IT was almost with a sense of that Winnie realized the fight was won. Feeling very truly that 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 on the ground. Winnie had herself to efforts, and since they were unneeded, the affair gained somewhat the look of a tragedy turned to . The conditions which the Canon had set were precise, but easy; he gave no sanction to the engagement but offered no . Only, for a year nothing must be said about it to any one.
Railing was invited to at St. Gregory’s Vicarage. Canon Spratte, though making no more than a passing, 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, , in case he committed a solecism. But he was so frank, so natural, that everything he did gained a charm, and his good looks made Winnie love him each moment more . 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 .
“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 . 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 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 .
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, with love for the handsome fellow, was prepared to look upon his mother with eyes. Her imagination presented to her a Roman matron, 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 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 and so . I wish you knew how grateful I am to you for loving me.”
From the train they had a glimpse of the Thames in the sunny mist. But they came soon to long rows of little grey houses, which displayed with 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 with Bertram’s dark .
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 with the of the street. There was a welcome freshness in the air. The pavements were , the roadway noisy with the of ’buses and the of tradesmen’s carts; the shops were gay with all their crowded . After the dull respectability of South Kensington, the and the busy, strenuous eagerness were very exhilarating. The girl felt herself more in touch with humanity, and the surrounding life made her blood 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 on either side in a long straight row; and each house, with its bow window, its door and 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 . Winnie 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 between each of these made her dizzy.
“It’s worse than Bayswater,” she murmured, with something like a of dismay.
The exhilaration which at first she had felt was fast vanishing under , and the east wind, and the dull . Finally they came to a tiny , cheek by jowl with its neighbours, that appeared , more 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 , and then into the parlour. It was a very small room, formal, notwithstanding Bertram’s books 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 . On each side of the fire-place were arm-chairs of the same sort. Winnie’s quick eye took in also the elaborate 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 journey; and next to this was a portrait of the himself, no less wooden than the ship. He wore black broadcloth of a 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, 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 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 to ring, and gave her son a questioning glance. Then, making up her mind, she pulled it.
The sound was heard easily in the parlour, and Mrs. Railing remarked : “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 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 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’............