Winnie went to Mr. Railing’s temperance meeting by herself. When she was
setting out to go home, with somewhat marked deliberation, the Socialist
joined her.
“Your father has asked me to come to tea.”
“I know,” she answered. “Shall we walk back together?”
Bertram Railing was three-and-twenty, and Winnie had not exaggerated too
grossly when she vowed he was as beautiful as a Greek god. He was very
dark, but his skin, smoother than polished ivory, had the glowing colour
of Titian’s young Adonis; and his hair, worn long and admirably curling,
his fine sincere eyes, were dark too. With his broad forehead, his
straight nose, his well-shaped, sensual mouth, he was indeed very
handsome; and there was a squareness about his jaw which suggested
besides much strength of character. His expression was sombre; but when,
fired with enthusiasm, he spoke of any subject that deeply interested
him, his face grew very mobile. He wore a blue serge suit, a red tie,
and a low collar which showed his powerful, statuesque neck. If he could
not be altogether unconscious of his good looks, he was certainly
indifferent to them. His whole life was given up to a passionate
striving for reform, and his absorbing interest in the improvement of
the people allowed no room for trifling, unworthy thoughts. The
strenuous pursuit of the ideal gave him a fascination far greater than
that of his wonderful face.
“Did you like my lecture?” he asked, as they walked side by side.
Winnie looked at him, her eyes filled suddenly with tears.
“Yes.”
It was all she could say, but Railing smiled with pleasure. In this one
word was so much feeling that it pleased him more than all the applause
he had received.
“You can’t imagine what I felt while I was listening to you,” she said
at last.
“If I spoke well it was because I knew your eyes were upon me.”
“I felt perfectly hysterical. I had to bite my lips to prevent myself
from crying.”
They walked in silence, each occupied with tumultuous thoughts. His
presence was enchanting to Winnie, and yet the joy of it was almost
painful. A marvellous change had come upon her during the last few
days, and life was altogether new. The world seemed strangely full of
emotion, and the parts of the earth, in the spring sunshine, sang to one
another joyful songs.
“You’ve done so much for me,” she murmured, happy to confess her inmost
thoughts. “Until I knew you I was so selfish and stupid. But now
everything is different. I want to help you in your work. I want to work
too.”
For a moment, finding nothing to say, he gazed at her. His brown eyes,
so strong and full of meaning, looked into hers gravely; and hers were
blue and tender. But the silence grew unendurable, and flushing, the
girl looked down.
“Why don’t you speak?”
“I think I’m afraid,” he answered, and there was a tremor in his voice.
She felt that his heart was beating as quickly as her own.
“Who am I that you should be afraid?” she whispered.
He gave a sigh that was half joy, half sorrow; and clenched his hands in
the effort to master himself. But the girl’s sweet freshness rose to his
nostrils like the scent of the earth in the morning after the rain, and
his poor wits were all aflame.
“If I’ve done anything for you,” he said at last, “you’ve done a
thousand times more for me. When first I met you I was utterly
discouraged. The way seemed so hard. It was so difficult to make any
progress. And then you filled me with hope.”
He began to speak hurriedly, and Winnie listened to his words as though
they were some new evangel. He told her of his plans and of his
enthusiastic ambition to get the people the power that was theirs by
right. When he spoke of wages and of labour, of Co-operative
Associations and of Trades Unions, it sounded like music in her ears. He
told her of Lassalle’s fevered life, of Marx’ ceaseless struggle, of the
pitying anguish of Carl Marlo. He spoke so earnestly, with such a
vehemence of phrase, that Winnie, used to the sonorous platitudes of her
father, was carried out as it were into the bottomless sea of life.
After the artificiality wherein she had lived, these new doctrines, so
boldly regardless of consequence, eager only for justice, were like the
fresh air of heaven: her pulse beat more rapidly, and she knew that
beyond her narrow sphere was a freer world. Railing spoke of the people;
and the human beings whom she had classed disdainfully as the lower
orders, gained flesh and blood in her imagination. He spoke of their
passions and their misery, of their strength, their vice and squalor.
The many-headed crowd grew picturesque and coloured. Winnie was seized
on a sudden with the desire to go into their midst; and gaining a new
strength of purpose, she felt already a greater self-reliance. Then more
slowly, as though her presence were almost forgotten, but with the same
intense conviction, the young Socialist spoke of the Nazarene who was
the friend of the poor, the outcast, and the leper. Winnie had known Him
only as the mainstay of an opulent and established Church. In her mind
He was strangely connected with pews of pitch-pine, a fashionable
congregation in Sabbath garments, and the imposing presence of her
father. She learned now, as though it were a new thing, that the Christ
was a ragged labourer, one with the carpenter who worked at St.
Gregory’s Vicarage, the mason carrying a hod, and the scavenger who
swept the streets. In these simple words she found a reality that had
never appeared in her father’s rhetoric.
“And that’s why I call myself a Christian Socialist,” he said, “because
I believe that to these two belong the future--to Christ and to the
people.”
Winnie did not answer, and they walked again in silence.
“Do you despise me?” she cried at length. “Do you think I’m vain and
foolish? I’m so ashamed of myself.”
He looked at her with those passionate eyes of his, and his whole heart
yearned for her.
“You know what I think of you,” he said.
They were approaching the Vicarage and time was very short. Winnie threw
off all reserve.
“I want to help you, I want to work with you, I hate the life I lead at
home. I’m not a woman, I’m only a foolish doll. Take me away from it.”
The blood rushed to his face and the flame of an ecstatic happiness lit
up his eyes. He could scarcely believe that he had heard aright.
“Do you mean that?” he cried, hastily. “Oh, don’t play with me. Don’t
you know that I love you? I love you with all the strength I’ve got.
When I’m away from you it’s madness; I can think of nothing but you all
day, all night.”
Winnie sighed.
“I’m so glad to hear you say that.”
“Do you care for me at all?” he insisted, doubting still.
“Yes, I love you with my whole soul.”
When they reached St. Gregory’s Vicarage, the Canon greeted Railing with
effusion.
“My dear Mr. Railing, it’s so kind of you to come. Permit me to
introduce you to my sister. Mr. Railing is the author of that admirable
and much-discussed book, _The Future of Socialism_.”
“And what _is_ the future of Socialism?” asked Lady Sophia, politely.
“It took me three hundred pages to answer that question,” he replied,
with a smile.
“Then you must allow me to give you some tea at once.”
Winnie went up to her uncle, who had been lunching quietly with his
sister, but he put out a deprecating hand.
“You’d better not kiss me after being at a temperance meeting,” he said.
“I’m awfully afraid of catchin’ things. I always think it’s such a mercy
there are no poor people at St. Gregory’s.”
“D’you think they’re all infectious?” smiled Railing.
“One can never tell, you know. I always recommend Theodore to sprinkle
himself with Keating’s Powder when he’s been marrying the lower
classes.”
Railing tightened his lips at the flippant remark, and Winnie, watching
him, was ashamed of the frivolous atmosphere into which she had brought
him. It seemed to her suddenly that these people among whom till now she
had lived contentedly, were but play-actors repeating carelessly the
words they had learnt by rote. That drawing-room, with its smart
chintzes and fashionable Sheraton, was a stuffy prison in which she
could not breathe. She knew a hundred parlours which differed from this
one hardly at all: the same flowers were on the same tables, arranged in
the same way, the same books lay here and there, the same periodicals.
In one and all the same life was led; and it was artificial,
conventional, untrue. She and her friends were performing an elaborate
but trivial play, some of the scenes whereof took place in a
dining-room, some in a ball-room, others in the park, and some in
fashionable shops. But round this vast theatre was a great stone wall,
and outside it men and women and children swarmed in vast numbers, and
lived and loved and starved and worked and died.
Bertram turned to Canon Spratte.
“I see that one of our most ardent champions in the cause of temperance
has just died,” he said.
“Bishop Andover?” exclaimed the Canon. “Very sad, very sad! I knew him
well. Sophia is of opinion that he was the most learned of our bishops.”
“He’ll be a great loss.”
“Oh, a great loss!” cried the Canon, with conviction. “I was terribly
distressed when I heard of the sad event.”
“Are there any golf-links at Barchester?” asked Lord Spratte, with a
glance at his brother.
Railing looked at him with surprise, naturally not catching the purport
of this question.
“I really don’t know.” Then he gave Canon Spratte a smile. “I hear it’s
being suggested that you may go there.”
Canon Spratte received the suggestion without embarrassment.
“It would require a great deal to tear me away from St. Gregory’s,” he
answered, gravely. “I’m thoroughly attached to the parish.”
“I don’t know what they would do without you here.”
“Of course no man is indispensable in this world; but I don’t know that
I should consider myself fit to take so large and important a See as
that of Barchester.”
Winnie took her uncle some tea and sat down beside him.
“What d’you think of Mr. Railing?” she asked, abruptly.
“Smells of public spirit, don’t he? He’s the sort of chap that has
statistics scribbled all over his shirt-cuffs.” His jaw dropped. “And
his shirt-cuffs take off.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” asked Winnie, flushing.
“My dear, there’s no reason at all. Nor have I ever been able to
discover why you shouldn’t eat peas with a knife or assassinate your
grandmother. But I notice there is a prejudice against these things.”
“I think he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Do you, by Jove!” cried Lord Spratte. “Have you told your father?”
Winnie gave him a defiant look.
“No, but I mean to. You all think I’m still a child. You none of you
understand that I’m a woman.”
“I notice your sex generally claims to be misunderstood when it has a
mind to do something particularly foolish.”
“I wish you had heard him speak. I could hardly control myself.”
“Because he dropped his aitches?”
“Of course not. Can’t you see he’s a gentleman?”
“I’m so short-sighted,” replied Lord Spratte, dryly. “And I haven’t my
opera-glasses with me.”
Winnie rose impatiently and walked over to her father.
Lord Spratte watched her with some curiosity, and he caught Railing’s
glance as she came up. His lips formed themselves into a whistle. He
chuckled as he thought of Theodore’s consternation if what he suspected
proved true.
“I’m so sorry that a perfectly unavoidable engagement prevented me from
coming to hear you speak,” the Canon said, in his politest way.
“It was splendid,” cried Winnie, enthusiastically, forgetting already
her uncle’s sneer. “I’m never going to touch alcohol again.”
Railing looked at her gratefully, and his eyes were full of passionate
admiration.
“Capital, capital!” burst out the Canon, patting his friend on the back.
“You’re an orator, Railing.”
“You should have seen the audience,” said Winnie. “While Mr. Railing
spoke you could have heard a pin drop. And when he finished they broke
into such a storm of applause that I thought the roof was coming down.”
“They were all very kind and very appreciative,” said Railing, modestly.
Lady Sophia, raising her eyebrows, looked with astonishment at her
niece, than whom generally no one could be more composed. Winnie was
very apt to think enthusiasm a mark of ill-breeding, and the display of
genuine feeling proof of the worst possible taste. But now she was too
happy to care what her aunt thought, and seeing the look, answered it
boldly.
“You _should_ have seen the people, Aunt Sophia. They crowded round him
and wouldn’t let him go. Every one wanted to shake hands with him.”
“It’s wonderful how people are carried away by real eloquence,” said the
Canon, in his impressive fashion. “You must really come and hear me
preach, Mr. Railing. Of course I don’t pretend to have any gifts
comparable to yours, but I’m preparing a course of sermons on Christian
Socialism which may conceivably interest you.”
“I should like to hear you,” answered the other, putting as usual his
whole soul into the casual conversation. To Lady Sophia his strenuous
way rang out of tune with the rest of the company, but Winnie thought
him the only real man she had ever known. “The clergy ought to be in the
forefront of every movement.”
“Yes,” said the Canon, with that glance at the ancestral portrait which
so often preluded a flourish of oratory. “Advance and progress have ever
been my watchwords. I think I can truthfully say that my family has
always been in the vanguard of any movement for the advantage of the
working-classes.”
“From the days of the Montmorencys down to our father, the late Lord
Chancellor of England,” put in Lord Spratte, gravely.
Theodore gave the head of his house a look of some vexation, but drew
himself to his full height.
“As my brother amiably reminds me, my ancestor, Aubrey de Montmorency,
was killed while fighting for the freedom of the people, in the year
1642. And his second son, from whom we are directly descended....” Lady
Sophia gave a significant cough, but the Canon went on firmly, “was
beheaded by James II for resisting the tyranny of that Popish and
despotic sovereign.”
None could deny that the sentence was rhythmical. The delivery was
perfect.
Presently Railing got up.
“What, must you go already?” cried the Canon. “Well, well, I daresay
you’re busy. You must come and see us again, soon; I want to have a long
talk with you. And don’t forget to come and hear me preach.”
When Railing took Winnie’s hand, she felt it almost impossible to
command herself.
“I shall see you again to-morrow?” she whispered.
“I shan’t think of anything else till then,” he said.
His dark eyes, so passionately tender, burnt like fire in her heart.
Railing went out.
“Intelligent fellow!” said Canon Spratte, as the door closed behind him.
“I like him very much. Remarkably brilliant, isn’t he, Sophia?”
“My dear Theodore, how could I judge?” she answered, somewhat irritably.
“You never let him get a word in. He seemed an intelligent listener.”
“My dear Sophia, I may have faults,” laughed the Canon. “We all have
faults--even you, my dear. But no one has ever accused me of usurping
more than my fair share of the conversation. I daresay he was a little
shy.”
“I daresay!” said Lady Sophia, dryly.
V
The same evening, before going to his room to dress for dinner at the
Hollingtons, Canon Spratte wrote to an acquaintance who was clerical
correspondent for an important paper.
_MY DEAR MR. WILSON_,
_I wish you would announce in your admirable Journal that there is
no truth whatever in the rumour that I have been offered the vacant
bishopric of Barchester. This, however, gives me an opportunity to
say how thoroughly I condemn the modern practice of assigning this
and that post, in the wildest, most improbable fashion, to all
sorts and conditions of men. In these days of self-advertisement, I
suppose it is too much to ask that people should keep silent on the
positions to which they expect themselves or their friends to be
elevated, but I cannot help thinking such a proceeding would be at
once more decorous and more discreet._
_Yours most faithfully_,
_THEODORE SPRATTE_.
While changing, he remembered that flippant, disparaging remark which
Lady Sophia had made the day before about his calves. He looked at
himself in the glass and smiled with good-humoured scorn.
“They think I couldn’t wear gaiters,” he murmured. “I fancy there are
few bishops who’ve got better legs than I have.”
They were indeed well-shaped and muscular, for Canon Spratte, wisely,
took abundant exercise.
“I think it’s rather chilly to-night, Ponsonby,” he said. “Will you
bring me my fur coat.”
He put it on, and holding himself with a sort of dashing serenity,
looked again in the glass. It would have been absurd not to recognize
that he was a person of handsome and attractive presence. Few men can
wear very elaborate garments without being ridiculous, but Canon Spratte
was made for pompous, magnificent habiliments.
“A man in a fur coat is a noble animal,” he said, with deep conviction.
“Is the carriage there?”
* * * * *
Canon Spratte was at his best in feminine society. He used women with a
charming urbanity which reminded you of a past age when good manners
were still cultivated by the great ones of the earth. There was a
polite suppleness about his backbone, a caressing intonation of his
voice, which captivated the least susceptible. He was an ornament to any
party, for he never failed to say a clever thing at the necessary
moment. He could flatter the young by his courtliness and amuse the old
by his repartee. The triumphant air with which he entered the
Hollingtons’ drawing-room sufficed to impress you with his powers. It
was certainly an odd contrast between the flamboyant style of the Canon
of Tercanbury and the clumsy shuffling of Lord Stonehenge, ill-dressed
and untidy, who immediately followed.
To his great good fortune Canon Spratte found he was to take down to
dinner Lady Patricia, the Prime Minister’s daughter. He could be
brilliant and talkative, but on occasion he could be also a witty
listener; and this useful art he employed now to the best advantage.
None knew what self-restraint it needed for Canon Spratte to seem a
little dull, but he was aware that Lady Patricia shared her father’s
predilection for undangerous mediocrity. He heard what she said with
grave interest. He asked intelligent questions. He went so far as to
demand her advice on a matter wherein he had no intention of following
any opinion but his own. Lady Patricia gained the impression that there
was no one in the world at that moment whom he wanted to see more than
herself, and she talked with a fluency that was as unusual as it was
pleasing. She was a woman who found topics of conversation with
difficulty, and so felt uncommonly pleased with herself. She could not
help thinking the Canon a man of considerable ability. And the contrast
between him and her other neighbour was altogether to Canon Spratte’s
advantage. Lady Hollington had the fashionable craze for asking literary
and artistic persons to her parties. They take the place in a democratic
age of the buffoons whom princes formerly kept in their houses, and are
a luxury which the most economical can afford. But the novelist who now
claimed Lady Patricia’s attention, entertained her with his theories
upon art and literature; and since she knew nothing of either, and cared
less, the poor lady was immoderately bored.
The Canon was delighted to find on his left an old friend of his. Mrs.
Fitzherbert was a handsome widow of five-and-forty, with singularly fine
teeth, and these a charming smile gave her an opportunity of displaying
with some frequency. None knew whether her keen sense of humour was due
to the excellence of her teeth, or whether her teeth were so noticeable
on account of this acute perception of the ridiculous.
“I’m doubly favoured by the gods this evening,” said Canon Spratte. “If
I were a Papist I would offer a candle of gratitude to my patron saint.
I didn’t know I should be so fortunate as to meet you nor so lucky as to
sit by your side.”
“It’s taken you some time to avail yourself of the privilege of speaking
to me,” she answered, glancing at the _menu_.
“I wanted to appease the pangs of my hunger first, so that I could
devote myself to the pleasure of your conversation with an undistracted
mind.”
“Then you agree with me, that a man is only quite human when he’s eaten
his dinner?” she smiled.
“My thoughts are never so ethereal as when my body is occupied with the
process of digestion,” the Canon replied, ironically.
He thought that Mrs. Fitzherbert wore uncommonly well. She had always
been a fine creature, but he had never guessed that the girl of somewhat
overwhelming physique whom he had known a quarter of a century before,
would turn into this stately woman. The years only increased her
attractiveness, and she had reason to look upon the common foes of
mankind as her particular friends. She held herself with the assurance
of a woman who has enjoyed masculine admiration. The Canon’s eyes rested
with approval on the gown which displayed to advantage her beautiful
figure.
These flattering reflections were, perhaps, obvious on his face, for the
lady smiled.
“You may make it,” she said, with a flash of her exquisite teeth.
“What?” asked the Canon, innocently opening his eyes.
“The compliment that’s on the tip of your tongue.”
“I think you grow handsomer every day,” he answered, without hesitation.
“Thank you. And now tell me about Sophia and the children.”
“I’d much sooner talk about you,” said the Canon, gallantly.
“My dear friend, we’ve known one another too long. For flattery to be
pleasing one must be convinced, at least for a moment, that it’s
sincere, and you know I’ve never concealed from you my belief that
you’re the most desperate humbug I’ve ever known.”
“You put me at my ease at once,” he retorted, smiling and not in the
least disconcerted. “But I’m sorry you’re so vain.”
“Do you think I’m that?”
“Certainly. It’s only because your inner consciousness tells you such
agreeable things that you won’t listen to my timid observations.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at him quickly and wondered if his memory was as
bad as he pretended. She did not feel it necessary to recall exactly how
many years it was since first they met, but she was a girl then, and
Theodore the handsomest man she had ever seen. Her maiden fancy was
speedily captured, and for a season they danced together, philandered,
and sauntered in the park. Unwisely, she took him with all seriousness.
She remembered still a certain afternoon in July when they met in
Kensington Gardens; the sunshine and the careful trees, the dainty
flowers, gave the scene all the graceful elegance of a picture by the
adorable Watteau. She was going into the country next day, and her young
heart beat in the most romantic fashion because she thought Theodore
would seize the opportunity to declare his passion. But instead, he
asked if she could keep a secret, and told her he had just become
engaged to Dorothy Frampstone. She had not forgotten the smile with
which she congratulated him and the lightness wherewith she hid the
terrible anguish that consumed her. For six weeks she saw the world
through a mist of tears, but pride forbade her to refuse Dorothy’s
invitation to be bridesmaid at the wedding, and here she met Captain
Fitzherbert. He fell in love with her at first sight and she married him
out of pique, only to discover that he was a perfectly charming fellow.
She soon grew devoted to him and never ceased to thank Heaven for her
escape from Theodore. The only emotion that touched her then was
curiosity. She would have given much to learn the reason of his
behaviour. But she never knew whether the handsome curate had really
cared, and thrown her over only because a more eligible bride presented
herself; or whether, blinded by her own devotion, she had mistaken for
love attentions which were due merely to a vivacious temperament. She
did not meet Theodore Spratte again till she had been for some time a
widow. Captain Fitzherbert was stationed in various parts of the world,
and his wife came rarely to England. Then he fell ill, and for several
years she nursed him on the Riviera and in Italy. But when at last his
death released her, Mrs. Fitzherbert sought to regain her calmness of
mind after the long exhaustion of his illness, by distant journeys to
those places where she had spent her happy married life. It was not till
she took a house in London, three years before this, that she ran
against Canon Spratte casually at a dinner-party. She was pleased to see
him, but noted with amusement that the sight did not agitate her in the
smallest degree. She could scarcely believe that once his appearance in
a room sufficed to make her pulse beat at double its normal rate, while
the touch of his hand sent the blood rushing to her cheeks.
Mrs. Fitzherbert had acquired a certain taste for original sensations,
and it diverted her to meet again in this fashion the lover of her
youth. She wanted to know how he had fared and what sort of man he was
become. Outwardly he had altered but little; he was as tall and as
handsome, and had still the curly hair which she had so desperately
adored. The years had dealt amiably with him, and she was delighted that
on her side the change was all for the better. She could not deny now
that at eighteen she must have been a lumbersome, awkward girl; and a
young man could not guess that time and a discreet skill in the
artifices of the toilet would transform her into a striking woman whom
men turned round in the street to admire. At the end of their first
conversation Canon Spratte asked if he might call upon her, and two days
later had tea at the new house in Norfolk Street. From these beginnings
a somewhat intimate acquaintance had arisen, and now Mrs. Fitzherbert
was on the best of terms with all his family. The winter before she had
asked Winnie to come to the Riviera with her, and the affectionate
father had agreed that no better companion for his daughter could
possibly be chosen. He disclosed to her now the great news of Wroxham’s
proposal.
“You must be very proud and pleased,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Of course it’s always satisfactory for a father to see his daughter
happily married. He’s an excellent fellow and quite comfortably off.”
“So I’ve always understood,” she answered with a smile, amused because
the Canon would not acknowledge that Wroxham was far and away the best
_parti_ of the season.
Mrs. Fitzherbert had quickly taken Theodore’s measure, and it was a
curious satisfaction, sweet and bitter at the same time, to find defects
of character in the man who had once appeared so romantic a hero. She
looked upon him with oddly mingled feelings. Her sense of humour caused
her vastly to enjoy the rich comedy of his behaviour, but she preserved
for him, almost against her will, a certain tenderness. He had made her
suffer so much. She saw that he was often absurd, but liked him none the
less. Though she discovered the feet of clay, she could not forget that
once he had seemed a golden idol. She was willing to forgive the faults
she now saw clearly, rather than think she had loved quite foolishly.
The Canon felt her sympathy and opened his heart as to an old friend
with a frankness he showed to no one else. The smile in her handsome
eyes never warned him that she tore him to shreds, not unkindly but with
deliberation, piece by piece.
Mrs. Fitzherbert asked how long Winnie had been engaged, and was
somewhat astounded at his answer.
“He hasn’t spoken to her yet, but we’ve talked it over between us, he
and I, and he’s to come to luncheon to-morrow to make his declaration.”
“Then Winnie hasn’t been consulted?” she exclaimed.
“My dear lady, do you imagine for a moment she’ll refuse?”
Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed.
“No, I frankly don’t. She’s not her father’s child for nothing.”
“I look upon it as completely settled, and then I shall have only Lionel
to dispose of. Of course I’m far more anxious about him. In all
probability he will succeed to the title, and it’s important that he
should marry a suitable person.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He looked at her and smiled.
“Well, you know, the Sprattes are poor, and if Lionel has no children
the peerage will be extinct. I can allow him to marry no one who hasn’t
considerable means and every appearance of promising a healthy family.”
“Would it surprise you very much to know that the matter is already
somewhat out of your hands? Unless I’m very much mistaken, Lionel is
making up his mind to propose to Gwendolen Durant; and unless I’m
equally mistaken, Gwendolen Durant is making up her mind to accept him.”
“You amaze me,” cried the Canon. “I’ve never even heard of this
person.”
“Oh, yes, you have; she’s the only daughter of Sir John Durant, the
brewer.”
“Monstrous! I will never allow Lionel to marry any one of the sort.”
“I believe he’s rather in love with her.”
“Good heavens, it’s just as easy for him to fall in love with a girl of
good family. I did, and upon my word I can’t see why he shouldn’t follow
his father’s example.”
“The Durants are very nice people, and--prolific,” smiled Mrs.
Fitzherbert. “Gwendolen had six brothers, three of whom are still alive,
and her father was one of ten children.”
“Sir John is only a Jubilee baronet. I would as soon he were a city
knight.”
“On the other hand, he proposes to give his daughter one hundred and
fifty thousand pounds as her marriage portion.”
Theodore Spratte turned right round and stared at Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“That’s a very large sum,” he smiled.
“It certainly may help the course of true love to run smoothly.”
“No wonder that Lionel was disinclined to accept the Bishop’s advice to
become a total abstainer,” the Canon chuckled. “It would really be
rather uncivil if he has matrimonial designs on a brewer’s daughter.”
He thoughtfully sipped his wine and allowed this information to settle.
Mrs. Fitzherbert turned to somebody else, and the Canon was left for a
couple of moments to his own reflections. Presently she smiled at him
again.
“Well?”
“I’ll tell you what I wish you would do. I understand you are deputed to
find out my views upon the subject.”
“Nothing of the sort,” she interrupted. “Sir John cares nothing for your
views. He is a merchant of the old school, and looks upon himself as
every man’s equal. I don’t know whether he has thought for a moment of
Gwendolen’s future, but you may be quite sure he won’t consider it a
very signal honour that she should marry Lionel.”
“You express yourself with singular bluntness,” answered the Canon,
mildly.
“Nor do I know that the young things have settled anything. I merely
tell you what my eyes have suggested to me. If you like, I’ll ask the
Durants to luncheon, and you can see them for yourself.”
“But tell me, does she lead one to imagine that she’ll----” he hesitated
for a moment, but made a dash for it, “breed well?”
“My dear Canon, I never considered her from that point of view,” laughed
Mrs. Fitzherbert.
Canon Spratte smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“One must be practical. Of course a great change has come over the
opinion of society with regard to the position of merchants, and one
mustn’t lag behind the times.”
“A Conservative member of Parliament is still an object of admiration to
many,” murmured Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Well, well, I’m not the man to stand in the way of my children’s
happiness, and if I find that Lionel loves the girl, I promise you to
put no obstacle in his way.”
Lady Hollington rose from her chair, and with a rustling sweep of silk
skirts, with a quick gleam of diamonds, the ladies followed one another
from the dining-room. Their host took his glass and moved round the
table to sit by his most distinguished guest. But Canon Spratte, like a
wise man, had already seized the opportunity. He drew his chair near
that of Lord Stonehenge. The Prime Minister, obese and somnolent, turned
upon him for a moment his dull, suspicious eyes, and then sunk his head
strangely into his vast corpulence.
“I’m sorry to see that poor Andover is dead,” said the Canon, blandly.
His neighbour, meditative as a cow chewing the cud, made no sign that he
heard the observation; but Canon Spratte was by no means disconcerted.
“He’ll be a great loss and most difficult to replace,” he continued.
“They say he was the most learned of our bishops. I was excessively
distressed when I heard of the sad event.”
“What did he die of?” asked the Prime Minister, indifferently.
“Oh, he was a very old man,” promptly replied the other, who had no idea
to what fell disease the late Bishop of Barchester had succumbed. “My
own conviction is that bishops ought to retire like ambassadors. A
bishop should be a man of restless strength, active and versatile; he
should be ready to put his hand to anything. To be a bishop you want as
much energy and resource as if you were manager of the Army and Navy
Stores.”
“Who is the manager of the Army and Navy Stores?” asked Lord Stonehenge.
Theodore Spratte smiled politely, but thought none the less that the
Prime Minister was growing very stupid.
“Thank heaven, I shall never be as fat as that,” he said to himself, and
added aloud: “I believe Andover was appointed by Mr. Gladstone.”
“How very large these grapes are!” said Lord Stonehenge, looking heavily
at the dish of fruit in front of him.
“Yes,” said the Canon undisturbed, “my father, the Chancellor, used to
grow very fine grapes at Beachcombe. You know, of course, that he held
very decided views about the political opinions of the bishops.”
A slight movement went through the Prime Minister’s colossal frame, like
a peristaltic wave passing along the coiled length of a
boa-constrictor. Canon Spratte seemed to him like an agile fly that
settled on every exposed place, and alit elsewhere as soon as it was
brushed away. Just as all roads lead to Rome, every comment that Lord
Stonehenge made appeared to bear directly upon the vacant See.
“And I cannot help thoroughly agreeing with him,” proceeded the Canon.
“My view is that the bishops should be imbued with Conservative
principles. The episcopal bench, I always think, should be a stronghold
of Tory tradition, and if you come to think of it, the very nature of
things accords with my conviction.”
Lord Stonehenge gave no sign of disagreement, which was sufficient
excuse for Canon Spratte to state at length his laudable opinions.
Presently, however, Lord Hollington proposed that they should go
upstairs, and on their way the Canon shot his last bolt.
“By the bye, I was just talking to Lady Patricia about addressing a
great Primrose Meeting this month.”
He was able, consequently, to flatter himself that he had not left a
single thing unsaid which it behoved the Prime Minister to know.
* * * * *
Canon Spratte and Lord Stonehenge went away together. When the Canon had
driven off behind a fine pair of bays, in a new and splendid brougham
of the latest pattern, Lord Stonehenge lumbered into a carriage, which
was both small and shabby. It was drawn by one horse only, and this was
somewhat long in the tooth. There was no footman, and the coachman, in a
uniform much the worse for wear, sat on his box in a slovenly, humped-up
fashion. The Prime Minister and Lady Patricia drove for a while in
silence; then from the depths of his beard, Lord Stonehenge summed up
the party.
“They were very dull, but the dinner was eatable.”
“I hope you took no ice, papa,” said Lady Patricia.
“I merely tasted it,” he confessed, in apologetic tones. “I wonder why
we can’t have ices like that. Ours are too cold.”
“Lady Eastney was there, so I suppose it’s not true about Sir Archibald.
The Hollingtons are so careful.”
“Who was she? The woman with the fat neck?”
“She sat immediately opposite Canon Spratte,” answered Lady Patricia.
“Theodore Spratte wants me to make him a bishop,” said Lord Stonehenge,
with a slow smile.
“Well, he’ll keep his clergy in order,” said Lady Patricia. “He’s very
energetic and clever.”
“I prefer them stupid,” retorted the Prime Minister.
There was another pause, and presently Lord Stonehenge remembered an
observation of his secretary.
“Vanhatton says I promised to do something for Spratte before the last
election. I never thought we’d get in. His father was the most
disagreeable man I ever saw.”
“I wonder what Mr. Highbury will say to him.”
“It’s no business of his,” retorted Lord Stonehenge, with considerable
irritation.
“No, but you know what he is,” answered Lady Patricia, doubtfully.
The Prime Minister meditated for some time upon the officiousness of his
colleague.
“I like my bishops tedious and rather old,” he said, at last. “Then
their clergy give them plenty to do, and they don’t meddle with the
Government.”
“Canon Spratte is such a staunch Conservative. He even speaks at
Primrose Meetings.”
“He’ll only work for us as long as it pays him,” said Lord Stonehenge,
reflectively.
“Oh, papa, he’d never become a Radical. He’s too anxious to be a
gentleman.”
“I prefer a Radical to a Liberal Unionist,” replied the Prime Minister,
with some bitterness. “I must ask Vanhatton whether I definitely
committed myself.”