Canon Spratte was a man of buoyant temper, and did not grieve long over
his frustrated hopes. After all there were richer Sees than Barchester.
With youth and strength still on his side he need not resign himself yet
to insignificance. Importance lay in the position which a man had the
ability to make for himself, and the Vicar of St. Gregory’s might wield
greater power than the bishop of an obscure diocese in the Western
provinces. Reconsidering his opinions, he came to the conclusion that
Barchester was a dull place, unhealthy, moribund, and tedious. He had
always disliked a clay soil. And very soon he sincerely made up his mind
that even if it had been offered to him, he would have refused. Like
Wilhelm Meister he cried that America was here and now; London offered
the only opportunity for such a vigorous character as his. And what were
earthly honours to a person of quality?
He consoled himself for everything with the thought that he had steered
Winnie successfully through the shoals of her amorous entanglements.
She was now staying in the country with Lady Wroxham, and on her return
the pleasing news of her engagement would be delivered to an envious
world. The Canon flattered himself that her foolish passion for Bertram
Railing was definitely extinguished. Her letters to Lady Sophia proved
that this facile heart was now given in the properest way to Harry
Wroxham. She wrote of him freely, with increasing affection, and her
enthusiasm found daily new qualities to admire.
Meanwhile the fine weather gave admirable opportunity for the Canon’s
matutinal rides with Gwendolen Durant. The effect upon his health was
all that could be desired. He found her a more delightful girl than he
had ever guessed; and his happy charm quickly brought their acquaintance
to such a degree of intimacy that they might have known one another for
ten years. It flattered him to see her flashing glance of pleasure when
they met each morning, and he exerted himself to entertain her. Sir John
also had taken such a fancy to him that much of the Canon’s time was
spent at the brewer’s gorgeous mansion in Park Lane. His urbanity had
never been more suave nor the scintillations of his wit more brilliant.
Gwendolen hung upon his lips.
But when Canon Spratte thought of Lionel he was a little disconcerted.
On the day Winnie was to come back to London, when he opened his _Times_
at breakfast, the Canon uttered an exclamation. Lady Sophia and Lionel
looked up with alarm.
“A dreadful thing has happened,” he said, solemnly. “Dr. Gray has had an
apoplectic stroke and died last night.”
“Poor man,” cried Lady Sophia. “He hasn’t enjoyed his bishopric long.”
“I look upon it as a judgment of Providence,” replied her brother, very
gravely.
“What on earth do you mean?”
“I said at the time he was not fit to go to Barchester. I have no doubt
the excitement and the strain of altering all his plans proved too much
for him. You see, I was right. When will men learn to put a rein upon
their ambition?”
Canon Spratte read the details carefully, shaking his head, and then
turned up the leading articles to see if by chance some reference was
made to the sad event. But here a new surprise awaited him. He gave a
start and smothered another cry. He ran his eyes down the column quickly
to gather its gist, and then perused it with concentrated attention. He
forgot entirely that the Church of England had sustained a grievous
loss, and that two lamb cutlets on the plate before him sought to tempt
his appetite. The news he examined was of vital importance. The brewers,
driven beyond endurance, were in full revolt against the Government. On
the previous night Sir John Durant, joining in the debate upon the bill
to close certain public-houses, had made a violent speech in the House
of Commons. The Government’s position was insecure already, and if the
liquor interest withdrew its support, a dissolution was inevitable. Sir
John Durant became suddenly a person of vast importance. The
determination he took might throw the money-markets into confusion; it
might alter the political balance of Europe and have far-reaching
effects in the uttermost parts of the earth. He had paramount influence
with the trade and the other members in the House would follow his lead.
He could command a large enough number of votes to make Lord
Stonehenge’s tenure of office impossible. It was certain that the
country would not return the Conservative party again. Canon Spratte’s
heart beat as though he were reading intelligence of the most
sensational kind. He threw the paper down and his breath came very fast.
For some time he stared straight in front of him and reviewed the
situation from every side. He jumped up, and unmindful of his breakfast
walked backwards and forwards.
“Aren’t you going to eat your chop?” asked Lady Sophia.
“Hang my chop,” he cried, impatiently.
She raised her eyebrows.
“How is it possible that the news of Dr. Gray’s death can have such an
effect on you, Theodore?”
“For goodness’ sake be quiet, and let me think,” he answered, without
his usual politeness.
He had discussed the matter a dozen times with Sir John, and knew with
what angry vehemence the brewer regarded this new power wherewith it was
proposed to invest the Justices of the Peace. He was a stubborn,
obstinate man, and had persuaded himself that it was an interference
with the liberty of trade. On the other hand, he was an enthusiastic
Conservative, and had no wish to put a Liberal Government in power,
which would probably bring in temperance legislation of a much more
drastic order. He was filled with the Imperialistic sentiment and
dreaded the Radical indifference to his ideal of world supremacy. If Sir
John could be induced to hear reason, it was probable that he would not
insist on the withdrawal of the bill which public opinion had forced the
Government to bring. But if left to himself, he might in a fit of temper
throw all his influence with the Opposition. Whoever had Durant’s ear on
this occasion was for the moment the most powerful man in England. A
smile broke on the Canon’s lips. He drew a long breath.
“Sophia, I should like to speak a few words to Lionel.”
“I’ve just finished,” she said.
She did not hurry herself, but when it pleased her left the room. Canon
Spratte turned eagerly to his son.
“Now, Lionel, I think you’ve shilly-shallied long enough. I want to know
for good and all what you propose to do with regard to Gwendolen.”
“What do you mean, father?”
“Good lord, man, you’re not a perfect fool, are you? We’ve discussed
your marriage ad nauseam. I want to know what your intentions are. It’s
not fair to the girl to keep her dangling in this fashion. Are you going
to marry her or not?”
“Well, father, there’s no hurry about it?”
“On the contrary there’s the greatest possible hurry.”
“Why?”
“I have every reason to believe that some one else is thinking of
proposing to her.”
“Well, I don’t think she cares twopence about me,” answered Lionel,
rather sulkily. “Lately when I’ve seen her she’s talked of nothing but
you.”
“There are less diverting topics of conversation, Lionel,” retorted the
Canon, with a smile.
“One can have too much of a good thing.”
“If you don’t look sharp some one else will step in and cut you out. I
warn you candidly.”
“I shan’t break my heart, father.”
Canon Spratte shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know what the young men of the present day are coming to; they
have no spirit and no enterprise. Anyhow, I’ve done my duty and you
mustn’t be surprised whatever happens.”
“I wonder you don’t marry her yourself,” said Lionel, ironically.
“And would you have anything to say against my doing so?” retorted the
Canon, not without a suspicion of temper. “Let me tell you that a man of
fifty is in the very flower of his age. I flatter myself there are few
men of your years who have half the vigour and energy that I have.”
He flung out of the room in a huff. His horse had been waiting for
half-an-hour, and it was later than usual when he joined Gwendolen in
the Park. Her face lit up, and from his own all sign of vexation had
vanished.
“I’d given you up,” she said. “I thought you weren’t able to come.”
“Would you have been disappointed if I hadn’t?”
“Awfully!”
“You make me regret more than ever that I’m not twenty-five,” he said,
without any beating about the bush.
“Why?”
“Because if I were I should promptly ask you to marry me.”
“If you were I should probably refuse you,” she smiled.
“I wonder what you mean by that?”
They walked their horses side by side, and the Canon was seized with an
unaccountable shyness. It was by a real effort of will that at last he
forced himself to speak.
“I suppose it never struck you that I took more than common pleasure in
our conversations. But when I left you I was always seized with despair.
I realized that my heart had remained as young as ever it was, but you
never ceased to see in me a man old enough to be your father. Do you
know that I’m fifty?”
“I never asked myself what your age was. I never felt that you were any
older than I.”
She answered nervously, looking straight in front of her. The Canon shot
a sidelong glance in her direction and saw that her cheeks were flaming.
He recovered his courage at once. Faint heart, he knew, never won fair
lady.
“Gwendolen, I sometimes think that you have worked a miracle, for by
your side I feel as young as the summer morning. What can the years
matter when I have the spirit and the strength of a youth! I admire you
and I love you. Do you think me very ridiculous?”
She shook her head, but did not speak. He put his hand lightly on hers.
“Gwendolen, will you be my wife?”
She looked up with a little laugh that was almost hysterical. She did
not answer directly.
“I’ll race you to the end,” she said.
Without a word, smiling, the Canon put the spurs to his horse; and they
galloped up the Row at a speed which was altogether beyond reason. The
policeman on his beat watched with gaping mouth the strange spectacle of
a comely young woman and an ecclesiastical dignitary, no longer in his
first youth but handsome too, peltering towards the Achilles Statue as
fast as they could go. Gwendolen’s horse kept somewhat ahead, but the
Canon would not give way. Again he clapped his spurs to the straining
flanks. It seemed to him, romantically, that he rode for a great prize,
and in his excitement he could have shouted at the top of his voice.
They reached the end neck and neck, and when they stopped, panting, the
horses were white with lather. There was no longer a shadow of humility
in the Canon’s breezy manner.
“And now for my answer,” he cried, gaily.
“What about Lionel?” she smiled, blushing.
“Oh, Lionel can go to the dickens.”
* * * * *
Canon Spratte frequently said that he was unaccustomed to let grass grow
under his feet. Having left Gwendolen at the door, he returned to the
Vicarage, changed his clothes, and promptly took a cab back to Park
Lane. But he found that she had been before him, and Sir John Durant was
already in possession of the happy news.
“Upon my soul, I don’t know what you’ve done to the girl,” he said, in
his hearty, boisterous tone. “She’s quite infatuated.”
The Canon laughed and rubbed his hands.
“She’s made me the happiest of men.”
Sir John was a man of affairs, whose pride it was that he went straight
to the point; and notwithstanding Canon Spratte’s remonstrance, who
sought to waive the matter airily aside, he insisted on discussing at
once the business part of the projected union. It required all the
fortunate lover’s self-control to prevent a little gasp of pleased
surprise when the brewer in a casual way mentioned the sum he proposed
to settle on his only daughter. It was larger even than he had expected.
“My dear Durant, your generosity overwhelms me,” he cried. “I promise
you I will do my best to make her happy, and I think it’s unlikely that
either my brother or Lionel will ever marry. In all probability
Gwendolen’s eldest son will inherit the title.”
This settled, he turned deftly to the political situation, and
discovered that the brewer was somewhat taken aback by the
responsibility which appeared to have fallen on him. He was anxious to
do his duty by his party, but at the same time could not bear to
sacrifice the interests of his trade. He had come to no decision
whatever, and showed himself only too pleased to discuss his predicament
with a man whose experience was so large, and whose mind so lucid. He
insisted that his prospective son-in-law should stay to luncheon. During
this meal Canon Spratte proved very neatly his skill in social
intercourse, for he was able to show himself gallant and tender towards
Gwendolen, while at the same time he displayed keen sympathy with the
brewer’s perplexity. But no sooner was the meal over than he jumped to
his feet.
“You’re not going already?” cried Sir John.
“My dear fellow, I must. I have a very busy day before me.” He smiled
tenderly at Gwendolen. “You can imagine that it is not without weighty
reasons that I tear myself away.”
“Then you must come back to dinner. You know, it’s private members’
night and I’m not going to the House.”
“Impossible also! Winnie is returning from the country to-day, and it
would be unkind if I did not dine at home. Besides, I have asked my
brother. A Christian family is one of the most beautiful as it is one of
the most characteristic sights of our English life. I like to allow its
mellowing influence to be exerted as often as possible on my rather
harum-scarum relative.”
“Then when shall we see you again?” asked the brewer, firmly grasping
his hand.
“If it won’t disturb you I should like to come in for half-an-hour about
ten o’clock.”
As soon as the door was closed behind him, he hailed a passing cab.
“I’ll give you a florin if you can get to the Athenæum in three
minutes,” he cried to the driver. He looked at his watch. “I think I
shall just catch him.”
He knew that Lord Stonehenge was in the habit of passing an hour at the
Athenæum after luncheon. He sat always in a certain chair, near the
window, which by common consent was invariably left vacant for him. No
one ventured to disturb him. He went in and out of the club, indifferent
to his fellow-members, as if he did not notice that a soul was there.
But Canon Spratte was an audacious man and did not fear to be
importunate. He smiled with satisfaction when he saw Lord Stonehenge,
heavily seated in his accustomed place. That vast mass of flesh had a
ponderous immobility which suggested that it would be difficult for the
Prime Minister to escape from his agile hands. He was turning over the
pages of a review, but his mind appeared busy with other things.
Canon Spratte walked up jauntily with the _Westminster Gazette_ in his
hand. It contained a very amusing cartoon in which Sir John Durant, as a
Turkish pasha, was seated on a beer-barrel, while the Prime Minister, in
the garb of an odalisque, knelt humbly before him with uplifted hands.
In the background were two satellites, one with a bow-string and the
other with a scimitar.
“Have you seen this?” said the Canon, sitting down coolly and handing
the paper. “Capital, isn’t it?”
The Prime Minister turned his listless eyes on the intruder and for a
moment wondered who on earth he was.
“I’ve just been lunching with Durant. He’s rather sore about it.
Ticklish situation, isn’t it?”
“Are you Theodore Spratte?” asked Lord Stonehenge.
“I am,” laughed the Canon. “I hope Durant won’t do anything rash. I have
a good deal of influence with him, and of course I’m doing my best to
persuade him not to kick over the traces.”
A sudden light flashed in the Prime Minister’s eyes, and he saw that
Canon Spratte had an object in thus speaking to him. He dived into the
abysses of his memory, and recalled that he had offered him a deanery,
which the Canon had refused. The man evidently wanted a bishopric or
nothing. He remembered also something that his daughter had told him; he
wondered what power the suave parson actually had with Sir John.
“I hear that your son is going to marry Durant’s daughter,” he said,
slowly.
“You’ve been misinformed,” answered the Canon, with a smile that was
somewhat ironical. “_I_ am going to marry her.”
“You!”
They looked at one another like two fencers, seeking to discover their
strength in each other’s face. The Prime Minister’s eyes had a peculiar
force which suggested the reason of his long-continued power; they
lacked brilliancy, but there was in them a curious intensity of vision
which seemed to absorb the thoughts of other men’s minds. The silence
lasted interminably. Canon Spratte bore the great man’s gaze with
perfect steadfastness, and presently Lord Stonehenge looked away. He
stared out of the window, into space, and the Canon thought he had
entirely forgotten the subject in hand.
“I need not tell you that I will do everything I can to bring Durant to
a reasonable state of mind. At present he’s wavering. You probably know
the facts better than I do, but he tells me the liquor party will follow
him. I understand if they go against you the result will be--awkward.”
Lord Stonehenge apparently did not hear. His eyes still rested heavily
on the trees in the park. Canon Spratte began to grow a little
irritated, but still he waited patiently. At last the Prime Minister
spoke.
“I suppose you’ve heard that Gray is dead?”
“I have.”
“Would you like to go to Barchester?”
Although he seemed desperately stupid Lord Stonehenge had understood.
The Canon’s heart gave a leap and he caught his breath. He forgot that
Barchester stood on a clay soil, and it no longer seemed a tedious
place. At last! But he showed no eagerness to accept. He knew as well as
the Prime Minister that the Government was in the hollow of his hand.
At that moment a bishop came up to Lord Stonehenge with a telegram in
his hand. Canon Spratte gave him an impatient frown.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think you ought to see this,” said the
newcomer.
He handed the telegram to Lord Stonehenge, who glanced at it irritably.
The bishop knew Canon Spratte and nodded to him.
“It’s to tell me that the Bishop of Sheffield died in his sleep early
this morning. He’s been ailing for some time.”
“Thank you,” said the Prime Minister.
He returned the telegram, and the bishop withdrew. Canon Spratte and
Lord Stonehenge looked at one another once more. A new factor had come
into the game which they were playing. Beside Sheffield the diocese of
Barchester was quite insignificant; it was small and poor, and from the
city itself all prosperity had long since vanished. The bishop of such a
place might be a great man in his own neighbourhood, but he had no
chance of activity outside it. Sheffield, on the other hand, possessed
two suffragans and patronage of vast importance. It was the centre of
religious life in the Midlands. Year by year the town was growing in
consequence; and its bishop, if a man of resource, might wield great
power. By help of the rich manufacturers in his district he could raise
huge sums for any purpose he pleased, and his influence need be second
only to that of the archbishop. If it was possible to have Sheffield,
Barchester was but a poor reward for such services as Theodore Spratte
could render to his country. But he had no time to think it over. It was
necessary to make his decision there and then. He was a bold man and did
not hesitate.
Lord Stonehenge still waited for his answer.
“It’s very good of you to make me such an offer, and I need not say I am
grateful for the honour, but--if I may put it frankly--I don’t think I
feel inclined to go to such a dead and alive town as Barchester. I have
a passion for work, and I can’t live without plenty to do. If I leave
London at all it must be for a place that offers ample scope for a man
of energy, a place where there’s a vigorous civic life, and where you
may feel yourself, as it were, at the centre of this busy modern world
of ours. Advance and progress are my watchwords.”
Conversation with Lord Stonehenge was difficult, for he seldom opened
his mouth. When you had said what you wanted, he merely waited for you
to begin again; and unless possessed of much effrontery, you were
utterly disconcerted. In the present case, however, there was but one
word he needed to utter, and that word was Sheffield. It remained
unspoken. Canon Spratte, content to let things take their time, got up.
“But it’s too bad of me to take up the only moment in the day you have
for recreation. I shall be seeing Durant again after dinner.”
With a nod and a smile he left the Prime Minister to his own
reflections.
* * * * *
Theodore’s day had been somewhat exhausting. It is given to few, however
eagerly they pursue the art of life, within twelve hours to win a wife
and to refuse a bishopric. He had thoroughly earned the bath he took
before dinner. He wondered how many people knew that he, Theodore
Spratte, then pleasantly wallowing in cold water, mother naked, held as
in a balance the destinies of the British Empire. Sir John Durant would
do as he suggested, and the next few hours might see determined the fall
of an administration. He rubbed himself joyously with rough towels.
“When the Clergy and the Licensed Victualers stand shoulder to shoulder,
not all the powers of Satan can avail against them,” he cried.
He dressed with unusual care and shaved a second time; he brushed his
hair with feminine nicety. He put two rings on his little finger, and
with a sigh of complete satisfaction, looked at himself in the glass. He
felt very well and young and happy. His appetite was good and he was
prepared to enjoy an excellent dinner.
When he reached the drawing-room he found that Lord Spratte was already
arrived. Winnie, whom he had not seen since her return, came up to kiss
him.
“Well, my dear, I hope you enjoyed yourself. You look positively
radiant.”
“I’m so happy, father. You don’t know what a dear Harry is. I’m awfully
grateful to you.”
“Your father’s a wise man, darling,” he laughed.
Lionel came in, hat in hand, to see Winnie, who had arrived but
half-an-hour before and gone straight to her room. He expressed his
regret that a choir-practice, which he must attend, forced him to go
out.
“Well, my boy, I’m sorry you can’t dine with us,” said the Canon. “I
should have liked to see my family united round my table on this night
of all others, but since your duty calls I have no more to say.”
At this moment Ponsonby announced that dinner was served, and at the
same time handed a telegram to his master.
“Hulloa, what’s this?”
He opened it and gave a cry. His heart beat so violently that he was
obliged to sit down.
“Papa, what’s the matter?” cried Winnie.
“It’s so stupid of me, I’m quite upset. Get me a glass of sherry,
Ponsonby.”
“What is it, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia, anxiously.
He waved his family aside and would not speak till Ponsonby brought the
wine. He drank a glass of sherry. A sigh of relief issued from his lips.
He waited till Ponsonby had left the room, and then slowly rose to his
feet.
“Sophia, you will be gratified to learn that the Government has offered
me the vacant bishopric of Sheffield.”
“Oh, papa, I’m so glad,” said Winnie.
Lionel seized his father’s hand and wrung it warmly.
“Well, Sophia, what do you say?”
“Presumably you don’t want me to persuade you to take it.”
“No, I shall accept as it is offered me, frankly--and by telegram.”
He looked upon the members of his family and took no pains to hide his
intense satisfaction.
“But I’m keeping you from your duties, Lionel. You mustn’t wait a moment
longer.” His son went to the door, but the Canon called him back. “One
moment, I was forgetting. I think the time has now arrived to announce
Winnie’s betrothal publicly. Just sit down and write out a notice; you
can leave it at the News Agency as you pass.”
Lionel obediently went to the desk and took a pen. The Canon cleared his
throat.
“We are authorized to announce that a marriage has been arranged
between Lord Wroxham, of Castle Tanker, and Winifred, only daughter of
the Honourable, (write that in full, Lionel,) of the Honourable and
Reverend Canon Theodore Spratte, bishop elect of Sheffield; better known
as the----”
“Better known as the--yes?”
“You’re very dull, Lionel,” exclaimed the Canon, with a laugh that was
somewhat irritable. “Better known as the popular and brilliant Vicar of
St. Gregory’s, South Kensington.”
When Lionel had departed with this, Canon Spratte turned jovially to his
brother.
“Well, Thomas, you see that virtue is sometimes rewarded even in this
world. It is a great blessing to me to think that everything I desired
has come about. Winnie is to marry a man who will make her an excellent
husband, and she will occupy a position which she cannot fail to adorn.
While as for myself I am removing to a sphere where such poor abilities
as Providence has endowed me with, will have a fuller scope. I confess
that I am gratified, not only for myself, but for the honour which has
befallen our house. I cannot help regretting that my dear father is not
alive to see this day. I need not say, Thomas, that I shall always be
pleased to see you at Sheffield. I am convinced that the golf-links are
excellent, and the poor hospitality of the Palace will ever be at the
command of the head of my family.”
“Theodore, I shouldn’t like to be a rebellious parson in your diocese,”
said Lord Spratte, gravely. “You’ll make it very hot for any one who
don’t act accordin’ to your lights.”
“I shall not forget the watchwords of our house, which have ever been
Advance and Progress. To these I shall now add: ‘Discipline.’ But really
we should go down to dinner.”
Lady Sophia thought it high time, for she had a healthy appetite. But at
that instant came another interruption. Ponsonby entered the room.
“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir,” he said, handing a card to the
Canon.
“Oh, I can see no one at this hour. I can’t keep dinner waiting a moment
longer.”
“I told him you could see nobody, sir,” answered Ponsonby, “but the
gentleman said he came from the _Daily Mail_.”
“That certainly makes a difference,” said the Canon, taking the card.
“That’s what I thought, sir. He said he would be very much obliged if
you could grant him a short interview.”
“Say I shall be very happy, Ponsonby, and show him into my study.”
“Theodore, are we to have no dinner?” cried Lady Sophia, when Ponsonby
was gone.
“Dinner, dinner!” exclaimed Canon Spratte, scornfully. “How can I think
of dinner now, Sophia? I have a duty to perform. You forgot that my
position is radically altered.”
“I knew you’d remind us of it in less than five minutes,” said Lady
Sophia, who felt that firmness now was needed or the future would be
unbearable.
“I and my family have always been in the vanguard of progress,” replied
the bishop elect, with a glance at the Lord Chancellor’s portrait.
“I know, but even your family wants its dinner sometimes.”
“Sophia, I shall be obliged if you will not interrupt me. I cannot say I
think it kind of you to insist in this vulgar way on the satisfaction of
a gross and sensual appetite. I should have thought on such an occasion
worthier thoughts would occupy your mind. But if your flesh is weak I am
willing that you should begin. I am not a selfish man, and Heaven forbid
that I should ask as a right what an affectionate and Christian
disposition should grant as a pleasure.”
“Fiddlesticks!”
Canon Spratte looked his sister up and down. He held himself very erect.
“Sophia, I have long felt that you do not treat me with the respect I
venture to consider my due. I must really beg you not to act towards me
any longer with this mixture of indecent frivolity and vulgar cynicism.
I do not wish to remind you that there _is_ a change in my position.”
“You have done so twice in five minutes,” said Lady Sophia, acidly.
“It appears to be necessary. Once for all, however, let me inform you
that henceforth I expect to be treated in a different fashion. If you
have not the affection to respect your brother Theodore, if you have not
the delicacy of sentiment to respect the son of the late Lord
Chancellor--you will at least respect the Bishop of Sheffield.”
He stood for a moment to allow the effect of his words to be duly felt,
and then marched to the door. Here he stopped and turned round.
“It may also interest you to learn that on the thirty-first of July I am
going to be married to Gwendolen Durant.”
He went out and slammed the door behind him. Lady Sophia stared at her
eldest brother with helpless astonishment; but with a little smile, Lord
Spratte shrugged his shoulders.
“He always has had the last word, Sophia.”