And you have my assurance that Winnie undoubtedly cares for you. What more can you want? Hammer away, my dear sir, hammer away. The proper fashion to deal with a woman is to ask her in season and out of season. Propose to her morning, noon, and night. Worry her as a terrier worries a bone. Insist on marrying her. Sooner or later she’ll say yes, and think herself a prodigious fool for not having done so before.”
“You’re very encouraging,” said the lover, smiling.
Canon Spratte’s cheery vigour was irresistible, and the force of his rhetoric seemed to overcome even material obstacles. But when Wroxham considered the affair he was puzzled. He was a youth of only common intelligence. This the Canon had observed with satisfaction, for he knew that nothing is so prejudicial in the world of politics as to excel the average. It did not appear natural that Winnie should refuse him out of mere virginal coyness, as the hen-bird flies from the nightingale till he has sung his most amorous lays. Her melancholy pointed to something more complex.
“You’re very encouraging,” he repeated, but this time with a sigh.
“There are few men who have more experience in the management of the sex than I,” returned Canon Spratte, with the air of a Sultan who has conducted with unexampled success a seraglio of more than common dimensions. “Now what do you propose to do?”
“I don’t know,” answered Wroxham, somewhat helplessly.
“My dear fellow, God helps those who help themselves,” said the Canon, with sharpness. “You want to marry my little girl and I want you to marry her. I know no one to whom I would sooner entrust her, and when a father says that, I can assure you it means a good deal.”
“But what can I do?”
“Well, well, I see I must help you a little. Come and see us again in a day or two. I’ll drop you a line.”
“I don’t want to be a bore,” said Wroxham.
“I have reason to believe that you’ll find Winnie in a different state of mind. Keep yourself free to come any day I fix. And now go home and have a good night’s sleep.”
Wroxham got up and shook hands. He left the Canon in the smoking-room. The clerical gentleman put down his cigarette and smiled to himself with much self-satisfaction. He sang again softly:
And I’ve never been upon the sea;
And if I fall therein, its a fact I couldn’t swim,
And quickly at the bottom I should be.”
He returned to the ball-room jauntily, and on his way was so fortunate as to meet Mr. Wilson. This was the journalist of much influence in ecclesiastical circles whose good offices with the press he had already made use of.
“Ah, my dear Wilson, it was charming of you to put that little announcement in the paper for me,” he said. “I’m rejoiced to see that Dr. Gray has been given the bishopric.”
“I’m afraid the news is entirely premature,” answered the other. “No appointment has been made at all.”
“Indeed! You surprise me. It was announced so confidently in the Westminster Gazette.”
“Even the newspapers are not infallible,” smiled Mr. Wilson, who knew. “In point of fact, I very much doubt if Gray would accept. He’s fond of the work at Harbin, and I don’t think he much wants to bury himself at Barchester.”
“Of course, in this world everything has its drawbacks,” replied the Vicar of St. Gregory’s. “And for my part, when a man is still young and vigorous, I can imagine no position with greater opportunities for good than the headmastership of a great public school.”
He passed on. His name had been somewhat freely mentioned with regard to Barchester, and Canon Spratte could not bear that any one should think him disappointed or envious. He had shown Mr. Wilson that he was neither. But he could not regret that the newspapers had anticipated things; and hope, which is known to spring eternally in human breasts, cast at once a rosy hue upon the world in general. So long as no definite appointment was made, the Canon felt it only right to trust in the victory of good over evil. The various influences which he had brought to bear might still cause in Lord Stonehenge a state of mind that would raise merit to the episcopal bench.
Canon Spratte looked round the ball-room and caught sight of Gwendolen Durant. He went up to her at once. She looked uncommonly well in her low-necked dress; and the single string of pearls she wore not only showed off the youthful beauty of her neck, but reminded the world at large that she had a very opulent father.
“How is it the young men are so ungallant as to leave you sitting out?” he asked, gaily.
“I’m engaged to your son for this dance; I can’t make out where he is.”
“Lionel is a donkey,” laughed the Canon. “Give it to me instead.”
He would not listen to her amused objections, and in a moment they were among the dancers. Lionel came up just as Canon Spratte had borne off the prize triumphantly. He was filled with amazement, for to the best of his belief his father had not danced for twenty years. The Canon saw him, and laughing at his disconsolate look, pointed him out to Gwendolen. She laughed also.
“I’ve cut you out, dear boy,” cried the Canon as they passed, with a roguish look. “I’ve cut you out.”
“You’re very unkind,” smiled Gwendolen.
“Nonsense. It’ll teach him to be more punctual. Do you think if I’d been engaged to the belle of the evening I should have kept her waiting one single moment?”
He was so good looking, and there was about him such a buoyant charm of manner that Gwendolen was somewhat dazzled. The Canon had a great sense of rhythm, and their waltz went exceedingly well.
“You dance better than Lionel,” she said, smiling.
He pressed her hand slightly in acknowledgment of the flattering remark, and his glance positively made her heart beat a little.
“You mustn’t think because my hair is nearly white that I’m quite an old fossil.”
Gwendolen looked at his hair and thought it very handsome. She was pleased with the admiration that filled his eyes when they caught hers. She blushed, and they danced for a while in silence.
“I enjoyed that more than any dance this evening,” she sighed, when the music ceased.
“Then you must give me another. I owe you a debt of gratitude. You’ve made me feel four-and-twenty.”
“I don’t believe you’re a day more,” she answered, reddening at her boldness.
Like many young persons before her Gwendolen felt that a week’s acquaintance with Theodore Spratte had turned him into an old friend. She would have confided to him her most treasured secrets without hesitation. He took her to have an ice, and she observed with pleasure the courtliness with which he used her. It seemed more than politeness which made him so anxious for her comfort. Her wants really seemed to matter to him.
“How charmingly you wait on me,” she said, half laughing.
“I belong to the old school which put lovely women on a gilded pedestal and worshipped them. Besides, I have to take pains to make you forget my age.”
“How can you be so absurd!” she cried. “I think you’re the youngest man I’ve ever known.”
He was delighted, for he saw that Gwendolen meant precisely what she said.
“Ah, why don’t we live in the eighteenth century so that I might fall on my knee and kiss your hand in gratitude for that pretty speech!”
The band struck up again, and the Canon, offering his arm, led her back to the ball-room. She was claimed by a young guardsman; and as she swung into the throng the Canon could not help feeling that neither in appearance, height, nor gallantry, had he anything to fear from the comparison.
“Upon my soul, I can’t make out why I don’t come to balls oftener,” he murmured. “I had no idea they were so amusing.”
Lionel was standing just in front of him, and he slapped him on the back.
“Well, my boy, are you enjoying yourself? I hope you bear me no malice because I robbed you of your partner.”
“Not at all. I’m not really very fond of dancing.”
“Ah, you young men of the present day are so superior. It’s a monstrous thing that when a girl’s pretty feet itch for a varnished floor she should be forced to throw herself into the arms of an old fogey like myself.”
“It didn’t look as if Miss Durant needed much compulsion,” returned Lionel, dryly.
The Canon laughed boisterously.
“Have you declared yourself yet? She’s a very nice girl indeed, and you have my paternal blessing. I think we shall get on capitally together.”
“No; I haven’t said anything.”
“Well, my boy, why don’t you? It’s your duty to marry and it’s your duty to marry money. You must have a son and you must have something to keep him on. I think you’ll have to hunt a long time before you find any one so likely to provide all that’s necessary as Gwendolen Durant.”
“I like her very much,” allowed Lionel, somewhat uncertainly.
“Then why don’t you propose to-night? There’s nothing like a dance for that sort of thing. The music and the flowers and the gaiety—it all attunes the mind to amorous affairs.”
“That’s all very well, but she makes one rather nervous,” laughed Lionel.
“Fiddlesticks! Take her into the conservatory and play with her fan. That will lead you to take her hand. Then put your arm boldly round her waist; and the rest will follow of itself, or you’re no son of mine.”
Lionel shrugged his shoulders and smiled without enthusiasm.
“I see that Mrs. Fitzherbert is here,” he said, inconsequently.
“Is she? I must go and find her. Take my advice, my boy; propose to Gwendolen to-night, and perhaps I’ll pay a bill or two for you in the morning.”
He waved his hand familiarly and disappeared in search of the handsome widow. He found her very comfortably seated in an armchair, looking at the dancers with tolerant disdain. She smiled in sympathy as she caught the happy eyes of a girl going round the room in an ecstasy of delight. She nodded with satisfaction when a handsome man passed by. She sought idly to get some notion of character as one physiognomy or another attracted her attention. But what most pleased her was the thought that she herself was merely a spectator. The delights of middle age were by no means to be despised; she was free to go where she would, sufficiently rich, indifferent to the opinion of her fellows. Twenty years ago she nearly broke her heart at a ball because she was obliged to sit out five dances running without a partner, but now her chief wish was that no one should interrupt her enjoyment of that varied scene.
Yet when Canon Spratte approached she rose to greet him with every appearance of cordiality. She wore all her diamonds and a gown whose handsome lines showed off the magnificence of her figure. He thought she had never seemed more stately.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked, smiling, but in the most formal way.
Mrs. Fitzherbert opened her eyes wide and stared at him.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I don’t know how I can express myself more plainly,” he laughed.
“My dear Canon, I haven’t danced for fifteen years.”
“Come,” he said gaily, “I never take a refusal. I know you dance divinely.”
“Don’t be so absurd! We should make ourselves perfectly ridiculous. People would roar with laughter and say: ‘Look at those two old fogies doddering round together.’ ”
“Nothing of the sort! They’d say: ‘Look at Theodore Spratte, he’s dancing with the belle of the evening. Isn’t that like him?’ ”
He put his arm round her waist, and notwithstanding a laughing remonstrance bore her into the middle of the room. It was true that he danced well, and for five minutes Mrs. Fitzherbert forgot that she was hard upon fifty. He talked the most charming nonsense. Her eyes began to flash as brightly as his, and she surrendered herself entirely to the pleasure of the waltz. It gave her a curious thrill to feel the strong hand that rested like a caress on her waist. Presently he led her into a little nook, all gay with roses, which had been arranged in an alcove on the stairs.
“You detestable creature!” she cried, sinking into a chair. “I was congratulating myself on being out of the turmoil of life, and you’ve made me regret it so that I could almost burst into tears.”
“But acknowledge that you enjoyed it. And you know just as well as I do that you were the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“How many virtuous matrons have you already assured of that fact to-night?” she asked, with a laugh.
“Ah, you think I’m joking, but I’m deadly serious,” he answered.
“Then there’s no possible excuse for you.”
“You can’t subdue me so easily as that. Does it mean nothing to you that the band is playing the most sentimental tunes and that all these roses have turned the place into a garden?”
“You see, I’m never so foolish as to forget that I’m long past forty.”
“I never think of your age,” he answered, and for the life of her she could not tell if he was in earnest. “To me you are a lovely woman, kind and witty and delightful.”
She looked at him calmly.
“What do you think Lionel would say if he heard you talk such rubbish?”
“Lionel is wisely occupied with his own affairs. I’ve sent him to propose to Gwendolen Durant. He was shy, but I told him it was the simplest thing in the world. I told him to look at her fan.” The Canon opened his partner’s and smiled into her eyes. “And that I told him would lead him naturally to take her hand.”
He audaciously seized Mrs. Fitzherbert’s, but she, with a laugh, withdrew it.
“I gather your meaning without your actually giving an example,” she said.
The Canon’s blue eyes sparkled with all the fire of youth. Another dance had begun and they were left alone in their alcove.
“Look here, why don’t you marry me?” he asked, suddenly.
Mrs. Fitzherbert was taken completely aback. It had never dawned on her that his bantering speeches could tend to any such end.
“My dear man, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“My children are making their own homes, and I shall be left alone. Whatever you say, we’re neither of us old yet. Why shouldn’t we join forces?”
“It’s too absurd,” she said.
“That I should want to marry you? Look in your glass, dear friend, and it will tell you there are a hundred good reasons.”
He put his arm round her, and before she realized what he was about, kissed her lips.
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“But I haven’t accepted,” she cried.
“I told you I never took a refusal; I shall inform Sophia that you’ve promised to marry me.”
Giving her no time to reply, he jumped up, pressed her hand lightly, and disappeared. Mrs. Fitzherbert did not know whether to be amused or angry. The affair seemed like a joke that had been carried too far, and she really could not believe that the Canon meant what he said. Suddenly an idea struck her. A smile came to her lips and she began to laugh. The idea gained shape. She threw back her head and laughed till the tears positively ran down her cheeks.
But the Canon returned to the ball-room feeling not a day more than twenty-five. Winnie came up to him.
“I’m ready to go home when you like, papa. I’m rather tired.”
He looked at his watch.
“Nonsense! One’s not tired at two in the morning at your age. Why, I feel as fit as a fiddle. Come.”
He seized her, and before she knew where she was, whirled her into the middle of the room. He would not let her expostulate, but danced as though he would never tire. His spirits were so high that he could have shouted at the top of his voice.
When they were all three in the carriage on their way home, Canon Spratte turned to his son.
“Well, did you take my advice?” he asked.
“I didn’t have a chance,” said Lionel, discontentedly.
“Good Lord! You’re not half the man your father is.”
The Canon chuckled and rubbed his hands. He asked Winnie’s permission to light a cigar, and put up his feet comfortably on the opposite seat.
“I’ve had a very charming evening. Upon my soul, it’s wonderful what good it does a hard-working man to have a little innocent enjoyment.”
XII
MRS. RAILING accepted Canon Spratte’s invitation to bring her daughter to tea. On the day appointed he sat like a Hebrew patriarch surrounded by his family and waited for her to come. He addressed Lionel, his son.
“You’ll remember that there are two funerals to-morrow morning, won’t you?” he said.
“Good gracious, I had completely forgotten all about them.”
“I daresay they were persons of no consequence,” remarked Lord Spratte.
“As a matter of fact, I believe one of them, poor fellow! was our own fish-monger,” said the Canon, smiling.
“I thought the fish had been very inferior these last few days,” murmured Lady Sophia.
Ponsonby opened the door stealthily and announced the guests in his most impressive tones.
“Mrs. and Miss Railing.”
Mrs. Railing, a woman of simple tastes, was unaccustomed to give time or thought to the adornment of her person. She was an excellent creature who had arrived at the sensible conclusion that comfort was more important than appearance; and when she had grown used to a garment, only the repeated persuasion of her children could induce her to give it up. Widowhood with her was a question of pride and a passport to respectability. She wore, somewhat on one side, a shabby crape bonnet, a black old-fashioned cloak, and loose cotton gloves. She carried with affectionate care, as though it were a jewel of vast price, a gloomy and masculine umbrella. It had a bow on the handle.
Canon Spratte advanced very cordially and shook hands with her.
“How d’you do. How d’you do, Mrs. Railing.”
“Nicely, thank you.” She turned and gave a little wave of the hand toward her offspring. “This is my daughter, Miss Railing.”
Miss Railing wore a strenuous look and pince-nez, a sailor hat, a white blouse, and a leather belt.
“How d’you do,” said Canon Spratte.
“Quite well, thank you.”
Winnie, having passed the time of day with Mrs. Railing, looked shyly at Bertram’s sister.
“You weren’t in the other day when I came to Peckham with your brother.”
“I didn’t get home till late.”
Miss Railing, suffering from no false shame, looked at Winnie with a somewhat disparaging curiosity. She was highly educated and took care to speak the King’s English correctly. She dropped her aitches but seldom. Sometimes she hesitated whether or no to insert the troublesome letter, but when she used it her emphasis fully made up for an occasional lapse. She was, perhaps, a little self-assertive; and came to St. Gregory’s Vicarage as to an enemy’s camp, bristling to take offence. She was determined to show that she was a person of culture.
“Let me introduce you to my sister, Lady Sophia Spratte,” said the Canon to Mrs. Railing. “Miss Railing, my sister.”
“I’m really Miss Louise Railing, you know,” said that young lady, in a slightly injured tone.
“I ’ave two daughters, my lord,” explained Mrs. Railing, who felt that some ceremony was needed to address the member of a noble family, “but the elder one, Florrie, ain’t quite right in ’er ’ead. And we ’ad to shut ’er up in an asylum.”
The Canon observed her for one moment and shot a rapid glance at Winnie.
“It’s so fortunate that you were able to come,” he said. “In the Season one has so many engagements.”
But at the harmless remark Miss Railing bridled.
“I thought you people in the West End never did anything?”
Canon Spratte laughed heartily.
“The West End has a bad reputation—in Peckham Rye.”
“Well, I don’t know that I can say extra much for the people of Peckham Rye either. There’s no public spirit among them. And yet we do all we can; the Radical Association tries to stir them up. We give meetings every week—but they won’t come to them.”
“I wonder at that,” replied the Canon, blandly. “And do you share your brother’s talent for oratory?”
“Oh, I say a few words now and then,” said Miss Railing, modestly.
“You should hear ’er talk,” interposed Mrs. Railing, with a significant nod.
“Well, I hold with women taking part in everything. I’m a Radical from top to toe.” Miss Railing stared hard at Lady Sophia, who was watching her with polite attention. “I can’t stand the sort of woman who sits at home and does nothing but read novels and go to balls. There’s an immense field for women’s activities. And who thinks now that women are inferior to men?”
“Ain’t she wonderful!” ejaculated Mrs. Railing, with unconcealed admiration.
“Ma!” protested her daughter.
“She says I always praise ’er in front of people,” Mrs. Railing laughed good-humouredly. “But I can’t ’elp it. You should see all the prizes and certificates she’s got. Oh, I am proud of ’er, I can tell you.”
“Ma, don’t go on like that always. It makes people think I’m a child.”
“Well, Louie, I can’t ’elp it. You’re a marvel and there’s no denying it. Tell ’em about the gold medal you won.”
“I wish you would,” said Lord Spratte. “I always respect people with gold medals.”
“Go on with you,” cried Miss Railing.
“Well, Louie, you are obstinate,” said her mother; and turning to Lady Sophia she added confidentially: “She ’as been—ever since she was a child.”
But the appearance of the stately Ponsonby with tea-things changed the conversation. Mrs. Railing looked round the room, and the Canon saw that her eyes rested on the magnificent portrait of the first Lord Spratte.
“That is my father, the late Lord Chancellor of England. It is a most admirable likeness.”
“It’s a very ’andsome frame,” said Mrs. Railing, anxious to be polite.
Lord Spratte burst out laughing.
“He is plain, isn’t he?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” answered Mrs. Railing, with confusion, “I would never take such a liberty.”
“Now, you can’t honestly say he was a beauty, Mrs. Railing.”
“Thomas, remember he was my father,” inserted the Canon.
But Mrs. Railing feared she had wounded her host’s feelings.
“Now I come to look at ’im, I don’t think ’e’s so bad looking after all,” she said.
His elder son cast a rapid glance at the Lord Chancellor’s sardonic smile.
“In the family we think he’s the very image of my brother Theodore.”
“Well, now you mention it, I do see a likeness,” replied Mrs. Railing, innocently looking from the portrait to Canon Spratte.
The Canon shook his head at his brother with smiling menace, and handed the good lady a cup of tea. While she stirred it, she addressed herself amiably to Lady Sophia.
“Nice neighbourhood this!” she said.
“South Kensington?” answered Lady Sophia. “It’s the least unpleasant of all the suburbs.”
“My dear, I cannot allow South Kensington to be called a suburb,” cried the Canon. “It’s the very centre of London.”
Lady Sophia smiled coldly.
“It always reminds me of the Hamlet who was funny without being vulgar: South Kensington is Bayswater without being funny.”
“Peckham’s a nice neighbourhood,” said Mrs. Railing, trying to balance a piece of cake in her saucer. “You get such a nice class of people there.”
“So I should think,” replied Lady Sophia.
“We’ve got such a pretty little ’ouse near the Gladstone Road. Of course, we ’aven’t got electric light, but we’ve got a lovely bath-room. And Bertie takes a bath every morning.”
“Does he, indeed!” exclaimed the Canon.
“Yes, and ’e says he can’t do without it: if ’e doesn’t ’ave it, ’e’s uncomfortable all day. Things ’ave changed since I was a girl. Why, nobody thought of ’aving all these baths then. Now, only the other day I was talking to Mr. Smithers, the builder, an’ he said to me: ‘Lor, Mrs. Railing,’ says he, ‘people are getting that fussy, if you build ’em a house without a bath-room they won’t look at it.’ Why, even Louie takes a bath every Saturday night regular.”
“They say that cleanliness is next to godliness,” returned Canon Spratte, sententiously.
“There’s no denying that, but one ’as to be careful,” said Mrs. Railing. “I’ve known a lot of people who’ve took their death of cold all through ’aving a bath when they wasn’t feeling very well.”
Lord Spratte, giving Miss Railing a cup of tea, offered her the sugar.
“Thanks,” she said. “No sugar; I think it’s weak.”
“What, the tea?” cried the Canon. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, to take sugar. I don’t approve of hydrocarbons.”
“Rough on the hydrocarbons, ain’t it?” murmured Lord Spratte.
The Canon with a smile addressed himself again to Mrs. Railing.
“And how do you take your tea, dear lady?”
“Oh, I don’t pay no attention to all this stuff of Louie’s and Bertie’s,” that good creature replied, a broad fat smile sending her red face into a pucker of little wrinkles. “Sometimes they just about give me the ’ump, I can tell you.”
“Ma, do mind what you’re saying,” cried Miss Railing, much shocked at this manner of speaking.
“Well, you do, Louie—that is Louise. She don’t like me to call her Louie. She says it’s so common. You know, my lord, my children was christened Bertram and Louise. But we’ve always called ’em Bertie and Louie, and I can’t get out of the ’abit of it now. But, lor’, when your children grow up and get on in the world they want to turn everything upside down. Now what do you think Bertie wants me to do?”
“I can’t imagine,” said the Canon.
“Well, would you believe it, he wants me to take the pledge.”
“Ma!” cried Miss Railing, with whole volumes of reproach in her tone.
“Well, look ’ere, my lord,” continued her mother, confidentially. “What I say is, I’m an ’ard-working woman, and what with the work I do, I want my little drop of beer now and then. The Captain—my ’usband, that is—’ad a little bit put by, but I ’ad to work to make both ends meet when I was left a widow, I can tell you. And I’ve given my children a thorough good education.”
“You have reason to be proud of them,” replied the Canon, with conviction. “I don’t suppose my little girl has half the knowledge of Miss Louise.”
“That’s your fault; that’s because you’ve not educated her properly,” cried Miss Railing, attacking him at once. “I hold with the higher education of women. But there’s no education in the West End. Now, if I had charge of your daughter for six months I could make a different woman of her.”
“Ain’t she wonderful!” said Mrs. Railing. “I can listen to ’er talking for hours at a time.”