Delphi Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (Illustrated)

by William Somerset Maugham

  “Aren’t you going to eat your chop?” asked Lady Sophia.

  “Hang my chop,” he cried, impatiently.

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “How is it possible that the news of Dr. Gray’s death can have such an effect on you, Theodore?”

  “For goodness’ sake be quiet, and let me think,” he answered, without his usual politeness.

  He had discussed the matter a dozen times with Sir John, and knew with what angry vehemence the brewer regarded this new power wherewith it was proposed to invest the Justices of the Peace. He was a stubborn, obstinate man, and had persuaded himself that it was an interference with the liberty of trade. On the other hand, he was an enthusiastic Conservative, and had no wish to put a Liberal Government in power, which would probably bring in temperance legislation of a much more drastic order. He was filled with the Imperialistic sentiment and dreaded the Radical indifference to his ideal of world supremacy. If Sir John could be induced to hear reason, it was probable that he would not insist on the withdrawal of the bill which public opinion had forced the Government to bring. But if left to himself, he might in a fit of temper throw all his influence with the Opposition. Whoever had Durant’s ear on this occasion was for the moment the most powerful man in England. A smile broke on the Canon’s lips. He drew a long breath.

  “Sophia, I should like to speak a few words to Lionel.”

  “I’ve just finished,” she said.

  She did not hurry herself, but when it pleased her left the room. Canon Spratte turned eagerly to his son.

  “Now, Lionel, I think you’ve shilly-shallied long enough. I want to know for good and all what you propose to do with regard to Gwendolen.”

  “What do you mean, father?”

  “Good lord, man, you’re not a perfect fool, are you? We’ve discussed your marriage ad nauseam. I want to know what your intentions are. It’s not fair to the girl to keep her dangling in this fashion. Are you going to marry her or not?”

  “Well, father, there’s no hurry about it?”

  “On the contrary there’s the greatest possible hurry.”

  “Why?”

  “I have every reason to believe that some one else is thinking of proposing to her.”

  “Well, I don’t think she cares twopence about me,” answered Lionel, rather sulkily. “Lately when I’ve seen her she’s talked of nothing but you.”

  “There are less diverting topics of conversation, Lionel,” retorted the Canon, with a smile.

  “One can have too much of a good thing.”

  “If you don’t look sharp some one else will step in and cut you out. I warn you candidly.”

  “I shan’t break my heart, father.”

  Canon Spratte shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know what the young men of the present day are coming to; they have no spirit and no enterprise. Anyhow, I’ve done my duty and you mustn’t be surprised whatever happens.”

  “I wonder you don’t marry her yourself,” said Lionel, ironically.

  “And would you have anything to say against my doing so?” retorted the Canon, not without a suspicion of temper. “Let me tell you that a man of fifty is in the very flower of his age. I flatter myself there are few men of your years who have half the vigour and energy that I have.”

  He flung out of the room in a huff. His horse had been waiting for half-an-hour, and it was later than usual when he joined Gwendolen in the Park. Her face lit up, and from his own all sign of vexation had vanished.

  “I’d given you up,” she said. “I thought you weren’t able to come.”

  “Would you have been disappointed if I hadn’t?”

  “Awfully!”

  “You make me regret more than ever that I’m not twenty-five,” he said, without any beating about the bush.

  “Why?”

  “Because if I were I should promptly ask you to marry me.”

  “If you were I should probably refuse you,” she smiled.

  “I wonder what you mean by that?”

  They walked their horses side by side, and the Canon was seized with an unaccountable shyness. It was by a real effort of will that at last he forced himself to speak.

  “I suppose it never struck you that I took more than common pleasure in our conversations. But when I left you I was always seized with despair. I realized that my heart had remained as young as ever it was, but you never ceased to see in me a man old enough to be your father. Do you know that I’m fifty?”

  “I never asked myself what your age was. I never felt that you were any older than I.”

  She answered nervously, looking straight in front of her. The Canon shot a sidelong glance in her direction and saw that her cheeks were flaming. He recovered his courage at once. Faint heart, he knew, never won fair lady.

  “Gwendolen, I sometimes think that you have worked a miracle, for by your side I feel as young as the summer morning. What can the years matter when I have the spirit and the strength of a youth! I admire you and I love you. Do you think me very ridiculous?”

  She shook her head, but did not speak. He put his hand lightly on hers.

  “Gwendolen, will you be my wife?”

  She looked up with a little laugh that was almost hysterical. She did not answer directly.

  “I’ll race you to the end,” she said.

  Without a word, smiling, the Canon put the spurs to his horse; and they galloped up the Row at a speed which was altogether beyond reason. The policeman on his beat watched with gaping mouth the strange spectacle of a comely young woman and an ecclesiastical dignitary, no longer in his first youth but handsome too, peltering towards the Achilles Statue as fast as they could go. Gwendolen’s horse kept somewhat ahead, but the Canon would not give way. Again he clapped his spurs to the straining flanks. It seemed to him, romantically, that he rode for a great prize, and in his excitement he could have shouted at the top of his voice. They reached the end neck and neck, and when they stopped, panting, the horses were white with lather. There was no longer a shadow of humility in the Canon’s breezy manner.

  “And now for my answer,” he cried, gaily.

  “What about Lionel?” she smiled, blushing.

  “Oh, Lionel can go to the dickens.”

  Canon Spratte frequently said that he was unaccustomed to let grass grow under his feet. Having left Gwendolen at the door, he returned to the Vicarage, changed his clothes, and promptly took a cab back to Park Lane. But he found that she had been before him, and Sir John Durant was already in possession of the happy news.

  “Upon my soul, I don’t know what you’ve done to the girl,” he said, in his hearty, boisterous tone. “She’s quite infatuated.”

  The Canon laughed and rubbed his hands.

  “She’s made me the happiest of men.”

  Sir John was a man of affairs, whose pride it was that he went straight to the point; and notwithstanding Canon Spratte’s remonstrance, who sought to waive the matter airily aside, he insisted on discussing at once the business part of the projected union. It required all the fortunate lover’s self-control to prevent a little gasp of pleased surprise when the brewer in a casual way mentioned the sum he proposed to settle on his only daughter. It was larger even than he had expected.

  “My dear Durant, your generosity overwhelms me,” he cried. “I promise you I will do my best to make her happy, and I think it’s unlikely that either my brother or Lionel will ever marry. In all probability Gwendolen’s eldest son will inherit the title.”

  This settled, he turned deftly to the political situation, and discovered that the brewer was somewhat taken aback by the responsibility which appeared to have fallen on him. He was anxious to do his duty by his party, but at the same time could not bear to sacrifice the interests of his trade. He had come to no decision whatever, and showed himself only too pleased to discuss his predicament with a man whose experience was so large, and whose mind so lucid. He insisted that his prospective son-in-law should stay to
luncheon. During this meal Canon Spratte proved very neatly his skill in social intercourse, for he was able to show himself gallant and tender towards Gwendolen, while at the same time he displayed keen sympathy with the brewer’s perplexity. But no sooner was the meal over than he jumped to his feet.

  “You’re not going already?” cried Sir John.

  “My dear fellow, I must. I have a very busy day before me.” He smiled tenderly at Gwendolen. “You can imagine that it is not without weighty reasons that I tear myself away.”

  “Then you must come back to dinner. You know, it’s private members’ night and I’m not going to the House.”

  “Impossible also! Winnie is returning from the country to-day, and it would be unkind if I did not dine at home. Besides, I have asked my brother. A Christian family is one of the most beautiful as it is one of the most characteristic sights of our English life. I like to allow its mellowing influence to be exerted as often as possible on my rather harum-scarum relative.”

  “Then when shall we see you again?” asked the brewer, firmly grasping his hand.

  “If it won’t disturb you I should like to come in for half-an-hour about ten o’clock.”

  As soon as the door was closed behind him, he hailed a passing cab.

  “I’ll give you a florin if you can get to the Athenæum in three minutes,” he cried to the driver. He looked at his watch. “I think I shall just catch him.”

  He knew that Lord Stonehenge was in the habit of passing an hour at the Athenæum after luncheon. He sat always in a certain chair, near the window, which by common consent was invariably left vacant for him. No one ventured to disturb him. He went in and out of the club, indifferent to his fellow-members, as if he did not notice that a soul was there. But Canon Spratte was an audacious man and did not fear to be importunate. He smiled with satisfaction when he saw Lord Stonehenge, heavily seated in his accustomed place. That vast mass of flesh had a ponderous immobility which suggested that it would be difficult for the Prime Minister to escape from his agile hands. He was turning over the pages of a review, but his mind appeared busy with other things.

  Canon Spratte walked up jauntily with the Westminster Gazette in his hand. It contained a very amusing cartoon in which Sir John Durant, as a Turkish pasha, was seated on a beer-barrel, while the Prime Minister, in the garb of an odalisque, knelt humbly before him with uplifted hands. In the background were two satellites, one with a bow-string and the other with a scimitar.

  “Have you seen this?” said the Canon, sitting down coolly and handing the paper. “Capital, isn’t it?”

  The Prime Minister turned his listless eyes on the intruder and for a moment wondered who on earth he was.

  “I’ve just been lunching with Durant. He’s rather sore about it. Ticklish situation, isn’t it?”

  “Are you Theodore Spratte?” asked Lord Stonehenge.

  “I am,” laughed the Canon. “I hope Durant won’t do anything rash. I have a good deal of influence with him, and of course I’m doing my best to persuade him not to kick over the traces.”

  A sudden light flashed in the Prime Minister’s eyes, and he saw that Canon Spratte had an object in thus speaking to him. He dived into the abysses of his memory, and recalled that he had offered him a deanery, which the Canon had refused. The man evidently wanted a bishopric or nothing. He remembered also something that his daughter had told him; he wondered what power the suave parson actually had with Sir John.

  “I hear that your son is going to marry Durant’s daughter,” he said, slowly.

  “You’ve been misinformed,” answered the Canon, with a smile that was somewhat ironical. “I am going to marry her.”

  “You!”

  They looked at one another like two fencers, seeking to discover their strength in each other’s face. The Prime Minister’s eyes had a peculiar force which suggested the reason of his long-continued power; they lacked brilliancy, but there was in them a curious intensity of vision which seemed to absorb the thoughts of other men’s minds. The silence lasted interminably. Canon Spratte bore the great man’s gaze with perfect steadfastness, and presently Lord Stonehenge looked away. He stared out of the window, into space, and the Canon thought he had entirely forgotten the subject in hand.

  “I need not tell you that I will do everything I can to bring Durant to a reasonable state of mind. At present he’s wavering. You probably know the facts better than I do, but he tells me the liquor party will follow him. I understand if they go against you the result will be — awkward.”

  Lord Stonehenge apparently did not hear. His eyes still rested heavily on the trees in the park. Canon Spratte began to grow a little irritated, but still he waited patiently. At last the Prime Minister spoke.

  “I suppose you’ve heard that Gray is dead?”

  “I have.”

  “Would you like to go to Barchester?”

  Although he seemed desperately stupid Lord Stonehenge had understood. The Canon’s heart gave a leap and he caught his breath. He forgot that Barchester stood on a clay soil, and it no longer seemed a tedious place. At last! But he showed no eagerness to accept. He knew as well as the Prime Minister that the Government was in the hollow of his hand.

  At that moment a bishop came up to Lord Stonehenge with a telegram in his hand. Canon Spratte gave him an impatient frown.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I think you ought to see this,” said the newcomer.

  He handed the telegram to Lord Stonehenge, who glanced at it irritably. The bishop knew Canon Spratte and nodded to him.

  “It’s to tell me that the Bishop of Sheffield died in his sleep early this morning. He’s been ailing for some time.”

  “Thank you,” said the Prime Minister.

  He returned the telegram, and the bishop withdrew. Canon Spratte and Lord Stonehenge looked at one another once more. A new factor had come into the game which they were playing. Beside Sheffield the diocese of Barchester was quite insignificant; it was small and poor, and from the city itself all prosperity had long since vanished. The bishop of such a place might be a great man in his own neighbourhood, but he had no chance of activity outside it. Sheffield, on the other hand, possessed two suffragans and patronage of vast importance. It was the centre of religious life in the Midlands. Year by year the town was growing in consequence; and its bishop, if a man of resource, might wield great power. By help of the rich manufacturers in his district he could raise huge sums for any purpose he pleased, and his influence need be second only to that of the archbishop. If it was possible to have Sheffield, Barchester was but a poor reward for such services as Theodore Spratte could render to his country. But he had no time to think it over. It was necessary to make his decision there and then. He was a bold man and did not hesitate.

  Lord Stonehenge still waited for his answer.

  “It’s very good of you to make me such an offer, and I need not say I am grateful for the honour, but — if I may put it frankly — I don’t think I feel inclined to go to such a dead and alive town as Barchester. I have a passion for work, and I can’t live without plenty to do. If I leave London at all it must be for a place that offers ample scope for a man of energy, a place where there’s a vigorous civic life, and where you may feel yourself, as it were, at the centre of this busy modern world of ours. Advance and progress are my watchwords.”

  Conversation with Lord Stonehenge was difficult, for he seldom opened his mouth. When you had said what you wanted, he merely waited for you to begin again; and unless possessed of much effrontery, you were utterly disconcerted. In the present case, however, there was but one word he needed to utter, and that word was Sheffield. It remained unspoken. Canon Spratte, content to let things take their time, got up.

  “But it’s too bad of me to take up the only moment in the day you have for recreation. I shall be seeing Durant again after dinner.”

  With a nod and a smile he left the Prime Minister to his own reflections.

  Theodore’s day ha
d 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.”