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.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“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.

“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.

“_For I’m no sailor bold,_

_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.”