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.”
