My Dear Canon,
I should very much like to have a little talk with you. I find it difficult to say in so many words upon what topic, but perhaps you will guess. I think it better to see you before I do anything further, and therefore should be grateful if you could give me five minutes as soon as possible.
Yours ever faithfully,
Wroxham.
He read it, and a smile of self-satisfaction played quickly on his lips. He divined at once that the writer wished to ask Winnie to marry him.
“I foresaw it when the boy was fourteen,” he exclaimed.
His own wife had died ten years before. She was a pale, mild creature, and had been somewhat overwhelmed by her husband’s greatness. When he was still a curate, handsome and debonair, the Canon had fallen in love with the youngest daughter of Lord Frampstone. It was an alliance, (Theodore Spratte would never have condescended to a marriage,) of which the Chancellor thoroughly approved; and the girl, dazzled by her suitor’s courtly brilliance, had succumbed at once to his fascinations. She remained dazzled to the end of her life. He never unbent. He treated her always as though she were a congregation. Even in the privacies of domestic life he was talking to a multitude; and his wife, if sometimes she wished he would descend to her level and vouchsafe to be familiar, never ceased blindly to admire him. She sighed for a little simple love, but the Canon could not forget that he was a son of a great Lord Chancellor and she the daughter of a noble house. She was confused by his oratorical outbursts, his wit, his grandiose ways; and gradually, unnoticed in the white brilliance of her husband’s glory, she vanished out of existence. The Canon’s only complaint was that his wife had never lived up to the position which was hers by right. She cared nothing for social success, and was happiest in the bosom of her family.
“Upon my word, my dear, you might as well be the wife of a dissenting minister,” he exclaimed often.
But her death gave him an opportunity to prove his own regard and to make up for her previous shortcomings. He ordered a funeral of the utmost magnificence; and the gentle lady, who had longed only for peace, was buried with as great parade as if she had been a princess of the blood. On a large brass tablet, emblazoned with his own arms and with those of her family, the lamenting husband, who prided himself not a little on his skilful Latinity, placed a Ciceronian epitaph which caused amazement and admiration in all beholders.
The recollection of his wife flashed at this moment through the Canon’s mind, and putting his own sentiments into her meek breast, he flourished the letter and chuckled to himself.
“I wish she were alive to see this day.”
Lord Wroxham, left fatherless in early boyhood, was head of a family than which there was none in England more ancient and more distinguished. Canon Spratte called a servant.
“Will you ask the porter if Lord Wroxham is in the club?”
“Yes, sir. I saw him come in half-an-hour ago.”
“Ha!”
Canon Spratte put a cigarette between his lips and jauntily went to the smoking-room. He caught sight at once of his prospective son-in-law, but made no sign that he observed him. He strolled across the room.
“Canon Spratte!” said the young man, rising and turning very red.
“Ah, my dear boy,” said the Canon, cordially holding out his hand. “Are you here? I’m delighted to see you. I was just going to write you a note.”
Wroxham was a young man of five-and-twenty, slender and of moderate height, with short crisp hair and a small moustache. His eyes were prominent and short-sighted, and he wore gold-rimmed pince-nez. His appearance was a little insignificant, but his pleasant, earnest face, if not handsome, was very kindly. He was nervous, and had evidently no great facility in expressing himself.
Canon Spratte, aware of his confusion, took his arm and led him to a more secluded place.
“Come and sit in the window, dear boy, and tell me what it is you wish to say.”
When the Canon desired to be charming, none could excel him. There was such a sympathetic warmth in his manner that, if you were not irritated by a slightly patronizing air, your heart never failed to go out to him.
“Have a cigarette,” he said, producing a golden case of considerable value. “Give me a match, there’s a good fellow.”
He beamed on the youth, but still Wroxham hesitated.
“You got my note, Canon?”
“Yes, yes. So charming of you to write to me. I’ve known you so long, dear boy—if there’s anything I can do for you, command me.”
Wroxham had often come with Lionel from Eton to spend part of his holidays in the Canon’s hospitable house.
“Well, the fact is—I want to ask Winnie to marry me, with your permission.”
Canon Spratte restrained the smile of triumph which struggled to gain possession of his mouth. When he answered, his manner was perfectly sympathetic, but somewhat grave as befitted the occasion.
“My dear Harry, I will not conceal from you that your sentiments have not been altogether hidden from me. And you will understand that if I had not approved of them I should scarcely have allowed you to come so frequently to my house.”
Wroxham smiled, but found nothing very apposite to say.
“I have had for years the very greatest affection for you; and of late, since you took your seat in the House of Lords, I have had also esteem and admiration. It is an excellent sign when a young man of your position throws himself so earnestly into affairs of State. I think you have a great future before you.”
He put up his hand to request silence, as he saw the other wished to make some remark. Canon Spratte did not suffer interruption kindly.
“But in these matters one is a father first and last. I have reason to believe that you are a steady young man, without vices, and I think you have an excellent temper, than which nothing is more necessary in married life. But you must allow me to inquire a little into your circumstances.”
The young man very simply explained that he possessed three houses, a great many acres of land, and an income of twenty thousand a year. Canon Spratte listened gravely.
“I should like to leave all the affairs about settlements in your hands, Canon. I’ll do whatever you think fit.”
“All that sounds very satisfactory,” answered the Canon, at last. “I am not the man to go into pecuniary details. Thank God, I can honestly say I’m not mercenary, and I think we can leave all business details to our respective lawyers. My dear boy, I give you full permission to pay your addresses to Winnie.”
Wroxham flushed, and taking off his glasses, rubbed them with a handkerchief.
“Do you think she cares for me?”
The Canon took both his hands.
“My dear fellow, you need have no fear on that point. Of course, I leave my children complete liberty of action, but I don’t think I am indiscreet in assuring you that Winnie is—well, very fond of you.”
“I’m so glad,” said Wroxham, a happy smile breaking on his lips.
“Come to luncheon to-morrow and have a talk with my little girl afterwards. I’ll arrange it so that you shall be undisturbed.”
“It’s awfully good of you.”
“Not at all! Not at all! But now I really must be running off. I’m lunching with Lady Vizard, to meet the Princess of Wartburg-Hochstein.”
IV
WINNIE went to Mr. Railing’s temperance meeting by herself. When she was setting out to go home, with somewhat marked deliberation, the Socialist joined her.
“Your father has asked me to come to tea.”
“I know,” she answered. “Shall we walk back together?”
Bertram Railing was three-and-twenty, and Winnie had not exaggerated too grossly when she vowed he was as beautiful as a Greek god. He was very dark, but his skin, smoother than polished ivory, had the glowing colour of Titian’s young Adonis; and his hair, worn long and admirably curling, his fine sincere eyes, were dark too. With his broad forehead, his straight nose, his well-shaped, sensual mouth, he was indeed very handsome; and there was a squareness about his jaw which suggested besides much strength of character. His expression was sombre; but when, fired with enthusiasm, he spoke of any subject that deeply interested him, his face grew very mobile. He wore a blue serge suit, a red tie, and a low collar which showed his powerful, statuesque neck. If he could not be altogether unconscious of his good looks, he was certainly indifferent to them. His whole life was given up to a passionate striving for reform, and his absorbing interest in the improvement of the people allowed no room for trifling, unworthy thoughts. The strenuous pursuit of the ideal gave him a fascination far greater than that of his wonderful face.
“Did you like my lecture?” he asked, as they walked side by side.
Winnie looked at him, her eyes filled suddenly with tears.
“Yes.”
It was all she could say, but Railing smiled with pleasure. In this one word was so much feeling that it pleased him more than all the applause he had received.
“You can’t imagine what I felt while I was listening to you,” she said at last.
“If I spoke well it was because I knew your eyes were upon me.”
“I felt perfectly hysterical. I had to bite my lips to prevent myself from crying.”
They walked in silence, each occupied with tumultuous thoughts. His presence was enchanting to Winnie, and yet the joy of it was almost painful. A marvellous change had come upon her during the last few days, and life was altogether new. The world seemed strangely full of emotion, and the parts of the earth, in the spring sunshine, sang to one another joyful songs.
“You’ve done so much for me,” she murmured, happy to confess her inmost thoughts. “Until I knew you I was so selfish and stupid. But now everything is different. I want to help you in your work. I want to work too.”
For a moment, finding nothing to say, he gazed at her. His brown eyes, so strong and full of meaning, looked into hers gravely; and hers were blue and tender. But the silence grew unendurable, and flushing, the girl looked down.
“Why don’t you speak?”
“I think I’m afraid,” he answered, and there was a tremor in his voice.
She felt that his heart was beating as quickly as her own.
“Who am I that you should be afraid?” she whispered.
He gave a sigh that was half joy, half sorrow; and clenched his hands in the effort to master himself. But the girl’s sweet freshness rose to his nostrils like the scent of the earth in the morning after the rain, and his poor wits were all aflame.
“If I’ve done anything for you,” he said at last, “you’ve done a thousand times more for me. When first I met you I was utterly discouraged. The way seemed so hard. It was so difficult to make any progress. And then you filled me with hope.”
He began to speak hurriedly, and Winnie listened to his words as though they were some new evangel. He told her of his plans and of his enthusiastic ambition to get the people the power that was theirs by right. When he spoke of wages and of labour, of Co-operative Associations and of Trades Unions, it sounded like music in her ears. He told her of Lassalle’s fevered life, of Marx’ ceaseless struggle, of the pitying anguish of Carl Marlo. He spoke so earnestly, with such a vehemence of phrase, that Winnie, used to the sonorous platitudes of her father, was carried out as it were into the bottomless sea of life. After the artificiality wherein she had lived, these new doctrines, so boldly regardless of consequence, eager only for justice, were like the fresh air of heaven: her pulse beat more rapidly, and she knew that beyond her narrow sphere was a freer world. Railing spoke of the people; and the human beings whom she had classed disdainfully as the lower orders, gained flesh and blood in her imagination. He spoke of their passions and their misery, of their strength, their vice and squalor. The many-headed crowd grew picturesque and coloured. Winnie was seized on a sudden with the desire to go into their midst; and gaining a new strength of purpose, she felt already a greater self-reliance. Then more slowly, as though her presence were almost forgotten, but with the same intense conviction, the young Socialist spoke of the Nazarene who was the friend of the poor, the outcast, and the leper. Winnie had known Him only as the mainstay of an opulent and established Church. In her mind He was strangely connected with pews of pitch-pine, a fashionable congregation in Sabbath garments, and the imposing presence of her father. She learned now, as though it were a new thing, that the Christ was a ragged labourer, one with the carpenter who worked at St. Gregory’s Vicarage, the mason carrying a hod, and the scavenger who swept the streets. In these simple words she found a reality that had never appeared in her father’s rhetoric.
“And that’s why I call myself a Christian Socialist,” he said, “because I believe that to these two belong the future—to Christ and to the people.”
Winnie did not answer, and they walked again in silence.
“Do you despise me?” she cried at length. “Do you think I’m vain and foolish? I’m so ashamed of myself.”
He looked at her with those passionate eyes of his, and his whole heart yearned for her.
“You know what I think of you,” he said.
They were approaching the Vicarage and time was very short. Winnie threw off all reserve.
“I want to help you, I want to work with you, I hate the life I lead at home. I’m not a woman, I’m only a foolish doll. Take me away from it.”
The blood rushed to his face and the flame of an ecstatic happiness lit up his eyes. He could scarcely believe that he had heard aright.
“Do you mean that?” he cried, hastily. “Oh, don’t play with me. Don’t you know that I love you? I love you with all the strength I’ve got. When I’m away from you it’s madness; I can think of nothing but you all day, all night.”
Winnie sighed.
“I’m so glad to hear you say that.”
“Do you care for me at all?” he insisted, doubting still.
“Yes, I love you with my whole soul.”
When they reached St. Gregory’s Vicarage, the Canon greeted Railing with effusion.
“My dear Mr. Railing, it’s so kind of you to come. Permit me to introduce you to my sister. Mr. Railing is the author of that admirable and much-discussed book, The Future of Socialism.”
“And what is the future of Socialism?” asked Lady Sophia, politely.
“It took me three hundred pages to answer that question,” he replied, with a smile.
“Then you must allow me to give you some tea at once.”
Winnie went up to her uncle, who had been lunching quietly with his sister, but he put out a deprecating hand.
“You’d better not kiss me after being at a temperance meeting,” he said. “I’m awfully afraid of catchin’ things. I always think it’s such a mercy there are no poor people at St. Gregory’s.”
“D’you think they’re all infectious?” smiled Railing.
“One can never tell, you know. I always recommend Theodore to sprinkle himself with Keating’s Powder when he’s been marrying the lower classes.”
Railing tightened his lips at the flippant remark, and Winnie, watching him, was ashamed of the frivolous atmosphere into which she had brought him. It seemed to her suddenly that these people among whom till now she had lived contentedly, were but play-actors repeating carelessly the words they had learnt by rote. That drawing-room, with its smart chintzes and fashionable Sheraton, was a stuffy prison in which she could not breathe. She knew a hundred parlours which differed from this one hardly at all: the same flowers were on the same tables, arranged in the same way, the same books lay here and there, the same periodicals. In one and all the same life was led; and it was artificial, conventional, untrue. She and her friends were performing an elaborate but trivial play, some of the scenes whereof took place in a dining-room, some in a ball-room, others in the park, and some in fashionable shops. But round this vast theatre was a great stone wall, and outside it men and women and children swarmed in vast numbers, and lived and loved and starved and worked and died.
Bertram turned to Canon Spratte.
“I see that one of our most ardent champions in the cause of temperance has just died,” he said.
“Bishop Andover?” exclaimed the Canon. “Very sad, very sad! I knew him well. Sophia is of opinion that he was the most learned of our bishops.”
“He’ll be a great loss.”
“Oh, a great loss!” cried the Canon, with conviction. “I was terribly distressed when I heard of the sad event.”
“Are there any golf-links at Barchester?” asked Lord Spratte, with a glance at his brother.
Railing looked at him with surprise, naturally not catching the purport of this question.
“I really don’t know.” Then he gave Canon Spratte a smile. “I hear it’s being suggested that you may go there.”
Canon Spratte received the suggestion without embarrassment.
“It would require a great deal to tear me away from St. Gregory’s,” he answered, gravely. “I’m thoroughly attached to the parish.”
“I don’t know what they would do without you here.”
“Of course no man is indispensable in this world; but I don’t know that I should consider myself fit to take so large and important a See as that of Barchester.”
Winnie took her uncle some tea and sat down beside him.
“What d’you think of Mr. Railing?” she asked, abruptly.
“Smells of public spirit, don’t he? He’s the sort of chap that has statistics scribbled all over his shirt-cuffs.” His jaw dropped. “And his shirt-cuffs take off.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” asked Winnie, flushing.
“My dear, there’s no reason at all. Nor have I ever been able to discover why you shouldn’t eat peas with a knife or assassinate your grandmother. But I notice there is a prejudice against these things.”
“I think he’s the most wonderful man I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“Do you, by Jove!” cried Lord Spratte. “Have you told your father?”
Winnie gave him a defiant look.
“No, but I mean to. You all think I’m still a child. You none of you understand that I’m a woman.”
“I notice your sex generally claims to be misunderstood when it has a mind to do something particularly foolish.”
“I wish you had heard him speak. I could hardly control myself.”
“Because he dropped his aitches?”
“Of course not. Can’t you see he’s a gentleman?”
“I’m so short-sighted,” replied Lord Spratte, dryly. “And I haven’t my opera-glasses with me.”
Winnie rose impatiently and walked over to her father.
Lord Spratte watched her with some curiosity, and he caught Railing’s glance as she came up. His lips formed themselves into a whistle. He chuckled as he thought of Theodore’s consternation if what he suspected proved true.
“I’m so sorry that a perfectly unavoidable engagement prevented me from coming to hear you speak,” the Canon said, in his politest way.
“It was splendid,” cried Winnie, enthusiastically, forgetting already her uncle’s sneer. “I’m never going to touch alcohol again.”
Railing looked at her gratefully, and his eyes were full of passionate admiration.
“Capital, capital!” burst out the Canon, patting his friend on the back. “You’re an orator, Railing.”
“You should have seen the audience,” said Winnie. “While Mr. Railing spoke you could have heard a pin drop. And when he finished they broke into such a storm of applause that I thought the roof was coming down.”
“They were all very kind and very appreciative,” said Railing, modestly.
Lady Sophia, raising her eyebrows, looked with astonishment at her niece, than whom generally no one could be more composed. Winnie was very apt to think enthusiasm a mark of ill-breeding, and the display of genuine feeling proof of the worst possible taste. But now she was too happy to care what her aunt thought, and seeing the look, answered it boldly.
“You should have seen the people, Aunt Sophia. They crowded round him and wouldn’t let him go. Every one wanted to shake hands with him.”
“It’s wonderful how people are carried away by real eloquence,” said the Canon, in his impressive fashion. “You must really come and hear me preach, Mr. Railing. Of course I don’t pretend to have any gifts comparable to yours, but I’m preparing a course of sermons on Christian Socialism which may conceivably interest you.”
“I should like to hear you,” answered the other, putting as usual his whole soul into the casual conversation. To Lady Sophia his strenuous way rang out of tune with the rest of the company, but Winnie thought him the only real man she had ever known. “The clergy ought to be in the forefront of every movement.”
“Yes,” said the Canon, with that glance at the ancestral portrait which so often preluded a flourish of oratory. “Advance and progress have ever been my watchwords. I think I can truthfully say that my family has always been in the vanguard of any movement for the advantage of the working-classes.”
“From the days of the Montmorencys down to our father, the late Lord Chancellor of England,” put in Lord Spratte, gravely.
Theodore gave the head of his house a look of some vexation, but drew himself to his full height.
“As my brother amiably reminds me, my ancestor, Aubrey de Montmorency, was killed while fighting for the freedom of the people, in the year 1642. And his second son, from whom we are directly descended....” Lady Sophia gave a significant cough, but the Canon went on firmly, “was beheaded by James II for resisting the tyranny of that Popish and despotic sovereign.”
None could deny that the sentence was rhythmical. The delivery was perfect.
Presently Railing got up.
“What, must you go already?” cried the Canon. “Well, well, I daresay you’re busy. You must come and see us again, soon; I want to have a long talk with you. And don’t forget to come and hear me preach.”
When Railing took Winnie’s hand, she felt it almost impossible to command herself.
“I shall see you again to-morrow?” she whispered.
“I shan’t think of anything else till then,” he said.
His dark eyes, so passionately tender, burnt like fire in her heart. Railing went out.
“Intelligent fellow!” said Canon Spratte, as the door closed behind him. “I like him very much. Remarkably brilliant, isn’t he, Sophia?”
“My dear Theodore, how could I judge?” she answered, somewhat irritably. “You never let him get a word in. He seemed an intelligent listener.”
“My dear Sophia, I may have faults,” laughed the Canon. “We all have faults—even you, my dear. But no one has ever accused me of usurping more than my fair share of the conversation. I daresay he was a little shy.”
“I daresay!” said Lady Sophia, dryly.
V
THE same evening, before going to his room to dress for dinner at the Hollingtons, Canon Spratte wrote to an acquaintance who was clerical correspondent for an important paper.
My Dear Mr. Wilson,
I wish you would announce in your admirable Journal that there is no truth whatever in the rumour that I have been offered the vacant bishopric of Barchester. This, however, gives me an opportunity to say how thoroughly I condemn the modern practice of assigning this and that post, in the wildest, most improbable fashion, to all sorts and conditions of men. In these days of self-advertisement, I suppose it is too much to ask that people should keep silent on the positions to which they expect themselves or their friends to be elevated, but I cannot help thinking such a proceeding would be at once more decorous and more discreet.
Yours most faithfully,
Theodore Spratte.
While changing, he remembered that flippant, disparaging remark which Lady Sophia had made the day before about his calves. He looked at himself in the glass and smiled with good-humoured scorn.
“They think I couldn’t wear gaiters,” he murmured. “I fancy there are few bishops who’ve got better legs than I have.”
They were indeed well-shaped and muscular, for Canon Spratte, wisely, took abundant exercise.
“I think it’s rather chilly to-night, Ponsonby,” he said. “Will you bring me my fur coat.”
He put it on, and holding himself with a sort of dashing serenity, looked again in the glass. It would have been absurd not to recognize that he was a person of handsome and attractive presence. Few men can wear very elaborate garments without being ridiculous, but Canon Spratte was made for pompous, magnificent habiliments.
“A man in a fur coat is a noble animal,” he said, with deep conviction. “Is the carriage there?”
Canon Spratte was at his best in feminine society. He used women with a charming urbanity which reminded you of a past age when good manners were still cultivated by the great ones of the earth. There was a polite suppleness about his backbone, a caressing intonation of his voice, which captivated the least susceptible. He was an ornament to any party, for he never failed to say a clever thing at the necessary moment. He could flatter the young by his courtliness and amuse the old by his repartee. The triumphant air with which he entered the Hollingtons’ drawing-room sufficed to impress you with his powers. It was certainly an odd contrast between the flamboyant style of the Canon of Tercanbury and the clumsy shuffling of Lord Stonehenge, ill-dressed and untidy, who immediately followed.
To his great good fortune Canon Spratte found he was to take down to dinner Lady Patricia, the Prime Minister’s daughter. He could be brilliant and talkative, but on occasion he could be also a witty listener; and this useful art he employed now to the best advantage. None knew what self-restraint it needed for Canon Spratte to seem a little dull, but he was aware that Lady Patricia shared her father’s predilection for undangerous mediocrity. He heard what she said with grave interest. He asked intelligent questions. He went so far as to demand her advice on a matter wherein he had no intention of following any opinion but his own. Lady Patricia gained the impression that there was no one in the world at that moment whom he wanted to see more than herself, and she talked with a fluency that was as unusual as it was pleasing. She was a woman who found topics of conversation with difficulty, and so felt uncommonly pleased with herself. She could not help thinking the Canon a man of considerable ability. And the contrast between him and her other neighbour was altogether to Canon Spratte’s advantage. Lady Hollington had the fashionable craze for asking literary and artistic persons to her parties. They take the place in a democratic age of the buffoons whom princes formerly kept in their houses, and are a luxury which the most economical can afford. But the novelist who now claimed Lady Patricia’s attention, entertained her with his theories upon art and literature; and since she knew nothing of either, and cared less, the poor lady was immoderately bored.
The Canon was delighted to find on his left an old friend of his. Mrs. Fitzherbert was a handsome widow of five-and-forty, with singularly fine teeth, and these a charming smile gave her an opportunity of displaying with some frequency. None knew whether her keen sense of humour was due to the excellence of her teeth, or whether her teeth were so noticeable on account of this acute perception of the ridiculous.
“I’m doubly favoured by the gods this evening,” said Canon Spratte. “If I were a Papist I would offer a candle of gratitude to my patron saint. I didn’t know I should be so fortunate as to meet you nor so lucky as to sit by your side.”
“It’s taken you some time to avail yourself of the privilege of speaking to me,” she answered, glancing at the menu.
“I wanted to appease the pangs of my hunger first, so that I could devote myself to the pleasure of your conversation with an undistracted mind.”
“Then you agree with me, that a man is only quite human when he’s eaten his dinner?” she smiled.
“My thoughts are never so ethereal as when my body is occupied with the process of digestion,” the Canon replied, ironically.
He thought that Mrs. Fitzherbert wore uncommonly well. She had always been a fine creature, but he had never guessed that the girl of somewhat overwhelming physique whom he had known a quarter of a century before, would turn into this stately woman. The years only increased her attractiveness, and she had reason to look upon the common foes of mankind as her particular friends. She held herself with the assurance of a woman who has enjoyed masculine admiration. The Canon’s eyes rested with approval on the gown which displayed to advantage her beautiful figure.
These flattering reflections were, perhaps, obvious on his face, for the lady smiled.
“You may make it,” she said, with a flash of her exquisite teeth.
“What?” asked the Canon, innocently opening his eyes.
“The compliment that’s on the tip of your tongue.”
“I think you grow handsomer every day,” he answered, without hesitation.
“Thank you. And now tell me about Sophia and the children.”
“I’d much sooner talk about you,” said the Canon, gallantly.
“My dear friend, we’ve known one another too long. For flattery to be pleasing one must be convinced, at least for a moment, that it’s sincere, and you know I’ve never concealed from you my belief that you’re the most desperate humbug I’ve ever known.”
“You put me at my ease at once,” he retorted, smiling and not in the least disconcerted. “But I’m sorry you’re so vain.”
“Do you think I’m that?”
“Certainly. It’s only because your inner consciousness tells you such agreeable things that you won’t listen to my timid observations.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at him quickly and wondered if his memory was as bad as he pretended. She did not feel it necessary to recall exactly how many years it was since first they met, but she was a girl then, and Theodore the handsomest man she had ever seen. Her maiden fancy was speedily captured, and for a season they danced together, philandered, and sauntered in the park. Unwisely, she took him with all seriousness. She remembered still a certain afternoon in July when they met in Kensington Gardens; the sunshine and the careful trees, the dainty flowers, gave the scene all the graceful elegance of a picture by the adorable Watteau. She was going into the country next day, and her young heart beat in the most romantic fashion because she thought Theodore would seize the opportunity to declare his passion. But instead, he asked if she could keep a secret, and told her he had just become engaged to Dorothy Frampstone. She had not forgotten the smile with which she congratulated him and the lightness wherewith she hid the terrible anguish that consumed her. For six weeks she saw the world through a mist of tears, but pride forbade her to refuse Dorothy’s invitation to be bridesmaid at the wedding, and here she met Captain Fitzherbert. He fell in love with her at first sight and she married him out of pique, only to discover that he was a perfectly charming fellow. She soon grew devoted to him and never ceased to thank Heaven for her escape from Theodore. The only emotion that touched her then was curiosity. She would have given much to learn the reason of his behaviour. But she never knew whether the handsome curate had really cared, and thrown her over only because a more eligible bride presented herself; or whether, blinded by her own devotion, she had mistaken for love attentions which were due merely to a vivacious temperament. She did not meet Theodore Spratte again till she had been for some time a widow. Captain Fitzherbert was stationed in various parts of the world, and his wife came rarely to England. Then he fell ill, and for several years she nursed him on the Riviera and in Italy. But when at last his death released her, Mrs. Fitzherbert sought to regain her calmness of mind after the long exhaustion of his illness, by distant journeys to those places where she had spent her happy married life. It was not till she took a house in London, three years before this, that she ran against Canon Spratte casually at a dinner-party. She was pleased to see him, but noted with amusement that the sight did not agitate her in the smallest degree. She could scarcely believe that once his appearance in a room sufficed to make her pulse beat at double its normal rate, while the touch of his hand sent the blood rushing to her cheeks.
Mrs. Fitzherbert had acquired a certain taste for original sensations, and it diverted her to meet again in this fashion the lover of her youth. She wanted to know how he had fared and what sort of man he was become. Outwardly he had altered but little; he was as tall and as handsome, and had still the curly hair which she had so desperately adored. The years had dealt amiably with him, and she was delighted that on her side the change was all for the better. She could not deny now that at eighteen she must have been a lumbersome, awkward girl; and a young man could not guess that time and a discreet skill in the artifices of the toilet would transform her into a striking woman whom men turned round in the street to admire. At the end of their first conversation Canon Spratte asked if he might call upon her, and two days later had tea at the new house in Norfolk Street. From these beginnings a somewhat intimate acquaintance had arisen, and now Mrs. Fitzherbert was on the best of terms with all his family. The winter before she had asked Winnie to come to the Riviera with her, and the affectionate father had agreed that no better companion for his daughter could possibly be chosen. He disclosed to her now the great news of Wroxham’s proposal.
“You must be very proud and pleased,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Of course it’s always satisfactory for a father to see his daughter happily married. He’s an excellent fellow and quite comfortably off.”
“So I’ve always understood,” she answered with a smile, amused because the Canon would not acknowledge that Wroxham was far and away the best parti of the season.
Mrs. Fitzherbert had quickly taken Theodore’s measure, and it was a curious satisfaction, sweet and bitter at the same time, to find defects of character in the man who had once appeared so romantic a hero. She looked upon him with oddly mingled feelings. Her sense of humour caused her vastly to enjoy the rich comedy of his behaviour, but she preserved for him, almost against her will, a certain tenderness. He had made her suffer so much. She saw that he was often absurd, but liked him none the less. Though she discovered the feet of clay, she could not forget that once he had seemed a golden idol. She was willing to forgive the faults she now saw clearly, rather than think she had loved quite foolishly. The Canon felt her sympathy and opened his heart as to an old friend with a frankness he showed to no one else. The smile in her handsome eyes never warned him that she tore him to shreds, not unkindly but with deliberation, piece by piece.
Mrs. Fitzherbert asked how long Winnie had been engaged, and was somewhat astounded at his answer.
“He hasn’t spoken to her yet, but we’ve talked it over between us, he and I, and he’s to come to luncheon to-morrow to make his declaration.”
“Then Winnie hasn’t been consulted?” she exclaimed.
“My dear lady, do you imagine for a moment she’ll refuse?”
Mrs. Fitzherbert laughed.
“No, I frankly don’t. She’s not her father’s child for nothing.”
“I look upon it as completely settled, and then I shall have only Lionel to dispose of. Of course I’m far more anxious about him. In all probability he will succeed to the title, and it’s important that he should marry a suitable person.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He looked at her and smiled.
“Well, you know, the Sprattes are poor, and if Lionel has no children the peerage will be extinct. I can allow him to marry no one who hasn’t considerable means and every appearance of promising a healthy family.”
“Would it surprise you very much to know that the matter is already somewhat out of your hands? Unless I’m very much mistaken, Lionel is making up his mind to propose to Gwendolen Durant; and unless I’m equally mistaken, Gwendolen Durant is making up her mind to accept him.”
“You amaze me,” cried the Canon. “I’ve never even heard of this person.”
“Oh, yes, you have; she’s the only daughter of Sir John Durant, the brewer.”
“Monstrous! I will never allow Lionel to marry any one of the sort.”
“I believe he’s rather in love with her.”
“Good heavens, it’s just as easy for him to fall in love with a girl of good family. I did, and upon my word I can’t see why he shouldn’t follow his father’s example.”
“The Durants are very nice people, and—prolific,” smiled Mrs. Fitzherbert. “Gwendolen had six brothers, three of whom are still alive, and her father was one of ten children.”
“Sir John is only a Jubilee baronet. I would as soon he were a city knight.”
“On the other hand, he proposes to give his daughter one hundred and fifty thousand pounds as her marriage portion.”
Theodore Spratte turned right round and stared at Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“That’s a very large sum,” he smiled.
“It certainly may help the course of true love to run smoothly.”
“No wonder that Lionel was disinclined to accept the Bishop’s advice to become a total abstainer,” the Canon chuckled. “It would really be rather uncivil if he has matrimonial designs on a brewer’s daughter.”
He thoughtfully sipped his wine and allowed this information to settle. Mrs. Fitzherbert turned to somebody else, and the Canon was left for a couple of moments to his own reflections. Presently she smiled at him again.
“Well?”
“I’ll tell you what I wish you would do. I understand you are deputed to find out my views upon the subject.”
“Nothing of the sort,” she interrupted. “Sir John cares nothing for your views. He is a merchant of the old school, and looks upon himself as every man’s equal. I don’t know whether he has thought for a moment of Gwendolen’s future, but you may be quite sure he won’t consider it a very signal honour that she should marry Lionel.”
“You express yourself with singular bluntness,” answered the Canon, mildly.
“Nor do I know that the young things have settled anything. I merely tell you what my eyes have suggested to me. If you like, I’ll ask the Durants to luncheon, and you can see them for yourself.”
“But tell me, does she lead one to imagine that she’ll——” he hesitated for a moment, but made a dash for it, “breed well?”
“My dear Canon, I never considered her from that point of view,” laughed Mrs. Fitzherbert.
Canon Spratte smiled and shrugged his shoulders.
“One must be practical. Of course a great change has come over the opinion of society with regard to the position of merchants, and one mustn’t lag behind the times.”
“A Conservative member of Parliament is still an object of admiration to many,” murmured Mrs. Fitzherbert.
“Well, well, I’m not the man to stand in the way of my children’s happiness, and if I find that Lionel loves the girl, I promise you to put no obstacle in his way.”
Lady Hollington rose from her chair, and with a rustling sweep of silk skirts, with a quick gleam of diamonds, the ladies followed one another from the dining-room. Their host took his glass and moved round the table to sit by his most distinguished guest. But Canon Spratte, like a wise man, had already seized the opportunity. He drew his chair near that of Lord Stonehenge. The Prime Minister, obese and somnolent, turned upon him for a moment his dull, suspicious eyes, and then sunk his head strangely into his vast corpulence.
“I’m sorry to see that poor Andover is dead,” said the Canon, blandly.
His neighbour, meditative as a cow chewing the cud, made no sign that he heard the observation; but Canon Spratte was by no means disconcerted.
“He’ll be a great loss and most difficult to replace,” he continued. “They say he was the most learned of our bishops. I was excessively distressed when I heard of the sad event.”
“What did he die of?” asked the Prime Minister, indifferently.
“Oh, he was a very old man,” promptly replied the other, who had no idea to what fell disease the late Bishop of Barchester had succumbed. “My own conviction is that bishops ought to retire like ambassadors. A bishop should be a man of restless strength, active and versatile; he should be ready to put his hand to anything. To be a bishop you want as much energy and resource as if you were manager of the Army and Navy Stores.”
“Who is the manager of the Army and Navy Stores?” asked Lord Stonehenge.
Theodore Spratte smiled politely, but thought none the less that the Prime Minister was growing very stupid.
“Thank heaven, I shall never be as fat as that,” he said to himself, and added aloud: “I believe Andover was appointed by Mr. Gladstone.”
“How very large these grapes are!” said Lord Stonehenge, looking heavily at the dish of fruit in front of him.
“Yes,” said the Canon undisturbed, “my father, the Chancellor, used to grow very fine grapes at Beachcombe. You know, of course, that he held very decided views about the political opinions of the bishops.”
A slight movement went through the Prime Minister’s colossal frame, like a peristaltic wave passing along the coiled length of a boa-constrictor. Canon Spratte seemed to him like an agile fly that settled on every exposed place, and alit elsewhere as soon as it was brushed away. Just as all roads lead to Rome, every comment that Lord Stonehenge made appeared to bear directly upon the vacant See.
“And I cannot help thoroughly agreeing with him,” proceeded the Canon. “My view is that the bishops should be imbued with Conservative principles. The episcopal bench, I always think, should be a stronghold of Tory tradition, and if you come to think of it, the very nature of things accords with my conviction.”
Lord Stonehenge gave no sign of disagreement, which was sufficient excuse for Canon Spratte to state at length his laudable opinions. Presently, however, Lord Hollington proposed that they should go upstairs, and on their way the Canon shot his last bolt.
“By the bye, I was just talking to Lady Patricia about addressing a great Primrose Meeting this month.”
He was able, consequently, to flatter himself that he had not left a single thing unsaid which it behoved the Prime Minister to know.
Canon Spratte and Lord Stonehenge went away together. When the Canon had driven off behind a fine pair of bays, in a new and splendid brougham of the latest pattern, Lord Stonehenge lumbered into a carriage, which was both small and shabby. It was drawn by one horse only, and this was somewhat long in the tooth. There was no footman, and the coachman, in a uniform much the worse for wear, sat on his box in a slovenly, humped-up fashion. The Prime Minister and Lady Patricia drove for a while in silence; then from the depths of his beard, Lord Stonehenge summed up the party.
“They were very dull, but the dinner was eatable.”
“I hope you took no ice, papa,” said Lady Patricia.
“I merely tasted it,” he confessed, in apologetic tones. “I wonder why we can’t have ices like that. Ours are too cold.”
“Lady Eastney was there, so I suppose it’s not true about Sir Archibald. The Hollingtons are so careful.”
“Who was she? The woman with the fat neck?”
“She sat immediately opposite Canon Spratte,” answered Lady Patricia.
“Theodore Spratte wants me to make him a bishop,” said Lord Stonehenge, with a slow smile.
“Well, he’ll keep his clergy in order,” said Lady Patricia. “He’s very energetic and clever.”
“I prefer them stupid,” retorted the Prime Minister.
There was another pause, and presently Lord Stonehenge remembered an observation of his secretary.
“Vanhatton says I promised to do something for Spratte before the last election. I never thought we’d get in. His father was the most disagreeable man I ever saw.”
“I wonder what Mr. Highbury will say to him.”
“It’s no business of his,” retorted Lord Stonehenge, with considerable irritation.
“No, but you know what he is,” answered Lady Patricia, doubtfully.
The Prime Minister meditated for some time upon the officiousness of his colleague.
“I like my bishops tedious and rather old,” he said, at last. “Then their clergy give them plenty to do, and they don’t meddle with the Government.”
“Canon Spratte is such a staunch Conservative. He even speaks at Primrose Meetings.”
“He’ll only work for us as long as it pays him,” said Lord Stonehenge, reflectively.
“Oh, papa, he’d never become a Radical. He’s too anxious to be a gentleman.”
“I prefer a Radical to a Liberal Unionist,” replied the Prime Minister, with some bitterness. “I must ask Vanhatton whether I definitely committed myself.”
VI
NEXT morning Canon Spratte awoke in the best of humours, and determined to chaff Lionel good-naturedly about this attachment of which he had become cognisant. He felt relieved, on the whole, that his only son had done no worse. It was much against his father’s wish that the prospective heir to the peerage went into the Church, which none knew better than the Canon was no longer an eligible profession. Considering the position Lionel must one day occupy, Canon Spratte suggested that he should enter the diplomatic service or the Guards, but the boy had inherited his mother’s lack of ambition rather than his father’s spirit. For years the Canon had noted with irritation this timid and retiring temper. He could never understand why a man should sidle down a secluded alley when he might saunter along the sunny side of Piccadilly, and he could not help looking upon his son as something of a milksop. It would not have surprised him if Lionel had announced his desire to marry the daughter of a country clergyman. But money was more necessary than anything else to the Sprattes. The second earl had inherited all the Chancellor had to leave, and was understood never to have practised rigid economy. Theodore, finding a considerable expenditure necessary to his importance, had never been able to save a penny.
“Well, my boy, I hear that in spring a young man’s fancy turns lightly to thoughts of love,” he said, when Lionel bade him good-morning.
The curate looked at him with a start and reddened. Canon Spratte burst out laughing.
“A little bird has whispered to me that Master Cupid has been busy with you, Lionel. Come, come, you must have no secrets from your old father. Why have you never brought the girl to see Sophia?”
“I really don’t know what you mean.”
“Are you going to deny that you have cast a favourable eye upon Miss Gwendolen Durant?”
The renewal of colour upon Lionel’s fair cheek assured the Canon that Mrs. Fitzherbert’s surmise was eminently correct.
“I like her very much, father,” admitted Lionel, after some hesitation, “but I’ve not said anything to her. I have no reason to believe that she cares for me at all.”
“Good heavens, that’s not the way to make love, my boy. Why, when I was your age I never asked if there were reasons why a young woman should care for me. It’s a foolish lover who prates of his own unworthiness. If it’s a fact let the lady find it out for herself after marriage.”
“Would you approve of my asking Miss Durant to marry me?”
“Well, my dear Lionel, I will not conceal from you that I dislike her connection with trade, but still we live in a different world from that of my boyhood. Every one has a finger in some commercial enterprise now-a-days, and after all the Sprattes are well enough born to put up with a trifling mésalliance. I don’t want you to think me cynical, but a hundred and fifty thousand pounds will gild a more tarnished scutcheon than the Durants’.”
“But I’ve not altogether made up my mind,” said Lionel, who had not bargained for being rushed into the affair.
“Well, then, make it up, my boy, for it’s high time you were married. Don’t forget that an old and honoured name depends on you. Your duty is to provide a male child to inherit the title, and I’m assured that the Durants run to boys.”
“I’m not quite certain if I love her enough to marry her, father. I’m trying to make up my mind.”
“Don’t talk such nonsense, Lionel. If you don’t look sharp about it, upon my soul I’ll cut you out and marry her myself.”
The Canon rubbed his hands and laughed heartily.
It was no wonder that his humour was jovial, for he was enjoying already his relatives’ astonishment when they heard that Wroxham, most desirable of young men, wished to marry Winnie. He sent a note to his brother asking him very particularly to luncheon, but his sense of dramatic effect was far too keen to permit him even to hint that it was an occasion of peculiar solemnity.
“I shall point out to Sophia that she hasn’t used her sharp eyes to very good effect,” he muttered. “And if I’d depended on her to see Winnie happily married, I should have depended on a broken reed.”
Had he not foreseen it since the lad was fourteen, and nourished the scheme assiduously in his paternal heart? It was a triumph for a happy father. The thought of the world’s envy served nothing to decrease his complacency. The gay sunshine of May seemed to indicate that the universe at large shared and approved his self-satisfaction.
“Well, Sophia, did you see the notice about me in this morning’s paper?” he cried, as he went into the drawing-room to await Wroxham’s arrival.
“I’ve not had time to read it.”
“I wish you took more interest in me!” exclaimed the Canon, not without vexation. “It’s extraordinary that when there’s anything in the paper, every one sees it but my own family.”
“Please tell me what it is.”
He took up the newspaper and with due emphasis read:
“There is no truth in the rumour that Canon Spratte, Vicar of St. Gregory’s, South Kensington, has been appointed to the vacant bishopric of Barchester.”
“Did you send the communication yourself, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia, with raised eyebrows. “Surely I recognize your incisive style.”
“My dear Sophia,” he cried, indignantly.
But he met her calm eyes; and her dry smile of amusement called up on his own lips a smile of confession. He looked at the paragraph thoughtfully.
“I think it reads very well. It’s brief, pointed, I might almost say epigrammatic; and it will certainly prevent misconception.”
“Also it will remind those in power that there is no more excellent candidate than the Vicar of St. Gregory’s.”
“My dear Sophia, I honestly don’t think any one would call me a vain man, but I cannot think myself unsuitable for the position. I’m sure you will be the last to deny that my parentage gives me certain claims upon my country.”
“Which I suppose you took care to point out to Lord Stonehenge last night?”
“On the contrary, I flatter myself I was tactful enough to discuss the most indifferent matters with him. We talked of grapes and the Manager of the Army and Navy Stores. I merely remarked how sad it was that poor Andover was dead.”
“Ha!”
“He agreed with me that it was very sad. For his years I thought him pleasant and intelligent. And then he talked about the General Election. I ventured to explain how important it was that the bishops should be imbued with Conservative principles.”
“And d’you think he swallowed the bait?” asked Lady Sophia.
“My dear, I wish you would not express yourself quite so brutally.”
“I often wonder if you humbug yourself as much as you humbug other people,” she replied, with a meditative smile.
Canon Spratte stared at her with astonishment, and answered with dignity.
“Upon my soul, I don’t know what you mean. I have always done my duty in that state of life in which it has pleased Providence to place me. And if I may say so without vanity, I have done it with pleasure to myself and with profit to mankind.”
“Ah, yes, you’re one of those men for whom the path of duty is always strewn with roses.”
“It’s my strength of character that makes it so,” said the Canon, blandly.
“It never seems odd to you that when there are two courses open, the right one should invariably be that which redounds to your personal advantage.”
“Some men, Sophia, are born to greatness; some men achieve greatness; others have greatness thrust upon them. It would be immodest in me to say which of these three more particularly applies to myself.”
The answer perhaps was not very apt to the occasion, but the observation was a favourite with Canon Spratte; and he made it with such a triumphant assurance that it sounded like a very crushing retort.
“Do you remember our old nurse, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia, smiling.
“Old Anne Ramsay?” cried Canon Spratte, in his hearty way. “To be sure I do! I shall never forget her. She was a dear old soul.”
It was characteristic of him that in after years, when the nurse lived in the country on a pension, the Canon visited her with the utmost regularity. He never allowed Christmas or her birthday to pass without sending her a present. When she was attacked by a fatal illness he took a long journey to see her, by his cheerful, breezy manner did all that was possible to comfort her, and saw that she wanted nothing to make her final days easy and untroubled.
“Her affection is one of the most charming recollections of my childhood,” he added.
“I always think she must have been an excellent judge of character,” murmured Lady Sophia, in the even, indifferent tones she assumed when she was most sarcastic; “I remember how frequently she used to say: ‘Master Theodore, self-praise is no recommendation.’ ”
“You certainly have the oddest memories, my dear,” cried the Canon, with a scornful smile. “Now I remember how frequently she used to say: ‘Miss Sophia, your nose wants blowing.’ ”
It was a very good hit, and Lady Sophia, bridling, answered coldly: “She was a woman of no education, Theodore.”
“That is precisely what your reminiscence led me to believe,” he replied, with an ironical bow.
“Humph!”
The Canon, elated by this verbal triumph, looked at her mockingly, but before Lady Sophia could find an adequate rejoinder Lord Spratte and Wroxham were shown in together. Somewhat irritated by her defeat she greeted them with relief.
To the unfortunate Wroxham, ill-at-ease and full of misgiving, luncheon seemed endless. He cursed the ingenuity of Theodore’s cook, who prolonged his torture by the diversity and number of her courses. Considering with anxiety the ordeal that was before him, he found it quite impossible to join intelligently in the conversation, and feared that Winnie must think him very stupid. But Canon Spratte, tactfully realizing his condition, was as good as a band; he spoke without pause, and carried on with his brother a very lively exchange of banter. It was rarely that his family was privileged to hear so many sallies of his wit. Later, when Lady Sophia and Winnie, leaving the men to smoke, went into the drawing-room, Wroxham’s nervousness became sheer agony. The affair grew intolerably grotesque when he was set at a pre-arranged hour solemnly to offer his hand and heart. Though his mind was very practical, he could not fail to see that the proceeding was excessively unromantic. He wished heartily that he had waited till he found himself by chance alone with Winnie, and could bring the conversation round by Shakespeare and the Musical Glasses to the hazardous topic of matrimony. But Canon Spratte, asking his brother and Lionel to go upstairs, led Wroxham to the study.
“I feel most awfully nervous,” said the young man, doing his best to smile.
“Nonsense, my dear boy,” cried the Canon, very cheerily. “There’s nothing whatever to be nervous about. You have my complete assurance that Winnie undoubtedly cares for you. Now sit down quietly like a good fellow, and I’ll send my little girl down to you. Bless my soul, it reminds me of the day when I asked my own dear wife to marry me.”
Wroxham began to walk up and down the room, turning over in his mind what he should say. The Canon, with deliberate steps, marched to the drawing-room.
“Has Harry gone?” asked Lady Sophia.
“No, he’s in my study,” answered the Canon, looking down gravely.
This was the moment for which he had waited, and he paused to consider the success of his worldly wisdom.
“Dear me, how stupid I am!” he cried. “I meant to bring the paper up with me. Winnie, my love, will you fetch it for me?”
Winnie got up, but caught her father’s pleased expression, and puzzled, stopped still, looking at him.
“Pray go, my dear,” he added, smiling. “I left it in the study.”
“But Harry is there,” she said.
“I’m under the impression, my love, that he would not be sorry to have a few moments alone with you. I think he has something to say to you.”
“To me, papa?” exclaimed Winnie, a little startled. “What on earth can he want?”
The Canon put his arm affectionately round her waist.
“He will tell you that himself, my love.”
Winnie understood now what her father meant, and a deep blush came over her face. Then a coldness rose in her heart and travelled through every limb of her body. She was afraid and confused.
“But I can’t see him, I don’t want to.”
She shrank away from her father; but he, somewhat amused at this resistance, led her towards the door.
“My dear, you must. I can quite understand that you should feel a certain bashfulness. But he has my full approval.”
“There’s something I must say to you at once, father. I want to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain, my darling.”
She was growing almost distracted. Her father, good-humoured and affectionate, seemed to hold her in the hollow of his hand, taking from her all strength of will.
“Father, let me speak. You don’t understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand, my dear. I know all about it, and you really need not be nervous. You go with my very best wishes.”
“I can’t go. I must speak to you first,” she cried desperately.
“Come, come, my dear, you must pluck up courage. It’s nothing very terrible. Go downstairs like a good girl, and I daresay you’ll bring Harry up with you.”
He treated her as he would a child, frightened at some imaginary danger, who must be coaxed into boldness. He opened the door, and Winnie, all unwilling, yielded to his stronger mind. With a hearty laugh he came back, rubbing his hands.
“A little maidenly modesty! Very charming, very pretty! It’s a lovely sight, my dear Sophia, that of the typical creamy English girl suffused in the blushes of virginal innocence.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Lady Sophia.
“You’re a cynic, my dear,” laughed the Canon. “It’s a grave fault of which I recommend you to correct yourself.”
“I beg you not to preach to me, Theodore,” she answered, bridling.
“No man is a prophet in his own country,” said he, with a shrug of the shoulders. Then he turned to his brother: “But you will wonder why I sent you that urgent note, asking you to luncheon.”
“Not at all. I can quite understand that the pleasure of my company was worth a special messenger.”
But Canon Spratte interrupted: “I asked you to come in your official capacity, if I may so call it—as the head of the family.”
“My dear Theodore, merely by courtesy: I am unworthy.”
“The fact is sufficiently patent without your recalling it,” retorted the Canon, promptly. “But I should be obliged if at this moment, when the affairs of our house are at stake, you would adopt such sobriety and decorum as you are capable of.”
“I wish I’d got my coronation robes on now,” sighed Lord Spratte.
“Go on, Theodore,” suggested their sister.
“Well, you will all of you be gratified to hear that Lord Wroxham has asked my permission to pay his addresses to Winnie.”
“In my young days when a man wanted to marry he asked the girl before he asked her father,” said Lady Sophia.
“I think it was a very proper proceeding; I am so old-fashioned as to consider a father the best judge of his daughter’s welfare. And I think that in this case I am certainly the first person to be consulted. Wroxham is a young man of the very highest principles, and he naturally chose the correct course.”
“And you fell upon him and said: ‘What ho!’ ” cried Lord Spratte.
The Canon gave him a cold stare of surprise and of injured dignity.
“I informed him that I had no objection to him as a son-in-law, and I made the usual inquiries into his circumstances.”
“What bloomin’ cheek, when every one knows he has twenty thousand a year!”
“And finally I imparted to him my conviction that Winnie looked upon him with sincere regard.”
“You are a downy old bird, Theodore,” said Lord Spratte, laughing. “There’s many a London matron has set her net to catch that fish.”
“I did not expect that you would treat the matter with decorum, Thomas, and it was only from a strong sense of duty towards you as the head of my house, that I requested your presence.”
But his elder brother was completely unabashed.
“Shut it, Theodore. You know very well that Wroxham can just about wipe his boots with the likes of us.”
“I don’t in the least understand what you mean,” replied the Canon, frigidly. “We are his equals in the best sense; and if you wish to go into details, our rank in the peerage is—higher than his.”
“Rank in the peerage be hanged! There’s a deuce of a difference between the twenty-first Lord Wroxham with half a county to his back and the second Earl Spratte with a nasty pretentious stucco house and about ten acres of sooty land. Earls like us are as thick as flies.”
Lady Sophia’s mind, like her brother’s, turned to the house which the founder of their family, on acquiring wealth, had purchased to gain the standing of a country gentleman. The Chancellor loved to get full value for his money, and its small price as well as its grandeur attracted him. Beachcombe was built by a retired ironmonger in the first years of Queen Victoria, when romance and Gothic architecture were the fashion; and it had all the appearance of a mediæval castle. With parapets, ogival windows, pointed arches, machicolations, a draw-bridge, and the other playthings of that amusing era, the grey stucco of its walls made it seem more artificial than the canvas palace of a drop-scene. The imposing hall was panelled with deal stained to resemble oak; and the walls, emblazoned with armorial bearings, gave it the gaudiness of a German beer cellar. The ceilings were coloured alternately blue and red, and decorated in gold with fleurs-de-lis and with heraldic lions. The furniture was elaborately carved, and there were settles, oak chests, and huge cabinets, on every available space of which might be seen the arms of the family of Spratte. With the best will in the world it was impossible to accept the inferior pictures, bought wholesale at an auction, as family portraits. After sixty years all this magnificence was become somewhat tawdry, and the rooms, little inhabited by their present owner, had the dismal look of a stage-set seen by daylight. The classic statues, the terraces and steps, which strove to give importance to the garden, had withstood the weather so ill that their plaster in spots was worn off and exhibited in shameful nakedness the yellow brick of which they were manufactured. The romantic grottoes were so dilapidated that they resembled kitchens burnt out and abandoned. The whole place put visibly the healthy paradox that the idealism of one age is but the vulgarity of the next.
The Canon was outraged but still dignified.
“I should like you to understand once for all, Thomas, that I very much object to the sneering manner which you are pleased to affect with regard to our family. I, for one, am proud of its origin. I am proud to be the son of the late Lord Chancellor and the grandson of a distinguished banker.”