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.”