A week later Canon Spratte lunched with Mrs. Fitzherbert to meet Sir
John Durant and his daughter. The eminent brewer was a stout gentleman
of fifty, rubicund and good-humoured, with a gold watch-chain spread
widely over his capacious paunch. The few hairs that remained to him
were arranged at judicious intervals over a shining pate. His face was
broad and merry. His little eyes were bright with hilarity, and when
anything diverted him, he laughed all over his body. He was not tall,
and his legs were disproportionately short, so that the slim, elegant
Canon towered over him in a way that gratified the one without
mortifying the other. Sir John’s appearance betokened great prosperity
and a thorough satisfaction with the world at large. He knew that he
made the best beer in England, and the British people knew it too, so he
had good reason to be pleased with the state of things. He was a
business man from top to toe, shrewd, blunt and outspoken, and he had no
idea that there was anything disgraceful in his connection with trade.
When they sat down to luncheon and the butler asked if he would drink
hock or claret, the brewer turned to him and in a loud, brusque voice
inquired whether there was no beer.
“I always drink it to show I have confidence,” he explained to the
company in general. “It makes me fat, but I shouldn’t be worth my salt
if I hesitated at a few more pounds avoirdupois at the call of duty.
I’ve told the British public on fifty thousand hoardings to drink
Durant’s Half-Crown Family Ale, and the British public do. The least
they can expect of me is to follow their example.”
The Canon was somewhat taken aback by the frankness with which Sir John
referred to the source of his large income, but he was a man of tact,
and with a laugh insisted on trying that foaming beverage.
“What d’you think of it?” asked the brewer, when Canon Spratte at one
draught had emptied his glass.
“Capital, capital!”
“I’ll send you some to-morrow. It’s good stuff, my dear Canon--as pure
as mother’s milk, and it wouldn’t hurt a child. I’ve no patience with
those brewers who are ashamed of the beer they make. Why, do you know,
Lord Carbis won’t have it in his house, and when I stayed with him, I
had to drink wine. The old fool doesn’t know that people only laugh at
him. However many airs he puts on, he’ll never make them forget that he
owes his title to stout and bitter. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t
mind who knows that I started as a van boy. If I’ve built up the biggest
connection in the trade, it’s to my own brains I owe it.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed to herself when she saw the expression with
which the Canon received this statement. His idea had been that Sir John
belonged to the aristocracy of beerdom, with two or even three
generations of gentlemen behind him who had prepared themselves for the
manufacture of fermented liquors by a career at Eton and at Oxford. It
was fortunate that his cursory inspection of the brewer’s daughter had
been satisfactory. She was quite pretty, with a complexion whose robust
colouring suggested the best of health; and her brown hair, rather
abundant and waving naturally, grew low on the forehead in a way that
Canon Spratte thought singularly attractive. He knew something about
feminine costume, (there were few subjects of which the Canon was
entirely ignorant,) and he observed with satisfaction that she was
clothed with taste and fashion. He had no patience with the women who
dressed in a mode they thought artistic, and he abhorred the garb which
is termed rational. In a moment of expansion he had once told his
daughter there were two things a woman should avoid like the seven
deadly sins: she should never take her hair down and never wear a short
skirt.
“A woman, like a cat, should always end in a tail,” said he.
Lastly, the Canon noticed that Gwendolen Durant’s handsome figure
suggested that heirs would not be wanting to a union between herself and
his son. This somewhat astonished him, for he would never have expected
Lionel to set his affections on such a charming, but buxom, young
person. He could not for the life of him imagine why she should care for
Lionel.
“She’s worth six of him, any day,” he muttered, “though I’m his father
and shouldn’t think it.”
But there was no accounting for taste; and if a strapping girl, with a
dowry of one hundred and fifty thousand pounds, chose to make an
alliance with his family, he was willing to overlook a parent who would
not let an indulgent world forget his indecent connection with honest
labour. Canon Spratte had that peculiar charm of manner which led
people, after ten minutes’ conversation, to feel they had known him all
their lives; and freeing himself from the dowager, who had hitherto
absorbed his attention, he turned to Miss Durant. He laid himself out to
fascinate her, and they made great friends in the hour they sat side by
side.
When the remaining guests had gone their ways, the Canon asked Mrs.
Fitzherbert if he might stay a little longer.
“Of course,” she said. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. You may
smoke a cigarette.”
The day was warm and the sun shone brightly. Pale blinds kept out the
brilliancy, and delicately softened the light in Mrs. Fitzherbert’s
drawing-room. It looked singularly restful to Canon Spratte with its gay
chintzes and masses of summer flowers. It formed a fit and elegant frame
for Mrs. Fitzherbert, who looked handsomer than ever in an exquisite
gown, all flounces and furbelows. Its airy grace filled him with
content, and he thought that feminine society was really very
delightful. The world was a good place when you could sit in a pleasant
drawing-room, away from the bustle of ecclesiastical labours, on a
summer afternoon, and talk to an old friend who was also a fascinating
woman. Yet at home there was much to make him irritable. For one thing
he expected hourly a communication from the Prime Minister, offering the
vacant See; and every time the bell of the street-door rang loudly, his
heart leaped to his mouth. Almost unconsciously he assumed an attitude
of dignified indifference, such as Cincinnatus at his plough might have
used when the officers of the Republic came towards him. But Lord
Stonehenge, dilatory as ever, hesitated to make an appointment. Winnie
was an even greater source of annoyance. She made no sign of yielding to
his wishes. She went out at all hours and none knew whither. She seemed
to flaunt her legal independence in her father’s indignant face. At home
she was silent, frightened and sullen. Canon Spratte pointedly ignored
her. He had the useful, humiliating art of looking at people without
seeing them, and was able to stare at his daughter blankly as though the
space she occupied were empty.
He told Mrs. Fitzherbert now the misfortune that had befallen his house,
and it was a bitter confession that he had been too quick in his
calculations. Mrs. Fitzherbert could not conceal a smile.
“It’s really very romantic, you know. It reminds me of that poem of dear
Lord Tennyson’s.”
“Dear Lord Tennyson hadn’t a marriageable daughter,” retorted the Canon,
with some asperity.
“Love is so rare in this world,” she hazarded, “When two young things
are fond of one another, don’t you think it’s best to let them marry,
whatever the disadvantages?”
“My dear lady, the man isn’t even a gentleman.”
“But we have it dinned into our ears that kind hearts are more than
coronets.”
“Yes, but we know very well that they’re nothing of the sort,” he
retorted, with a laugh. “Heaven knows I’m not in the least mercenary,
but I don’t think any man can make my daughter happy on a penny less
than two thousand a year. It’s not love in a cottage, it’s not love in a
palace, it’s just matrimony in Onslow Gardens.”
He meditated for a moment or two, and slapped his knee.
“I promise you that Winnie shall break her foolish engagement with this
ridiculous counter-jumper, and what’s more, she shall marry Wroxham.
People must get up early in the morning if they want to get the better
of Theodore Spratte.”
“Well, you’ll need some very skilful diplomacy to achieve all that,”
smiled Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“The worst of it is, that though I rack my brains I can’t think of any
scheme that seems to promise the least measure of success.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at him, and her common-sense suggested to her
certain obvious facts. She smiled again.
“Has Winnie seen the young man’s relations yet?” she asked.
“I think not. Sophia tells me she’s going down to Peckham to-morrow.”
“Didn’t you say that Mr. Railing’s mother was the widow of a
coal-heaver? I wonder what she’s like.”
“His sister teaches in a Board School.”
“She must be an exemplary young person,” answered Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Well?”
“They must be awful. I wonder if Winnie has thought of that.”
“By Jove!” cried the Canon.
The expression was not very clerical, but in his excitement he forgot
the propriety of which he was usually careful. His mind was excessively
alert, and Mrs. Fitzherbert’s reflections, spoken almost at haphazard,
gave him in a flash the plan of action he wanted. In such a manner,
though with vastly less rapidity, Sir Isaac Newton is said to have
discovered the theory of gravitation. The Canon’s scheme was so bold
that it surprised him. When he turned it over, and saw how dangerous it
was, how unexpected, above all how ingeniously dramatic, he could not
restrain his enthusiasm. The subtlety caught his sense of humour, and at
the same time flattered his love for power. Apparently he would withdraw
from the struggle, but all the time the various actors would work his
will. It was well worth the risk, and he felt certain of ultimate
victory. He laughed aloud, and jumping up, seized Mrs. Fitzherbert’s
hands.
“What a wonderful woman you are! You’ve saved the whole situation.”
He looked at her with flaming eyes, and as she smiled upon him, he had
never found her handsomer. He still held her hands.
“You know, you grow better looking each year you grow older. Upon my
soul, it’s not fair to the rest of us.”
“Don’t be so foolish,” she laughed, trying to withdraw from his grasp.
“Why shouldn’t I hold them?” he cried gaily. “We’re old friends. Heaven
knows how many years it is since first we met.”
“That’s just it, Heaven does know we’re both of us perilously nearly
fifty, and really ought to have learned how to behave by now.”
“Nonsense, I won’t believe a word of it. Every one knows that there is
nothing so untruthful as Anno Domini, and I’m convinced that neither of
us is a day more than thirty. You don’t look it, and I’m sure I don’t
feel it.”
“You really must not press my hands so hard. I tell you it’s
ridiculous.”
She positively blushed, and the Canon’s blue eyes were brighter than
ever, as he noticed this sign of confusion.
“Do you remember how once we walked together in Kensington Gardens? We
didn’t think ourselves ridiculous then.”
It was a tactless thing to say, but perhaps Theodore did not remember
the exact circumstances so well as Mrs. Fitzherbert. She tightened her
lips as she recalled that last scene, and there was no doubt now that
she wanted him to leave her hands.
“You’re hurting me,” she said. “My rings.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” He looked at her face. “But what have I said to
annoy you?”
“Nothing,” she replied, with a smile, recovering herself quickly. “But
my carriage has been waiting for an hour, and I really must go out.”
“Fool that I am! Why didn’t you send me away before?”
He bent down and gallantly kissed her fingers. It is a gesture which
does not come very easily to an Englishman, but Theodore Spratte carried
it off with peculiar grace, and afterwards was able to leave the room
without awkwardness. He was not the man to omit any of the courtesies
due to the fair sex, and turned his steps immediately to a fashionable
florist’s, where he ordered a large bunch of red roses to be sent at
once to Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Red roses,” he wrote on his card, “because they are lovely, ephemeral,
and sweet smelling!”
On the way home Canon Spratte meditated upon the bold, decisive step
which alone seemed capable of bringing about the ends he had in view. It
was easy enough to prevent Winnie from marrying Bertram Railing; her
infatuation would pass away as soon as she realized all that it
entailed. But this was not enough. He knew that women may be often taken
on the rebound, (perhaps his opinion of the sex was none too high,) and
if he could excite a repulsion from Railing, he fancied it would lead
her into the open arms of the eligible Wroxham. The Canon’s classical
knowledge was somewhat rusty, but he believed vaguely there was a
quotation which offered apt authority for the circumstances. He could
not for the moment recall it.
“Dear me!” he said, rather testily, as he put the latchkey into his
front door, “my memory is certainly failing,” and ironically: “It’s
quite time they made me a bishop.”
The Canon wished to lose no time, and consequently was much pleased to
find Winnie and Lady Sophia sitting by themselves in the drawing-room.
It would have been inhuman to expect him to play the neat little scene
without the presence of his sister. The thought of her astonishment was
almost a sufficient motive for his audacious step.
“You’re very pale, my dear child,” he said to Winnie, “I hope you’re not
unwell?”
“No, father,” she answered, without a smile.
“Then what is troubling you, my love? You’re not yourself.”
None could put into his manner such affectionate solicitude as Canon
Spratte, and his voice gained such tender accents as to draw
confidences from the most unwilling. Winnie sighed, but made no reply.
He stroked her hair and pressed her hand.
“Come, come, my darling, you mustn’t be unhappy. Nothing shall stand
between you and my great affection. The only wish I have is for your
welfare. Tell me frankly, is your heart still set on marrying this young
man?”
Winnie looked up gravely and nodded.
“Well, well, I’m not a hard father.” He smiled good-naturedly and opened
his arms. “What would you say if I offered to withdraw my opposition?”
Winnie, astonished, scarcely believing her ears, sprang to her feet.
“Papa, do you mean that?”
She flung her arms round his neck and burst into tears. The Canon,
pressing her to his bosom, kissed her fair hair. But Lady Sophia was
dumfounded.
“Now, my dear, go to your room and wash those tears away,” said he, with
laughing tenderness. “You mustn’t have red eyes, or people will think
I’m a perfect tyrant. But mind,” he shook his finger playfully as she
smiled through her tears, “mind you don’t put too much powder on your
nose.”
When Winnie was gone, Canon Spratte turned to his sister with a hearty
laugh.
“The dear girl! Our children, Sophia, are often a sore trial to us, but
we must take the rough with the smooth; at times also they give us a
great deal of self-satisfaction.”
“Did my ears deceive me?” asked Lady Sophia. “Or did you in fact consent
to Winnie’s preposterous engagement?”
“You’re surprised, Sophia? You don’t know me; you can’t understand that
I should sacrifice my most cherished ideas to gratify the whim of a
silly school-girl. You’re a clever woman, Sophia--but you’re not quite
so clever as your humble servant.”
Lady Sophia, trying to discover what was in his mind, leaned back in her
arm-chair and looked at him with keen and meditative eyes. She did not
for one moment suppose that he had honestly surrendered to Winnie’s
obstinacy. It was her impression that Theodore was never more dangerous
than when he appeared to be defeated.
“I don’t understand,” she confessed.
“I should have thought it was a match after your own heart,” he
answered, with a mocking smile. “You have always affected to look down
upon our family. Surely you ought to be pleased that the descendant of
your ancestral green-grocer should marry the near connection of a
coal-heaver. They pair like chalk and cheese.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Theodore!”
“I wonder if she calls him Bertie,” murmured the Canon, thoughtfully.
“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so irritating,” said Lady Sophia,
sharply. “Do you really intend Winnie to marry him?”
“Of course not, my dear. I intend Winnie to marry young Wroxham.”
“And do you think the best way to bring that about is to let her be
engaged to somebody else?”
“My dear Sophia, have you ever known me make a mistake yet?”
“Frequently! Though I’m bound to say I’ve never known you acknowledge
it.”
Canon Spratte laughed heartily.
“It comes to the same thing. Like the typical Englishman, I never know
when I’m beaten.”
“Good heavens, what a man it is!” she cried. “One can’t even remark that
it’s a fine day without your extracting a compliment from it. Master
Theodore, self-praise is no recommendation.”
“Miss Sophia, your nose wants blowing,” he retorted promptly.
“That I think is rather vulgar, Theodore.”
Canon Spratte laughed again.
“That’s just like a woman; she hits you when you’re not looking, and
when you defend yourself, she cries: ‘Foul play!’”
“Fiddlesticks!”
There was a pause, during which Lady Sophia, knowing how anxious the
Canon was to tell her about Winnie, waited for him to speak; while he,
equally aware of her curiosity, determined to utter no word till she
gave him the satisfaction of asking. The lady lost patience first.
“Why, then, did you consent to Winnie’s engagement with the
coal-heaver?” she asked, abruptly.
“Because I thought it the only way to induce her to marry Wroxham.”
“Upon my word, Theodore, you’re a very extraordinary man.”
“That, my dear, is a fact which has not entirely escaped my
observation,” retorted Canon Spratte, rubbing his hands. “I’ve brought
you to your knees, Sophia. Confess that this time your intelligence is
at fault.”
“Nothing of the sort!”
“Well, well, I flatter myself----” he began.
“You frequently do,” interrupted his sister.
“I flatter myself that I know my daughter’s character. Now, I am
convinced that if I had put my foot down, Winnie would have gone off and
married the man there and then. But I know the Spratte character inside
and out. We are a family of marked idiosyncrasies.”
“Inherited from the Montmorencys, I suppose,” suggested Lady Sophia,
ironically.
“I have no doubt. You will remember in our father the firmness and
decision of which I speak.”
“I remember that he was as obstinate as a pig.”
“My dear, I do not want to rebuke you, but I really must ask you not to
make these unseemly remarks. If you are incapable of recognizing the
respect due to your father, I would have you recollect that he was also
Lord Chancellor of England.”
“Do you ever give me the chance to forget it?” murmured Lady Sophia.
“But what has that to do with Winnie?”
“I was about to observe that whatever my faults, when I make up my mind
that a thing is right, no power on earth can prevent me from doing it.
Now, I do not wish to be offensive, but I cannot help perceiving that
the firmness, which, if I may say it without vanity, is so marked a
characteristic in me, is apt in other members of our family to
degenerate into something which the uncharitable may well call
obstinacy.”
“Upon my word, Theodore, it’s fortunate you told me you had no wish to
be offensive.”
“Please don’t interrupt,” pursued the Canon, with a wave of the hand.
“Now, I am dealing with Winnie as the Irishman deals with the pig he is
taking to market. He pulls the way he doesn’t want to go, and the pig
quite happily goes the other.”
“I wish you’d say plainly what you’re driving at.”
“My dear, when Winnie said she would marry Mr. Railing, she didn’t
reckon on Mr. Railing’s mamma and she didn’t reckon on Mr. Railing’s
sister who teaches in the Board School. In such cases the man has often
educated himself into something that passes muster, and your sex has no
great skill in discerning a gentleman from the spurious article. But the
women! My dear Sophia, I tell you Winnie won’t like them at all.”
“The more repulsive his relations are, the more her pride will force
Winnie to keep her promise.”
“We shall see.”
Lady Sophia, pursing her lips, thought over the wily device which the
Canon had complacently unfolded, then she glanced at him sharply.
“Are you quite sure it’s honest, Theodore?”
“My dear Sophia, what do you mean?” cried he, much astonished.
“Isn’t it a little underhand?”
Canon Spratte drew himself up and looked at his sister with some
sternness.
“My dear, I do not wish to remind you that I am a clergyman, though
occasionally you seem strangely oblivious of the fact. But I should
like to point out to you that it’s unlikely, to say the least of it,
that a man of my position in the Church should do anything dishonest or
underhand.”
Lady Sophia, raising her eyebrows, smiled thinly.
“My dear brother, if as Vicar of St. Gregory’s and Canon of Tercanbury,
and prospective Bishop of Barchester, you assure me that you are acting
like a Christian and a gentleman--of course I haven’t the temerity to
say anything further.”
“You may set your mind at rest,” he answered, with a little laugh of
scorn, “you can be quite sure that whatever I do is right.”