Part 11

“Won’t you have a little more--white satin?”

“No, thank you, my lord, I don’t think I could stand it,” said Mrs. Railing, quickly regaining her composure. “You made the first dose rather strong, and we’ve got to get ’ome, you know.”

“I think we ought to be trotting, ma,” said her daughter.

“P’raps we ought. We’ve got a long way to go.”

“We’d better take the train, ma.”

“Oh, let’s go in a ’bus, my dear,” answered Mrs. Railing. “I like riding in ’buses, the conductors are so good-looking, and such gentlemen. Why, the other day I got into conversation with the conductor, and would you believe it, he made me drink a drop of beer with ’im at the end of the journey. Oh, he was a nice young man!”

“Ma!”

“Well, my dear, so ’e was. And ’e’s none the worse for being a ’bus conductor. They earn very good money, and ’e told me ’e was a married man, so I don’t see no ’arm in it.”

“Come on, ma, or we shall never get off,” said Miss Railing.

“Well, good-bye, my lord. And thank you.”

Canon Spratte shook hands with them both very warmly.

“So kind of you to come all this way. We’ve thoroughly enjoyed your visit.”

But when the door was closed behind the visitors utter silence fell upon every one in the room. Winnie looked silently in front of her, and silently Lord Spratte and Lady Sophia watched her. The Canon went to a window and glanced at the retreating figure of Mrs. Railing. He drummed on the panes and softly hummed to himself:

“_For I’m no sailor bold,_ _And I’ve never been upon the sea;_ _And if I fell therein, it’s a fact I couldn’t swim,_ _And quickly at the bottom I should be._”

Winnie got up suddenly, and without a word left the room. The Canon smiled quietly. He sat down and wrote a note to Wroxham asking him to tea on the following afternoon.

XIII

THE fates always behaved handsomely to Theodore Spratte. He was not surprised when Lady Sophia announced at luncheon next day that she meant to spend the afternoon at the Academy. The Canon expressed his regret that he would not enjoy the privilege of her society at tea, but proposed that he and Winnie should have it quite cosily by themselves. Ponsonby received private instructions that no one but Lord Wroxham should be admitted.

“And after his lordship has been here about five minutes, Ponsonby, I wish you to call me away.”

When Canon Spratte gave this order he looked straight into the butler’s eyes to frown down any expression of surprise; but Ponsonby replied without moving a muscle.

“Very well, sir.”

He turned to leave the room, and as he did so, thinking the Canon could not see, solemnly winked at the portrait of Josiah, Lord Chancellor of England. For a moment Canon Spratte thought it must be an optical delusion, for that vast, heavy face remained impassive. Yet he would have sworn that Ponsonby’s right lid descended slowly with a smooth and wary stealthiness. The Canon said no word, and when the butler at last disappeared smiled quietly to himself.

“Ponsonby is really a very remarkable character.”

It was not often that Canon Spratte exerted himself when there was none but his family to admire his conversation, but on this occasion he took the greatest pains. No human being is more difficult to entertain than a young girl, and it was a clear proof of his talent that he could charm his own daughter. Winnie was listless and depressed. She shuddered still when she thought of the Railings. Their visit had precisely the effect which the Canon intended, and she was ashamed. She had seen Bertram that morning; and, perhaps owing to the sleepless night she had passed, his conversation had seemed less inspiring than usual. He was much interested in a strike which was then proceeding in Germany, and he bored her a little. One or two of his Radical theories sounded preposterous in her ears, and they had a short argument in which he proved to her that her ideas were silly and prejudiced. Once or twice Winnie had caught in his voice almost the same dictatorial manner which his sister Louise had assumed when she rated Lord Spratte. Winnie left him with a certain feeling of irritation.

But the Canon, though he knew nothing of this, took care not to refer to Railing. He drew her into a conversation on the subjects which he knew most interested her. He used every art to flatter and amuse. He told her new stories. He ridiculed comically the people he had dined with on the previous evening, and such was his gift of mimicry she could not help but laugh. His urbanity and worldly wisdom were notorious, and he had been invited to adjust some social difficulty. He now asked her advice on the point, and holding apparently an opinion contrary to hers, allowed her to convince him.

“I think there’s a great deal in what you say, Winnie. It’s extraordinary that the most experienced man never catches the point of such matters so accurately as a woman.”

Winnie smiled with pleasure, for her father’s commendation was rare enough to be valuable. Forgetting her own troubles, she enlarged upon the topic; and he, making now and then some apposite remark, listened with gratifying attention.

“Upon my word, I think you’re quite right,” he said at last, as though completely persuaded. “I shall do exactly as you suggest.”

It was not wonderful that Winnie thought him the most remarkable of men. Then he turned to other things. He talked of his own plans and his ambitions. He knew very well that nothing compliments a young woman more than for a man of middle age to discuss with her his dearest aspirations; and Winnie felt that she had entered for the first time thoroughly into her father’s life.

At length Ponsonby announced the expected visitor.

“Ah, my dear boy, I’m so pleased to see you,” cried the Canon, springing to his feet with agility.

Wroxham, shyly, hesitating a little, offered his hand to Winnie.

“You must think me a dreadful bore,” he said, blushing pleasantly, “I’m always coming.”

“Nonsense!” interrupted his host, with great heartiness. “We’re always delighted to see you. I want you to look upon the Vicarage as your second home.”

Shortly afterwards, according to his orders, Ponsonby appeared again. He spoke in an undertone to the Canon, who at once got up.

“I must ask you to excuse me for a few minutes,” he said, turning to Wroxham. “I have a parishioner waiting to see me--a very sad case. A poor woman who lost her husband a little while ago; and she’s looking out for number two, and can’t find him. A clergyman’s time is never his own.”

“Oh, pray don’t mind me,” said Wroxham.

“I shall be back in five minutes. Don’t go before I see you. Winnie will do her best not to bore you.”

He went out. Wroxham stepped forward to Winnie, who was pretending to alter the arrangement of flowers in a vase.

“I’m glad your father has left us alone, Winnie,” he said, fixing his _pince-nez_ more firmly. “I so seldom get a chance of speaking to you.”

Winnie did not reply but pulled to pieces a marguerite.

“What does it come to?” he asked.

For a moment, not thinking of the old fancy, she made no answer; but then, remembering, held out the stalk with one remaining petal, and smiled.

“He loves me not.”

“It’s not true. He loves you passionately. He always will.”

With a sigh Winnie threw away the flower.

“Won’t you speak to me, Winnie?”

“What do you want me to say?”

He took her hand kindly, and looked into her eyes, trying to discover her thoughts, trying from sheer force of his own love, to make her tender.

“Oh, Harry, I’m so unhappy,” she murmured at last. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Can’t you love me, Winnie?” he asked, drawing her towards him. “Did you mean it when you told me never to hope?”

“I said that only a week ago, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t mean it?”

She tore herself from him almost violently.

“Oh, I utterly despise myself.”

“But why? Why?”

She looked for a long while into his pleasant clear blue eyes, as though she sought to read his very heart.

“I wonder if you really care for me?”

“I love you with all my being,” he cried, eagerly, finding in his ardent love a new eloquence. “You are all I care for in the world. You’re my very life. Ah, yes, I love you with all my heart and soul.”

Winnie did not answer immediately, but smiled happily. When she spoke there was in her voice the tremor of tears.

“I think I like to hear you say that.”

“Ah, Winnie.”

He held out his hands appealingly.

“I’m so miserable,” she sighed, remembering again the events of the previous days. “I want some one so badly to care for me.”

“Why don’t you tell me what’s the matter? I may be able to do something.”

“It is kind of you to be nice to me,” she smiled, almost tenderly. “You’re far nicer than I ever thought you.”

“Why do you torture me like this?” he cried, passionately. “Winnie, say you love me.”

There was a silence. Then with a blush Winnie put her hand on his arm. A new soft look came into her eyes.

“Do you remember when I first saw you? You came here with Lionel from Eton. And you were dreadfully shy.”

“But we became great friends, didn’t we?”

“How angry you used to get when I beat you at tennis.”

“Oh, you never did--except when I let you.”

“That’s what you always said, but I never believed it.”

Wroxham laughed boyishly, feeling on a sudden absurdly happy. He saw that Winnie was yielding, and yet he hardly dared to think his good fortune true.

“And do you remember how I used to punt you up and down the river in the holidays?” he said.

“How frightened I was when you fell in!”

“Oh, you fibber!” he cried, with a joyful smile. “You shrieked and roared with laughter!”

Winnie, with a little laugh, turned to the sofa. Raising her eyelashes, she looked at Wroxham with the glance that she well knew set him all aflame.

“I’m so tired,” she murmured.

She sat down, and he, sitting beside her, took her hand. She made no effort to withdraw it.

“What lovely days those were!” she said. “But we used to quarrel dreadfully, usen’t we?”

“Only for the pleasure of making it up.”

“Do you think so? You used to make me jealous by talking to other little girls.”

“Oh, never!” he cried, shaking his head, firmly. “It was always you. You were so awfully flirtatious.”

Winnie smiled and looked down at his hand. It held hers as though it would never again let it go.

“I wonder when you first began to like me?” she asked.

“I’ve never liked you. I’ve always loved you, passionately.”

“Always? Even when I wore a pig-tail and square-toed boots?”

“Always! And I always shall,” he cried, boldly putting his arm round her waist. She leaned against it as though it were a comforting support. “And I can’t live without you.”

“Are you sure?”

“You didn’t mean it when you said you couldn’t love me?” he murmured, vehemently.

She looked straight into his eyes for a moment, smiling, and slightly bent towards him.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“My dearest!”

Quickly, eagerly, he took her in his arms and kissed her lips.

“Say you’ll marry me, Winnie?”

“I’ll do anything to make you happy.”

“Kiss me. I love you.”

Blushing, she put her lips to his, and the soft pressure made him tremble with delight. He seized her hands and kissed them in passionate gratitude, repeatedly. For a while they sat in silence. Winnie, all confused, was trying to realize what she had done; but Wroxham was overwhelmed with joy.

Then the Canon’s voice was heard on the stairs, singing to himself; and Winnie quickly tore herself from her lover.

“_La donna è mobile_,” sang the Canon, coming in; “Tra-la-la-la-la Tra-la-la-la-la.” He started when he saw the young couple sitting self-consciously in opposite corners of the sofa. “Hulloa, I thought you must have gone! I was detained longer than I expected.”

“May I tell him?” asked Wroxham.

“Yes!”

“Canon Spratte, I want to tell you that Winnie has just promised to be my wife.”

“What!” cried the Canon. “Capital! Capital! My dear fellow, I’m delighted to hear it. You know I couldn’t have wanted a better son-in-law. My dear child!”

He opened his arms and Winnie hid her face on his bosom. He kissed her affectionately, and then with sincere warmth shook hands with Wroxham.

“All’s well that ends well,” he cried. “I knew she was devoted to you, my boy. Trust me for knowing a woman’s character.”

“Papa’s wonderful,” said Winnie, with a laugh, stretching out her hand to Wroxham.

“You’ve made me very happy,” he said.

They discussed the situation for some time, and Canon Spratte was very bland. His wildest hopes had never led him to expect that Winnie would throw herself there and then into Wroxham’s eligible arms; but an occasional glance, partly of amusement, was his only sign of surprise. The young man, promising to return for dinner, went away at last, and Theodore looked at his daughter for an explanation. She stood near a table, and began nervously to turn over the pages of a book. A smile broke on the Canon’s lips, for her embarrassment told him all he wished to know.

“Would it be indiscreet to inquire when you broke off your engagement with Mr. Railing?” he asked.

Winnie looked up.

“I haven’t broken it off.”

“And do you intend to marry them both?”

She quickly closed the book and went up to him.

“Oh, papa, you must help me,” she cried. “I’m simply distracted and I don’t know what to do.”

“But which of them do you propose to marry?”

“Oh, don’t be unkind, father. Except for you I should never have met that man. I hate him. I’m ashamed that he ever kissed me.”

“Which, my love?” he asked, as though quite perplexed. “I have every reason to believe that both embraced you.”

“Papa!”

There was a pause. The Canon felt that he would be wanting in his paternal duties if he took again to his bosom a prodigal daughter without pointing out clearly the nature of her misdeeds. Some reproof, tender but dignified, gentle but explicit, was surely needed. The child had flatly disobeyed his commands.

“Do I understand that the fact that Mrs. Railing drops her aitches and drinks gin, while her daughter is bumptious and vulgar, has had any effect upon your attachment to Mr. Bertram Railing?”

“You asked them to come here, you knew what would happen,” answered Winnie, flushing. “Oh, father, don’t be cruel. I made a fool of myself. He took me unawares and I thought for a moment that I could live his life. But I’m frightened of him.”

He said, gravely: “Which do you honestly prefer?”

For a moment she hesitated, then with a little sob replied:

“I love them both.”

“I beg your pardon!” exclaimed her father, who did not in the least await such an answer.

“When I’m with one I think he’s so much nicer than the other.”

“Really, Winnie, you can’t shilly-shally in this way,” he said, considerably annoyed. “You’ve just told me you couldn’t bear young Railing.”

“I can’t help it, father. When I see him I’m simply carried away. Bertram’s a hero.”

“Fiddlededee! He’s a journalist.”

“When I’m with him I’m filled with high and noble thoughts. My heart seems to grow larger so that I could throw myself at his feet. I’m not fit to be his handmaid. But I can’t live up to his ideal. I have to pose all the time, and I say things I don’t mean so that he may think well of me. Sometimes I’m afraid of him; I wonder what he’d say if he knew what I honestly was. He doesn’t really love me, he thinks I’m full of faults. He loves his ideal and the woman I may become. He makes me feel so insignificant and so unworthy.”

“And Wroxham?”

Winnie smiled happily.

“Oh, Harry’s different; he loves me for myself. I can be quite natural with him, and I needn’t pretend to be any better than I am. He doesn’t think I have any faults and he doesn’t want me any different from what I am. With Bertram I have to walk on stilts, but with Harry I can just dawdle along at my own pace, and he’ll be only too glad to wait for me.”

“Really, Winnie, I don’t think it’s quite nice for a girl of your age to analyze her feelings in this way,” said the Canon, irritably. “I hate people who can’t make up their minds. That is one of the few things upon which I feel justified in priding myself, that I do know my own mind.”

“You will get me out of the scrape, father?”

The Canon quickly drove away all appearance of vexation, for it was evident that his daughter still required very careful handling. He took her hand and patted it affectionately.

“You see, your poor old father is still some use after all. What do you wish me to do, my child?”

“Bertram is coming here the day after to-morrow. I want you to tell him it’s all a mistake and I can’t marry him.”

“He won’t take it from me.”

“Oh, he must. I daren’t see him again, I should be too ashamed. But be kind to him, father. I don’t want him to be unhappy.”

“You need not worry yourself about that, my darling. If there’s any man who can deal diplomatically with such matters I may say, without vanity, that it is I.” He paused and looked at Winnie sharply. “But mind, there must be no drawing back this time, or else I leave you to get out of the muddle as best you can. Have I your full authority to tell Sophia that you’re going to marry Wroxham?”

“Yes.”

The Canon took her in his arms.

“Kiss me, my darling. I feel sure that you will be a credit to your father and an honour to your family.”

XIV

Lord Spratte went to St. Gregory’s Vicarage next day. His sister told him with an acid smile that he would find Theodore in the best of spirits.

“By Jove, I wonder if he’d lend me some money!” cried the head of the family. “Who’s he been doin’ now?”

Lady Sophia had scarcely explained when they heard the Canon come into the house. He had been out for ten minutes on some errand. This was an occasion upon which Canon Spratte felt that his fellow-creatures were very amiable. The world was an excellent place where a combination of uprightness and of pious ingenuity made the way of the virtuous not unduly hard.

On his way past the dining-room he looked in to glance at his portrait, which Orchardson had painted some fifteen years before. It was an extravagance, but when he had the chance to gratify others the Canon did not count his pence. He had been able to think of no more pleasing surprise for his wife, on the tenth anniversary of their wedding-day, than to give her a not unflattering picture of himself. He observed with satisfaction the strong lines of the hands, the open look of his blue eyes, and the bold expression of his mouth. It was a man in whose veins ran a vivacious spirit. His whole appearance was so happily self-reliant that even from the painted canvas spectators gained a feeling of exhilaration. Canon Spratte noted how well his shapely head, with the abundant fair hair, stood out against the purple background. Above, in the corner, according to his own suggestion, were the arms and the motto of his family: _Malo mori quam fœdari_.

“Yes, I think he did me justice,” thought the Canon. “I sometimes fancy the hands are a little too large, but that may be only the perspective.” He smiled to his own smiling eyes. “If I’m ever made a bishop I shall be painted again. I think it’s a duty one owes one’s children. I shall be painted by Sargent, in full canonicals, and I shall have an amethyst ring. It’s absurd that we should habitually leave what is indeed part of the insignia of our office to a foreign Church. The English bishops have just as much right to the ring of amethyst as the bishops of the Pope. I shall have the arms of the See on the right-hand side and my own arms on the left.”

He had a vivid imagination, and already saw this portrait in the Academy, on the line. It was surrounded by a crowd. Evidently it would be the picture of the year, for he felt himself capable of inspiring the painter with his own vigorous personality. He saw the country cousins and the strenuous inhabitants of Suburbia turn to their catalogues, and read: THE RIGHT REVEREND THE BISHOP OF BARCHESTER. At the private view he saw people, recognizing him from the excellent portrait, point him out to one another. He saw his own little smile of amusement when he stood perchance for a moment in front of it, and the onlookers with rapid glance compared the original with the counterfeit. Already he marked the dashing brushwork and he fancied the painter’s style suited admirably with his peculiar characteristics. He liked the shining, stiff folds of black satin, the lawn sleeves, and the delicate lace of the ruffles, the rich scarlet of his hood. He imagined the attitude of proud command which befitted a Prince of the Church, the fearless poise of the head, the firm face and the eagle eye. He would look every inch a bishop.

“How true it is that some are born to greatness!” he muttered. “I shall leave it to the National Portrait Gallery in my will.”

And then, if he survived his brother, he thought with a vainglorious tremor of the describing tablet: “Theodore, 3rd Earl Spratte of Beachcombe, and Lord Bishop of Barchester.”

His cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled, for verily he was drunk with pride. His heart beat so that it was almost painful.

With swinging step he sprang up the stairs and danced into the drawing-room like a merry West Wind. The second Earl Spratte, however, was still in the best of health.

“Ah, my dear brother, I’m delighted to see you,” cried the Canon, and his voice rang like a joyous bell.

“For once in a way, Theodore. I was about to ask Sophia if you’d arranged about paddin’ the gaiters yet?”

“Ha, ha, you will have your little joke, Tom.” He had not used this diminutive since his brother succeeded to the title, and Lady Sophia stared at him with astonishment. “We Sprattes have always had a keen sense of humour. And what does the head of my house think of all these matrimonial schemes?”

“I’ve really half a mind to follow suit.”

“Who is the charmer now, Thomas? Does she tread the light fantastic toe in the ballet at the Empire, or does she carol in a Gaiety chorus?”

“I have an idea that your brother Theodore is mildly facetious to-day,” said the other gravely to Lady Sophia.

The Canon burst out laughing and jovially rubbed his hands.

“You must marry money, my boy.”

“I would like a shot if I could. What I object to is marryin’ a wife.”

“One can never get money in this world without some drawback.”

Lord Spratte looked at his brother with a dry smile.

“How green and yellow you’d turn, Theodore, if I did marry!”

“My dear Thomas, there’s nothing that would please me more. You will do me the justice to acknowledge that I have frequently impressed upon you the desirability of marriage. I look upon it as a duty you owe to your family.”

“And has the heir presumptive never in imagination fitted on his handsome head the coronet, nor draped about himself picturesquely the ermine robes? Oh, what a humbug you are, Theodore!”

“Thomas,” retorted the Canon, “Thomas, how can you say such things! I can honestly say that I have never envied you. I have never allowed my mind to dwell on the possibility of surviving you.”

Lord Spratte gave his brother a sharp look.

“I have led a racketty life, Theodore, and you have taken great care of yourself. There’s every chance that you’ll survive me. By Jupiter, you’ll make things hum then!”

“I do not look upon this as a suitable matter for jesting,” retorted the Canon, with suave dignity. “If Providence vouchsafes to me a longer life, you may be sure I will fulfil the duties of my rank earnestly and to the best of my ability.”

“And what about the bishopric?” asked Lady Sophia.

“Who knows? Who knows?” he cried, walking about the room excitedly. “I have a presentiment that it will be offered to me.”

“In that case I have a presentiment that you will accept,” interrupted his brother. “You’re the most ambitious man I’ve ever known.”