ONE evening, to his sister’s amazement, Canon Spratte volunteered to accompany Winnie to a party. The Vicar of St. Gregory’s was at his best in smaller gatherings, where his personality could more easily make itself felt. He liked an attentive audience; and even one careless pair, more anxious to talk with one another than to hear his sage words, was apt to disconcert him. When he found himself in a crowd, jostled and pushed, able to speak with but one person at a time, and reduced even then to social commonplace, he quickly grew bored. He could only suffer a multitude when from the safe eminence of the pulpit, the first in place as well as in dignity of oratorial machines, he was lifted above the press of mankind. He was assured then of their attentiveness and protected from their interruption.
Winnie was very simply dressed. Her pallor was unusual, but in the soft light of shaded electricity she gained thereby a peculiar delicacy. The pose of her head was a little wearied. The blue eyes were filled with melancholy. The Canon thought her frail beauty had never been seen to greater advantage; and when, alert for all that was proceeding, he saw Wroxham coming towards them, he quickly vanished from her side. He smiled as he noticed the singular way in which the young man held his nose in the air. Wroxham was very short-sighted, and his prominent blue eyes had an odd helplessness of expression. Winnie did not see him. She was watching the throng of dancers, taking a new delight in the gaiety of those many people gathered there in lightness of heart to enjoy the fleeting moments. Never before had she found such satisfaction in the magnificence of the ball-room, hung with red roses, nor in the charming dresses of the women. She could not crush a pang that entered her breast when she thought that all this must be given up, and in sudden contrast she saw the little sordid parlour in Rosebery Gardens. Before her eyes arose the High Street at Peckham with its gaudy shops. It was hideous, hideous, and she shuddered.
Suddenly she heard in her ear a well-known voice.
“Winnie!”
Her pallor gave way before a blush that made her ten times prettier. She did not answer, but looked at Harry. In his eyes, herself quickened by suffering, she thought there was a new sadness, and a great sympathy filled her. If he lacked good looks he had at all events the kindly face of an old friend. And he was admirably dressed. Discovering for the first time that his clothes had never before attracted her attention, she observed now with what an incomparable ease he bore them. The cruel advice of Lady Sophia to get Bertram a good tailor recurred to her, and she remembered the suggestion that he could not wear a frock coat becomingly.
“I wonder if he knows it,” passed through her mind. “Perhaps that’s why he always wears a jacket.”
It was an unwelcome thought that Bertram could be influenced by vain notions, and she upbraided herself for the pettiness of the suspicion. Wroxham, without fear of ridicule and with simplicity, could wear any clothes he chose.
“I knew I should find you here,” he was saying. “You’re not angry with me for coming? I wanted to see you so badly.”
“Good heavens, why should I be angry?” smiled Winnie. “You have just as much right to come as I.”
She could not help being flattered by the passionate love which coloured every word he spoke, and her own voice gained a sweeter tenderness.
“I can’t keep away from you, Winnie. I didn’t know I loved you so much.”
“Oh, don’t, please,” she murmured, “we’ve been friends for ages. It would be absurd if we never saw one another again because — because of the other day. You know I’m always glad to see you.”
“I couldn’t take your answer as final. Oh, I don’t want to bother you and make you miserable, but don’t you care for me at all? Don’t you think that after a time you may get to like me?”
His humility touched Winnie so much that it made her answer very difficult.
“I told you the other day it was impossible.”
“Oh, I know. But then I couldn’t say what I wanted. I couldn’t understand. Like a fool, I thought you cared for me. I loved you so passionately that it seemed impossible I should be nothing to you at all.”
“Please don’t say anything more, Harry,” she said, very gently. “It’s awfully kind of you, and I don’t know how to thank you. But I can’t marry you.”
Wroxham, with a little instinctive motion, set the glasses more firmly on his nose, and looked at her sadly. She smiled.
“Won’t you dance with me?” she said.
His face lit up as he placed his arm round her waist and they began to waltz. The rhythm of the haunting melody carried Winnie’s soul away. She knew that she was giving great happiness, and it filled her with pleasure. The music stopped, and with a sigh of delight she sank into a chair.
“I want to tell you something,” he said presently, with much seriousness. “If ever you change your mind I shall be waiting for you. I can never love any one else. I don’t want you to make any promise or to give me any encouragement. But I shall wait for you. And if ever the time comes that you think you can care for me, you will find me ready and eager to be — your very humble servant.”
“I didn’t know you were so kind,” said she, with tears in her eyes. “I misjudged you, I thought you treated me like a fool. I’m sorry, I want you to be happy. But don’t be wretched because I can’t marry you; I’m not worth troubling about.”
He looked at her fixedly, divining from her tone that something was troubling her.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked.
“No, what should be?” she answered, trying to smile, but blushing to the roots of her hair.
“You’ve been crying.”
“I had a headache. There’s really nothing else.”
It was very hard to resist her impulse to confess that she was already engaged. She wished him to know why she had refused him, and wanted his loving sympathy. But at this moment a partner claimed her for the dance that was just beginning.
“Good-bye,” she whispered, as she left him. “I shall never forget your kindness.”
Wroxham followed her with his eyes, then, puzzled and uncertain, walked towards the door. Canon Spratte did not believe in trusting the affairs of this world to the blind hazard of chance, and it was by no accident that he found himself at this very moment in the young man’s way.
“Ah, my dear fellow, I’m delighted to see you,” he said. “What a crowd, isn’t there? I’ve been dying to find some one to smoke a quiet cigarette with me.”
Wroxham gave him a smile. He felt at once that cordial glow which Canon Spratte invariably suffused on all with whom he came in contact. They went to the smoking-room. Even if Wroxham had been unwilling he would have found it hard to resist the breezy authoritativeness with which the Canon, waiting for no answer, led the way.
“Now let us make ourselves at home.”
He seated himself in the most comfortable arm-chair, and, for all the world as if he were in his own house, pointed Wroxham to another. In his gracious way he offered the young man a cigarette from their host’s box, and having lit his own, smoked for a while in silence. He was willing to let things take their time, and waited contentedly for Wroxham to speak. He set his mind to making a number of admirable smoke rings.
“I’ve been talking to Winnie,” said the other at last, gravely.
“Well? Well?”
“I don’t understand her.”
Canon Spratte put his hand impressively on Wroxham’s knee.
“My dear fellow, there’s nothing to understand. They say that women are incomprehensible. They’re nothing of the sort. I’ve never met a woman that I couldn’t understand at a glance.”
“I fancied she’d been crying,” said Wroxham, shyly.
“All women cry when they have nothing better to do. It’s the only inexpensive form of amusement they have.”
Wroxham knocked the ash off his cigarette with peculiar care.
“I asked her to marry me, Canon Spratte.”
“And of course she refused. That was to be expected. No nice girl accepts a man the first time he proposes to her. My dear Harry, the way with women is to insist. Stand no nonsense from them. Treat them kindly, but firmly. Remember that the majority never know their own minds, and between you and me I think the majority haven’t much to know.”
The Canon was no feminist. It was one of his cherished convictions that women should be kept in their place, which, with regard to the lords of creation, was chiefly the background. He felt that the attitude which best became them was one of submission. Like the natural savage, unspoiled by the vice of civilization, he considered that man should hunt, fight, and be handsome, while the weaker sex toiled for the privilege of contemplating his greatness. He had never imparted these theories to Lady Sophia.
“When you want something from a woman insist upon having it,” he added. “Hammer away and in the long run you’ll get it.”
“But Winnie is so different from other girls,” replied Wroxham, unconvinced.
“Nonsense! Every man thinks the girl he wants to marry different from every other. But she’s nothing of the kind. Women are very much of a muchness, especially the pretty ones. I have no patience with this ranting about the equality of the sexes. It is not only irreligious but vulgar. I lay my faith on the Bible, which tells us that women shall be subject unto man. I’ve never met the woman that I couldn’t turn round my little finger.”
He looked at that particular digit. It was adorned with a handsome ring, on which in all their monstrous fraudulence were the arms of his family. His voice rang with manly scorn.
“No, my dear Harry, you have my full approval. And you have my assurance that Winnie undoubtedly cares for you. What more can you want? Hammer away, my dear sir, hammer away. The proper fashion to deal with a woman is to ask her in season and out of season. Propose to her morning, noon, and night. Worry her as a terrier worries a bone. Insist on marrying her. Sooner or later she’ll say yes, and think herself a prodigious fool for not having done so before.”
“You’re very encouraging,” said the lover, smiling.
Canon Spratte’s cheery vigour was irresistible, and the force of his rhetoric seemed to overcome even material obstacles. But when Wroxham considered the affair he was puzzled. He was a youth of only common intelligence. This the Canon had observed with satisfaction, for he knew that nothing is so prejudicial in the world of politics as to excel the average. It did not appear natural that Winnie should refuse him out of mere virginal coyness, as the hen-bird flies from the nightingale till he has sung his most amorous lays. Her melancholy pointed to something more complex.
“You’re very encouraging,” he repeated, but this time with a sigh.
“There are few men who have more experience in the management of the sex than I,” returned Canon Spratte, with the air of a Sultan who has conducted with unexampled success a seraglio of more than common dimensions. “Now what do you propose to do?”
“I don’t know,” answered Wroxham, somewhat helplessly.
“My dear fellow, God helps those who help themselves,” said the Canon, with sharpness. “You want to marry my little girl and I want you to marry her. I know no one to whom I would sooner entrust her, and when a father says that, I can assure you it means a good deal.”
“But what can I do?”
“Well, well, I see I must help you a little. Come and see us again in a day or two. I’ll drop you a line.”
“I don’t want to be a bore,” said Wroxham.
“I have reason to believe that you’ll find Winnie in a different state of mind. Keep yourself free to come any day I fix. And now go home and have a good night’s sleep.”
Wroxham got up and shook hands. He left the Canon in the smoking-room. The clerical gentleman put down his cigarette and smiled to himself with much self-satisfaction. He sang again softly:
“For I’m no sailor bold,
And I’ve never been upon the sea;
And if I fall therein, its a fact I couldn’t swim,
And quickly at the bottom I should be.”
He returned to the ball-room jauntily, and on his way was so fortunate as to meet Mr. Wilson. This was the journalist of much influence in ecclesiastical circles whose good offices with the press he had already made use of.
“Ah, my dear Wilson, it was charming of you to put that little announcement in the paper for me,” he said. “I’m rejoiced to see that Dr. Gray has been given the bishopric.”
“I’m afraid the news is entirely premature,” answered the other. “No appointment has been made at all.”
“Indeed! You surprise me. It was announced so confidently in the Westminster Gazette.”
“Even the newspapers are not infallible,” smiled Mr. Wilson, who knew. “In point of fact, I very much doubt if Gray would accept. He’s fond of the work at Harbin, and I don’t think he much wants to bury himself at Barchester.”
“Of course, in this world everything has its drawbacks,” replied the Vicar of St. Gregory’s. “And for my part, when a man is still young and vigorous, I can imagine no position with greater opportunities for good than the headmastership of a great public school.”
He passed on. His name had been somewhat freely mentioned with regard to Barchester, and Canon Spratte could not bear that any one should think him disappointed or envious. He had shown Mr. Wilson that he was neither. But he could not regret that the newspapers had anticipated things; and hope, which is known to spring eternally in human breasts, cast at once a rosy hue upon the world in general. So long as no definite appointment was made, the Canon felt it only right to trust in the victory of good over evil. The various influences which he had brought to bear might still cause in Lord Stonehenge a state of mind that would raise merit to the episcopal bench.
Canon Spratte looked round the ball-room and caught sight of Gwendolen Durant. He went up to her at once. She looked uncommonly well in her low-necked dress; and the single string of pearls she wore not only showed off the youthful beauty of her neck, but reminded the world at large that she had a very opulent father.
“How is it the young men are so ungallant as to leave you sitting out?” he asked, gaily.
“I’m engaged to your son for this dance; I can’t make out where he is.”
“Lionel is a donkey,” laughed the Canon. “Give it to me instead.”
He would not listen to her amused objections, and in a moment they were among the dancers. Lionel came up just as Canon Spratte had borne off the prize triumphantly. He was filled with amazement, for to the best of his belief his father had not danced for twenty years. The Canon saw him, and laughing at his disconsolate look, pointed him out to Gwendolen. She laughed also.
“I’ve cut you out, dear boy,” cried the Canon as they passed, with a roguish look. “I’ve cut you out.”
“You’re very unkind,” smiled Gwendolen.
“Nonsense. It’ll teach him to be more punctual. Do you think if I’d been engaged to the belle of the evening I should have kept her waiting one single moment?”
He was so good looking, and there was about him such a buoyant charm of manner that Gwendolen was somewhat dazzled. The Canon had a great sense of rhythm, and their waltz went exceedingly well.
“You dance better than Lionel,” she said, smiling.
He pressed her hand slightly in acknowledgment of the flattering remark, and his glance positively made her heart beat a little.
“You mustn’t think because my hair is nearly white that I’m quite an old fossil.”
Gwendolen looked at his hair and thought it very handsome. She was pleased with the admiration that filled his eyes when they caught hers. She blushed, and they danced for a while in silence.
“I enjoyed that more than any dance this evening,” she sighed, when the music ceased.
“Then you must give me another. I owe you a debt of gratitude. You’ve made me feel four-and-twenty.”
“I don’t believe you’re a day more,” she answered, reddening at her boldness.
Like many young persons before her Gwendolen felt that a week’s acquaintance with Theodore Spratte had turned him into an old friend. She would have confided to him her most treasured secrets without hesitation. He took her to have an ice, and she observed with pleasure the courtliness with which he used her. It seemed more than politeness which made him so anxious for her comfort. Her wants really seemed to matter to him.
“How charmingly you wait on me,” she said, half laughing.
“I belong to the old school which put lovely women on a gilded pedestal and worshipped them. Besides, I have to take pains to make you forget my age.”
“How can you be so absurd!” she cried. “I think you’re the youngest man I’ve ever known.”
He was delighted, for he saw that Gwendolen meant precisely what she said.
“Ah, why don’t we live in the eighteenth century so that I might fall on my knee and kiss your hand in gratitude for that pretty speech!”
The band struck up again, and the Canon, offering his arm, led her back to the ball-room. She was claimed by a young guardsman; and as she swung into the throng the Canon could not help feeling that neither in appearance, height, nor gallantry, had he anything to fear from the comparison.
“Upon my soul, I can’t make out why I don’t come to balls oftener,” he murmured. “I had no idea they were so amusing.”
Lionel was standing just in front of him, and he slapped him on the back.
“Well, my boy, are you enjoying yourself? I hope you bear me no malice because I robbed you of your partner.”
“Not at all. I’m not really very fond of dancing.”
“Ah, you young men of the present day are so superior. It’s a monstrous thing that when a girl’s pretty feet itch for a varnished floor she should be forced to throw herself into the arms of an old fogey like myself.”
“It didn’t look as if Miss Durant needed much compulsion,” returned Lionel, dryly.
The Canon laughed boisterously.
“Have you declared yourself yet? She’s a very nice girl indeed, and you have my paternal blessing. I think we shall get on capitally together.”
“No; I haven’t said anything.”
“Well, my boy, why don’t you? It’s your duty to marry and it’s your duty to marry money. You must have a son and you must have something to keep him on. I think you’ll have to hunt a long time before you find any one so likely to provide all that’s necessary as Gwendolen Durant.”
“I like her very much,” allowed Lionel, somewhat uncertainly.
“Then why don’t you propose to-night? There’s nothing like a dance for that sort of thing. The music and the flowers and the gaiety — it all attunes the mind to amorous affairs.”
“That’s all very well, but she makes one rather nervous,” laughed Lionel.
“Fiddlesticks! Take her into the conservatory and play with her fan. That will lead you to take her hand. Then put your arm boldly round her waist; and the rest will follow of itself, or you’re no son of mine.”
Lionel shrugged his shoulders and smiled without enthusiasm.
“I see that Mrs. Fitzherbert is here,” he said, inconsequently.
“Is she? I must go and find her. Take my advice, my boy; propose to Gwendolen to-night, and perhaps I’ll pay a bill or two for you in the morning.”
He waved his hand familiarly and disappeared in search of the handsome widow. He found her very comfortably seated in an armchair, looking at the dancers with tolerant disdain. She smiled in sympathy as she caught the happy eyes of a girl going round the room in an ecstasy of delight. She nodded with satisfaction when a handsome man passed by. She sought idly to get some notion of character as one physiognomy or another attracted her attention. But what most pleased her was the thought that she herself was merely a spectator. The delights of middle age were by no means to be despised; she was free to go where she would, sufficiently rich, indifferent to the opinion of her fellows. Twenty years ago she nearly broke her heart at a ball because she was obliged to sit out five dances running without a partner, but now her chief wish was that no one should interrupt her enjoyment of that varied scene.
Yet when Canon Spratte approached she rose to greet him with every appearance of cordiality. She wore all her diamonds and a gown whose handsome lines showed off the magnificence of her figure. He thought she had never seemed more stately.
“May I have the pleasure of a dance?” he asked, smiling, but in the most formal way.
Mrs. Fitzherbert opened her eyes wide and stared at him.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I don’t know how I can express myself more plainly,” he laughed.
“My dear Canon, I haven’t danced for fifteen years.”
“Come,” he said gaily, “I never take a refusal. I know you dance divinely.”
“Don’t be so absurd! We should make ourselves perfectly ridiculous. People would roar with laughter and say: ‘Look at those two old fogies doddering round together.’”
“Nothing of the sort! They’d say: ‘Look at Theodore Spratte, he’s dancing with the belle of the evening. Isn’t that like him?’”
He put his arm round her waist, and notwithstanding a laughing remonstrance bore her into the middle of the room. It was true that he danced well, and for five minutes Mrs. Fitzherbert forgot that she was hard upon fifty. He talked the most charming nonsense. Her eyes began to flash as brightly as his, and she surrendered herself entirely to the pleasure of the waltz. It gave her a curious thrill to feel the strong hand that rested like a caress on her waist. Presently he led her into a little nook, all gay with roses, which had been arranged in an alcove on the stairs.
“You detestable creature!” she cried, sinking into a chair. “I was congratulating myself on being out of the turmoil of life, and you’ve made me regret it so that I could almost burst into tears.”
“But acknowledge that you enjoyed it. And you know just as well as I do that you were the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“How many virtuous matrons have you already assured of that fact to-night?” she asked, with a laugh.
“Ah, you think I’m joking, but I’m deadly serious,” he answered.
“Then there’s no possible excuse for you.”
“You can’t subdue me so easily as that. Does it mean nothing to you that the band is playing the most sentimental tunes and that all these roses have turned the place into a garden?”
“You see, I’m never so foolish as to forget that I’m long past forty.”
“I never think of your age,” he answered, and for the life of her she could not tell if he was in earnest. “To me you are a lovely woman, kind and witty and delightful.”
She looked at him calmly.
“What do you think Lionel would say if he heard you talk such rubbish?”
“Lionel is wisely occupied with his own affairs. I’ve sent him to propose to Gwendolen Durant. He was shy, but I told him it was the simplest thing in the world. I told him to look at her fan.” The Canon opened his partner’s and smiled into her eyes. “And that I told him would lead him naturally to take her hand.”
He audaciously seized Mrs. Fitzherbert’s, but she, with a laugh, withdrew it.
“I gather your meaning without your actually giving an example,” she said.
The Canon’s blue eyes sparkled with all the fire of youth. Another dance had begun and they were left alone in their alcove.
“Look here, why don’t you marry me?” he asked, suddenly.
Mrs. Fitzherbert was taken completely aback. It had never dawned on her that his bantering speeches could tend to any such end.
“My dear man, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“My children are making their own homes, and I shall be left alone. Whatever you say, we’re neither of us old yet. Why shouldn’t we join forces?”
“It’s too absurd,” she said.
“That I should want to marry you? Look in your glass, dear friend, and it will tell you there are a hundred good reasons.”
He put his arm round her, and before she realized what he was about, kissed her lips.
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“But I haven’t accepted,” she cried.
“I told you I never took a refusal; I shall inform Sophia that you’ve promised to marry me.”
Giving her no time to reply, he jumped up, pressed her hand lightly, and disappeared. Mrs. Fitzherbert did not know whether to be amused or angry. The affair seemed like a joke that had been carried too far, and she really could not believe that the Canon meant what he said. Suddenly an idea struck her. A smile came to her lips and she began to laugh. The idea gained shape. She threw back her head and laughed till the tears positively ran down her cheeks.
But the Canon returned to the ball-room feeling not a day more than twenty-five. Winnie came up to him.
“I’m ready to go home when you like, papa. I’m rather tired.”
He looked at his watch.
“Nonsense! One’s not tired at two in the morning at your age. Why, I feel as fit as a fiddle. Come.”
He seized her, and before she knew where she was, whirled her into the middle of the room. He would not let her expostulate, but danced as though he would never tire. His spirits were so high that he could have shouted at the top of his voice.
When they were all three in the carriage on their way home, Canon Spratte turned to his son.
“Well, did you take my advice?” he asked.
“I didn’t have a chance,” said Lionel, discontentedly.
“Good Lord! You’re not half the man your father is.”
The Canon chuckled and rubbed his hands. He asked Winnie’s permission to light a cigar, and put up his feet comfortably on the opposite seat.
“I’ve had a very charming evening. Upon my soul, it’s wonderful what good it does a hard-working man to have a little innocent enjoyment.”