“My dear man, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“My children are making their own homes, and I shall be left alone. Whatever you say, we’re neither of us old yet. Why shouldn’t we join forces?”
“It’s too absurd,” she said.
“That I should want to marry you? Look in your glass, dear friend, and it will tell you there are a hundred good reasons.”
He put his arm round her, and before she realized what he was about, kissed her lips.
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“But I haven’t accepted,” she cried.
“I told you I never took a refusal; I shall inform Sophia that you’ve promised to marry me.”
Giving her no time to reply, he jumped up, pressed her hand lightly, and disappeared. Mrs. Fitzherbert did not know whether to be amused or angry. The affair seemed like a joke that had been carried too far, and she really could not believe that the Canon meant what he said. Suddenly an idea struck her. A smile came to her lips and she began to laugh. The idea gained shape. She threw back her head and laughed till the tears positively ran down her cheeks.
But the Canon returned to the ball-room feeling not a day more than twenty-five. Winnie came up to him.
“I’m ready to go home when you like, papa. I’m rather tired.”
He looked at his watch.
“Nonsense! One’s not tired at two in the morning at your age. Why, I feel as fit as a fiddle. Come.”
He seized her, and before she knew where she was, whirled her into the middle of the room. He would not let her expostulate, but danced as though he would never tire. His spirits were so high that he could have shouted at the top of his voice.
When they were all three in the carriage on their way home, Canon Spratte turned to his son.
“Well, did you take my advice?” he asked.
“I didn’t have a chance,” said Lionel, discontentedly.
“Good Lord! You’re not half the man your father is.”
The Canon chuckled and rubbed his hands. He asked Winnie’s permission to light a cigar, and put up his feet comfortably on the opposite seat.
“I’ve had a very charming evening. Upon my soul, it’s wonderful what good it does a hard-working man to have a little innocent enjoyment.”
XII
MRS. RAILING accepted Canon Spratte’s invitation to bring her daughter to tea. On the day appointed he sat like a Hebrew patriarch surrounded by his family and waited for her to come. He addressed Lionel, his son.
“You’ll remember that there are two funerals to-morrow morning, won’t you?” he said.
“Good gracious, I had completely forgotten all about them.”
“I daresay they were persons of no consequence,” remarked Lord Spratte.
“As a matter of fact, I believe one of them, poor fellow! was our own fish-monger,” said the Canon, smiling.
“I thought the fish had been very inferior these last few days,” murmured Lady Sophia.
Ponsonby opened the door stealthily and announced the guests in his most impressive tones.
“Mrs. and Miss Railing.”
Mrs. Railing, a woman of simple tastes, was unaccustomed to give time or thought to the adornment of her person. She was an excellent creature who had arrived at the sensible conclusion that comfort was more important than appearance; and when she had grown used to a garment, only the repeated persuasion of her children could induce her to give it up. Widowhood with her was a question of pride and a passport to respectability. She wore, somewhat on one side, a shabby crape bonnet, a black old-fashioned cloak, and loose cotton gloves. She carried with affectionate care, as though it were a jewel of vast price, a gloomy and masculine umbrella. It had a bow on the handle.
Canon Spratte advanced very cordially and shook hands with her.
“How d’you do. How d’you do, Mrs. Railing.”
“Nicely, thank you.” She turned and gave a little wave of the hand toward her offspring. “This is my daughter, Miss Railing.”
Miss Railing wore a strenuous look and pince-nez, a sailor hat, a white blouse, and a leather belt.
“How d’you do,” said Canon Spratte.
“Quite well, thank you.”
Winnie, having passed the time of day with Mrs. Railing, looked shyly at Bertram’s sister.
“You weren’t in the other day when I came to Peckham with your brother.”
“I didn’t get home till late.”
Miss Railing, suffering from no false shame, looked at Winnie with a somewhat disparaging curiosity. She was highly educated and took care to speak the King’s English correctly. She dropped her aitches but seldom. Sometimes she hesitated whether or no to insert the troublesome letter, but when she used it her emphasis fully made up for an occasional lapse. She was, perhaps, a little self-assertive; and came to St. Gregory’s Vicarage as to an enemy’s camp, bristling to take offence. She was determined to show that she was a person of culture.
“Let me introduce you to my sister, Lady Sophia Spratte,” said the Canon to Mrs. Railing. “Miss Railing, my sister.”
“I’m really Miss Louise Railing, you know,” said that young lady, in a slightly injured tone.
“I ‘ave two daughters, my lord,” explained Mrs. Railing, who felt that some ceremony was needed to address the member of a noble family, “but the elder one, Florrie, ain’t quite right in ‘er ‘ead. And we ‘ad to shut ‘er up in an asylum.”
The Canon observed her for one moment and shot a rapid glance at Winnie.
“It’s so fortunate that you were able to come,” he said. “In the Season one has so many engagements.”
But at the harmless remark Miss Railing bridled.
“I thought you people in the West End never did anything?”
Canon Spratte laughed heartily.
“The West End has a bad reputation — in Peckham Rye.”
“Well, I don’t know that I can say extra much for the people of Peckham Rye either. There’s no public spirit among them. And yet we do all we can; the Radical Association tries to stir them up. We give meetings every week — but they won’t come to them.”
“I wonder at that,” replied the Canon, blandly. “And do you share your brother’s talent for oratory?”
“Oh, I say a few words now and then,” said Miss Railing, modestly.
“You should hear ‘er talk,” interposed Mrs. Railing, with a significant nod.
“Well, I hold with women taking part in everything. I’m a Radical from top to toe.” Miss Railing stared hard at Lady Sophia, who was watching her with polite attention. “I can’t stand the sort of woman who sits at home and does nothing but read novels and go to balls. There’s an immense field for women’s activities. And who thinks now that women are inferior to men?”
“Ain’t she wonderful!” ejaculated Mrs. Railing, with unconcealed admiration.
“Ma!” protested her daughter.
“She says I always praise ‘er in front of people,” Mrs. Railing laughed good-humouredly. “But I can’t ‘elp it. You should see all the prizes and certificates she’s got. Oh, I am proud of ‘er, I can tell you.”
“Ma, don’t go on like that always. It makes people think I’m a child.”
“Well, Louie, I can’t ‘elp it. You’re a marvel and there’s no denying it. Tell ’em about the gold medal you won.”
“I wish you would,” said Lord Spratte. “I always respect people with gold medals.”
“Go on with you,” cried Miss Railing.
“Well, Louie, you are obstinate,” said her mother; and turning to Lady Sophia she added confidentially: “She ‘as been — ever since she was a child.”
But the appearance of the stately Ponsonby with tea-things changed the conversation. Mrs. Railing looked round the room, and the Canon saw that her eyes rested on the magnificent portrait of the first Lord Spratte.
“That is my father, the late Lord Chancellor of England. It is a most admirable likene
ss.”
“It’s a very ‘andsome frame,” said Mrs. Railing, anxious to be polite.
Lord Spratte burst out laughing.
“He is plain, isn’t he?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” answered Mrs. Railing, with confusion, “I would never take such a liberty.”
“Now, you can’t honestly say he was a beauty, Mrs. Railing.”
“Thomas, remember he was my father,” inserted the Canon.
But Mrs. Railing feared she had wounded her host’s feelings.
“Now I come to look at ‘im, I don’t think ‘e’s so bad looking after all,” she said.
His elder son cast a rapid glance at the Lord Chancellor’s sardonic smile.
“In the family we think he’s the very image of my brother Theodore.”
“Well, now you mention it, I do see a likeness,” replied Mrs. Railing, innocently looking from the portrait to Canon Spratte.
The Canon shook his head at his brother with smiling menace, and handed the good lady a cup of tea. While she stirred it, she addressed herself amiably to Lady Sophia.
“Nice neighbourhood this!” she said.
“South Kensington?” answered Lady Sophia. “It’s the least unpleasant of all the suburbs.”
“My dear, I cannot allow South Kensington to be called a suburb,” cried the Canon. “It’s the very centre of London.”
Lady Sophia smiled coldly.
“It always reminds me of the Hamlet who was funny without being vulgar: South Kensington is Bayswater without being funny.”
“Peckham’s a nice neighbourhood,” said Mrs. Railing, trying to balance a piece of cake in her saucer. “You get such a nice class of people there.”
“So I should think,” replied Lady Sophia.
“We’ve got such a pretty little ‘ouse near the Gladstone Road. Of course, we ‘aven’t got electric light, but we’ve got a lovely bath-room. And Bertie takes a bath every morning.”
“Does he, indeed!” exclaimed the Canon.
“Yes, and ‘e says he can’t do without it: if ‘e doesn’t ‘ave it, ‘e’s uncomfortable all day. Things ‘ave changed since I was a girl. Why, nobody thought of ‘aving all these baths then. Now, only the other day I was talking to Mr. Smithers, the builder, an’ he said to me: ‘Lor, Mrs. Railing,’ says he, ‘people are getting that fussy, if you build ’em a house without a bath-room they won’t look at it.’ Why, even Louie takes a bath every Saturday night regular.”
“They say that cleanliness is next to godliness,” returned Canon Spratte, sententiously.
“There’s no denying that, but one ‘as to be careful,” said Mrs. Railing. “I’ve known a lot of people who’ve took their death of cold all through ‘aving a bath when they wasn’t feeling very well.”
Lord Spratte, giving Miss Railing a cup of tea, offered her the sugar.
“Thanks,” she said. “No sugar; I think it’s weak.”
“What, the tea?” cried the Canon. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, to take sugar. I don’t approve of hydrocarbons.”
“Rough on the hydrocarbons, ain’t it?” murmured Lord Spratte.
The Canon with a smile addressed himself again to Mrs. Railing.
“And how do you take your tea, dear lady?”
“Oh, I don’t pay no attention to all this stuff of Louie’s and Bertie’s,” that good creature replied, a broad fat smile sending her red face into a pucker of little wrinkles. “Sometimes they just about give me the ‘ump, I can tell you.”
“Ma, do mind what you’re saying,” cried Miss Railing, much shocked at this manner of speaking.
“Well, you do, Louie — that is Louise. She don’t like me to call her Louie. She says it’s so common. You know, my lord, my children was christened Bertram and Louise. But we’ve always called ’em Bertie and Louie, and I can’t get out of the ‘abit of it now. But, lor’, when your children grow up and get on in the world they want to turn everything upside down. Now what do you think Bertie wants me to do?”
“I can’t imagine,” said the Canon.
“Well, would you believe it, he wants me to take the pledge.”
“Ma!” cried Miss Railing, with whole volumes of reproach in her tone.
“Well, look ‘ere, my lord,” continued her mother, confidentially. “What I say is, I’m an ‘ard-working woman, and what with the work I do, I want my little drop of beer now and then. The Captain — my ‘usband, that is— ‘ad a little bit put by, but I ‘ad to work to make both ends meet when I was left a widow, I can tell you. And I’ve given my children a thorough good education.”
“You have reason to be proud of them,” replied the Canon, with conviction. “I don’t suppose my little girl has half the knowledge of Miss Louise.”
“That’s your fault; that’s because you’ve not educated her properly,” cried Miss Railing, attacking him at once. “I hold with the higher education of women. But there’s no education in the West End. Now, if I had charge of your daughter for six months I could make a different woman of her.”
“Ain’t she wonderful!” said Mrs. Railing. “I can listen to ‘er talking for hours at a time.”
“Except on the subject of teetotalism?” cried the Canon, rubbing his hands jovially.
Mrs. Railing threw back her head and shook with laughter.
“You’re right there, my lord. What I say is, I’m an ‘ard-working woman.”
“And you want your little drop of beer, I know, I know,” hastily interrupted the Canon. “I was discussing the matter the other day with the lady who does me the honour to clean out my church, and she expressed herself in the same manner; but she rather favoured spirits, I understand.”
“Oh, I never take spirits,” said Mrs. Railing, shaking her head.
“What, never?” cried the Canon, with immense gusto.
“Well, ‘ardly ever,” she answered, beaming.
“Capital! Capital!”
“Now don’t you laugh at me. The fact is, I sometimes ‘ave a little drop in my tea.”
“Bless me, why didn’t you say so? Winnie, you really ought to have told me. Ring the bell.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, my lord,” said Mrs. Railing, who feared she had expressed too decided a hint.
“My dear lady!” cried the Canon, as though he had only just escaped a serious breach of hospitality. “What is it you take? Rum?”
“Oh, I can’t bear it!” cried Mrs. Railing, throwing up both her hands and making a face.
“Whiskey?”
“Oh, no, my lord. I wouldn’t touch it if I was paid.”
“Gin?”
She smiled broadly and in a voice that was almost caressing, answered: “Call it white satin, my lord.”
“White satin?”
“It’s a funny thing now, but rum never ‘as agreed with me; an’ it’s wholesome stuff, you know.”
“I have no doubt,” said Theodore, politely.
“The last time I ‘ad a little drop — oh, I was queer. Now, my friend, Mrs. Cooper, can’t touch anything else.”
“Come, come, that’s very strange.”
“You don’t know Mrs. Cooper, do you? Oh, she’s such a nice woman. And she’s got such a dear little ‘ouse in Shepherd’s Bush.”
“A salubrious neighbourhood, I believe,” said Canon Spratte, with a courteous bow.
“Oh, yes, the tube ‘as made a great difference to it. You ought to know Mrs. Cooper. Oh, she’s a nice woman and a thorough lady. No one can say a word against ‘er, I don’t care who it is!”
“Ma!” said Louise.
“Well, they do say she takes a little drop too much now and then,” returned the good lady, qualifying her statement. “But I’ve never seen ‘er with more than she could carry.”
“Really!” said Canon Spratte.
“Oh, I don’t approve of taking more than you can ‘old. My motto is strict moderation. But as Mrs. Cooper was saying to me only the other day: ‘Mrs. Rail
ing,’ she said, ‘with all the trouble I’ve gone through, I tell you, speaking as one lady to another, I don’t know what I should do without a little drop of rum.’ And she ‘as ‘ad a rare lot of trouble. There’s no denying it.”
“Poor soul, poor soul!” said the Canon.
“Oh, a rare lot of trouble. Now, you know, it’s funny ‘ow people differ. Mrs. Cooper said to me, ‘Mrs. Railing,’ she said, ‘I give you my word of honour, I can’t touch white satin. It ‘as such an effect on me that I don’t know what I’m talking about.’ So I said to ‘er: ‘Mrs. Cooper,’ I said, ‘you’re quite right not to touch it.’ Now wasn’t I right, my lord?”
“Oh, perfectly! I think you gave her the soundest possible advice.”
At this moment Ponsonby entered the room in answer to the bell. There was in his face such an impressive solemnity that you felt it would be almost sacrilege to address him flippantly. Canon Spratte rose and stepped forward, taking, according to his habit on important occasions, as it were the centre of the stage.
“Ponsonby, have we any — white satin in the house?”
“I ‘ave ‘eard it called satinette,” murmured Mrs. Railing, good-humouredly.
Ponsonby’s fish-like eyes travelled slowly from the Canon to the stout lady, and he positively blinked when he saw the rakish cock of her crape bonnet. Otherwise his massive face expressed no emotion.
“White satin, sir?” he repeated, slowly. “I’ll inquire.”
“Or satinette,” added Canon Spratte, unmoved.
Ponsonby did not immediately leave the room, but looked at the Canon with a mystified expression. His master smiled quietly.
“Perhaps Ponsonby does not quite understand. I mean, have we any gin in the house, Ponsonby?”
The emotions of horror and surprise made their way deliberately from feature to feature of Ponsonby’s fleshy, immobile face.
“Gin, sir? No, sir.”
“Is there none in the servants’ hall?”
“Oh no, sir!” answered Ponsonby, scandalized into some energy of expression.
“How careless of me!” cried the Canon, with every appearance of vexation. “You ought to have reminded me that there was no gin in the house, Sophia. Well, Ponsonby, will you go and get sixpennyworth at the nearest public-house.”
Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated) Page 102