ONE evening, to his sister’s amazement, Canon Spratte volunteered to accompany Winnie to a party. The Vicar of St. Gregory’s was at his best in smaller gatherings, where his personality could more easily make itself felt. He liked an attentive audience; and even one careless pair, more anxious to talk with one another than to hear his sage words, was apt to disconcert him. When he found himself in a crowd, jostled and pushed, able to speak with but one person at a time, and reduced even then to social commonplace, he quickly grew bored. He could only suffer a multitude when from the safe eminence of the pulpit, the first in place as well as in dignity of oratorial machines, he was lifted above the press of mankind. He was assured then of their attentiveness and protected from their interruption.
Winnie was very simply dressed. Her pallor was unusual, but in the soft light of shaded electricity she gained thereby a peculiar delicacy. The pose of her head was a little wearied. The blue eyes were filled with melancholy. The Canon thought her frail beauty had never been seen to greater advantage; and when, alert for all that was proceeding, he saw Wroxham coming towards them, he quickly vanished from her side. He smiled as he noticed the singular way in which the young man held his nose in the air. Wroxham was very short-sighted, and his prominent blue eyes had an odd helplessness of expression. Winnie did not see him. She was watching the throng of dancers, taking a new delight in the gaiety of those many people gathered there in lightness of heart to enjoy the fleeting moments. Never before had she found such satisfaction in the magnificence of the ball-room, hung with red roses, nor in the charming dresses of the women. She could not crush a pang that entered her breast when she thought that all this must be given up, and in sudden contrast she saw the little sordid parlour in Rosebery Gardens. Before her eyes arose the High Street at Peckham with its gaudy shops. It was hideous, hideous, and she shuddered.
Suddenly she heard in her ear a well-known voice.
“Winnie!”
Her pallor gave way before a blush that made her ten times prettier. She did not answer, but looked at Harry. In his eyes, herself quickened by suffering, she thought there was a new sadness, and a great sympathy filled her. If he lacked good looks he had at all events the kindly face of an old friend. And he was admirably dressed. Discovering for the first time that his clothes had never before attracted her attention, she observed now with what an incomparable ease he bore them. The cruel advice of Lady Sophia to get Bertram a good tailor recurred to her, and she remembered the suggestion that he could not wear a frock coat becomingly.
“I wonder if he knows it,” passed through her mind. “Perhaps that’s why he always wears a jacket.”
It was an unwelcome thought that Bertram could be influenced by vain notions, and she upbraided herself for the pettiness of the suspicion. Wroxham, without fear of ridicule and with simplicity, could wear any clothes he chose.
“I knew I should find you here,” he was saying. “You’re not angry with me for coming? I wanted to see you so badly.”
“Good heavens, why should I be angry?” smiled Winnie. “You have just as much right to come as I.”
She could not help being flattered by the passionate love which coloured every word he spoke, and her own voice gained a sweeter tenderness.
“I can’t keep away from you, Winnie. I didn’t know I loved you so much.”
“Oh, don’t, please,” she murmured, “we’ve been friends for ages. It would be absurd if we never saw one another again because—because of the other day. You know I’m always glad to see you.”
“I couldn’t take your answer as final. Oh, I don’t want to bother you and make you miserable, but don’t you care for me at all? Don’t you think that after a time you may get to like me?”
His humility touched Winnie so much that it made her answer very difficult.
“I told you the other day it was impossible.”
“Oh, I know. But then I couldn’t say what I wanted. I couldn’t understand. Like a fool, I thought you cared for me. I loved you so passionately that it seemed impossible I should be nothing to you at all.”
“Please don’t say anything more, Harry,” she said, very gently. “It’s awfully kind of you, and I don’t know how to thank you. But I can’t marry you.”
Wroxham, with a little instinctive motion, set the glasses more firmly on his nose, and looked at her sadly. She smiled.
“Won’t you dance with me?” she said.
His face lit up as he placed his arm round her waist and they began to waltz. The rhythm of the haunting melody carried Winnie’s soul away. She knew that she was giving great happiness, and it filled her with pleasure. The music stopped, and with a sigh of delight she sank into a chair.
“I want to tell you something,” he said presently, with much seriousness. “If ever you change your mind I shall be waiting for you. I can never love any one else. I don’t want you to make any promise or to give me any encouragement. But I shall wait for you. And if ever the time comes that you think you can care for me, you will find me ready and eager to be—your very humble servant.”
“I didn’t know you were so kind,” said she, with tears in her eyes. “I misjudged you, I thought you treated me like a fool. I’m sorry, I want you to be happy. But don’t be wretched because I can’t marry you; I’m not worth troubling about.”
He looked at her fixedly, divining from her tone that something was troubling her.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked.
“No, what should be?” she answered, trying to smile, but blushing to the roots of her hair.
“You’ve been crying.”
“I had a headache. There’s really nothing else.”
It was very hard to resist her impulse to confess that she was already engaged. She wished him to know why she had refused him, and wanted his loving sympathy. But at this moment a partner claimed her for the dance that was just beginning.
“Good-bye,” she whispered, as she left him. “I shall never forget your kindness.”
Wroxham followed her with his eyes, then, puzzled and uncertain, walked towards the door. Canon Spratte did not believe in trusting the affairs of this world to the blind hazard of chance, and it was by no accident that he found himself at this very moment in the young man’s way.
“Ah, my dear fellow, I’m delighted to see you,” he said. “What a crowd, isn’t there? I’ve been dying to find some one to smoke a quiet cigarette with me.”
Wroxham gave him a smile. He felt at once that cordial glow which Canon Spratte invariably suffused on all with whom he came in contact. They went to the smoking-room. Even if Wroxham had been unwilling he would have found it hard to resist the breezy authoritativeness with which the Canon, waiting for no answer, led the way.
“Now let us make ourselves at home.”
He seated himself in the most comfortable arm-chair, and, for all the world as if he were in his own house, pointed Wroxham to another. In his gracious way he offered the young man a cigarette from their host’s box, and having lit his own, smoked for a while in silence. He was willing to let things take their time, and waited contentedly for Wroxham to speak. He set his mind to making a number of admirable smoke rings.
“I’ve been talking to Winnie,” said the other at last, gravely.
“Well? Well?”
“I don’t understand her.”
Canon Spratte put his hand impressively on Wroxham’s knee.
“My dear fellow, there’s nothing to understand. They say that women are incomprehensible. They’re nothing of the sort. I’ve never met a woman that I couldn’t understand at a glance.”
“I fancied she’d been crying,” said Wroxham, shyly.
“All women cry when they have nothing better to do. It’s the only inexpensive form of amusement they have.”
Wroxham knocked the ash off his cigarette with peculiar care.
“I asked her to marry me, Canon Spratte.”
“And of course she refused. That was to be expected. No nice girl accepts a man the first time he proposes to her. My dear Harry, the way with women is to insist. Stand no nonsense from them. Treat them kindly, but firmly. Remember that the majority never know their own minds, and between you and me I think the majority haven’t much to know.”
The Canon was no feminist. It was one of his cherished convictions that women should be kept in their place, which, with regard to the lords of creation, was chiefly the background. He felt that the attitude which best became them was one of submission. Like the natural savage, unspoiled by the vice of civilization, he considered that man should hunt, fight, and be handsome, while the weaker sex toiled for the privilege of contemplating his greatness. He had never imparted these theories to Lady Sophia.
“When you want something from a woman insist upon having it,” he added. “Hammer away and in the long run you’ll get it.”
“But Winnie is so different from other girls,” replied Wroxham, unconvinced.
“Nonsense! Every man thinks the girl he wants to marry different from every other. But she’s nothing of the kind. Women are very much of a muchness, especially the pretty ones. I have no patience with this ranting about the equality of the sexes. It is not only irreligious but vulgar. I lay my faith on the Bible, which tells us that women shall be subject unto man. I’ve never met the woman that I couldn’t turn round my little finger.”
He looked at that particular digit. It was adorned with a handsome ring, on which in all their monstrous fraudulence were the arms of his family. His voice rang with manly scorn.
“No, my dear Harry, you have my full approval. And you have my assurance that Winnie undoubtedly cares for you. What more can you want? Hammer away, my dear sir, hammer away. The proper fashion to deal with a woman is to ask her in season and out of season. Propose to her morning, noon, and night. Worry her as a terrier worries a bone. Insist on marrying her. Sooner or later she’ll say yes, and think herself a prodigious fool for not having done so before.”
“You’re very encouraging,” said the lover, smiling.
Canon Spratte’s cheery vigour was irresistible, and the force of his rhetoric seemed to overcome even material obstacles. But when Wroxham considered the affair he was puzzled. He was a youth of only common intelligence. This the Canon had observed with satisfaction, for he knew that nothing is so prejudicial in the world of politics as to excel the average. It did not appear natural that Winnie should refuse him out of mere virginal coyness, as the hen-bird flies from the nightingale till he has sung his most amorous lays. Her melancholy pointed to something more complex.
“You’re very encouraging,” he repeated, but this time with a sigh.
“There are few men who have more experience in the management of the sex than I,” returned Canon Spratte, with the air of a Sultan who has conducted with unexampled success a seraglio of more than common dimensions. “Now what do you propose to do?”
“I don’t know,” answered Wroxham, somewhat helplessly.
“My dear fellow, God helps those who help themselves,” said the Canon, with sharpness. “You want to marry my little girl and I want you to marry her. I know no one to whom I would sooner entrust her, and when a father says that, I can assure you it means a good deal.”
“But what can I do?”
“Well, well, I see I must help you a little. Come and see us again in a day or two. I’ll drop you a line.”
“I don’t want to be a bore,” said Wroxham.
“I have reason to believe that you’ll find Winnie in a different state of mind. Keep yourself free to come any day I fix. And now go home and have a good night’s sleep.”
Wroxham got up and shook hands. He left the Canon in the smoking-room. The clerical gentleman put down his cigarette and smiled to himself with much self-satisfaction. He sang again softly:
“For I’m no sailor bold,
And I’ve never been upon the sea;
And if I fall therein, its a fact I couldn’t swim,
And quickly at the bottom I should be.”
He returned to the ball-room jauntily, and on his way was so fortunate as to meet Mr. Wilson. This was the journalist of much influence in ecclesiastical circles whose good offices with the press he had already made use of.
“Ah, my dear Wilson, it was charming of you to put that little announcement in the paper for me,” he said. “I’m rejoiced to see that Dr. Gray has been given the bishopric.”
“I’m afraid the news is entirely premature,” answered the other. “No appointment has been made at all.”
“Indeed! You surprise me. It was announced so confidently in the Westminster Gazette.”
“Even the newspapers are not infallible,” smiled Mr. Wilson, who knew. “In point of fact, I very much doubt if Gray would accept. He’s fond of the work at Harbin, and I don’t think he much wants to bury himself at Barchester.”
“Of course, in this world everything has its drawbacks,” replied the Vicar of St. Gregory’s. “And for my part, when a man is still young and vigorous, I can imagine no position with greater opportunities for good than the headmastership of a great public school.”
He passed on. His name had been somewhat freely mentioned with regard to Barchester, and Canon Spratte could not bear that any one should think him disappointed or envious. He had shown Mr. Wilson that he was neither. But he could not regret that the newspapers had anticipated things; and hope, which is known to spring eternally in human breasts, cast at once a rosy hue upon the world in general. So long as no definite appointment was made, the Canon felt it only right to trust in the victory of good over evil. The various influences which he had brought to bear might still cause in Lord Stonehenge a state of mind that would raise merit to the episcopal bench.
Canon Spratte looked round the ball-room and caught sight of Gwendolen Durant. He went up to her at once. She looked uncommonly well in her low-necked dress; and the single string of pearls she wore not only showed off the youthful beauty of her neck, but reminded the world at large that she had a very opulent father.
“How is it the young men are so ungallant as to leave you sitting out?” he asked, gaily.
“I’m engaged to your son for this dance; I can’t make out where he is.”
“Lionel is a donkey,” laughed the Canon. “Give it to me instead.”
He would not listen to her amused objections, and in a moment they were among the dancers. Lionel came up just as Canon Spratte had borne off the prize triumphantly. He was filled with amazement, for to the best of his belief his father had not danced for twenty years. The Canon saw him, and laughing at his disconsolate look, pointed him out to Gwendolen. She laughed also.
“I’ve cut you out, dear boy,” cried the Canon as they passed, with a roguish look. “I’ve cut you out.”
“You’re very unkind,” smiled Gwendolen.
“Nonsense. It’ll teach him to be more punctual. Do you think if I’d been engaged to the belle of the evening I should have kept her waiting one single moment?”
He was so good looking, and there was about him such a buoyant charm of manner that Gwendolen was somewhat dazzled. The Canon had a great sense of rhythm, and their waltz went exceedingly well.
“You dance better than Lionel,” she said, smiling.
He pressed her hand slightly in acknowledgment of the flattering remark, and his glance positively made her heart beat a little.
“You mustn’t think because my hair is nearly white that I’m quite an old fossil.”
Gwendolen looked at his hair and thought it very handsome. She was pleased with the admiration that filled his eyes when they caught hers. She blushed, and they danced for a while in silence.
“I enjoyed that more than any dance this evening,” she sighed, when the music ceased.
“Then you must give me another. I owe you a debt of gratitude. You’ve made me feel four-and-twenty.”
“I don’t believe you’re a day more,” she answered, reddening at her boldness.
Like many young persons before her Gwendolen felt that a week’s acquaintance with Theodore Spratte had turned him into an old friend. She would have confided to him her most treasured secrets without hesitation. He took her to have an ice, and she observed with pleasure the courtliness with which he used her. It seemed more than politeness which made him so anxious for her comfort. Her wants really seemed to matter to him.
“How charmingly you wait on me,” she said, half laughing.
“I belong to the old school which put lovely women on a gilded pedestal and worshipped them. Besides, I have to take pains to make you forget my age.”
“How can you be so absurd!” she cried. “I think you’re the youngest man I’ve ever known.”
He was delighted, for he saw that Gwendolen meant precisely what she said.
“Ah, why don’t we live in the eighteenth century so that I might fall on my knee and kiss your hand in gratitude for that pretty speech!”
The band struck up again, and the Canon, offering his arm, led her back to the ball-room. She was claimed by a young guardsman; and as she swung into the throng the Canon could not help feeling that neither in appearance, height, nor gallantry, had he anything to fear from the comparison.
“Upon my soul, I can’t make out why I don’t come to balls oftener,” he murmured. “I had no idea they were so amusing.”
Lionel was standing just in front of him, and he slapped him on the back.
“Well, my boy, are you enjoying yourself? I hope you bear me no malice because I robbed you of your partner.”
“Not at all. I’m not really very fond of dancing.”
“Ah, you young men of the present day are so superior. It’s a monstrous thing that when a girl’s pretty feet itch for a varnished floor she should be forced to throw herself into the arms of an old fogey like myself.”
“It didn’t look as if Miss Durant needed much compulsion,” returned Lionel, dryly.
The Canon laughed boisterously.
“Have you declared yourself yet? She’s a very nice girl indeed, and you have my paternal blessing. I think we shall get on capitally together.”
“No; I haven’t said anything.”
“Well, my boy, why don’t you? It’s your duty to marry and it’s your duty to marry money. You must have a son and you must have something to keep him on. I think you’ll have to hunt a long time before you find any one so likely to provide all that’s necessary as Gwendolen Durant.”
“I like her very much,” allowed Lionel, somewhat uncertainly.
“Then why don’t you propose to-night? There’s nothing like a dance for that sort of thing. The music and the flowers and the gaiety—it all attunes the mind to amorous affairs.”
“That’s all very well, but she makes one rather nervous,” laughed Lionel.
“Fiddlesticks! Take her into the conservatory and play with her fan. That will lead you to take her hand. Then put your arm boldly round her waist; and the rest will follow of itself, or you’re no son of mine.”
Lionel shrugged his shoulders and smiled without enthusiasm.
“I see that Mrs. Fitzherbert is here,” he said, inconsequently.
“Is she? I must go and find her. Take my advice, my boy; propose to Gwendolen to-night, and perhaps I’ll pay a bill or two for you in the morning.”
He waved his hand familiarly and disappeared in search of the handsome widow. He found her very comfortably seated in an armchair, looking at the dancers with tolerant disdain. She smiled in sympathy as she caught the happy eyes of a girl going round the room in an ecstasy of delight. She nodded with satisfaction when a handsome man passed by. She sought idly to get some notion of character as one physiognomy or another attracted her attention. But what most pleased her was the thought that she herself was merely a spectator. The delights of middle age were by no means to be despised; she was free to go where she would, sufficiently rich, indifferent to the opinion of her fellows. Twenty years ago she nearly broke her heart at a ball because she was obliged to sit out five dances running without a partner, but now her chief wish was that no one should interrupt her enjoyment of that varied scene.
Yet when Canon Spratte approached she rose to greet him with every appearance of cordiality. She wore all her diamonds and a gown whose handsome lines showed off the magnificence of her figure. He thought she had never seemed more stately.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked, smiling, but in the most formal way.
Mrs. Fitzherbert opened her eyes wide and stared at him.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I don’t know how I can express myself more plainly,” he laughed.
“My dear Canon, I haven’t danced for fifteen years.”
“Come,” he said gaily, “I never take a refusal. I know you dance divinely.”
“Don’t be so absurd! We should make ourselves perfectly ridiculous. People would roar with laughter and say: ‘Look at those two old fogies doddering round together.’ ”
“Nothing of the sort! They’d say: ‘Look at Theodore Spratte, he’s dancing with the belle of the evening. Isn’t that like him?’ ”
He put his arm round her waist, and notwithstanding a laughing remonstrance bore her into the middle of the room. It was true that he danced well, and for five minutes Mrs. Fitzherbert forgot that she was hard upon fifty. He talked the most charming nonsense. Her eyes began to flash as brightly as his, and she surrendered herself entirely to the pleasure of the waltz. It gave her a curious thrill to feel the strong hand that rested like a caress on her waist. Presently he led her into a little nook, all gay with roses, which had been arranged in an alcove on the stairs.
“You detestable creature!” she cried, sinking into a chair. “I was congratulating myself on being out of the turmoil of life, and you’ve made me regret it so that I could almost burst into tears.”
“But acknowledge that you enjoyed it. And you know just as well as I do that you were the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“How many virtuous matrons have you already assured of that fact to-night?” she asked, with a laugh.
“Ah, you think I’m joking, but I’m deadly serious,” he answered.
“Then there’s no possible excuse for you.”
“You can’t subdue me so easily as that. Does it mean nothing to you that the band is playing the most sentimental tunes and that all these roses have turned the place into a garden?”
“You see, I’m never so foolish as to forget that I’m long past forty.”
“I never think of your age,” he answered, and for the life of her she could not tell if he was in earnest. “To me you are a lovely woman, kind and witty and delightful.”
She looked at him calmly.
“What do you think Lionel would say if he heard you talk such rubbish?”
“Lionel is wisely occupied with his own affairs. I’ve sent him to propose to Gwendolen Durant. He was shy, but I told him it was the simplest thing in the world. I told him to look at her fan.” The Canon opened his partner’s and smiled into her eyes. “And that I told him would lead him naturally to take her hand.”
He audaciously seized Mrs. Fitzherbert’s, but she, with a laugh, withdrew it.
“I gather your meaning without your actually giving an example,” she said.
The Canon’s blue eyes sparkled with all the fire of youth. Another dance had begun and they were left alone in their alcove.
“Look here, why don’t you marry me?” he asked, suddenly.
Mrs. Fitzherbert was taken completely aback. It had never dawned on her that his bantering speeches could tend to any such end.
“My dear man, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“My children are making their own homes, and I shall be left alone. Whatever you say, we’re neither of us old yet. Why shouldn’t we join forces?”
“It’s too absurd,” she said.
“That I should want to marry you? Look in your glass, dear friend, and it will tell you there are a hundred good reasons.”
He put his arm round her, and before she realized what he was about, kissed her lips.
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“But I haven’t accepted,” she cried.
“I told you I never took a refusal; I shall inform Sophia that you’ve promised to marry me.”
Giving her no time to reply, he jumped up, pressed her hand lightly, and disappeared. Mrs. Fitzherbert did not know whether to be amused or angry. The affair seemed like a joke that had been carried too far, and she really could not believe that the Canon meant what he said. Suddenly an idea struck her. A smile came to her lips and she began to laugh. The idea gained shape. She threw back her head and laughed till the tears positively ran down her cheeks.
But the Canon returned to the ball-room feeling not a day more than twenty-five. Winnie came up to him.
“I’m ready to go home when you like, papa. I’m rather tired.”
He looked at his watch.
“Nonsense! One’s not tired at two in the morning at your age. Why, I feel as fit as a fiddle. Come.”
He seized her, and before she knew where she was, whirled her into the middle of the room. He would not let her expostulate, but danced as though he would never tire. His spirits were so high that he could have shouted at the top of his voice.
When they were all three in the carriage on their way home, Canon Spratte turned to his son.
“Well, did you take my advice?” he asked.
“I didn’t have a chance,” said Lionel, discontentedly.
“Good Lord! You’re not half the man your father is.”
The Canon chuckled and rubbed his hands. He asked Winnie’s permission to light a cigar, and put up his feet comfortably on the opposite seat.
“I’ve had a very charming evening. Upon my soul, it’s wonderful what good it does a hard-working man to have a little innocent enjoyment.”
MRS. RAILING accepted Canon Spratte’s invitation to bring her daughter to tea. On the day appointed he sat like a Hebrew patriarch surrounded by his family and waited for her to come. He addressed Lionel, his son.
“You’ll remember that there are two funerals to-morrow morning, won’t you?” he said.
“Good gracious, I had completely forgotten all about them.”
“I daresay they were persons of no consequence,” remarked Lord Spratte.
“As a matter of fact, I believe one of them, poor fellow! was our own fish-monger,” said the Canon, smiling.
“I thought the fish had been very inferior these last few days,” murmured Lady Sophia.
Ponsonby opened the door stealthily and announced the guests in his most impressive tones.
“Mrs. and Miss Railing.”
Mrs. Railing, a woman of simple tastes, was unaccustomed to give time or thought to the adornment of her person. She was an excellent creature who had arrived at the sensible conclusion that comfort was more important than appearance; and when she had grown used to a garment, only the repeated persuasion of her children could induce her to give it up. Widowhood with her was a question of pride and a passport to respectability. She wore, somewhat on one side, a shabby crape bonnet, a black old-fashioned cloak, and loose cotton gloves. She carried with affectionate care, as though it were a jewel of vast price, a gloomy and masculine umbrella. It had a bow on the handle.
Canon Spratte advanced very cordially and shook hands with her.
“How d’you do. How d’you do, Mrs. Railing.”
“Nicely, thank you.” She turned and gave a little wave of the hand toward her offspring. “This is my daughter, Miss Railing.”
Miss Railing wore a strenuous look and pince-nez, a sailor hat, a white blouse, and a leather belt.
“How d’you do,” said Canon Spratte.
“Quite well, thank you.”
Winnie, having passed the time of day with Mrs. Railing, looked shyly at Bertram’s sister.
“You weren’t in the other day when I came to Peckham with your brother.”
“I didn’t get home till late.”
Miss Railing, suffering from no false shame, looked at Winnie with a somewhat disparaging curiosity. She was highly educated and took care to speak the King’s English correctly. She dropped her aitches but seldom. Sometimes she hesitated whether or no to insert the troublesome letter, but when she used it her emphasis fully made up for an occasional lapse. She was, perhaps, a little self-assertive; and came to St. Gregory’s Vicarage as to an enemy’s camp, bristling to take offence. She was determined to show that she was a person of culture.
“Let me introduce you to my sister, Lady Sophia Spratte,” said the Canon to Mrs. Railing. “Miss Railing, my sister.”
“I’m really Miss Louise Railing, you know,” said that young lady, in a slightly injured tone.
“I ’ave two daughters, my lord,” explained Mrs. Railing, who felt that some ceremony was needed to address the member of a noble family, “but the elder one, Florrie, ain’t quite right in ’er ’ead. And we ’ad to shut ’er up in an asylum.”
The Canon observed her for one moment and shot a rapid glance at Winnie.
“It’s so fortunate that you were able to come,” he said. “In the Season one has so many engagements.”
But at the harmless remark Miss Railing bridled.
“I thought you people in the West End never did anything?”
Canon Spratte laughed heartily.
“The West End has a bad reputation—in Peckham Rye.”
“Well, I don’t know that I can say extra much for the people of Peckham Rye either. There’s no public spirit among them. And yet we do all we can; the Radical Association tries to stir them up. We give meetings every week—but they won’t come to them.”
“I wonder at that,” replied the Canon, blandly. “And do you share your brother’s talent for oratory?”
“Oh, I say a few words now and then,” said Miss Railing, modestly.
“You should hear ’er talk,” interposed Mrs. Railing, with a significant nod.
“Well, I hold with women taking part in everything. I’m a Radical from top to toe.” Miss Railing stared hard at Lady Sophia, who was watching her with polite attention. “I can’t stand the sort of woman who sits at home and does nothing but read novels and go to balls. There’s an immense field for women’s activities. And who thinks now that women are inferior to men?”
“Ain’t she wonderful!” ejaculated Mrs. Railing, with unconcealed admiration.
“Ma!” protested her daughter.
“She says I always praise ’er in front of people,” Mrs. Railing laughed good-humouredly. “But I can’t ’elp it. You should see all the prizes and certificates she’s got. Oh, I am proud of ’er, I can tell you.”
“Ma, don’t go on like that always. It makes people think I’m a child.”
“Well, Louie, I can’t ’elp it. You’re a marvel and there’s no denying it. Tell ’em about the gold medal you won.”
“I wish you would,” said Lord Spratte. “I always respect people with gold medals.”
“Go on with you,” cried Miss Railing.
“Well, Louie, you are obstinate,” said her mother; and turning to Lady Sophia she added confidentially: “She ’as been—ever since she was a child.”
But the appearance of the stately Ponsonby with tea-things changed the conversation. Mrs. Railing looked round the room, and the Canon saw that her eyes rested on the magnificent portrait of the first Lord Spratte.
“That is my father, the late Lord Chancellor of England. It is a most admirable likeness.”
“It’s a very ’andsome frame,” said Mrs. Railing, anxious to be polite.
Lord Spratte burst out laughing.
“He is plain, isn’t he?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,” answered Mrs. Railing, with confusion, “I would never take such a liberty.”
“Now, you can’t honestly say he was a beauty, Mrs. Railing.”
“Thomas, remember he was my father,” inserted the Canon.
But Mrs. Railing feared she had wounded her host’s feelings.
“Now I come to look at ’im, I don’t think ’e’s so bad looking after all,” she said.
His elder son cast a rapid glance at the Lord Chancellor’s sardonic smile.
“In the family we think he’s the very image of my brother Theodore.”
“Well, now you mention it, I do see a likeness,” replied Mrs. Railing, innocently looking from the portrait to Canon Spratte.
The Canon shook his head at his brother with smiling menace, and handed the good lady a cup of tea. While she stirred it, she addressed herself amiably to Lady Sophia.
“Nice neighbourhood this!” she said.
“South Kensington?” answered Lady Sophia. “It’s the least unpleasant of all the suburbs.”
“My dear, I cannot allow South Kensington to be called a suburb,” cried the Canon. “It’s the very centre of London.”
Lady Sophia smiled coldly.
“It always reminds me of the Hamlet who was funny without being vulgar: South Kensington is Bayswater without being funny.”
“Peckham’s a nice neighbourhood,” said Mrs. Railing, trying to balance a piece of cake in her saucer. “You get such a nice class of people there.”
“So I should think,” replied Lady Sophia.
“We’ve got such a pretty little ’ouse near the Gladstone Road. Of course, we ’aven’t got electric light, but we’ve got a lovely bath-room. And Bertie takes a bath every morning.”
“Does he, indeed!” exclaimed the Canon.
“Yes, and ’e says he can’t do without it: if ’e doesn’t ’ave it, ’e’s uncomfortable all day. Things ’ave changed since I was a girl. Why, nobody thought of ’aving all these baths then. Now, only the other day I was talking to Mr. Smithers, the builder, an’ he said to me: ‘Lor, Mrs. Railing,’ says he, ‘people are getting that fussy, if you build ’em a house without a bath-room they won’t look at it.’ Why, even Louie takes a bath every Saturday night regular.”
“They say that cleanliness is next to godliness,” returned Canon Spratte, sententiously.
“There’s no denying that, but one ’as to be careful,” said Mrs. Railing. “I’ve known a lot of people who’ve took their death of cold all through ’aving a bath when they wasn’t feeling very well.”
Lord Spratte, giving Miss Railing a cup of tea, offered her the sugar.
“Thanks,” she said. “No sugar; I think it’s weak.”
“What, the tea?” cried the Canon. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, to take sugar. I don’t approve of hydrocarbons.”
“Rough on the hydrocarbons, ain’t it?” murmured Lord Spratte.
The Canon with a smile addressed himself again to Mrs. Railing.
“And how do you take your tea, dear lady?”
“Oh, I don’t pay no attention to all this stuff of Louie’s and Bertie’s,” that good creature replied, a broad fat smile sending her red face into a pucker of little wrinkles. “Sometimes they just about give me the ’ump, I can tell you.”
“Ma, do mind what you’re saying,” cried Miss Railing, much shocked at this manner of speaking.
“Well, you do, Louie—that is Louise. She don’t like me to call her Louie. She says it’s so common. You know, my lord, my children was christened Bertram and Louise. But we’ve always called ’em Bertie and Louie, and I can’t get out of the ’abit of it now. But, lor’, when your children grow up and get on in the world they want to turn everything upside down. Now what do you think Bertie wants me to do?”
“I can’t imagine,” said the Canon.
“Well, would you believe it, he wants me to take the pledge.”
“Ma!” cried Miss Railing, with whole volumes of reproach in her tone.
“Well, look ’ere, my lord,” continued her mother, confidentially. “What I say is, I’m an ’ard-working woman, and what with the work I do, I want my little drop of beer now and then. The Captain—my ’usband, that is—’ad a little bit put by, but I ’ad to work to make both ends meet when I was left a widow, I can tell you. And I’ve given my children a thorough good education.”
“You have reason to be proud of them,” replied the Canon, with conviction. “I don’t suppose my little girl has half the knowledge of Miss Louise.”
“That’s your fault; that’s because you’ve not educated her properly,” cried Miss Railing, attacking him at once. “I hold with the higher education of women. But there’s no education in the West End. Now, if I had charge of your daughter for six months I could make a different woman of her.”
“Ain’t she wonderful!” said Mrs. Railing. “I can listen to ’er talking for hours at a time.”
“Except on the subject of teetotalism?” cried the Canon, rubbing his hands jovially.
Mrs. Railing threw back her head and shook with laughter.
“You’re right there, my lord. What I say is, I’m an ’ard-working woman.”
“And you want your little drop of beer, I know, I know,” hastily interrupted the Canon. “I was discussing the matter the other day with the lady who does me the honour to clean out my church, and she expressed herself in the same manner; but she rather favoured spirits, I understand.”
“Oh, I never take spirits,” said Mrs. Railing, shaking her head.
“What, never?” cried the Canon, with immense gusto.
“Well, ’ardly ever,” she answered, beaming.
“Capital! Capital!”
“Now don’t you laugh at me. The fact is, I sometimes ’ave a little drop in my tea.”
“Bless me, why didn’t you say so? Winnie, you really ought to have told me. Ring the bell.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, my lord,” said Mrs. Railing, who feared she had expressed too decided a hint.
“My dear lady!” cried the Canon, as though he had only just escaped a serious breach of hospitality. “What is it you take? Rum?”
“Oh, I can’t bear it!” cried Mrs. Railing, throwing up both her hands and making a face.
“Whiskey?”
“Oh, no, my lord. I wouldn’t touch it if I was paid.”
“Gin?”
She smiled broadly and in a voice that was almost caressing, answered: “Call it white satin, my lord.”
“White satin?”
“It’s a funny thing now, but rum never ’as agreed with me; an’ it’s wholesome stuff, you know.”
“I have no doubt,” said Theodore, politely.
“The last time I ’ad a little drop—oh, I was queer. Now, my friend, Mrs. Cooper, can’t touch anything else.”
“Come, come, that’s very strange.”
“You don’t know Mrs. Cooper, do you? Oh, she’s such a nice woman. And she’s got such a dear little ’ouse in Shepherd’s Bush.”
“A salubrious neighbourhood, I believe,” said Canon Spratte, with a courteous bow.
“Oh, yes, the tube ’as made a great difference to it. You ought to know Mrs. Cooper. Oh, she’s a nice woman and a thorough lady. No one can say a word against ’er, I don’t care who it is!”
“Ma!” said Louise.
“Well, they do say she takes a little drop too much now and then,” returned the good lady, qualifying her statement. “But I’ve never seen ’er with more than she could carry.”
“Really!” said Canon Spratte.
“Oh, I don’t approve of taking more than you can ’old. My motto is strict moderation. But as Mrs. Cooper was saying to me only the other day: ‘Mrs. Railing,’ she said, ‘with all the trouble I’ve gone through, I tell you, speaking as one lady to another, I don’t know what I should do without a little drop of rum.’ And she ’as ’ad a rare lot of trouble. There’s no denying it.”
“Poor soul, poor soul!” said the Canon.
“Oh, a rare lot of trouble. Now, you know, it’s funny ’ow people differ. Mrs. Cooper said to me, ‘Mrs. Railing,’ she said, ‘I give you my word of honour, I can’t touch white satin. It ’as such an effect on me that I don’t know what I’m talking about.’ So I said to ’er: ‘Mrs. Cooper,’ I said, ‘you’re quite right not to touch it.’ Now wasn’t I right, my lord?”
“Oh, perfectly! I think you gave her the soundest possible advice.”
At this moment Ponsonby entered the room in answer to the bell. There was in his face such an impressive solemnity that you felt it would be almost sacrilege to address him flippantly. Canon Spratte rose and stepped forward, taking, according to his habit on important occasions, as it were the centre of the stage.
“Ponsonby, have we any—white satin in the house?”
“I ’ave ’eard it called satinette,” murmured Mrs. Railing, good-humouredly.
Ponsonby’s fish-like eyes travelled slowly from the Canon to the stout lady, and he positively blinked when he saw the rakish cock of her crape bonnet. Otherwise his massive face expressed no emotion.
“White satin, sir?” he repeated, slowly. “I’ll inquire.”
“Or satinette,” added Canon Spratte, unmoved.
Ponsonby did not immediately leave the room, but looked at the Canon with a mystified expression. His master smiled quietly.
“Perhaps Ponsonby does not quite understand. I mean, have we any gin in the house, Ponsonby?”
The emotions of horror and surprise made their way deliberately from feature to feature of Ponsonby’s fleshy, immobile face.
“Gin, sir? No, sir.”
“Is there none in the servants’ hall?”
“Oh no, sir!” answered Ponsonby, scandalized into some energy of expression.
“How careless of me!” cried the Canon, with every appearance of vexation. “You ought to have reminded me that there was no gin in the house, Sophia. Well, Ponsonby, will you go and get sixpennyworth at the nearest public-house.”
“Oh no, don’t send out for it,” said Mrs. Railing, in tones of entreaty, “I could never forgive myself.”
“But I assure you it’s no trouble at all. And I should very much like to taste it.”
“Well, then, threepennyworth is ample,” answered Mrs. Railing, with a nervous glance at her daughter.
“You’re much better without it, ma,” said she.
“Come, come, you mustn’t grudge your mother a little treat now and then,” cried their host.
“And it’s a real treat for me, I can tell you,” Mrs. Railing assured him.
Canon Spratte stretched out his arm, and with a dramatic gesture pointed to the door.
“Threepennyworth of gin, Ponsonby.”
“Yes, sir.”
With noiseless feet Ponsonby vanished from the room. Mrs. Railing turned amiably to Lady Sophia.
“That’s what I like about London, there always is a public-house round the corner.”
“Ma, do mind what you’re saying.”
Mrs. Railing did not like these frequent interruptions, and was about to make a somewhat heated rejoinder, when Lord Spratte joined in the conversation.
“I quite agree with Mrs. Railing, I think it’s most convenient.”
“Oh, do you?” said Louise, aggressively. “And may I ask if you have ever studied the teetotal question?”
“Not I!”
“And you’re a hereditary legislator,” she answered, looking him up and down with disdain. She fixed the peer with an argumentative eye. “I should just like to have a few words with you about the House of Lords. I’m a Radical and a Home Ruler. The House of Lords must go.”
“Bless you, I’ll part from it without a tear.”
“Now, what I want to know is what moral right have you to rule over me?”
“My dear lady, if I rule over you it is entirely unawares,” replied Lord Spratte, in the most deprecating way.
Miss Railing tossed her head with an impatient gesture.
“I’m not concerned with you personally. To you as an individual I am absolutely indifferent.”
“Don’t say that. Why should you ruthlessly crush my self-esteem?”
“I wish to discuss the matter with you as a member of a privileged class,” rejoined Miss Railing, with flashing eye, digging the ferule of her umbrella emphatically into the carpet. “Now, so far as I can see you are utterly ignorant of all the great social questions of the day.”
“Utterly!” he agreed.
“What do you know about the Housing of the Working Classes?”
“Nothing!”
“What do you know about Secondary Education?”
“Nothing!”
“What do you know about the Taxation of Ground Rents?”
“Nothing!” answered Lord Spratte for the third time. “And what’s more, I’m hanged if I want to.”
Miss Railing sprang to her feet, waving her umbrella as though herself about to lead an attack on the Houses of Parliament.
“And yet you are a member of the Upper Chamber. Just because you’re a lord, you have power to legislate over millions of people with ten times more knowledge, more ability, and more education than yourself.”
“Capital! Capital!” cried Canon Spratte, vastly amused. “You rub it in. A good straight talking-to is just what he wants!”
“And how do you spend your time, I should like to know. Do you study the questions of the hour? Do you attempt to fit yourself for the task entrusted to you by the anachronism of a past age?”
“I wish you’d put that umbrella down,” answered Lord Spratte. “It makes me quite nervous.”
Miss Railing angrily threw that instrument of menace on a chair.
“I’ll be bound you spend your days in every form of degrading pursuit. At race-meetings, and billiards, and gambling.”
“Capital! Capital!” cried the Canon.
Then Ponsonby returned bearing on a silver tray, engraved magnificently with the arms and supporters of the Sprattes, a liqueur bottle.
“Ah, here is the gin!”
But Mrs. Railing had an affection for synonyms and a passion for respectability. A spasm of outraged sensibility passed over her honest face.
“Oh, my lord, don’t call it gin. It sounds so vulgar. When my poor ’usband was alive I used to say to ’im: ‘Captain, I won’t have it called gin in my ’ouse.’ I always used to call my ’usband the captain, although he was only first mate. I wish you could ’ave seen him. If any one ’ad said to me: ‘Mrs. Railing, put your ’and on a fine, ’andsome, ’ealthy man,’ I should ’ave put my ’and on James Samuel Railing. And would you believe it, before he was thirty-five he was no more.”
“Very sad!” said the Canon.
“Oh, and ’e was a dreadful sight before ’e died. You should have seen his legs.”
“Ma!”
“Leave me alone, Louie,” answered Mrs. Railing, somewhat incensed. “Do you think I’ve never been in a gentleman’s house before? You’re always naggin’.”
“No, I’m not, ma.”
“Don’t contradict, Louie. I won’t ’ave it.”
But Canon Spratte interposed with soft words.
“Won’t you have a little more—white satin?”
“No, thank you, my lord, I don’t think I could stand it,” said Mrs. Railing, quickly regaining her composure. “You made the first dose rather strong, and we’ve got to get ’ome, you know.”
“I think we ought to be trotting, ma,” said her daughter.
“P’raps we ought. We’ve got a long way to go.”
“We’d better take the train, ma.”
“Oh, let’s go in a ’bus, my dear,” answered Mrs. Railing. “I like riding in ’buses, the conductors are so good-looking, and such gentlemen. Why, the other day I got into conversation with the conductor, and would you believe it, he made me drink a drop of beer with ’im at the end of the journey. Oh, he was a nice young man!”
“Ma!”
“Well, my dear, so ’e was. And ’e’s none the worse for being a ’bus conductor. They earn very good money, and ’e told me ’e was a married man, so I don’t see no ’arm in it.”
“Come on, ma, or we shall never get off,” said Miss Railing.
“Well, good-bye, my lord. And thank you.”
Canon Spratte shook hands with them both very warmly.
“So kind of you to come all this way. We’ve thoroughly enjoyed your visit.”
But when the door was closed behind the visitors utter silence fell upon every one in the room. Winnie looked silently in front of her, and silently Lord Spratte and Lady Sophia watched her. The Canon went to a window and glanced at the retreating figure of Mrs. Railing. He drummed on the panes and softly hummed to himself:
“For I’m no sailor bold,
And I’ve never been upon the sea;
And if I fell therein, it’s a fact I couldn’t swim,
And quickly at the bottom I should be.”
Winnie got up suddenly, and without a word left the room. The Canon smiled quietly. He sat down and wrote a note to Wroxham asking him to tea on the following afternoon.
THE fates always behaved handsomely to Theodore Spratte. He was not surprised when Lady Sophia announced at luncheon next day that she meant to spend the afternoon at the Academy. The Canon expressed his regret that he would not enjoy the privilege of her society at tea, but proposed that he and Winnie should have it quite cosily by themselves. Ponsonby received private instructions that no one but Lord Wroxham should be admitted.
“And after his lordship has been here about five minutes, Ponsonby, I wish you to call me away.”
When Canon Spratte gave this order he looked straight into the butler’s eyes to frown down any expression of surprise; but Ponsonby replied without moving a muscle.
“Very well, sir.”
He turned to leave the room, and as he did so, thinking the Canon could not see, solemnly winked at the portrait of Josiah, Lord Chancellor of England. For a moment Canon Spratte thought it must be an optical delusion, for that vast, heavy face remained impassive. Yet he would have sworn that Ponsonby’s right lid descended slowly with a smooth and wary stealthiness. The Canon said no word, and when the butler at last disappeared smiled quietly to himself.
“Ponsonby is really a very remarkable character.”
It was not often that Canon Spratte exerted himself when there was none but his family to admire his conversation, but on this occasion he took the greatest pains. No human being is more difficult to entertain than a young girl, and it was a clear proof of his talent that he could charm his own daughter. Winnie was listless and depressed. She shuddered still when she thought of the Railings. Their visit had precisely the effect which the Canon intended, and she was ashamed. She had seen Bertram that morning; and, perhaps owing to the sleepless night she had passed, his conversation had seemed less inspiring than usual. He was much interested in a strike which was then proceeding in Germany, and he bored her a little. One or two of his Radical theories sounded preposterous in her ears, and they had a short argument in which he proved to her that her ideas were silly and prejudiced. Once or twice Winnie had caught in his voice almost the same dictatorial manner which his sister Louise had assumed when she rated Lord Spratte. Winnie left him with a certain feeling of irritation.
But the Canon, though he knew nothing of this, took care not to refer to Railing. He drew her into a conversation on the subjects which he knew most interested her. He used every art to flatter and amuse. He told her new stories. He ridiculed comically the people he had dined with on the previous evening, and such was his gift of mimicry she could not help but laugh. His urbanity and worldly wisdom were notorious, and he had been invited to adjust some social difficulty. He now asked her advice on the point, and holding apparently an opinion contrary to hers, allowed her to convince him.
“I think there’s a great deal in what you say, Winnie. It’s extraordinary that the most experienced man never catches the point of such matters so accurately as a woman.”
Winnie smiled with pleasure, for her father’s commendation was rare enough to be valuable. Forgetting her own troubles, she enlarged upon the topic; and he, making now and then some apposite remark, listened with gratifying attention.
“Upon my word, I think you’re quite right,” he said at last, as though completely persuaded. “I shall do exactly as you suggest.”
It was not wonderful that Winnie thought him the most remarkable of men. Then he turned to other things. He talked of his own plans and his ambitions. He knew very well that nothing compliments a young woman more than for a man of middle age to discuss with her his dearest aspirations; and Winnie felt that she had entered for the first time thoroughly into her father’s life.
At length Ponsonby announced the expected visitor.
“Ah, my dear boy, I’m so pleased to see you,” cried the Canon, springing to his feet with agility.
Wroxham, shyly, hesitating a little, offered his hand to Winnie.
“You must think me a dreadful bore,” he said, blushing pleasantly, “I’m always coming.”
“Nonsense!” interrupted his host, with great heartiness. “We’re always delighted to see you. I want you to look upon the Vicarage as your second home.”
Shortly afterwards, according to his orders, Ponsonby appeared again. He spoke in an undertone to the Canon, who at once got up.
“I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” he said, turning to Wroxham. “I have a parishioner waiting to see me—a very sad case. A poor woman who lost her husband a little while ago; and she’s looking out for number two, and can’t find him. A clergyman’s time is never his own.”
“Oh, pray don’t mind me,” said Wroxham.
“I shall be back in five minutes. Don’t go before I see you. Winnie will do her best not to bore you.”
He went out. Wroxham stepped forward to Winnie, who was pretending to alter the arrangement of flowers in a vase.
“I’m glad your father has left us alone, Winnie,” he said, fixing his pince-nez more firmly. “I so seldom get a chance of speaking to you.”
Winnie did not reply but pulled to pieces a marguerite.
“What does it come to?” he asked.
For a moment, not thinking of the old fancy, she made no answer; but then, remembering, held out the stalk with one remaining petal, and smiled.
“He loves me not.”
“It’s not true. He loves you passionately. He always will.”
With a sigh Winnie threw away the flower.
“Won’t you speak to me, Winnie?”
“What do you want me to say?”
He took her hand kindly, and looked into her eyes, trying to discover her thoughts, trying from sheer force of his own love, to make her tender.
“Oh, Harry, I’m so unhappy,” she murmured at last. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Can’t you love me, Winnie?” he asked, drawing her towards him. “Did you mean it when you told me never to hope?”
“I said that only a week ago, didn’t I?”
“You didn’t mean it?”
She tore herself from him almost violently.
“Oh, I utterly despise myself.”
“But why? Why?”
She looked for a long while into his pleasant clear blue eyes, as though she sought to read his very heart.
“I wonder if you really care for me?”
“I love you with all my being,” he cried, eagerly, finding in his ardent love a new eloquence. “You are all I care for in the world. You’re my very life. Ah, yes, I love you with all my heart and soul.”
Winnie did not answer immediately, but smiled happily. When she spoke there was in her voice the tremor of tears.
“I think I like to hear you say that.”
“Ah, Winnie.”
He held out his hands appealingly.
“I’m so miserable,” she sighed, remembering again the events of the previous days. “I want some one so badly to care for me.”
“Why don’t you tell me what’s the matter? I may be able to do something.”
“It is kind of you to be nice to me,” she smiled, almost tenderly. “You’re far nicer than I ever thought you.”
“Why do you torture me like this?” he cried, passionately. “Winnie, say you love me.”
There was a silence. Then with a blush Winnie put her hand on his arm. A new soft look came into her eyes.
“Do you remember when I first saw you? You came here with Lionel from Eton. And you were dreadfully shy.”
“But we became great friends, didn’t we?”
“How angry you used to get when I beat you at tennis.”
“Oh, you never did—except when I let you.”
“That’s what you always said, but I never believed it.”
Wroxham laughed boyishly, feeling on a sudden absurdly happy. He saw that Winnie was yielding, and yet he hardly dared to think his good fortune true.
“And do you remember how I used to punt you up and down the river in the holidays?” he said.
“How frightened I was when you fell in!”
“Oh, you fibber!” he cried, with a joyful smile. “You shrieked and roared with laughter!”
Winnie, with a little laugh, turned to the sofa. Raising her eyelashes, she looked at Wroxham with the glance that she well knew set him all aflame.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured.
She sat down, and he, sitting beside her, took her hand. She made no effort to withdraw it.
“What lovely days those were!” she said. “But we used to quarrel dreadfully, usen’t we?”
“Only for the pleasure of making it up.”
“Do you think so? You used to make me jealous by talking to other little girls.”
“Oh, never!” he cried, shaking his head, firmly. “It was always you. You were so awfully flirtatious.”
Winnie smiled and looked down at his hand. It held hers as though it would never again let it go.
“I wonder when you first began to like me?” she asked.
“I’ve never liked you. I’ve always loved you, passionately.”
“Always? Even when I wore a pig-tail and square-toed boots?”
“Always! And I always shall,” he cried, boldly putting his arm round her waist. She leaned against it as though it were a comforting support. “And I can’t live without you.”
“Are you sure?”
“You didn’t mean it when you said you couldn’t love me?” he murmured, vehemently.
She looked straight into his eyes for a moment, smiling, and slightly bent towards him.
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“My dearest!”
Quickly, eagerly, he took her in his arms and kissed her lips.
“Say you’ll marry me, Winnie?”
“I’ll do anything to make you happy.”
“Kiss me. I love you.”
Blushing, she put her lips to his, and the soft pressure made him tremble with delight. He seized her hands and kissed them in passionate gratitude, repeatedly. For a while they sat in silence. Winnie, all confused, was trying to realize what she had done; but Wroxham was overwhelmed with joy.
Then the Canon’s voice was heard on the stairs, singing to himself; and Winnie quickly tore herself from her lover.
“La donna è mobile,” sang the Canon, coming in; “Tra-la-la-la-la Tra-la-la-la-la.” He started when he saw the young couple sitting self-consciously in opposite corners of the sofa. “Hulloa, I thought you must have gone! I was detained longer than I expected.”
“May I tell him?” asked Wroxham.
“Yes!”
“Canon Spratte, I want to tell you that Winnie has just promised to be my wife.”
“What!” cried the Canon. “Capital! Capital! My dear fellow, I’m delighted to hear it. You know I couldn’t have wanted a better son-in-law. My dear child!”
He opened his arms and Winnie hid her face on his bosom. He kissed her affectionately, and then with sincere warmth shook hands with Wroxham.
“All’s well that ends well,” he cried. “I knew she was devoted to you, my boy. Trust me for knowing a woman’s character.”
“Papa’s wonderful,” said Winnie, with a laugh, stretching out her hand to Wroxham.
“You’ve made me very happy,” he said.
They discussed the situation for some time, and Canon Spratte was very bland. His wildest hopes had never led him to expect that Winnie would throw herself there and then into Wroxham’s eligible arms; but an occasional glance, partly of amusement, was his only sign of surprise. The young man, promising to return for dinner, went away at last, and Theodore looked at his daughter for an explanation. She stood near a table, and began nervously to turn over the pages of a book. A smile broke on the Canon’s lips, for her embarrassment told him all he wished to know.
“Would it be indiscreet to inquire when you broke off your engagement with Mr. Railing?” he asked.
Winnie looked up.
“I haven’t broken it off.”
“And do you intend to marry them both?”
She quickly closed the book and went up to him.
“Oh, papa, you must help me,” she cried. “I’m simply distracted and I don’t know what to do.”
“But which of them do you propose to marry?”
“Oh, don’t be unkind, father. Except for you I should never have met that man. I hate him. I’m ashamed that he ever kissed me.”
“Which, my love?” he asked, as though quite perplexed. “I have every reason to believe that both embraced you.”
“Papa!”
There was a pause. The Canon felt that he would be wanting in his paternal duties if he took again to his bosom a prodigal daughter without pointing out clearly the nature of her misdeeds. Some reproof, tender but dignified, gentle but explicit, was surely needed. The child had flatly disobeyed his commands.
“Do I understand that the fact that Mrs. Railing drops her aitches and drinks gin, while her daughter is bumptious and vulgar, has had any effect upon your attachment to Mr. Bertram Railing?”
“You asked them to come here, you knew what would happen,” answered Winnie, flushing. “Oh, father, don’t be cruel. I made a fool of myself. He took me unawares and I thought for a moment that I could live his life. But I’m frightened of him.”
He said, gravely: “Which do you honestly prefer?”
For a moment she hesitated, then with a little sob replied:
“I love them both.”
“I beg your pardon!” exclaimed her father, who did not in the least await such an answer.
“When I’m with one I think he’s so much nicer than the other.”
“Really, Winnie, you can’t shilly-shally in this way,” he said, considerably annoyed. “You’ve just told me you couldn’t bear young Railing.”
“I can’t help it, father. When I see him I’m simply carried away. Bertram’s a hero.”
“Fiddlededee! He’s a journalist.”
“When I’m with him I’m filled with high and noble thoughts. My heart seems to grow larger so that I could throw myself at his feet. I’m not fit to be his handmaid. But I can’t live up to his ideal. I have to pose all the time, and I say things I don’t mean so that he may think well of me. Sometimes I’m afraid of him; I wonder what he’d say if he knew what I honestly was. He doesn’t really love me, he thinks I’m full of faults. He loves his ideal and the woman I may become. He makes me feel so insignificant and so unworthy.”
“And Wroxham?”
Winnie smiled happily.
“Oh, Harry’s different; he loves me for myself. I can be quite natural with him, and I needn’t pretend to be any better than I am. He doesn’t think I have any faults and he doesn’t want me any different from what I am. With Bertram I have to walk on stilts, but with Harry I can just dawdle along at my own pace, and he’ll be only too glad to wait for me.”
“Really, Winnie, I don’t think it’s quite nice for a girl of your age to analyze her feelings in this way,” said the Canon, irritably. “I hate people who can’t make up their minds. That is one of the few things upon which I feel justified in priding myself, that I do know my own mind.”
“You will get me out of the scrape, father?”
The Canon quickly drove away all appearance of vexation, for it was evident that his daughter still required very careful handling. He took her hand and patted it affectionately.
“You see, your poor old father is still some use after all. What do you wish me to do, my child?”
“Bertram is coming here the day after to-morrow. I want you to tell him it’s all a mistake and I can’t marry him.”
“He won’t take it from me.”
“Oh, he must. I daren’t see him again, I should be too ashamed. But be kind to him, father. I don’t want him to be unhappy.”
“You need not worry yourself about that, my darling. If there’s any man who can deal diplomatically with such matters I may say, without vanity, that it is I.” He paused and looked at Winnie sharply. “But mind, there must be no drawing back this time, or else I leave you to get out of the muddle as best you can. Have I your full authority to tell Sophia that you’re going to marry Wroxham?”
“Yes.”
The Canon took her in his arms.
“Kiss me, my darling. I feel sure that you will be a credit to your father and an honour to your family.”
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LORD SPRATTE went to St. Gregory’s Vicarage next day. His sister told him with an acid smile that he would find Theodore in the best of spirits.
“By Jove, I wonder if he’d lend me some money!” cried the head of the family. “Who’s he been doin’ now?”
Lady Sophia had scarcely explained when they heard the Canon come into the house. He had been out for ten minutes on some errand. This was an occasion upon which Canon Spratte felt that his fellow-creatures were very amiable. The world was an excellent place where a combination of uprightness and of pious ingenuity made the way of the virtuous not unduly hard.
On his way past the dining-room he looked in to glance at his portrait, which Orchardson had painted some fifteen years before. It was an extravagance, but when he had the chance to gratify others the Canon did not count his pence. He had been able to think of no more pleasing surprise for his wife, on the tenth anniversary of their wedding-day, than to give her a not unflattering picture of himself. He observed with satisfaction the strong lines of the hands, the open look of his blue eyes, and the bold expression of his mouth. It was a man in whose veins ran a vivacious spirit. His whole appearance was so happily self-reliant that even from the painted canvas spectators gained a feeling of exhilaration. Canon Spratte noted how well his shapely head, with the abundant fair hair, stood out against the purple background. Above, in the corner, according to his own suggestion, were the arms and the motto of his family: Malo mori quam fœdari.
“Yes, I think he did me justice,” thought the Canon. “I sometimes fancy the hands are a little too large, but that may be only the perspective.” He smiled to his own smiling eyes. “If I’m ever made a bishop I shall be painted again. I think it’s a duty one owes one’s children. I shall be painted by Sargent, in full canonicals, and I shall have an amethyst ring. It’s absurd that we should habitually leave what is indeed part of the insignia of our office to a foreign Church. The English bishops have just as much right to the ring of amethyst as the bishops of the Pope. I shall have the arms of the See on the right-hand side and my own arms on the left.”
He had a vivid imagination, and already saw this portrait in the Academy, on the line. It was surrounded by a crowd. Evidently it would be the picture of the year, for he felt himself capable of inspiring the painter with his own vigorous personality. He saw the country cousins and the strenuous inhabitants of Suburbia turn to their catalogues, and read: The Right Reverend the Bishop of Barchester. At the private view he saw people, recognizing him from the excellent portrait, point him out to one another. He saw his own little smile of amusement when he stood perchance for a moment in front of it, and the onlookers with rapid glance compared the original with the counterfeit. Already he marked the dashing brushwork and he fancied the painter’s style suited admirably with his peculiar characteristics. He liked the shining, stiff folds of black satin, the lawn sleeves, and the delicate lace of the ruffles, the rich scarlet of his hood. He imagined the attitude of proud command which befitted a Prince of the Church, the fearless poise of the head, the firm face and the eagle eye. He would look every inch a bishop.
“How true it is that some are born to greatness!” he muttered. “I shall leave it to the National Portrait Gallery in my will.”
And then, if he survived his brother, he thought with a vainglorious tremor of the describing tablet: “Theodore, 3rd Earl Spratte of Beachcombe, and Lord Bishop of Barchester.”
His cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled, for verily he was drunk with pride. His heart beat so that it was almost painful.
With swinging step he sprang up the stairs and danced into the drawing-room like a merry West Wind. The second Earl Spratte, however, was still in the best of health.
“Ah, my dear brother, I’m delighted to see you,” cried the Canon, and his voice rang like a joyous bell.
“For once in a way, Theodore. I was about to ask Sophia if you’d arranged about paddin’ the gaiters yet?”
“Ha, ha, you will have your little joke, Tom.” He had not used this diminutive since his brother succeeded to the title, and Lady Sophia stared at him with astonishment. “We Sprattes have always had a keen sense of humour. And what does the head of my house think of all these matrimonial schemes?”
“I’ve really half a mind to follow suit.”
“Who is the charmer now, Thomas? Does she tread the light fantastic toe in the ballet at the Empire, or does she carol in a Gaiety chorus?”
“I have an idea that your brother Theodore is mildly facetious to-day,” said the other gravely to Lady Sophia.
The Canon burst out laughing and jovially rubbed his hands.
“You must marry money, my boy.”
“I would like a shot if I could. What I object to is marryin’ a wife.”
“One can never get money in this world without some drawback.”
Lord Spratte looked at his brother with a dry smile.
“How green and yellow you’d turn, Theodore, if I did marry!”
“My dear Thomas, there’s nothing that would please me more. You will do me the justice to acknowledge that I have frequently impressed upon you the desirability of marriage. I look upon it as a duty you owe to your family.”
“And has the heir presumptive never in imagination fitted on his handsome head the coronet, nor draped about himself picturesquely the ermine robes? Oh, what a humbug you are, Theodore!”
“Thomas,” retorted the Canon, “Thomas, how can you say such things! I can honestly say that I have never envied you. I have never allowed my mind to dwell on the possibility of surviving you.”
Lord Spratte gave his brother a sharp look.
“I have led a racketty life, Theodore, and you have taken great care of yourself. There’s every chance that you’ll survive me. By Jupiter, you’ll make things hum then!”
“I do not look upon this as a suitable matter for jesting,” retorted the Canon, with suave dignity. “If Providence vouchsafes to me a longer life, you may be sure I will fulfil the duties of my rank earnestly and to the best of my ability.”
“And what about the bishopric?” asked Lady Sophia.
“Who knows? Who knows?” he cried, walking about the room excitedly. “I have a presentiment that it will be offered to me.”
“In that case I have a presentiment that you will accept,” interrupted his brother. “You’re the most ambitious man I’ve ever known.”
“And if I am!” cried the Canon. “Ambition, says the Swan of Avon, is the last infirmity of noble minds. But what is the use of ambition now, when the Church has been wrongfully shorn of its power, and the clergy exist hazardously by sufferance of the vulgar? I should have lived four centuries ago, when the Church was a power in the land. Now it offers no scope for a man of energy. When the Tudors were kings of England a bishop might rule the country. He might be a great minister of state, holding the destinies of Europe in the hollow of his hand. I’ve come into the world too late. You may laugh at me, Thomas, but I tell you I feel in me the power to do great things. Sometimes I sit in my chair and I can hardly bear my inaction. Good heavens, what is there for me to do—to preach sermons to a fashionable crowd, to preside on committees, to go to dinner-parties in Mayfair. With your opportunities, Tom, I should have been Prime Minister by now, and I’d have made you Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Lady Sophia looked at him, smiling. She admired the mobile mouth and the flashing eyes, as with vehement gesture he flung out his words to the indifferent air. His voice rang clear and strong.
“I tell you that I am born with the heart of a crusader,” he exclaimed, striding about the room as though it were a field of battle. “In happier times I would have led the hosts of the Lord to Jerusalem. Bishops then wore coats of steel and they fought with halberd and with sword to gain the Sepulchre of the Lord their Saviour. I tell you that I cannot look at the portrait of Julius the Pope without thinking that I too have it in me to ride into action on my charger and crush the enemies of the Church. I’ve come into the world too late.”
Lord Spratte, mildly cynical, shrugged his shoulders.
“Meanwhile you’ve succeeded in capturing for Winnie the best parti of the season. Talk of match-makin’ mammas! They’re nowhere when my brother Theodore takes the field.”
“When I make up my mind to do a thing I do it.”
“And what about the Socialist?”
“Oh, I think I’ve settled him,” said the Canon, with a laugh of disdain. “What did I tell you, Sophia?”
“My dear Theodore, I have always thought you a clever man,” she answered, calmly.
“I’ve brought you to your knees; I’ve humbled your pride at last. Winnie is going to marry Harry Wroxham and Lionel is nearly engaged to Gwendolen Durant. What would you say if I told you that I was going to be married too?”
They both stared at him with amazement, and he chuckled as he watched their faces.
“Are you joking, Theodore?”
“Not in the least. But I’m not going to tell you who it is yet.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if it were Gwendolen,” mused Lady Sophia. “Unless I’m much mistaken she’s a good deal more in love with you than she is with Lionel.”
“Of course one never knows, does one?” laughed the Canon. “On the other hand, it might be Mrs. Fitzherbert.”
“No, I’m sure it isn’t,” replied Lady Sophia, with decision.
“Why?”
“Because she’s a sensible woman and she’d never be such a fool as to have you.”
“Wait and see, then. Wait and see.”
He laughed himself out of the room, and went to his study. Here he laughed again. He had not seen Mrs. Fitzherbert since the ball, for on the following morning she had wired to say that the grave illness of a friend obliged her to go immediately into the country. The Canon had hesitated whether to write a letter; but he was prevented by his dread of ridicule from making protestations of undying affection, and knew not what else to say. He contented himself with sending a telegram:
I await your return with impatience.—Theodore.
He was dining with her that evening to meet certain persons of note. Since she had not written to postpone the party, Mrs. Fitzherbert presumably intended to return to London in the course of the day. He looked forward to the meeting with pleasurable excitement.
Canon Spratte was proud of himself. He had succeeded in all his efforts, and he felt, as men at certain times do, that he was in luck’s way. He did not look upon this success as due to any fortuitous concurrence of things, but rather as a testimony to his own merit. He was vastly encouraged, and only spoke the truth when he said his presentiment was vivid, that Lord Stonehenge would offer him the Bishopric of Barchester. He was on the top of a wave, swimming bravely; and the very forces of the universe conspired to land him on an episcopal throne.
“That is how you tell what stuff a man is made of,” he thought, as he tried in vain to read. “The good man has self-reliance.”
He remembered with satisfaction that as soon as he heard of Bishop Andover’s death, he went boldly to the tailor and countermanded the trousers he had ordered. It was a small thing, no doubt, but after all it was a clear indication of character.
St. Gregory’s Vicarage stood at the corner of a square. From the study Canon Spratte could see the well-kept lawn of the garden, and the trees, dusty already in the London summer. But they seemed fresh and vernal to his enthusiastic eyes. The air blowing through the open window was very suave. Above, in the blue sky, little white clouds scampered hurriedly past, westward; and their free motion corresponded with his light, confident spirit. They too had the happy power which thrilled through every nerve of his body, and like theirs was the vigorous strength of the blood that hustled through his veins. To the careless, who believe in grim chance, it might have seemed an accident that these clouds were travelling straight to Barchester; but Canon Spratte thought that nothing in the world was purposeless. In their direction he saw an obvious and agreeable omen.
“How good life is!” he murmured. “After all, if we haven’t the scope that our predecessors had, we have a great deal. The earth is always fresh and young, full of opportunity to the man who has the courage to take it.”
He saw in fancy the towers and the dark roofs of Barchester. It was an old city seated in a fertile plain, surrounded by rich pasture lands and watered by smiling rivulets. He knew the pompous trees which adorned its fields and the meadows bright with buttercups. He loved the quiet streets and the gabled houses. The repose was broken only by the gay hurry of market day, when the farmers led in their cattle and their sheep: already he saw the string of horses brought in for sale, with straw plaited in their tails, and the crowd of loungers at the Corn Exchange. Above all, his fancy lingered among the grey stones of the cathedral, with its lofty nave; and in the close with the ancient elms and the careful, sweet-smelling lawns. He thought of the rich service, the imposing procession of the clergy, and the magnificent throne carved by sculptors long forgotten, in which himself would sit so proudly.
“Oh, yes, the world is very good!” he cried.
He was so immersed in thought that he did not hear Ponsonby come into the room, and started violently when he heard a voice behind him.
“This letter has just come for you, sir.”
He knew at once that it was from Lord Stonehenge. The certainty came to him with the force of an inspiration, and his heart beat violently.
“Very well,” he said. “Put it on my desk.”
He turned pale, but did not move till the servant was gone. He took it with shaking hands. He was right, for he recognized the official paper. At last! For some time he looked at the envelope, but trembled so much that he could not open it. He grew sick with expectation and his brain throbbed as if he would faint. A feeling of thankfulness came into his heart. Now the cup of his desire was filled. He held his head for a moment and breathed deeply, then slowly cut open the envelope. With habitual neatness he used a paper-knife.
Dear Canon Spratte,
It is my desire, if it meet your own wishes, to recommend His Majesty to appoint you to the Deanery of St. Olphert’s, vacant through the impending retirement from illness of Dr. Tanner. In so doing, I can assure you I feel great pleasure in being able to mark my appreciation of your learning and sound divinity by offering you a position of greater dignity and less work. The duties, I need not tell you, are commanding in their nature; and I feel sure you would be able to perform them with great advantage to the interests of the Church, to which I think the course I am taking will be most beneficial, especially at this critical moment in its history.
I have the honour to be, dear Canon Spratte,
Yours faithfully,
Stonehenge.
The Hon. and Rev. Canon Spratte,
St. Gregory’s Vicarage.
The Prime Minister offered him an obscure, insignificant deanery in the north of Wales. For an instant Canon Spratte could not understand. It seemed impossible, it seemed preposterous. He thought it must be a mistake, and carefully read the letter again. The overthrow of all his hopes came upon him at the moment of his greatest exultation, and the blow was greater than he could bear; two scalding tears rose in his eyes, and heavily, painfully, rolled down his cheeks. They fell on the letter and made two little wet smudges.
The disappointment was so great that he could not be angry. He was utterly crushed. And then, in the revulsion from his high spirits, he was overwhelmed with despair. He asked pitifully whether he had all along misjudged himself. The Prime Minister did not think him fit for important office but sought to satisfy his claims by an empty honour, such as he might give to a man who, perhaps, had deserved well, but whose powers were now decrepit. That post of dignity was but a decent grave.
Suddenly, with the vain man’s utter self-abasement, Canon Spratte saw himself as he thought others might see him: mediocre, pompous, self-assertive, verbose. He heard the mocking words of the envious:
“Theodore Spratte is shelved. At all events he’ll be out of harm’s way at St. Olphert’s, and it’s just the sort of thing that’ll suit him—to tyrannize over provincial old ladies.”
And others would be astonished and say:
“One would have thought that pushing man would have pushed himself into something better than that!”
Again the Canon thought of all he might have done: and the pictures of the future, like scoffing devils, came once more before his mind. He could not help the tears. For a while, leaning over his desk, with his hands pressed to his burning eyes, he surrendered unresisting to his weakness. The tall spires and the sombre roofs of Barchester returned to his vivid fancy, and all that he had lost seemed twice as beautiful. The humiliation was unbearable. He hated and despised himself; he was petty and mean; and his pride, his boastfulness, his overbearing spirit, uprose against him in reproach. Who was he thus to have contemned his fellows? He had imagined himself clever, wise, and brilliant; and the world had laughed in its sleeve at his presumption. He blushed now, blushed so that he felt his face burn, at the thought that all this time people had despised him. He had lived in a fool’s paradise, rejoicing in the admiration of his fellows; and he had been an object of derision. It had been self-admiration only; and the world had taken him, as did Lord Stonehenge, for the mediocre son of a clever father. Even his brother had told him repeatedly that he was pretentious and vulgar, and he thought it only the sneer of a man who could not appreciate great qualities. A thousand imps danced in his brain, with mockery and with malicious gibes: in every key from shrill to hoarse, he heard their scornful laughter.
“I won’t take it,” he cried, jumping up suddenly. “I’ll remain where I am. I’m strong and young still; I feel as vigorous as if I were twenty. I don’t want their honours.”
But then he hesitated, and sank again, helplessly, into his chair. Was it not his duty to accept the promotion which was offered him? Had he a right to refuse? What was he but a servant of God, and might it not be His will that he should go to this deanery? He hated the idea, and feared the cold dulness of St. Olphert’s; but yet, with something in him of English puritanism, the very fact that it was so distasteful, seemed an argument in its favour.
“Am I fit to hold a great London parish?” he asked, despairingly. “I’m growing old. Each year I shall be less active and less versatile. Ought I not to make way for younger, better men?”
He strove to drive away the thought, but could not. Some voice, the voice of conscience perhaps, told him it was his duty to accept this offer.
“O God, help me,” he cried, broken at length and submissive. “I know not what to do. Guide me and teach me to do Thy will.”
Presently he fell on his knees humbly and prayed. Now there was nothing in him of the confident priest or of the proud and self-assertive man; he was but an abject penitent, confessing in broken words, tremulous and halting, his utter weakness.
“O Lord, give me a holy contented frame,” he cried. “Make me to desire nothing but how best to fulfil Thy holy will. Save me from worldly ambitious thoughts. I am weak and cowardly, and my sins have been very great, and I know that I am unfitted for a great position.”
When he rose to his feet, with a sigh he read Stonehenge’s letter for the third time. He took it in his hand and went to Lady Sophia. He felt that from her he would gain help. He was so crushed, so changed, that he needed another’s guidance. For once in his life he could not make up his mind.
But when she saw him, Lady Sophia was seized with astonishment. His spirited face seemed wan and lifeless; the lines stood out, and his eyes were very tired. He appeared on a sudden to be an old man. His upright carriage was gone and he walked listlessly, with stooping shoulders.
“Theodore, what on earth’s the matter?” she cried.
He handed her the letter and, in a voice still broken with emotion, said:
“Stonehenge doesn’t think I’m fit to be a bishop. He’s offered me a Welsh deanery.”
“But you won’t accept it?”
He bowed his head, looking at her with an appeal that was almost childlike.
“I’m not sure whether I have the right to refuse.”
“What does he mean by saying that the duties are commanding in their nature?”
“He means nothing,” answered the Canon, shrugging his shoulders scornfully. “He’s merely gilding the pill with fine phrases. Oh, Sophia, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to bury myself in that inglorious idleness. I feel in me the power to do so much more, and St. Olphert’s offers me nothing. It’s a sleepy, sordid place. I might as well be buried alive. I don’t want to leave London.”
His voice was so pitiful that Lady Sophia was touched. She saw that he wanted her to persuade him to stay in town, and yet his conscience troubled him.
“I’m only a servant of the Church,” he said. “I don’t know that I have the right to refuse to go where I am sent. Perhaps he’s not far wrong in thinking that it’s all I’m good for. Oh, Sophia, I’m so unhappy!”
She realized how much it meant for that bold spirit thus to humble itself. He paid a heavy price for his vanity. He was like a child in her hands, needing consolation and support. She began to speak to him gently. She suggested that the offer of this deanery signified only that Lord Stonehenge, feeling he owed something to the son of the late Lord Chancellor, had been unable on account of other claims to give him the bishopric. From the observation of long years she had learnt on what points Theodore most prided himself, (in the past this knowledge had been used to give little admonishing stabs,) and now she took them one by one. She appealed skilfully to his prepossessions. With well-directed flattery, calling to his mind past triumphs, and compliments paid him by the great ones of the earth, she caused him little by little to gather courage. Presently she saw the hopeless expression of the mouth give way to a smile of pleasure, and a new confidence came into his eyes. His very back was straightened. In the new uprightness with which he held himself, she perceived that her subtle words were taking due effect. At last she reminded him of his work at St. Gregory’s.
“After all, you’re a figure in London,” she said. “You have power and influence. For my part I have wondered that you contemplated leaving it for an obscure country town like Barchester. I shouldn’t have been at all surprised if you’d refused the bishopric.”
He breathed more freely, and with his quick and happy optimism began already to see things more genially.
“Besides, we Sprattes are somebody in the world,” concluded Lady Sophia, with a smile, the faint irony of which he did not see. “I don’t think you would show a proper spirit if you allowed yourself to be trampled on.”
“Ah, Sophia, I knew that at the bottom of your heart you were as proud of your stock as I. You’re quite right. I owe it to my family as well as to myself not to allow them to thrust me into obscurity. I shall refuse the deanery, Sophia; and Lord Stonehenge——”
“Can go to the devil,” she added, quietly.
Canon Spratte smiled with all his old vivacity.
“Sophia, I thank you. It is not right that I should say such things, but you have entirely expressed my sentiments.”
“Why don’t you sit down and write the letter at once?”
Without answering, the Canon seated himself, and presently showed to Lady Sophia, for her approval, the following reply.
Dear Lord Stonehenge,
I have weighed your very considerate proposal most anxiously and have given full weight to what you urge. I fully appreciate the kind motive which offered me the opportunity of removing to a position both of leisure and of dignity. I am sure you will not think that I have lightly set aside the offer made me; but I am doubtful whether my health would stand the asperities of a Welsh climate. And I have to consider that a very great assistance to me in the performance of my present duties is derived from the complete knowledge of my work in London. I fear that I might find the distant and untried labours of St. Olphert’s less congenial. And I feel that without some very strong counter-balancing reason, it is not desirable that I should leave plans which I have begun, but scarcely matured, in the Metropolis.
Believe me to be, with very grateful thanks, dear Lord Stonehenge,
Your faithful and obedient servant,
Theodore Spratte
Lady Sophia smiled when she read that last sentence in which he wisely left himself an escape, whereby he might with dignity abandon London, if a bishopric in the future were offered to him. Obviously the comfortable hope had returned that in the end his merits would receive their just reward. She gave back the letter.
“I think it will do capitally,” she said. “Now, if I were you, I’d go out for a stroll.”
“So I will, Sophia,” he replied. “I shall never forget your encouragement. I confess I was very much cast down.”
Much to her surprise he kissed her affectionately, and then said:
“As I have nowhere particular to go, I shall just walk along to Savile Row, and order two pairs of trousers.”
MRS. FITZHERBERT had fixed half-past eight for the hour of dinner, but Canon Spratte, anxious for a few words before any one arrived, came early. He found her ready to receive him. When he entered the drawing-room she was at the window, looking at the dusk which clothed the London street in a certain atmosphere of charming mystery.
“Well?” he said, looking at her and taking both her hands.
“I’m glad you came before the others, I wanted to have a chat with you.”
“It was cruel of you to leave London so suddenly. You can’t imagine how eagerly I’ve wished to see you.”
“I’m afraid it was inevitable,” she answered. “My friend is still very ill, and I only came up this evening because I didn’t want to put my party off.”
“I was hoping you’d come up to see me,” he smiled.
“In point of fact it was only to see you,” she laughed. “I would have postponed the rest of them gaily, but I think we have a good deal to say to one another.”
“I feel immensely flattered,” he replied.
The evening papers contained an official announcement that Dr. Gray was appointed to the bishopric of Barchester; but Canon Spratte determined that none should see his bitter disappointment. He had not yet fought down the sense of humiliation with which Lord Stonehenge’s offer overwhelmed him, nor was he reconciled to remaining a London vicar. But he refused to think of his frustrated hopes. He flattered himself on his strength of character, and the world should imagine that he was in the best of spirits. He meant to keep himself well in hand, and in the decided effort to let no one see that he cared, began really to regain his self-esteem.
“I think we really ought to talk seriously,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert after a pause, fixing her quiet eyes upon him. “I wonder if you meant all that you said to me the other night?”
“Of course I meant it, every word of it, with all my heart,” he cried, emphatically. “Do you think I’m a boy not to know my own mind?”
“And you really look upon yourself as solemnly engaged to me?”
“I do indeed, and before many weeks are up I mean to lead you to the altar. We’ll have the bishop to marry us, and Tom shall lend us Beachcombe for our honeymoon. Or would you prefer Homburg and the Italian Lakes?”
“You know, I shouldn’t be at all annoyed if you told me you were carried away the other night and said more than you intended. You’re a susceptible man and there’s something about a dance that rushes the least emotional off their feet. I think half the unhappy marriages are caused by the proposing of young men when they’ve come to the end of their small talk; and their cowardice next day which prevents them from writing to say they made a mistake.”
“But it was no sudden whim on my part,” he exclaimed. “The idea had been growing in my mind for months. Ah, why can’t I make you believe that love may spring up in a man’s heart even though his hair is strewn with silver? I tell you I’m passionately devoted to you, and I insist on marrying you.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert smiled and looked at him strangely. He was very gallant and very eager. She wondered if there were ever a word of sincerity in anything he said.
“Then let us talk business,” she answered.
He threw up his hands in a gesture of disdain.
“Why should we? You know I’m not mercenary; let us pretend that no tiresome matters have to be discussed. We can leave it all to our solicitors.”
“But it’s very important.”
“Nonsense! Nothing’s important except that you’re the most charming woman I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m a lucky dog to have got hold of you. We’ll never grow any older than we are now; we’ll only grow younger year by year. When will you make me the happiest man in London?”
“You go so quickly,” she smiled.
He put his arm round her waist and seized her hand.
“Come, give me a kiss.” She positively blushed when he took it without more ado. “Upon my soul, you make me feel a perfect stripling. Shall we say in six weeks? That will bring us to the end of the season, and I can safely leave Lionel to preach to a regiment of empty pews.”
“For heaven’s sake sit down quietly, and let me get a word in.”
“Not till you’ve agreed. I won’t let you go till you’ve fixed the day.”
“You shall fix the day yourself,” she cried, extricating herself from his embrace.
Canon Spratte, with a laugh of triumph, threw himself into a comfortable chair. He was excited and restless. He knew he had never looked handsomer than at this moment, and he would not have changed places with a guardsman of twenty-five.
“What I wanted to tell you is that I have an income of five thousand a year,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“I cannot bear these gross and sordid details,” he answered, with a wave of the hand. “Of course it shall be settled absolutely upon you. What more is there to be said?”
“Only that it ceases on the day I marry again.”
Canon Spratte started and for a moment his face fell.
“All of it?” he asked.
“Every penny. My husband was a very generous man, but he had apparently no desire to provide for the wants of his successor. On my second marriage everything I have, the very furniture of this house, goes to a distant cousin of his.”
She watched the Canon for the effect of this blow, and she could not deny that he took it admirably.
“I’m very glad,” he said. “I much prefer to provide for your wants myself. I shouldn’t like to think you were living on another man’s income.”
“Do you realize that I shall be so penniless, you will even have to provide the clothes for my back and my very fare when I take the tube?”
“It will only make you more precious to me.”
The doors were swung open and the butler announced the first arrivals, Mrs. Fitzherbert stepped forward to greet them. Ten minutes later the whole party was seated round the dinner-table.
Canon Spratte was filled with consternation. It was true that he had not sought to marry Mrs. Fitzherbert for her money, but on the other hand the idea would never have come to him except that he knew she had a handsome income. It had never entered his head that she might hold it on such preposterous terms, and the blow was terrible. The Lord Chancellor had been able to leave him nothing. The bulk of his fortune went of necessity to his successor in the title and the rest to Lady Sophia, who announced her determination to lead a single life. St. Gregory’s was worth a certain amount and the canonry something more, but this from the depreciation of land was slowly diminishing. He had always spent every penny he earned. His children had three hundred a year each, but they were to be married and would naturally take the money with them. Lionel was paid nothing for acting as his father’s curate, but he might soon get a living and another expense would ensue. Lady Sophia had contributed a good deal to the household cost of the vicarage, but would of course make her home elsewhere when the Canon brought home a legitimate mistress. He did not see how on earth he could make both ends meet. Mrs. Fitzherbert, far from making up richly for all he lost, would be a source of vast expenditure. It would be necessary to give up the carriage and the horses of which he was so proud. Every cab that his wife took would be a shilling out of his pocket. A little while before Canon Spratte had ventured on a small flutter in the Stock Exchange, and the shares were not rising with the rapidity his broker had promised. This had seemed a bagatelle, but now grew suddenly into a matter of importance. The Canon’s heart sank. He looked at Mrs. Fitzherbert; and the gown which he had admired on his entrance appeared very expensive. She had none of the airs of an economical woman, and it would be needful to economize. He loathed the idea of counting each sovereign as he spent it. He liked the large gesture of generosity, and had the reputation of a man who spent his money well. Now he must be niggardly.
But above all he felt sold. It had been his consolation in the loss of the bishopric that the widow’s large means, added to his own, would enable him to cut a figure in London. He proposed to entertain lavishly. He wanted to make St. Gregory’s Vicarage a centre of fashion and intelligence, so that his name should go down to posterity like Sydney Smith’s as the most brilliant parson of his day. Instead he was saddled with a penniless wife.
But not one of these distressing emotions was visible on the Canon’s face during dinner. He had never needed his self-control more. Perhaps he showed his strength no less admirably than he could have done if, according to his ardent wish, he had been in happier days a great minister of state. The party consisted of eight, which he thought precisely the right number. It was neither so large that the conversation ceased to be general nor so small as to give a good talker an insufficient audience. Mrs. Fitzherbert noticed with admiration that he had never seemed in better spirits, and took a vow that whatever happened she would certainly remain friendly with him. He was invaluable at a dinner-party. It was only from an occasional look of weariness, quickly driven away, from a metallic, unusual ring in his laughter, that she suspected how great was his effort. He made himself the centre of the table, and he was so vivacious that none wished to question his supremacy. His stories had never been better, and he told them with a gusto that added vastly to their humour. He was never at a loss for a repartee; his sallies and quaint turns kept the party so well entertained that Mrs. Fitzherbert was radiant. She had never given a more successful dinner, and had the satisfaction of knowing that her guests thoroughly enjoyed themselves. When they thanked her on leaving, it was with a sincerity which she knew was unusual on similar occasions. She felt grateful to Canon Spratte.
“And now that every one has gone you must sit down and smoke a cigarette, and we’ll have a quiet chat.”
“That’s just what I should like. I’ve got something to say to you.”
“Have you? That’s very odd, because I have too.”
He seated himself, and she noticed that for the first time in their acquaintance, he was embarrassed. She looked at him with smiling eyes, but to him they seemed disconcertingly ironic.
“I think we should go back to the conversation we had before dinner,” he said. “Would you think it very odd if I made a suggestion?”
He waited for a reply, but she gave none, and he was forced to proceed. There was no doubt about it, he was growing exceedingly nervous.
“Well, I suggested then that we should be married in six weeks. I’m afraid it sounds very ungallant if I propose now that we should wait a little.”
“How long?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, I don’t know—perhaps a year, two at the utmost. You see, I’m not exactly hard up, but——” He hesitated again, for once in his life at a loss for words. “The fact is I don’t see how we can possibly marry till I get a bishopric. I’m practically certain to get one soon—there’s no one with half the claims I have, and I think I can boast of a certain amount of influence.”
“Two years is a long time at our age,” she smiled. “Especially for a woman. You know, even now, you’re ever so much younger in spirit than I am; I’m afraid that each day will increase the difference between us.”
He paused for the very shortest space of time.
“Of course, if you’d rather marry at once, I shall be only too charmed. It will make me the happiest of men. It was only on your account that I hesitated. I’m afraid that you’ll have to do without a good many of the luxuries that you’re used to.”
“It’s very thoughtful of you,” she murmured.
“I’m afraid we shan’t be able to have a carriage.”
“You know, I adore riding on ’buses,” she answered, with twinkling eyes. “One sits on the front seat and talks to the driver.”
“And then I’m afraid there’ll be no more little trips to Homburg in the summer or to the Riviera in the winter.”
“When all’s said and done is there any place in the world so comfortable as London?”
“It’s charming to think that you’re so easily satisfied.”
She watched him thoughtfully, while he sought to conceal behind a gallant smile a considerable feeling of dismay.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather break off altogether our short engagement?” she asked, suddenly.
“Nothing would induce me,” he cried, with the utmost emphasis. “Do you imagine that anything you have said makes you less precious to me? You cannot think so badly of me as to suppose that I no longer wish to marry you, because you are not rich.”
“You’re an ambitious man, and an opulent wife might have been of great use to you: a poor one can only be a drawback.”
“You pain me very much,” he answered. “I confess I think it would be wise to delay our union, but it would break my heart to put aside all thought of it.”
“Oh, I don’t think your heart is such a fragile organ as that. Let us be frank with one another. I venture to flatter myself that you did not want to marry me because of my money, but it’s obvious that a well-regulated passion is not diminished because an attractive widow has five thousand a year. It’s very comprehensible that you shouldn’t wish to marry a pauper.”
“I flatter myself on the other hand that I’m by way of being a gentleman.”
“Shall we say no more about it? Shall we forget that you murmured various things the other night which you didn’t quite mean?”
Mrs. Fitzherbert knew that she was very cruel. It was plain that he wished with all his might to accept his release. He suffered the torture of Tantalus, for escape lay within his easy reach, and he had not the effrontery to take it. He was a man who lived for the noble gesture, and he could not bring himself to make one that was uncommonly prosaic.
“I assure you no one shall know anything about it,” she added. “I promise you I will be as silent as the grave.”
He looked at her with an indecision that was almost pitiful.
“If I accepted your suggestion you’d despise me all your life,” he said.
There was something in his tone that made Mrs. Fitzherbert think she had gone far enough. He was really suffering this time, and she could not bear to see it. She went up to him quickly, and smiling, put her hands on his shoulders.
“My dear man, do you suppose for a moment that I had any intention of marrying you? Nothing would have induced me to do it.”
“What do you mean?” he cried.
“I’ve reached an age when I can’t imagine that it would be worth while sacrificing five thousand a year for any man. Besides, you’re charming as a friend, but as a husband you’d be quite insufferable. I wouldn’t marry you if I were starving and you had all the wealth of Golconda.”
“D’you mean to say you’ve been playing with me all the time?”
“I’m afraid that is precisely what it comes to.”
He drew away from her, and his face took that rather peevish expression of a spoilt child which it sometimes had.
“I think it’s very cruel of you,” he said.
“Let us forget all about it. You’re perfectly free and there’s no need whatever for you to marry me. Let us be friends. And don’t flirt any more with widow-ladies; they’re dreadfully dangerous.”
“I daresay it’s a very good joke to you, but you’ve exposed me to the most awful humiliation. You ask me to be friends, but I shall never be able to look you in the face again.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert ceased to smile and her eyes became quite grave.
“Shall I tell you a secret that I’ve never divulged to any living soul?” she said. “Perhaps you’ll understand why I couldn’t resist the chance you gave me. I daresay you’ve forgotten that five-and-twenty years ago we used to see a great deal of one another. Perhaps you never knew that I was so desperately in love with you then that I would have married you if you hadn’t a penny in the world, and I would have been glad to scrub the floors you walked on.”
The Canon started and was about to speak. But with a little laugh she stopped him.
“Oh, please don’t make any observation yet. Even now it makes me feel rather silly to speak about it. I daresay you flirted with a good many other girls as much as you did with me, but I was foolish enough to think you cared for me. And I thought you meant to ask me to marry you. Then you met Dorothy Frampstone, and you married her instead. Well, it’s very possible that she was much nicer than I, but you mustn’t be surprised if my vanity leads me to think there were much more solid reasons. I have an idea you transferred your affections to her chiefly because she had six hundred a year while I was penniless, and she was the daughter of a peer of the realm while I was nobody in particular.”
“You do me an injustice,” he murmured.
“Anyhow it doesn’t matter, it’s all very long ago. The important thing is that I did love you then really, so if I’ve made you feel a little ridiculous now, it’s only tit for tat.”
She held out her hand, smiling, and he warmly grasped it.
“You’re a wonderful woman, and I was a fool five-and-twenty years ago. The fates have been against me all along.”
“And now good-night,” she laughed. “It’s growing late, and it’s really very compromising for a lone, lorn widow to remain so long en tête-à-tête with a fascinating person like yourself.”
“Good-night, then.”
He bent down, and with the utmost grace kissed her hand. When he left her Mrs. Fitzherbert quietly smiled.
“I thank my stars I am a lone, lorn woman, and unless I become a perfect lunatic I’ll take care to remain one.”
THE Canon passed an unquiet night; and next morning, feeling in need of fresh air, took a stroll in the Park. The day was very fine, and there was a charming freshness in the air which soon brought back his serenity. He sauntered up the Row looking at the people who were out already to enjoy the earliness of the day after a late night at some gay party. He stopped now and then to observe the flowers, in which he took the horticulturist’s delight: Canon Spratte had an amiable weakness for putting Latin names to the daintiest blossoms of the way-side. He nodded to one or two friends and passed the time of day with a famous politician. The scene had an air of luxury and of fashionable indifference to the cares of life which filled him with satisfaction.
Presently he saw Gwendolen Durant ride towards him.
She looked so well on horseback that he wondered more than ever why Lionel could not make up his mind to marry. She stopped and spoke to him. They exchanged the simple banter which serves for wit among the easily pleased, and the Canon expressed his admiration of her seat. She nodded a farewell and put her heel to the horse’s side. But at that moment a motor-car rushed by at a terrific speed and gave a series of loud explosions. Gwendolen’s horse turned round with a sudden leap that almost unseated her, and was on the point of bolting, when the Canon jumped forward and seized the bridle. It was not a very dangerous action, but it required some presence of mind, and he performed it with a breadth of gesture that made it look almost heroic.
“Thanks, so much,” said Gwendolen, a little out of breath and startled. “If you hadn’t been there he’d have bolted. He’s got a mouth like iron and he simply pulls my arms out.”
“Are you quite sure you’re safe now?” asked Canon Spratte, anxiously.
The horse was still nervous and refused to stand still.
“He’ll probably bolt with me, but I must risk it,” she laughed, trying to show no concern.
“Let me tighten the curb a little, and then you’ll be as safe as a house.” With deft fingers he undid the chain and altered it. “You know, you really ought not to ride alone.”
“A groom bores me, and there’s no one else to come.”
“I shall ride with you to-morrow,” he answered. “I don’t think you should be left to your own devices. Now I think you’re in no danger.”
She thanked him effusively and trotted quickly off. The Canon resumed his promenade somewhat pleased with the action: he was grateful for the smallest incident that served to restore his diminished self-esteem. He was turning round to go home when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sir John Durant.
“I’ve just seen Gwendolen. She tells me you saved her from a nasty accident.”
“Oh, it was nothing. I happened to be near.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“If you’ll allow me to say it, I think it’s somewhat incautious to let her ride alone. I’ve offered to accompany her to-morrow.”
“Oh, that’s very good of you,” said the brewer. “I’m afraid you’ll find it a great bore.”
“Not at all; I assure you it will be a great pleasure. My doctor has advised me to take horse-exercise, and I shall be only too glad to have some one to ride with.” The Canon put his arm through the brewer’s in his most friendly fashion. “And how are you, my dear fellow? I trust that your affairs are flourishing.”
“Well, in point of fact they’re not,” cried the other, suddenly growing serious. “That confounded Government wants to give the local justices power to close a certain proportion of public-houses in their districts.”
“Ah, yes, I saw something about that in the papers, but I understood it would have no influence on the consumption of liquor. Stonehenge’s idea is that the remaining houses will profit.”
“Don’t you believe it,” cried Sir John, with much vigour. “Nine times out of ten a man doesn’t drink a glass of beer because he’s thirsty, but because there’s a public-house at his elbow. Each one they shut up will take a good round sum out of our pockets.”
“The Government seems very strong on the point. I suppose they’ve been got hold of by the faddists.”
Sir John stopped still and significantly tapped Canon Spratte on the chest. His utterance was full of weight.
“Mark my words. The Government doesn’t know how strong we are. If they try to interfere with the liquor interest it’ll be a bad day for the Conservative party. I’ll fight them tooth and nail, and I shall carry the whole trade with me. I’m not a boasting fool, but I tell you this: the Government’s in a damned wobbly state, and if they put my back up I don’t answer for the consequences.”
Canon Spratte looked at his red-faced friend with the utmost attention. He knew that Sir John Durant was a rich man, but had not realized till this moment that he was a powerful man as well. Events might take such a turn that any one who had the brewer’s ear would command vast influence. He looked at his watch. It was time for him to keep an appointment, and he wanted to think quietly over the consequences of this discovery.
“Why don’t you come and lunch with me at the club one day?” he asked. “I’m afraid I mayn’t take you to the Athenæum, but they give you capital wine at the Carlton.”
Sir John accepted with pleasure, and so they parted. He was very thoughtful during the remainder of that morning, but at luncheon announced to his family that he proposed to ride every morning after breakfast. His doctor had recommended exercise, and he knew of no other which combined in such just proportions entertainment with utility.
“And what about this marriage of yours, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia. “You forget that we are all on tenterhooks.”
He stared at her for a moment with a very natural show of amazement, and burst into a shout of laughter.
“It was only a little joke of mine, Sophia. You don’t imagine it’s likely that I should marry at my age.”
“As you say, we Sprattes have a remarkable sense of humour,” she replied, dryly.
“I can’t help poking fun at you sometimes, my dear. But, as you rightly observed, no one would be such a fool as to marry an old fossil like your humble servant.”
But her remarks had brought back to his mind an incident which he would willingly have forgotten. He was still very sore, and the more he thought of it the more foolish he felt himself. It was in no amiable mood, therefore, that he waited for Bertram Railing, who was expected to call that afternoon. Nor was the Canon much pleased with his daughter, and he had mentioned two or three times his annoyance that her wilful disobedience had placed him in an awkward position. Railing was not an easy person to deal with. His plainness and outspoken candour rendered possible a very undignified altercation.
But when the young man arrived nothing was visible on the Canon’s face save complete friendliness. They shook hands.
“Ah, how good of you to come, dear Railing. So glad to see you.”
“Winnie told me she’d be at home this afternoon.”
“Of course I didn’t flatter myself that you’d come to see me,” laughed the Canon. “But in point of fact I’ve been wanting to have a little talk with you. It’s a very serious step that you young folks are taking.”
“Then we’re wise to take it with a light heart,” cried Railing, gaily.
“Ha, ha, capital! Now I should have thought you were both very young to be married.”
“I am twenty-eight, sir, and Winnie is twenty-one.”
“You neither of you look it,” murmured the Canon, with an amiable bow.
“Possibly!”
Canon Spratte pulled out the splendid cigarette-case in gold, with initials of diamonds, which a fond admirer had presented to him. He offered it to Railing.
“No, thank you. I never smoke.”
“I see you have no vices.” The Canon became so bland that it was overwhelming. “Now, my dear fellow, let us discuss this matter in the most cordial way. I need not tell you that I have the very highest esteem for you personally, and the sincerest admiration for your talents. But we live in an age when talent is not always rewarded according to its merits, and I am curious to know upon what you propose to live.”
“My income is about a hundred and fifty a year and Winnie has three hundred from her mother.”
“You are very well informed,” smiled the Canon, good-naturedly.
“Winnie told me,” said Bertram, flushing.
“Obviously! I didn’t suppose for a moment that you had examined the will at Somerset House. And do you imagine that Winnie will be content to live on four hundred and fifty pounds a year?”
“It’s three times as much as my mother ever had.”
“Possibly, but your mother—a most excellent person, Mr. Railing—has moved in rather a different stratum of society from my daughter.”
“Do you think your daughter cares two straws for the gewgaws and the tawdry trappings of Society?” asked Bertram, scornfully.
The Canon shrugged his shoulders.
“I think my daughter is human, Mr. Railing; and although it may surprise you, I will confess that I think a carriage and pair absolutely essential to her happiness.”
“I know Winnie, and I love her. You think she’s a doll and a fool. She was. But I have made her into a woman of flesh and blood. She’s a real woman now and she loathes all the shams and the shallowness of Society.”
“She told you that, did she?” answered the Canon. “Upon my word, we Sprattes have a keen sense of humour.”
Bertram sprang to his feet and crossed over to the Canon.
“You think she cares for carriages and fine clothes. Her life was a mockery. She didn’t know what life was. She had no aspirations, no ideals. Of course she wasted herself on the frivolities of a foolish world. Thank God, she knows now how narrow this little circle is of idle, selfish people. She wants to work, she wants to labour with her fellow-men, shoulder to shoulder, fighting the good fight.”
“And do you think, my dear young man, that it would ever have occurred to Winnie that the world was hollow and foolish, if you had a wart on the tip of your nose, or a squint in your eye? Upon my soul, you’re very unsophisticated.”
“You believe that all people are bad.”
“On the contrary, I’m so charitable as to think them merely foolish,” said Canon Spratte, with an acid smile of amusement.
“Have you only sneers for the new life that fills your daughter’s eyes? She’s a different creature now. Oh, I believe in her, thank God, as she believes in me! She’s ready to take the journey with me only by her side. Ah, I know she loves me. You think I’m only a fortune-hunter; we don’t want your money, we shouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“And you’re quite content that for you she should sacrifice everything?”
“She flings away painted husks, dross, tinsel,” cried Bertram, vehemently. “She gains the whole world.”
“Which means you and a villa in Peckham Rye. Upon my soul, you’re very modest.”
Bertram looked at him steadily, thrusting forward his head with a searching air. He turned over in his mind all that the other had said.
“What are you driving at?” he asked, at length. “Why don’t you say it out like a man, instead of beating about the bush?”
“My dear Mr. Railing, I must beg you to observe the conventions of polite society. It is clearly my duty to inquire into the circumstances of any young man who proposes to marry my daughter.”
Bertram gave a little hoarse laugh.
“I distrusted you when you first agreed to our engagement. I knew you despised me. I knew that all your flattery was humbug. Say it straight out like a man.”
Canon Spratte shrugged his shoulders, and spoke slowly and gravely.
“Mr. Railing, I solemnly ask you to give up my daughter. After mature reflection I have come to the conclusion that the marriage is impossible, and I will never give my consent to it.”
“We will do without it; we’re free, both of us, and we don’t care a button for you. Winnie has promised to marry me, and, by God, she shall.”
“Do you absolutely disregard my express wishes?”
“The matter concerns us alone, and no one else in the whole world.”
Canon Spratte thoughtfully examined his finger-nails.
On a sudden he had an inspiration. He had learned a fact from Mrs. Railing, which he thought at the time might prove useful, and here was the opportunity.
“Well, Mr. Railing, it’s very painful to me to have to talk to you in this manner. It is true that some time ago I gave a provisional sanction to your engagement with Winnie, and I can perfectly understand that it should seem strange if I now resolutely forbid it. I have no doubt this is a great disappointment to you, and for that reason I excuse your heated language, which has been certainly wanting in courtesy. I am sure that when you are calmer you will regret some of the expressions you have seen fit to use. But I will tell you at once that I bear you on this account absolutely no ill-will.”
“I’m much obliged to you, but I’m not aware that I’ve used any expression which I’m in the least likely to regret,” said Bertram, sharply.
“Then, if I may say so, as a man much older than yourself, and as a clergyman, you show both your want of Christian charity and your ignorance of social amenities.... I beg you not to interrupt me,” he added, when he saw that Railing was about to make a rejoinder. “You will understand that I am not the man to wrangle like a fishwife.”
“Will you tell me shortly what new objection you have to me, Canon Spratte?”
“That is what I am about to do. It has come to my knowledge that your eldest sister is unfortunately in a lunatic asylum. I need not tell you that I regret this misfortune, but my views on the subject are very decided. With insanity among your relations, I feel that an alliance between your family and mine is out of the question.”
“That’s absurd!” cried Railing. “Florrie had an accident when she was a child. She fell downstairs, and since then she’s been——”
“Not quite right in her head, as your mother expressed it, Mr. Railing. I should like you to observe, however, that every child falls downstairs, and the entire human race is not so imbecile as to need the restraint of a lunatic asylum.”
Bertram’s eyes were fixed steadily on Canon Spratte. He tried to discover what lay at the back of the man’s mind, but could not. He saw only that behind that calm face, amid this resonance of polished phrase, something was being hidden from him.
“I don’t believe a word you say. I’m not a child. I assure you it’s no good trying to hoodwink me. Tell me the simple truth.”
The Canon flushed at this appeal and was nearly put out of countenance. He wondered if he should fly into a passion and order Railing out of the house. But it was doubtful whether the Socialist would go. He was a little disconcerted, too, by the steadfastness with which Bertram had resisted him, and the scorn wherewith he brushed aside his specious reasons. Canon Spratte was hot with anger. The taunts to which he had calmly listened, rankled in his heart, and he would have been pleased to show that none could thus treat him with impunity. But he seldom lost his temper unadvisedly, and he realized now that calmness gave him a decided advantage over the angry and excited suitor.
“Are you quite sure that Winnie cares for you?” he asked, mildly.
“As sure as I am of my own name and of my own life.”
There was a pause. The Canon for a minute walked up and down the room; and then, holding himself very erect, stood still in front of Bertram. His voice was full of authority.
“Well, it is my painful duty to inform you that you are mistaken. Winnie recognizes that she misjudged the strength of her affection.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Railing, full of scorn.
“My patience must be inexhaustible. I am much tempted to kick you downstairs, Mr. Railing.”
“You forget that I’m a working-man and horny-handed, so it’s safer not to try.”
“It evidently hasn’t occurred to you that the manners of Peckham Rye are not altogether suitable to South Kensington,” smiled the Canon, blandly.
“Well?”
“Winnie has requested me to tell you that she finds she does not care for you enough to marry you. She regrets the inconvenience and unhappiness that she has caused, and desires you to release her.”
Bertram grew white and he gathered himself together as a wild beast might, driven to bay.
“It’s a lie!” he cried, furiously. “It’s a lie!”
The Canon replied with the utmost calm.
“You will have the goodness to remember that I am a minister of the Church and a son of the late Lord Chancellor of England.”
“If it’s true, you’ve forced her to give me up. I know she loves me.”
“You may think what you choose, Mr. Railing. The fact remains that she wishes to break off her engagement with you. As a man of honour there is obviously but one course open to you.”
“You tell me I’m a man of honour and you treat me like a lackey. Do you think you can dismiss me like a servant? Don’t you know that my whole life’s happiness is at stake? She can’t send me away like that. It’s not true, it’s not true.”
“On my honour as a gentleman, I have told you the exact truth,” replied Canon Spratte, gravely. Bertram seized the Canon’s arm.
“Let her tell me herself. I must see her. Where is she?”
“She’s gone out.”
“But she knew I was coming here to-day. She expected me.”
“Doesn’t that show you that what I have said is the simple truth? I wished to spare you both a painful scene.”
Bertram hesitated. He could not tell whether Winnie was really out, but it seemed impossible to verify the statement. For a moment he looked straight into the Canon’s eyes, then without a word turned on his heel. Canon Spratte gave a sigh of relief.
“What an escape!” he muttered. “Good Lord, what an escape!”
NEXT morning, when Winnie came down to breakfast, she found a letter from Bertram. She opened it with trembling hands. It began abruptly and consisted only of two lines.
I shall wait for you to-day in Kensington Gardens at ten o’clock. I beg you to come.
In the early days of their engagement, when Canon Spratte refused to hear Railing’s name mentioned, they had been used to walk together every morning. They met always at a particular spot. There were shady alleys, the scene of many pleasant conversations, which Winnie could not help remembering with delight. She dreaded the meeting he asked for, but felt that it was not in her to refuse. She had thought all night over the brief account her father had given of his interview with Bertram, and wished with all her heart now to explain personally why she had taken this step. She could not bear that he should think too hardly of her. The wounds she made seemed inevitable, but perhaps she could do something to make him see how impossible it was for her to act otherwise.
Without saying a word to her father, Winnie went out immediately after breakfast, and when she arrived at the appointed place, found Bertram already there. He greeted her without a smile. He was very pale and she felt her own face burn with shame under his sad, questioning eyes. For a few minutes they talked of indifferent things, as though they could not bring themselves to attack the subject that filled their hearts. They sat down and for a while were silent. At last he turned round and looked at her gravely.
“It’s true, then?” he said.
“I’m very sorry,” she murmured, turning her face away.
“When your father spoke to me I couldn’t bring myself to believe it. The whole thing seemed too horrible. Even now, I can’t convince myself that you really want me to give you up. I’ve not had it from your own lips yet.”
“I want you to release me, Bertram. I can’t marry you.”
“But why, why? The other day you said you loved me better than any one in the whole world. What have they done to turn you against me? Oh, I thought better of you than that, Winnie; I trusted you.”
“I was mistaken when I thought I loved you,” she whispered.
“They’re forcing you to give me up?”
“No,” she answered, shaking her head. “No one has done anything to influence me.”
“And yet, suddenly, with nothing to explain it, you send your father to say you’ve made a mistake; and don’t want to marry me. Oh, it’s shameful, it’s too cruel.”
“Oh, Bertram, don’t speak like that,” she cried, looking at him at last.
The unhappiness of his voice was very hard to bear and she could hardly restrain a sob. He looked at her with puzzled eyes. He was so wretched that his brain was all confused.
“You loved me the other day,” he cried. “Oh, don’t be so cold. Tell me what there is to tell, Winnie. I love you so passionately. I can’t live without you.”
“Forgive me. I’m awfully sorry for all the pain I’ve caused you.”
“Are you afraid because I’m poor and of mean birth? But you knew that before. Oh, I don’t understand; it seems impossible. I never dreamed you’d do this. I trusted you ten times more than I trusted myself.”
“I’m not fit to be your wife,” she sobbed.
“How can you sacrifice all that we planned so joyfully, the life of labour shoulder to shoulder and the fine struggle for our fellows?”
“I should hate it,” she answered, hoarsely.
He stared at her with surprise. He caught the immense vehemence of her expression and the little shiver of disgust that crossed her shoulders. They were silent again.
“Oh, Bertram, try to understand,” said Winnie, at last. “I don’t want you to be unhappy, I want you to see that we’ve made a dreadful mistake. I thank God that we’ve discovered it before it was too late. I’m not made for the life you want me to lead. I should be utterly out of it. And all those meetings, and the agitations for things I don’t care two straws about! Oh, I loathe the very thought of it.”
He looked before him as though the very foundations of the world were sinking. Winnie put her hand on his arm gently.
“Don’t trouble about me, Bertram. I’m not worth it. You thought me different from what I am. You’ve never known me; you put another soul into my body, and you loved that. If you really knew me, you’d only despise me. You thought I could do heroic things, but I can’t. When I was enthusiastic about labour and temperance and all the rest, it was merely pose. I wanted you to think me clever and original. I was flattered because you spoke to me as if you thought my opinion worth having. But honestly I don’t like poor people; I hate grime and dirt; I can’t look upon them as my fellows; I don’t want to have anything to do with them. I dare say poverty and crime are very dreadful, and the misery of the slums is heart-rending, but I don’t want to see it. I want to shut my eyes and forget all about it. Can’t you see how awful it would be if we married? I should only hamper you, and we’d both be utterly wretched.”
“Your father said a carriage and pair was essential to your happiness. I told him I would stake my life on you. I told him that you despised the sham and the shallowness of Society.”
“I suppose papa knows me,” said Winnie.
“Oh, dearest, it can’t be true,” he cried, taking her hand. “You can’t mind whether you go on foot or in a gaudy carriage. Life is so full and there’s so much work to do. What can it matter so long as we do our duty?”
“I know I’m a cad, but I must have decent things, and servants, and nice clothes. It’s vulgar and hateful and petty, but I can’t help it. I want to live as all my friends live. I haven’t the courage to give up all that makes life beautiful. It’s not just one act of heroism that it needs; it’s strength to be heroic day after day in a sort of dull, sordid fashion. And there can never be any escape from it; one has to make up one’s mind that it will last for ever. I see myself living in a shabby house in a horrid pokey street, with two dirty little maids, and I could almost scream. Oh, I couldn’t, Bertram.”
“I thought you cared for me.”
She did not answer.
“It’s different for you,” she pleaded. “You’ve been brought up without all these things, and you don’t miss them. I daresay it’s utterly snobbish, but I can’t help it. I’ve been used to luxuries all my life; it’s just as impossible for me to go without them as it would be for you to go without a coat in winter. You think it’s very easy for me to do housework and to mend linen as your mother does, but d’you think it’s any easier than it would be for you who’ve worked with your brains, to mend roads from morning till night? I know girls who’ve done that sort of thing. I’ve seen the shifts with which they keep up appearances and the awful struggle to make both ends meet. I’ve seen their faces pinched with anxiety, and I’ve seen the wrench it causes when they must spend a shilling. I couldn’t stand it, Bertram. You’re quite right; I am afraid.”
“But I love you, Winnie,” he said. “You’re the whole world to me. Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll try to do it. I can’t lose you.”
“What can you do? How can you change yourself? Don’t you see that it’s impossible, and that we’re utterly unsuited to one another? Really we’ve not got a single thought or aim or idea in common. You can’t want to make me so unhappy as to wish to marry me.”
“Then it’s good-bye?” he asked.
Winnie looked up. To her surprise she saw her father ride past with Gwendolen Durant. Instinctively she drew back, seeking to hide herself; but they were too deeply engrossed in conversation to notice her.
Railing’s eyes met hers sadly.
“I don’t know how I shall live without you,” he said.
“You must try and forgive me for all the wretchedness I’ve caused you. And soon I hope that you’ll forget all about me.”
“Is there no chance that you’ll ever change your mind?” he asked, brokenly.
She hesitated, for there was something on her heart which she felt strangely impelled to confess. It seemed that she owed it to him.
“I think I ought to tell you that Lord Wroxham has asked me to marry him.”
“And are you going to?” he gasped.
“I’ve known him ever since I was a child, and I’m very fond of him. I’m frightened. I wanted you to know from my own lips rather than from a newspaper. You probably can’t despise me more than you do already.”
“What do you mean by saying you’re frightened? Are you frightened of me?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is good-bye indeed,” he answered, after a long silence.
He stood up and without another word left her. Winnie began to cry silently. In that pleasure garden, fit scene for the careless trifling of fair ladies in hoops and of gentlemen in periwigs, every one else seemed happy and unconcerned. Children in their bright dresses played with merry shouts and their nurses idly gossiped. A tremor passed through Winnie’s body as she struggled in vain to restrain her sobbing.
In the afternoon Winnie told her father that she had seen Bertram. She felt still as though her heart were breaking.
“Oh, father, I feel so ashamed,” she moaned.
Canon Spratte pursed his lips and nodded once or twice gravely. He did not approve of this stolen interview, but presumed it would be the last. He addressed her in grave, sonorous tones.
“You do well to feel ashamed, my child. I hope this will be a warning and a lesson to you. You see what comes of disobeying your father, and setting yourself obstinately and irreligiously against his better judgment. In future I trust you will be more dutiful. Believe me, it is always best to honour your parents; and if you don’t you’re sure to be punished for it.”
“Oughtn’t I to tell Harry?” she asked.
“Tell him what?” cried the Canon, perfectly aghast.
“I think he ought to know that I was engaged to Bertram.”
“Certainly not,” he answered, with the utmost decision. “I entirely forbid you to do anything of the sort, and I hope you’ve been sufficiently punished for your wilful disobedience to obey me now. Wroxham is very susceptible, and it’s your duty to give him no anxiety. And whatever you do, don’t begin your married life by confessing everything to your husband. It will only bore him to death. Besides, one never can tell the whole truth, and it leads inevitably to deception and subterfuge.”
“But suppose he finds out?”
Canon Spratte gave a sigh of genuine relief, for after all the fear of discovery is the easiest form of conscience to deal with.
“Is that all you’re frightened of, my darling?” he said. “Leave it to me. I’ll tell him all that’s necessary.”
And the next time he found himself alone with Wroxham, he took the opportunity to set the matter right.
“By the way, Harry, Winnie wants me to tell you something that’s rather worrying her. You know what girls are. They often have a sensitiveness of conscience which is very charming but at the same time rather ridiculous. I don’t suppose you ever heard of a young man called Railing?’ ”
“You mean the Socialist? Winnie gave me his book to read.”
“I may say I was among the first to discover its striking merit. I thought it my duty to encourage him, and I asked him to come and see us. His father, it appears, was a coal-heaver, and I thought him a very remarkable fellow. But he repaid my kindness by falling in love with Winnie and asking her to marry him.”
“Why didn’t you kick him down-stairs?” laughed Wroxham, lightly.
“Upon my word, I had half a mind to. I will never befriend the lower orders again; they always take liberties with you.”
At this juncture Winnie came into the room. Canon Spratte told her that he had informed Wroxham of the unfortunate incident. She gave her devoted lover an appealing glance; and the thought that she was so fearful to offend him, increased a thousandfold his passionate tenderness.
“You’re not angry with me, dear?”
“Because a madman wants to marry you? Why, I want to do that myself.”
“Capital! Capital!” laughed the Canon. “But seriously I don’t think he’s quite right in his head. His sister is in a lunatic asylum, you know. I hope you won’t receive any nonsensical letter from him.”
Wroxham was all eyes for Winnie, and scarcely listened to the trivial topic.
“If I do, it shall go straight into the waste-paper basket,” he answered, lightly.
“Quite right,” said the Canon. “Quite right!”
He tactfully left the lovers to themselves.
SOME days later Lord Spratte found himself dressed half-an-hour too early for the dinner-party to which he was going. He made up his mind to walk down Piccadilly. The evening was delightful, and he looked with amiable eyes upon the populous street. The closing day flooded the scene with gold that seemed flung from divine hands with a gesture large and free. The crowd, sweeping along the pavements, the gay ’buses and the carriages, were bathed in opulent splendour. They looked like magic things, all light and movement, seen by a painter who could work miracles. Lord Spratte congratulated himself that his fellow-men were all very well-to-do and had obviously no concern with sordid details. He braced himself to enjoy the charming world in general, and the festivity before him in particular.
“I’m feelin’ younger every day,” he murmured. “By Jupiter, if Theodore don’t mind his p’s and q’s I’ll marry and do him out of the title yet.”
So may the fancy of middle age in June turn lightly to amorous undertakings.
Suddenly he recognized Bertram Railing, who was walking quickly towards him. They met, and the Socialist, seeing him for the first time, flushed; then he fixed his eyes firmly on Lord Spratte and with much deliberation cut him. The elder man smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He wanted to speak with Bertram, and was entirely indifferent to his obvious disinclination. He turned round and with some trouble caught him up.
“Why the dickens do you walk at that rate?” he panted, somewhat out of breath.
He took Bertram’s arm familiarly. But the young man stopped and abruptly released himself.
“What do you want?”
“Merely to have a little chat. Let us stroll in the Park for five minutes.”
“I’m sorry, that’s impossible. I have an urgent engagement.”
“Nonsense!”
Lord Spratte again seized the unwilling arm, and in the most determined way made for the Park gates.
“I want to talk to you about your engagement with Winnie. I’m afraid you’ve been very unhappy.”
Bertram did not answer, but with firm-set jaws looked straight in front of him.
“You know, if I were you I would try not to take it too much to heart,” he went on. “In a little while you’ll understand that both you and Winnie would have been quite unnecessarily wretched.”
He paused and looked at Bertram sharply.
“Will you promise not to turn round and bolt if I stop to light a cigarette?”
“Yes,” said Bertram, smiling in spite of himself.
“You think she’s a very remarkable young woman, but she’s quite an average girl. Perhaps she’s a little prettier than most. I know very few young women of her particular station who wouldn’t have acted as she has.”
“Then Heaven help her particular station,” cried Bertram.
“I don’t suppose it’s struck you that it’s a very awkward one,” replied Lord Spratte, mildly. “A great family might have lived down a match of this sort, (I don’t want to hurt your feelings,) but we’re such very small fry. You think us snobs, and so we are. You can’t expect anythin’ else from people who’ve only just emerged from the middle-classes. You know, I have an impression that your grandfather and mine were great pals. I’m sure they used to hobnob and drink brandy and water together in seedy public-houses. Do you remember the Egyptian usurper who made a wine-cup into the image of a god, for the edification of his former boon-fellows? Well, we’re somethin’ like that astute monarch; we have to use all sorts of stratagems to persuade the world of our gentility. If this affair between you and Winnie had come to anything, do you know what she would have done? She would have tried all her life to live up to Mayfair, and it would have meant either that you were dragged away from your proper work, or that she would have been eternally dissatisfied. My dear boy, she would have reproached you every day for marrying her.”
He stopped, feeling that the words were not coming as he wished. He wanted to be kind, and there were a few useful things he thought Bertram ought to know. But he could not properly order what was in his mind. Bertram felt the intention and presently answered less bitterly:
“Why do you take the trouble to say all this?”
“I wish I had my brother Theodore’s eloquence. He’d say what I want to in the most beautiful language. He’s not a bad chap, although you probably don’t set much store on him. He’s so fortunate as to feel himself a person of importance; I don’t. I always wish I’d been the son of nobody in particular. It bores me to death to go about under the shadow of my father’s name. I can’t think why it is, but I go through life feeling as if I were perpetually wearin’ fancy-dress. I haven’t read your book. I believe it’s very instructive, and at my time of life I avoid instruction. But when Winnie said she was going to marry you, I went one day to hear you speak at a meetin’ in Holborn. I was never so surprised in my life.”
“Why?”
“I discovered that you were sincere. By Jupiter, how you would have bored Winnie if things had gone on much longer! Most of those worthy folk who advocate reform and lord knows what, have their own axes to grind. My brother Theodore, for instance, wants a bishopric, others want a seat in the Cabinet or a sinecure. Even now I believe there are some who want a peerage, though for the life of me I can’t see what good they think it’ll do them.”
Lord Spratte laughed a little and threw away his cigarette.
“They make a great fuss about redressin’ the people’s wrongs, but in their heart of hearts I believe they’re precious indifferent to them. They want the power which they can cozen out of the mob, or they think the Government will stop their mouths with a fat billet. At first I had an idea you were an impostor like the rest of them, but when you stood up on your hind legs I found out you were nothin’ of the kind. You were the only speaker among all those M.P.’s and clerics and millionaires who seemed to mean a word you said. Your speech was quite out of the picture, but it was interesting. Personally I loathe democracy and socialism and all the rest of it, but honest conviction amuses me. To see it on a platform is quite a new sensation.”
It made Lord Spratte uncommonly nervous to play the heavy father, and he feared that he was very ridiculous. He waited for Bertram to make an observation.
“I want to do something for my fellows in the few years of my life,” said the other, at last.
“You’ll find they’re much better left alone, and your reward will probably be the most virulent abuse. The human race loves a martyr; it will crucify a man with the greatest zest in order to have another God to worship as soon as the breath is out of his body.”
“I’m willing to take the risk,” smiled Railing.
“Then in Heaven’s name don’t hamper yourself by marriage. If you marry out of your own station you’ll be nobbled. My boy, before you’d been Winnie’s husband twelve months they’d have set you up as a Tory Member of Parliament. On the other hand, if you marry a pauper, you’ll have to think of all sorts of shifts to earn bread. You’ll have to hold your tongue when you ought to speak, because you daren’t risk your means of livelihood.”
“I loved Winnie with all my heart and soul.”
“I daresay, but you’ll get over it. One thinks one’s heart is broken and the world is suddenly hollow and empty, but a disappointment in love is like an attack of the gout. It’s the very devil while it lasts, but one feels all the better for it afterwards. My dear fellow, I was jilted once. I loved a lady in the Gaiety chorus, and I loved her dearly. But I promise you, not a day passes without my huggin’ myself to think I’m still a bachelor.”
He gave Bertram his hand, asked him to call soon at his chambers, and jumped into a cab. He was sorry that these efforts at consolation had not been successful, but presently he shrugged his shoulders.
“He’ll write a series of articles for a Radical paper on the wickedness of the aristocracy, and that’ll soothe him a good sight better than I could.”
CANON SPRATTE was a man of buoyant temper, and did not grieve long over his frustrated hopes. After all there were richer Sees than Barchester. With youth and strength still on his side he need not resign himself yet to insignificance. Importance lay in the position which a man had the ability to make for himself, and the Vicar of St. Gregory’s might wield greater power than the bishop of an obscure diocese in the Western provinces. Reconsidering his opinions, he came to the conclusion that Barchester was a dull place, unhealthy, moribund, and tedious. He had always disliked a clay soil. And very soon he sincerely made up his mind that even if it had been offered to him, he would have refused. Like Wilhelm Meister he cried that America was here and now; London offered the only opportunity for such a vigorous character as his. And what were earthly honours to a person of quality?
He consoled himself for everything with the thought that he had steered Winnie successfully through the shoals of her amorous entanglements. She was now staying in the country with Lady Wroxham, and on her return the pleasing news of her engagement would be delivered to an envious world. The Canon flattered himself that her foolish passion for Bertram Railing was definitely extinguished. Her letters to Lady Sophia proved that this facile heart was now given in the properest way to Harry Wroxham. She wrote of him freely, with increasing affection, and her enthusiasm found daily new qualities to admire.
Meanwhile the fine weather gave admirable opportunity for the Canon’s matutinal rides with Gwendolen Durant. The effect upon his health was all that could be desired. He found her a more delightful girl than he had ever guessed; and his happy charm quickly brought their acquaintance to such a degree of intimacy that they might have known one another for ten years. It flattered him to see her flashing glance of pleasure when they met each morning, and he exerted himself to entertain her. Sir John also had taken such a fancy to him that much of the Canon’s time was spent at the brewer’s gorgeous mansion in Park Lane. His urbanity had never been more suave nor the scintillations of his wit more brilliant. Gwendolen hung upon his lips.
But when Canon Spratte thought of Lionel he was a little disconcerted.
On the day Winnie was to come back to London, when he opened his Times at breakfast, the Canon uttered an exclamation. Lady Sophia and Lionel looked up with alarm.
“A dreadful thing has happened,” he said, solemnly. “Dr. Gray has had an apoplectic stroke and died last night.”
“Poor man,” cried Lady Sophia. “He hasn’t enjoyed his bishopric long.”
“I look upon it as a judgment of Providence,” replied her brother, very gravely.
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I said at the time he was not fit to go to Barchester. I have no doubt the excitement and the strain of altering all his plans proved too much for him. You see, I was right. When will men learn to put a rein upon their ambition?”
Canon Spratte read the details carefully, shaking his head, and then turned up the leading articles to see if by chance some reference was made to the sad event. But here a new surprise awaited him. He gave a start and smothered another cry. He ran his eyes down the column quickly to gather its gist, and then perused it with concentrated attention. He forgot entirely that the Church of England had sustained a grievous loss, and that two lamb cutlets on the plate before him sought to tempt his appetite. The news he examined was of vital importance. The brewers, driven beyond endurance, were in full revolt against the Government. On the previous night Sir John Durant, joining in the debate upon the bill to close certain public-houses, had made a violent speech in the House of Commons. The Government’s position was insecure already, and if the liquor interest withdrew its support, a dissolution was inevitable. Sir John Durant became suddenly a person of vast importance. The determination he took might throw the money-markets into confusion; it might alter the political balance of Europe and have far-reaching effects in the uttermost parts of the earth. He had paramount influence with the trade and the other members in the House would follow his lead. He could command a large enough number of votes to make Lord Stonehenge’s tenure of office impossible. It was certain that the country would not return the Conservative party again. Canon Spratte’s heart beat as though he were reading intelligence of the most sensational kind. He threw the paper down and his breath came very fast. For some time he stared straight in front of him and reviewed the situation from every side. He jumped up, and unmindful of his breakfast walked backwards and forwards.
“Aren’t you going to eat your chop?” asked Lady Sophia.
“Hang my chop,” he cried, impatiently.
She raised her eyebrows.
“How is it possible that the news of Dr. Gray’s death can have such an effect on you, Theodore?”
“For goodness’ sake be quiet, and let me think,” he answered, without his usual politeness.
He had discussed the matter a dozen times with Sir John, and knew with what angry vehemence the brewer regarded this new power wherewith it was proposed to invest the Justices of the Peace. He was a stubborn, obstinate man, and had persuaded himself that it was an interference with the liberty of trade. On the other hand, he was an enthusiastic Conservative, and had no wish to put a Liberal Government in power, which would probably bring in temperance legislation of a much more drastic order. He was filled with the Imperialistic sentiment and dreaded the Radical indifference to his ideal of world supremacy. If Sir John could be induced to hear reason, it was probable that he would not insist on the withdrawal of the bill which public opinion had forced the Government to bring. But if left to himself, he might in a fit of temper throw all his influence with the Opposition. Whoever had Durant’s ear on this occasion was for the moment the most powerful man in England. A smile broke on the Canon’s lips. He drew a long breath.
“Sophia, I should like to speak a few words to Lionel.”
“I’ve just finished,” she said.
She did not hurry herself, but when it pleased her left the room. Canon Spratte turned eagerly to his son.
“Now, Lionel, I think you’ve shilly-shallied long enough. I want to know for good and all what you propose to do with regard to Gwendolen.”
“What do you mean, father?”
“Good lord, man, you’re not a perfect fool, are you? We’ve discussed your marriage ad nauseam. I want to know what your intentions are. It’s not fair to the girl to keep her dangling in this fashion. Are you going to marry her or not?”
“Well, father, there’s no hurry about it?”
“On the contrary there’s the greatest possible hurry.”
“Why?”
“I have every reason to believe that some one else is thinking of proposing to her.”
“Well, I don’t think she cares twopence about me,” answered Lionel, rather sulkily. “Lately when I’ve seen her she’s talked of nothing but you.”
“There are less diverting topics of conversation, Lionel,” retorted the Canon, with a smile.
“One can have too much of a good thing.”
“If you don’t look sharp some one else will step in and cut you out. I warn you candidly.”
“I shan’t break my heart, father.”
Canon Spratte shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know what the young men of the present day are coming to; they have no spirit and no enterprise. Anyhow, I’ve done my duty and you mustn’t be surprised whatever happens.”
“I wonder you don’t marry her yourself,” said Lionel, ironically.
“And would you have anything to say against my doing so?” retorted the Canon, not without a suspicion of temper. “Let me tell you that a man of fifty is in the very flower of his age. I flatter myself there are few men of your years who have half the vigour and energy that I have.”
He flung out of the room in a huff. His horse had been waiting for half-an-hour, and it was later than usual when he joined Gwendolen in the Park. Her face lit up, and from his own all sign of vexation had vanished.
“I’d given you up,” she said. “I thought you weren’t able to come.”
“Would you have been disappointed if I hadn’t?”
“Awfully!”
“You make me regret more than ever that I’m not twenty-five,” he said, without any beating about the bush.
“Why?”
“Because if I were I should promptly ask you to marry me.”
“If you were I should probably refuse you,” she smiled.
“I wonder what you mean by that?”
They walked their horses side by side, and the Canon was seized with an unaccountable shyness. It was by a real effort of will that at last he forced himself to speak.
“I suppose it never struck you that I took more than common pleasure in our conversations. But when I left you I was always seized with despair. I realized that my heart had remained as young as ever it was, but you never ceased to see in me a man old enough to be your father. Do you know that I’m fifty?”
“I never asked myself what your age was. I never felt that you were any older than I.”
She answered nervously, looking straight in front of her. The Canon shot a sidelong glance in her direction and saw that her cheeks were flaming. He recovered his courage at once. Faint heart, he knew, never won fair lady.
“Gwendolen, I sometimes think that you have worked a miracle, for by your side I feel as young as the summer morning. What can the years matter when I have the spirit and the strength of a youth! I admire you and I love you. Do you think me very ridiculous?”
She shook her head, but did not speak. He put his hand lightly on hers.
“Gwendolen, will you be my wife?”
She looked up with a little laugh that was almost hysterical. She did not answer directly.
“I’ll race you to the end,” she said.
Without a word, smiling, the Canon put the spurs to his horse; and they galloped up the Row at a speed which was altogether beyond reason. The policeman on his beat watched with gaping mouth the strange spectacle of a comely young woman and an ecclesiastical dignitary, no longer in his first youth but handsome too, peltering towards the Achilles Statue as fast as they could go. Gwendolen’s horse kept somewhat ahead, but the Canon would not give way. Again he clapped his spurs to the straining flanks. It seemed to him, romantically, that he rode for a great prize, and in his excitement he could have shouted at the top of his voice. They reached the end neck and neck, and when they stopped, panting, the horses were white with lather. There was no longer a shadow of humility in the Canon’s breezy manner.
“And now for my answer,” he cried, gaily.
“What about Lionel?” she smiled, blushing.
“Oh, Lionel can go to the dickens.”
Canon Spratte frequently said that he was unaccustomed to let grass grow under his feet. Having left Gwendolen at the door, he returned to the Vicarage, changed his clothes, and promptly took a cab back to Park Lane. But he found that she had been before him, and Sir John Durant was already in possession of the happy news.
“Upon my soul, I don’t know what you’ve done to the girl,” he said, in his hearty, boisterous tone. “She’s quite infatuated.”
The Canon laughed and rubbed his hands.
“She’s made me the happiest of men.”
Sir John was a man of affairs, whose pride it was that he went straight to the point; and notwithstanding Canon Spratte’s remonstrance, who sought to waive the matter airily aside, he insisted on discussing at once the business part of the projected union. It required all the fortunate lover’s self-control to prevent a little gasp of pleased surprise when the brewer in a casual way mentioned the sum he proposed to settle on his only daughter. It was larger even than he had expected.
“My dear Durant, your generosity overwhelms me,” he cried. “I promise you I will do my best to make her happy, and I think it’s unlikely that either my brother or Lionel will ever marry. In all probability Gwendolen’s eldest son will inherit the title.”
This settled, he turned deftly to the political situation, and discovered that the brewer was somewhat taken aback by the responsibility which appeared to have fallen on him. He was anxious to do his duty by his party, but at the same time could not bear to sacrifice the interests of his trade. He had come to no decision whatever, and showed himself only too pleased to discuss his predicament with a man whose experience was so large, and whose mind so lucid. He insisted that his prospective son-in-law should stay to luncheon. During this meal Canon Spratte proved very neatly his skill in social intercourse, for he was able to show himself gallant and tender towards Gwendolen, while at the same time he displayed keen sympathy with the brewer’s perplexity. But no sooner was the meal over than he jumped to his feet.
“You’re not going already?” cried Sir John.
“My dear fellow, I must. I have a very busy day before me.” He smiled tenderly at Gwendolen. “You can imagine that it is not without weighty reasons that I tear myself away.”
“Then you must come back to dinner. You know, it’s private members’ night and I’m not going to the House.”
“Impossible also! Winnie is returning from the country to-day, and it would be unkind if I did not dine at home. Besides, I have asked my brother. A Christian family is one of the most beautiful as it is one of the most characteristic sights of our English life. I like to allow its mellowing influence to be exerted as often as possible on my rather harum-scarum relative.”
“Then when shall we see you again?” asked the brewer, firmly grasping his hand.
“If it won’t disturb you I should like to come in for half-an-hour about ten o’clock.”
As soon as the door was closed behind him, he hailed a passing cab.
“I’ll give you a florin if you can get to the Athenæum in three minutes,” he cried to the driver. He looked at his watch. “I think I shall just catch him.”
He knew that Lord Stonehenge was in the habit of passing an hour at the Athenæum after luncheon. He sat always in a certain chair, near the window, which by common consent was invariably left vacant for him. No one ventured to disturb him. He went in and out of the club, indifferent to his fellow-members, as if he did not notice that a soul was there. But Canon Spratte was an audacious man and did not fear to be importunate. He smiled with satisfaction when he saw Lord Stonehenge, heavily seated in his accustomed place. That vast mass of flesh had a ponderous immobility which suggested that it would be difficult for the Prime Minister to escape from his agile hands. He was turning over the pages of a review, but his mind appeared busy with other things.
Canon Spratte walked up jauntily with the Westminster Gazette in his hand. It contained a very amusing cartoon in which Sir John Durant, as a Turkish pasha, was seated on a beer-barrel, while the Prime Minister, in the garb of an odalisque, knelt humbly before him with uplifted hands. In the background were two satellites, one with a bow-string and the other with a scimitar.
“Have you seen this?” said the Canon, sitting down coolly and handing the paper. “Capital, isn’t it?”
The Prime Minister turned his listless eyes on the intruder and for a moment wondered who on earth he was.
“I’ve just been lunching with Durant. He’s rather sore about it. Ticklish situation, isn’t it?”
“Are you Theodore Spratte?” asked Lord Stonehenge.
“I am,” laughed the Canon. “I hope Durant won’t do anything rash. I have a good deal of influence with him, and of course I’m doing my best to persuade him not to kick over the traces.”
A sudden light flashed in the Prime Minister’s eyes, and he saw that Canon Spratte had an object in thus speaking to him. He dived into the abysses of his memory, and recalled that he had offered him a deanery, which the Canon had refused. The man evidently wanted a bishopric or nothing. He remembered also something that his daughter had told him; he wondered what power the suave parson actually had with Sir John.
“I hear that your son is going to marry Durant’s daughter,” he said, slowly.
“You’ve been misinformed,” answered the Canon, with a smile that was somewhat ironical. “I am going to marry her.”
“You!”
They looked at one another like two fencers, seeking to discover their strength in each other’s face. The Prime Minister’s eyes had a peculiar force which suggested the reason of his long-continued power; they lacked brilliancy, but there was in them a curious intensity of vision which seemed to absorb the thoughts of other men’s minds. The silence lasted interminably. Canon Spratte bore the great man’s gaze with perfect steadfastness, and presently Lord Stonehenge looked away. He stared out of the window, into space, and the Canon thought he had entirely forgotten the subject in hand.
“I need not tell you that I will do everything I can to bring Durant to a reasonable state of mind. At present he’s wavering. You probably know the facts better than I do, but he tells me the liquor party will follow him. I understand if they go against you the result will be—awkward.”
Lord Stonehenge apparently did not hear. His eyes still rested heavily on the trees in the park. Canon Spratte began to grow a little irritated, but still he waited patiently. At last the Prime Minister spoke.
“I suppose you’ve heard that Gray is dead?”
“I have.”
“Would you like to go to Barchester?”
Although he seemed desperately stupid Lord Stonehenge had understood. The Canon’s heart gave a leap and he caught his breath. He forgot that Barchester stood on a clay soil, and it no longer seemed a tedious place. At last! But he showed no eagerness to accept. He knew as well as the Prime Minister that the Government was in the hollow of his hand.
At that moment a bishop came up to Lord Stonehenge with a telegram in his hand. Canon Spratte gave him an impatient frown.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think you ought to see this,” said the newcomer.
He handed the telegram to Lord Stonehenge, who glanced at it irritably. The bishop knew Canon Spratte and nodded to him.
“It’s to tell me that the Bishop of Sheffield died in his sleep early this morning. He’s been ailing for some time.”
“Thank you,” said the Prime Minister.
He returned the telegram, and the bishop withdrew. Canon Spratte and Lord Stonehenge looked at one another once more. A new factor had come into the game which they were playing. Beside Sheffield the diocese of Barchester was quite insignificant; it was small and poor, and from the city itself all prosperity had long since vanished. The bishop of such a place might be a great man in his own neighbourhood, but he had no chance of activity outside it. Sheffield, on the other hand, possessed two suffragans and patronage of vast importance. It was the centre of religious life in the Midlands. Year by year the town was growing in consequence; and its bishop, if a man of resource, might wield great power. By help of the rich manufacturers in his district he could raise huge sums for any purpose he pleased, and his influence need be second only to that of the archbishop. If it was possible to have Sheffield, Barchester was but a poor reward for such services as Theodore Spratte could render to his country. But he had no time to think it over. It was necessary to make his decision there and then. He was a bold man and did not hesitate.
Lord Stonehenge still waited for his answer.
“It’s very good of you to make me such an offer, and I need not say I am grateful for the honour, but—if I may put it frankly—I don’t think I feel inclined to go to such a dead and alive town as Barchester. I have a passion for work, and I can’t live without plenty to do. If I leave London at all it must be for a place that offers ample scope for a man of energy, a place where there’s a vigorous civic life, and where you may feel yourself, as it were, at the centre of this busy modern world of ours. Advance and progress are my watchwords.”
Conversation with Lord Stonehenge was difficult, for he seldom opened his mouth. When you had said what you wanted, he merely waited for you to begin again; and unless possessed of much effrontery, you were utterly disconcerted. In the present case, however, there was but one word he needed to utter, and that word was Sheffield. It remained unspoken. Canon Spratte, content to let things take their time, got up.
“But it’s too bad of me to take up the only moment in the day you have for recreation. I shall be seeing Durant again after dinner.”
With a nod and a smile he left the Prime Minister to his own reflections.
Theodore’s day had been somewhat exhausting. It is given to few, however eagerly they pursue the art of life, within twelve hours to win a wife and to refuse a bishopric. He had thoroughly earned the bath he took before dinner. He wondered how many people knew that he, Theodore Spratte, then pleasantly wallowing in cold water, mother naked, held as in a balance the destinies of the British Empire. Sir John Durant would do as he suggested, and the next few hours might see determined the fall of an administration. He rubbed himself joyously with rough towels.
“When the Clergy and the Licensed Victualers stand shoulder to shoulder, not all the powers of Satan can avail against them,” he cried.
He dressed with unusual care and shaved a second time; he brushed his hair with feminine nicety. He put two rings on his little finger, and with a sigh of complete satisfaction, looked at himself in the glass. He felt very well and young and happy. His appetite was good and he was prepared to enjoy an excellent dinner.
When he reached the drawing-room he found that Lord Spratte was already arrived. Winnie, whom he had not seen since her return, came up to kiss him.
“Well, my dear, I hope you enjoyed yourself. You look positively radiant.”
“I’m so happy, father. You don’t know what a dear Harry is. I’m awfully grateful to you.”
“Your father’s a wise man, darling,” he laughed.
Lionel came in, hat in hand, to see Winnie, who had arrived but half-an-hour before and gone straight to her room. He expressed his regret that a choir-practice, which he must attend, forced him to go out.
“Well, my boy, I’m sorry you can’t dine with us,” said the Canon. “I should have liked to see my family united round my table on this night of all others, but since your duty calls I have no more to say.”
At this moment Ponsonby announced that dinner was served, and at the same time handed a telegram to his master.
“Hulloa, what’s this?”
He opened it and gave a cry. His heart beat so violently that he was obliged to sit down.
“Papa, what’s the matter?” cried Winnie.
“It’s so stupid of me, I’m quite upset. Get me a glass of sherry, Ponsonby.”
“What is it, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia, anxiously.
He waved his family aside and would not speak till Ponsonby brought the wine. He drank a glass of sherry. A sigh of relief issued from his lips. He waited till Ponsonby had left the room, and then slowly rose to his feet.
“Sophia, you will be gratified to learn that the Government has offered me the vacant bishopric of Sheffield.”
“Oh, papa, I’m so glad,” said Winnie.
Lionel seized his father’s hand and wrung it warmly.
“Well, Sophia, what do you say?”
“Presumably you don’t want me to persuade you to take it.”
“No, I shall accept as it is offered me, frankly—and by telegram.”
He looked upon the members of his family and took no pains to hide his intense satisfaction.
“But I’m keeping you from your duties, Lionel. You mustn’t wait a moment longer.” His son went to the door, but the Canon called him back. “One moment, I was forgetting. I think the time has now arrived to announce Winnie’s betrothal publicly. Just sit down and write out a notice; you can leave it at the News Agency as you pass.”
Lionel obediently went to the desk and took a pen. The Canon cleared his throat.
“We are authorized to announce that a marriage has been arranged between Lord Wroxham, of Castle Tanker, and Winifred, only daughter of the Honourable, (write that in full, Lionel,) of the Honourable and Reverend Canon Theodore Spratte, bishop elect of Sheffield; better known as the——”
“Better known as the—yes?”
“You’re very dull, Lionel,” exclaimed the Canon, with a laugh that was somewhat irritable. “Better known as the popular and brilliant Vicar of St. Gregory’s, South Kensington.”
When Lionel had departed with this, Canon Spratte turned jovially to his brother.
“Well, Thomas, you see that virtue is sometimes rewarded even in this world. It is a great blessing to me to think that everything I desired has come about. Winnie is to marry a man who will make her an excellent husband, and she will occupy a position which she cannot fail to adorn. While as for myself I am removing to a sphere where such poor abilities as Providence has endowed me with, will have a fuller scope. I confess that I am gratified, not only for myself, but for the honour which has befallen our house. I cannot help regretting that my dear father is not alive to see this day. I need not say, Thomas, that I shall always be pleased to see you at Sheffield. I am convinced that the golf-links are excellent, and the poor hospitality of the Palace will ever be at the command of the head of my family.”
“Theodore, I shouldn’t like to be a rebellious parson in your diocese,” said Lord Spratte, gravely. “You’ll make it very hot for any one who don’t act accordin’ to your lights.”
“I shall not forget the watchwords of our house, which have ever been Advance and Progress. To these I shall now add: ‘Discipline.’ But really we should go down to dinner.”
Lady Sophia thought it high time, for she had a healthy appetite. But at that instant came another interruption. Ponsonby entered the room.
“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir,” he said, handing a card to the Canon.
“Oh, I can see no one at this hour. I can’t keep dinner waiting a moment longer.”
“I told him you could see nobody, sir,” answered Ponsonby, “but the gentleman said he came from the Daily Mail.”
“That certainly makes a difference,” said the Canon, taking the card.
“That’s what I thought, sir. He said he would be very much obliged if you could grant him a short interview.”
“Say I shall be very happy, Ponsonby, and show him into my study.”
“Theodore, are we to have no dinner?” cried Lady Sophia, when Ponsonby was gone.
“Dinner, dinner!” exclaimed Canon Spratte, scornfully. “How can I think of dinner now, Sophia? I have a duty to perform. You forgot that my position is radically altered.”
“I knew you’d remind us of it in less than five minutes,” said Lady Sophia, who felt that firmness now was needed or the future would be unbearable.
“I and my family have always been in the vanguard of progress,” replied the bishop elect, with a glance at the Lord Chancellor’s portrait.
“I know, but even your family wants its dinner sometimes.”
“Sophia, I shall be obliged if you will not interrupt me. I cannot say I think it kind of you to insist in this vulgar way on the satisfaction of a gross and sensual appetite. I should have thought on such an occasion worthier thoughts would occupy your mind. But if your flesh is weak I am willing that you should begin. I am not a selfish man, and Heaven forbid that I should ask as a right what an affectionate and Christian disposition should grant as a pleasure.”
“Fiddlesticks!”
Canon Spratte looked his sister up and down. He held himself very erect.
“Sophia, I have long felt that you do not treat me with the respect I venture to consider my due. I must really beg you not to act towards me any longer with this mixture of indecent frivolity and vulgar cynicism. I do not wish to remind you that there is a change in my position.”
“You have done so twice in five minutes,” said Lady Sophia, acidly.
“It appears to be necessary. Once for all, however, let me inform you that henceforth I expect to be treated in a different fashion. If you have not the affection to respect your brother Theodore, if you have not the delicacy of sentiment to respect the son of the late Lord Chancellor—you will at least respect the Bishop of Sheffield.”
He stood for a moment to allow the effect of his words to be duly felt, and then marched to the door. Here he stopped and turned round.
“It may also interest you to learn that on the thirty-first of July I am going to be married to Gwendolen Durant.”
He went out and slammed the door behind him. Lady Sophia stared at her eldest brother with helpless astonishment; but with a little smile, Lord Spratte shrugged his shoulders.
“He always has had the last word, Sophia.”
The Times of the third of May in the following year contained the subjoined announcement:
SPRATTE. On the 1st instant, at the Palace, the wife of the Right Revd. the Bishop of Sheffield, (the Honourable Theodore Spratte,) of a son.