Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  He told Mrs. Fitzherbert now the misfortune that had befallen his house, and it was a bitter confession that he had been too quick in his calculations. Mrs. Fitzherbert could not conceal a smile.

  “It’s really very romantic, you know. It reminds me of that poem of dear Lord Tennyson’s.”

  “Dear Lord Tennyson hadn’t a marriageable daughter,” retorted the Canon, with some asperity.

  “Love is so rare in this world,” she hazarded, “When two young things are fond of one another, don’t you think it’s best to let them marry, whatever the disadvantages?”

  “My dear lady, the man isn’t even a gentleman.”

  “But we have it dinned into our ears that kind hearts are more than coronets.”

  “Yes, but we know very well that they’re nothing of the sort,” he retorted, with a laugh. “Heaven knows I’m not in the least mercenary, but I don’t think any man can make my daughter happy on a penny less than two thousand a year. It’s not love in a cottage, it’s not love in a palace, it’s just matrimony in Onslow Gardens.”

  He meditated for a moment or two, and slapped his knee.

  “I promise you that Winnie shall break her foolish engagement with this ridiculous counter-jumper, and what’s more, she shall marry Wroxham. People must get up early in the morning if they want to get the better of Theodore Spratte.”

  “Well, you’ll need some very skilful diplomacy to achieve all that,” smiled Mrs. Fitzherbert.

  “The worst of it is, that though I rack my brains I can’t think of any scheme that seems to promise the least measure of success.”

  Mrs. Fitzherbert looked at him, and her common-sense suggested to her certain obvious facts. She smiled again.

  “Has Winnie seen the young man’s relations yet?” she asked.

  “I think not. Sophia tells me she’s going down to Peckham to-morrow.”

  “Didn’t you say that Mr. Railing’s mother was the widow of a coal-heaver? I wonder what she’s like.”

  “His sister teaches in a Board School.”

  “She must be an exemplary young person,” answered Mrs. Fitzherbert.

  “Well?”

  “They must be awful. I wonder if Winnie has thought of that.”

  “By Jove!” cried the Canon.

  The expression was not very clerical, but in his excitement he forgot the propriety of which he was usually careful. His mind was excessively alert, and Mrs. Fitzherbert’s reflections, spoken almost at haphazard, gave him in a flash the plan of action he wanted. In such a manner, though with vastly less rapidity, Sir Isaac Newton is said to have discovered the theory of gravitation. The Canon’s scheme was so bold that it surprised him. When he turned it over, and saw how dangerous it was, how unexpected, above all how ingeniously dramatic, he could not restrain his enthusiasm. The subtlety caught his sense of humour, and at the same time flattered his love for power. Apparently he would withdraw from the struggle, but all the time the various actors would work his will. It was well worth the risk, and he felt certain of ultimate victory. He laughed aloud, and jumping up, seized Mrs. Fitzherbert’s hands.

  “What a wonderful woman you are! You’ve saved the whole situation.”

  He looked at her with flaming eyes, and as she smiled upon him, he had never found her handsomer. He still held her hands.

  “You know, you grow better looking each year you grow older. Upon my soul, it’s not fair to the rest of us.”

  “Don’t be so foolish,” she laughed, trying to withdraw from his grasp.

  “Why shouldn’t I hold them?” he cried gaily. “We’re old friends. Heaven knows how many years it is since first we met.”

  “That’s just it, Heaven does know we’re both of us perilously nearly fifty, and really ought to have learned how to behave by now.”

  “Nonsense, I won’t believe a word of it. Every one knows that there is nothing so untruthful as Anno Domini, and I’m convinced that neither of us is a day more than thirty. You don’t look it, and I’m sure I don’t feel it.”

  “You really must not press my hands so hard. I tell you it’s ridiculous.”

  She positively blushed, and the Canon’s blue eyes were brighter than ever, as he noticed this sign of confusion.

  “Do you remember how once we walked together in Kensington Gardens? We didn’t think ourselves ridiculous then.”

  It was a tactless thing to say, but perhaps Theodore did not remember the exact circumstances so well as Mrs. Fitzherbert. She tightened her lips as she recalled that last scene, and there was no doubt now that she wanted him to leave her hands.

  “You’re hurting me,” she said. “My rings.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” He looked at her face. “But what have I said to annoy you?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, with a smile, recovering herself quickly. “But my carriage has been waiting for an hour, and I really must go out.”

  “Fool that I am! Why didn’t you send me away before?”

  He bent down and gallantly kissed her fingers. It is a gesture which does not come very easily to an Englishman, but Theodore Spratte carried it off with peculiar grace, and afterwards was able to leave the room without awkwardness. He was not the man to omit any of the courtesies due to the fair sex, and turned his steps immediately to a fashionable florist’s, where he ordered a large bunch of red roses to be sent at once to Mrs. Fitzherbert.

  “Red roses,” he wrote on his card, “because they are lovely, ephemeral, and sweet smelling!”

  On the way home Canon Spratte meditated upon the bold, decisive step which alone seemed capable of bringing about the ends he had in view. It was easy enough to prevent Winnie from marrying Bertram Railing; her infatuation would pass away as soon as she realized all that it entailed. But this was not enough. He knew that women may be often taken on the rebound, (perhaps his opinion of the sex was none too high,) and if he could excite a repulsion from Railing, he fancied it would lead her into the open arms of the eligible Wroxham. The Canon’s classical knowledge was somewhat rusty, but he believed vaguely there was a quotation which offered apt authority for the circumstances. He could not for the moment recall it.

  “Dear me!” he said, rather testily, as he put the latchkey into his front door, “my memory is certainly failing,” and ironically: “It’s quite time they made me a bishop.”

  The Canon wished to lose no time, and consequently was much pleased to find Winnie and Lady Sophia sitting by themselves in the drawing-room. It would have been inhuman to expect him to play the neat little scene without the presence of his sister. The thought of her astonishment was almost a sufficient motive for his audacious step.

  “You’re very pale, my dear child,” he said to Winnie, “I hope you’re not unwell?”

  “No, father,” she answered, without a smile.

  “Then what is troubling you, my love? You’re not yourself.”

  None could put into his manner such affectionate solicitude as Canon Spratte, and his voice gained such tender accents as to draw confidences from the most unwilling. Winnie sighed, but made no reply. He stroked her hair and pressed her hand.

  “Come, come, my darling, you mustn’t be unhappy. Nothing shall stand between you and my great affection. The only wish I have is for your welfare. Tell me frankly, is your heart still set on marrying this young man?”

  Winnie looked up gravely and nodded.

  “Well, well, I’m not a hard father.” He smiled good-naturedly and opened his arms. “What would you say if I offered to withdraw my opposition?”

  Winnie, astonished, scarcely believing her ears, sprang to her feet.

  “Papa, do you mean that?”

  She flung her arms round his neck and burst into tears. The Canon, pressing her to his bosom, kissed her fair hair. But Lady Sophia was dumfounded.

  “Now, my dear, go to your room and wash those tears away,” said he, with laughing tenderness. “You mustn’t have red eyes, or people will think I’m a perfect tyrant. But mind,�
� he shook his finger playfully as she smiled through her tears, “mind you don’t put too much powder on your nose.”

  When Winnie was gone, Canon Spratte turned to his sister with a hearty laugh.

  “The dear girl! Our children, Sophia, are often a sore trial to us, but we must take the rough with the smooth; at times also they give us a great deal of self-satisfaction.”

  “Did my ears deceive me?” asked Lady Sophia. “Or did you in fact consent to Winnie’s preposterous engagement?”

  “You’re surprised, Sophia? You don’t know me; you can’t understand that I should sacrifice my most cherished ideas to gratify the whim of a silly school-girl. You’re a clever woman, Sophia — but you’re not quite so clever as your humble servant.”

  Lady Sophia, trying to discover what was in his mind, leaned back in her arm-chair and looked at him with keen and meditative eyes. She did not for one moment suppose that he had honestly surrendered to Winnie’s obstinacy. It was her impression that Theodore was never more dangerous than when he appeared to be defeated.

  “I don’t understand,” she confessed.

  “I should have thought it was a match after your own heart,” he answered, with a mocking smile. “You have always affected to look down upon our family. Surely you ought to be pleased that the descendant of your ancestral green-grocer should marry the near connection of a coal-heaver. They pair like chalk and cheese.”

  “Don’t talk nonsense, Theodore!”

  “I wonder if she calls him Bertie,” murmured the Canon, thoughtfully.

  “I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so irritating,” said Lady Sophia, sharply. “Do you really intend Winnie to marry him?”

  “Of course not, my dear. I intend Winnie to marry young Wroxham.”

  “And do you think the best way to bring that about is to let her be engaged to somebody else?”

  “My dear Sophia, have you ever known me make a mistake yet?”

  “Frequently! Though I’m bound to say I’ve never known you acknowledge it.”

  Canon Spratte laughed heartily.

  “It comes to the same thing. Like the typical Englishman, I never know when I’m beaten.”

  “Good heavens, what a man it is!” she cried. “One can’t even remark that it’s a fine day without your extracting a compliment from it. Master Theodore, self-praise is no recommendation.”

  “Miss Sophia, your nose wants blowing,” he retorted promptly.

  “That I think is rather vulgar, Theodore.”

  Canon Spratte laughed again.

  “That’s just like a woman; she hits you when you’re not looking, and when you defend yourself, she cries: ‘Foul play!’”

  “Fiddlesticks!”

  There was a pause, during which Lady Sophia, knowing how anxious the Canon was to tell her about Winnie, waited for him to speak; while he, equally aware of her curiosity, determined to utter no word till she gave him the satisfaction of asking. The lady lost patience first.

  “Why, then, did you consent to Winnie’s engagement with the coal-heaver?” she asked, abruptly.

  “Because I thought it the only way to induce her to marry Wroxham.”

  “Upon my word, Theodore, you’re a very extraordinary man.”

  “That, my dear, is a fact which has not entirely escaped my observation,” retorted Canon Spratte, rubbing his hands. “I’ve brought you to your knees, Sophia. Confess that this time your intelligence is at fault.”

  “Nothing of the sort!”

  “Well, well, I flatter myself — —” he began.

  “You frequently do,” interrupted his sister.

  “I flatter myself that I know my daughter’s character. Now, I am convinced that if I had put my foot down, Winnie would have gone off and married the man there and then. But I know the Spratte character inside and out. We are a family of marked idiosyncrasies.”

  “Inherited from the Montmorencys, I suppose,” suggested Lady Sophia, ironically.

  “I have no doubt. You will remember in our father the firmness and decision of which I speak.”

  “I remember that he was as obstinate as a pig.”

  “My dear, I do not want to rebuke you, but I really must ask you not to make these unseemly remarks. If you are incapable of recognizing the respect due to your father, I would have you recollect that he was also Lord Chancellor of England.”

  “Do you ever give me the chance to forget it?” murmured Lady Sophia. “But what has that to do with Winnie?”

  “I was about to observe that whatever my faults, when I make up my mind that a thing is right, no power on earth can prevent me from doing it. Now, I do not wish to be offensive, but I cannot help perceiving that the firmness, which, if I may say it without vanity, is so marked a characteristic in me, is apt in other members of our family to degenerate into something which the uncharitable may well call obstinacy.”

  “Upon my word, Theodore, it’s fortunate you told me you had no wish to be offensive.”

  “Please don’t interrupt,” pursued the Canon, with a wave of the hand. “Now, I am dealing with Winnie as the Irishman deals with the pig he is taking to market. He pulls the way he doesn’t want to go, and the pig quite happily goes the other.”

  “I wish you’d say plainly what you’re driving at.”

  “My dear, when Winnie said she would marry Mr. Railing, she didn’t reckon on Mr. Railing’s mamma and she didn’t reckon on Mr. Railing’s sister who teaches in the Board School. In such cases the man has often educated himself into something that passes muster, and your sex has no great skill in discerning a gentleman from the spurious article. But the women! My dear Sophia, I tell you Winnie won’t like them at all.”

  “The more repulsive his relations are, the more her pride will force Winnie to keep her promise.”

  “We shall see.”

  Lady Sophia, pursing her lips, thought over the wily device which the Canon had complacently unfolded, then she glanced at him sharply.

  “Are you quite sure it’s honest, Theodore?”

  “My dear Sophia, what do you mean?” cried he, much astonished.

  “Isn’t it a little underhand?”

  Canon Spratte drew himself up and looked at his sister with some sternness.

  “My dear, I do not wish to remind you that I am a clergyman, though occasionally you seem strangely oblivious of the fact. But I should like to point out to you that it’s unlikely, to say the least of it, that a man of my position in the Church should do anything dishonest or underhand.”

  Lady Sophia, raising her eyebrows, smiled thinly.

  “My dear brother, if as Vicar of St. Gregory’s and Canon of Tercanbury, and prospective Bishop of Barchester, you assure me that you are acting like a Christian and a gentleman — of course I haven’t the temerity to say anything further.”

  “You may set your mind at rest,” he answered, with a little laugh of scorn, “you can be quite sure that whatever I do is right.”

  VIII

  TWO days after this Lady Sophia was sitting alone in the drawing-room when Mrs. Fitzherbert was shown in. At her heels walked Lord Spratte.

  “I found him on a chair in the Park, and I brought him here to keep him out of mischief,” she said, shaking hands with Lady Sophia.

  “I’ve reached an age when I can only get into mischief with an infinite deal of trouble,” answered Lord Spratte, “and when I’ve succeeded, I find the game was hardly worth the candle.”

  “I’ve not seen you since Theodore turned you out of the house — somewhat unceremoniously,” laughed Lady Sophia; “I hope you bear no malice.”

  “Not in the least; Theodore’s cook is far too good.”

  They both talked very frankly before Mrs. Fitzherbert, whom they liked equally; but the Canon would not perhaps have been much pleased if he knew how thoroughly they discussed him in her presence. Lord Spratte asked whether there was any news of the bishopric.

  “Nothing has been heard yet, but Theodore is convinced
he’ll get it,” replied Lady Sophia.

  “He’ll be quite unbearable if he does.”

  “Quite!” she agreed. “I shall shave my head and go into a convent.”

  “You laugh at the Canon and you tease him, but he’s a clever man for all that,” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “Of course he’s rather vain and grandiloquent, but not very much more than most men. I have an idea that he’ll make a first-rate bishop.”

  “Theodore?”

  Lady Sophia considered the matter for a moment.

  “It really hadn’t occurred to me, but I daresay you’re right,” she said. “Of course he’s not a saint, but one doesn’t want bishops to be too pious. Curates may be saintly, and it’s very proper that they should; but it’s equally proper of their betters to leave them hidden away in obscure parishes where their peculiarities cannot be a stumbling-block to the faithful. The religion of a man who belongs to the Church of England is closely connected with consols, and he looks with grave distrust on the parson who tells him seriously to lay up treasure in heaven.”