The Collected Works of W. Somerset Maugham (33 Works in One Edition). Уильям Сомерсет Моэм

had fallen in love with the youngest daughter of Lord Frampstone. It was an alliance, (Theodore Spratte would never have condescended to a marriage,) of which the Chancellor thoroughly approved; and the girl, dazzled by her suitor’s courtly brilliance, had succumbed at once to his fascinations. She remained dazzled to the end of her life. He never unbent. He treated her always as though she were a congregation. Even in the privacies of domestic life he was talking to a multitude; and his wife, if sometimes she wished he would descend to her level and vouchsafe to be familiar, never ceased blindly to admire him. She sighed for a little simple love, but the Canon could not forget that he was a son of a great Lord Chancellor and she the daughter of a noble house. She was confused by his oratorical outbursts, his wit, his grandiose ways; and gradually, unnoticed in the white brilliance of her husband’s glory, she vanished out of existence. The Canon’s only complaint was that his wife had never lived up to the position which was hers by right. She cared nothing for social success, and was happiest in the bosom of her family.

      “Upon my word, my dear, you might as well be the wife of a dissenting minister,” he exclaimed often.

      But her death gave him an opportunity to prove his own regard and to make up for her previous shortcomings. He ordered a funeral of the utmost magnificence; and the gentle lady, who had longed only for peace, was buried with as great parade as if she had been a princess of the blood. On a large brass tablet, emblazoned with his own arms and with those of her family, the lamenting husband, who prided himself not a little on his skilful Latinity, placed a Ciceronian epitaph which caused amazement and admiration in all beholders.

      The recollection of his wife flashed at this moment through the Canon’s mind, and putting his own sentiments into her meek breast, he flourished the letter and chuckled to himself.

      “I wish she were alive to see this day.”

      Lord Wroxham, left fatherless in early boyhood, was head of a family than which there was none in England more ancient and more distinguished. Canon Spratte called a servant.

      “Will you ask the porter if Lord Wroxham is in the club?”

      “Yes, sir. I saw him come in half-an-hour ago.”

      “Ha!”

      Canon Spratte put a cigarette between his lips and jauntily went to the smoking-room. He caught sight at once of his prospective son-in-law, but made no sign that he observed him. He strolled across the room.

      “Canon Spratte!” said the young man, rising and turning very red.

      “Ah, my dear boy,” said the Canon, cordially holding out his hand. “Are you here? I’m delighted to see you. I was just going to write you a note.”

      Wroxham was a young man of five-and-twenty, slender and of moderate height, with short crisp hair and a small moustache. His eyes were prominent and short-sighted, and he wore gold-rimmed pince-nez. His appearance was a little insignificant, but his pleasant, earnest face, if not handsome, was very kindly. He was nervous, and had evidently no great facility in expressing himself.

      Canon Spratte, aware of his confusion, took his arm and led him to a more secluded place.

      “Come and sit in the window, dear boy, and tell me what it is you wish to say.”

      When the Canon desired to be charming, none could excel him. There was such a sympathetic warmth in his manner that, if you were not irritated by a slightly patronizing air, your heart never failed to go out to him.

      “Have a cigarette,” he said, producing a golden case of considerable value. “Give me a match, there’s a good fellow.”

      He beamed on the youth, but still Wroxham hesitated.

      “You got my note, Canon?”

      “Yes, yes. So charming of you to write to me. I’ve known you so long, dear boy—if there’s anything I can do for you, command me.”

      Wroxham had often come with Lionel from Eton to spend part of his holidays in the Canon’s hospitable house.

      “Well, the fact is—I want to ask Winnie to marry me, with your permission.”

      Canon Spratte restrained the smile of triumph which struggled to gain possession of his mouth. When he answered, his manner was perfectly sympathetic, but somewhat grave as befitted the occasion.

      “My dear Harry, I will not conceal from you that your sentiments have not been altogether hidden from me. And you will understand that if I had not approved of them I should scarcely have allowed you to come so frequently to my house.”

      Wroxham smiled, but found nothing very apposite to say.

      “I have had for years the very greatest affection for you; and of late, since you took your seat in the House of Lords, I have had also esteem and admiration. It is an excellent sign when a young man of your position throws himself so earnestly into affairs of State. I think you have a great future before you.”

      He put up his hand to request silence, as he saw the other wished to make some remark. Canon Spratte did not suffer interruption kindly.

      “But in these matters one is a father first and last. I have reason to believe that you are a steady young man, without vices, and I think you have an excellent temper, than which nothing is more necessary in married life. But you must allow me to inquire a little into your circumstances.”

      The young man very simply explained that he possessed three houses, a great many acres of land, and an income of twenty thousand a year. Canon Spratte listened gravely.

      “I should like to leave all the affairs about settlements in your hands, Canon. I’ll do whatever you think fit.”

      “All that sounds very satisfactory,” answered the Canon, at last. “I am not the man to go into pecuniary details. Thank God, I can honestly say I’m not mercenary, and I think we can leave all business details to our respective lawyers. My dear boy, I give you full permission to pay your addresses to Winnie.”

      Wroxham flushed, and taking off his glasses, rubbed them with a handkerchief.

      “Do you think she cares for me?”

      The Canon took both his hands.

      “My dear fellow, you need have no fear on that point. Of course, I leave my children complete liberty of action, but I don’t think I am indiscreet in assuring you that Winnie is—well, very fond of you.”

      “I’m so glad,” said Wroxham, a happy smile breaking on his lips.

      “Come to luncheon to-morrow and have a talk with my little girl afterwards. I’ll arrange it so that you shall be undisturbed.”

      “It’s awfully good of you.”

      “Not at all! Not at all! But now I really must be running off. I’m lunching with Lady Vizard, to meet the Princess of Wartburg-Hochstein.”