THE world takes people very willingly at the estimate in which they hold themselves. With a fashionable bias for expression in a foreign tongue it calls modesty mauvaise honte; and the impudent are thought merely to have a proper opinion of their merit. But Ponsonby was really an imposing personage. His movements were measured and noiseless; and he wore the sombre garb of a gentleman’s butler with impressive dignity. He was a large man, flabby and corpulent, with a loose, smooth skin. His face, undisturbed by the rapid play of expression, which he would have thought indecorous, had a look of placid respectability; his eyes, with their puffy lower lids, rested on surrounding objects heavily; and his earnest, obsequious voice gave an impression of such overwhelming piety that your glance, involuntarily, fell to his rotund calves for the gaiters episcopal.
He looked gravely at the table set out for luncheon, while Alfred, the footman, walked round it, placing bread in each napkin.
“Is Tommy Tiddler coming to-day, Mr. Ponsonby?” he asked.
“His lordship is expected,” returned the butler, with a frigid stare.
He emphasised the aspirate to mark his disapproval of the flippancy wherewith his colleague referred to a person who was not only the brother of his master, but a member of the aristocracy.
“Here he is!” said Alfred, unabashed, looking out of the window. “He’s just drove up in a cab.”
Lord Spratte walked up the steps and rang the bell. Though Ponsonby had seen him two or three times a week for ten years, he gave no sign of recognition.
“Am I expected to luncheon to-day, Ponsonby?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Lord Spratte was middle-aged, of fresh complexion notwithstanding his grey hair; and his manner was quick and breezy. He carried his years and the increasing girth which accompanied them, with a graceful light-heartedness; and was apt to flatter himself that with the light behind he might still pass for five-and-thirty. He had neither the wish nor the intention to grow old. But the man of fifty, seeking to make the most of himself, must use many careful adjustments. Not for him are the loose, ill-fitting clothes that become a stripling of eighteen; his tailor needs a world of skill to counteract the slackening of muscle and to minimize the excess of avoirdupois. On his toilet-table are numerous pots and jars and bottles, and each is a device to persuade himself that the troublesome years are not marching on. He takes more care of his hands than a professional beauty. Above all, his hair is a source of anxiety. Lord Spratte by many experiments had learnt exactly how to dress it so that no unbecoming baldness was displayed; but he never seized a brush and comb without thinking, like Achilles stalking melancholy through the fields of death, that he would much sooner be a crossing-sweeper of fifteen than a peer of the realm at fifty.
“Do you insist on leading me upstairs like a ewe-lamb, Ponsonby?” he asked.
The butler’s face outlined the merest shadow of a smile as, silently, he preceded Lord Spratte to the drawing-room. For nothing in the world would he have omitted the customary ceremonies of polite society.
“Lord Spratte,” he announced.
The guest advanced and saw his sister Sophia, his brother Theodore, his nephew and his niece. Lady Sophia, a handsome and self-assured woman of five-and-fifty, the eldest of the family, put aside her book and rose to kiss him. Canon Spratte extended two fingers.
“Good heavens, have you invited me to a family party!”
“Than which, I venture to think, there can be nothing more charming, nothing more beautiful, and nothing more entertaining,” replied the Canon, gaily.
“Theodore is cultivating domesticity,” retorted the peer, with a look at his younger brother. “I believe he wants to be made a bishop.”
“You take nothing seriously, Thomas. It is a failing of which I cannot but recommend you to correct yourself.”
“Stow it, Theodore,” replied the other, unmoved.
Theodore Spratte, Vicar of St. Gregory’s, South Kensington, and Canon of Tercanbury, was the youngest son of the first Earl Spratte, Lord Chancellor of England. He was a handsome man, tall and erect; and his presence was commanding. His comely looks had been to him through life a source of abiding pleasure. He preserved the slenderness, the brisk carriage of youth; and though but little younger than his brother, his fair hair, turning now to grey, remained profuse and curling. His fine blue eyes looked out upon the world with a happy self-confidence, and his mobile, shapely mouth was ever ready to break into a smile. The heartiness of his laughter sufficed to make all and sundry his particular friends. It was pleasant to meet a man who was so clean and fresh, always so admirably dressed, and whose appearance was so prepossessing. But he was nowhere more imposing than in the pulpit; for he wore his cassock and surplice, his scarlet hood, with a reassuring dash which convinced you that here was a pilot in whom you need not hesitate to set your trust. He had a certain gift for oratory. His voice was resonant and well modulated. The charm of his active personality was such that though, in those flowing periods and that wealth of metaphor, amid these sounding, forcible adjectives, the matter of his discourse often escaped you, you felt notwithstanding exhilarated and content. If his sermons redounded to his own honour rather than to the honour of God, it was not Canon Spratte who suffered.
When he was left a widower with two young children, his sister Sophia, who had remained unmarried, came to live with him. In course of time Lionel, his son, grew up, entered the Church, and became his curate. His daughter Winnie was twenty-one, and in her fragile, delicate way as pretty as a shepherdess of Dresden china. She had all the charm of innocence, and such knowledge of the world as three seasons in London and the daily example of her father could give her.
“By the way, Lionel, I suppose you took that wedding at 2.30 yesterday?”
“Yes,” answered the curate.
But the curtness of his reply was almost injurious contrasted with his father’s florid delivery; it seemed barely decent to treat in monosyllables with the Vicar of St. Gregory’s. His lightest observations were coloured by that rich baritone so that they gained a power and a significance which other men, less happily gifted, have only in treating of grave affairs.
“I often wonder it’s worth your while to marry quite poor people,” suggested Lord Spratte. “Why don’t you send them down to the East End?”
“Our duty, my dear Thomas, we have to do our duty,” replied Canon Spratte.
Ponsonby, entering the room to intimate that luncheon was ready, looked significantly at Lady Sophia, without speaking, and silently withdrew.
“I see that the Bishop of Barchester is dangerously ill,” said Lionel, when they were seated.
Lionel was as tall and fair as his father, but lacked his energy and his force of character. He was dressed as little like a clergyman as possible.
“I’m told he’s dying,” answered the Canon, gravely. “He’s been out of health for a long time, and I cannot help thinking that when the end comes it will be a happy release.”
“I met him once and thought him a very brilliant man,” remarked Lady Sophia.
“Andover?” cried the Canon, with surprise, throwing himself back in his chair. “My dear Sophia! I know he had a certain reputation for learning, but I never had any great opinion of it.”
Lady Sophia for all reply pursed her lips. She exchanged a glance with Lord Spratte.
“Of course I am the last person to say anything against a man who stands on the threshold of eternity,” added the Canon. “But between ourselves, if the truth must be told—he was nothing more than a doddering old idiot. And a man of no family.”
Than this, in Theodore Spratte’s judgment, nothing could be said more utterly disparaging.
“I wonder who’ll succeed him,” said Lionel, thoughtfully.
“I really don’t know who there is with any great claim upon the Government.” He met his brother’s bantering smile, and quick to catch its meaning, answered without hesitation. “To tell you the truth, Thomas, I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Lord Stonehenge offered the bishopric to me.”
“You’d look rather a toff in leggings,” observed the other. “Wouldn’t he, Sophia?”
Lady Sophia gave the Canon an inquiring stare.
“My dear Tommy, I’ve not seen his legs for forty years.”
“I think this is hardly a matter upon which you should exercise your humour, my dear,” retorted the Canon, with a twinkle in his eye.
“Well, I hope you will accept no bishopric until you’ve made quite sure that the golf-links are beyond reproach,” said Lord Spratte.
“I’ll tell Lord Stonehenge that an eighteen-hole course is a sine qua non of my elevation to the Episcopacy,” retorted the Canon, ironically.
Between Lord Spratte and his sister on the one hand and Theodore on the other, was an unceasing duel, in which the parson fought for the respect due to his place and dignity, while the others were determined to suffer no nonsense. They attacked his pretension with flouting and battered his pomposity with ridicule. To anything in the nature of rhodomontade they were merciless, and in their presence he found it needful to observe a certain measure. He knew that no society was august enough to abash them into silence, and so took care not to expose himself under very public circumstances to the irony of the one or to the brutal mocking of the other. But the struggle was not altogether unpleasant. He could hit back with a good deal of vigour, and never hesitated to make plain statements in plain language. His position gave him the advantage that he could marshal on his side the forces of morality and religion; and when they had dealt so good a blow that he could not conceal his discomfiture, he was able to regain his self-esteem by calling them blasphemous or vulgar.
The Canon turned to his daughter with an affectionate smile.
“And what have you been doing this morning, Winnie?”
“I went to see the model dwellings that Mr. Railing is interested in.”
“By Jove, you’re not goin’ in for district visitin’, Winnie?” cried her uncle, putting up his eye-glass. “I hope you won’t catch anything.”
Winnie blushed a little under his stare.
“The condition of the poor is awfully bad. I think one ought to do something.”
“Who is Mr. Railing?” inquired Lionel. “One of the Worcestershire Railings?”
“No, just a common or garden Railing,” said the Canon.
He rubbed his hands and looked round the table for appreciation of this mild jest, but only his curate was civil enough to smile.
“He’s a mighty clever young man, and I think he’ll be very useful to me,” he added.
“I notice that your actions are always governed by unselfish motives,” murmured Lady Sophia.
“God helps those who help themselves. Mr. Railing is a Christian Socialist and writes for the Radical papers. I think he has a future, and I feel it my duty to give him some encouragement.” His voice assumed those rolling, grandiloquent tones which rang so effectively in St. Gregory’s Church. “Now-a-days, when Socialism is rapidly becoming a power in the land, when it is spreading branches into every stratum of society, it behoves us to rally it to the Church. Christianity is Socialism.”
Lady Sophia gave a deprecating smile: “My dear Theodore, remember that only your family is present.”
But it was not easy to stem the flood of Canon Spratte’s eloquence. He threw back his handsome head and looked at the full-length portrait of his father, in robes of office, which adorned the wall.
“I pride myself above all things upon being abreast of the times. Every movement that savours of advance will find in me an enthusiastic supporter. My father, the late Lord Chancellor, was one of the first to perceive the coming strength of the people. And I am proud to know that my family has always identified itself with the future. Advance,” again the thrilling voice rang out. “Advance has always been our watchword, advance and progress.”
Lord Spratte gave a low chuckle, for his brother was delivered into his hand.
“You speak as if we’d come over with the Conquest, Theodore.”
Canon Spratte turned to him coolly.
“Have you never looked out the name of Spratte in Debrett?”
“Frequently. I find the peerage excellent readin’ to fall back on when there’s nothin’ in the sportin’ papers. But it’s no bloomin’ good, Theodore; the family tree’s all bogus. A man with the name of Spratte didn’t have ancestors at the battle of Hastings.”
“I wish to goodness you would express yourself in grammatical English,” answered the Canon, irritably. “I detest slang, and I deplore this habit of yours of omitting the terminal letter of certain words.”
“You digress, my dear Theodore.”
“Not at all! I don’t deny that the family has had its vicissitudes; you will find it difficult to discover one in the peerage that has not. At all events my father implicitly believed in the family tree.”
“Well, he must have been a pretty innocent old buffer to do that. I never found any one else who would. Upon my word, I don’t see why a man called Spratte should have ancestors called Montmorency.”
“I should have thought that even in your brief stay at Oxford you learnt enough natural history to know that every man must have a father,” retorted the Canon, ironically.
Lord Spratte had been sent down from the ‘Varsity for some escapade of his early youth, and for thirty years his brother had never hesitated to remind him of it.
“All I can say is that if a man called Spratte had a father called Montmorency, the less said about it the better,” he answered. “I may be particular, but it don’t sound moral to me.”
“Your facetiousness is misplaced, Thomas, and considering that Winnie is present, the taste of it is more than doubtful. The connection at which you are pleased to sneer is perfectly clear and perfectly honourable. In 1631, Aubrey de Montmorency married....”
But Lady Sophia, in tones of entreaty, interrupted: “Oh, Theodore, Theodore, not again!”
He gave her a glance of some vexation, but held his tongue.
“The first millionaire I meet who’s lookin’ out for a family tree, I’ll sell him mine for fifty quid,” said Lord Spratte. “And I’m blowed if it wouldn’t be cheap at the price, considerin’ that it’s chock full of Howards and Talbots and de Veres—to say nothin’ of a whole string of Montmorencys.”
“You don’t know Sir John Durant, the brewer, do you, father?” asked Lionel. “He told me that since they gave him a baronetcy people have been regularly sending him a new and original family tree once a week.”
“He must have quite a forest by now,” answered Lord Spratte. “What does he use ’em for—hop-poles?”
“I should have thought they would make admirable Christmas presents for his poor relations,” suggested the Canon, who could not resist his little joke even on subjects dear to him. He turned again to his daughter. “By the way, Winnie, I find I shall be unable to go to Mr. Railing’s meeting to-morrow.”
“He’ll be awfully disappointed. He was expecting you to make a speech.”
“I’ve promised Lady Vizard to lunch with her to meet the Princess of Wartburg-Hochstein. I shouldn’t be able to get away early enough. A clergyman’s time is really never his own, and the Princess wishes particularly to meet me.”
“People so often forget that even Royal Personages have spiritual difficulties,” murmured Lady Sophia.
“I shall write a little note to Mr. Railing wishing him luck, and with your permission, Sophia, I’ll ask him to tea afterwards.”
“Is he presentable?”
“He’s a gentleman, Aunt Sophia,” cried Winnie. “And he’s as beautiful as a Greek god.”
Winnie flushed as she said this, and dropped her eyes. They were pleasant and blue like her father’s, but instead of his bold friendliness had a plaintiveness of expression which was rather charming. They seemed to appeal for confidence and for affection.
“Shall I come and address your meeting, Winnie?” asked Lord Spratte, amused at her enthusiasm. “What is it about?”
“Teetotalism!” she smiled.
“Most of the London clergy go in for that now, don’t they?” remarked Lionel. “The bishop asked me the other day whether I was an abstainer.”
“The bishop is a man of no family, Lionel,” retorted his father. “Personally I make no secret of the fact that I do not approve of teetotalism. Temperance, yes! But how can you be temperate if you abstain entirely? Corn and wine, the wheat, the barley, the vine, are ubiquitous; the corn strengthens, the wine gladdens man’s heart, as at the marriage feast in Cana of Galilee.”
Lord Spratte opened his mouth to speak.
“I wish you wouldn’t continually interrupt me, Thomas,” cried the Canon, before his brother could utter a word. “He who has solemnly pledged himself to total abstinence has surrendered to a society of human and modern institution his liberty to choose. Now what is it you wished to say, Thomas?”
“I merely wanted to ask Ponsonby for more potatoes.”
“I knew it was some flippant observation,” retorted the Canon.
“The bishop suggested that total abstinence in the clergy served as an example,” said Lionel, mildly.
“As an example it has been a dismal failure. For many years I have searched for some successful results, for one man who would prove to me that, being a drunkard, he was so much impressed by the example of his clergyman, who for his sake and imitation ceased to drink his glass of beer at luncheon, his glass of port at dinner, or his glass of whisky and water at night, that he broke away from his vicious indulgence and became a sober man.”
Ponsonby stood at the Canon’s elbow, patiently waiting for the end of this harangue.
“Hock, sir?” said he, in sepulchral tones.
“Certainly, Ponsonby, certainly!” replied the Canon, so vigorously that the butler was not a little disconcerted. “What do you think of this hock, Thomas? Not bad, I flatter myself.”
He raised the glass to his nose and inhaled the pleasant odour. He drank his wine and smiled. An expression of placid satisfaction came over his face. He favoured the company with a Latin quotation:
“O quam bonum est,
O quam jucundum est,
Poculis fraternis gaudere.”
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IT was one of Canon Spratte’s peculiarities that he liked to read his Times before any other member of his family. He found a peculiar delight in opening it himself, and likened the perusal of a newspaper which some one else had read, to the drinking of milk from which a dishonest dairyman had skimmed the cream. Next morning, running his eye down the list of contents, he discovered that the Bishop of Barchester was dead.
“Poor Andover is no more, Sophia,” he remarked, with a decent solemnity.
He ate his kidney absently, and it was not till he passed his coffee-cup to Lady Sophia to be refilled that he made any observation.
“It’s really almost providential that the poor old man should depart this life on the very day I am to meet Lord Stonehenge at dinner. I’d better have the pair to-night, Sophia.”
“Where are you dining?”
“At the Hollingtons,” he answered. “Last time a bishopric was vacant, the Prime Minister practically assured me that I should have the next.”
“He’s probably done the same to half the school-masters in England.”
“Nonsense! Who is there that could take it? They’ve none of them half the claims that I have.”
Theodore Spratte never concealed from the world that he rated himself highly. He esteemed bashfulness a sign of bad manners, and was used to say that a man who pretended not to know his own value was a possing fool.
“It’s a ridiculous system altogether to give a bishopric to Tom Noddy because he’s taught Latin verses to a parcel of stupid school-boys. And besides, as the youngest son of the late Lord Chancellor, I think I may expect something from my country.”
“Pray pass me the toast,” said Lady Sophia.
“I’m not a vain man, but I honestly think I have the right to some recognition. As my father, the late Lord Chancellor of England, often said....”
“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t talk of him as if he were your father only, Theodore,” interrupted Lady Sophia, not without irritation. “I have just as much right to him as you.”
“I think you asked for the toast, my dear.”
Presently Canon Spratte, taking the paper with him, retired to his study. He was a man of regular habits, knowing that to acquire such is the first step to greatness, episcopal and otherwise; and after breakfast he was used to smoke his pipe, meditate, and read the Times. But this morning, somewhat agitated by the news of Bishop Andover’s demise, he took from the shelves that book which at present was his only contribution to the great literature of England. On the death of his father, laden with years and with honours, Canon Spratte had begun immediately to gather materials for a biography. This was eventually published under the title: Life and Letters of Josiah Spratte, Lord Chancellor of England. It was in two volumes, magnificently bound in calf, with the family arms, a blaze of gold, on the side.
When the Canon set about this great work he went to his sister and begged her to make notes of her recollections.
“You can help me a great deal, Sophia,” he said. “With your woman’s intelligence, you will have noticed a good many points which have escaped me. The masculine intellect takes in the important main lines, whereas women observe only the frivolous details. But I recognize that it is just these frivolous details, properly sorted, which will give life and variety to that grand career absorbed by affairs of State and the advantage of the nation.”
Lady Sophia, accustomed to these tirades, smiled dryly and said: “Shall I tell you the very first thing I remember, Theodore? I can’t have been more than six years old, but I have never forgotten it.”
“That is very interesting. Let me put it down at once.”
He took from his pocket the little book, which he carried with him always to jot down the thoughts that periodically occurred to him.
“Now, Sophia.”
“Father and mother were having a conversation, and suddenly father beat his fist on the table so that the whole room shook.”
“Yes, he had that energetic, effective way of expressing himself,” said the Canon. “He was a man of really forceful character. That is a point upon which I mean to lay great stress.”
“He beat his fist on the table and he roared out at the top of his voice: ‘Your father’s a damned fool, Maria; and your mother’s a damned fool, Maria; but, by gad, you’re a bigger damned fool than both of them put together.’ ”
The Canon sprang up and throwing back his head with a gesture habitual to him, drew to his full, imposing height.
“You shock and surprise me, Sophia. If these are your recollections, I advise you to forget them as quickly as you possibly can.”
Nor had he better success with his brother.
“I wonder whether you can give me no anecdotes, no interesting side-lights on our father’s character? I am determined to make my biography as complete as possible.”
“I’ll give you an anecdote by all means,” said Lord Spratte. “You remember that the old ’un very much objected to potatoes baked in their skins.”
“A very pardonable and interesting idiosyncrasy of genius,” interposed the biographer.
“Well, one Sunday night when we had people to supper, by some accident they were brought in. The servant handed the dish to father. Father looked at him and slowly rose to his feet. ‘Don’t you know, you idiot,’ he bellowed, ‘that I don’t like potatoes baked in their skins?’ He took them out of the dish, one by one, while the servant stood petrified, and threw them with all his might at the pictures on the walls. Each picture had its potato till the dish was empty. Then he sat down again calmly and began to eat his supper.”
“I shall certainly put down nothing in my biography which tends to cast ridicule or odium on the memory of a great man,” said Canon Spratte, frigidly. “My motto is: De mortuis nil nisi bonum.”
On this principle the Life and Letters was written. To testify to filial admiration there were in St. Gregory’s Vicarage no less than three portraits of the first Earl Spratte, but the most characteristic was a copy of that which the Chancellor himself, with due regard to his fame and importance, had bequeathed to the National Portrait Gallery. It showed the great man seated, his hands grasping the arms of his chair with the savage vigour that was customary with him. They were strong, large hands, and the tendons stood out from the brutal force wherewith he held them. He looked the spectator full in the face, sitting very squarely, bent forward in the despotic attitude which all who had appeared before him knew so well. He wore the full-bottomed wig of his office and the gorgeous robes, edged with gold. His head was thrust out and he stared from under his shaggy brows with an expression of ruthless violence; his strong features were set in a villainous scowl; his hard, cruel mouth was clenched as though he were determined that nothing should affect his will. And the idea which the fine portrait gave, was borne out by the memoirs of the time.
Springing, notwithstanding the Canon’s grandiloquence, from the dregs of commercial life, Josiah Spratte had fought his way to the greatest prize of his calling by an indomitable will and a truculent savagery that spared neither enemies nor friends. Though endowed by nature with no great subtlety of mind, he had a gift of fluent speech, an imperturbable self-confidence, and a physique of extraordinary vigour. He was unhampered by any thought for the susceptibilities of others, and he was regardless of good manners. He bullied his way to the Woolsack by the weight of his personality and the harsh roar of his voice. From the outset of his career, as a junior, he treated his leaders with unhidden contempt. He used the solicitors who gave him briefs like vermin, dealing with them as might a harsh master with a set of ignorant and rebellious school-boys. They hated him, but were impressed withal, and quickly brought him more work than he could do. Then, beginning to feel his power, he browbeat the court so that weak judges were like wax in his hands and juries trembled at his ferocious glance. He went into Parliament and trampled impartially upon his associates and his opponents. He excited more hatred than any one of his generation, for he was insolent, overbearing, and impatient of contradiction; but in a short while the Government was forced to make him Attorney-General. From the beginning his mind had been set on the ultimate goal, and he waited till the Chancellor of that time died. This was the most critical point of his life, for all concerned understood perfectly at what Josiah Spratte aimed; but now all the bitterness, anger, and loathing he had so wilfully aroused, were banded against him; and he had to fight as well against the rivalry of some and the bitterness of others. But like a lion at bay, with magnificent self-confidence, he squared himself to bear down all obstacles. The Government was undecided. A certain eminent lawyer, Sir Robert Parkleigh, had claims upon it which were undeniable. Having held office in a previous administration he had waived his right to promotion on the understanding that his reward should be great thereafter: he was a man of vigorous understanding, learned, urbane and of great family. The appointment would be very popular. But the Attorney-General was not a man to be trifled with, and a go-between was sent unofficially to learn his views.
“I suppose Parkleigh will get the Chancellorship,” said this person, in the course of an amiable conversation.
“You suppose nothing of the sort,” shouted Josiah Spratte. His face grew red with passion and his scowl deepened as the veins of his forehead stood out like knotted cords. He fixed on the man those piercing eyes which seemed to read into the soul, discovering shameful secrets. “You’ve been sent to find out what I thought about the Chancellorship? It’s what I suspected. Don’t deny it!”
Beads of sweat stood on the other’s brow as the Attorney-General towered over him, threatening and peremptory. He vowed he had received no such mission.
“Don’t deny it, I tell you,” cried Josiah Spratte. Then, furiously, he walked up and down the room. “Tell them,” he hissed at length, with undescribable venom, “Tell them that if Parkleigh is made Chancellor, I’ll kick the Government out. By God, they shan’t stay in a month!”
While the appointment was pending, a great lady, suffering under some brutal affront, sought to beard the lion.
“Do you know what people are saying about you, Mr. Attorney? They’re wondering who this sprat is that we are asked to swallow.”
Sir Josiah looked at her.
“Tell your friends, Madam, to be thankful the sprat is not a whale, because even if he were, by God they’d have to swallow him. And what’s more, they’d have to pretend they liked him!”
Shortly afterwards the Prime Minister wrote a very civil note to his subordinate offering him the much-coveted place. Josiah Spratte was raised to the Peerage. A second term of office was rewarded by new honour, and he became Earl Spratte of Beachcombe and Viscount Rallington.
But the great lawyer carried also into private life the tones with which he cowed juries and sent witnesses fainting from the box. He never spoke but to command and gave no order without a string of oaths. When he fell into a temper, which happened several times a day, he could be heard from top to bottom of the house. His wife, his servants, trembled before him; his children in his presence spoke in whispers, and he took pleasure in humiliating them with brutal raillery. He met his match but twice. The first time was at his club when he was playing whist. This was his favourite relaxation, and he was always to be found in the card-room about six o’clock waiting for a rubber. One day by chance a fourth could not be found, and the Chancellor himself went into the smoking-room to look for a player. It was a sunny afternoon in July, and the place was deserted, except for a young guardsman who sat comfortably sleeping in an arm-chair. Without hesitation Lord Spratte shook him violently till he was wide awake, and asked if he knew the game. He answered that he played very badly and would much sooner resume his nap; but Lord Spratte declined to hear excuses, and dragged him by sheer force into the card-room. The soldier had only spoken the truth when he described himself as a bad player, and since he was the Chancellor’s partner, things did not go very smoothly. The elder man took no trouble to hide his annoyance when the other made a mistake, and expressed his opinion of the subaltern’s intelligence with more bluntness than civility.
“Oh, confound you, shut up!” cried the guardsman at last. “How d’you expect a fellow to play if you go on ragging him like a fish-wife?”
“I don’t think you know who I am, sir,” answered the Chancellor, with frowning brows.
“Oh yes, I do! You’re the Lord Chancellor, aren’t you? But you might mind your manners for all that. You’re not in your dirty police-court now.”
For the rest of that rubber the distinguished lawyer never opened his mouth.
But next time he was worsted in debate the results were more serious. Lord Spratte, still restless after the attainment of his ambition, was seized with the desire to found a great family; and on this account wished his eldest son, who had assumed the title of Viscount Rallington, to marry a certain heiress of important connections. The lady was not unwilling, but Rallington stubbornly refused. At first, white with rage, Lord Spratte asked how he dared to cross him; and he showered upon his son that abundant vituperation of which he was the finest master in England. But without effect. The Chancellor was so astounded at this display of spirit that for once in his life he condescended to argue. His son stood firm. Then the old man burst out again with violent temper.
“And who the devil are you?” he cried. “Haven’t I raised you from the gutter? What would you be without me? By God, you shall do whatever I tell you.”
Rallington lost all patience. He put off the timidity with which for years he had endured so much and went up to his father.
“Look here, don’t talk to me like that. I’ll marry a barmaid if I choose, and be damned to you!”
The Chancellor’s hair stood on end with wrath, and he gasped for breath. His passion was such that for a minute he could not speak. Then his son, driven at length to open rebellion, poured out the hatred which had so long accumulated. He reminded him of the tyranny with which he had used his whole family, and the terror in which he had held them. He had robbed them of all freedom, so that they were slaves to his every whim. To his angry violence and to his selfishness all their happiness had been sacrificed.
“You’ve been a bullying ruffian all your life, and no one has had the pluck to stand up to you. I’m sick of it, and I won’t stand it any more. D’you hear?”
At last the Chancellor found words, and beset his son with a torrent of blasphemy, and with foul-mouthed abuse.
“Be quiet!” said the other, standing up to him. “How dare you speak to me like that! It’s no good trying to bully me now.”
“By God, I’ll knock you down.”
Rallington thrust his face close to his father’s, and for a moment fear seized the old man. Here at length was some one whom he could not cow, and he hated his son.
“You’d better not touch me. You can’t thrash me now as you could when I was a boy. I recommend you to take great care.”
Lord Spratte raised his hands, but a trembling came suddenly upon him, so that he could not move.
“Get out of my house,” he screamed. “Get out of my house.”
“I’m only too glad to go.”
The arteries beat in the old man’s head so that he thought some horrible thing would happen to him. He poured out brandy and drank it, but it tasted like water. He sat for hours with clenched fists and scowling brow; and at last with a savage laugh he took his will and with his own hand wrote a codicil in which he deprived his eldest son of every penny he could. This relieved him and he breathed more freely. Presently he called his family together and told them without a word of explanation that Rallington was his son no longer.
“If any of you mention his name, or if I hear that you have had any communication with him, you shall go as he went.”
The pair never met again, for Rallington went abroad and died, unmarried, one month before his father. Thomas, the next son, who had been known all his life as Tommy Tiddler, succeeded the Chancellor as second Earl Spratte of Beachcombe.
But the excellent Theodore, with proper devotion, took care in his biography not even to hint at this characteristic violence. He wrote with a flowing, somewhat pompous style; and the moral pointed by these two handsome volumes was that with uprightness, sobriety, and due allegiance to the Church by law established, it was possible to reach the highest honours. The learned Canon traced the ancestry of his family to very remote periods. He had no difficulty in convincing himself that the plebeian surname was but a vulgar error for des Prats; and to the outspoken ridicule of his elder brother, was able after much study to announce that a member of the English branch of the Montmorencys had assumed the name in the seventeenth century upon his marriage with a French heiress. With these distinguished antecedents it was no wonder that Josiah Spratte should appear a benevolent old gentleman of mild temper and pious disposition, apt to express himself in well-balanced periods. He would have made an excellent churchwarden or a secretary to charitable institutions, but why precisely he should have become Lord Chancellor of England nowhere appeared. In short, the eloquent divine, with the best intentions in the world, wrote a life of his father which was not only perfectly untrue, but also exceedingly tedious.
The book had a certain success with old ladies, who put it beside their works of devotion and had it read to them in hours of mental distress. Sometimes, when they were persons of uncommon importance, the Canon himself consented to read to them; and then, so spirited was his delivery, so well-modulated his voice, it seemed as improving as one of his own sermons. But the Life and Letters certainly had no more assiduous nor enthusiastic reader than the author thereof.
“I don’t think I’m a vain man,” he remarked, “but I can’t help feeling this is exactly how a biography ought to be written.”
There was a knock at the door, and the Canon, replacing the volume at which he had glanced, took out in its stead the first book of Hooker’s Ecclesiastical Polity. He had far too keen a sense of decorum to appear one man to the world and to his immediate relatives another. No unforeseen accident had ever found him other than self-contained, oratorical, and didactic. Not even his family was privileged to see him en robe de chambre.
It was his son who knocked. Lionel had been taking an early service at St. Gregory’s, and had not yet seen his father.
“Come in, come in,” said the Canon. “Good morning, Lionel.”
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, father. I want to book some certificates.”
“You can never disturb me when you are fulfilling the duties of your office, my boy. Pray sit down.”
He put the Ecclesiastical Polity open on the desk.
“Hulloa, are you reading this?” asked the curate. “I’ve not looked at it since I was at Oxford.”
“Then you make a mistake, Lionel. Hooker’s Ecclesiastical Polity is not only a monument of the English Church, but also a masterwork of the English language. That is my complaint with the clergy of the present day, that they neglect the great productions of their fathers. Stevenson you read, and you read Renan, atheist though he is; but Hooker you have not looked at since you were at Oxford.”
“I see that Andover is dead, father,” said Lionel, to change the conversation.
“I look upon it as an uncommon happy release.”
“I wonder if they really will offer you the bishopric?”
“My dear boy, that is not a subject upon which I allow my thoughts to dwell. I will not conceal from you that, as the youngest surviving son of the late Lord Chancellor, I think I have some claims upon my country. And I have duties towards it as well, so that if the bishopric is offered to me I shall not hesitate to accept. You remember St. Paul’s words to Timothy? This is a true saying, if a man desire the office of a bishop he desireth a good work. But in these matters there is so much ignoble wire-pulling, so much backstairs influence to which my character is not suited and to which I could not bring myself to descend.”
Presently, however, when Canon Spratte strolled along Piccadilly on the way to his club, it occurred to him that the day before he had given his tailor an order for two pairs of trousers. His circumstances had taught him neither to spend money recklessly, nor to despise a certain well-bred economy; and it was by no means impossible that he would have no use for those particular articles of clothing. He walked up Savile Row.
“Mr. Marsden, will you inquire whether those garments I ordered yesterday have been cut yet?”
The tailor passed the question down his speaking-tube.
“No, sir,” he said. “Not yet.”
“Then will you delay them till further notice?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Canon Spratte was going out of the shop when he noticed on a fashion plate the costume of a bishop.
“Ah, do you make gaiters, Mr. Marsden?” said he, stopping.
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re very difficult things to cut. So many of my friends wear very ill-fitting gaiters. Fine day, isn’t it? Good-morning.”
WHEN Canon Spratte reached the Athenæum he found a note waiting for him.
My Dear Canon,
I should very much like to have a little talk with you. I find it difficult to say in so many words upon what topic, but perhaps you will guess. I think it better to see you before I do anything further, and therefore should be grateful if you could give me five minutes as soon as possible.
Yours ever faithfully,
Wroxham.
He read it, and a smile of self-satisfaction played quickly on his lips. He divined at once that the writer wished to ask Winnie to marry him.
“I foresaw it when the boy was fourteen,” he exclaimed.
His own wife had died ten years before. She was a pale, mild creature, and had been somewhat overwhelmed by her husband’s greatness. When he was still a curate, handsome and debonair, the Canon had fallen in love with the youngest daughter of Lord Frampstone. It was an alliance, (Theodore Spratte would never have condescended to a marriage,) of which the Chancellor thoroughly approved; and the girl, dazzled by her suitor’s courtly brilliance, had succumbed at once to his fascinations. She remained dazzled to the end of her life. He never unbent. He treated her always as though she were a congregation. Even in the privacies of domestic life he was talking to a multitude; and his wife, if sometimes she wished he would descend to her level and vouchsafe to be familiar, never ceased blindly to admire him. She sighed for a little simple love, but the Canon could not forget that he was a son of a great Lord Chancellor and she the daughter of a noble house. She was confused by his oratorical outbursts, his wit, his grandiose ways; and gradually, unnoticed in the white brilliance of her husband’s glory, she vanished out of existence. The Canon’s only complaint was that his wife had never lived up to the position which was hers by right. She cared nothing for social success, and was happiest in the bosom of her family.
“Upon my word, my dear, you might as well be the wife of a dissenting minister,” he exclaimed often.
But her death gave him an opportunity to prove his own regard and to make up for her previous shortcomings. He ordered a funeral of the utmost magnificence; and the gentle lady, who had longed only for peace, was buried with as great parade as if she had been a princess of the blood. On a large brass tablet, emblazoned with his own arms and with those of her family, the lamenting husband, who prided himself not a little on his skilful Latinity, placed a Ciceronian epitaph which caused amazement and admiration in all beholders.
The recollection of his wife flashed at this moment through the Canon’s mind, and putting his own sentiments into her meek breast, he flourished the letter and chuckled to himself.
“I wish she were alive to see this day.”
Lord Wroxham, left fatherless in early boyhood, was head of a family than which there was none in England more ancient and more distinguished. Canon Spratte called a servant.
“Will you ask the porter if Lord Wroxham is in the club?”
“Yes, sir. I saw him come in half-an-hour ago.”
“Ha!”
Canon Spratte put a cigarette between his lips and jauntily went to the smoking-room. He caught sight at once of his prospective son-in-law, but made no sign that he observed him. He strolled across the room.
“Canon Spratte!” said the young man, rising and turning very red.
“Ah, my dear boy,” said the Canon, cordially holding out his hand. “Are you here? I’m delighted to see you. I was just going to write you a note.”
Wroxham was a young man of five-and-twenty, slender and of moderate height, with short crisp hair and a small moustache. His eyes were prominent and short-sighted, and he wore gold-rimmed pince-nez. His appearance was a little insignificant, but his pleasant, earnest face, if not handsome, was very kindly. He was nervous, and had evidently no great facility in expressing himself.
Canon Spratte, aware of his confusion, took his arm and led him to a more secluded place.
“Come and sit in the window, dear boy, and tell me what it is you wish to say.”
When the Canon desired to be charming, none could excel him. There was such a sympathetic warmth in his manner that, if you were not irritated by a slightly patronizing air, your heart never failed to go out to him.
“Have a cigarette,” he said, producing a golden case of considerable value. “Give me a match, there’s a good fellow.”
He beamed on the youth, but still Wroxham hesitated.
“You got my note, Canon?”
“Yes, yes. So charming of you to write to me. I’ve known you so long, dear boy—if there’s anything I can do for you, command me.”
Wroxham had often come with Lionel from Eton to spend part of his holidays in the Canon’s hospitable house.
“Well, the fact is—I want to ask Winnie to marry me, with your permission.”
Canon Spratte restrained the smile of triumph which struggled to gain possession of his mouth. When he answered, his manner was perfectly sympathetic, but somewhat grave as befitted the occasion.
“My dear Harry, I will not conceal from you that your sentiments have not been altogether hidden from me. And you will understand that if I had not approved of them I should scarcely have allowed you to come so frequently to my house.”
Wroxham smiled, but found nothing very apposite to say.
“I have had for years the very greatest affection for you; and of late, since you took your seat in the House of Lords, I have had also esteem and admiration. It is an excellent sign when a young man of your position throws himself so earnestly into affairs of State. I think you have a great future before you.”
He put up his hand to request silence, as he saw the other wished to make some remark. Canon Spratte did not suffer interruption kindly.
“But in these matters one is a father first and last. I have reason to believe that you are a steady young man, without vices, and I think you have an excellent temper, than which nothing is more necessary in married life. But you must allow me to inquire a little into your circumstances.”
The young man very simply explained that he possessed three houses, a great many acres of land, and an income of twenty thousand a year. Canon Spratte listened gravely.
“I should like to leave all the affairs about settlements in your hands, Canon. I’ll do whatever you think fit.”
“All that sounds very satisfactory,” answered the Canon, at last. “I am not the man to go into pecuniary details. Thank God, I can honestly say I’m not mercenary, and I think we can leave all business details to our respective lawyers. My dear boy, I give you full permission to pay your addresses to Winnie.”
Wroxham flushed, and taking off his glasses, rubbed them with a handkerchief.
“Do you think she cares for me?”
The Canon took both his hands.
“My dear fellow, you need have no fear on that point. Of course, I leave my children complete liberty of action, but I don’t think I am indiscreet in assuring you that Winnie is—well, very fond of you.”
“I’m so glad,” said Wroxham, a happy smile breaking on his lips.
“Come to luncheon to-morrow and have a talk with my little girl afterwards. I’ll arrange it so that you shall be undisturbed.”
“It’s awfully good of you.”
“Not at all! Not at all! But now I really must be running off. I’m lunching with Lady Vizard, to meet the Princess of Wartburg-Hochstein.”
WINNIE went to Mr. Railing’s temperance meeting by herself. When she was setting out to go home, with somewhat marked deliberation, the Socialist joined her.
“Your father has asked me to come to tea.”
“I know,” she answered. “Shall we walk back together?”
Bertram Railing was three-and-twenty, and Winnie had not exaggerated too grossly when she vowed he was as beautiful as a Greek god. He was very dark, but his skin, smoother than polished ivory, had the glowing colour of Titian’s young Adonis; and his hair, worn long and admirably curling, his fine sincere eyes, were dark too. With his broad forehead, his straight nose, his well-shaped, sensual mouth, he was indeed very handsome; and there was a squareness about his jaw which suggested besides much strength of character. His expression was sombre; but when, fired with enthusiasm, he spoke of any subject that deeply interested him, his face grew very mobile. He wore a blue serge suit, a red tie, and a low collar which showed his powerful, statuesque neck. If he could not be altogether unconscious of his good looks, he was certainly indifferent to them. His whole life was given up to a passionate striving for reform, and his absorbing interest in the improvement of the people allowed no room for trifling, unworthy thoughts. The strenuous pursuit of the ideal gave him a fascination far greater than that of his wonderful face.
“Did you like my lecture?” he asked, as they walked side by side.
Winnie looked at him, her eyes filled suddenly with tears.
“Yes.”
It was all she could say, but Railing smiled with pleasure. In this one word was so much feeling that it pleased him more than all the applause he had received.
“You can’t imagine what I felt while I was listening to you,” she said at last.
“If I spoke well it was because I knew your eyes were upon me.”
“I felt perfectly hysterical. I had to bite my lips to prevent myself from crying.”
They walked in silence, each occupied with tumultuous thoughts. His presence was enchanting to Winnie, and yet the joy of it was almost painful. A marvellous change had come upon her during the last few days, and life was altogether new. The world seemed strangely full of emotion, and the parts of the earth, in the spring sunshine, sang to one another joyful songs.
“You’ve done so much for me,” she murmured, happy to confess her inmost thoughts. “Until I knew you I was so selfish and stupid. But now everything is different. I want to help you in your work. I want to work too.”
For a moment, finding nothing to say, he gazed at her. His brown eyes, so strong and full of meaning, looked into hers gravely; and hers were blue and tender. But the silence grew unendurable, and flushing, the girl looked down.
“Why don’t you speak?”
“I think I’m afraid,” he answered, and there was a tremor in his voice.
She felt that his heart was beating as quickly as her own.
“Who am I that you should be afraid?” she whispered.
He gave a sigh that was half joy, half sorrow; and clenched his hands in the effort to master himself. But the girl’s sweet freshness rose to his nostrils like the scent of the earth in the morning after the rain, and his poor wits were all aflame.
“If I’ve done anything for you,” he said at last, “you’ve done a thousand times more for me. When first I met you I was utterly discouraged. The way seemed so hard. It was so difficult to make any progress. And then you filled me with hope.”
He began to speak hurriedly, and Winnie listened to his words as though they were some new evangel. He told her of his plans and of his enthusiastic ambition to get the people the power that was theirs by right. When he spoke of wages and of labour, of Co-operative Associations and of Trades unions, it sounded like music in her ears. He told her of Lassalle’s fevered life, of Marx’ ceaseless struggle, of the pitying anguish of Carl Marlo. He spoke so earnestly, with such a vehemence of phrase, that Winnie, used to the sonorous platitudes of her father, was carried out as it were into the bottomless sea of life. After the artificiality wherein she had lived, these new doctrines, so boldly regardless of consequence, eager only for justice, were like the fresh air of heaven: her pulse beat more rapidly, and she knew that beyond her narrow sphere was a freer world. Railing spoke of the people; and the human beings whom she had classed disdainfully as the lower orders, gained flesh and blood in her imagination. He spoke of their passions and their misery, of their strength, their vice and squalor. The many-headed crowd grew picturesque and coloured. Winnie was seized on a sudden with the desire to go into their midst; and gaining a new strength of purpose, she felt already a greater self-reliance. Then more slowly, as though her presence were almost forgotten, but with the same intense conviction, the young Socialist spoke of the Nazarene who was the friend of the poor, the outcast, and the leper. Winnie had known Him only as the mainstay of an opulent and established Church. In her mind He was strangely connected with pews of pitch-pine, a fashionable congregation in Sabbath garments, and the imposing presence of her father. She learned now, as though it were a new thing, that the Christ was a ragged labourer, one with the carpenter who worked at St. Gregory’s Vicarage, the mason carrying a hod, and the scavenger who swept the streets. In these simple words she found a reality that had never appeared in her father’s rhetoric.
“And that’s why I call myself a Christian Socialist,” he said, “because I believe that to these two belong the future—to Christ and to the people.”
Winnie did not answer, and they walked again in silence.
“Do you despise me?” she cried at length. “Do you think I’m vain and foolish? I’m so ashamed of myself.”
He looked at her with those passionate eyes of his, and his whole heart yearned for her.
“You know what I think of you,” he said.
They were approaching the Vicarage and time was very short. Winnie threw off all reserve.
“I want to help you, I want to work with you, I hate the life I lead at home. I’m not a woman, I’m only a foolish doll. Take me away from it.”
The blood rushed to his face and the flame of an ecstatic happiness lit up his eyes. He could scarcely believe that he had heard aright.
“Do you mean that?” he cried, hastily. “Oh, don’t play with me. Don’t you know that I love you? I love you with all the strength I’ve got. When I’m away from you it’s madness; I can think of nothing but you all day, all night.”
Winnie sighed.
“I’m so glad to hear you say that.”
“Do you care for me at all?” he insisted, doubting still.
“Yes, I love you with my whole soul.”
When they reached St. Gregory’s Vicarage, the Canon greeted Railing with effusion.
“My dear Mr. Railing, it’s so kind of you to come. Permit me to introduce you to my sister. Mr. Railing is the author of that admirable and much-discussed book, The Future of Socialism.”
“And what is the future of Socialism?” asked Lady Sophia, politely.
“It took me three hundred pages to answer that question,” he replied, with a smile.
“Then you must allow me to give you some tea at once.”
Winnie went up to her uncle, who had been lunching quietly with his sister, but he put out a deprecating hand.
“You’d better not kiss me after being at a temperance meeting,” he said. “I’m awfully afraid of catchin’ things. I always think it’s such a mercy there are no poor people at St. Gregory’s.”
“D’you think they’re all infectious?” smiled Railing.
“One can never tell, you know. I always recommend Theodore to sprinkle himself with Keating’s Powder when he’s been marrying the lower classes.”
Railing tightened his lips at the flippant remark, and Winnie, watching him, was ashamed of the frivolous atmosphere into which she had brought him. It seemed to her suddenly that these people among whom till now she had lived contentedly, were but play-actors repeating carelessly the words they had learnt by rote. That drawing-room, with its smart chintzes and fashionable Sheraton, was a stuffy prison in which she could not breathe. She knew a hundred parlours which differed from this one hardly at all: the same flowers were on the same tables, arranged in the same way, the same books lay here and there, the same periodicals. In one and all the same life was led; and it was artificial, conventional, untrue. She and her friends were performing an elaborate but trivial play, some of the scenes whereof took place in a dining-room, some in a ball-room, others in the park, and some in fashionable shops. But round this vast theatre was a great stone wall, and outside it men and women and children swarmed in vast numbers, and lived and loved and starved and worked and died.
Bertram turned to Canon Spratte.
“I see that one of our most ardent champions in the cause of temperance has just died,” he said.
“Bishop Andover?” exclaimed the Canon. “Very sad, very sad! I knew him well. Sophia is of opinion that he was the most learned of our bishops.”
“He’ll be a great loss.”
“Oh, a great loss!” cried the Canon, with conviction. “I was terribly distressed when I heard of the sad event.”
“Are there any golf-links at Barchester?” asked Lord Spratte, with a glance at his brother.
Railing looked at him with surprise, naturally not catching the purport of this question.
“I really don’t know.” Then he gave Canon Spratte a smile. “I hear it’s being suggested that you may go there.”
Canon Spratte received the suggestion without embarrassment.
“It would require a great deal to tear me away from St. Gregory’s,” he answered, gravely. “I’m thoroughly attached to the parish.”
“I don’t know what they would do without you here.”
“Of course no man is indispensable in this world; but I don’t know that I should consider myself fit to take so large and important a See as that of Barchester.”
Winnie took her uncle some tea and sat down beside him.
“What d’you think of Mr. Railing?” she asked, abruptly.
“Smells of public spirit, don’t he? He’s the sort of chap that has statistics scribbled all over his shirt-cuffs.” His jaw dropped. “And his shirt-cuffs take off.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” asked Winnie, flushing.
“My dear, there’s no reason at all. Nor have I ever been able to discover why you shouldn’t eat peas with a knife or assassinate your grandmother. But I notice there is a prejudice against these things.”
“I think he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Do you, by Jove!” cried Lord Spratte. “Have you told your father?”
Winnie gave him a defiant look.
“No, but I mean to. You all think I’m still a child. You none of you understand that I’m a woman.”
“I notice your sex generally claims to be misunderstood when it has a mind to do something particularly foolish.”
“I wish you had heard him speak. I could hardly control myself.”
“Because he dropped his aitches?”
“Of course not. Can’t you see he’s a gentleman?”
“I’m so short-sighted,” replied Lord Spratte, dryly. “And I haven’t my opera-glasses with me.”
Winnie rose impatiently and walked over to her father.
Lord Spratte watched her with some curiosity, and he caught Railing’s glance as she came up. His lips formed themselves into a whistle. He chuckled as he thought of Theodore’s consternation if what he suspected proved true.
“I’m so sorry that a perfectly unavoidable engagement prevented me from coming to hear you speak,” the Canon said, in his politest way.
“It was splendid,” cried Winnie, enthusiastically, forgetting already her uncle’s sneer. “I’m never going to touch alcohol again.”
Railing looked at her gratefully, and his eyes were full of passionate admiration.
“Capital, capital!” burst out the Canon, patting his friend on the back. “You’re an orator, Railing.”
“You should have seen the audience,” said Winnie. “While Mr. Railing spoke you could have heard a pin drop. And when he finished they broke into such a storm of applause that I thought the roof was coming down.”
“They were all very kind and very appreciative,” said Railing, modestly.
Lady Sophia, raising her eyebrows, looked with astonishment at her niece, than whom generally no one could be more composed. Winnie was very apt to think enthusiasm a mark of ill-breeding, and the display of genuine feeling proof of the worst possible taste. But now she was too happy to care what her aunt thought, and seeing the look, answered it boldly.
“You should have seen the people, Aunt Sophia. They crowded round him and wouldn’t let him go. Every one wanted to shake hands with him.”
“It’s wonderful how people are carried away by real eloquence,” said the Canon, in his impressive fashion. “You must really come and hear me preach, Mr. Railing. Of course I don’t pretend to have any gifts comparable to yours, but I’m preparing a course of sermons on Christian Socialism which may conceivably interest you.”
“I should like to hear you,” answered the other, putting as usual his whole soul into the casual conversation. To Lady Sophia his strenuous way rang out of tune with the rest of the company, but Winnie thought him the only real man she had ever known. “The clergy ought to be in the forefront of every movement.”
“Yes,” said the Canon, with that glance at the ancestral portrait which so often preluded a flourish of oratory. “Advance and progress have ever been my watchwords. I think I can truthfully say that my family has always been in the vanguard of any movement for the advantage of the working-classes.”
“From the days of the Montmorencys down to our father, the late Lord Chancellor of England,” put in Lord Spratte, gravely.
Theodore gave the head of his house a look of some vexation, but drew himself to his full height.
“As my brother amiably reminds me, my ancestor, Aubrey de Montmorency, was killed while fighting for the freedom of the people, in the year 1642. And his second son, from whom we are directly descended....” Lady Sophia gave a significant cough, but the Canon went on firmly, “was beheaded by James II for resisting the tyranny of that Popish and despotic sovereign.”
None could deny that the sentence was rhythmical. The delivery was perfect.
Presently Railing got up.
“What, must you go already?” cried the Canon. “Well, well, I daresay you’re busy. You must come and see us again, soon; I want to have a long talk with you. And don’t forget to come and hear me preach.”
When Railing took Winnie’s hand, she felt it almost impossible to command herself.
“I shall see you again to-morrow?” she whispered.
“I shan’t think of anything else till then,” he said.
His dark eyes, so passionately tender, burnt like fire in her heart. Railing went out.
“Intelligent fellow!” said Canon Spratte, as the door closed behind him. “I like him very much. Remarkably brilliant, isn’t he, Sophia?”
“My dear Theodore, how could I judge?” she answered, somewhat irritably. “You never let him get a word in. He seemed an intelligent listener.”
“My dear Sophia, I may have faults,” laughed the Canon. “We all have faults—even you, my dear. But no one has ever accused me of usurping more than my fair share of the conversation. I daresay he was a little shy.”
“I daresay!” said Lady Sophia, dryly.
THE same evening, before going to his room to dress for dinner at the Hollingtons, Canon Spratte wrote to an acquaintance who was clerical correspondent for an important paper.
My Dear Mr. Wilson,
I wish you would announce in your admirable Journal that there is no truth whatever in the rumour that I have been offered the vacant bishopric of Barchester. This, however, gives me an opportunity to say how thoroughly I condemn the modern practice of assigning this and that post, in the wildest, most improbable fashion, to all sorts and conditions of men. In these days of self-advertisement, I suppose it is too much to ask that people should keep silent on the positions to which they expect themselves or their friends to be elevated, but I cannot help thinking such a proceeding would be at once more decorous and more discreet.
Yours most faithfully,
Theodore Spratte.
While changing, he remembered that flippant, disparaging remark which Lady Sophia had made the day before about his calves. He looked at himself in the glass and smiled with good-humoured scorn.
“They think I couldn’t wear gaiters,” he murmured. “I fancy there are few bishops who’ve got better legs than I have.”
They were indeed well-shaped and muscular, for Canon Spratte, wisely, took abundant exercise.
“I think it’s rather chilly to-night, Ponsonby,” he said. “Will you bring me my fur coat.”
He put it on, and holding himself with a sort of dashing serenity, looked again in the glass. It would have been absurd not to recognize that he was a person of handsome and attractive presence. Few men can wear very elaborate garments without being ridiculous, but Canon Spratte was made for pompous, magnificent habiliments.
“A man in a fur coat is a noble animal,” he said, with deep conviction. “Is the carriage there?”
Canon Spratte was at his best in feminine society. He used women with a charming urbanity which reminded you of a past age when good manners were still cultivated by the great ones of the earth. There was a polite suppleness about his backbone, a caressing intonation of his voice, which captivated the least susceptible. He was an ornament to any party, for he never failed to say a clever thing at the necessary moment. He could flatter the young by his courtliness and amuse the old by his repartee. The triumphant air with which he entered the Hollingtons’ drawing-room sufficed to impress you with his powers. It was certainly an odd contrast between the flamboyant style of the Canon of Tercanbury and the clumsy shuffling of Lord Stonehenge, ill-dressed and untidy, who immediately followed.
To his great good fortune Canon Spratte found he was to take down to dinner Lady Patricia, the Prime Minister’s daughter. He could be brilliant and talkative, but on occasion he could be also a witty listener; and this useful art he employed now to the best advantage. None knew what self-restraint it needed for Canon Spratte to seem a little dull, but he was aware that Lady Patricia shared her father’s predilection for undangerous mediocrity. He heard what she said with grave interest. He asked intelligent questions. He went so far as to demand her advice on a matter wherein he had no intention of following any opinion but his own. Lady Patricia gained the impression that there was no one in the world at that moment whom he wanted to see more than herself, and she talked with a fluency that was as unusual as it was pleasing. She was a woman who found topics of conversation with difficulty, and so felt uncommonly pleased with herself. She could not help thinking the Canon a man of considerable ability. And the contrast between him and her other neighbour was altogether to Canon Spratte’s advantage. Lady Hollington had the fashionable craze for asking literary and artistic persons to her parties. They take the place in a democratic age of the buffoons whom princes formerly kept in their houses, and are a luxury which the most economical can afford. But the novelist who now claimed Lady Patricia’s attention, entertained her with his theories upon art and literature; and since she knew nothing of either, and cared less, the poor lady was immoderately bored.
The Canon was delighted to find on his left an old friend of his. Mrs. Fitzherbert was a handsome widow of five-and-forty, with singularly fine teeth, and these a charming smile gave her an opportunity of displaying with some frequency. None knew whether her keen sense of humour was due to the excellence of her teeth, or whether her teeth were so noticeable on account of this acute perception of the ridiculous.
“I’m doubly favoured by the gods this evening,” said Canon Spratte. “If I were a Papist I would offer a candle of gratitude to my patron saint. I didn’t know I should be so fortunate as to meet you nor so lucky as to sit by your side.”
“It’s taken you some time to avail yourself of the privilege of speaking to me,” she answered, glancing at the menu.
“I wanted to appease the pangs of my hunger first, so that I could devote myself to the pleasure of your conversation with an undistracted mind.”
“Then you agree with me, that a man is only quite human when he’s eaten his dinner?” she smiled.
“My thoughts are never so ethereal as when my body is occupied with the process of digestion,” the Canon replied, ironically.
He thought that Mrs. Fitzherbert wore uncommonly well. She had always been a fine creature, but he had never guessed that the girl of somewhat overwhelming physique whom he had known a quarter of a century before, would turn into this stately woman. The years only increased her attractiveness, and she had reason to look upon the common foes of mankind as her particular friends. She held herself with the assurance of a woman who has enjoyed masculine admiration. The Canon’s eyes rested with approval on the gown which displayed to advantage her beautiful figure.
These flattering reflections were, perhaps, obvious on his face, for the lady smiled.
“You may make it,” she said, with a flash of her exquisite teeth.
“What?” asked the Canon, innocently opening his eyes.
“The compliment that’s on the tip of your tongue.”
“I think you grow handsomer every day,” he answered, without hesitation.
“Thank you. And now tell me about Sophia and the children.”
“I’d much sooner talk about you,” said the Canon, gallantly.
“My dear friend, we’ve known one another too long. For flattery to be pleasing one must be convinced, at least for a moment, that it’s sincere, and you know I’ve never concealed from you my belief that you’re the most desperate humbug I’ve ever known.”
“You put me at my ease at once,” he retorted, smiling and not in the least disconcerted. “But I’m sorry you’re so vain.”
“Do you think I’m that?”
“Certainly. It’s only because your inner consciousness tells you such agreeable things that you won’t listen to my timid observations.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at him quickly and wondered if his memory was as bad as he pretended. She did not feel it necessary to recall exactly how many years it was since first they met, but she was a girl then, and Theodore the handsomest man she had ever seen. Her maiden fancy was speedily captured, and for a season they danced together, philandered, and sauntered in the park. Unwisely, she took him with all seriousness. She remembered still a certain afternoon in July when they met in Kensington Gardens; the sunshine and the careful trees, the dainty flowers, gave the scene all the graceful elegance of a picture by the adorable Watteau. She was going into the country next day, and her young heart beat in the most romantic fashion because she thought Theodore would seize the opportunity to declare his passion. But instead, he asked if she could keep a secret, and told her he had just become engaged to Dorothy Frampstone. She had not forgotten the smile with which she congratulated him and the lightness wherewith she hid the terrible anguish that consumed her. For six weeks she saw the world through a mist of tears, but pride forbade her to refuse Dorothy’s invitation to be bridesmaid at the wedding, and here she met Captain Fitzherbert. He fell in love with her at first sight and she married him out of pique, only to discover that he was a perfectly charming fellow. She soon grew devoted to him and never ceased to thank Heaven for her escape from Theodore. The only emotion that touched her then was curiosity. She would have given much to learn the reason of his behaviour. But she never knew whether the handsome curate had really cared, and thrown her over only because a more eligible bride presented herself; or whether, blinded by her own devotion, she had mistaken for love attentions which were due merely to a vivacious temperament. She did not meet Theodore Spratte again till she had been for some time a widow. Captain Fitzherbert was stationed in various parts of the world, and his wife came rarely to England. Then he fell ill, and for several years she nursed him on the Riviera and in Italy. But when at last his death released her, Mrs. Fitzherbert sought to regain her calmness of mind after the long exhaustion of his illness, by distant journeys to those places where she had spent her happy married life. It was not till she took a house in London, three years before this, that she ran against Canon Spratte casually at a dinner-party. She was pleased to see him, but noted with amusement that the sight did not agitate her in the smallest degree. She could scarcely believe that once his appearance in a room sufficed to make her pulse beat at double its normal rate, while the touch of his hand sent the blood rushing to her cheeks.
Mrs. Fitzherbert had acquired a certain taste for original sensations, and it diverted her to meet again in this fashion the lover of her youth. She wanted to know how he had fared and what sort of man he was become. Outwardly he had altered but little; he was as tall and as handsome, and had still the curly hair which she had so desperately adored. The years had dealt amiably with him, and she was delighted that on her side the change was all for the better. She could not deny now that at eighteen she must have been a lumbersome, awkward girl; and a young man could not guess that time and a discreet skill in the artifices of the toilet would transform her into a striking woman whom men turned round in the street to admire. At the end of their first conversation Canon Spratte asked if he might call upon her, and two days later had tea at the new house in Norfolk Street. From these beginnings a somewhat intimate acquaintance had arisen, and now Mrs. Fitzherbert was on the best of terms with all his family. The winter before she had asked Winnie to come to the Riviera with her, and the affectionate father had agreed that no better companion for his daughter could possibly be chosen. He disclosed to her now the great news of Wroxham’s proposal.
“You must be very proud and pleased,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Of course it’s always satisfactory for a father to see his daughter happily married. He’s an excellent fellow and quite comfortably off.”
“So I’ve always understood,” she answered with a smile, amused because the Canon would not acknowledge that Wroxham was far and away the best parti of the season.
Mrs. Fitzherbert had quickly taken Theodore’s measure, and it was a curious satisfaction, sweet and bitter at the same time, to find defects of character in the man who had once appeared so romantic a hero. She looked upon him with oddly mingled feelings. Her sense of humour caused her vastly to enjoy the rich comedy of his behaviour, but she preserved for him, almost against her will, a certain tenderness. He had made her suffer so much. She saw that he was often absurd, but liked him none the less. Though she discovered the feet of clay, she could not forget that once he had seemed a golden idol. She was willing to forgive the faults she now saw clearly, rather than think she had loved quite foolishly. The Canon felt her sympathy and opened his heart as to an old friend with a frankness he showed to no one else. The smile in her handsome eyes never warned him that she tore him to shreds, not unkindly but with deliberation, piece by piece.
Mrs. Fitzherbert asked how long Winnie had been engaged, and was somewhat astounded at his answer.
“He hasn’t spoken to her yet, but we’ve talked it over between us, he and I, and he’s to come to luncheon to-morrow to make his declaration.”
“Then Winnie hasn’t been consulted?” she exclaimed.
“My dear lady, do you imagine for a moment she’ll refuse?”
Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed.
“No, I frankly don’t. She’s not her father’s child for nothing.”
“I look upon it as completely settled, and then I shall have only Lionel to dispose of. Of course I’m far more anxious about him. In all probability he will succeed to the title, and it’s important that he should marry a suitable person.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He looked at her and smiled.
“Well, you know, the Sprattes are poor, and if Lionel has no children the peerage will be extinct. I can allow him to marry no one who hasn’t considerable means and every appearance of promising a healthy family.”
“Would it surprise you very much to know that the matter is already somewhat out of your hands? Unless I’m very much mistaken, Lionel is making up his mind to propose to Gwendolen Durant; and unless I’m equally mistaken, Gwendolen Durant is making up her mind to accept him.”
“You amaze me,” cried the Canon. “I’ve never even heard of this person.”
“Oh, yes, you have; she’s the only daughter of Sir John Durant, the brewer.”
“Monstrous! I will never allow Lionel to marry any one of the sort.”
“I believe he’s rather in love with her.”
“Good heavens, it’s just as easy for him to fall in love with a girl of good family. I did, and upon my word I can’t see why he shouldn’t follow his father’s example.”
“The Durants are very nice people, and—prolific,” smiled Mrs. Fitzherbert. “Gwendolen had six brothers, three of whom are still alive, and her father was one of ten children.”
“Sir John is only a Jubilee baronet. I would as soon he were a city knight.”
“On the other hand, he proposes to give his daughter one hundred and fifty thousand pounds as her marriage portion.”
Theodore Spratte turned right round and stared at Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“That’s a very large sum,” he smiled.
“It certainly may help the course of true love to run smoothly.”
“No wonder that Lionel was disinclined to accept the Bishop’s advice to become a total abstainer,” the Canon chuckled. “It would really be rather uncivil if he has matrimonial designs on a brewer’s daughter.”
He thoughtfully sipped his wine and allowed this information to settle. Mrs. Fitzherbert turned to somebody else, and the Canon was left for a couple of moments to his own reflections. Presently she smiled at him again.
“Well?”
“I’ll tell you what I wish you would do. I understand you are deputed to find out my views upon the subject.”
“Nothing of the sort,” she interrupted. “Sir John cares nothing for your views. He is a merchant of the old school, and looks upon himself as every man’s equal. I don’t know whether he has thought for a moment of Gwendolen’s future, but you may be quite sure he won’t consider it a very signal honour that she should marry Lionel.”
“You express yourself with singular bluntness,” answered the Canon, mildly.
“Nor do I know that the young things have settled anything. I merely tell you what my eyes have suggested to me. If you like, I’ll ask the Durants to luncheon, and you can see them for yourself.”
“But tell me, does she lead one to imagine that she’ll——” he hesitated for a moment, but made a dash for it, “breed well?”
“My dear Canon, I never considered her from that point of view,” laughed Mrs. Fitzherbert.
Canon Spratte smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“One must be practical. Of course a great change has come over the opinion of society with regard to the position of merchants, and one mustn’t lag behind the times.”
“A Conservative member of Parliament is still an object of admiration to many,” murmured Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Well, well, I’m not the man to stand in the way of my children’s happiness, and if I find that Lionel loves the girl, I promise you to put no obstacle in his way.”
Lady Hollington rose from her chair, and with a rustling sweep of silk skirts, with a quick gleam of diamonds, the ladies followed one another from the dining-room. Their host took his glass and moved round the table to sit by his most distinguished guest. But Canon Spratte, like a wise man, had already seized the opportunity. He drew his chair near that of Lord Stonehenge. The Prime Minister, obese and somnolent, turned upon him for a moment his dull, suspicious eyes, and then sunk his head strangely into his vast corpulence.
“I’m sorry to see that poor Andover is dead,” said the Canon, blandly.
His neighbour, meditative as a cow chewing the cud, made no sign that he heard the observation; but Canon Spratte was by no means disconcerted.
“He’ll be a great loss and most difficult to replace,” he continued. “They say he was the most learned of our bishops. I was excessively distressed when I heard of the sad event.”
“What did he die of?” asked the Prime Minister, indifferently.
“Oh, he was a very old man,” promptly replied the other, who had no idea to what fell disease the late Bishop of Barchester had succumbed. “My own conviction is that bishops ought to retire like ambassadors. A bishop should be a man of restless strength, active and versatile; he should be ready to put his hand to anything. To be a bishop you want as much energy and resource as if you were manager of the Army and Navy Stores.”
“Who is the manager of the Army and Navy Stores?” asked Lord Stonehenge.
Theodore Spratte smiled politely, but thought none the less that the Prime Minister was growing very stupid.
“Thank heaven, I shall never be as fat as that,” he said to himself, and added aloud: “I believe Andover was appointed by Mr. Gladstone.”
“How very large these grapes are!” said Lord Stonehenge, looking heavily at the dish of fruit in front of him.
“Yes,” said the Canon undisturbed, “my father, the Chancellor, used to grow very fine grapes at Beachcombe. You know, of course, that he held very decided views about the political opinions of the bishops.”
A slight movement went through the Prime Minister’s colossal frame, like a peristaltic wave passing along the coiled length of a boa-constrictor. Canon Spratte seemed to him like an agile fly that settled on every exposed place, and alit elsewhere as soon as it was brushed away. Just as all roads lead to Rome, every comment that Lord Stonehenge made appeared to bear directly upon the vacant See.
“And I cannot help thoroughly agreeing with him,” proceeded the Canon. “My view is that the bishops should be imbued with Conservative principles. The episcopal bench, I always think, should be a stronghold of Tory tradition, and if you come to think of it, the very nature of things accords with my conviction.”
Lord Stonehenge gave no sign of disagreement, which was sufficient excuse for Canon Spratte to state at length his laudable opinions. Presently, however, Lord Hollington proposed that they should go upstairs, and on their way the Canon shot his last bolt.
“By the bye, I was just talking to Lady Patricia about addressing a great Primrose Meeting this month.”
He was able, consequently, to flatter himself that he had not left a single thing unsaid which it behoved the Prime Minister to know.
Canon Spratte and Lord Stonehenge went away together. When the Canon had driven off behind a fine pair of bays, in a new and splendid brougham of the latest pattern, Lord Stonehenge lumbered into a carriage, which was both small and shabby. It was drawn by one horse only, and this was somewhat long in the tooth. There was no footman, and the coachman, in a uniform much the worse for wear, sat on his box in a slovenly, humped-up fashion. The Prime Minister and Lady Patricia drove for a while in silence; then from the depths of his beard, Lord Stonehenge summed up the party.
“They were very dull, but the dinner was eatable.”
“I hope you took no ice, papa,” said Lady Patricia.
“I merely tasted it,” he confessed, in apologetic tones. “I wonder why we can’t have ices like that. Ours are too cold.”
“Lady Eastney was there, so I suppose it’s not true about Sir Archibald. The Hollingtons are so careful.”
“Who was she? The woman with the fat neck?”
“She sat immediately opposite Canon Spratte,” answered Lady Patricia.
“Theodore Spratte wants me to make him a bishop,” said Lord Stonehenge, with a slow smile.
“Well, he’ll keep his clergy in order,” said Lady Patricia. “He’s very energetic and clever.”
“I prefer them stupid,” retorted the Prime Minister.
There was another pause, and presently Lord Stonehenge remembered an observation of his secretary.
“Vanhatton says I promised to do something for Spratte before the last election. I never thought we’d get in. His father was the most disagreeable man I ever saw.”
“I wonder what Mr. Highbury will say to him.”
“It’s no business of his,” retorted Lord Stonehenge, with considerable irritation.
“No, but you know what he is,” answered Lady Patricia, doubtfully.
The Prime Minister meditated for some time upon the officiousness of his colleague.
“I like my bishops tedious and rather old,” he said, at last. “Then their clergy give them plenty to do, and they don’t meddle with the Government.”
“Canon Spratte is such a staunch Conservative. He even speaks at Primrose Meetings.”
“He’ll only work for us as long as it pays him,” said Lord Stonehenge, reflectively.
“Oh, papa, he’d never become a Radical. He’s too anxious to be a gentleman.”
“I prefer a Radical to a Liberal unionist,” replied the Prime Minister, with some bitterness. “I must ask Vanhatton whether I definitely committed myself.”
NEXT morning Canon Spratte awoke in the best of humours, and determined to chaff Lionel good-naturedly about this attachment of which he had become cognisant. He felt relieved, on the whole, that his only son had done no worse. It was much against his father’s wish that the prospective heir to the peerage went into the Church, which none knew better than the Canon was no longer an eligible profession. Considering the position Lionel must one day occupy, Canon Spratte suggested that he should enter the diplomatic service or the Guards, but the boy had inherited his mother’s lack of ambition rather than his father’s spirit. For years the Canon had noted with irritation this timid and retiring temper. He could never understand why a man should sidle down a secluded alley when he might saunter along the sunny side of Piccadilly, and he could not help looking upon his son as something of a milksop. It would not have surprised him if Lionel had announced his desire to marry the daughter of a country clergyman. But money was more necessary than anything else to the Sprattes. The second earl had inherited all the Chancellor had to leave, and was understood never to have practised rigid economy. Theodore, finding a considerable expenditure necessary to his importance, had never been able to save a penny.
“Well, my boy, I hear that in spring a young man’s fancy turns lightly to thoughts of love,” he said, when Lionel bade him good-morning.
The curate looked at him with a start and reddened. Canon Spratte burst out laughing.
“A little bird has whispered to me that Master Cupid has been busy with you, Lionel. Come, come, you must have no secrets from your old father. Why have you never brought the girl to see Sophia?”
“I really don’t know what you mean.”
“Are you going to deny that you have cast a favourable eye upon Miss Gwendolen Durant?”
The renewal of colour upon Lionel’s fair cheek assured the Canon that Mrs. Fitzherbert’s surmise was eminently correct.
“I like her very much, father,” admitted Lionel, after some hesitation, “but I’ve not said anything to her. I have no reason to believe that she cares for me at all.”
“Good heavens, that’s not the way to make love, my boy. Why, when I was your age I never asked if there were reasons why a young woman should care for me. It’s a foolish lover who prates of his own unworthiness. If it’s a fact let the lady find it out for herself after marriage.”
“Would you approve of my asking Miss Durant to marry me?”
“Well, my dear Lionel, I will not conceal from you that I dislike her connection with trade, but still we live in a different world from that of my boyhood. Every one has a finger in some commercial enterprise now-a-days, and after all the Sprattes are well enough born to put up with a trifling mésalliance. I don’t want you to think me cynical, but a hundred and fifty thousand pounds will gild a more tarnished scutcheon than the Durants’.”
“But I’ve not altogether made up my mind,” said Lionel, who had not bargained for being rushed into the affair.
“Well, then, make it up, my boy, for it’s high time you were married. Don’t forget that an old and honoured name depends on you. Your duty is to provide a male child to inherit the title, and I’m assured that the Durants run to boys.”
“I’m not quite certain if I love her enough to marry her, father. I’m trying to make up my mind.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense, Lionel. If you don’t look sharp about it, upon my soul I’ll cut you out and marry her myself.”
The Canon rubbed his hands and laughed heartily.
It was no wonder that his humour was jovial, for he was enjoying already his relatives’ astonishment when they heard that Wroxham, most desirable of young men, wished to marry Winnie. He sent a note to his brother asking him very particularly to luncheon, but his sense of dramatic effect was far too keen to permit him even to hint that it was an occasion of peculiar solemnity.
“I shall point out to Sophia that she hasn’t used her sharp eyes to very good effect,” he muttered. “And if I’d depended on her to see Winnie happily married, I should have depended on a broken reed.”
Had he not foreseen it since the lad was fourteen, and nourished the scheme assiduously in his paternal heart? It was a triumph for a happy father. The thought of the world’s envy served nothing to decrease his complacency. The gay sunshine of May seemed to indicate that the universe at large shared and approved his self-satisfaction.
“Well, Sophia, did you see the notice about me in this morning’s paper?” he cried, as he went into the drawing-room to await Wroxham’s arrival.
“I’ve not had time to read it.”
“I wish you took more interest in me!” exclaimed the Canon, not without vexation. “It’s extraordinary that when there’s anything in the paper, every one sees it but my own family.”
“Please tell me what it is.”
He took up the newspaper and with due emphasis read:
“There is no truth in the rumour that Canon Spratte, Vicar of St. Gregory’s, South Kensington, has been appointed to the vacant bishopric of Barchester.”
“Did you send the communication yourself, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia, with raised eyebrows. “Surely I recognize your incisive style.”
“My dear Sophia,” he cried, indignantly.
But he met her calm eyes; and her dry smile of amusement called up on his own lips a smile of confession. He looked at the paragraph thoughtfully.
“I think it reads very well. It’s brief, pointed, I might almost say epigrammatic; and it will certainly prevent misconception.”
“Also it will remind those in power that there is no more excellent candidate than the Vicar of St. Gregory’s.”
“My dear Sophia, I honestly don’t think any one would call me a vain man, but I cannot think myself unsuitable for the position. I’m sure you will be the last to deny that my parentage gives me certain claims upon my country.”
“Which I suppose you took care to point out to Lord Stonehenge last night?”
“On the contrary, I flatter myself I was tactful enough to discuss the most indifferent matters with him. We talked of grapes and the Manager of the Army and Navy Stores. I merely remarked how sad it was that poor Andover was dead.”
“Ha!”
“He agreed with me that it was very sad. For his years I thought him pleasant and intelligent. And then he talked about the General Election. I ventured to explain how important it was that the bishops should be imbued with Conservative principles.”
“And d’you think he swallowed the bait?” asked Lady Sophia.
“My dear, I wish you would not express yourself quite so brutally.”
“I often wonder if you humbug yourself as much as you humbug other people,” she replied, with a meditative smile.
Canon Spratte stared at her with astonishment, and answered with dignity.
“Upon my soul, I don’t know what you mean. I have always done my duty in that state of life in which it has pleased Providence to place me. And if I may say so without vanity, I have done it with pleasure to myself and with profit to mankind.”
“Ah, yes, you’re one of those men for whom the path of duty is always strewn with roses.”
“It’s my strength of character that makes it so,” said the Canon, blandly.
“It never seems odd to you that when there are two courses open, the right one should invariably be that which redounds to your personal advantage.”
“Some men, Sophia, are born to greatness; some men achieve greatness; others have greatness thrust upon them. It would be immodest in me to say which of these three more particularly applies to myself.”
The answer perhaps was not very apt to the occasion, but the observation was a favourite with Canon Spratte; and he made it with such a triumphant assurance that it sounded like a very crushing retort.
“Do you remember our old nurse, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia, smiling.
“Old Anne Ramsay?” cried Canon Spratte, in his hearty way. “To be sure I do! I shall never forget her. She was a dear old soul.”
It was characteristic of him that in after years, when the nurse lived in the country on a pension, the Canon visited her with the utmost regularity. He never allowed Christmas or her birthday to pass without sending her a present. When she was attacked by a fatal illness he took a long journey to see her, by his cheerful, breezy manner did all that was possible to comfort her, and saw that she wanted nothing to make her final days easy and untroubled.
“Her affection is one of the most charming recollections of my childhood,” he added.
“I always think she must have been an excellent judge of character,” murmured Lady Sophia, in the even, indifferent tones she assumed when she was most sarcastic; “I remember how frequently she used to say: ‘Master Theodore, self-praise is no recommendation.’ ”
“You certainly have the oddest memories, my dear,” cried the Canon, with a scornful smile. “Now I remember how frequently she used to say: ‘Miss Sophia, your nose wants blowing.’ ”
It was a very good hit, and Lady Sophia, bridling, answered coldly: “She was a woman of no education, Theodore.”
“That is precisely what your reminiscence led me to believe,” he replied, with an ironical bow.
“Humph!”
The Canon, elated by this verbal triumph, looked at her mockingly, but before Lady Sophia could find an adequate rejoinder Lord Spratte and Wroxham were shown in together. Somewhat irritated by her defeat she greeted them with relief.
To the unfortunate Wroxham, ill-at-ease and full of misgiving, luncheon seemed endless. He cursed the ingenuity of Theodore’s cook, who prolonged his torture by the diversity and number of her courses. Considering with anxiety the ordeal that was before him, he found it quite impossible to join intelligently in the conversation, and feared that Winnie must think him very stupid. But Canon Spratte, tactfully realizing his condition, was as good as a band; he spoke without pause, and carried on with his brother a very lively exchange of banter. It was rarely that his family was privileged to hear so many sallies of his wit. Later, when Lady Sophia and Winnie, leaving the men to smoke, went into the drawing-room, Wroxham’s nervousness became sheer agony. The affair grew intolerably grotesque when he was set at a pre-arranged hour solemnly to offer his hand and heart. Though his mind was very practical, he could not fail to see that the proceeding was excessively unromantic. He wished heartily that he had waited till he found himself by chance alone with Winnie, and could bring the conversation round by Shakespeare and the Musical Glasses to the hazardous topic of matrimony. But Canon Spratte, asking his brother and Lionel to go upstairs, led Wroxham to the study.
“I feel most awfully nervous,” said the young man, doing his best to smile.
“Nonsense, my dear boy,” cried the Canon, very cheerily. “There’s nothing whatever to be nervous about. You have my complete assurance that Winnie undoubtedly cares for you. Now sit down quietly like a good fellow, and I’ll send my little girl down to you. Bless my soul, it reminds me of the day when I asked my own dear wife to marry me.”
Wroxham began to walk up and down the room, turning over in his mind what he should say. The Canon, with deliberate steps, marched to the drawing-room.
“Has Harry gone?” asked Lady Sophia.
“No, he’s in my study,” answered the Canon, looking down gravely.
This was the moment for which he had waited, and he paused to consider the success of his worldly wisdom.
“Dear me, how stupid I am!” he cried. “I meant to bring the paper up with me. Winnie, my love, will you fetch it for me?”
Winnie got up, but caught her father’s pleased expression, and puzzled, stopped still, looking at him.
“Pray go, my dear,” he added, smiling. “I left it in the study.”
“But Harry is there,” she said.
“I’m under the impression, my love, that he would not be sorry to have a few moments alone with you. I think he has something to say to you.”
“To me, papa?” exclaimed Winnie, a little startled. “What on earth can he want?”
The Canon put his arm affectionately round her waist.
“He will tell you that himself, my love.”
Winnie understood now what her father meant, and a deep blush came over her face. Then a coldness rose in her heart and travelled through every limb of her body. She was afraid and confused.
“But I can’t see him, I don’t want to.”
She shrank away from her father; but he, somewhat amused at this resistance, led her towards the door.
“My dear, you must. I can quite understand that you should feel a certain bashfulness. But he has my full approval.”
“There’s something I must say to you at once, father. I want to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain, my darling.”
She was growing almost distracted. Her father, good-humoured and affectionate, seemed to hold her in the hollow of his hand, taking from her all strength of will.
“Father, let me speak. You don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand, my dear. I know all about it, and you really need not be nervous. You go with my very best wishes.”
“I can’t go. I must speak to you first,” she cried desperately.
“Come, come, my dear, you must pluck up courage. It’s nothing very terrible. Go downstairs like a good girl, and I daresay you’ll bring Harry up with you.”
He treated her as he would a child, frightened at some imaginary danger, who must be coaxed into boldness. He opened the door, and Winnie, all unwilling, yielded to his stronger mind. With a hearty laugh he came back, rubbing his hands.
“A little maidenly modesty! Very charming, very pretty! It’s a lovely sight, my dear Sophia, that of the typical creamy English girl suffused in the blushes of virginal innocence.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Lady Sophia.
“You’re a cynic, my dear,” laughed the Canon. “It’s a grave fault of which I recommend you to correct yourself.”
“I beg you not to preach to me, Theodore,” she answered, bridling.
“No man is a prophet in his own country,” said he, with a shrug of the shoulders. Then he turned to his brother: “But you will wonder why I sent you that urgent note, asking you to luncheon.”
“Not at all. I can quite understand that the pleasure of my company was worth a special messenger.”
But Canon Spratte interrupted: “I asked you to come in your official capacity, if I may so call it—as the head of the family.”
“My dear Theodore, merely by courtesy: I am unworthy.”
“The fact is sufficiently patent without your recalling it,” retorted the Canon, promptly. “But I should be obliged if at this moment, when the affairs of our house are at stake, you would adopt such sobriety and decorum as you are capable of.”
“I wish I’d got my coronation robes on now,” sighed Lord Spratte.
“Go on, Theodore,” suggested their sister.
“Well, you will all of you be gratified to hear that Lord Wroxham has asked my permission to pay his addresses to Winnie.”
“In my young days when a man wanted to marry he asked the girl before he asked her father,” said Lady Sophia.
“I think it was a very proper proceeding; I am so old-fashioned as to consider a father the best judge of his daughter’s welfare. And I think that in this case I am certainly the first person to be consulted. Wroxham is a young man of the very highest principles, and he naturally chose the correct course.”
“And you fell upon him and said: ‘What ho!’ ” cried Lord Spratte.
The Canon gave him a cold stare of surprise and of injured dignity.
“I informed him that I had no objection to him as a son-in-law, and I made the usual inquiries into his circumstances.”
“What bloomin’ cheek, when every one knows he has twenty thousand a year!”
“And finally I imparted to him my conviction that Winnie looked upon him with sincere regard.”
“You are a downy old bird, Theodore,” said Lord Spratte, laughing. “There’s many a London matron has set her net to catch that fish.”
“I did not expect that you would treat the matter with decorum, Thomas, and it was only from a strong sense of duty towards you as the head of my house, that I requested your presence.”
But his elder brother was completely unabashed.
“Shut it, Theodore. You know very well that Wroxham can just about wipe his boots with the likes of us.”
“I don’t in the least understand what you mean,” replied the Canon, frigidly. “We are his equals in the best sense; and if you wish to go into details, our rank in the peerage is—higher than his.”
“Rank in the peerage be hanged! There’s a deuce of a difference between the twenty-first Lord Wroxham with half a county to his back and the second Earl Spratte with a nasty pretentious stucco house and about ten acres of sooty land. Earls like us are as thick as flies.”
Lady Sophia’s mind, like her brother’s, turned to the house which the founder of their family, on acquiring wealth, had purchased to gain the standing of a country gentleman. The Chancellor loved to get full value for his money, and its small price as well as its grandeur attracted him. Beachcombe was built by a retired ironmonger in the first years of Queen Victoria, when romance and Gothic architecture were the fashion; and it had all the appearance of a mediæval castle. With parapets, ogival windows, pointed arches, machicolations, a draw-bridge, and the other playthings of that amusing era, the grey stucco of its walls made it seem more artificial than the canvas palace of a drop-scene. The imposing hall was panelled with deal stained to resemble oak; and the walls, emblazoned with armorial bearings, gave it the gaudiness of a German beer cellar. The ceilings were coloured alternately blue and red, and decorated in gold with fleurs-de-lis and with heraldic lions. The furniture was elaborately carved, and there were settles, oak chests, and huge cabinets, on every available space of which might be seen the arms of the family of Spratte. With the best will in the world it was impossible to accept the inferior pictures, bought wholesale at an auction, as family portraits. After sixty years all this magnificence was become somewhat tawdry, and the rooms, little inhabited by their present owner, had the dismal look of a stage-set seen by daylight. The classic statues, the terraces and steps, which strove to give importance to the garden, had withstood the weather so ill that their plaster in spots was worn off and exhibited in shameful nakedness the yellow brick of which they were manufactured. The romantic grottoes were so dilapidated that they resembled kitchens burnt out and abandoned. The whole place put visibly the healthy paradox that the idealism of one age is but the vulgarity of the next.
The Canon was outraged but still dignified.
“I should like you to understand once for all, Thomas, that I very much object to the sneering manner which you are pleased to affect with regard to our family. I, for one, am proud of its origin. I am proud to be the son of the late Lord Chancellor and the grandson of a distinguished banker.”
“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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.”
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