Part 12

“And if I am!” cried the Canon. “Ambition, says the Swan of Avon, is the last infirmity of noble minds. But what is the use of ambition now, when the Church has been wrongfully shorn of its power, and the clergy exist hazardously by sufferance of the vulgar? I should have lived four centuries ago, when the Church was a power in the land. Now it offers no scope for a man of energy. When the Tudors were kings of England a bishop might rule the country. He might be a great minister of state, holding the destinies of Europe in the hollow of his hand. I’ve come into the world too late. You may laugh at me, Thomas, but I tell you I feel in me the power to do great things. Sometimes I sit in my chair and I can hardly bear my inaction. Good heavens, what is there for me to do--to preach sermons to a fashionable crowd, to preside on committees, to go to dinner-parties in Mayfair. With your opportunities, Tom, I should have been Prime Minister by now, and I’d have made you Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Lady Sophia looked at him, smiling. She admired the mobile mouth and the flashing eyes, as with vehement gesture he flung out his words to the indifferent air. His voice rang clear and strong.

“I tell you that I am born with the heart of a crusader,” he exclaimed, striding about the room as though it were a field of battle. “In happier times I would have led the hosts of the Lord to Jerusalem. Bishops then wore coats of steel and they fought with halberd and with sword to gain the Sepulchre of the Lord their Saviour. I tell you that I cannot look at the portrait of Julius the Pope without thinking that I too have it in me to ride into action on my charger and crush the enemies of the Church. I’ve come into the world too late.”

Lord Spratte, mildly cynical, shrugged his shoulders.

“Meanwhile you’ve succeeded in capturing for Winnie the best _parti_ of the season. Talk of match-makin’ mammas! They’re nowhere when my brother Theodore takes the field.”

“When I make up my mind to do a thing I do it.”

“And what about the Socialist?”

“Oh, I think I’ve settled him,” said the Canon, with a laugh of disdain. “What did I tell you, Sophia?”

“My dear Theodore, I have always thought you a clever man,” she answered, calmly.

“I’ve brought you to your knees; I’ve humbled your pride at last. Winnie is going to marry Harry Wroxham and Lionel is nearly engaged to Gwendolen Durant. What would you say if I told you that I was going to be married too?”

They both stared at him with amazement, and he chuckled as he watched their faces.

“Are you joking, Theodore?”

“Not in the least. But I’m not going to tell you who it is yet.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it were Gwendolen,” mused Lady Sophia. “Unless I’m much mistaken she’s a good deal more in love with you than she is with Lionel.”

“Of course one never knows, does one?” laughed the Canon. “On the other hand, it might be Mrs. Fitzherbert.”

“No, I’m sure it isn’t,” replied Lady Sophia, with decision.

“Why?”

“Because she’s a sensible woman and she’d never be such a fool as to have you.”

“Wait and see, then. Wait and see.”

He laughed himself out of the room, and went to his study. Here he laughed again. He had not seen Mrs. Fitzherbert since the ball, for on the following morning she had wired to say that the grave illness of a friend obliged her to go immediately into the country. The Canon had hesitated whether to write a letter; but he was prevented by his dread of ridicule from making protestations of undying affection, and knew not what else to say. He contented himself with sending a telegram:

_I await your return with impatience._--THEODORE.

He was dining with her that evening to meet certain persons of note. Since she had not written to postpone the party, Mrs. Fitzherbert presumably intended to return to London in the course of the day. He looked forward to the meeting with pleasurable excitement.

Canon Spratte was proud of himself. He had succeeded in all his efforts, and he felt, as men at certain times do, that he was in luck’s way. He did not look upon this success as due to any fortuitous concurrence of things, but rather as a testimony to his own merit. He was vastly encouraged, and only spoke the truth when he said his presentiment was vivid, that Lord Stonehenge would offer him the Bishopric of Barchester. He was on the top of a wave, swimming bravely; and the very forces of the universe conspired to land him on an episcopal throne.

“That is how you tell what stuff a man is made of,” he thought, as he tried in vain to read. “The good man has self-reliance.”

He remembered with satisfaction that as soon as he heard of Bishop Andover’s death, he went boldly to the tailor and countermanded the trousers he had ordered. It was a small thing, no doubt, but after all it was a clear indication of character.

St. Gregory’s Vicarage stood at the corner of a square. From the study Canon Spratte could see the well-kept lawn of the garden, and the trees, dusty already in the London summer. But they seemed fresh and vernal to his enthusiastic eyes. The air blowing through the open window was very suave. Above, in the blue sky, little white clouds scampered hurriedly past, westward; and their free motion corresponded with his light, confident spirit. They too had the happy power which thrilled through every nerve of his body, and like theirs was the vigorous strength of the blood that hustled through his veins. To the careless, who believe in grim chance, it might have seemed an accident that these clouds were travelling straight to Barchester; but Canon Spratte thought that nothing in the world was purposeless. In their direction he saw an obvious and agreeable omen.

“How good life is!” he murmured. “After all, if we haven’t the scope that our predecessors had, we have a great deal. The earth is always fresh and young, full of opportunity to the man who has the courage to take it.”

He saw in fancy the towers and the dark roofs of Barchester. It was an old city seated in a fertile plain, surrounded by rich pasture lands and watered by smiling rivulets. He knew the pompous trees which adorned its fields and the meadows bright with buttercups. He loved the quiet streets and the gabled houses. The repose was broken only by the gay hurry of market day, when the farmers led in their cattle and their sheep: already he saw the string of horses brought in for sale, with straw plaited in their tails, and the crowd of loungers at the Corn Exchange. Above all, his fancy lingered among the grey stones of the cathedral, with its lofty nave; and in the close with the ancient elms and the careful, sweet-smelling lawns. He thought of the rich service, the imposing procession of the clergy, and the magnificent throne carved by sculptors long forgotten, in which himself would sit so proudly.

“Oh, yes, the world is very good!” he cried.

He was so immersed in thought that he did not hear Ponsonby come into the room, and started violently when he heard a voice behind him.

“This letter has just come for you, sir.”

He knew at once that it was from Lord Stonehenge. The certainty came to him with the force of an inspiration, and his heart beat violently.

“Very well,” he said. “Put it on my desk.”

He turned pale, but did not move till the servant was gone. He took it with shaking hands. He was right, for he recognized the official paper. At last! For some time he looked at the envelope, but trembled so much that he could not open it. He grew sick with expectation and his brain throbbed as if he would faint. A feeling of thankfulness came into his heart. Now the cup of his desire was filled. He held his head for a moment and breathed deeply, then slowly cut open the envelope. With habitual neatness he used a paper-knife.

_DEAR CANON SPRATTE_,

_It is my desire, if it meet your own wishes, to recommend His Majesty to appoint you to the Deanery of St. Olphert’s, vacant through the impending retirement from illness of Dr. Tanner. In so doing, I can assure you I feel great pleasure in being able to mark my appreciation of your learning and sound divinity by offering you a position of greater dignity and less work. The duties, I need not tell you, are commanding in their nature; and I feel sure you would be able to perform them with great advantage to the interests of the Church, to which I think the course I am taking will be most beneficial, especially at this critical moment in its history._

_I have the honour to be, dear Canon Spratte,_

_Yours faithfully, STONEHENGE._

_THE HON. AND REV. CANON SPRATTE, St. Gregory’s Vicarage._

The Prime Minister offered him an obscure, insignificant deanery in the north of Wales. For an instant Canon Spratte could not understand. It seemed impossible, it seemed preposterous. He thought it must be a mistake, and carefully read the letter again. The overthrow of all his hopes came upon him at the moment of his greatest exultation, and the blow was greater than he could bear; two scalding tears rose in his eyes, and heavily, painfully, rolled down his cheeks. They fell on the letter and made two little wet smudges.

The disappointment was so great that he could not be angry. He was utterly crushed. And then, in the revulsion from his high spirits, he was overwhelmed with despair. He asked pitifully whether he had all along misjudged himself. The Prime Minister did not think him fit for important office but sought to satisfy his claims by an empty honour, such as he might give to a man who, perhaps, had deserved well, but whose powers were now decrepit. That post of dignity was but a decent grave.

Suddenly, with the vain man’s utter self-abasement, Canon Spratte saw himself as he thought others might see him: mediocre, pompous, self-assertive, verbose. He heard the mocking words of the envious:

“Theodore Spratte is shelved. At all events he’ll be out of harm’s way at St. Olphert’s, and it’s just the sort of thing that’ll suit him--to tyrannize over provincial old ladies.”

And others would be astonished and say:

“One would have thought that pushing man would have pushed himself into something better than that!”

Again the Canon thought of all he might have done: and the pictures of the future, like scoffing devils, came once more before his mind. He could not help the tears. For a while, leaning over his desk, with his hands pressed to his burning eyes, he surrendered unresisting to his weakness. The tall spires and the sombre roofs of Barchester returned to his vivid fancy, and all that he had lost seemed twice as beautiful. The humiliation was unbearable. He hated and despised himself; he was petty and mean; and his pride, his boastfulness, his overbearing spirit, uprose against him in reproach. Who was he thus to have contemned his fellows? He had imagined himself clever, wise, and brilliant; and the world had laughed in its sleeve at his presumption. He blushed now, blushed so that he felt his face burn, at the thought that all this time people had despised him. He had lived in a fool’s paradise, rejoicing in the admiration of his fellows; and he had been an object of derision. It had been self-admiration only; and the world had taken him, as did Lord Stonehenge, for the mediocre son of a clever father. Even his brother had told him repeatedly that he was pretentious and vulgar, and he thought it only the sneer of a man who could not appreciate great qualities. A thousand imps danced in his brain, with mockery and with malicious gibes: in every key from shrill to hoarse, he heard their scornful laughter.

“I won’t take it,” he cried, jumping up suddenly. “I’ll remain where I am. I’m strong and young still; I feel as vigorous as if I were twenty. I don’t want their honours.”

But then he hesitated, and sank again, helplessly, into his chair. Was it not his duty to accept the promotion which was offered him? Had he a right to refuse? What was he but a servant of God, and might it not be His will that he should go to this deanery? He hated the idea, and feared the cold dulness of St. Olphert’s; but yet, with something in him of English puritanism, the very fact that it was so distasteful, seemed an argument in its favour.

“Am I fit to hold a great London parish?” he asked, despairingly. “I’m growing old. Each year I shall be less active and less versatile. Ought I not to make way for younger, better men?”

He strove to drive away the thought, but could not. Some voice, the voice of conscience perhaps, told him it was his duty to accept this offer.

“O God, help me,” he cried, broken at length and submissive. “I know not what to do. Guide me and teach me to do Thy will.”

Presently he fell on his knees humbly and prayed. Now there was nothing in him of the confident priest or of the proud and self-assertive man; he was but an abject penitent, confessing in broken words, tremulous and halting, his utter weakness.

“O Lord, give me a holy contented frame,” he cried. “Make me to desire nothing but how best to fulfil Thy holy will. Save me from worldly ambitious thoughts. I am weak and cowardly, and my sins have been very great, and I know that I am unfitted for a great position.”

When he rose to his feet, with a sigh he read Stonehenge’s letter for the third time. He took it in his hand and went to Lady Sophia. He felt that from her he would gain help. He was so crushed, so changed, that he needed another’s guidance. For once in his life he could not make up his mind.

But when she saw him, Lady Sophia was seized with astonishment. His spirited face seemed wan and lifeless; the lines stood out, and his eyes were very tired. He appeared on a sudden to be an old man. His upright carriage was gone and he walked listlessly, with stooping shoulders.

“Theodore, what on earth’s the matter?” she cried.

He handed her the letter and, in a voice still broken with emotion, said:

“Stonehenge doesn’t think I’m fit to be a bishop. He’s offered me a Welsh deanery.”

“But you won’t accept it?”

He bowed his head, looking at her with an appeal that was almost childlike.

“I’m not sure whether I have the right to refuse.”

“What does he mean by saying that the duties are commanding in their nature?”

“He means nothing,” answered the Canon, shrugging his shoulders scornfully. “He’s merely gilding the pill with fine phrases. Oh, Sophia, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to bury myself in that inglorious idleness. I feel in me the power to do so much more, and St. Olphert’s offers me nothing. It’s a sleepy, sordid place. I might as well be buried alive. I don’t want to leave London.”

His voice was so pitiful that Lady Sophia was touched. She saw that he wanted her to persuade him to stay in town, and yet his conscience troubled him.

“I’m only a servant of the Church,” he said. “I don’t know that I have the right to refuse to go where I am sent. Perhaps he’s not far wrong in thinking that it’s all I’m good for. Oh, Sophia, I’m so unhappy!”

She realized how much it meant for that bold spirit thus to humble itself. He paid a heavy price for his vanity. He was like a child in her hands, needing consolation and support. She began to speak to him gently. She suggested that the offer of this deanery signified only that Lord Stonehenge, feeling he owed something to the son of the late Lord Chancellor, had been unable on account of other claims to give him the bishopric. From the observation of long years she had learnt on what points Theodore most prided himself, (in the past this knowledge had been used to give little admonishing stabs,) and now she took them one by one. She appealed skilfully to his prepossessions. With well-directed flattery, calling to his mind past triumphs, and compliments paid him by the great ones of the earth, she caused him little by little to gather courage. Presently she saw the hopeless expression of the mouth give way to a smile of pleasure, and a new confidence came into his eyes. His very back was straightened. In the new uprightness with which he held himself, she perceived that her subtle words were taking due effect. At last she reminded him of his work at St. Gregory’s.

“After all, you’re a figure in London,” she said. “You have power and influence. For my part I have wondered that you contemplated leaving it for an obscure country town like Barchester. I shouldn’t have been at all surprised if you’d refused the bishopric.”

He breathed more freely, and with his quick and happy optimism began already to see things more genially.

“Besides, we Sprattes are somebody in the world,” concluded Lady Sophia, with a smile, the faint irony of which he did not see. “I don’t think you would show a proper spirit if you allowed yourself to be trampled on.”

“Ah, Sophia, I knew that at the bottom of your heart you were as proud of your stock as I. You’re quite right. I owe it to my family as well as to myself not to allow them to thrust me into obscurity. I shall refuse the deanery, Sophia; and Lord Stonehenge----”

“Can go to the devil,” she added, quietly.

Canon Spratte smiled with all his old vivacity.

“Sophia, I thank you. It is not right that I should say such things, but you have entirely expressed my sentiments.”

“Why don’t you sit down and write the letter at once?”

Without answering, the Canon seated himself, and presently showed to Lady Sophia, for her approval, the following reply.

_DEAR LORD STONEHENGE_,

_I have weighed your very considerate proposal most anxiously and have given full weight to what you urge. I fully appreciate the kind motive which offered me the opportunity of removing to a position both of leisure and of dignity. I am sure you will not think that I have lightly set aside the offer made me; but I am doubtful whether my health would stand the asperities of a Welsh climate. And I have to consider that a very great assistance to me in the performance of my present duties is derived from the complete knowledge of my work in London._ _I fear that I might find the distant and untried labours of St. Olphert’s less congenial. And I feel that without some very strong counter-balancing reason, it is not desirable that I should leave plans which I have begun, but scarcely matured, in the Metropolis._

_Believe me to be, with very grateful thanks, dear Lord Stonehenge,_

_Your faithful and obedient servant, THEODORE SPRATTE_

Lady Sophia smiled when she read that last sentence in which he wisely left himself an escape, whereby he might with dignity abandon London, if a bishopric in the future were offered to him. Obviously the comfortable hope had returned that in the end his merits would receive their just reward. She gave back the letter.

“I think it will do capitally,” she said. “Now, if I were you, I’d go out for a stroll.”

“So I will, Sophia,” he replied. “I shall never forget your encouragement. I confess I was very much cast down.”

Much to her surprise he kissed her affectionately, and then said:

“As I have nowhere particular to go, I shall just walk along to Savile Row, and order two pairs of trousers.”

XV

Mrs. Fitzherbert had fixed half-past eight for the hour of dinner, but Canon Spratte, anxious for a few words before any one arrived, came early. He found her ready to receive him. When he entered the drawing-room she was at the window, looking at the dusk which clothed the London street in a certain atmosphere of charming mystery.

“Well?” he said, looking at her and taking both her hands.

“I’m glad you came before the others, I wanted to have a chat with you.”

“It was cruel of you to leave London so suddenly. You can’t imagine how eagerly I’ve wished to see you.”

“I’m afraid it was inevitable,” she answered. “My friend is still very ill, and I only came up this evening because I didn’t want to put my party off.”

“I was hoping you’d come up to see me,” he smiled.

“In point of fact it was only to see you,” she laughed. “I would have postponed the rest of them gaily, but I think we have a good deal to say to one another.”

“I feel immensely flattered,” he replied.

The evening papers contained an official announcement that Dr. Gray was appointed to the bishopric of Barchester; but Canon Spratte determined that none should see his bitter disappointment. He had not yet fought down the sense of humiliation with which Lord Stonehenge’s offer overwhelmed him, nor was he reconciled to remaining a London vicar. But he refused to think of his frustrated hopes. He flattered himself on his strength of character, and the world should imagine that he was in the best of spirits. He meant to keep himself well in hand, and in the decided effort to let no one see that he cared, began really to regain his self-esteem.

“I think we really ought to talk seriously,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert after a pause, fixing her quiet eyes upon him. “I wonder if you meant all that you said to me the other night?”

“Of course I meant it, every word of it, with all my heart,” he cried, emphatically. “Do you think I’m a boy not to know my own mind?”

“And you really look upon yourself as solemnly engaged to me?”

“I do indeed, and before many weeks are up I mean to lead you to the altar. We’ll have the bishop to marry us, and Tom shall lend us Beachcombe for our honeymoon. Or would you prefer Homburg and the Italian Lakes?”

“You know, I shouldn’t be at all annoyed if you told me you were carried away the other night and said more than you intended. You’re a susceptible man and there’s something about a dance that rushes the least emotional off their feet. I think half the unhappy marriages are caused by the proposing of young men when they’ve come to the end of their small talk; and their cowardice next day which prevents them from writing to say they made a mistake.”

“But it was no sudden whim on my part,” he exclaimed. “The idea had been growing in my mind for months. Ah, why can’t I make you believe that love may spring up in a man’s heart even though his hair is strewn with silver? I tell you I’m passionately devoted to you, and I insist on marrying you.”

Mrs. Fitzherbert smiled and looked at him strangely. He was very gallant and very eager. She wondered if there were ever a word of sincerity in anything he said.

“Then let us talk business,” she answered.

He threw up his hands in a gesture of disdain.

“Why should we? You know I’m not mercenary; let us pretend that no tiresome matters have to be discussed. We can leave it all to our solicitors.”

“But it’s very important.”

“Nonsense! Nothing’s important except that you’re the most charming woman I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m a lucky dog to have got hold of you. We’ll never grow any older than we are now; we’ll only grow younger year by year. When will you make me the happiest man in London?”

“You go so quickly,” she smiled.

He put his arm round her waist and seized her hand.

“Come, give me a kiss.” She positively blushed when he took it without more ado. “Upon my soul, you make me feel a perfect stripling. Shall we say in six weeks? That will bring us to the end of the season, and I can safely leave Lionel to preach to a regiment of empty pews.”

“For heaven’s sake sit down quietly, and let me get a word in.”

“Not till you’ve agreed. I won’t let you go till you’ve fixed the day.”

“You shall fix the day yourself,” she cried, extricating herself from his embrace.

Canon Spratte, with a laugh of triumph, threw himself into a comfortable chair. He was excited and restless. He knew he had never looked handsomer than at this moment, and he would not have changed places with a guardsman of twenty-five.

“What I wanted to tell you is that I have an income of five thousand a year,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert.

“I cannot bear these gross and sordid details,” he answered, with a wave of the hand. “Of course it shall be settled absolutely upon you. What more is there to be said?”