Part 16

Theodore’s day had been somewhat exhausting. It is given to few, however eagerly they pursue the art of life, within twelve hours to win a wife and to refuse a bishopric. He had thoroughly earned the bath he took before dinner. He wondered how many people knew that he, Theodore Spratte, then pleasantly wallowing in cold water, mother naked, held as in a balance the destinies of the British Empire. Sir John Durant would do as he suggested, and the next few hours might see determined the fall of an administration. He rubbed himself joyously with rough towels.

“When the Clergy and the Licensed Victualers stand shoulder to shoulder, not all the powers of Satan can avail against them,” he cried.

He dressed with unusual care and shaved a second time; he brushed his hair with feminine nicety. He put two rings on his little finger, and with a sigh of complete satisfaction, looked at himself in the glass. He felt very well and young and happy. His appetite was good and he was prepared to enjoy an excellent dinner.

When he reached the drawing-room he found that Lord Spratte was already arrived. Winnie, whom he had not seen since her return, came up to kiss him.

“Well, my dear, I hope you enjoyed yourself. You look positively radiant.”

“I’m so happy, father. You don’t know what a dear Harry is. I’m awfully grateful to you.”

“Your father’s a wise man, darling,” he laughed.

Lionel came in, hat in hand, to see Winnie, who had arrived but half-an-hour before and gone straight to her room. He expressed his regret that a choir-practice, which he must attend, forced him to go out.

“Well, my boy, I’m sorry you can’t dine with us,” said the Canon. “I should have liked to see my family united round my table on this night of all others, but since your duty calls I have no more to say.”

At this moment Ponsonby announced that dinner was served, and at the same time handed a telegram to his master.

“Hulloa, what’s this?”

He opened it and gave a cry. His heart beat so violently that he was obliged to sit down.

“Papa, what’s the matter?” cried Winnie.

“It’s so stupid of me, I’m quite upset. Get me a glass of sherry, Ponsonby.”

“What is it, Theodore?” asked Lady Sophia, anxiously.

He waved his family aside and would not speak till Ponsonby brought the wine. He drank a glass of sherry. A sigh of relief issued from his lips. He waited till Ponsonby had left the room, and then slowly rose to his feet.

“Sophia, you will be gratified to learn that the Government has offered me the vacant bishopric of Sheffield.”

“Oh, papa, I’m so glad,” said Winnie.

Lionel seized his father’s hand and wrung it warmly.

“Well, Sophia, what do you say?”

“Presumably you don’t want me to persuade you to take it.”

“No, I shall accept as it is offered me, frankly--and by telegram.”

He looked upon the members of his family and took no pains to hide his intense satisfaction.

“But I’m keeping you from your duties, Lionel. You mustn’t wait a moment longer.” His son went to the door, but the Canon called him back. “One moment, I was forgetting. I think the time has now arrived to announce Winnie’s betrothal publicly. Just sit down and write out a notice; you can leave it at the News Agency as you pass.”

Lionel obediently went to the desk and took a pen. The Canon cleared his throat.

“We are authorized to announce that a marriage has been arranged between Lord Wroxham, of Castle Tanker, and Winifred, only daughter of the Honourable, (write that in full, Lionel,) of the Honourable and Reverend Canon Theodore Spratte, bishop elect of Sheffield; better known as the----”

“Better known as the--yes?”

“You’re very dull, Lionel,” exclaimed the Canon, with a laugh that was somewhat irritable. “Better known as the popular and brilliant Vicar of St. Gregory’s, South Kensington.”

When Lionel had departed with this, Canon Spratte turned jovially to his brother.

“Well, Thomas, you see that virtue is sometimes rewarded even in this world. It is a great blessing to me to think that everything I desired has come about. Winnie is to marry a man who will make her an excellent husband, and she will occupy a position which she cannot fail to adorn. While as for myself I am removing to a sphere where such poor abilities as Providence has endowed me with, will have a fuller scope. I confess that I am gratified, not only for myself, but for the honour which has befallen our house. I cannot help regretting that my dear father is not alive to see this day. I need not say, Thomas, that I shall always be pleased to see you at Sheffield. I am convinced that the golf-links are excellent, and the poor hospitality of the Palace will ever be at the command of the head of my family.”

“Theodore, I shouldn’t like to be a rebellious parson in your diocese,” said Lord Spratte, gravely. “You’ll make it very hot for any one who don’t act accordin’ to your lights.”

“I shall not forget the watchwords of our house, which have ever been Advance and Progress. To these I shall now add: ‘Discipline.’ But really we should go down to dinner.”

Lady Sophia thought it high time, for she had a healthy appetite. But at that instant came another interruption. Ponsonby entered the room.

“A gentleman wishes to see you, sir,” he said, handing a card to the Canon.

“Oh, I can see no one at this hour. I can’t keep dinner waiting a moment longer.”

“I told him you could see nobody, sir,” answered Ponsonby, “but the gentleman said he came from the _Daily Mail_.”

“That certainly makes a difference,” said the Canon, taking the card.

“That’s what I thought, sir. He said he would be very much obliged if you could grant him a short interview.”

“Say I shall be very happy, Ponsonby, and show him into my study.”

“Theodore, are we to have no dinner?” cried Lady Sophia, when Ponsonby was gone.

“Dinner, dinner!” exclaimed Canon Spratte, scornfully. “How can I think of dinner now, Sophia? I have a duty to perform. You forgot that my position is radically altered.”

“I knew you’d remind us of it in less than five minutes,” said Lady Sophia, who felt that firmness now was needed or the future would be unbearable.

“I and my family have always been in the vanguard of progress,” replied the bishop elect, with a glance at the Lord Chancellor’s portrait.

“I know, but even your family wants its dinner sometimes.”

“Sophia, I shall be obliged if you will not interrupt me. I cannot say I think it kind of you to insist in this vulgar way on the satisfaction of a gross and sensual appetite. I should have thought on such an occasion worthier thoughts would occupy your mind. But if your flesh is weak I am willing that you should begin. I am not a selfish man, and Heaven forbid that I should ask as a right what an affectionate and Christian disposition should grant as a pleasure.”

“Fiddlesticks!”

Canon Spratte looked his sister up and down. He held himself very erect.

“Sophia, I have long felt that you do not treat me with the respect I venture to consider my due. I must really beg you not to act towards me any longer with this mixture of indecent frivolity and vulgar cynicism. I do not wish to remind you that there _is_ a change in my position.”

“You have done so twice in five minutes,” said Lady Sophia, acidly.

“It appears to be necessary. Once for all, however, let me inform you that henceforth I expect to be treated in a different fashion. If you have not the affection to respect your brother Theodore, if you have not the delicacy of sentiment to respect the son of the late Lord Chancellor--you will at least respect the Bishop of Sheffield.”

He stood for a moment to allow the effect of his words to be duly felt, and then marched to the door. Here he stopped and turned round.

“It may also interest you to learn that on the thirty-first of July I am going to be married to Gwendolen Durant.”

He went out and slammed the door behind him. Lady Sophia stared at her eldest brother with helpless astonishment; but with a little smile, Lord Spratte shrugged his shoulders.

“He always has had the last word, Sophia.”

XX

_The Times_ of the third of May in the following year contained the subjoined announcement:

_SPRATTE. On the 1st instant, at the Palace, the wife of the Right Revd. the Bishop of Sheffield, (the Honourable Theodore Spratte,) of a son._

* * * * *

_Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London and Bungay._

End of Project Gutenberg's The Bishop's Apron, by W. Somerset Maugham