“Fiddlesticks, Theodore!” answered Lady Sophia, scornfully. “You know very well that our grandfather was a bill-broker, and rather a seedy one at that.”
“He was nothing of the sort, my dear; I recollect Josiah Spratte, the elder, very well. He was a most polished and accomplished gentleman.”
“My dear Theodore, you were only seven when he died. I remember only a little shabby old man who used to call my mother mam. He was always invited to dinner the day after a party to eat up the scraps, and I’m sure it never occurred to any one that he was a distinguished banker till he was safely dead and buried.”
“Remember that he was my grandfather, so I should presumably know what profession he followed.”
To Lady Sophia it was one of her brother’s most irritating habits to assume an exclusive right to their common progenitors. Even though she was not overwhelmed by the contemplation of their greatness, she felt it hard to be altogether cut off from them.
“It’s carried for bill-broking,” said Lord Spratte, with a contented air. “And my belief is that the old chap did a bit of usury as well. It’s no good stuffin’ people, Theodore, they don’t believe us.”
“And what about the bill-broker’s papa?” asked Lady Sophia.
“I don’t believe the bill-broker had a parent at all,” put in Lord Spratte. “That’s where the Montmorencys come in.”
“I confess I don’t know what my great-grandfather was,” answered Theodore, hesitating a little, “but I know he was a gentleman.”
“I very much doubt it,” said Lady Sophia, shaking her head. “I can’t help thinking he was a green-grocer.”
“Ah, that beats the Montmorencys, by Jove,” cried Lord Spratte. “The ancestral green-grocer—goin’ out to wait at dinner-parties in Bedford Square, and havin’ a sly drink at the old sherry when no one was lookin’!”
Lady Sophia began to laugh, but the Canon looked his brother up and down, with a contemptuous twirl of his lips.
“Is this your idea of humour, Thomas?” he asked gravely, as though demanding information.
“Oh, you don’t know what a load it is off my mind! Here have I been goin’ about all these years with that ghastly string of Montmorencys hangin’ round my neck just like the albatross and the ancient mariner, tryin’ to hide from the world that I knew the family tree was bogus just as well as they did, tryin’ to pretend I didn’t feel ashamed of sneakin’ somebody else’s coat of arms. Why, I can’t look at Burke without getting as red as the binding. But, by Jove, Theodore, I can live up to the ancestral green-grocer.”
“I hope you will have the good sense to keep these observations from Wroxham,” returned the Canon, shrugging his shoulders. “Remember that he is about to enter into an alliance with our family, and he’s extremely sensitive in these matters.”
“You mean he’s a bit of a prig. Oh, well, he’s only just come down from Oxford. He’ll get over that.”
“I mean nothing of the sort. I look upon him as a very excellent young man, and with his opportunities I’m convinced that he’ll end up as Prime Minister.”
“And suppose Winnie refuses him?” said Lord Spratte.
“What!” cried the Canon, with a jump, for such a possibility had never occurred to him. But he put it aside quickly as beyond the bounds of reason. “Nonsense! Why should she? He’s a very eligible young man, and he has my full approval.”
Lord Spratte shrugged his shoulders.
“Supposin’ she should take it into her head to marry that Socialist Johnny? D’you know, she told me he was the handsomest man she’d ever seen in her life.”
The Canon burst into a shout of laughter.
“Young Railing? Absurd! My daughter knows what is due to herself and to her family. She may be young, but she has a sense of dignity which I should be pleased to see in you, Thomas. Remember our motto: Malo mori quam fœdari, I would sooner die than be disgraced.”
“I always think we were overcharged for that,” murmured Lord Spratte.
“Of course a fine sentiment merely excites your ribaldry!”
“My dear Theodore, I have the receipt among the family papers.”
At that moment Winnie, unhappy and pale, came quickly into the room. She gave her father a rapid look of apprehension, then, as if seeking protection, glanced appealingly at the others. But the Canon, full of complacent affection, went towards her and took her in his arms.
“My dear child!” He looked round, and with sportive tenderness gazed into his daughter’s eyes. “But where is the young man? Why haven’t you brought him upstairs with you, darling?”
Winnie, an expression of pain settling about her mouth, disengaged herself from the parental embrace.
“Papa, Harry has asked me to marry him.”
“I know, I know. He did it with my full approval.”
“I hope you won’t be angry,” she said, taking her father’s hand, with a look of entreaty. “You wouldn’t want me to do anything I didn’t like, father.”
“What on earth d’you mean?” he cried, surprised and uncertain.
“I had to say—that I couldn’t.”
The Canon started as though he were shot. “What! You’re joking. Oh, it’s a mistake! I won’t have it. Where is he?”
He went rapidly to the door as if he meant to call back the rejected lover.
“Papa, what are you doing?” cried Winnie, distracted. “He’s gone!”
The Canon stopped and came back grimly.
“I suppose you’re joking, Winnie? I’m quite bewildered with all this humour.”
“I don’t love him, father,” she said, with tearful eyes.
Canon Spratte, quite unable to comprehend, stared at her helplessly.
“The girl’s mad,” he cried, looking at Lady Sophia.
But Winnie felt it was no longer possible to hold back the truth. She braced herself for the contest and looked firmly into her father’s eyes.
“I’m already engaged to be married, papa.”
“You? And to whom, pray?”
“I’m engaged to Bertram Railing.”
“Good God!”
Lady Sophia also uttered a cry of dismay, and even her uncle, though he had maliciously suggested the possibility, was no less dumfounded. In his heart he had been convinced that Winnie was far too worldly-wise to commit herself to a doubtful marriage, and he would have sworn she was incapable of a daring act. Then, against his will, the humour of the situation occurred to him, and he smothered a little laugh. But Canon Spratte, infuriated, with all his senses on the alert, divined rather than noticed this offensive merriment. He turned upon his brother angrily.
“I think we shall proceed in this matter better without your presence, Thomas,” he said roughly, putting aside in his uncontrollable anger the studied urbanity upon which he prided himself. “I regret that I cannot expect from you either assistance or sympathy, or any of the feelings to be awaited in a nobleman and a gentleman. I shall be grateful if you will take your departure.”
Lord Spratte smiled very good-humouredly.
“My dear Theodore, I don’t want you to wash your dirty linen before me. Good-bye, Sophia.”
He kissed his sister, and held out his hand to the Canon, who turned away ill-temperedly, muttering indignant things. Lord Spratte, by no means disconcerted, smiled and went up to Winnie. She was looking down, listlessly turning over the pages of a book. He put his hand kindly on her shoulder.
“Never mind, Winnie, old girl,” he said, in his flippant, careless way, “you marry the man you want to, and don’t be jockeyed into takin’ any one else. I’ll always back you up in anything unreasonable.”
Winnie neither moved nor answered, but heavy tears rolled down her cheeks on to the open book.
“Well, I hope you’ll all have a very nice time,” said Lord Spratte. “I have the honour to wish you good-afternoon.”
No one stirred till he had gone. Canon Spratte waited till the door was closed; waited, looking at his daughter, till the silence seemed intolerable.
“Now, what does all this mean, Winnie?” he asked at last.
She did not speak, and Canon Spratte tightened his lips as he watched her. You saw now for the first time the square strength of his jaw. When angry he was not a man to be trifled with, and Lady Sophia thought there was more in him at this moment of the ruthless Chancellor than she had ever known.
“Am I to understand that you are serious?”
Winnie, still looking down, nodded. The Canon stared at her for one instant, then burst out angrily with harsh tones. None would have imagined that the sonorous, sweet voice was capable of such biting inflections. But Lady Sophia could not help thinking him rather fine in his wrath.
“Oh, but you must be mad,” he cried. “The child’s stark, staring mad, Sophia. The whole thing is preposterous. I never heard anything like it. Do you mean seriously to tell me that you’re engaged to that penniless, unknown scribbler—a man whom no one knows anything about, a rogue and a vagabond?”
But Winnie could not suffer to hear Railing ill-spoken of. The contemptuous words roused her as would have done no violence towards herself, and throwing back her head, she looked fearlessly at her father.
“You said he was a man of great intellect, papa. You said you greatly admired him.”
“That proves only that I have good manners,” he retorted, with a disdainful toss of his head. “When a mother shows me her baby, I say it’s a beautiful child. I don’t think it’s a beautiful child, I think it’s a very ugly child. I can’t tell one baby from another, but I assure her it’s the very image of its father. That’s just common politeness.... How long has this absurd business been going on?”
“I became engaged to him yesterday.”
Winnie, though her heart beat almost painfully, was regaining courage. The thought of Bertram strengthened her, and she was glad to fight the first battle on his behalf.
“You perceive, Sophia, that I was not consulted in this.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Theodore.”
Winnie took her father’s hand, trying to persuade him. She felt that if it was only possible to make him comprehend how enormously the whole thing mattered to her, he would surely withdraw his opposition. He was angry because he could not see that to her it was an affair of life and death.
“Oh, don’t you understand, father? You can’t imagine what he’s done for me. He’s taught me everything I know, he’s made me what I am.”
“How long have you enjoyed the privilege of his acquaintance?” asked the Canon, satirically. “Six weeks?”
“I was a fool,” said Winnie, speaking very quickly, with flushed cheeks. “I was just the same as any other girl, vain and empty-headed. I was happy for a week if I got a hat that became me. And then I met him and everything was changed. He found me a foolish doll, and he’s made me into a woman. I’m ashamed of what I was. I’m proud now, and so grateful to him. He’s the first real man I’ve ever known.”
Canon Spratte shook his head contemptuously.
“I should like to know what you find in him that you cannot find in Wroxham or in—or in your father.”
“I don’t love Harry Wroxham.”
“Fiddlededee! A girl of your age doesn’t know what love is.”
“Harry doesn’t know me. He talks nonsense to me. He thinks I’m too stupid to be spoken to of serious things. To him I’m just the same as any other girl he meets at parties. For wife he wants a slave, a plaything when he’s tired or bored. I want to be a man’s companion. I want to work with my husband.”
“I’m surprised and shocked to hear you have such ideas,” answered the Canon, emphatically. “I thought you were more modest.”
“You don’t understand, father,” cried Winnie, with despair in her voice. “Don’t you see that I have a life of my own, and I must live it in my own way?”
“Rubbish! The new woman business was exploded ten years ago; you’re hopelessly behind the times, my poor girl. A woman’s place is in her own house. You’re full of ideas which are not only silly but middle-class. They fill me with disgust. You’re ridiculous, Winnie.”
Canon Spratte, who only spoke the truth when he said the whole matter appeared to him suburban and vulgar, walked up and down impatiently. He sought for acid expressions of his disdain.
“You’re making me dreadfully unhappy, papa,” said Winnie. “You’ve never been unkind to me before. Think that all my happiness depends on this. You don’t wish to ruin my whole life.”
“Don’t be absurd,” cried Canon Spratte, unmoved by this entreaty. “I refuse to hear anything about it. I cannot make you marry Lord Wroxham. Far be it from me to attempt to force your affections. I confess it’s a great disappointment; however, I accept it as the will of Providence and I shall do my best to bear it. But I’m quite sure it’s not the will of Providence that you should marry Mr. Bertram Railing, and I utterly refuse my consent to his shameful, grotesque proposal. The man’s a scoundrel; he’s nothing better than a fortune-hunter.”
“That’s not true, father,” said Winnie, flushing with anger.
“Winnie, how dare you say that!”
“You’ve got no right to abuse the man I love better than the whole world. Nothing you can say will make me change my mind.”
“You’re talking nonsense, and I think you’re a very disobedient and unaffectionate girl.”
“After all, it’s my business alone. It’s my happiness that is concerned.”
“How selfish you are! You don’t consider my happiness.”
“I’ve made up my mind to marry Bertram Railing. I’ve given him my solemn promise.”
“Women’s promises are made of pie-crust,” cried Canon Spratte, contemptuously.
Lady Sophia raised her eyebrows, but did not speak.
“I’m over twenty-one,” retorted Winnie defiantly, for she was not without some temper of her own. “And I’m my own mistress.”
“What do you mean by that, Winnie?”
“If you won’t give me your consent, I shall marry without.”
Canon Spratte was thunderstruck. This was rebellion, and instinctively he felt that nothing could be done with Winnie by direct contradiction. But he was too angry to devise any better way. He walked up and down indignantly.
“And this is the return I get for all the affection I have lavished upon my children,” he said, speaking to no one in particular. “I’ve sacrificed myself to their every whim for years—and this is my reward.”
Half afraid that he was beaten, Canon Spratte flung himself petulantly in a chair. As with his father before him, outspoken opposition dismayed and perhaps intimidated him; he was unused to it, and when thwarted, could not for a while think how to conduct himself. Through the conservation Lady Sophia had kept very quiet, and her calmness added to the Canon’s irritation. He gave her one or two angry glances, but could hit upon nothing wherewith to vent on her his increasing choler.
“And do you know anything about this young man, Winnie?” she asked now. “Has he anything to live on?”
Winnie turned to her for comfort, thinking the worst of the struggle was over.
“We shall work hard, both of us,” she said. “With what he earns and the little I have from my mother we can live like kings.”
“In a flat at West Kensington, I suppose, or in a villa at Hornsey Rise,” said Canon Spratte, with an angry laugh.
“With the man I love I’d live in a hovel,” said Winnie, proudly.
Lady Sophia quietly smiled.
“Of course, it’s a delicate question with that kind of person,” she murmured. “But had he a father, or did he just grow?”
Winnie faced her wrathful parent, looking at him defiantly.
“His father is not alive. He was first-mate on a collier trading from Newcastle.”
“That, I should imagine, as a profession, was neither lucrative nor clean,” said Lady Sophia, in her placid way.
Canon Spratte gave a savage laugh.
“At least it’s something to be thankful for that his relations are dead.”
“He has a mother and a sister,” said Winnie.
“And who are they, I should like to know?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. He has told me already that his mother is not a very highly-educated woman.”
“So I should suppose. Where do they live?”
Winnie hesitated for the very shortest moment.
“Bertram says they have a little house in—Peckham.”
Canon Spratte jumped up, and an expression of real disgust passed over his face.
“Revolting!” he cried, “I wish to hear nothing more about it.”
He walked towards the door, but Winnie stopped him.
“Papa, don’t go. Don’t be angry with me. You do love me; and I love you, next to Bertram, better than any one in the world.”
Canon Spratte put aside her appealing hands.
“If you love me, Winnie, I don’t know how you can cause me such pain. Sophia and I will leave you to your own reflections. I can’t send you to your room as if you were a little girl, but this I must say: I think you ungrateful, disobedient, and unkind. It’s only from regard to your sex, and out of respect to the memory of your dead mother, that I don’t say, as well, that I consider you stupid and vulgar.”
Like a martyr, for none could assume more effectively than Theodore Spratte the appearance of outraged virtue, he stalked majestically from the room.
VII
A WEEK later Canon Spratte lunched with Mrs. Fitzherbert to meet Sir John Durant and his daughter. The eminent brewer was a stout gentleman of fifty, rubicund and good-humoured, with a gold watch-chain spread widely over his capacious paunch. The few hairs that remained to him were arranged at judicious intervals over a shining pate. His face was broad and merry. His little eyes were bright with hilarity, and when anything diverted him, he laughed all over his body. He was not tall, and his legs were disproportionately short, so that the slim, elegant Canon towered over him in a way that gratified the one without mortifying the other. Sir John’s appearance betokened great prosperity and a thorough satisfaction with the world at large. He knew that he made the best beer in England, and the British people knew it too, so he had good reason to be pleased with the state of things. He was a business man from top to toe, shrewd, blunt and outspoken, and he had no idea that there was anything disgraceful in his connection with trade.
When they sat down to luncheon and the butler asked if he would drink hock or claret, the brewer turned to him and in a loud, brusque voice inquired whether there was no beer.
“I always drink it to show I have confidence,” he explained to the company in general. “It makes me fat, but I shouldn’t be worth my salt if I hesitated at a few more pounds avoirdupois at the call of duty. I’ve told the British public on fifty thousand hoardings to drink Durant’s Half-Crown Family Ale, and the British public do. The least they can expect of me is to follow their example.”
The Canon was somewhat taken aback by the frankness with which Sir John referred to the source of his large income, but he was a man of tact, and with a laugh insisted on trying that foaming beverage.
“What d’you think of it?” asked the brewer, when Canon Spratte at one draught had emptied his glass.
“Capital, capital!”
“I’ll send you some to-morrow. It’s good stuff, my dear Canon—as pure as mother’s milk, and it wouldn’t hurt a child. I’ve no patience with those brewers who are ashamed of the beer they make. Why, do you know, Lord Carbis won’t have it in his house, and when I stayed with him, I had to drink wine. The old fool doesn’t know that people only laugh at him. However many airs he puts on, he’ll never make them forget that he owes his title to stout and bitter. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t mind who knows that I started as a van boy. If I’ve built up the biggest connection in the trade, it’s to my own brains I owe it.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed to herself when she saw the expression with which the Canon received this statement. His idea had been that Sir John belonged to the aristocracy of beerdom, with two or even three generations of gentlemen behind him who had prepared themselves for the manufacture of fermented liquors by a career at Eton and at Oxford. It was fortunate that his cursory inspection of the brewer’s daughter had been satisfactory. She was quite pretty, with a complexion whose robust colouring suggested the best of health; and her brown hair, rather abundant and waving naturally, grew low on the forehead in a way that Canon Spratte thought singularly attractive. He knew something about feminine costume, (there were few subjects of which the Canon was entirely ignorant,) and he observed with satisfaction that she was clothed with taste and fashion. He had no patience with the women who dressed in a mode they thought artistic, and he abhorred the garb which is termed rational. In a moment of expansion he had once told his daughter there were two things a woman should avoid like the seven deadly sins: she should never take her hair down and never wear a short skirt.
“A woman, like a cat, should always end in a tail,” said he.
Lastly, the Canon noticed that Gwendolen Durant’s handsome figure suggested that heirs would not be wanting to a union between herself and his son. This somewhat astonished him, for he would never have expected Lionel to set his affections on such a charming, but buxom, young person. He could not for the life of him imagine why she should care for Lionel.
“She’s worth six of him, any day,” he muttered, “though I’m his father and shouldn’t think it.”
But there was no accounting for taste; and if a strapping girl, with a dowry of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, chose to make an alliance with his family, he was willing to overlook a parent who would not let an indulgent world forget his indecent connection with honest labour. Canon Spratte had that peculiar charm of manner which led people, after ten minutes’ conversation, to feel they had known him all their lives; and freeing himself from the dowager, who had hitherto absorbed his attention, he turned to Miss Durant. He laid himself out to fascinate her, and they made great friends in the hour they sat side by side.
When the remaining guests had gone their ways, the Canon asked Mrs. Fitzherbert if he might stay a little longer.
“Of course,” she said. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. You may smoke a cigarette.”
The day was warm and the sun shone brightly. Pale blinds kept out the brilliancy, and delicately softened the light in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s drawing-room. It looked singularly restful to Canon Spratte with its gay chintzes and masses of summer flowers. It formed a fit and elegant frame for Mrs. Fitzherbert, who looked handsomer than ever in an exquisite gown, all flounces and furbelows. Its airy grace filled him with content, and he thought that feminine society was really very delightful. The world was a good place when you could sit in a pleasant drawing-room, away from the bustle of ecclesiastical labours, on a summer afternoon, and talk to an old friend who was also a fascinating woman. Yet at home there was much to make him irritable. For one thing he expected hourly a communication from the Prime Minister, offering the vacant See; and every time the bell of the street-door rang loudly, his heart leaped to his mouth. Almost unconsciously he assumed an attitude of dignified indifference, such as Cincinnatus at his plough might have used when the officers of the Republic came towards him. But Lord Stonehenge, dilatory as ever, hesitated to make an appointment. Winnie was an even greater source of annoyance. She made no sign of yielding to his wishes. She went out at all hours and none knew whither. She seemed to flaunt her legal independence in her father’s indignant face. At home she was silent, frightened and sullen. Canon Spratte pointedly ignored her. He had the useful, humiliating art of looking at people without seeing them, and was able to stare at his daughter blankly as though the space she occupied were empty.
He told Mrs. Fitzherbert now the misfortune that had befallen his house, and it was a bitter confession that he had been too quick in his calculations. Mrs. Fitzherbert could not conceal a smile.
“It’s really very romantic, you know. It reminds me of that poem of dear Lord Tennyson’s.”
“Dear Lord Tennyson hadn’t a marriageable daughter,” retorted the Canon, with some asperity.
“Love is so rare in this world,” she hazarded, “When two young things are fond of one another, don’t you think it’s best to let them marry, whatever the disadvantages?”
“My dear lady, the man isn’t even a gentleman.”
“But we have it dinned into our ears that kind hearts are more than coronets.”
“Yes, but we know very well that they’re nothing of the sort,” he retorted, with a laugh. “Heaven knows I’m not in the least mercenary, but I don’t think any man can make my daughter happy on a penny less than two thousand a year. It’s not love in a cottage, it’s not love in a palace, it’s just matrimony in Onslow Gardens.”
He meditated for a moment or two, and slapped his knee.
“I promise you that Winnie shall break her foolish engagement with this ridiculous counter-jumper, and what’s more, she shall marry Wroxham. People must get up early in the morning if they want to get the better of Theodore Spratte.”
“Well, you’ll need some very skilful diplomacy to achieve all that,” smiled Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“The worst of it is, that though I rack my brains I can’t think of any scheme that seems to promise the least measure of success.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at him, and her common-sense suggested to her certain obvious facts. She smiled again.
“Has Winnie seen the young man’s relations yet?” she asked.
“I think not. Sophia tells me she’s going down to Peckham to-morrow.”
“Didn’t you say that Mr. Railing’s mother was the widow of a coal-heaver? I wonder what she’s like.”
“His sister teaches in a Board School.”
“She must be an exemplary young person,” answered Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Well?”
“They must be awful. I wonder if Winnie has thought of that.”
“By Jove!” cried the Canon.
The expression was not very clerical, but in his excitement he forgot the propriety of which he was usually careful. His mind was excessively alert, and Mrs. Fitzherbert’s reflections, spoken almost at haphazard, gave him in a flash the plan of action he wanted. In such a manner, though with vastly less rapidity, Sir Isaac Newton is said to have discovered the theory of gravitation. The Canon’s scheme was so bold that it surprised him. When he turned it over, and saw how dangerous it was, how unexpected, above all how ingeniously dramatic, he could not restrain his enthusiasm. The subtlety caught his sense of humour, and at the same time flattered his love for power. Apparently he would withdraw from the struggle, but all the time the various actors would work his will. It was well worth the risk, and he felt certain of ultimate victory. He laughed aloud, and jumping up, seized Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hands.
“What a wonderful woman you are! You’ve saved the whole situation.”
He looked at her with flaming eyes, and as she smiled upon him, he had never found her handsomer. He still held her hands.
“You know, you grow better looking each year you grow older. Upon my soul, it’s not fair to the rest of us.”
“Don’t be so foolish,” she laughed, trying to withdraw from his grasp.
“Why shouldn’t I hold them?” he cried gaily. “We’re old friends. Heaven knows how many years it is since first we met.”
“That’s just it, Heaven does know we’re both of us perilously nearly fifty, and really ought to have learned how to behave by now.”
“Nonsense, I won’t believe a word of it. Every one knows that there is nothing so untruthful as Anno Domini, and I’m convinced that neither of us is a day more than thirty. You don’t look it, and I’m sure I don’t feel it.”
“You really must not press my hands so hard. I tell you it’s ridiculous.”
She positively blushed, and the Canon’s blue eyes were brighter than ever, as he noticed this sign of confusion.
“Do you remember how once we walked together in Kensington Gardens? We didn’t think ourselves ridiculous then.”
It was a tactless thing to say, but perhaps Theodore did not remember the exact circumstances so well as Mrs. Fitzherbert. She tightened her lips as she recalled that last scene, and there was no doubt now that she wanted him to leave her hands.
“You’re hurting me,” she said. “My rings.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” He looked at her face. “But what have I said to annoy you?”
“Nothing,” she replied, with a smile, recovering herself quickly. “But my carriage has been waiting for an hour, and I really must go out.”
“Fool that I am! Why didn’t you send me away before?”
He bent down and gallantly kissed her fingers. It is a gesture which does not come very easily to an Englishman, but Theodore Spratte carried it off with peculiar grace, and afterwards was able to leave the room without awkwardness. He was not the man to omit any of the courtesies due to the fair sex, and turned his steps immediately to a fashionable florist’s, where he ordered a large bunch of red roses to be sent at once to Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Red roses,” he wrote on his card, “because they are lovely, ephemeral, and sweet smelling!”
On the way home Canon Spratte meditated upon the bold, decisive step which alone seemed capable of bringing about the ends he had in view. It was easy enough to prevent Winnie from marrying Bertram Railing; her infatuation would pass away as soon as she realized all that it entailed. But this was not enough. He knew that women may be often taken on the rebound, (perhaps his opinion of the sex was none too high,) and if he could excite a repulsion from Railing, he fancied it would lead her into the open arms of the eligible Wroxham. The Canon’s classical knowledge was somewhat rusty, but he believed vaguely there was a quotation which offered apt authority for the circumstances. He could not for the moment recall it.
“Dear me!” he said, rather testily, as he put the latchkey into his front door, “my memory is certainly failing,” and ironically: “It’s quite time they made me a bishop.”
The Canon wished to lose no time, and consequently was much pleased to find Winnie and Lady Sophia sitting by themselves in the drawing-room. It would have been inhuman to expect him to play the neat little scene without the presence of his sister. The thought of her astonishment was almost a sufficient motive for his audacious step.
“You’re very pale, my dear child,” he said to Winnie, “I hope you’re not unwell?”
“No, father,” she answered, without a smile.
“Then what is troubling you, my love? You’re not yourself.”
None could put into his manner such affectionate solicitude as Canon Spratte, and his voice gained such tender accents as to draw confidences from the most unwilling. Winnie sighed, but made no reply. He stroked her hair and pressed her hand.
“Come, come, my darling, you mustn’t be unhappy. Nothing shall stand between you and my great affection. The only wish I have is for your welfare. Tell me frankly, is your heart still set on marrying this young man?”
Winnie looked up gravely and nodded.
“Well, well, I’m not a hard father.” He smiled good-naturedly and opened his arms. “What would you say if I offered to withdraw my opposition?”
Winnie, astonished, scarcely believing her ears, sprang to her feet.
“Papa, do you mean that?”
She flung her arms round his neck and burst into tears. The Canon, pressing her to his bosom, kissed her fair hair. But Lady Sophia was dumfounded.
“Now, my dear, go to your room and wash those tears away,” said he, with laughing tenderness. “You mustn’t have red eyes, or people will think I’m a perfect tyrant. But mind,” he shook his finger playfully as she smiled through her tears, “mind you don’t put too much powder on your nose.”
When Winnie was gone, Canon Spratte turned to his sister with a hearty laugh.
“The dear girl! Our children, Sophia, are often a sore trial to us, but we must take the rough with the smooth; at times also they give us a great deal of self-satisfaction.”
“Did my ears deceive me?” asked Lady Sophia. “Or did you in fact consent to Winnie’s preposterous engagement?”
“You’re surprised, Sophia? You don’t know me; you can’t understand that I should sacrifice my most cherished ideas to gratify the whim of a silly school-girl. You’re a clever woman, Sophia—but you’re not quite so clever as your humble servant.”
Lady Sophia, trying to discover what was in his mind, leaned back in her arm-chair and looked at him with keen and meditative eyes. She did not for one moment suppose that he had honestly surrendered to Winnie’s obstinacy. It was her impression that Theodore was never more dangerous than when he appeared to be defeated.
“I don’t understand,” she confessed.
“I should have thought it was a match after your own heart,” he answered, with a mocking smile. “You have always affected to look down upon our family. Surely you ought to be pleased that the descendant of your ancestral green-grocer should marry the near connection of a coal-heaver. They pair like chalk and cheese.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Theodore!”
“I wonder if she calls him Bertie,” murmured the Canon, thoughtfully.
“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so irritating,” said Lady Sophia, sharply. “Do you really intend Winnie to marry him?”
“Of course not, my dear. I intend Winnie to marry young Wroxham.”
“And do you think the best way to bring that about is to let her be engaged to somebody else?”
“My dear Sophia, have you ever known me make a mistake yet?”
“Frequently! Though I’m bound to say I’ve never known you acknowledge it.”
Canon Spratte laughed heartily.
“It comes to the same thing. Like the typical Englishman, I never know when I’m beaten.”
“Good heavens, what a man it is!” she cried. “One can’t even remark that it’s a fine day without your extracting a compliment from it. Master Theodore, self-praise is no recommendation.”
“Miss Sophia, your nose wants blowing,” he retorted promptly.
“That I think is rather vulgar, Theodore.”
Canon Spratte laughed again.
“That’s just like a woman; she hits you when you’re not looking, and when you defend yourself, she cries: ‘Foul play!’ ”
“Fiddlesticks!”
There was a pause, during which Lady Sophia, knowing how anxious the Canon was to tell her about Winnie, waited for him to speak; while he, equally aware of her curiosity, determined to utter no word till she gave him the satisfaction of asking. The lady lost patience first.
“Why, then, did you consent to Winnie’s engagement with the coal-heaver?” she asked, abruptly.
“Because I thought it the only way to induce her to marry Wroxham.”
“Upon my word, Theodore, you’re a very extraordinary man.”
“That, my dear, is a fact which has not entirely escaped my observation,” retorted Canon Spratte, rubbing his hands. “I’ve brought you to your knees, Sophia. Confess that this time your intelligence is at fault.”
“Nothing of the sort!”
“Well, well, I flatter myself——” he began.
“You frequently do,” interrupted his sister.
“I flatter myself that I know my daughter’s character. Now, I am convinced that if I had put my foot down, Winnie would have gone off and married the man there and then. But I know the Spratte character inside and out. We are a family of marked idiosyncrasies.”
“Inherited from the Montmorencys, I suppose,” suggested Lady Sophia, ironically.
“I have no doubt. You will remember in our father the firmness and decision of which I speak.”
“I remember that he was as obstinate as a pig.”
“My dear, I do not want to rebuke you, but I really must ask you not to make these unseemly remarks. If you are incapable of recognizing the respect due to your father, I would have you recollect that he was also Lord Chancellor of England.”
“Do you ever give me the chance to forget it?” murmured Lady Sophia. “But what has that to do with Winnie?”
“I was about to observe that whatever my faults, when I make up my mind that a thing is right, no power on earth can prevent me from doing it. Now, I do not wish to be offensive, but I cannot help perceiving that the firmness, which, if I may say it without vanity, is so marked a characteristic in me, is apt in other members of our family to degenerate into something which the uncharitable may well call obstinacy.”
“Upon my word, Theodore, it’s fortunate you told me you had no wish to be offensive.”
“Please don’t interrupt,” pursued the Canon, with a wave of the hand. “Now, I am dealing with Winnie as the Irishman deals with the pig he is taking to market. He pulls the way he doesn’t want to go, and the pig quite happily goes the other.”
“I wish you’d say plainly what you’re driving at.”
“My dear, when Winnie said she would marry Mr. Railing, she didn’t reckon on Mr. Railing’s mamma and she didn’t reckon on Mr. Railing’s sister who teaches in the Board School. In such cases the man has often educated himself into something that passes muster, and your sex has no great skill in discerning a gentleman from the spurious article. But the women! My dear Sophia, I tell you Winnie won’t like them at all.”
“The more repulsive his relations are, the more her pride will force Winnie to keep her promise.”
“We shall see.”
Lady Sophia, pursing her lips, thought over the wily device which the Canon had complacently unfolded, then she glanced at him sharply.
“Are you quite sure it’s honest, Theodore?”
“My dear Sophia, what do you mean?” cried he, much astonished.
“Isn’t it a little underhand?”
Canon Spratte drew himself up and looked at his sister with some sternness.
“My dear, I do not wish to remind you that I am a clergyman, though occasionally you seem strangely oblivious of the fact. But I should like to point out to you that it’s unlikely, to say the least of it, that a man of my position in the Church should do anything dishonest or underhand.”
Lady Sophia, raising her eyebrows, smiled thinly.
“My dear brother, if as Vicar of St. Gregory’s and Canon of Tercanbury, and prospective Bishop of Barchester, you assure me that you are acting like a Christian and a gentleman—of course I haven’t the temerity to say anything further.”
“You may set your mind at rest,” he answered, with a little laugh of scorn, “you can be quite sure that whatever I do is right.”
VIII
TWO days after this Lady Sophia was sitting alone in the drawing-room when Mrs. Fitzherbert was shown in. At her heels walked Lord Spratte.
“I found him on a chair in the Park, and I brought him here to keep him out of mischief,” she said, shaking hands with Lady Sophia.
“I’ve reached an age when I can only get into mischief with an infinite deal of trouble,” answered Lord Spratte, “and when I’ve succeeded, I find the game was hardly worth the candle.”
“I’ve not seen you since Theodore turned you out of the house—somewhat unceremoniously,” laughed Lady Sophia; “I hope you bear no malice.”
“Not in the least; Theodore’s cook is far too good.”
They both talked very frankly before Mrs. Fitzherbert, whom they liked equally; but the Canon would not perhaps have been much pleased if he knew how thoroughly they discussed him in her presence. Lord Spratte asked whether there was any news of the bishopric.
“Nothing has been heard yet, but Theodore is convinced he’ll get it,” replied Lady Sophia.
“He’ll be quite unbearable if he does.”
“Quite!” she agreed. “I shall shave my head and go into a convent.”
“You laugh at the Canon and you tease him, but he’s a clever man for all that,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “Of course he’s rather vain and grandiloquent, but not very much more than most men. I have an idea that he’ll make a first-rate bishop.”
“Theodore?”
Lady Sophia considered the matter for a moment.
“It really hadn’t occurred to me, but I daresay you’re right,” she said. “Of course he’s not a saint, but one doesn’t want bishops to be too pious. Curates may be saintly, and it’s very proper that they should; but it’s equally proper of their betters to leave them hidden away in obscure parishes where their peculiarities cannot be a stumbling-block to the faithful. The religion of a man who belongs to the Church of England is closely connected with consols, and he looks with grave distrust on the parson who tells him seriously to lay up treasure in heaven.”
“A bishop must be a man who can wear his gaiters with dignity,” smiled Mrs, Fitzherbert.
“But has Theodore the legs?”
“If not, he can pad,” replied Lady Sophia. “Most of them do, and those that don’t certainly should. A bishop must evidently be a man who can wear lawn sleeves without feeling dressed up. He’s a Prince of the Church, and he should carry himself becomingly. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but few of them can help purring with gratification when they hear themselves addressed by obsequious clergy as, my lord. Theodore at least will carry his honours with a dash. We may be parvenus....”
“We certainly are, Sophia,” cried Lord Spratte.
“But Theodore is clever enough to forget it. He honestly feels that his ancestors fought in coats-of-mail at Agincourt and Crecy.”
“Heaven save me from the candid criticism of relations,” exclaimed Mrs. Fitzherbert. “They’re like a bad looking-glass which gives you an atrocious squint and a crooked nose.”
“We shall have to eat the dust, Sophia,” muttered Lord Spratte.
“The whole diocese will have to eat the dust,” she answered, smiling. “Theodore will stand no nonsense from his clergy; they’ll have to do as he tells them or there’ll be ructions. Theodore is not soft-handed, and he’ll get his own way by hook or by crook. You’ll see, in five years it’ll be the best-managed bishopric in England, and an invitation to dinner at the Palace will be considered by every one a sufficient reward for the labours of Hercules.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed, and at that moment the subject of the conversation appeared. He greeted Mrs. Fitzherbert with extreme cordiality, but to his brother, not forgetful of the terms upon which they had parted, he held out a very frigid hand.
“I must congratulate you on Winnie’s engagement,” said Lord Spratte.
Canon Spratte looked at him coolly and passed his handsome hand through his hair.
“I’m sorry to see that your levity grows more marked every day, Thomas. It seems that increasing years bring you no sense of your responsibilities. I used to hope that your flippancy was due chiefly to the exuberance of youth.”
“It shows what a charmin’ character I have to stand bein’ ragged by my younger brother,” murmured Lord Spratte, calmly. He turned to Mrs. Fitzherbert. “I hate far more the relations who think it their duty to say unpleasant things to your very face.”
“You forget that it’s my name as well as yours that you drag through the dust.”
“The name of Spratte?”
“It was held by the late Lord Chancellor of England,” retorted the Canon, icily.
“Oh, Theodore, don’t bring him in again. I’m just about sick of him. It’s been the curse of my life to be the son of an eminent man. After all it was a beastly job that they stuck him on that silly Woolsack.”
“Have you never heard the saying: ‘De mortuis nil nisi bonum’?”
“That means: don’t pull an old buffer’s leg when he’s kicked the bucket,” explained Lord Spratte to the two ladies.
The Canon shrugged his shoulders.
“You have no sense of decorum, no seemliness, no dignity.”
“Good heavens, what can you expect? I don’t feel important enough to strike attitudes. I’m just Tommy Tiddler, and I can’t forget it. I might have done something if I’d had any name but Spratte. If it had been just Sprat it would have been vulgar, but those two last letters make it pretentious as well. And that’s what our honours are—vulgar and pretentious! I can’t make out why the old buffer stuck to that beastly monosyllable.”
“I always wish we could change with our butler, Theodore,” said Lady Sophia. “Don’t you think it’s very hard that he should be called Ponsonby, and we—Spratte?”
“I’m not ashamed of it,” said the Canon.
“You’re ashamed of nothing, Theodore,” retorted his brother. “Now, I’m different; I’m a modest sort of chap, and I can’t stand all these gewgaws. I don’t want the silly title with its sham coat-of-arms, and it’s bogus pedigree. And those ridiculous ermine robes! The very thought of them makes my flesh creep. I should have been right enough if I’d just been plain Tom Sprat. I might have made a fairly good horse-dealer, and if I hadn’t brains enough for that I could always have gone into Parliament. I’d have been a capital First Lord of the Admiralty, because I can’t tell a man-o’-war from a coal barge, and the mere sight of the briny ocean makes me feel sick.”
“It’s such as you who bring the Upper House into discredit,” exclaimed Theodore.
“Such as I, my dear brother? Why, I’m the saving of the place, because I have a sense of humour. I know we’re no good. No one cares two straws about us. And they just leave us there because we do no harm and they’ve forgotten all about us.”
“I should like you to compare yourself with Harry Wroxham,” said Canon Spratte. “Though he’s quite a young man, he has acquired a respected and assured position in the House of Lords.”
“Yes, I know,” replied the peer, with much scorn. “He fusses about, and he’s a County Councillor, and he speaks at Church Congresses.”
“It’s greatly to his credit that he’s a steadfast champion of the Church of England.”
“I daresay. All I know is that if there were a hundred fellows in the House of Lords as enthusiastic as he is, the House of Lords would tumble down. The British public leaves us there as long as we don’t interfere with it, but if ever we put on airs and try to stand on our hind legs, the British public will just take us by the scruff of the neck and out we shall go. If we all took ourselves in earnest like Wroxham, we should just get the hoof, brother Theodore.”
“And do you ever go to the House of Lords, which you support by your sense of ridicule?” asked Mrs. Fitzherbert, her lips trembling into laughter.
“Certainly; I was there the other day.”
“Dear me!”
“Oh, it was quite accidental,” he hastened to explain, apologetically. “I had to go to Westminster on business.”
“On business!” repeated the Canon, full of contempt.
“Yes, to see a terrier that a man wanted to sell. Well, I had a new topper and no umbrella, an’ of course it began to rain. ‘By Jove,’ I said, ‘I’m hanged if I won’t go and legislate for ten minutes.’ I saw it was only a shower. Well, I walked in and somebody asked who the dickens I was. Upon my word, I was almost ashamed to say; I look too bogus, Theodore.”
“It’s not the name that makes the man,” said the Canon, sententiously. “A rose by any other appellation would smell as sweet.”
“There you’re wrong, but I won’t argue it out. Well, I went in and found twenty old buffers lying about on red benches. Half of them were asleep, and one was mumblin’ away in his beard. ‘Good Lord,’ I said, ‘who are their tailors?’ Then I said to myself: ‘Shall I stay here and listen to their twaddle or shall I get my hat wet?’ Suddenly I had an inspiration. ‘By Jove,’ I thought, ‘I’ll take a cab.’ ”
“And that, Sophia, is the head of our house!” said the Canon, in icy tones. “Thomas, second Earl Spratte of Beachcombe.”
But these words were hardly out of his mouth, when there was a noisy ring at the bell of the front-door.
Canon Spratte started nervously. He collected himself to receive the expected messenger. Then came the sound of voices in the hall, and the Canon put up his hand to request silence.
“Who can that be?” he asked.
Some one was heard running up the stairs and the door was burst open by Lionel, for once in his life hurried and disturbed.
“Oh, it’s only you!” said Canon Spratte, unable to conceal his disappointment. “I don’t know why on earth you ring the bell as though the house were on fire.”
But Lionel waited to make no excuses.
“I say, father, is it true about Barchester?”
“Is what true?” he asked, uncertain whether to be triumphant or dismayed.
“It’s announced that Dr. Gray, the headmaster of Harbin, has been appointed.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the Canon, incredulously. “A trumpery headmaster who teaches ignorant school-boys their A B C.”
“It’s in the evening paper.”
“Oh, it’s ridiculous; it can’t be true. I make the best of my fellow men, and I cannot bring myself to believe that Lord Stonehenge can be so foolish and wicked.”
“The Westminster Gazette says it’s a capital appointment.”
“The Westminster is a Radical paper, Lionel, and will say anything. For all I know Gray may be a Radical too. I tell you it’s preposterous. He’s little better than an imbecile and a man of no family. A fool, a school-master! I know innumerable things against him but nothing in his favour—except that he was once tutor to one of Stonehenge’s ill-mannered brats. I cannot think the Government could be so grossly idiotic as to give an important bishopric to a man of Gray’s powers. Powers? They’re not powers; he’s the most ordinary and stupid man I’ve ever known. He’s stupider than a churchwarden.”
“I confess I think it rather bad taste of Lord Stonehenge, considering that you dined with him only the other day,” murmured Lady Sophia.
“I thank Heaven that I’m not a vain man,” said the Canon, somewhat oratorically. “I may have faults; we all have faults. But I don’t think any one has ever accused me of vanity. When it was suggested that I should be offered the bishopric of Barchester, the thought came upon me as a surprise; but this I will confess, I don’t think I should have been out of place in that position. I have been mixed up with public affairs all my life, and I am used to authority. Nor can I help thinking that I deserve something of my country.”
At this moment Ponsonby passed through the drawing-room to the little terrace outside the window. He bore on a silver tray of imposing dimensions a kettle and a tea-pot.
“I told them to put tea outside,” said Lady Sophia. “I thought it would be pleasanter.”
Lord Spratte and Lionel got up and with Lady Sophia passed through the large French window; but Mrs, Fitzherbert, seeing that the Canon made no sign of following, stopped at the threshold.
“Won’t you come and have tea, Canon?” she asked.
“Ah, my dear lady, at this moment I cannot think of tea. I could almost say that I shall never drink tea again.”
“Poor Canon Spratte, I feel so sorry for you,” she smiled, half amused at his vexation, half tender because he was so like a spoiled child.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s not for myself that I feel sorry, it’s for the people who have done this thing. It’s charming of you to sympathise with me.” He took her hand and pressed it. “I’ve often felt that you really understand me. It’s a dreadful thing to live surrounded by persons who don’t appreciate you. They say that no man is a prophet in his own country, and I have experienced that too. I’m glad you were here this afternoon, for you’ve seen how I’m surrounded by cynical laughter and by flippant vulgarity. They don’t understand me.” He sighed and smiled and patted the hand he held. “I don’t want to say anything against Sophia. I daresay she does her best, and in this world we must be thankful for small mercies, but she hasn’t the delicacy of sentiment necessary to understand a character like mine. Do you remember my wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert? She was an angel, wasn’t she? Loving, obedient, respectful, self-effacing! She was all that a wife should be. But she was taken from me. I shall never quite get over it.”
“Now come and have tea,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert, disengaging her hand. “I know it’ll pull you together.”
“Oh, I could touch nothing,” he cried, with a gesture of distaste. “I wouldn’t venture to say it to any one else, but to you who really understand me, I can say that if any man was fitted to be Bishop of Barchester I am he. Any one who knows me must be quite sure that it’s not for my own sake that I wanted it; but think of the wonderful opportunities for doing good that such a position affords! And they’ve given it to Gray!”
He ended with a wrathful shrug of the shoulders. When he spoke again there was a tremor in his voice, partly of righteous indignation, partly of despair at the folly of mankind.
“I speak entirely without prejudice, but honestly, do you think Dr. Gray fitted for such responsibilities?”
“I certainly don’t,” replied Mrs. Fitzherbert, who till that day had never even heard of the distinguished pedagogue.
“I can’t see that he has any claim at all. He’s not a man of influence, he’s not even a man of birth. Nobody ever heard of his father, while mine will be celebrated as long as English history is read.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry and disappointed I am.”
Canon Spratte paused in his indignant promenade and waved his hand picturesquely towards the open window.
“Ah, my dear friend, don’t trouble yourself with my small annoyances. Go and have tea now; it will be bad for you if you keep it standing.”
“And you, dear Canon?”
“I will face the disappointment in the privacy of my own apartment.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert left him, and with a despondent sigh he turned to go into his study. His glance fell on his father’s portrait, and a thought came to him which in a layman might have expressed itself in the words:
“By Jove, if he were alive, he’d make ’em skip.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and passing a looking-glass, paused to observe himself. Meditatively he ran his fingers through his curly, abundant hair; and then, almost without thinking what he was about, took from his pocket a little comb and passed it through the disarranged locks.
“I suppose I must go to Savile Row to-morrow, and tell them they can set to work on those trousers,” he muttered.
IX
IT was almost with a sense of disillusion that Winnie realized the fight was won. Feeling very truly that opposition would only have increased her determination to marry Bertram Railing, she would have been pleased, in heroic mood, to do more desperate battle for her love. She was like a man who puts out all his strength to lift an iron weight and finds it of cardboard, light and hollow, so that he is sent sprawling on the ground. Winnie had braced herself to strenuous efforts, and since they were unneeded, the affair gained somewhat the look of a tragedy turned to farce. The conditions which the Canon had set were precise, but easy; he gave no sanction to the engagement but offered no hostility. Only, for a year nothing must be said about it to any one.
Railing was invited to luncheon at St. Gregory’s Vicarage. Canon Spratte, though making no more than a passing, facetious reference to the connection with Winnie, behaved very politely. He was friendly and even cordial. The girl knew that both he and Lady Sophia examined her lover critically, and though she thought herself detestable, she could not help watching him also, nervously, in case he committed a solecism. But he was so frank, so natural, that everything he did gained a peculiar charm, and his good looks made Winnie love him each moment more devotedly. She was curious to know her aunt’s opinion; but that the elderly lady took care neither by word nor manner to give, till she was asked outright.
“My dear, if you love him, and your father approves, I don’t think there’s anything more to be said,” she smiled. “I suppose he’ll go into Parliament when you’re married, and I dare say it’s not a bad thing that he’s a Radical. The Liberals want clever young men with good connections, and doubtless your father will be able to get him made something or other.”
“He wouldn’t consent to be made anything,” said Winnie, with scornful pride.
“After he’s been married a few years he’ll no doubt take anything he can get,” answered Lady Sophia, mildly.
“Ah, but you don’t understand, we don’t want to think of ourselves, we want to think of others.”
“Have you ever faced the fact that people will ask you to their parties, but won’t dream of asking him?”
“D’you think I should go anywhere without my husband?”
“I’m afraid you’ll be rather bored,” suggested Lady Sophia.
Winnie reflected over this for a moment; then, chasing away a frown of indecision from her face, glanced happily at her aunt.
“At all events, you’ll allow that he’s very handsome.”
“Certainly,” said Lady Sophia. “I have only one fault to find with him. Aren’t his legs a little short? I wonder if he can wear a frock-coat without looking stumpy.”
“Fortunately, he’s absolutely indifferent to what he wears,” laughed Winnie.
“Yes, I’ve noticed that; his clothes look as if they were bought ready-made. You must really take him to a good tailor.”
Canon Spratte would much have liked to inspect Mrs. Railing and her daughter, but feared to excite Winnie’s suspicion. He contented himself with urging Bertram to take her to Peckham; and when he made the suggestion, watched the youth keenly for signs of disinclination to produce his people. He saw nothing.
“I can’t make out if the boy is simple or crafty,” he said to himself irritably.
It never struck him that Railing could have so great an affection for his mother as to be indifferent to her defects.
“She’s done everything for me,” he told Winnie, when they were in the train, on their way to visit her. “My father died when I was a lad, and it’s only by her strength of will and sheer hard work that I’ve done anything at all.”
Winnie, overflowing with love for the handsome fellow, was prepared to look upon his mother with favourable eyes. Her imagination presented to her a Roman matron, toiling with silent patience to fit her son for a great work. There was something heroic in the thought of this unassuming person, educated in the hard school of poverty, preparing with inflexible courage the instrument for the regeneration of a people. She expected to find a powerful, stern woman whom, if it was impossible to love, she might at least admire. Winnie was sure that Mrs. Railing had a thousand interesting things to say about Bertram.
“I want to know what you were like when you were a boy,” she said, in her pretty, enthusiastic way. “I want her to tell me so much.”
He kissed her fingers, in the well-made gloves, and looked at her with happy pride.
“Do you care for me really?” he asked. “Sometimes I can’t believe it. It seems too good to be true.”
“I feel so insignificant and so contemptible. I wish you knew how grateful I am to you for loving me.”
From the train they had a glimpse of the Thames glistening vaguely in the sunny mist. But they came soon to long rows of little grey houses, which displayed with callous effrontery the details of their poverty. In the grimy backyards clothes were hung out to dry on lines. Winnie, anxious to see only the more cheerful side of things, turned away to occupy herself entirely with Bertram’s dark comeliness.
On reaching Peckham she looked for a cab, but her lover, to whom the idea of such luxury did not occur, set out to walk; and she, remembering that in future she must resist extravagance, dutifully followed.
“It’s only about a mile and a bit,” he said, stepping out briskly.
At first glance Winnie was not displeased with the bustle of the street. There was a welcome freshness in the air. The pavements were thronged, the roadway noisy with the rumble of ’buses and the clatter of tradesmen’s carts; the shops were gay with all their crowded wares. After the dull respectability of South Kensington, the vivacity and the busy, strenuous eagerness were very exhilarating. The girl felt herself more in touch with humanity, and the surrounding life made her blood tingle pleasantly. She felt a singular glow as she realized what a manifold excitement there was merely in living.
“I don’t think I should mind a house in the suburbs at all,” she said.
But at last, turning out of the main road, they came into a street which seemed interminable. There were little brick villas on either side in a long straight row; and each house, with its bow window, its prim door and slate roof, was exactly like its fellow. Each had a tiny plot of lawn in front of it, about four feet square. The sky was grey, for the fitful sun had vanished, and the wind blew bitterly. The street, empty and cheerless, seemed very dreary. Winnie shuddered a little, feeling a sudden strange enmity towards the inhabitants of these dull places. She soon grew tired, for she was unused to walking, and asked whether they had still far to go.
“It’s only just round the corner,” he said.
They turned, and another long row of little houses appeared, differing not at all from the first; and the likeness between each of these made her dizzy.
“It’s worse than Bayswater,” she murmured, with something like a groan of dismay.
The exhilaration which at first she had felt was fast vanishing under fatigue, and the east wind, and the dull solitariness. Finally they came to a tiny villa, cheek by jowl with its neighbours, that appeared primmer, more sordid and grossly matter-of-fact than them all. Yet the name, let into the fanlight above the door, in gold letters, was its only dissimilarity. It was called Balmoral. In the windows were cheap lace curtains.
“Here we are,” said Bertram, producing a latchkey.
He led her into a narrow passage, the floor of which was covered with malodorous linoleum, and then into the parlour. It was a very small room, formal, notwithstanding Bertram’s books neatly arranged on shelves. There was a close smell as though it were rarely used and the windows seldom opened. A table took up most of the floor; it was hidden by a large red cloth, stamped with a black pattern, but Winnie guessed at once that its top was of deal and the legs elaborately carved in imitation mahogany. Against the wall was a piano, and all round a set of chairs covered with red velvet. On each side of the fire-place were arm-chairs of the same sort. Winnie’s quick eye took in also the elaborate gilded clock with a shepherd kneeling to a shepherdess, under a glass case; and this was flanked by candlesticks to match similarly protected. The chimney-piece was swathed in pale green draperies. Opposite the looking-glass was a painting in oils of the brig Mary Ann, on which Thomas Railing had sailed many an adventurous journey; and next to this was a portrait of the seaman himself, no less wooden than the ship. He wore black broadcloth of a funereal type, and side-whiskers of great luxuriance.
“Mother,” cried Bertram, “mother!”
“Coming!”
It was a fat, good-natured voice, but even in that one word the cockney accent was aggressive and unmistakable. Mrs. Railing appeared, smoothing the sleeves of the Sunday dress which she had just put on. She was a short, stout woman, of an appearance politely termed comfortable; her red face, indistinct of feature, shone with good-humour and with soap, the odour of which proceeded from her with undue distinctness; her hair was excessively black. There was certainly nothing in her to remind one of Bertram’s sensitive, beautiful face. Smiling pleasantly, she shook hands with Winnie.