Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “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.”

  “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.