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                          THE BISHOP’S APRON




                          THE BISHOP’S APRON

                        A STUDY IN THE ORIGINS
                           OF A GREAT FAMILY

                                  BY

                             W. S. MAUGHAM

             AUTHOR OF “LIZA OF LAMBETH,” “MRS. CRADDOCK,”
                         “THE MERRY-GO-ROUND”


                                LONDON

                        CHAPMAN AND HALL, LTD.

                                 1906




                          THE BISHOP’S APRON




I


The world takes people very willingly at the estimate in which they hold
themselves. With a fashionable bias for expression in a foreign tongue
it calls modesty _mauvaise honte_; and the impudent are thought merely
to have a proper opinion of their merit. But Ponsonby was really an
imposing personage. His movements were measured and noiseless; and he
wore the sombre garb of a gentleman’s butler with impressive dignity. He
was a large man, flabby and corpulent, with a loose, smooth skin. His
face, undisturbed by the rapid play of expression, which he would have
thought indecorous, had a look of placid respectability; his eyes, with
their puffy lower lids, rested on surrounding objects heavily; and his
earnest, obsequious voice gave an impression of such overwhelming piety
that your glance, involuntarily, fell to his rotund calves for the
gaiters episcopal.

He looked gravely at the table set out for luncheon, while Alfred, the
footman, walked round it, placing bread in each napkin.

“Is Tommy Tiddler coming to-day, Mr. Ponsonby?” he asked.

“His lordship is expected,” returned the butler, with a frigid stare.

He emphasised the aspirate to mark his disapproval of the flippancy
wherewith his colleague referred to a person who was not only the
brother of his master, but a member of the aristocracy.

“Here he is!” said Alfred, unabashed, looking out of the window. “He’s
just drove up in a cab.”

Lord Spratte walked up the steps and rang the bell. Though Ponsonby had
seen him two or three times a week for ten years, he gave no sign of
recognition.

“Am I expected to luncheon to-day, Ponsonby?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Lord Spratte was middle-aged, of fresh complexion notwithstanding his
grey hair; and his manner was quick and breezy. He carried his years and
the increasing girth which accompanied them, with a graceful
light-heartedness; and was apt to flatter himself that with the light
behind he might still pass for five-and-thirty. He had neither the wish
nor the intention to grow old. But the man of fifty, seeking to make
the most of himself, must use many careful adjustments. Not for him are
the loose, ill-fitting clothes that become a stripling of eighteen; his
tailor needs a world of skill to counteract the slackening of muscle and
to minimize the excess of avoirdupois. On his toilet-table are numerous
pots and jars and bottles, and each is a device to persuade himself that
the troublesome years are not marching on. He takes more care of his
hands than a professional beauty. Above all, his hair is a source of
anxiety. Lord Spratte by many experiments had learnt exactly how to
dress it so that no unbecoming baldness was displayed; but he never
seized a brush and comb without thinking, like Achilles stalking
melancholy through the fields of death, that he would much sooner be a
crossing-sweeper of fifteen than a peer of the realm at fifty.

“Do you insist on leading me upstairs like a ewe-lamb, Ponsonby?” he
asked.

The butler’s face outlined the merest shadow of a smile as, silently, he
preceded Lord Spratte to the drawing-room. For nothing in the world
would he have omitted the customary ceremonies of polite society.

“Lord Spratte,” he announced.

The guest advanced and saw his sister Sophia, his brother Theodore, his
nephew and his niece. Lady Sophia, a handsome and self-assured woman of
five-and-fifty, the eldest of the family, put aside her book and rose to
kiss him. Canon Spratte extended two fingers.

“Good heavens, have you invited me to a family party!”

“Than which, I venture to think, there can be nothing more charming,
nothing more beautiful, and nothing more entertaining,” replied the
Canon, gaily.

“Theodore is cultivating domesticity,” retorted the peer, with a look at
his younger brother. “I believe he wants to be made a bishop.”

“You take nothing seriously, Thomas. It is a failing of which I cannot
but recommend you to correct yourself.”

“Stow it, Theodore,” replied the other, unmoved.

Theodore Spratte, Vicar of St. Gregory’s, South Kensington, and Canon of
Tercanbury, was the youngest son of the