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.

“oh, yes, the world is very good!” he cried.

he was so immersed in thought that he did not hear ponsonby come into the room, and started violently when he heard a voice behind him.

“this letter has just come for you, sir.”

he knew at once that it was from lord stonehenge. the certainty came to him with the force of an inspiration, and his heart beat violently.

“very well,” he said. “put it on my desk.”

he turned pale, but did not move till the servant was gone. he took it with shaking hands. he was right, for he recognized the official paper. at last! for some time he looked at the envelope, but trembled so much that he could not open it. he grew sick with expectation and his brain throbbed as if he would faint. a feeling of thankfulness came into his heart. now the cup of his desire was filled. he held his head for a moment and breathed deeply, then slowly cut open the envelope. with habitual neatness he used a paper-knife.

dear canon spratte,

it is my desire, if it meet your own wishes, to recommend his majesty to appoint you to the deanery of st. olphert’s, vacant through the impending retirement from illness of dr. tanner. in so doing, i can assure you i feel great pleasure in being able to mark my appreciation of your learning and sound divinity by offering you a position of greater dignity and less work. the duties, i need not tell you, are commanding in their nature; and i feel sure you would be able to perform them with great advantage to the interests of the church, to which i think the course i am taking will be most beneficial, especially at this critical moment in its history.

i have the honour to be, dear canon spratte,

yours faithfully,

stonehenge.

the hon. and rev. canon spratte,

st. gregory’s vicarage.

the prime minister offered him an obscure, insignificant deanery in the north of wales. for an instant canon spratte could not understand. it seemed impossible, it seemed preposterous. he thought it must be a mistake, and carefully read the letter again. the overthrow of all his hopes came upon him at the moment of his greatest exultation, and the blow was greater than he could bear; two scalding tears rose in his eyes, and heavily, painfully, rolled down his cheeks. they fell on the letter and made two little wet smudges.

the disappointment was so great that he could not be angry. he was utterly crushed. and then, in the revulsion from his high spirits, he was overwhelmed with despair. he asked pitifully whether he had all along misjudged himself. the prime minister did not think him fit for important office but sought to satisfy his claims by an empty honour, such as he might give to a man who, perhaps, had deserved well, but whose powers were now decrepit. that post of dignity was but a decent grave.

suddenly, with the vain man’s utter self-abasement, canon spratte saw himself as he thought others might see him: mediocre, pompous, self-assertive, verbose. he heard the mocking words of the envious:

“theodore spratte is shelved. at all events he’ll be out of harm’s way at st. olphert’s, and it’s just the sort of thing that’ll suit him—to tyrannize over provincial old ladies.”

and others would be astonished and say:

“one would have thought that pushing man would have pushed himself into something better than that!”

again the canon thought of all he might have done: and the pictures of the future, like scoffing devils, came once more before his mind. he could not help the tears. for a while, leaning over his desk, with his hands pressed to his burning eyes, he surrendered unresisting to his weakness. the tall spires and the sombre roofs of barchester returned to his vivid fancy, and all that he had lost seemed twice as beautiful. the humiliation was unbearable. he hated and despised himself; he was petty and mean; and his pride, his boastfulness, his overbearing spirit, uprose against him in reproach. who was he thus to have contemned his fellows? he had imagined himself clever, wise, and brilliant; and the world had laughed in its sleeve at his presumption. he blushed now, blushed so that he felt his face burn, at the thought that all this time people had despised him. he had lived in a fool’s paradise, rejoicing in the admiration of his fellows; and he had been an object of derision. it had been self-admiration only; and the world had taken him, as did lord stonehenge, for the mediocre son of a clever father. even his brother had told him repeatedly that he was pretentious and vulgar, and he thought it only the sneer of a man who could not appreciate great qualities. a thousand imps danced in his brain, with mockery and with malicious gibes: in every key from shrill to hoarse, he heard their scornful laughter.

“i won’t take it,” he cried, jumping up suddenly. “i’ll remain where i am. i’m strong and young still; i feel as vigorous as if i were twenty. i don’t want their honours.”

but then he hesitated, and sank again, helplessly, into his chair. was it not his duty to accept the promotion which was offered him? had he a right to refuse? what was he but a servant of god, and might it not be his will that he should go to this deanery? he hated the idea, and feared the cold dulness of st. olphert’s; but yet, with something in him of english puritanism, the very fact that it was so distasteful, seemed an argument in its favour.

“am i fit to hold a great london parish?” he asked, despairingly. “i’m growing old. each year i shall be less active and less versatile. ought i not to make way for younger, better men?”

he strove to drive away the thought, but could not. some voice, the voice of conscience perhaps, told him it was his duty to accept this offer.

“o god, help me,” he cried, broken at length and submissive. “i know not what to do. guide me and teach me to do thy will.”

presently he fell on his knees humbly and prayed. now there was nothing in him of the confident priest or of the proud and self-assertive man; he was but an abject penitent, confessing in broken words, tremulous and halting, his utter weakness.

“o lord, give me a holy contented frame,” he cried. “make me to desire nothing but how best to fulfil thy holy will. save me from worldly ambitious thoughts. i am weak and cowardly, and my sins have been very great, and i know that i am unfitted for a great position.”

when he rose to his feet, with a sigh he read stonehenge’s letter for the third time. he took it in his hand and went to lady sophia. he felt that from her he would gain help. he was so crushed, so changed, that he needed another’s guidance. for once in his life he could not make up his mind.

but when she saw him, lady sophia was seized with astonishment. his spirited face seemed wan and lifeless; the lines stood out, and his eyes were very tired. he appeared on a sudden to be an old man. his upright carriage was gone and he walked listlessly, with stooping shoulders.

“theodore, what on earth’s the matter?” she cried.

he handed her the letter and, in a voice still broken with emotion, said:

“stonehenge doesn’t think i’m fit to be a bishop. he’s offered me a welsh deanery.”

“but you won’t accept it?”

he bowed his head, looking at her with an appeal that was almost childlike.

“i’m not sure whether i have the right to refuse.”

“what does he mean by saying that the duties are commanding in their nature?”

“he means nothing,” answered the canon, shrugging his shoulders scornfully. “he’s merely gilding the pill with fine phrases. oh, sophia, i don’t want to go. i don’t want to bury myself in that inglorious idleness. i feel in me the power to do so much more, and st. olphert’s offers me nothing. it’s a sleepy, sordid place. i might as well be buried alive. i don’t want to leave london.”

his voice was so pitiful that lady sophia was touched. she saw that he wanted her to persuade him to stay in town, and yet his conscience troubled him.

“i’m only a servant of the church,” he said. “i don’t know that i have the right to refuse to go where i am sent. perhaps he’s not far wrong in thinking that it’s all i’m good for. oh, sophia, i’m so unhappy!”

she realized how much it meant for that bold spirit thus to humble itself. he paid a heavy price for his vanity. he was like a child in her hands, needing consolation and support. she began to speak to him gently. she suggested that the offer of this deanery signified only that lord stonehenge, feeling he owed something to the son of the late lord chancellor, had been unable on account of other claims to give him the bishopric. from the observation of long years she had learnt on what points theodore most prided himself, (in the past this knowledge had been used to give little admonishing stabs,) and now she took them one by one. she appealed skilfully to his prepossessions. with well-directed flattery, calling to his mind past triumphs, and compliments paid him by the great ones of the earth, she caused him little by little to gather courage. presently she saw the hopeless expression of the mouth give way to a smile of pleasure, and a new confidence came into his eyes. his very back was straightened. in the new uprightness with which he held himself, she perceived that her subtle words were taking due effect. at last she reminded him of his work at st. gregory’s.

“after all, you’re a figure in london,” she said. “you have power and influence. for my part i have wondered that you contemplated leaving it for an obscure country town like barchester. i shouldn’t have been at all surprised if you’d refused the bishopric.”

he breathed more freely, and with his quick and happy optimism began already to see things more genially.

“besides, we sprattes are somebody in the world,” concluded lady sophia, with a smile, the faint irony of which he did not see. “i don’t think you would show a proper spirit if you allowed yourself to be trampled on.”

“ah, sophia, i knew that at the bottom of your heart you were as proud of your stock as i. you’re quite right. i owe it to my family as well as to myself not to allow them to thrust me into obscurity. i shall refuse the deanery, sophia; and lord stonehenge——”

“can go to the devil,” she added, quietly.

canon spratte smiled with all his old vivacity.

“sophia, i thank you. it is not right that i should say such things, but you have entirely expressed my sentiments.”

“why don’t you sit down and write the letter at once?”

without answering, the canon seated himself, and presently showed to lady sophia, for her approval, the following reply.

dear lord stonehenge,

i have weighed your very considerate proposal most anxiously and have given full weight to what you urge. i fully appreciate the kind motive which offered me the opportunity of removing to a position both of leisure and of dignity. i am sure you will not think that i have lightly set aside the offer made me; but i am doubtful whether my health would stand the asperities of a welsh climate. and i have to consider that a very great assistance to me in the performance of my present duties is derived from the complete knowledge of my work in london. i fear that i might find the distant and untried labours of st. olphert’s less congenial. and i feel that without some very strong counter-balancing reason, it is not desirable that i should leave plans which i have begun, but scarcely matured, in the metropolis.

believe me to be, with very grateful thanks, dear lord stonehenge,

your faithful and obedient servant,

theodore spratte

lady sophia smiled when she read that last sentence in which he wisely left himself an escape, whereby he might with dignity abandon london, if a bishopric in the future were offered to him. obviously the comfortable hope had returned that in the end his merits would receive their just reward. she gave back the letter.

“i think it will do capitally,” she said. “now, if i were you, i’d go out for a stroll.”

“so i will, sophia,” he replied. “i shall never forget your encouragement. i confess i was very much cast down.”

much to her surprise he kissed her affectionately, and then said:

“as i have nowhere particular to go, i shall just walk along to savile row, and order two pairs of trousers.”