Dear Canon Spratte,
It is my desire, if it meet your own wishes, to recommend His Majesty to appoint you to the Deanery of St. Olphert’s, vacant through the impending retirement from illness of Dr. Tanner. In so doing, I can assure you I feel great pleasure in being able to mark my appreciation of your learning and sound divinity by offering you a position of greater dignity and less work. The duties, I need not tell you, are commanding in their nature; and I feel sure you would be able to perform them with great advantage to the interests of the Church, to which I think the course I am taking will be most beneficial, especially at this critical moment in its history.
I have the honour to be, dear Canon Spratte,
Yours faithfully,
Stonehenge.
The Hon. and Rev. Canon Spratte,
St. Gregory’s Vicarage.
The Prime Minister offered him an obscure, insignificant deanery in the north of Wales. For an instant Canon Spratte could not understand. It seemed impossible, it seemed preposterous. He thought it must be a mistake, and carefully read the letter again. The overthrow of all his hopes came upon him at the moment of his greatest exultation, and the blow was greater than he could bear; two scalding tears rose in his eyes, and heavily, painfully, rolled down his cheeks. They fell on the letter and made two little wet smudges.
The disappointment was so great that he could not be angry. He was utterly crushed. And then, in the revulsion from his high spirits, he was overwhelmed with despair. He asked pitifully whether he had all along misjudged himself. The Prime Minister did not think him fit for important office but sought to satisfy his claims by an empty honour, such as he might give to a man who, perhaps, had deserved well, but whose powers were now decrepit. That post of dignity was but a decent grave.
Suddenly, with the vain man’s utter self-abasement, Canon Spratte saw himself as he thought others might see him: mediocre, pompous, self-assertive, verbose. He heard the mocking words of the envious:
“Theodore Spratte is shelved. At all events he’ll be out of harm’s way at St. Olphert’s, and it’s just the sort of thing that’ll suit him—to tyrannize over provincial old ladies.”
And others would be astonished and say:
“One would have thought that pushing man would have pushed himself into something better than that!”
Again the Canon thought of all he might have done: and the pictures of the future, like scoffing devils, came once more before his mind. He could not help the tears. For a while, leaning over his desk, with his hands pressed to his burning eyes, he surrendered unresisting to his weakness. The tall spires and the sombre roofs of Barchester returned to his vivid fancy, and all that he had lost seemed twice as beautiful. The humiliation was unbearable. He hated and despised himself; he was petty and mean; and his pride, his boastfulness, his overbearing spirit, uprose against him in reproach. Who was he thus to have contemned his fellows? He had imagined himself clever, wise, and brilliant; and the world had laughed in its sleeve at his presumption. He blushed now, blushed so that he felt his face burn, at the thought that all this time people had despised him. He had lived in a fool’s paradise, rejoicing in the admiration of his fellows; and he had been an object of derision. It had been self-admiration only; and the world had taken him, as did Lord Stonehenge, for the mediocre son of a clever father. Even his brother had told him repeatedly that he was pretentious and vulgar, and he thought it only the sneer of a man who could not appreciate great qualities. A thousand imps danced in his brain, with mockery and with malicious gibes: in every key from shrill to hoarse, he heard their scornful laughter.
“I won’t take it,” he cried, jumping up suddenly. “I’ll remain where I am. I’m strong and young still; I feel as vigorous as if I were twenty. I don’t want their honours.”
But then he hesitated, and sank again, helplessly, into his chair. Was it not his duty to accept the promotion which was offered him? Had he a right to refuse? What was he but a servant of God, and might it not be His will that he should go to this deanery? He hated the idea, and feared the cold dulness of St. Olphert’s; but yet, with something in him of English puritanism, the very fact that it was so distasteful, seemed an argument in its favour.
“Am I fit to hold a great London parish?” he asked, despairingly. “I’m growing old. Each year I shall be less active and less versatile. Ought I not to make way for younger, better men?”
He strove to drive away the thought, but could not. Some voice, the voice of conscience perhaps, told him it was his duty to accept this offer.
“O God, help me,” he cried, broken at length and submissive. “I know not what to do. Guide me and teach me to do Thy will.”
Presently he fell on his knees humbly and prayed. Now there was nothing in him of the confident priest or of the proud and self-assertive man; he was but an abject penitent, confessing in broken words, tremulous and halting, his utter weakness.
“O Lord, give me a holy contented frame,” he cried. “Make me to desire nothing but how best to fulfil Thy holy will. Save me from worldly ambitious thoughts. I am weak and cowardly, and my sins have been very great, and I know that I am unfitted for a great position.”
When he rose to his feet, with a sigh he read Stonehenge’s letter for the third time. He took it in his hand and went to Lady Sophia. He felt that from her he would gain help. He was so crushed, so changed, that he needed another’s guidance. For once in his life he could not make up his mind.
But when she saw him, Lady Sophia was seized with astonishment. His spirited face seemed wan and lifeless; the lines stood out, and his eyes were very tired. He appeared on a sudden to be an old man. His upright carriage was gone and he walked listlessly, with stooping shoulders.
“Theodore, what on earth’s the matter?” she cried.
He handed her the letter and, in a voice still broken with emotion, said:
“Stonehenge doesn’t think I’m fit to be a bishop. He’s offered me a Welsh deanery.”
“But you won’t accept it?”
He bowed his head, looking at her with an appeal that was almost childlike.
“I’m not sure whether I have the right to refuse.”
“What does he mean by saying that the duties are commanding in their nature?”
“He means nothing,” answered the Canon, shrugging his shoulders scornfully. “He’s merely gilding the pill with fine phrases. Oh, Sophia, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to bury myself in that inglorious idleness. I feel in me the power to do so much more, and St. Olphert’s offers me nothing. It’s a sleepy, sordid place. I might as well be buried alive. I don’t want to leave London.”
His voice was so pitiful that Lady Sophia was touched. She saw that he wanted her to persuade him to stay in town, and yet his conscience troubled him.
“I’m only a servant of the Church,” he said. “I don’t know that I have the right to refuse to go where I am sent. Perhaps he’s not far wrong in thinking that it’s all I’m good for. Oh, Sophia, I’m so unhappy!”
She realized how much it meant for that bold spirit thus to humble itself. He paid a heavy price for his vanity. He was like a child in her hands, needing consolation and support. She began to speak to him gently. She suggested that the offer of this deanery signified only that Lord Stonehenge, feeling he owed something to the son of the late Lord Chancellor, had been unable on account of other claims to give him the bishopric. From the observation of long years she had learnt on what points Theodore most prided himself, (in the past this knowledge had been used to give little admonishing stabs,) and now she took them one by one. She appealed skilfully to his prepossessions. With well-directed flattery, calling to his mind past triumphs, and compliments paid him by the great ones of the earth, she caused him little by little to gather courage. Presently she saw the hopeless expression of the mouth give way to a smile of pleasure, and a new confidence came into his eyes. His very back was straightened. In the new uprightness with which he held himself, she perceived that her subtle words were taking due effect. At last she reminded him of his work at St. Gregory’s.
“After all, you’re a figure in London,” she said. “You have power and influence. For my part I have wondered that you contemplated leaving it for an obscure country town like Barchester. I shouldn’t have been at all surprised if you’d refused the bishopric.”
He breathed more freely, and with his quick and happy optimism began already to see things more genially.
“Besides, we Sprattes are somebody in the world,” concluded Lady Sophia, with a smile, the faint irony of which he did not see. “I don’t think you would show a proper spirit if you allowed yourself to be trampled on.”
“Ah, Sophia, I knew that at the bottom of your heart you were as proud of your stock as I. You’re quite right. I owe it to my family as well as to myself not to allow them to thrust me into obscurity. I shall refuse the deanery, Sophia; and Lord Stonehenge——”
“Can go to the devil,” she added, quietly.
Canon Spratte smiled with all his old vivacity.
“Sophia, I thank you. It is not right that I should say such things, but you have entirely expressed my sentiments.”
“Why don’t you sit down and write the letter at once?”
Without answering, the Canon seated himself, and presently showed to Lady Sophia, for her approval, the following reply.
Dear Lord Stonehenge,
I have weighed your very considerate proposal most anxiously and have given full weight to what you urge. I fully appreciate the kind motive which offered me the opportunity of removing to a position both of leisure and of dignity. I am sure you will not think that I have lightly set aside the offer made me; but I am doubtful whether my health would stand the asperities of a Welsh climate. And I have to consider that a very great assistance to me in the performance of my present duties is derived from the complete knowledge of my work in London. I fear that I might find the distant and untried labours of St. Olphert’s less congenial. And I feel that without some very strong counter-balancing reason, it is not desirable that I should leave plans which I have begun, but scarcely matured, in the Metropolis.
Believe me to be, with very grateful thanks, dear Lord Stonehenge,
Your faithful and obedient servant,
Theodore Spratte
Lady Sophia smiled when she read that last sentence in which he wisely left himself an escape, whereby he might with dignity abandon London, if a bishopric in the future were offered to him. Obviously the comfortable hope had returned that in the end his merits would receive their just reward. She gave back the letter.
“I think it will do capitally,” she said. “Now, if I were you, I’d go out for a stroll.”
“So I will, Sophia,” he replied. “I shall never forget your encouragement. I confess I was very much cast down.”
Much to her surprise he kissed her affectionately, and then said:
“As I have nowhere particular to go, I shall just walk along to Savile Row, and order two pairs of trousers.”
XV
MRS. FITZHERBERT had fixed half-past eight for the hour of dinner, but Canon Spratte, anxious for a few words before any one arrived, came early. He found her ready to receive him. When he entered the drawing-room she was at the window, looking at the dusk which clothed the London street in a certain atmosphere of charming mystery.
“Well?” he said, looking at her and taking both her hands.
“I’m glad you came before the others, I wanted to have a chat with you.”
“It was cruel of you to leave London so suddenly. You can’t imagine how eagerly I’ve wished to see you.”
“I’m afraid it was inevitable,” she answered. “My friend is still very ill, and I only came up this evening because I didn’t want to put my party off.”
“I was hoping you’d come up to see me,” he smiled.
“In point of fact it was only to see you,” she laughed. “I would have postponed the rest of them gaily, but I think we have a good deal to say to one another.”
“I feel immensely flattered,” he replied.
The evening papers contained an official announcement that Dr. Gray was appointed to the bishopric of Barchester; but Canon Spratte determined that none should see his bitter disappointment. He had not yet fought down the sense of humiliation with which Lord Stonehenge’s offer overwhelmed him, nor was he reconciled to remaining a London vicar. But he refused to think of his frustrated hopes. He flattered himself on his strength of character, and the world should imagine that he was in the best of spirits. He meant to keep himself well in hand, and in the decided effort to let no one see that he cared, began really to regain his self-esteem.
“I think we really ought to talk seriously,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert after a pause, fixing her quiet eyes upon him. “I wonder if you meant all that you said to me the other night?”
“Of course I meant it, every word of it, with all my heart,” he cried, emphatically. “Do you think I’m a boy not to know my own mind?”
“And you really look upon yourself as solemnly engaged to me?”
“I do indeed, and before many weeks are up I mean to lead you to the altar. We’ll have the bishop to marry us, and Tom shall lend us Beachcombe for our honeymoon. Or would you prefer Homburg and the Italian Lakes?”
“You know, I shouldn’t be at all annoyed if you told me you were carried away the other night and said more than you intended. You’re a susceptible man and there’s something about a dance that rushes the least emotional off their feet. I think half the unhappy marriages are caused by the proposing of young men when they’ve come to the end of their small talk; and their cowardice next day which prevents them from writing to say they made a mistake.”
“But it was no sudden whim on my part,” he exclaimed. “The idea had been growing in my mind for months. Ah, why can’t I make you believe that love may spring up in a man’s heart even though his hair is strewn with silver? I tell you I’m passionately devoted to you, and I insist on marrying you.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert smiled and looked at him strangely. He was very gallant and very eager. She wondered if there were ever a word of sincerity in anything he said.
“Then let us talk business,” she answered.
He threw up his hands in a gesture of disdain.
“Why should we? You know I’m not mercenary; let us pretend that no tiresome matters have to be discussed. We can leave it all to our solicitors.”
“But it’s very important.”
“Nonsense! Nothing’s important except that you’re the most charming woman I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m a lucky dog to have got hold of you. We’ll never grow any older than we are now; we’ll only grow younger year by year. When will you make me the happiest man in London?”
“You go so quickly,” she smiled.
He put his arm round her waist and seized her hand.
“Come, give me a kiss.” She positively blushed when he took it without more ado. “Upon my soul, you make me feel a perfect stripling. Shall we say in six weeks? That will bring us to the end of the season, and I can safely leave Lionel to preach to a regiment of empty pews.”
“For heaven’s sake sit down quietly, and let me get a word in.”
“Not till you’ve agreed. I won’t let you go till you’ve fixed the day.”
“You shall fix the day yourself,” she cried, extricating herself from his embrace.
Canon Spratte, with a laugh of triumph, threw himself into a comfortable chair. He was excited and restless. He knew he had never looked handsomer than at this moment, and he would not have changed places with a guardsman of twenty-five.
“What I wanted to tell you is that I have an income of five thousand a year,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“I cannot bear these gross and sordid details,” he answered, with a wave of the hand. “Of course it shall be settled absolutely upon you. What more is there to be said?”
“Only that it ceases on the day I marry again.”
Canon Spratte started and for a moment his face fell.
“All of it?” he asked.
“Every penny. My husband was a very generous man, but he had apparently no desire to provide for the wants of his successor. On my second marriage everything I have, the very furniture of this house, goes to a distant cousin of his.”
She watched the Canon for the effect of this blow, and she could not deny that he took it admirably.
“I’m very glad,” he said. “I much prefer to provide for your wants myself. I shouldn’t like to think you were living on another man’s income.”
“Do you realize that I shall be so penniless, you will even have to provide the clothes for my back and my very fare when I take the tube?”
“It will only make you more precious to me.”
The doors were swung open and the butler announced the first arrivals, Mrs. Fitzherbert stepped forward to greet them. Ten minutes later the whole party was seated round the dinner-table.
Canon Spratte was filled with consternation. It was true that he had not sought to marry Mrs. Fitzherbert for her money, but on the other hand the idea would never have come to him except that he knew she had a handsome income. It had never entered his head that she might hold it on such preposterous terms, and the blow was terrible. The Lord Chancellor had been able to leave him nothing. The bulk of his fortune went of necessity to his successor in the title and the rest to Lady Sophia, who announced her determination to lead a single life. St. Gregory’s was worth a certain amount and the canonry something more, but this from the depreciation of land was slowly diminishing. He had always spent every penny he earned. His children had three hundred a year each, but they were to be married and would naturally take the money with them. Lionel was paid nothing for acting as his father’s curate, but he might soon get a living and another expense would ensue. Lady Sophia had contributed a good deal to the household cost of the vicarage, but would of course make her home elsewhere when the Canon brought home a legitimate mistress. He did not see how on earth he could make both ends meet. Mrs. Fitzherbert, far from making up richly for all he lost, would be a source of vast expenditure. It would be necessary to give up the carriage and the horses of which he was so proud. Every cab that his wife took would be a shilling out of his pocket. A little while before Canon Spratte had ventured on a small flutter in the Stock Exchange, and the shares were not rising with the rapidity his broker had promised. This had seemed a bagatelle, but now grew suddenly into a matter of importance. The Canon’s heart sank. He looked at Mrs. Fitzherbert; and the gown which he had admired on his entrance appeared very expensive. She had none of the airs of an economical woman, and it would be needful to economize. He loathed the idea of counting each sovereign as he spent it. He liked the large gesture of generosity, and had the reputation of a man who spent his money well. Now he must be niggardly.
But above all he felt sold. It had been his consolation in the loss of the bishopric that the widow’s large means, added to his own, would enable him to cut a figure in London. He proposed to entertain lavishly. He wanted to make St. Gregory’s Vicarage a centre of fashion and intelligence, so that his name should go down to posterity like Sydney Smith’s as the most brilliant parson of his day. Instead he was saddled with a penniless wife.
But not one of these distressing emotions was visible on the Canon’s face during dinner. He had never needed his self-control more. Perhaps he showed his strength no less admirably than he could have done if, according to his ardent wish, he had been in happier days a great minister of state. The party consisted of eight, which he thought precisely the right number. It was neither so large that the conversation ceased to be general nor so small as to give a good talker an insufficient audience. Mrs. Fitzherbert noticed with admiration that he had never seemed in better spirits, and took a vow that whatever happened she would certainly remain friendly with him. He was invaluable at a dinner-party. It was only from an occasional look of weariness, quickly driven away, from a metallic, unusual ring in his laughter, that she suspected how great was his effort. He made himself the centre of the table, and he was so vivacious that none wished to question his supremacy. His stories had never been better, and he told them with a gusto that added vastly to their humour. He was never at a loss for a repartee; his sallies and quaint turns kept the party so well entertained that Mrs. Fitzherbert was radiant. She had never given a more successful dinner, and had the satisfaction of knowing that her guests thoroughly enjoyed themselves. When they thanked her on leaving, it was with a sincerity which she knew was unusual on similar occasions. She felt grateful to Canon Spratte.
“And now that every one has gone you must sit down and smoke a cigarette, and we’ll have a quiet chat.”
“That’s just what I should like. I’ve got something to say to you.”
“Have you? That’s very odd, because I have too.”
He seated himself, and she noticed that for the first time in their acquaintance, he was embarrassed. She looked at him with smiling eyes, but to him they seemed disconcertingly ironic.
“I think we should go back to the conversation we had before dinner,” he said. “Would you think it very odd if I made a suggestion?”
He waited for a reply, but she gave none, and he was forced to proceed. There was no doubt about it, he was growing exceedingly nervous.
“Well, I suggested then that we should be married in six weeks. I’m afraid it sounds very ungallant if I propose now that we should wait a little.”
“How long?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, I don’t know—perhaps a year, two at the utmost. You see, I’m not exactly hard up, but——” He hesitated again, for once in his life at a loss for words. “The fact is I don’t see how we can possibly marry till I get a bishopric. I’m practically certain to get one soon—there’s no one with half the claims I have, and I think I can boast of a certain amount of influence.”
“Two years is a long time at our age,” she smiled. “Especially for a woman. You know, even now, you’re ever so much younger in spirit than I am; I’m afraid that each day will increase the difference between us.”
He paused for the very shortest space of time.
“Of course, if you’d rather marry at once, I shall be only too charmed. It will make me the happiest of men. It was only on your account that I hesitated. I’m afraid that you’ll have to do without a good many of the luxuries that you’re used to.”
“It’s very thoughtful of you,” she murmured.
“I’m afraid we shan’t be able to have a carriage.”
“You know, I adore riding on ’buses,” she answered, with twinkling eyes. “One sits on the front seat and talks to the driver.”
“And then I’m afraid there’ll be no more little trips to Homburg in the summer or to the Riviera in the winter.”
“When all’s said and done is there any place in the world so comfortable as London?”
“It’s charming to think that you’re so easily satisfied.”
She watched him thoughtfully, while he sought to conceal behind a gallant smile a considerable feeling of dismay.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather break off altogether our short engagement?” she asked, suddenly.
“Nothing would induce me,” he cried, with the utmost emphasis. “Do you imagine that anything you have said makes you less precious to me? You cannot think so badly of me as to suppose that I no longer wish to marry you, because you are not rich.”
“You’re an ambitious man, and an opulent wife might have been of great use to you: a poor one can only be a drawback.”
“You pain me very much,” he answered. “I confess I think it would be wise to delay our union, but it would break my heart to put aside all thought of it.”
“Oh, I don’t think your heart is such a fragile organ as that. Let us be frank with one another. I venture to flatter myself that you did not want to marry me because of my money, but it’s obvious that a well-regulated passion is not diminished because an attractive widow has five thousand a year. It’s very comprehensible that you shouldn’t wish to marry a pauper.”
“I flatter myself on the other hand that I’m by way of being a gentleman.”
“Shall we say no more about it? Shall we forget that you murmured various things the other night which you didn’t quite mean?”
Mrs. Fitzherbert knew that she was very cruel. It was plain that he wished with all his might to accept his release. He suffered the torture of Tantalus, for escape lay within his easy reach, and he had not the effrontery to take it. He was a man who lived for the noble gesture, and he could not bring himself to make one that was uncommonly prosaic.
“I assure you no one shall know anything about it,” she added. “I promise you I will be as silent as the grave.”
He looked at her with an indecision that was almost pitiful.
“If I accepted your suggestion you’d despise me all your life,” he said.
There was something in his tone that made Mrs. Fitzherbert think she had gone far enough. He was really suffering this time, and she could not bear to see it. She went up to him quickly, and smiling, put her hands on his shoulders.
“My dear man, do you suppose for a moment that I had any intention of marrying you? Nothing would have induced me to do it.”
“What do you mean?” he cried.
“I’ve reached an age when I can’t imagine that it would be worth while sacrificing five thousand a year for any man. Besides, you’re charming as a friend, but as a husband you’d be quite insufferable. I wouldn’t marry you if I were starving and you had all the wealth of Golconda.”
“D’you mean to say you’ve been playing with me all the time?”
“I’m afraid that is precisely what it comes to.”
He drew away from her, and his face took that rather peevish expression of a spoilt child which it sometimes had.
“I think it’s very cruel of you,” he said.
“Let us forget all about it. You’re perfectly free and there’s no need whatever for you to marry me. Let us be friends. And don’t flirt any more with widow-ladies; they’re dreadfully dangerous.”
“I daresay it’s a very good joke to you, but you’ve exposed me to the most awful humiliation. You ask me to be friends, but I shall never be able to look you in the face again.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert ceased to smile and her eyes became quite grave.
“Shall I tell you a secret that I’ve never divulged to any living soul?” she said. “Perhaps you’ll understand why I couldn’t resist the chance you gave me. I daresay you’ve forgotten that five-and-twenty years ago we used to see a great deal of one another. Perhaps you never knew that I was so desperately in love with you then that I would have married you if you hadn’t a penny in the world, and I would have been glad to scrub the floors you walked on.”
The Canon started and was about to speak. But with a little laugh she stopped him.
“Oh, please don’t make any observation yet. Even now it makes me feel rather silly to speak about it. I daresay you flirted with a good many other girls as much as you did with me, but I was foolish enough to think you cared for me. And I thought you meant to ask me to marry you. Then you met Dorothy Frampstone, and you married her instead. Well, it’s very possible that she was much nicer than I, but you mustn’t be surprised if my vanity leads me to think there were much more solid reasons. I have an idea you transferred your affections to her chiefly because she had six hundred a year while I was penniless, and she was the daughter of a peer of the realm while I was nobody in particular.”
“You do me an injustice,” he murmured.
“Anyhow it doesn’t matter, it’s all very long ago. The important thing is that I did love you then really, so if I’ve made you feel a little ridiculous now, it’s only tit for tat.”
She held out her hand, smiling, and he warmly grasped it.
“You’re a wonderful woman, and I was a fool five-and-twenty years ago. The fates have been against me all along.”
“And now good-night,” she laughed. “It’s growing late, and it’s really very compromising for a lone, lorn widow to remain so long en tête-à-tête with a fascinating person like yourself.”
“Good-night, then.”
He bent down, and with the utmost grace kissed her hand. When he left her Mrs. Fitzherbert quietly smiled.
“I thank my stars I am a lone, lorn woman, and unless I become a perfect lunatic I’ll take care to remain one.”
XVI
THE Canon passed an unquiet night; and next morning, feeling in need of fresh air, took a stroll in the Park. The day was very fine, and there was a charming freshness in the air which soon brought back his serenity. He sauntered up the Row looking at the people who were out already to enjoy the earliness of the day after a late night at some gay party. He stopped now and then to observe the flowers, in which he took the horticulturist’s delight: Canon Spratte had an amiable weakness for putting Latin names to the daintiest blossoms of the way-side. He nodded to one or two friends and passed the time of day with a famous politician. The scene had an air of luxury and of fashionable indifference to the cares of life which filled him with satisfaction.
Presently he saw Gwendolen Durant ride towards him.
She looked so well on horseback that he wondered more than ever why Lionel could not make up his mind to marry. She stopped and spoke to him. They exchanged the simple banter which serves for wit among the easily pleased, and the Canon expressed his admiration of her seat. She nodded a farewell and put her heel to the horse’s side. But at that moment a motor-car rushed by at a terrific speed and gave a series of loud explosions. Gwendolen’s horse turned round with a sudden leap that almost unseated her, and was on the point of bolting, when the Canon jumped forward and seized the bridle. It was not a very dangerous action, but it required some presence of mind, and he performed it with a breadth of gesture that made it look almost heroic.
“Thanks, so much,” said Gwendolen, a little out of breath and startled. “If you hadn’t been there he’d have bolted. He’s got a mouth like iron and he simply pulls my arms out.”
“Are you quite sure you’re safe now?” asked Canon Spratte, anxiously.
The horse was still nervous and refused to stand still.
“He’ll probably bolt with me, but I must risk it,” she laughed, trying to show no concern.
“Let me tighten the curb a little, and then you’ll be as safe as a house.” With deft fingers he undid the chain and altered it. “You know, you really ought not to ride alone.”
“A groom bores me, and there’s no one else to come.”
“I shall ride with you to-morrow,” he answered. “I don’t think you should be left to your own devices. Now I think you’re in no danger.”
She thanked him effusively and trotted quickly off. The Canon resumed his promenade somewhat pleased with the action: he was grateful for the smallest incident that served to restore his diminished self-esteem. He was turning round to go home when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Sir John Durant.
“I’ve just seen Gwendolen. She tells me you saved her from a nasty accident.”
“Oh, it was nothing. I happened to be near.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“If you’ll allow me to say it, I think it’s somewhat incautious to let her ride alone. I’ve offered to accompany her to-morrow.”
“Oh, that’s very good of you,” said the brewer. “I’m afraid you’ll find it a great bore.”
“Not at all; I assure you it will be a great pleasure. My doctor has advised me to take horse-exercise, and I shall be only too glad to have some one to ride with.” The Canon put his arm through the brewer’s in his most friendly fashion. “And how are you, my dear fellow? I trust that your affairs are flourishing.”
“Well, in point of fact they’re not,” cried the other, suddenly growing serious. “That confounded Government wants to give the local justices power to close a certain proportion of public-houses in their districts.”
“Ah, yes, I saw something about that in the papers, but I understood it would have no influence on the consumption of liquor. Stonehenge’s idea is that the remaining houses will profit.”
“Don’t you believe it,” cried Sir John, with much vigour. “Nine times out of ten a man doesn’t drink a glass of beer because he’s thirsty, but because there’s a public-house at his elbow. Each one they shut up will take a good round sum out of our pockets.”
“The Government seems very strong on the point. I suppose they’ve been got hold of by the faddists.”
Sir John stopped still and significantly tapped Canon Spratte on the chest. His utterance was full of weight.
“Mark my words. The Government doesn’t know how strong we are. If they try to interfere with the liquor interest it’ll be a bad day for the Conservative party. I’ll fight them tooth and nail, and I shall carry the whole trade with me. I’m not a boasting fool, but I tell you this: the Government’s in a damned wobbly state, and if they put my back up I don’t answer for the consequences.”
Canon Spratte looked at his red-faced friend with the utmost attention. He knew that Sir John Durant was a rich man, but had not realized till this moment that he was a powerful man as well. Events might take such a turn that any one who had the brewer’s ear would command vast influence. He looked at his watch. It was time for him to keep an appointment, and he wanted to think quietly over the consequences of this discovery.
“Why don’t you come and lunch with me at the club one day?” he asked. “I’m afraid I mayn’t take you to the Athenæum, but they give you capital wine at the Carlton.”
Sir John accepted with pleasure, and so they parted. He was very thoughtful during the remainder of that morning, but at luncheon announced to his family that he proposed to ride every morning after breakfast. His doctor had recommended exercise, and he knew of no other which combined in such just proportions entertainment with utility.
“And what about this marriage of yours, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia. “You forget that we are all on tenterhooks.”
He stared at her for a moment with a very natural show of amazement, and burst into a shout of laughter.
“It was only a little joke of mine, Sophia. You don’t imagine it’s likely that I should marry at my age.”
“As you say, we Sprattes have a remarkable sense of humour,” she replied, dryly.
“I can’t help poking fun at you sometimes, my dear. But, as you rightly observed, no one would be such a fool as to marry an old fossil like your humble servant.”
But her remarks had brought back to his mind an incident which he would willingly have forgotten. He was still very sore, and the more he thought of it the more foolish he felt himself. It was in no amiable mood, therefore, that he waited for Bertram Railing, who was expected to call that afternoon. Nor was the Canon much pleased with his daughter, and he had mentioned two or three times his annoyance that her wilful disobedience had placed him in an awkward position. Railing was not an easy person to deal with. His plainness and outspoken candour rendered possible a very undignified altercation.
But when the young man arrived nothing was visible on the Canon’s face save complete friendliness. They shook hands.
“Ah, how good of you to come, dear Railing. So glad to see you.”
“Winnie told me she’d be at home this afternoon.”
“Of course I didn’t flatter myself that you’d come to see me,” laughed the Canon. “But in point of fact I’ve been wanting to have a little talk with you. It’s a very serious step that you young folks are taking.”
“Then we’re wise to take it with a light heart,” cried Railing, gaily.
“Ha, ha, capital! Now I should have thought you were both very young to be married.”
“I am twenty-eight, sir, and Winnie is twenty-one.”
“You neither of you look it,” murmured the Canon, with an amiable bow.
“Possibly!”
Canon Spratte pulled out the splendid cigarette-case in gold, with initials of diamonds, which a fond admirer had presented to him. He offered it to Railing.
“No, thank you. I never smoke.”
“I see you have no vices.” The Canon became so bland that it was overwhelming. “Now, my dear fellow, let us discuss this matter in the most cordial way. I need not tell you that I have the very highest esteem for you personally, and the sincerest admiration for your talents. But we live in an age when talent is not always rewarded according to its merits, and I am curious to know upon what you propose to live.”
“My income is about a hundred and fifty a year and Winnie has three hundred from her mother.”
“You are very well informed,” smiled the Canon, good-naturedly.
“Winnie told me,” said Bertram, flushing.
“Obviously! I didn’t suppose for a moment that you had examined the will at Somerset House. And do you imagine that Winnie will be content to live on four hundred and fifty pounds a year?”
“It’s three times as much as my mother ever had.”
“Possibly, but your mother—a most excellent person, Mr. Railing—has moved in rather a different stratum of society from my daughter.”
“Do you think your daughter cares two straws for the gewgaws and the tawdry trappings of Society?” asked Bertram, scornfully.
The Canon shrugged his shoulders.
“I think my daughter is human, Mr. Railing; and although it may surprise you, I will confess that I think a carriage and pair absolutely essential to her happiness.”
“I know Winnie, and I love her. You think she’s a doll and a fool. She was. But I have made her into a woman of flesh and blood. She’s a real woman now and she loathes all the shams and the shallowness of Society.”
“She told you that, did she?” answered the Canon. “Upon my word, we Sprattes have a keen sense of humour.”
Bertram sprang to his feet and crossed over to the Canon.
“You think she cares for carriages and fine clothes. Her life was a mockery. She didn’t know what life was. She had no aspirations, no ideals. Of course she wasted herself on the frivolities of a foolish world. Thank God, she knows now how narrow this little circle is of idle, selfish people. She wants to work, she wants to labour with her fellow-men, shoulder to shoulder, fighting the good fight.”
“And do you think, my dear young man, that it would ever have occurred to Winnie that the world was hollow and foolish, if you had a wart on the tip of your nose, or a squint in your eye? Upon my soul, you’re very unsophisticated.”
“You believe that all people are bad.”
“On the contrary, I’m so charitable as to think them merely foolish,” said Canon Spratte, with an acid smile of amusement.
“Have you only sneers for the new life that fills your daughter’s eyes? She’s a different creature now. Oh, I believe in her, thank God, as she believes in me! She’s ready to take the journey with me only by her side. Ah, I know she loves me. You think I’m only a fortune-hunter; we don’t want your money, we shouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“And you’re quite content that for you she should sacrifice everything?”
“She flings away painted husks, dross, tinsel,” cried Bertram, vehemently. “She gains the whole world.”
“Which means you and a villa in Peckham Rye. Upon my soul, you’re very modest.”
Bertram looked at him steadily, thrusting forward his head with a searching air. He turned over in his mind all that the other had said.
“What are you driving at?” he asked, at length. “Why don’t you say it out like a man, instead of beating about the bush?”
“My dear Mr. Railing, I must beg you to observe the conventions of polite society. It is clearly my duty to inquire into the circumstances of any young man who proposes to marry my daughter.”
Bertram gave a little hoarse laugh.
“I distrusted you when you first agreed to our engagement. I knew you despised me. I knew that all your flattery was humbug. Say it straight out like a man.”
Canon Spratte shrugged his shoulders, and spoke slowly and gravely.
“Mr. Railing, I solemnly ask you to give up my daughter. After mature reflection I have come to the conclusion that the marriage is impossible, and I will never give my consent to it.”
“We will do without it; we’re free, both of us, and we don’t care a button for you. Winnie has promised to marry me, and, by God, she shall.”
“Do you absolutely disregard my express wishes?”
“The matter concerns us alone, and no one else in the whole world.”
Canon Spratte thoughtfully examined his finger-nails.
On a sudden he had an inspiration. He had learned a fact from Mrs. Railing, which he thought at the time might prove useful, and here was the opportunity.
“Well, Mr. Railing, it’s very painful to me to have to talk to you in this manner. It is true that some time ago I gave a provisional sanction to your engagement with Winnie, and I can perfectly understand that it should seem strange if I now resolutely forbid it. I have no doubt this is a great disappointment to you, and for that reason I excuse your heated language, which has been certainly wanting in courtesy. I am sure that when you are calmer you will regret some of the expressions you have seen fit to use. But I will tell you at once that I bear you on this account absolutely no ill-will.”
“I’m much obliged to you, but I’m not aware that I’ve used any expression which I’m in the least likely to regret,” said Bertram, sharply.
“Then, if I may say so, as a man much older than yourself, and as a clergyman, you show both your want of Christian charity and your ignorance of social amenities.... I beg you not to interrupt me,” he added, when he saw that Railing was about to make a rejoinder. “You will understand that I am not the man to wrangle like a fishwife.”
“Will you tell me shortly what new objection you have to me, Canon Spratte?”
“That is what I am about to do. It has come to my knowledge that your eldest sister is unfortunately in a lunatic asylum. I need not tell you that I regret this misfortune, but my views on the subject are very decided. With insanity among your relations, I feel that an alliance between your family and mine is out of the question.”
“That’s absurd!” cried Railing. “Florrie had an accident when she was a child. She fell downstairs, and since then she’s been——”
“Not quite right in her head, as your mother expressed it, Mr. Railing. I should like you to observe, however, that every child falls downstairs, and the entire human race is not so imbecile as to need the restraint of a lunatic asylum.”
Bertram’s eyes were fixed steadily on Canon Spratte. He tried to discover what lay at the back of the man’s mind, but could not. He saw only that behind that calm face, amid this resonance of polished phrase, something was being hidden from him.
“I don’t believe a word you say. I’m not a child. I assure you it’s no good trying to hoodwink me. Tell me the simple truth.”
The Canon flushed at this appeal and was nearly put out of countenance. He wondered if he should fly into a passion and order Railing out of the house. But it was doubtful whether the Socialist would go. He was a little disconcerted, too, by the steadfastness with which Bertram had resisted him, and the scorn wherewith he brushed aside his specious reasons. Canon Spratte was hot with anger. The taunts to which he had calmly listened, rankled in his heart, and he would have been pleased to show that none could thus treat him with impunity. But he seldom lost his temper unadvisedly, and he realized now that calmness gave him a decided advantage over the angry and excited suitor.
“Are you quite sure that Winnie cares for you?” he asked, mildly.
“As sure as I am of my own name and of my own life.”
There was a pause. The Canon for a minute walked up and down the room; and then, holding himself very erect, stood still in front of Bertram. His voice was full of authority.
“Well, it is my painful duty to inform you that you are mistaken. Winnie recognizes that she misjudged the strength of her affection.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Railing, full of scorn.
“My patience must be inexhaustible. I am much tempted to kick you downstairs, Mr. Railing.”
“You forget that I’m a working-man and horny-handed, so it’s safer not to try.”
“It evidently hasn’t occurred to you that the manners of Peckham Rye are not altogether suitable to South Kensington,” smiled the Canon, blandly.
“Well?”
“Winnie has requested me to tell you that she finds she does not care for you enough to marry you. She regrets the inconvenience and unhappiness that she has caused, and desires you to release her.”
Bertram grew white and he gathered himself together as a wild beast might, driven to bay.
“It’s a lie!” he cried, furiously. “It’s a lie!”
The Canon replied with the utmost calm.
“You will have the goodness to remember that I am a minister of the Church and a son of the late Lord Chancellor of England.”
“If it’s true, you’ve forced her to give me up. I know she loves me.”
“You may think what you choose, Mr. Railing. The fact remains that she wishes to break off her engagement with you. As a man of honour there is obviously but one course open to you.”
“You tell me I’m a man of honour and you treat me like a lackey. Do you think you can dismiss me like a servant? Don’t you know that my whole life’s happiness is at stake? She can’t send me away like that. It’s not true, it’s not true.”
“On my honour as a gentleman, I have told you the exact truth,” replied Canon Spratte, gravely. Bertram seized the Canon’s arm.
“Let her tell me herself. I must see her. Where is she?”
“She’s gone out.”
“But she knew I was coming here to-day. She expected me.”
“Doesn’t that show you that what I have said is the simple truth? I wished to spare you both a painful scene.”
Bertram hesitated. He could not tell whether Winnie was really out, but it seemed impossible to verify the statement. For a moment he looked straight into the Canon’s eyes, then without a word turned on his heel. Canon Spratte gave a sigh of relief.
“What an escape!” he muttered. “Good Lord, what an escape!”
XVII
NEXT morning, when Winnie came down to breakfast, she found a letter from Bertram. She opened it with trembling hands. It began abruptly and consisted only of two lines.