Two days after this Lady Sophia was sitting alone in the drawing-room
when Mrs. Fitzherbert was shown in. At her heels walked Lord Spratte.
“I found him on a chair in the Park, and I brought him here to keep him
out of mischief,” she said, shaking hands with Lady Sophia.
“I’ve reached an age when I can only get into mischief with an infinite
deal of trouble,” answered Lord Spratte, “and when I’ve succeeded, I
find the game was hardly worth the candle.”
“I’ve not seen you since Theodore turned you out of the house--somewhat
unceremoniously,” laughed Lady Sophia; “I hope you bear no malice.”
“Not in the least; Theodore’s cook is far too good.”
They both talked very frankly before Mrs. Fitzherbert, whom they liked
equally; but the Canon would not perhaps have been much pleased if he
knew how thoroughly they discussed him in her presence. Lord Spratte
asked whether there was any news of the bishopric.
“Nothing has been heard yet, but Theodore is convinced he’ll get it,”
replied Lady Sophia.
“He’ll be quite unbearable if he does.”
“Quite!” she agreed. “I shall shave my head and go into a convent.”
“You laugh at the Canon and you tease him, but he’s a clever man for all
that,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “Of course he’s rather vain and
grandiloquent, but not very much more than most men. I have an idea that
he’ll make a first-rate bishop.”
“Theodore?”
Lady Sophia considered the matter for a moment.
“It really hadn’t occurred to me, but I daresay you’re right,” she said.
“Of course he’s not a saint, but one doesn’t want bishops to be too
pious. Curates may be saintly, and it’s very proper that they should;
but it’s equally proper of their betters to leave them hidden away in
obscure parishes where their peculiarities cannot be a stumbling-block
to the faithful. The religion of a man who belongs to the Church of
England is closely connected with consols, and he looks with grave
distrust on the parson who tells him seriously to lay up treasure in
heaven.”
“A bishop must be a man who can wear his gaiters with dignity,” smiled
Mrs, Fitzherbert.
“But has Theodore the legs?”
“If not, he can pad,” replied Lady Sophia. “Most of them do, and those
that don’t certainly should. A bishop must evidently be a man who can
wear lawn sleeves without feeling dressed up. He’s a Prince of the
Church, and he should carry himself becomingly. I don’t know if you’ve
noticed it, but few of them can help purring with gratification when
they hear themselves addressed by obsequious clergy as, my lord.
Theodore at least will carry his honours with a dash. We may be
_parvenus_....”
“We certainly are, Sophia,” cried Lord Spratte.
“But Theodore is clever enough to forget it. He honestly feels that his
ancestors fought in coats-of-mail at Agincourt and Crecy.”
“Heaven save me from the candid criticism of relations,” exclaimed Mrs.
Fitzherbert. “They’re like a bad looking-glass which gives you an
atrocious squint and a crooked nose.”
“We shall have to eat the dust, Sophia,” muttered Lord Spratte.
“The whole diocese will have to eat the dust,” she answered, smiling.
“Theodore will stand no nonsense from his clergy; they’ll have to do as
he tells them or there’ll be ructions. Theodore is not soft-handed, and
he’ll get his own way by hook or by crook. You’ll see, in five years
it’ll be the best-managed bishopric in England, and an invitation to
dinner at the Palace will be considered by every one a sufficient reward
for the labours of Hercules.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed, and at that moment the subject of the
conversation appeared. He greeted Mrs. Fitzherbert with extreme
cordiality, but to his brother, not forgetful of the terms upon which
they had parted, he held out a very frigid hand.
“I must congratulate you on Winnie’s engagement,” said Lord Spratte.
Canon Spratte looked at him coolly and passed his handsome hand through
his hair.
“I’m sorry to see that your levity grows more marked every day, Thomas.
It seems that increasing years bring you no sense of your
responsibilities. I used to hope that your flippancy was due chiefly to
the exuberance of youth.”
“It shows what a charmin’ character I have to stand bein’ ragged by my
younger brother,” murmured Lord Spratte, calmly. He turned to Mrs.
Fitzherbert. “I hate far more the relations who think it their duty to
say unpleasant things to your very face.”
“You forget that it’s my name as well as yours that you drag through the
dust.”
“The name of Spratte?”
“It was held by the late Lord Chancellor of England,” retorted the
Canon, icily.
“Oh, Theodore, don’t bring him in again. I’m just about sick of him.
It’s been the curse of my life to be the son of an eminent man. After
all it was a beastly job that they stuck him on that silly Woolsack.”
“Have you never heard the saying: ‘_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_’?”
“That means: don’t pull an old buffer’s leg when he’s kicked the
bucket,” explained Lord Spratte to the two ladies.
The Canon shrugged his shoulders.
“You have no sense of decorum, no seemliness, no dignity.”
“Good heavens, what can you expect? I don’t feel important enough to
strike attitudes. I’m just Tommy Tiddler, and I can’t forget it. I might
have done something if I’d had any name but Spratte. If it had been just
Sprat it would have been vulgar, but those two last letters make it
pretentious as well. And that’s what our honours are--vulgar and
pretentious! I can’t make out why the old buffer stuck to that beastly
monosyllable.”
“I always wish we could change with our butler, Theodore,” said Lady
Sophia. “Don’t you think it’s very hard that he should be called
Ponsonby, and we--Spratte?”
“I’m not ashamed of it,” said the Canon.
“You’re ashamed of nothing, Theodore,” retorted his brother. “Now, I’m
different; I’m a modest sort of chap, and I can’t stand all these
gewgaws. I don’t want the silly title with its sham coat-of-arms, and
it’s bogus pedigree. And those ridiculous ermine robes! The very thought
of them makes my flesh creep. I should have been right enough if I’d
just been plain Tom Sprat. I might have made a fairly good horse-dealer,
and if I hadn’t brains enough for that I could always have gone into
Parliament. I’d have been a capital First Lord of the Admiralty, because
I can’t tell a man-o’-war from a coal barge, and the mere sight of the
briny ocean makes me feel sick.”
“It’s such as you who bring the Upper House into discredit,” exclaimed
Theodore.
“Such as I, my dear brother? Why, I’m the saving of the place, because I
have a sense of humour. I know we’re no good. No one cares two straws
about us. And they just leave us there because we do no harm and they’ve
forgotten all about us.”
“I should like you to compare yourself with Harry Wroxham,” said Canon
Spratte. “Though he’s quite a young man, he has acquired a respected and
assured position in the House of Lords.”
“Yes, I know,” replied the peer, with much scorn. “He fusses about, and
he’s a County Councillor, and he speaks at Church Congresses.”
“It’s greatly to his credit that he’s a steadfast champion of the Church
of England.”
“I daresay. All I know is that if there were a hundred fellows in the
House of Lords as enthusiastic as he is, the House of Lords would tumble
down. The British public leaves us there as long as we don’t interfere
with it, but if ever we put on airs and try to stand on our hind legs,
the British public will just take us by the scruff of the neck and out
we shall go. If we all took ourselves in earnest like Wroxham, we should
just get the hoof, brother Theodore.”
“And do you ever go to the House of Lords, which you support by your
sense of ridicule?” asked Mrs. Fitzherbert, her lips trembling into
laughter.
“Certainly; I was there the other day.”
“Dear me!”
“Oh, it was quite accidental,” he hastened to explain, apologetically.
“I had to go to Westminster on business.”
“On business!” repeated the Canon, full of contempt.
“Yes, to see a terrier that a man wanted to sell. Well, I had a new
topper and no umbrella, an’ of course it began to rain. ‘By Jove,’ I
said, ‘I’m hanged if I won’t go and legislate for ten minutes.’ I saw it
was only a shower. Well, I walked in and somebody asked who the dickens
I was. Upon my word, I was almost ashamed to say; I look too bogus,
Theodore.”
“It’s not the name that makes the man,” said the Canon, sententiously.
“A rose by any other appellation would smell as sweet.”
“There you’re wrong, but I won’t argue it out. Well, I went in and found
twenty old buffers lying about on red benches. Half of them were asleep,
and one was mumblin’ away in his beard. ‘Good Lord,’ I said, ‘who are
their tailors?’ Then I said to myself: ‘Shall I stay here and listen to
their twaddle or shall I get my hat wet?’ Suddenly I had an inspiration.
‘By Jove,’ I thought, ‘I’ll take a cab.’”
“And that, Sophia, is the head of our house!” said the Canon, in icy
tones. “Thomas, second Earl Spratte of Beachcombe.”
But these words were hardly out of his mouth, when there was a noisy
ring at the bell of the front-door.
Canon Spratte started nervously. He collected himself to receive the
expected messenger. Then came the sound of voices in the hall, and the
Canon put up his hand to request silence.
“Who can that be?” he asked.
Some one was heard running up the stairs and the door was burst open by
Lionel, for once in his life hurried and disturbed.
“Oh, it’s only you!” said Canon Spratte, unable to conceal his
disappointment. “I don’t know why on earth you ring the bell as though
the house were on fire.”
But Lionel waited to make no excuses.
“I say, father, is it true about Barchester?”
“Is what true?” he asked, uncertain whether to be triumphant or
dismayed.
“It’s announced that Dr. Gray, the headmaster of Harbin, has been
appointed.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the Canon, incredulously. “A trumpery headmaster
who teaches ignorant school-boys their A B C.”
“It’s in the evening paper.”
“Oh, it’s ridiculous; it can’t be true. I make the best of my fellow
men, and I cannot bring myself to believe that Lord Stonehenge can be so
foolish and wicked.”
“The _Westminster Gazette_ says it’s a capital appointment.”
“The _Westminster_ is a Radical paper, Lionel, and will say anything.
For all I know Gray may be a Radical too. I tell you it’s preposterous.
He’s little better than an imbecile and a man of no family. A fool, a
school-master! I know innumerable things against him but nothing in his
favour--except that he was once tutor to one of Stonehenge’s
ill-mannered brats. I cannot think the Government could be so grossly
idiotic as to give an important bishopric to a man of Gray’s powers.
Powers? They’re not powers; he’s the most ordinary and stupid man I’ve
ever known. He’s stupider than a churchwarden.”
“I confess I think it rather bad taste of Lord Stonehenge, considering
that you dined with him only the other day,” murmured Lady Sophia.
“I thank Heaven that I’m not a vain man,” said the Canon, somewhat
oratorically. “I may have faults; we all have faults. But I don’t think
any one has ever accused me of vanity. When it was suggested that I
should be offered the bishopric of Barchester, the thought came upon me
as a surprise; but this I will confess, I don’t think I should have been
out of place in that position. I have been mixed up with public affairs
all my life, and I am used to authority. Nor can I help thinking that I
deserve something of my country.”
At this moment Ponsonby passed through the drawing-room to the little
terrace outside the window. He bore on a silver tray of imposing
dimensions a kettle and a tea-pot.
“I told them to put tea outside,” said Lady Sophia. “I thought it would
be pleasanter.”
Lord Spratte and Lionel got up and with Lady Sophia passed through the
large French window; but Mrs, Fitzherbert, seeing that the Canon made
no sign of following, stopped at the threshold.
“Won’t you come and have tea, Canon?” she asked.
“Ah, my dear lady, at this moment I cannot think of tea. I could almost
say that I shall never drink tea again.”
“Poor Canon Spratte, I feel so sorry for you,” she smiled, half amused
at his vexation, half tender because he was so like a spoiled child.
He shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s not for myself that I feel sorry, it’s for the people who have
done this thing. It’s charming of you to sympathise with me.” He took
her hand and pressed it. “I’ve often felt that you really understand me.
It’s a dreadful thing to live surrounded by persons who don’t appreciate
you. They say that no man is a prophet in his own country, and I have
experienced that too. I’m glad you were here this afternoon, for you’ve
seen how I’m surrounded by cynical laughter and by flippant vulgarity.
They don’t understand me.” He sighed and smiled and patted the hand he
held. “I don’t want to say anything against Sophia. I daresay she does
her best, and in this world we must be thankful for small mercies, but
she hasn’t the delicacy of sentiment necessary to understand a
character like mine. Do you remember my wife, Mrs. Fitzherbert? She was
an angel, wasn’t she? Loving, obedient, respectful, self-effacing! She
was all that a wife should be. But she was taken from me. I shall never
quite get over it.”
“Now come and have tea,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert, disengaging her hand. “I
know it’ll pull you together.”
“Oh, I could touch nothing,” he cried, with a gesture of distaste. “I
wouldn’t venture to say it to any one else, but to you who really
understand me, I can say that if any man was fitted to be Bishop of
Barchester I am he. Any one who knows me must be quite sure that it’s
not for my own sake that I wanted it; but think of the wonderful
opportunities for doing good that such a position affords! And they’ve
given it to Gray!”
He ended with a wrathful shrug of the shoulders. When he spoke again
there was a tremor in his voice, partly of righteous indignation, partly
of despair at the folly of mankind.
“I speak entirely without prejudice, but honestly, do you think Dr. Gray
fitted for such responsibilities?”
“I certainly don’t,” replied Mrs. Fitzherbert, who till that day had
never even heard of the distinguished pedagogue.
“I can’t see that he has any claim at all. He’s not a man of influence,
he’s not even a man of birth. Nobody ever heard of his father, while
mine will be celebrated as long as English history is read.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry and disappointed I am.”
Canon Spratte paused in his indignant promenade and waved his hand
picturesquely towards the open window.
“Ah, my dear friend, don’t trouble yourself with my small annoyances. Go
and have tea now; it will be bad for you if you keep it standing.”
“And you, dear Canon?”
“I will face the disappointment in the privacy of my own apartment.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert left him, and with a despondent sigh he turned to go
into his study. His glance fell on his father’s portrait, and a thought
came to him which in a layman might have expressed itself in the words:
“By Jove, if he were alive, he’d make ’em skip.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and passing a looking-glass, paused to
observe himself. Meditatively he ran his fingers through his curly,
abundant hair; and then, almost without thinking what he was about, took
from his pocket a little comb and passed it through the disarranged
locks.
“I suppose I must go to Savile Row to-morrow, and tell them they can set
to work on those trousers,” he muttered.