II

It was one of Canon Spratte’s peculiarities that he liked to read his

_Times_ before any other member of his family. He found a peculiar

delight in opening it himself, and likened the perusal of a newspaper

which some one else had read, to the drinking of milk from which a

dishonest dairyman had skimmed the cream. Next morning, running his eye

down the list of contents, he discovered that the Bishop of Barchester

was dead.

“Poor Andover is no more, Sophia,” he remarked, with a decent solemnity.

He ate his kidney absently, and it was not till he passed his coffee-cup

to Lady Sophia to be refilled that he made any observation.

“It’s really almost providential that the poor old man should depart

this life on the very day I am to meet Lord Stonehenge at dinner. I’d

better have the pair to-night, Sophia.”

“Where are you dining?”

“At the Hollingtons,” he answered. “Last time a bishopric was vacant,

the Prime Minister practically assured me that I should have the next.”

“He’s probably done the same to half the school-masters in England.”

“Nonsense! Who is there that could take it? They’ve none of them half

the claims that I have.”

Theodore Spratte never concealed from the world that he rated himself

highly. He esteemed bashfulness a sign of bad manners, and was used to

say that a man who pretended not to know his own value was a possing

fool.

“It’s a ridiculous system altogether to give a bishopric to Tom Noddy

because he’s taught Latin verses to a parcel of stupid school-boys. And

besides, as the youngest son of the late Lord Chancellor, I think I may

expect something from my country.”

“Pray pass me the toast,” said Lady Sophia.

“I’m not a vain man, but I honestly think I have the right to some

recognition. As my father, the late Lord Chancellor of England, often

said....”

“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t talk of him as if he were your father

only, Theodore,” interrupted Lady Sophia, not without irritation. “I

have just as much right to him as you.”

“I think you asked for the toast, my dear.”

Presently Canon Spratte, taking the paper with him, retired to his

study. He was a man of regular habits, knowing that to acquire such is

the first step to greatness, episcopal and otherwise; and after

breakfast he was used to smoke his pipe, meditate, and read the _Times_.

But this morning, somewhat agitated by the news of Bishop Andover’s

demise, he took from the shelves that book which at present was his only

contribution to the great literature of England. On the death of his

father, laden with years and with honours, Canon Spratte had begun

immediately to gather materials for a biography. This was eventually

published under the title: _Life and Letters of Josiah Spratte, Lord

Chancellor of England_. It was in two volumes, magnificently bound in

calf, with the family arms, a blaze of gold, on the side.

When the Canon set about this great work he went to his sister and

begged her to make notes of her recollections.

“You can help me a great deal, Sophia,” he said. “With your woman’s

intelligence, you will have noticed a good many points which have

escaped me. The masculine intellect takes in the important main lines,

whereas women observe only the frivolous details. But I recognize that

it is just these frivolous details, properly sorted, which will give

life and variety to that grand career absorbed by affairs of State and

the advantage of the nation.”

Lady Sophia, accustomed to these tirades, smiled dryly and said: “Shall

I tell you the very first thing I remember, Theodore? I can’t have been

more than six years old, but I have never forgotten it.”

“That is very interesting. Let me put it down at once.”

He took from his pocket the little book, which he carried with him

always to jot down the thoughts that periodically occurred to him.

“Now, Sophia.”

“Father and mother were having a conversation, and suddenly father beat

his fist on the table so that the whole room shook.”

“Yes, he had that energetic, effective way of expressing himself,” said

the Canon. “He was a man of really forceful character. That is a point

upon which I mean to lay great stress.”

“He beat his fist on the table and he roared out at the top of his

voice: ‘Your father’s a damned fool, Maria; and your mother’s a damned

fool, Maria; but, by gad, you’re a bigger damned fool than both of them

put together.’”

The Canon sprang up and throwing back his head with a gesture habitual

to him, drew to his full, imposing height.

“You shock and surprise me, Sophia. If these are your recollections, I

advise you to forget them as quickly as you possibly can.”

Nor had he better success with his brother.

“I wonder whether you can give me no anecdotes, no interesting

side-lights on our father’s character? I am determined to make my

biography as complete as possible.”

“I’ll give you an anecdote by all means,” said Lord Spratte. “You

remember that the old ’un very much objected to potatoes baked in their

skins.”

“A very pardonable and interesting idiosyncrasy of genius,” interposed

the biographer.

“Well, one Sunday night when we had people to supper, by some accident

they were brought in. The servant handed the dish to father. Father

looked at him and slowly rose to his feet. ‘Don’t you know, you idiot,’

he bellowed, ‘that I don’t like potatoes baked in their skins?’ He took

them out of the dish, one by one, while the servant stood petrified, and

threw them with all his might at the pictures on the walls. Each picture

had its potato till the dish was empty. Then he sat down again calmly

and began to eat his supper.”

“I shall certainly put down nothing in my biography which tends to cast

ridicule or odium on the memory of a great man,” said Canon Spratte,

frigidly. “My motto is: _De mortuis nil nisi bonum_.”

On this principle the _Life and Letters_ was written. To testify to

filial admiration there were in St. Gregory’s Vicarage no less than

three portraits of the first Earl Spratte, but the most characteristic

was a copy of that which the Chancellor himself, with due regard to his

fame and importance, had bequeathed to the National Portrait Gallery. It

showed the great man seated, his hands grasping the arms of his chair

with the savage vigour that was customary with him. They were strong,

large hands, and the tendons stood out from the brutal force wherewith

he held them. He looked the spectator full in the face, sitting very

squarely, bent forward in the despotic attitude which all who had

appeared before him knew so well. He wore the full-bottomed wig of his

office and the gorgeous robes, edged with gold. His head was thrust out

and he stared from under his shaggy brows with an expression of ruthless

violence; his strong features were set in a villainous scowl; his hard,

cruel mouth was clenched as though he were determined that nothing

should affect his will. And the idea which the fine portrait gave, was

borne out by the memoirs of the time.

Springing, notwithstanding the Canon’s grandiloquence, from the dregs of

commercial life, Josiah Spratte had fought his way to the greatest prize

of his calling by an indomitable will and a truculent savagery that

spared neither enemies nor friends. Though endowed by nature with no

great subtlety of mind, he had a gift of fluent speech, an

imperturbable self-confidence, and a physique of extraordinary vigour.

He was unhampered by any thought for the susceptibilities of others, and

he was regardless of good manners. He bullied his way to the Woolsack by

the weight of his personality and the harsh roar of his voice. From the

outset of his career, as a junior, he treated his leaders with unhidden

contempt. He used the solicitors who gave him briefs like vermin,

dealing with them as might a harsh master with a set of ignorant and

rebellious school-boys. They hated him, but were impressed withal, and

quickly brought him more work than he could do. Then, beginning to feel

his power, he browbeat the court so that weak judges were like wax in

his hands and juries trembled at his ferocious glance. He went into

Parliament and trampled impartially upon his associates and his

opponents. He excited more hatred than any one of his generation, for he

was insolent, overbearing, and impatient of contradiction; but in a

short while the Government was forced to make him Attorney-General. From

the beginning his mind had been set on the ultimate goal, and he waited

till the Chancellor of that time died. This was the most critical point

of his life, for all concerned understood perfectly at what Josiah

Spratte aimed; but now all the bitterness, anger, and loathing he had so

wilfully aroused, were banded against him; and he had to fight as well

against the rivalry of some and the bitterness of others. But like a

lion at bay, with magnificent self-confidence, he squared himself to

bear down all obstacles. The Government was undecided. A certain eminent

lawyer, Sir Robert Parkleigh, had claims upon it which were undeniable.

Having held office in a previous administration he had waived his right

to promotion on the understanding that his reward should be great

thereafter: he was a man of vigorous understanding, learned, urbane and

of great family. The appointment would be very popular. But the

Attorney-General was not a man to be trifled with, and a go-between was

sent unofficially to learn his views.

“I suppose Parkleigh will get the Chancellorship,” said this person, in

the course of an amiable conversation.

“You suppose nothing of the sort,” shouted Josiah Spratte. His face grew

red with passion and his scowl deepened as the veins of his forehead

stood out like knotted cords. He fixed on the man those piercing eyes

which seemed to read into the soul, discovering shameful secrets.

“You’ve been sent to find out what I thought about the Chancellorship?

It’s what I suspected. Don’t deny it!”

Beads of sweat stood on the other’s brow as the Attorney-General towered

over him, threatening and peremptory. He vowed he had received no such

mission.

“Don’t deny it, I tell you,” cried Josiah Spratte. Then, furiously, he

walked up and down the room. “Tell them,” he hissed at length, with

undescribable venom, “Tell them that if Parkleigh is made Chancellor,

I’ll kick the Government out. By God, they shan’t stay in a month!”

While the appointment was pending, a great lady, suffering under some

brutal affront, sought to beard the lion.

“Do you know what people are saying about you, Mr. Attorney? They’re

wondering who this sprat is that we are asked to swallow.”

Sir Josiah looked at her.

“Tell your friends, Madam, to be thankful the sprat is not a whale,

because even if he were, by God they’d have to swallow him. And what’s

more, they’d have to pretend they liked him!”

Shortly afterwards the Prime Minister wrote a very civil note to his

subordinate offering him the much-coveted place. Josiah Spratte was

raised to the Peerage. A second term of office was rewarded by new

honour, and he became Earl Spratte of Beachcombe and Viscount

Rallington.

But the great lawyer carried also into private life the tones with which

he cowed juries and sent witnesses fainting from the box. He never spoke

but to command and gave no order without a string of oaths. When he

fell into a temper, which happened several times a day, he could be

heard from top to bottom of the house. His wife, his servants, trembled

before him; his children in his presence spoke in whispers, and he took

pleasure in humiliating them with brutal raillery. He met his match but

twice. The first time was at his club when he was playing whist. This

was his favourite relaxation, and he was always to be found in the

card-room about six o’clock waiting for a rubber. One day by chance a

fourth could not be found, and the Chancellor himself went into the

smoking-room to look for a player. It was a sunny afternoon in July, and

the place was deserted, except for a young guardsman who sat comfortably

sleeping in an arm-chair. Without hesitation Lord Spratte shook him

violently till he was wide awake, and asked if he knew the game. He

answered that he played very badly and would much sooner resume his nap;

but Lord Spratte declined to hear excuses, and dragged him by sheer

force into the card-room. The soldier had only spoken the truth when he

described himself as a bad player, and since he was the Chancellor’s

partner, things did not go very smoothly. The elder man took no trouble

to hide his annoyance when the other made a mistake, and expressed his

opinion of the subaltern’s intelligence with more bluntness than

civility.

“Oh, confound you, shut up!” cried the guardsman at last. “How d’you

expect a fellow to play if you go on ragging him like a fish-wife?”

“I don’t think you know who I am, sir,” answered the Chancellor, with

frowning brows.

“Oh yes, I do! You’re the Lord Chancellor, aren’t you? But you might

mind your manners for all that. You’re not in your dirty police-court

now.”

For the rest of that rubber the distinguished lawyer never opened his

mouth.

But next time he was worsted in debate the results were more serious.

Lord Spratte, still restless after the attainment of his ambition, was

seized with the desire to found a great family; and on this account

wished his eldest son, who had assumed the title of Viscount Rallington,

to marry a certain heiress of important connections. The lady was not

unwilling, but Rallington stubbornly refused. At first, white with rage,

Lord Spratte asked how he dared to cross him; and he showered upon his

son that abundant vituperation of which he was the finest master in

England. But without effect. The Chancellor was so astounded at this

display of spirit that for once in his life he condescended to argue.

His son stood firm. Then the old man burst out again with violent

temper.

“And who the devil are you?” he cried. “Haven’t I raised you from the

gutter? What would you be without me? By God, you shall do whatever I

tell you.”

Rallington lost all patience. He put off the timidity with which for

years he had endured so much and went up to his father.

“Look here, don’t talk to me like that. I’ll marry a barmaid if I

choose, and be damned to you!”

The Chancellor’s hair stood on end with wrath, and he gasped for breath.

His passion was such that for a minute he could not speak. Then his son,

driven at length to open rebellion, poured out the hatred which had so

long accumulated. He reminded him of the tyranny with which he had used

his whole family, and the terror in which he had held them. He had

robbed them of all freedom, so that they were slaves to his every whim.

To his angry violence and to his selfishness all their happiness had

been sacrificed.

“You’ve been a bullying ruffian all your life, and no one has had the

pluck to stand up to you. I’m sick of it, and I won’t stand it any more.

D’you hear?”

At last the Chancellor found words, and beset his son with a torrent of

blasphemy, and with foul-mouthed abuse.

“Be quiet!” said the other, standing up to him. “How dare you speak to

me like that! It’s no good trying to bully me now.”

“By God, I’ll knock you down.”

Rallington thrust his face close to his father’s, and for a moment fear

seized the old man. Here at length was some one whom he could not cow,

and he hated his son.

“You’d better not touch me. You can’t thrash me now as you could when I

was a boy. I recommend you to take great care.”

Lord Spratte raised his hands, but a trembling came suddenly upon him,

so that he could not move.

“Get out of my house,” he screamed. “Get out of my house.”

“I’m only too glad to go.”

The arteries beat in the old man’s head so that he thought some horrible

thing would happen to him. He poured out brandy and drank it, but it

tasted like water. He sat for hours with clenched fists and scowling

brow; and at last with a savage laugh he took his will and with his own

hand wrote a codicil in which he deprived his eldest son of every penny

he could. This relieved him and he breathed more freely. Presently he

called his family together and told them without a word of explanation

that Rallington was his son no longer.

“If any of you mention his name, or if I hear that you have had any

communication with him, you shall go as he went.”

The pair never met again, for Rallington went abroad and died,

unmarried, one month before his father. Thomas, the next son, who had

been known all his life as Tommy Tiddler, succeeded the Chancellor as

second Earl Spratte of Beachcombe.

* * * * *

But the excellent Theodore, with proper devotion, took care in his

biography not even to hint at this characteristic violence. He wrote

with a flowing, somewhat pompous style; and the moral pointed by these

two handsome volumes was that with uprightness, sobriety, and due

allegiance to the Church by law established, it was possible to reach

the highest honours. The learned Canon traced the ancestry of his family

to very remote periods. He had no difficulty in convincing himself that

the plebeian surname was but a vulgar error for _des Prats_; and to the

outspoken ridicule of his elder brother, was able after much study to

announce that a member of the English branch of the Montmorencys had

assumed the name in the seventeenth century upon his marriage with a

French heiress. With these distinguished antecedents it was no wonder

that Josiah Spratte should appear a benevolent old gentleman of mild

temper and pious disposition, apt to express himself in well-balanced

periods. He would have made an excellent churchwarden or a secretary to

charitable institutions, but why precisely he should have become Lord

Chancellor of England nowhere appeared. In short, the eloquent divine,

with the best intentions in the world, wrote a life of his father which

was not only perfectly untrue, but also exceedingly tedious.

The book had a certain success with old ladies, who put it beside their

works of devotion and had it read to them in hours of mental distress.

Sometimes, when they were persons of uncommon importance, the Canon

himself consented to read to them; and then, so spirited was his

delivery, so well-modulated his voice, it seemed as improving as one of

his own sermons. But the _Life and Letters_ certainly had no more

assiduous nor enthusiastic reader than the author thereof.

“I don’t think I’m a vain man,” he remarked, “but I can’t help feeling

this is exactly how a biography ought to be written.”

There was a knock at the door, and the Canon, replacing the volume at

which he had glanced, took out in its stead the first book of Hooker’s

_Ecclesiastical Polity_. He had far too keen a sense of decorum to

appear one man to the world and to his immediate relatives another. No

unforeseen accident had ever found him other than self-contained,

oratorical, and didactic. Not even his family was privileged to see him

_en robe de chambre_.

It was his son who knocked. Lionel had been taking an early service at

St. Gregory’s, and had not yet seen his father.

“Come in, come in,” said the Canon. “Good morning, Lionel.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, father. I want to book some

certificates.”

“You can never disturb me when you are fulfilling the duties of your

office, my boy. Pray sit down.”

He put the _Ecclesiastical Polity_ open on the desk.

“Hulloa, are you reading this?” asked the curate. “I’ve not looked at it

since I was at Oxford.”

“Then you make a mistake, Lionel. Hooker’s _Ecclesiastical Polity_ is

not only a monument of the English Church, but also a masterwork of the

English language. That is my complaint with the clergy of the present

day, that they neglect the great productions of their fathers. Stevenson

you read, and you read Renan, atheist though he is; but Hooker you have

not looked at since you were at Oxford.”

“I see that Andover is dead, father,” said Lionel, to change the

conversation.

“I look upon it as an uncommon happy release.”

“I wonder if they really will offer you the bishopric?”

“My dear boy, that is not a subject upon which I allow my thoughts to

dwell. I will not conceal from you that, as the youngest surviving son

of the late Lord Chancellor, I think I have some claims upon my country.

And I have duties towards it as well, so that if the bishopric is

offered to me I shall not hesitate to accept. You remember St. Paul’s

words to Timothy? _This is a true saying, if a man desire the office of

a bishop he desireth a good work._ But in these matters there is so much

ignoble wire-pulling, so much backstairs influence to which my character

is not suited and to which I could not bring myself to descend.”

Presently, however, when Canon Spratte strolled along Piccadilly on the

way to his club, it occurred to him that the day before he had given his

tailor an order for two pairs of trousers. His circumstances had taught

him neither to spend money recklessly, nor to despise a certain

well-bred economy; and it was by no means impossible that he would have

no use for those particular articles of clothing. He walked up Savile

Row.

“Mr. Marsden, will you inquire whether those garments I ordered

yesterday have been cut yet?”

The tailor passed the question down his speaking-tube.

“No, sir,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Then will you delay them till further notice?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Canon Spratte was going out of the shop when he noticed on a fashion

plate the costume of a bishop.

“Ah, do you make gaiters, Mr. Marsden?” said he, stopping.

“Yes, sir.”

“They’re very difficult things to cut. So many of my friends wear very

ill-fitting gaiters. Fine day, isn’t it? Good-morning.”