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The Bishop's Secret

by Fergus Hume · English · Gutenberg #23474 · 645,786 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Bishop's Secret

Author: Fergus Hume


        
Release date: November 14, 2007 [eBook #23474]
                Most recently updated: August 26, 2013

Language: English

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Credits: E-text prepared by Annie McGuire, Suzanne Shell, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BISHOP'S SECRET ***


E-text prepared by Annie McGuire, Suzanne Shell, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)



[Illustration: Book Cover]

THE BISHOP'S SECRET

by

FERGUS HUME,

Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "For the Defense," "The
Harlequin Opal," "The Girl from Malta," Etc.







Chicago and New York:
Rand, McNally & Company,
Publishers.

Copyright, 1900, by Rand, McNally & Co.
Copyright, 1906, by Rand, McNally & Co.




PREFACE.


In his earlier works, notably in "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab" and "The
Silent House in Pimlico," Mr. Hume won a reputation second to none for
plot of the stirring, ingenious, misleading, and finally surprising
kind, and for working out his plot in vigorous and picturesque English.

In "The Bishop's Secret," while there is no falling off in plot and
style, there is a welcome and marvelous broadening out as to the cast of
characters, representing an unusually wide range of typical men and
women. These are not laboriously described by the author, but are made
to reveal themselves in action and speech in a way that has, for the
reader, all the charm of personal intercourse with living people.

Mr. Hume's treatment of the peculiar and exclusive ecclesiastical
society of a small English cathedral city is quite worthy of Anthony
Trollope, and his leading character, Bishop Pendle, is equal to
Trollope's best bishop. The Reverend Mr. Cargrim, the Bishop's poor and
most unworthy protege, is a meaner Uriah Heep. Mrs. Pansey is the
embodiment of all shrewishness, and yields unlimited amusement. The
Gypsies are genuine--such as George Borrow, himself, would have pictured
them--not the ignorant caricatures so frequently drawn by writers too
lazy to study their subject.

Besides these types, there are several which seem to have had no exact
prototypes in preceding fiction. Such are Doctor Graham, "The Man with a
Scar," the Mosk family--father, mother, and daughter--Gabriel Pendle,
Miss Winchello, and, last but not least, Mr. Baltic--a detective so
unique in character and methods as to make Conan Doyle turn green with
envy.

All in all, this story is so rich in the essential elements of worthy
fiction--in characterization, exciting adventure, suggestions of the
marvelous, wit, humor, pathos, and just enough of tragedy--that it is
offered to the American public in all confidence that it will be
generally and heartily welcomed.

THE PUBLISHERS.




CHAPTER I

'ENTER MRS PANSEY AS CHORUS'


Of late years an anonymous mathematician has declared that in the
British Isles the female population is seven times greater than the
male; therefore, in these days is fulfilled the scriptural prophecy that
seven women shall lay hold of one man and entreat to be called by his
name. Miss Daisy Norsham, a veteran Belgravian spinster, decided, after
some disappointing seasons, that this text was particularly applicable
to London. Doubtful, therefore, of securing a husband at the rate of one
chance in seven, or dissatisfied at the prospect of a seventh share in a
man, she resolved upon trying her matrimonial fortunes in the country.
She was plain, this lady, as she was poor; nor could she rightly be said
to be in the first flush of maidenhood. In all matters other than that
of man-catching she was shallow past belief. Still, she did hope, by
dint of some brisk campaigning in the diocese of Beorminster, to capture
a whole man unto herself.

Her first step was to wheedle an invitation out of Mrs Pansey, an
archdeacon's widow--then on a philanthropic visit to town--and she
arrived, towards the end of July, in the pleasant cathedral city of
Beorminster, in time to attend a reception at the bishop's palace. Thus
the autumn manoeuvres of Miss Norsham opened most auspiciously.

Mrs Pansey, with whom this elderly worshipper of Hymen had elected to
stay during her visit, was a gruff woman, with a scowl, who 'looked all
nose and eyebrows.' Few ecclesiastical matrons were so well known in
the diocese of Beorminster as was Mrs Pansey; not many, it must be
confessed, were so ardently hated, for there were few pies indeed in
which this dear lady had not a finger; few keyholes through which her
eye did not peer. Her memory and her tongue, severally and combined, had
ruined half the reputations in the county. In short, she was a renowned
social bully, and like most bullies she gained her ends by scaring the
lives out of meeker and better-bred people than herself. These latter
feared her 'scenes' as she rejoiced in them, and as she knew the pasts
of her friends from their cradle upwards, she usually contrived, by a
pitiless use of her famous memory, to put to rout anyone so ill-advised
as to attempt a stand against her domineering authority. When her tall,
gaunt figure--invariably arrayed in the blackest of black silks--was
sighted in a room, those present either scuttled out of the way or
judiciously held their peace, for everyone knew Mrs Pansey's talent for
twisting the simplest observation into some evil shape calculated to get
its author into trouble. She excelled in this particular method of
making mischief. Possessed of ample means and ample leisure, both of
these helped her materially to build up her reputation of a
philanthropic bully. She literally swooped down upon the poor, taking
one and all in charge to be fed, physicked, worked and guided according
to her own ideas. In return for benefits conferred, she demanded an
unconditional surrender of free will. Nobody was to have an opinion but
Mrs Pansey; nobody knew what was good for them unless their ideas
coincided with those of their patroness--which they never did. Mrs
Pansey had never been a mother, yet, in her own opinion, there was
nothing about children she did not know. She had not studied medicine,
therefore she dubbed the doctors a pack of fools, saying she could cure
where they failed. Be they tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, Mrs
Pansey invariably knew more about their vocations than they themselves
did or were ever likely to do. In short, this celebrated lady--for her
reputation was more than local--was what the American so succinctly
terms a 'she-boss'; and in a less enlightened age she would indubitably
have been ducked in the Beorflete river as a meddlesome, scolding,
clattering jade. Indeed, had anyone been so brave as to ignore the
flight of time and thus suppress her, the righteousness of the act would
most assuredly have remained unquestioned.

Now, as Miss Norsham wanted, for her own purposes, to 'know the ropes,'
she was fortunate to come within the gloom of Mrs Pansey's silken robes.
For Mrs Pansey certainly knew everyone, if she did not know everything,
and whomsoever she chaperoned had to be received by Beorminster society,
whether Beorminster society liked it or not. All _protegees_ of Mrs
Pansey sheltered under the aegis of her terrible reputation, and woe to
the daring person who did not accept them as the most charming, the
cleverest, and in every way the most desirable of their sex. But in the
memory of man, no one had ever sustained battle against Mrs Pansey, and
so this feminine Selkirk remained monarch of all she surveyed, and ruled
over a community consisting mainly of canons, vicars and curates, with
their respective wives and offsprings. There were times when her
subjects made use of language not precisely ecclesiastic, and not
infrequently Mrs Pansey's name was mentally included in the Commination
Service.

Thus it chanced that Daisy, the spinster, found herself in Mrs Pansey's
carriage on her way to the episcopalian reception, extremely well
pleased with herself, her dress, her position, and her social guardian
angel. The elder lady was impressively gloomy in her usual black silk,
fashioned after the early Victorian mode, when elegance invariably gave
place to utility. Her headgear dated back to the later Georgian epoch.
It consisted mainly of a gauze turban twinkling with jet ornaments. Her
bosom was defended by a cuirass of cold-looking steel beads, finished
off at the throat by a gigantic brooch, containing the portrait and hair
of the late archdeacon. Her skirts were lengthy and voluminous, so that
they swept the floor with a creepy rustle like the frou-frou of a
brocaded spectre. She wore black silk mittens, and on either bony wrist
a band of black velvet clasped with a large cameo set hideously in pale
gold. Thus attired--a veritable caricature by Leech--this survival of a
prehistoric age sat rigidly upright and mangled the reputations of all
and sundry.

Miss Norsham, in all but age, was very modern indeed. Her neck was lean;
her arms were thin. She made up for lack of quality by display of
quantity. In her _decollete_ costume she appeared as if composed of
bones and diamonds. The diamonds represented the bulk of Miss Norsham's
wealth, and she used them not only for the adornment of her uncomely
person, but for the deception of any possible suitor into the belief
that she was well dowered. She affected gauzy fabrics and fluttering
baby ribbons, so that her dress was as the fleecy flakes of snow
clinging to a well-preserved ruin.

For the rest she had really beautiful eyes, a somewhat elastic mouth,
and a straight nose well powdered to gloss over its chronic redness. Her
teeth were genuine and she cultivated what society novelists term
silvery peals of laughter. In every way she accentuated or obliterated
nature in her efforts to render herself attractive.

Ichabod was writ large on her powdered brow, and it needed no great
foresight to foresee the speedy approach of acidulated spinsterhood.
But, to do her justice, this regrettable state of single blessedness was
far from being her own fault. If her good fortune had but equalled her
courage and energy she should have relinquished celibacy years ago.

'Oh, dear--dear Mrs Pansey,' said the younger lady, strong in adjectives
and interjections and reduplication of both, 'is the bishop very, very
sweet?'

'He's sweet enough as bishops go,' growled Mrs Pansey, in her deep-toned
voice. 'He might be better, and he might be worse. There is too much
Popish superstition and worship of idols about him for my taste. If the
departed can smell,' added the lady, with an illustrative sniff, 'the
late archdeacon must turn in his grave when those priests of Baal and
Dagon burn incense at the morning service. Still, Bishop Pendle has his
good points, although he _is_ a time-server and a sycophant.'

'Is he one of the Lancashire Pendles, dear Mrs Pansey?'

'A twenty-fifth cousin or thereabouts. He says he is a nearer relation,
but I know much more about it than he does. If you want an ornamental
bishop with good legs for gaiters, and a portly figure for an apron, Dr
Pendle's the man. But as a God-fearing priest' (with a groan), 'a
simple worshipper' (groan) 'and a lowly, repentant sinner' (groan), 'he
leaves much--much to be desired.'

'Oh, Mrs Pansey, the dear bishop a sinner?'

'Why not?' cried Mrs Pansey, ferociously; 'aren't we all miserable
sinners? Dr Pendle's a human worm, just as you are--as I am. You may
dress him in lawn sleeves and a mitre, and make pagan genuflections
before his throne, but he is only a worm for all that.'

'What about his wife?' asked Daisy, to avert further expansion of this
text.

'A poor thing, my dear, with a dilated heart and not as much blood in
her body as would fill a thimble. She ought to be in a hospital, and
would be, too, if I had my way. Lolling all day long on a sofa, and
taking glasses of champagne between doses of iron and extract of beef;
then giving receptions and wearing herself out. How he ever came to
marry the white-faced doll I can't imagine. She was a Mrs Creagth when
she caught him.'

'Oh, really! a widow?'

'Of course, of course. You don't suppose she's a bigamist even though
he's a fool, do you?' and the eyebrows went up and down in the most
alarming manner. 'The bishop--he was a London curate then--married her
some eight-and-twenty years ago, and I daresay he has repented of it
ever since. They have three children--George' (with a whisk of her fan
at the mention of each name), 'who is a good-looking idiot in a line
regiment; Gabriel, a curate as white-faced as his mother, and no doubt
afflicted as she is with heart trouble. He was in Whitechapel, but his
father put him in a curacy here--it was sheer nepotism. Then there is
Lucy; she is the best of the bunch, which is not saying much. They've
engaged her to young Sir Harry Brace, and now they are giving this
reception to celebrate having inveigled him into the match.'

'Engaged?' sighed the fair Daisy, enviously. 'Oh, do tell me if this
girl is really, really pretty.'

'Humph,' said the eyebrows, 'a pale, washed-out rag of a creature--but
what can you expect from such a mother? No brains, no style, no
conversation; always a simpering, weak-eyed rag baby. Oh, my dear, what
fools men are!'

'Ah, you may well say that, dear Mrs Pansey,' assented the spinster,
thinking wrathfully of this unknown girl who had succeeded where she had
failed. 'Is it a very, very good match?'

'Ten thousand a year and a fine estate, my dear. Sir Harry is a nice
young fellow, but a fool. An absentee landlord, too,' grumbled Mrs
Pansey, resentfully. 'Always running over the world poking his nose into
what doesn't concern him, like the Wandering Jew or the _Flying
Dutchman_. Ah, my dear, husbands are not what they used to be. The late
archdeacon never left his fireside while I was there. I knew better than
to let him go to Paris or Pekin, or some of those sinks of iniquity.
Cook and Gaze indeed!' snorted Mrs Pansey, indignantly; 'I would abolish
them by Act of Parliament. They turn men into so many Satans walking to
and fro upon the earth. Oh, the immorality of these latter days! No
wonder the end of all things is predicted.'

Miss Norsham paid little attention to the latter portion of this
diatribe. As Sir Harry Brace was out of the matrimonial market it
conveyed no information likely to be of use to her in the coming
campaign. She wished to be informed as to the number and the names of
eligible men, and forewarned with regard to possible rivals.

'And who is really and truly the most beautiful girl in Beorminster?'
she asked abruptly.

'Mab Arden,' replied Mrs Pansey, promptly. 'There, now,' with an
emphatic blow of her fan, 'she is pretty, if you like, though I daresay
there is more art than nature about her.'

'Who is Mab Arden, dear Mrs Pansey?'

'She is Miss Whichello's niece, that's who she is.'

'Whichello? Oh, good gracious me! what a very, very funny name. Is Miss
Whichello a foreigner?'

'Foreigner? Bah!' cried Mrs Pansey, like a stentorian ram, 'she belongs
to a good old English family, and, in my opinion, she disgraces them
thoroughly. A meddlesome old maid, who wants to foist her niece on to
George Pendle; and she's likely to succeed, too,' added the lady,
rubbing her nose with a vexed air, 'for the young ass is in love with
Mab, although she is three years older than he is. Mr Cargrim also likes
the girl, though I daresay it is money with him.'

'Really! Mr Cargrim?'

'Yes, he is the bishop's chaplain; a Jesuit in disguise I call him, with
his moping and mowing and sneaky ways. Butter wouldn't melt in his
mouth; oh, dear no! I gave my opinion about him pretty plainly to Dr
Graham, I can tell you, and Graham's the only man with brains in this
city of fools.'

'Is Dr Graham young?' asked Miss Norsham, in the faint hope that Mrs
Pansey's list of inhabitants might include a wealthy bachelor.

'Young? He's sixty, if you call that young, and in his second childhood.
An Atheist, too. Tom Payn, Colonel Ingersoll, Viscount Amberly--those
are his gods, the pagan! I'd burn him on a tar-barrel if I had my way.
It's a pity we don't stick to some customs of our ancestors.'

'Oh, dear me, are there no young men at all?'

'Plenty, and all idiots. Brainless officers, whose wives would have to
ride on a baggage-waggon; silly young squires, whose ideal of womanhood
is a brazen barmaid; and simpering curates, put into the Church as the
fools of their respective families. I don't know what men are coming
to,' groaned Mrs Pansey. 'The late archdeacon was clever and pious; he
honoured and obeyed me as the marriage service says a man should do. I
was the light of the dear man's eyes.'

Had Mrs Pansey stated that she had been the terror of the late
archdeacon's life she would have been vastly nearer the truth, but such
a remark never occurred to her. Although she had bullied and badgered
the wretched little man until he had seized the first opportunity of
finding in the grave the peace denied him in life, she really and truly
believed that she had been a model wife. The egotism of first person
singular was so firmly ingrained in the woman that she could not
conceive what a scourge she was to mankind in general; what a trial she
had been to her poor departed husband in particular. If the late
Archdeacon Pansey had not died he would doubtless have become a
missionary to some cannibal tribe in the South Seas in the hope that
his tough helpmate would be converted into 'long-pig.' But, unluckily
for Beorminster, he was dead and his relict was a mourning widow, who
constantly referred to her victim as a perfect husband. And yet Mrs
Pansey considered that Anthony Trollope's celebrated Mrs Proudie was an
overdrawn character.

As to Miss Norsham, she was in the depths of despair, for, if Mrs Pansey
was to be believed, there was no eligible husband for her in
Beorminster. It was with a heavy heart that the spinster entered the
palace, and it was with the courage born of desperation that she perked
up and smiled on the gay crowd she found within.




CHAPTER II

THE BISHOP IS WANTED


The episcopalian residence, situate some distance from the city, was a
mediaeval building, enshrined in the remnant of a royal chase, and in its
perfect quiet and loneliness resembled the palace of the Sleeping
Beauty. Its composite architecture was of many centuries and many
styles, for bishop after bishop had pulled down portions and added
others, had levelled a tower here and erected a wing there, until the
result was a jumble of divers designs, incongruous but picturesque. Time
had mellowed the various parts into one rich coloured whole of perfect
beauty, and elevated on a green rise, surrounded by broad stone
terraces, with towers and oriels and turrets and machicolated
battlements; clothed with ivy, buried amid ancient trees, it looked like
the realisation of a poet's dream. Only long ages and many changing
epochs; only home-loving prelates, ample monies, and architects of
genius, could have created so beautiful and unique a fabric. It was the
admiration of transatlantic tourists with a twang; the desire of
millionaires. Aladdin's industrious genii would have failed to build
such a masterpiece, unless their masters had arranged to inhabit it five
centuries or so after construction. Time had created it, as Time would
destroy it, but at present it was in perfect preservation, and figured
in steel-plate engravings as one of the stately homes of England. No
wonder the mitre of Beorminster was a coveted prize, when its gainer
could dwell in so noble and matchless a mansion.

As the present prelate was an up-to-date bishop, abreast of his time and
fond of his creature comforts, the interior of the palace was modernised
completely in accordance with the luxurious demands of nineteenth
century civilisation. The stately reception-rooms--thrown open on this
night to what the _Beorminster Weekly Chronicle_, strong in foreign
tongues, tautologically called 'the _elite_ and _creme de la creme_ of
the diocese'--were brilliantly illuminated by electric lamps and
furnished magnificently throughout, in keeping with their palatial
appearance. The ceilings were painted in the Italian style, with
decently-clothed Olympian deities; the floors were of parquetry,
polished so highly, and reflecting so truthfully, that the guests seemed
to be walking, in some magical way, upon still water. Noble windows,
extending from floor to roof, were draped with purple curtains, and
stood open to the quiet moonlit world without; between these, tall
mirrors flashed back gems and colours, moving figures and floods of
amber radiance, and enhanced by reduplicated reflections the size of the
rooms. Amid all this splendour of warmth and tints and light moved the
numerous guests of the bishop. Almost every invitation had been
accepted, for the receptions at the palace were on a large and liberal
scale, particularly as regards eating and drinking. Dr Pendle, in
addition to his official salary, possessed a handsome income, and spent
it in the lavish style of a Cardinal Wolsey. He was wise enough to know
how the outward and visible signs of prosperity and dignity affect the
popular imagination, and frequently invited the clergy and laity to
feast at the table of Mother Church, to show that she could dispense
loaves and fishes with the best, and vie with Court and Society in the
splendour and hospitality of her entertainments. As he approved of an
imposing ritual at the cathedral, so he affected a magnificent way of
living at the palace. Mrs Pansey and many others declared that Dr
Pendle's aims in that direction were Romish. Perhaps they were, but he
could scarcely have followed a better example, since the Church of Peter
owes much of its power to a judicious employment of riches and ritual,
and a dexterous gratification of the lust of the eye. The Anglican
Church is more dignified now than she was in the days of the Georges,
and very rightly, too, since God's ministers should not be the poorest
or meanest of men.

Naturally, as the host was clerical and the building ecclesiastical, the
clergy predominated at this entertainment. The bishop and the dean were
the only prelates of their rank present, but there were archdeacons,
and canons and rectors, and a plentiful supply of curates, all, in their
own opinion, bishops in embryo. The shape and expression of the many
faces were various--ascetic, worldly, pale, red, round, thin, fat, oval;
each one revealed the character of its owner. Some lean, bent forms were
those of men filled with the fire of religion for its own sake; others,
stout, jolly gentlemen in comfortable livings, loved the loaves and
fishes of the Church as much as her precepts. The descendants of Friar
Tuck and the Vicar of Bray were here, as well as those who would have
been Wycliffes and Latimers had the fires of Smithfield still been
alight. Obsequious curates bowed down to pompous prebendaries; bluff
rectors chatted on cordial terms with suave archdeacons; and in the fold
of the Church there were no black sheep on this great occasion. The
shepherds and pastors of the Beorminster flock were polite,
entertaining, amusing, and not too masterful, so that the general air
was quite arcadian.

The laity also formed a strong force. There were lords magnificently
condescending to commoners; M.P.s who talked politics, and M.P.s who had
had enough of that sort of thing at St Stephen's and didn't; hearty
squires from adjacent county seats; prim bankers, with whom the said
squires were anxious to be on good terms, since they were the priests of
Mammon; officers from near garrison towns, gay and lighthearted, who
devoted themselves to the fairer portion of the company; and a
sprinkling of barristers, literary men, hardy explorers, and such like
minnows among Tritons. Last, but not least, the Mayor of Beorminster was
present and posed as a modern Whittington--half commercial wealth, half
municipal dignity. If some envious Anarchist had exploded a dynamite
bomb in the vicinity of the palace on that night, the greatest, the most
intellectual, the richest people of the county would have come to an
untimely end, and then the realm of England, like the people themselves,
would have gone to pieces. The _Beorminster Chronicle_ reporter--also
present with a flimsy book and a restless little pencil--worked up this
idea on the spot into a glowing paragraph.

Very ungallantly the ladies have been left to the last; but now the last
shall be first, although it is difficult to do the subject justice. The
matrons of surrounding parishes, the ladies of Beorminster society, the
damsels of town and country, were all present in their best attire,
chattering and smiling, and becking and bowing, after the observant and
diplomatic ways of their sex. Such white shoulders! such pretty faces!
such Parisian toilettes! such dresses of obviously home manufacture
never were seen in one company. The married ladies whispered scandal
behind their fans, and in a Christian spirit shot out the lip of scorn
at their social enemies; the young maidens sought for marriageable men,
and lurked in darkish corners for the better ensnaring of impressionable
males. Cupid unseen mingled in the throng and shot his arrows right and
left, not always with the best result, as many post-nuptial experiences
showed. There was talk of the gentle art of needlework, of the latest
bazaar and the agreeable address delivered thereat by Mr Cargrim; the
epicene pastime of lawn tennis was touched upon; and ardent young
persons discussed how near they could go to Giant Pope's cave without
getting into the clutches of its occupant. The young men talked golfing,
parish work, horses, church, male millinery, polo and shooting; the
young ladies chatted about Paris fashions and provincial adaptations
thereof, the London season, the latest engagement, and the necessity of
reviving the flirtatious game of croquet. Black coats, coloured dresses,
flashing jewels, many-hued flowers,--the restless crowd resembled a bed
of gaudy tulips tossed by the wind. And all this chattering, laughing,
clattering, glittering mass of well-bred, well-groomed humanity moved,
and swayed, and gyrated under the white glare of the electric lamps.
Urbs in Rus; Belgravia in the Provinces; Vanity Fair amid the
cornfields; no wonder this entertainment of Bishop and Mrs Pendle was
the event of the Beorminster year.

Like an agreeable Jupiter amid adoring mortals, the bishop, with his
chaplain in attendance, moved through the rooms, bestowing a word here,
a smile there, and a hearty welcome on all. A fine-looking man was the
Bishop of Beorminster; as stately in appearance as any prelate drawn by
Du Maurier. He was over six feet, and carried himself in a soldierly
fashion, as became a leader of the Church Militant. His legs were all
that could be desired to fill out episcopalian gaiters; and his bland,
clean-shaven face beamed with smiles and benignity. But Bishop Pendle
was not the mere figure-head Mrs Pansey's malice declared him to be; he
had great administrative powers, great organising capabilities, and
controlled his diocese in a way which did equal credit to his heart and
head. As he chatted with his guests and did the honours of the palace,
he seemed to be the happiest of men, and well worthy of his exalted
post. With a splendid position, a charming wife, a fine family, an
obedient flock of clergy and laity, the bishop's lines were cast in
pleasant places. There was not even the proverbial crumpled rose-leaf to
render uncomfortable the bed he had made for himself. He was like an
ecclesiastical Jacob--blessed above all men.

'Well, bishop!' said Dr Graham, a meagre sceptic, who did not believe in
the endurance of human felicity, 'I congratulate you.'

'On my daughter's engagement?' asked the prelate, smiling pleasantly.

'On everything. Your position, your family, your health, your easy
conscience; all is too smooth, too well with you. It can't last, your
lordship, it can't last,' and the doctor shook his bald head, as no
doubt Solon did at Croesus when he snubbed that too fortunate monarch.

'I am indeed blessed in the condition of life to which God has been
pleased to call me.'

'No doubt! No doubt! But remember Polycrates, bishop, and throw your
ring into the sea.'

'My dear Dr Graham,' said the bishop, rather stiffly, 'I do not believe
in such paganism. God has blessed me beyond my deserts, no doubt, and I
thank Him in all reverence for His kindly care.'

'Hum! Hum!' muttered Graham, shaking his head. 'When men thank fortune
for her gifts she usually turns her back on them.'

'I am no believer in such superstitions, doctor.'

'Well, well, bishop, you have tempted the gods, let us see what they
will do.'

'Gods or God, doctor?' demanded the bishop, with magnificent
displeasure.

'Whichever you like, my lord; whichever you like.'

The bishop was nettled and rather chilled by this pessimism. He felt
that it was his duty as a Churchman to administer a rebuke; but Dr
Graham's pagan views were well known, and a correction, however
dexterously administered, would only lead to an argument. A controversy
with Graham was no joke, as he was as subtle as Socrates in discovering
and attacking his adversary's weak points; so, not judging the present a
fitting occasion to risk a fall, the bishop smoothed away an incipient
frown, and blandly smiling, moved on, followed by his chaplain. Graham
looked grimly after this modern Cardinal Wolsey.

'I have never,' soliloquised the sceptic, 'I have never known a man
without his skeleton. I wonder if you have one, my lord. You look
cheerful, you seem thoroughly happy; but you are too fortunate. If you
have not a skeleton now, I feel convinced you will have to build a
cupboard for one shortly. You thank blind fortune under the alias of
God? Well! well! we shall see the result of your thanks. Wolsey!
Napoleon! Bismarck! they all fell when most prosperous. Hum! hum! hum!'

Dr Graham had no reason to make this speech, beyond his belief--founded
upon experience--that calms are always succeeded by storms. At present
the bishop stood under a serene sky; and in no quarter could Graham
descry the gathering of the tempest he prophesied. But for all that he
had a premonition that evil days were at hand; and, sceptic as he was,
he could not shake off the uneasy feeling. His mother had been a
Highland woman, and the Celt is said to be gifted with second sight.
Perhaps Graham inherited the maternal gift of forecasting the future,
for he glanced ominously at the stately form of his host, and shook his
head. He thought the bishop was too confident of continuous sunshine.

In the meantime, Dr Pendle, quite free from such forebodings,
unfortunately came within speaking distance of Mrs Pansey, who, in her
bell of St Paul's voice, was talking to a group of meek listeners. Daisy
Norsham had long ago seized upon Gabriel Pendle, and was chatting with
him on the edge of the circle, quite heedless of her chaperon's
monologue. When Mrs Pansey saw the bishop she swooped down on him
before he could get out of the way, which he would have done had
courtesy permitted it. Mrs Pansey was the one person Dr Pendle dreaded,
and if the late archdeacon had been alive he would have encouraged the
missionary project with all his heart. 'To every man his own fear.' Mrs
Pansey was the bishop's.

'Bishop!' cried the lady, in her most impressive archidiaconal manner,
'about that public-house, The Derby Winner, it must be removed.'

Cargrim, who was deferentially smiling at his lordship's elbow, cast a
swift glance at Gabriel when he heard Mrs Pansey's remark. He had a
belief--founded upon spying--that Gabriel knew too much about the
public-house mentioned, which was in his district; and this belief was
strengthened when he saw the young man start at the sound of the name.
Instinctively he kept his eyes on Gabriel's face, which looked disturbed
and anxious; too much so for social requirements.

'It must be removed,' repeated the bishop, gently; 'and why, Mrs
Pansey?'

'Why, bishop? You ask why? Because it is a hot-bed of vice and betting
and gambling; that's why!'

'But I really cannot see--I have not the power--'

'It's near the cathedral, too,' interrupted Mrs Pansey, whose manners
left much to be desired. 'Scandalous!'

  'When God erects a house of prayer,
  The devil builds a chapel there.

'Isn't it your duty to eradicate plague-spots, bishop?'

Before Dr Pendle could answer this rude question, a servant approached
and spoke in a whisper to his master. The bishop looked surprised.

'A man to see me at this hour--at this time,' said he, repeating the
message aloud. 'Who is he? What is his name?'

'I don't know, your lordship. He refused to give his name, but he
insists upon seeing your lordship at once.'

'I can't see him!' said the bishop, sharply; 'let him call to-morrow.'

'My lord, he says it is a matter of life and death.'

Dr Pendle frowned. 'Most unbecoming language!' he murmured. 'Perhaps it
may be as well to humour him. Where is he?'

'In the entrance hall, your lordship!'

'Take him into the library and say I will see him shortly. Most
unusual,' said the bishop to himself. Then added aloud, 'Mrs Pansey, I
am called away for a moment; pray excuse me.'

'We must talk about The Derby Winner later on,' said Mrs Pansey,
determinedly.

'Oh, yes!--that is--really--I'll see.'

'Shall I accompany your lordship?' murmured Cargrim, officiously.

'No, Mr Cargrim, it is not necessary. I must see this man as he speaks
so strongly, but I daresay he is only some pertinacious person who
thinks that a bishop should be at the complete disposal of the
public--the exacting public!'

With this somewhat petulant speech Dr Pendle walked away, not sorry to
find an opportunity of slipping out of a noisy argument with Mrs Pansey.
That lady's parting words were that she should expect him back in ten
minutes to settle the question of The Derby Winner; or rather to hear
how she intended to settle it. Cargrim, pleased at being left behind,
since it gave him a chance of watching Gabriel, urged Mrs Pansey to
further discussion of the question, and had the satisfaction of seeing
that such discussion visibly disconcerted the curate.

And Dr Pendle? In all innocence he left the reception-rooms to speak
with his untoward visitor in the library; but although he knew it not,
he was entering upon a dark and tortuous path, the end of which he was
not destined to see for many a long day. Dr Graham's premonition was
likely to prove true, for in the serene sky under which the bishop had
moved for so long, a tempest was gathering fast. He should have taken
the doctor's advice and have sacrificed his ring like Polycrates, but,
as in the case of that old pagan, the gods might have tossed back the
gift and pursued their relentless aims. The bishop had no thoughts like
these. As yet he had no skeleton, but the man in the library was about
to open a cupboard and let out its grisly tenant to haunt prosperous
Bishop Pendle. To him, as to all men, evil had come at the appointed
hour.




CHAPTER III

THE UNFORESEEN HAPPENS


'I fear,' said Cargrim, with a gentle sigh, 'I fear you are right about
that public-house, Mrs Pansey.'

The chaplain made this remark to renew the discussion, and if possible
bring Gabriel into verbal conflict with the lady. He had a great idea of
managing people by getting them under his thumb, and so far quite
deserved Mrs Pansey's epithet of a Jesuit. Of late--as Cargrim knew by a
steady use of his pale blue eyes--the curate had been visiting The Derby
Winner, ostensibly on parochial business connected with the ill-health
of Mrs Mosk, the landlord's wife. But there was a handsome daughter of
the invalid who acted as barmaid, and Gabriel was a young and
inflammable man; so, putting this and that together, the chaplain
thought he discovered the germs of a scandal. Hence his interest in Mrs
Pansey's proposed reforms.

'Right!' echoed the archidiaconal widow, loudly, 'of course I am right.
The Derby Winner is a nest of hawks. William Mosk would have disgraced
heathen Rome in its worst days; as for his daughter--well!' Mrs Pansey
threw a world of horror into the ejaculation.

'Miss Mosk is a well-conducted young lady,' said Gabriel, growing red
and injudicious.

'Lady!' bellowed Mrs Pansey, shaking her fan; 'and since when have
brazen, painted barmaids become ladies, Mr Pendle?'

'She is most attentive to her sick mother,' protested the curate,
wincing.

'No doubt, sir. I presume even Jezebel had some redeeming qualities.
Rubbish! humbug! don't tell me! Can good come out of Nazareth?'

'Good did come out of Nazareth, Mrs Pansey.'

'That is enough, Mr Pendle; do not pollute young ears with blasphemy.
And you the son of a bishop--the curate of a parish! Remember what is to
be the portion of mockers, sir. What happened to the men who threw
stones at David?'

'Oh, but really, dear Mrs Pansey, you know Mr Pendle is not throwing
stones.'

'People who live in glass houses dare not, my dear. I doubt your
interest in this young person, Mr Pendle. She is one who tires her head
and paints her face, lying in wait for comely youths that she may
destroy them. She--'

'Excuse me, Mrs Pansey!' cried Gabriel, with an angry look, 'you speak
too freely and too ignorantly. The Derby Winner is a well-conducted
house, for Mrs Mosk looks after it personally, and her daughter is an
excellent young woman. I do not defend the father, but I hope to bring
him to a sense of his errors in time. There is a charity which thinketh
no evil, Mrs Pansey,' and with great heat Gabriel, forgetting his
manners, walked off without taking leave of either the lady or Miss
Norsham. Mrs Pansey tossed her turban and snorted, but seeing very
plainly that she had gone too far, held for once her virulent tongue.
Cargrim rubbed his hands and laughed softly.

'Our young friend talks warmly, Mrs Pansey. The natural chivalry of
youth, my dear lady--nothing more.'

'I'll make it my business to assure myself that it _is_ nothing more,'
said Mrs Pansey, in low tones. 'I fear very much that the misguided
young man has fallen into the lures of this daughter of Heth. Do you
know anything about her, Mr Cargrim?'

Too wise to commit himself to speech, the chaplain cast up his pale eyes
and looked volumes. This was quite enough for Mrs Pansey; she scented
evil like a social vulture, and taking Cargrim's arm dragged him away to
find out all the bad she could about The Derby Winner and its too
attractive barmaid.

Left to herself, Miss Norsham seized upon Dean Alder, to whom she had
been lately introduced, and played with the artillery of her eyes on
that unattractive churchman. Mr Dean was old and wizen, but he was
unmarried and rich, so Miss Norsham thought it might be worth her while
to play Vivien to this clerical Merlin. His weak point,--speedily
discovered,--was archaeology, and she was soon listening to a dry
description of his researches into Beorminster municipal chronicles. But
it was desperately hard work to fix her attention.

'Beorminster,' explained the pedantic dean, not unmoved by his
listener's artificial charms, 'is derived from two Anglo-Saxon
words--Beorh a hill, and mynster the church of a monastery. Anciently,
our city was called Beorhmynster, "the church of the hill," for, as you
can see, my dear young lady, our cathedral is built on the top of a
considerable rise, and thence gained its name. The townsfolk were
formerly vassals, and even serfs, of the monastery which was destroyed
by Henry VIII.; but the Reformation brought about by that king put an
end to the abbot's power. The head of the Beorhmynster monastery was a
mitred abbot--'

'And Bishop Pendle is a mitred bishop,' interposed the fair Daisy, to
show the quickness of her understanding, and thereby displaying her
ignorance.

'All bishops are mitred,' said Dr Alder, testily; 'a crozier and a mitre
are the symbols of their high office. But the Romish abbots of
Beorhmynster were not bishops although they were mitred prelates.'

'Oh, how very, very amusing,' cried Daisy, suppressing a yawn. 'And the
name of the river, dear Mr Dean? Does Beorflete mean the church of the
hill too?'

'Certainly not, Miss Norsham. "Flete," formerly "fleot," is a
Scandinavian word and signifies "a flood," "a stream," "a channel."
Beorhfleot, or--as we now erroneously call it--Beorflete, means, in the
vulgar tongue, the flood or stream of the hill. Even in Normandy the
word fleot has been corrupted, for the town now called Harfleur was
formerly correctly designated "Havoflete." But I am afraid you find this
information dull, Miss Norsham!'

This last remark was occasioned by Daisy yawning. It is true that she
held a fan, and had politely hidden her mouth when yawning;
unfortunately, the fan was of transparent material, and Daisy quite
forgot that Mr Dean could see the yawn, which he certainly did. In some
confusion she extricated herself from an awkward situation by
protesting that she was not tired but hungry, and suggested that Dr
Alder should continue his instructive conversation at supper. Mollified
by this dexterous evasion, which he saw no reason to disbelieve, the
dean politely escorted his companion to the regions of champagne and
chicken, both of which aided the lady to sustain further doses of
dry-as-dust facts dug out of a monastic past by the persevering Dr
Alder. It was in this artful fashion that the town mouse strove to
ensnare the church mouse, and succeeded so well that when Mr Dean went
home to his lonely house he concluded that it was just as well the
monastic institution of celibacy had been abolished.

On leaving Mrs Pansey in disgust, Gabriel proceeded with considerable
heat into the next room, where his mother held her court as hostess. Mrs
Pendle was a pale, slight, small-framed woman with golden hair, languid
eyes, and a languid manner. Owing to her delicate health she could not
stand for any length of time, and therefore occupied a large and
comfortable arm-chair. Her daughter Lucy, who resembled her closely in
looks, but who had more colour in her face, stood near at hand talking
to her lover. Both ladies were dressed in white silk, with few
ornaments, and looked more like sisters than mother and daughter.
Certainly Mrs Pendle appeared surprisingly young to be the parent of a
grown-up family, but her continuance of youth was not due to art, as Mrs
Pansey averred, but to the quiet and undisturbed life which her frail
health compelled her to lead. The bishop was tenderly attached to her,
and even at this late stage of their married life behaved towards her
more like a lover than a husband. He warded off all worries and troubles
from her; he surrounded her with pleasant people, and made her life
luxurious and peaceful by every means obtainable in the way of money and
influence. It was no wonder that Mrs Pendle, treading the Primrose Path
with a devoted and congenial companion, appeared still young. She looked
as fair and fragile as a peri, and as free from mortal cares.

'Is that you, Gabriel?' she said in a low, soft voice, smiling gently on
her younger and favourite son. 'You look disturbed, my dear boy!'

'Mrs Pansey!' said Gabriel, and considering that the name furnished all
necessary information, sat down near his mother and took one of her
delicate hands in his own to smooth and fondle.

'Oh, indeed! Mrs Pansey!' echoed the bishop's wife, smiling still more;
and with a slight shrug cast an amused look at Lucy, who in her turn
caught Sir Harry's merry eyes and laughed outright.

'Old catamaran!' said Brace, loudly.

'Oh, Harry! Hush!' interposed Lucy, with an anxious glance, 'You
shouldn't.'

'Why not? But for the present company I would say something much
stronger.'

'I wish you would,' said Gabriel, easing his stiff collar with one
finger; 'my cloth forbids me to abuse Mrs Pansey properly.'

'What has she been doing now, Gabriel?'

'Ordering the bishop to have The Derby Winner removed, mother.'

'The Derby Winner,' repeated Mrs Pendle, in puzzled tones; 'is that a
horse?'

'A public-house, mother; it is in my district, and I have been lately
visiting the wife of the landlord, who is very ill. Mrs Pansey wants the
house closed and the woman turned out into the streets, so far as I can
make out!'

'The Derby Winner is my property,' said Sir Harry, bluffly, 'and it
sha'n't be shut up for a dozen Mrs Panseys.'

'Think of a dozen Mrs Panseys,' murmured Lucy, pensively.

'Think of Bedlam and Pandemonium, my dear! Thank goodness Mrs Pansey is
the sole specimen of her kind. Nature broke the mould when that clacking
nuisance was turned out. She--'

'Harry! you really must not speak so loud. Mrs Pansey might hear. Come
with me, dear. I must look after our guests, for I am sure mother is
tired.'

'I _am_ tired,' assented Mrs Pendle, with a faint sigh. 'Thank you,
Lucy, I willingly make you my representative. Gabriel will stay beside
me.'

'Here is Miss Tancred,' observed Harry Brace, in an undertone.

'Oh, she must not come near mother,' whispered Lucy, in alarm. 'Take her
to the supper-room, Harry.'

'But she'll tell me the story of how she lost her purse at the Army and
Navy Stores, Lucy.'

'You can bear hearing it better than mother can. Besides, she'll not
finish it; she never does.'

Sir Harry groaned, but like an obedient lover intercepted a withered old
dame who was the greatest bore in the town. She usually told a
digressive story about a lost purse, but hitherto had never succeeded in
getting to the point, if there was one. Accepting the suggestion of
supper with alacrity, she drifted away on Sir Harry's arm, and no doubt
mentioned the famous purse before he managed to fill her mouth and stop
her prosing.

Lucy, who had a quiet humour of her own in spite of her demure looks,
laughed at the dejection and martyrdom of Sir Harry; and taking the
eagerly-proffered arm of a callow lieutenant, ostentatiously and
hopelessly in love with her, went away to play her part of deputy
hostess. She moved from group to group, and everywhere received smiles
and congratulations, for she was a general favourite, and, with the
exception of Mrs Pansey, everyone approved of her engagement. Behind a
floral screen a band of musicians, who called themselves the Yellow
Hungarians, and individually possessed the most unpronounceable names,
played the last waltz, a smooth, swinging melody which made the younger
guests long for a dance. In fact, the callow lieutenant boldly suggested
that a waltz should be attempted, with himself and Lucy to set the
example; but his companion snubbed him unmercifully for his boldness,
and afterwards restored his spirits by taking him to the supper-room.
Here they found Miss Tancred in the full flow of her purse story; so
Lucy, having pity on her lover, bestowed her escort on the old lady as a
listener, and enjoyed supper at an isolated table with Sir Harry. The
sucking Wellington could have murdered Brace with pleasure, and very
nearly did murder Miss Tancred, for he plied her so constantly with
delicacies that she got indigestion, and was thereby unable to finish
about the purse.

Gabriel and his mother were not long left alone, for shortly there
approached a brisk old lady, daintily dressed, who looked like a fairy
godmother. She had a keen face, bright eyes like those of a squirrel,
and in gesture and walk and glance was as restless as that animal. This
piece of alacrity was Miss Whichello, who was the aunt of Mab Arden, the
beloved of George Pendle. Mab was with her, and, gracious and tall,
looked as majestic as any queen, as she paced in her stately manner by
the old lady's side. Her beauty was that of Juno, for she was imperial
and a trifle haughty in her manner. With dark hair, dark eyes, and dark
complexion, she looked like an Oriental princess, quite different in
appearance to her apple-cheeked, silvery-haired aunt. There was
something Jewish about her rich, eastern beauty, and she might have been
painted in her yellow dress as Esther or Rebecca, or even as Jael who
slew Sisera on the going down of the sun.

'Well, good folks,' said the brisk little lady in a brisk little voice,
'and how are you both? Tired, Mrs Pendle? Of course, what else can you
expect with late hours and your delicacies. I don't believe in these
social gatherings.'

'Your presence here contradicts that assertion,' said Gabriel, giving up
his chair.

'Oh, I am a martyr to duty. I came because Mab must be amused!'

'I only hope she is not disappointed,' said Mrs Pendle, kindly, for she
knew how things were between her eldest son and the girl. 'I am sorry
George is not here, my dear.'

'I did not expect him to be,' replied Mab, in her grave, contralto
voice, and with a blush; 'he told me that he would not be able to get
leave from his colonel.'

'Ha! his colonel knows what is good for young men,' cried Miss
Whichello; 'work and diet both in moderate quantities. My dear Mrs
Pendle, if you only saw those people in the supper-room!--simply digging
their graves with their teeth. I pity the majority of them to-morrow
morning.'

'Have you had supper, Miss Whichello?' asked Gabriel.

'Oh, yes! a biscuit and a glass of weak whisky and water; quite enough,
too. Mab here has been drinking champagne recklessly.'

'Only half a glass, aunt; don't take away my character!'

'My dear, if you take half a glass, you may as well finish the bottle
for the harm it does you. Champagne is poison; much or little, it is
rank poison.'

'Come away, Miss Arden, and let us poison ourselves,' suggested the
curate.

'It wouldn't do you any harm, Mrs Pendle,' cried the little old lady.
'You are too pale, and champagne, in your case, would pick you up. Iron
and slight stimulants are what _you_ need. I am afraid you are not
careful what you eat.'

'I am not a dietitian, Miss Whichello.'

'I am, my dear ma'am; and look at me--sixty-two, and as brisk as a bee.
I don't know the meaning of the word illness. In a good hour be it
spoken,' added Miss Whichello, thinking she was tempting the gods. 'By
the way, what is this about his lordship being ill?'

'The bishop ill!' faltered Mrs Pendle, half rising. 'He was perfectly
well when I saw him last. Oh, dear me, what is this?'

'He's ill now, in the library, at all events.'

'Wait, mother,' said Gabriel, hastily. 'I will see my father. Don't
rise; don't worry yourself; pray be calm.'

Gabriel walked quickly to the library, rather astonished to hear that
his father was indisposed, for the bishop had never had a day's illness
in his life. He saw by the demeanour of the guests that the
indisposition of their host was known, for already an uneasy feeling
prevailed, and several people were departing. The door of the library
was closed and locked. Cargrim was standing sentinel beside it,
evidently irate at being excluded.

'You can't go in, Pendle,' said the chaplain, quickly. 'Dr Graham is
with his lordship.'

'Is this sudden illness serious?'

'I don't know. His lordship refuses to see anyone but the doctor. He
won't even admit me,' said Cargrim, in an injured tone.

'What has caused it?' asked Gabriel, in dismay.

'I don't know!' replied Cargrim, a second time. 'His lordship saw some
stranger who departed ten minutes ago. Then he sent for Dr Graham! I
presume this stranger is responsible for the bishop's illness.'




CHAPTER IV

THE CURIOSITY OF MR CARGRIM


Like that famous banquet, when Macbeth entertained unawares the ghost of
gracious Duncan, the bishop's reception broke up in the most admired
disorder. It was not Dr Pendle's wish that the entertainment should be
cut short on his account, but the rumour--magnified greatly--of his
sudden illness so dispirited his guests that they made haste to depart;
and within an hour the palace was emptied of all save its usual
inhabitants. Dr Graham in attendance on the bishop was the only stranger
who remained, for Lucy sent away even Sir Harry, although he begged hard
to stay in the hope of making himself useful. And the most unpleasant
part of the whole incident was, that no one seemed to know the reason of
Bishop Pendle's unexpected indisposition.

'He was quite well when I saw him last,' repeated poor Mrs Pendle over
and over again. 'And I never knew him to be ill before. What does it all
mean?'

'Perhaps papa's visitor brought him bad news,' suggested Lucy, who was
hovering round her mother with smelling-salts and a fan.

Mrs Pendle shook her head in much distress. 'Your father has no secrets
from me,' she said decisively, 'and, from all I know, it is impossible
that any news can have upset him so much.'

'Dr Graham may be able to explain,' said Gabriel.

'I don't want Dr Graham's explanation,' whimpered Mrs Pendle, tearfully.
'I dislike of all things to hear from a stranger what should be told to
myself. As your father's wife, he has no right to shut me out of his
confidence--and the library,' finished Mrs Pendle, with an aggrieved
afterthought.

Certainly the bishop's conduct was very strange, and would have upset
even a less nervous woman than Mrs Pendle. Neither of her children could
comfort her in any way, for, ignorant themselves of what had occurred,
they could make no suggestions. Fortunately, at this moment, Dr Graham,
with a reassuring smile on his face, made his appearance, and proceeded
to set their minds at ease.

'Tut! tut! my dear lady!' he said briskly, advancing on Mrs Pendle,
'what is all this?'

'The bishop--'

'The bishop is suffering from a slight indisposition brought on by too
much exertion in entertaining. He will be all right to-morrow.'

'This visitor has had nothing to do with papa's illness, then?'

'No, Miss Lucy. The visitor was only a decayed clergyman in search of
help.'

'Cannot I see my husband?' was the anxious question of the bishop's
wife.

Graham shrugged his shoulders, and looked doubtfully at the poor lady.
'Better not, Mrs Pendle,' he said judiciously. 'I have given him a
soothing draught, and now he is about to lie down. There is no occasion
for you to worry in the least. To-morrow morning you will be laughing
over this needless alarm. I suggest that you should go to bed and take a
stiff dose of valerian to sooth those shaky nerves of yours. Miss Lucy
will see to that.'

'I should like to see the bishop,' persisted Mrs Pendle, whose instinct
told her that the doctor was deceiving her.

'Well! well!' said he, good-humouredly, 'a wilful woman will have her
own way. I know you won't sleep a wink unless your mind is set at rest,
so you _shall_ see the bishop. Take my arm, please.'

'I can walk by myself, thank you!' replied Mrs Pendle, testily; and
nerved to unusual exertion by anxiety, she walked towards the library,
followed by the bishop's family and his chaplain, which latter watched
this scene with close attention.

'She'll collapse after this,' said Dr Graham, in an undertone to Lucy;
'you'll have a wakeful night, I fear.'

'I don't mind that, doctor, so long as there is no real cause for
alarm.'

'I give you my word of honour, Miss Lucy, that this is a case of much
ado about nothing.'

'Let us hope that such is the case,' said Cargrim, the Jesuit, in his
softest tones, whereupon Graham looked at him with a pronounced
expression of dislike.

'As a man, I don't tell lies; as a doctor, I never make false reports,'
said he, coldly; 'there is no need for your pious hopes, Mr Cargrim.'

The bishop was seated at his desk scribbling idly on his blotting-pad,
and rose to his feet with a look of alarm when his wife and family
entered. His usually ruddy colour had disappeared, and he was
white-faced and haggard in appearance; looking like a man who had
received a severe shock, and who had not yet recovered from it. On
seeing his wife, he smiled reassuringly, but with an obvious effort, and
hastened to conduct her to the chair he had vacated.

'Now, my dear,' he said, when she was seated, 'this will never do.'

'I am so anxious, George!'

'There is no need to be anxious,' retorted the bishop, in reproving
tones. 'I have been doing too much work of late, and unexpectedly I was
seized with a faintness. Graham's medicine and a night's rest will
restore me to my usual strength.'

'It's not your heart, I trust, George?'

'His heart!' jested the doctor. 'His lordship's heart is as sound as his
digestion.'

'We thought you might have been upset by bad news, papa.'

'I have had no bad news, Lucy. I am only a trifle overcome by late hours
and fatigue. Take your mother to bed; and you, my dear,' added the
bishop, kissing his wife, 'don't worry yourself unnecessarily.
Good-night, and good sleep.'

'Some valerian for your nerves, bishop--'

'I have taken something for my nerves, Amy. Rest is all I need just
now.'

Thus reassured, Mrs Pendle submitted to be led from the library by Lucy.
She was followed by Gabriel, who was now quite easy in his mind about
his father. Cargrim and Graham remained, but the bishop, taking no
notice of their presence, looked at the door through which his wife and
children had vanished, and uttered a sound something between a sigh and
a groan.

Dr Graham looked anxiously at him, and the look was intercepted by
Cargrim, who at once made up his mind that there was something seriously
wrong, which both Graham and the bishop desired to conceal. The doctor
noted the curious expression in the chaplain's eyes, and with bluff
good-humour--which was assumed, as he disliked the man--proceeded to
turn him out of the library. Cargrim--bent on discovering the
truth--protested, in his usual cat-like way, against this sudden
dismissal.

'I should be happy to sit up all night with his lordship,' he declared.

'Sit up with your grandmother!' cried Graham, gruffly. 'Go to bed, sir,
and don't make mountains out of mole-hills.'

'Good-night, my lord,' said Cargrim, softly. 'I trust you will find
yourself fully restored in the morning.'

'Thank you, Mr Cargrim; good-night!'

When the chaplain sidled out of the room, Dr Graham rubbed his hands and
turned briskly towards his patient, who was standing as still as any
stone, staring in a hypnotised sort of way at the reading lamp on the
desk.

'Come, my lord,' said he, touching the bishop on the shoulder, 'you must
take your composing draught and get to bed. You'll be all right in the
morning.'

'I trust so!' replied Pendle, with a groan.

'Of course, bishop, if you won't tell me what is the matter with you, I
can't cure you.'

'I am upset, doctor, that is all.'

'You have had a severe nervous shock,' said Graham, sharply, 'and it
will take some time for you to recover from it. This visitor brought you
bad news, I suppose?'

'No!' said the bishop, wincing, 'he did not.'

'Well! well! keep your own secrets. I can do no more, so I'll say
good-night,' and he held out his hand.

Dr Pendle took it and retained it within his own for a moment. 'Your
allusion to the ring of Polycrates, Graham!'

'What of it?'

'I should throw my ring into the sea also. That is all.'

'Ha! ha! You'll have to travel a considerable distance to reach the sea,
bishop. Good-night; good-night,' and Graham, smiling in his dry way,
took himself out of the room. As he glanced back at the door he saw that
the bishop was again staring dully at the reading lamp. Graham shook his
head at the sight, and closed the door.

'It is mind, not matter,' he thought, as he put on hat and coat in the
hall; 'the cupboard's open and the skeleton is out. My premonition was
true--true. AEsculapius forgive me that I should be so superstitious. The
bishop has had a shock. What is it? what is it? That visitor brought bad
news! Hum! Hum! Better to throw physic to the dogs in his case. Mind
diseased: secret trouble: my punishment is greater than I can bear. Put
this and that together; there is something serious the matter. Well!
well! I'm no Paul Pry.'

'Is his lordship better?' said the soft voice of Cargrim at his elbow.

Graham wheeled round. 'Much better; good-night,' he replied curtly, and
was off in a moment.

Michael Cargrim, the chaplain, was a dangerous man. He was thin and
pale, with light blue eyes and sleek fair hair; and as weak physically
as he was strong mentally. In his neat clerical garb, with a slight
stoop and meek smile, he looked a harmless, commonplace young curate of
the tabby cat kind. No one could be more tactful and ingratiating than
Mr Cargrim, and he was greatly admired by the old ladies and young girls
of Beorminster; but the men, one and all--even his clerical
brethren--disliked and distrusted him, although there was no apparent
reason for their doing so. Perhaps his too deferential manners and
pronounced effeminacy, which made him shun manly sports, had something
to do with his masculine unpopularity; but, from the bishop downward, he
was certainly no favourite, and in every male breast he constantly
inspired a desire to kick him. The clergy of the diocese maintained
towards him a kind of 'Dr Fell' attitude, and none of them had more to
do with him than they could help. With all the will in the world, with
all the desire to interpret brotherly love in its most liberal sense,
the Beorminster Levites found it impossible to like Mr Cargrim. Hence he
was a kind of clerical Ishmael, and as dangerous within as he looked
harmless without.

How such a viper came to warm itself on the bishop's hearth no one could
say. Mrs Pansey herself did not know in what particular way Mr Cargrim
had wriggled himself--so she expressed it--into his present snug
position. But, to speak frankly, there was no wriggling in the matter,
and had the bishop felt himself called upon to explain his business to
anyone, he could have given a very reasonable account of the election of
Cargrim to the post of chaplain. The young man was the son of an old
schoolfellow, to whom Pendle had been much attached, and from whom, in
the earlier part of his career, he had received many kindnesses. This
schoolfellow--he was a banker--had become a bankrupt, a beggar, finally
a suicide, through no fault of his own, and when dying, had commended
his wife and son to the bishop's care. Cargrim was then fifteen years of
age, and being clever and calculating, even as a youth, had determined
to utilise the bishop's affection for his father to its fullest extent.
He was clever, as has been stated; he was also ambitious and
unscrupulous; therefore he resolved to enter the profession in which Dr
Pendle's influence would be of most value. For this reason, and not
because he felt a call to the work, he entered holy orders. The result
of his wisdom was soon apparent, for after a short career as a curate in
London, he was appointed chaplain to the Bishop of Beorminster.

So far, so good. The position, for a young man of twenty-eight, was by
no means a bad one; the more so as it gave him a capital opportunity of
gaining a better one by watching for the vacancy of a rich preferment
and getting it from his patron by asking directly and immediately for
it. Cargrim had in his eye the rectorship of a wealthy, easy-going
parish, not far from Beorminster, which was in the gift of the bishop.
The present holder was aged and infirm, and given so much to indulgence
in port wine, that the chances were he might expire within a few months,
and then, as the chaplain hoped, the next rector would be the Reverend
Michael Cargrim. Once that firm position was obtained, he could bend
his energies to developing into an archdeacon, a dean, even into a
bishop, should his craft and fortune serve him as he intended they
should. But in all these ambitious dreams there was nothing of religion,
or of conscience, or of self-denial. If ever there was a square peg
which tried to adapt itself to a round hole, Michael Cargrim,
allegorically speaking, was that article.

With all his love for the father, Dr Pendle could never bring himself to
like the son, and determined in his own mind to confer a benefice on him
when possible, if only to get rid of him; but not the rich one of
Heathcroft, which was the delectable land of Cargrim's desire. The
bishop intended to bestow that on Gabriel; and Cargrim, in his sneaky
way, had gained some inkling of this intention. Afraid of losing his
wished-for prize, he was bent upon forcing Dr Pendle into presenting him
with the living of Heathcroft; and to accomplish this amiable purpose
with the more certainty he had conceived the plan of somehow getting the
bishop into his power. Hitherto--so open and stainless was Dr Pendle's
life--he had not succeeded in his aims; but now matters looked more
promising, for the bishop appeared to possess a secret which he guarded
even from the knowledge of his wife. What this secret might be, Cargrim
could not guess, in spite of his anxiety to do so, but he intended in
one way or another to discover it and utilise it for the furtherance and
attainment of his own selfish ends. By gaining such forbidden knowledge
he hoped to get Dr Pendle well under his thumb; and once there the
prelate could be kept in that uncomfortable position until he gratified
Mr Cargrim's ambition. For a humble chaplain to have the whip-hand of a
powerful ecclesiastic was a glorious and easy way for a meritorious
young man to succeed in his profession. Having come to this conclusion,
which did more credit to his head than to his heart, Cargrim sought out
the servant who had summoned the bishop to see the stranger. A full
acquaintance with the circumstances of the visit was necessary to the
development of the Reverend Michael's ingenious little plot.

'This is a sad thing about his lordship's indisposition, said he to the
man in the most casual way, for it would not do to let the servant know
that he was being questioned for a doubtful purpose.

'Yes, sir,' replied the man. ''Tis mos' extraordinary. I never knowed
his lordship took ill before. I suppose that gentleman brought bad news,
sir.'

'Possibly, John, possibly. Was this gentleman a short man with light
hair? I fancy I saw him.'

'Lor', no, Mr Cargrim. He was tall and lean as a rake; looked like a
military gentleman, sir; and I don't know as I'd call him gentry
either,' added John, half to himself. 'He wasn't what he thought he
was.'

'A decayed clergyman, John?' inquired Cargrim, remembering Graham's
description.

'There was lots of decay but no clergy about him, sir. I fancy I knows a
parson when I sees one. Clergymen don't have scars on their cheekses as
I knows of.'

'Oh, indeed!' said Cargrim, mentally noting that the doctor had spoken
falsely. 'So he had a scar?'

'A red scar, sir, on the right cheek, from his temple to the corner of
his mouth. He was as dark as pitch in looks, with a military moustache,
and two black eyes like gimblets. His clothes was shabby, and his looks
was horrid. Bad-tempered too, sir, I should say, for when he was with
his lordship I 'eard his voice quite angry like. It ain't no clergy as
'ud speak like that to our bishop, Mr Cargrim.'

'And his lordship was taken ill when this visitor departed, John?'

'Right off, sir. When I got back to the library after showing him out I
found his lordship gas'ly pale.'

'And his paleness was caused by the noisy conduct of this man?'

'Couldn't have bin caused by anything else, sir.'

'Dear me! dear me! this is much to be deplored,' sighed Cargrim, in his
softest manner. 'And a clergyman too.'

'Beggin' your pardon, sir, he weren't no clergyman,' cried John, who was
an old servant and took liberties; 'he was more like a tramp or a gipsy.
I wouldn't have left him near the plate, I know.'

'We must not judge too harshly, John. Perhaps this poor man was in
trouble.'

'He didn't look like it, Mr Cargrim. He went in and came out quite cocky
like. I wonder his lordship didn't send for the police.'

'His lordship is too kind-hearted, John. This stranger had a scar, you
say?'

'Yes, sir; a red scar on the right cheek.'

'Dear me! no doubt he has been in the wars. Good-night, John. Let us
hope that his lordship will be better after a night's rest.'

'Good-night, sir!'

The chaplain walked away with a satisfied smile on his meek face.

'I must find the man with the scar,' he thought, 'and then--who knows.'




CHAPTER V

THE DERBY WINNER


As its name denotes, Beorminster was built on a hill, or, to speak more
precisely, on an eminence elevated slightly above the surrounding plain.
In former times it had been surrounded by aguish marshes which had
rendered the town unhealthy, but now that modern enterprise had drained
the fenlands, Beorminster was as salubrious a town as could be found in
England. The rich, black mud of the former bogs now yielded luxuriant
harvests, and in autumn the city, with its mass of red-roofed houses
climbing upward to the cathedral, was islanded in a golden ocean of
wheat and rye and bearded barley. For the purposes of defence, the town
had been built originally on the slopes of the hill, under the very
shadow of the minster, and round its base the massive old walls yet
remained, which had squeezed the city into a huddled mass of
uncomfortable dwellings within its narrow girdle. But now oppidan life
extended beyond these walls; and houses, streets, villas and gardens
spread into the plain on all sides. Broad, white roads ran to Southberry
Junction, ten miles away; to manufacturing Irongrip, the smoke of whose
furnaces could be seen on the horizon; and to many a tiny hamlet and
sleepy town buried amid the rich meadowlands and golden cornfields. And
high above all lorded the stately cathedral, with its trio of mighty
towers, whence, morning and evening, melodious bells pealed through the
peaceful lands.

Beyond the walls the modern town was made up of broad streets and
handsome shops. On its outskirts appeared comfortable villas and stately
manors, gardens and woody parks, in which dwelt the aristocracy of
Beorminster. But the old town, with its tall houses and narrow lanes,
was given over to the plebeians, save in the Cathedral Close, where
dwelt the canons, the dean, the archdeacon, and a few old-fashioned folk
who remained by preference in their ancestral dwellings. From this
close, which surrounded the open space, wherein the cathedral was built,
narrow streets trickled down to the walls, and here was the Seven Dials,
the Whitechapel, the very worst corner of Beorminster. The Beorminster
police declared that this network of lanes and alleys and malodorous
_cul-de-sacs_ was as dangerous a neighbourhood as any London slum, and
they were particularly emphatic in denouncing the public-house known as
The Derby Winner, and kept by a certain William Mosk, who was a sporting
scoundrel and a horsey scamp. This ill-famed hostel was placed at the
foot of the hill, in what had once been the main street, and being near
the Eastgate, caught in its web most of the thirsty passers-by who
entered the city proper, either for sight-seeing or business. It
affected a kind of spurious respectability, which was all on the
outside, for within it was as iniquitous a den as could well be
conceived, and was usually filled with horse-copers and sporting
characters, who made bets, and talked racing, and rode or drove fiery
steeds, and who lived on, and swindled through, the noblest of all
animals. Mr Mosk, a lean light-weight, who wore loud check suits, tight
in the legs and short in the waist, was the presiding deity of this
Inferno, and as the Ormuz to this Ahrimanes, Gabriel Pendle was the
curate of the district, charged with the almost hopeless task of
reforming his sporting parishioners. And all this, with considerable
irony, was placed almost in the shadow of the cathedral towers.

Not a neighbourhood for Mr Cargrim to venture into, since many sights
therein must have displeased his exact tastes; yet two days after the
reception at the palace the chaplain might have been seen daintily
picking his way over the cobble-stone pavements. As he walked he
thought, and his thoughts were busy with the circumstances which had led
him to venture his saintly person so near the spider's web of The Derby
Winner. The bishop, London, curiosity, Gabriel, this unpleasant
neighbourhood--so ran the links of his chain of thought.

The day following his unexpected illness brought no relief to the
bishop, at all events to outward seeming, for he was paler and more
haggard than ever in looks, and as dour as a bear in manner. With Mrs
Pendle he strove to be his usual cheerful self, but with small success,
as occasionally he would steal an anxious look at her, and heave deep
sighs expressive of much inward trouble. All this was noted by Cargrim,
who carefully strove, by sympathetic looks and dexterous remarks, to
bring his superior to the much-desired point of unburdening his mind.
Gabriel had returned to his lodgings near the Eastgate, and to his
hopeless task of civilising his degraded centaurs. Lucy, after the
manner of maids in love, was building air-castles with Sir Harry's
assistance, and Mrs Pendle kept her usual watch on her weak heart and
fluctuating pulse. The bishop thus escaped their particular notice, and
it was mainly Cargrim who saw how distraught and anxious he was. As for
Dr Graham, he had departed after a second unsatisfactory visit, swearing
that he could do nothing with a man who refused to make a confidant of
his doctor. Bishop Pendle was therefore wholly at the mercy of his
suspicious chaplain, to be spied upon, to be questioned, to be watched,
and to be made a prey of in his first weak moment. But the worried man,
filled with some unknown anxiety, was quite oblivious to Cargrim's
manoeuvres.

For some time the chaplain, in spite of all his watchfulness, failed to
come upon anything tangible likely to explain what was in the bishop's
mind. He walked about restlessly, he brooded continuously, and instead
of devoting himself to his work in his usual regular way, occupied
himself for long hours in scribbling figures on his blotting-paper, and
muttering at times in anxious tones. Cargrim examined the
blotting-paper, and strained his ears to gather the sense of the
mutterings, but in neither case could he gain any clue to the bishop's
actual trouble. At length--it was on the morning of the second day after
the reception--Dr Pendle abruptly announced that he was going up to
London that very afternoon, and would go alone. The emphasis he laid on
this last statement still further roused Cargrim's curiosity.

'Shall I not accompany your lordship?' he asked, as the bishop
restlessly paced the library.

'No, Mr Cargrim, why should you?' said the bishop, abruptly and testily.

'Your lordship seems ill, and I thought--'

'There is no need for you to think, sir. I am not well, and my visit to
London is in connection with my health.'

'Or with your secret!' thought the chaplain, deferentially bowing.

'I have every confidence in Dr Graham,' continued Pendle, 'but it is my
intention to consult a specialist. I need not go into details, Mr
Cargrim, as they will not interest you.'

'Oh, your lordship, your health is my constant thought.'

'Your anxiety is commendable, but needless,' responded the bishop,
dryly. 'I am due at Southberry this Sunday, I believe.'

'There is a confirmation at St Mark's, your lordship.'

'Very good; you can make the necessary arrangements, Mr Cargrim. To-day
is Thursday. I shall return to-morrow night, and shall rest on Saturday
until the evening, when I shall ride over to Southberry, attend at St
Mark's, and return on Sunday night.'

'Does not your lordship desire my attendance?' asked Cargrim, although
he knew that he was the morning preacher in the cathedral on Sunday.

'No,' answered Dr Pendle, curtly, 'I shall go and return alone.'

The bishop looked at Cargrim, and Cargrim looked at the bishop, each
striving to read the other's thoughts, then the latter turned away with
a frown, and the former, much exercised in his mind, advanced towards
the door of the library. Dr Pendle called him back.

'Not a word about my health to Mrs Pendle,' he said sharply.

'Certainly not, your lordship; you can rely upon my discretion in every
way,' replied the chaplain, with emphasis, and glided away as
soft-footed as any panther, and as dangerous.

'I wonder what the fellow suspects,' thought the bishop when alone. 'I
can see that he is filled with curiosity, but he can never find out the
truth, or even guess at it. I am safe enough from him. All the same,
I'll have a fool for my next chaplain. Fools are easier to deal with.'

Cargrim would have given much to have overheard this speech, but as the
door and several passages were between him and the talker, he was
ignorant of the incriminating remarks the bishop had let slip. Still
baffled, but still curious, he busied himself with attending to some
business of the See which did not require the personal supervision of Dr
Pendle, and when that prelate took his departure for London by the three
o'clock train, Cargrim attended him to the station, full of meekness and
irritating attentions. It was with a feeling of relief that the bishop
saw his officious chaplain left behind on the platform. He had a secret,
and with the uneasiness of a loaded conscience, fancied that everyone
saw that he had something to conceal--particularly Cargrim. In the
presence of that good young man, this spiritual lord, high-placed and
powerful, felt that he resembled an insect under a microscope, and that
Cargrim had his eye to the instrument. Conscience made a coward of the
bishop, but in the case of his chaplain his uneasy feelings were in some
degree justified.

On leaving the railway station, which was on the outskirts of the modern
town, Cargrim took his way through the brisk population which thronged
the streets, and wondered in what manner he could benefit by the absence
of his superior. As he could not learn the truth from Dr Pendle himself,
he thought that he might discover it from an investigation of the
bishop's desk. For this purpose he returned to the palace forthwith, and
on the plea of business, shut himself up in the library. Dr Pendle was a
careless man, and never locked up any drawers, even those which
contained his private papers. Cargrim, who was too much of a sneak to
feel honourable scruples, went through these carefully, but in spite of
all his predisposition to malignity was unable to find any grounds for
suspecting Dr Pendle to be in any serious trouble. At the end of an hour
he found himself as ignorant as ever, and made only one discovery of any
note, which was that the bishop had taken his cheque-book with him to
London.

To many people this would have seemed a natural circumstance, as most
men with banking accounts take their cheque-books with them when going
on a journey. But Cargrim knew that the bishop usually preferred to
fill his pockets with loose cash when absent for a short time, and this
deviation from his ordinary habits appeared to be suspicious.

'Hum!' thought the chaplain, rubbing his chin, 'I wonder if that
so-called clergyman wanted money. If he had wished for a small sum, the
bishop could easily have given it to him out of the cash-box. Going by
this reasoning, he must have wanted a lot of money, which argues
blackmail. Hum! Has he taken both cheque-books, or only one?'

The reason of this last query was that Bishop Pendle had accounts in two
different banks. One in Beorminster, as became the bishop of the See,
the other in London, in accordance with the dignity of a spiritual lord
of Parliament. A further search showed Mr Cargrim that the Beorminster
cheque-book had been left behind.

'Hum!' said the chaplain again, 'that man must have gone back to London.
Dr Pendle is going to meet him there and draw money from his Town bank
to pay what he demands. I'll have a look at the butts of that
cheque-book when it comes back; the amount of the cheque may prove much.
I may even find out the name of this stranger.'

But all this, as Cargrim very well knew, was pure theory. The bishop
might have taken his cheque-book to London for other reasons than paying
blackmail to the stranger, for it was not even certain that there was
any such extortion in the question. Dr Pendle was worried, it was true,
and after the departure of his strange visitor he had been taken ill,
but these facts proved nothing; and after twisting and turning them in
every way, and connecting and disconnecting them with the absence of the
London cheque-book, Mr Cargrim was forced to acknowledge that he was
beaten for the time being. Then he fancied he might extract some
information from Gabriel relative to his father's departure for London,
for Mr Cargrim was too astute to believe in the 'consulting a
specialist' excuse. Still, this might serve as a peg whereon to hang his
inquiries and develop further information, so the chaplain, after
meditating over his five-o'clock cup of tea, took his way to the
Eastgate, in order to put Gabriel unawares into the witness-box. Yet,
for all these doings and suspicions Cargrim had no very good reason,
save his own desire to get Dr Pendle under his thumb. He was groping in
the dark, he had not a shred of evidence to suppose that the uneasiness
of the bishop was connected with anything criminal; nevertheless, the
chaplain put himself so far out of his usual habits as to venture into
the unsavoury neighbourhood wherein stood The Derby Winner. Truly this
man's cobweb spinning was of a very dangerous character when he took so
much trouble to weave the web.

As in Excelsior, the shades of night were falling fast, when Cargrim
found himself at the door of the curate's lodging. Here he met with a
check, for Gabriel's landlady informed him that Mr Pendle was not at
home, and she did not know where he was or when he would be back.
Cargrim made the sweetest excuses for troubling the good lady, left a
message that he would call again, and returned along Monk Street on his
way back to the palace through the new town. By going in this direction
he passed The Derby Winner--not without intention--for it was this young
man's belief that Gabriel might be haunting the public-house to see Mrs
Mosk or--as was more probable to the malignant chaplain--her handsome
daughter.

As he came abreast of The Derby Winner it was not too dark but that he
could see a tall man standing in the doorway. Cargrim at first fancied
that this might be Gabriel, and paced slowly along so as to seize an
opportunity of addressing him. But when he came almost within touching
distance, he found himself face to face with a dark-looking gipsy,
fiery-eyed and dangerous in appearance. He had a lean, cruel face, a
hawk's beak for a nose, and black, black hair streaked with grey; but
what mostly attracted Cargrim's attention was a red streak which
traversed the right cheek of the man from ear to mouth. At once he
recalled John's description--'A military-looking gentleman with a scar
on the right cheek.' He thought, 'Hum! this, then, is the bishop's
visitor.'




CHAPTER VI

THE MAN WITH THE SCAR


This engaging individual looked at Cargrim with a fierce air. He was not
sober, and had just reached the quarrelsome stage of intoxication, which
means objection to everyone and everything. Consequently he cocked his
hat defiantly at the curate; and although he blocked up the doorway,
made no motion to stand aside. Cargrim was not ill pleased at this
obstinacy, as it gave him an opportunity of entering into conversation
with the so-called decayed clergyman, who was as unlike a parson as a
rabbit is like a terrier.

'Do you know if Mr Pendle is within, my friend?' asked the chaplain,
with bland politeness.

The stranger started at the mention of the name. His face grew paler,
his scar waxed redder, and with all his Dutch courage there was a look
of alarm visible in his cold eyes.

'I don't know,' said he, insolently, yet with a certain refinement of
speech. 'I shouldn't think it likely that a pot-house like this would be
patronised by a bishop.'

'Pardon me, sir, I speak of Mr Gabriel Pendle, the son of his lordship.'

'Then pardon me, sir,' mimicked the man, 'if I say that I know nothing
of the son of his lordship; and what's more, I'm d--d if I want to.'

'I see! You are more fortunate in knowing his lordship himself,' said
the chaplain, with great simplicity.

The stranger plucked at his worn sleeve with a look of irony. 'Do I look
as though I were acquainted with bishops?' said he, scoffingly. 'Is this
the kind of coat likely to be admitted into episcopalian palaces?'

'Yet it was admitted, sir. If I am not mistaken you called at the palace
two nights ago.'

'Did you see me?'

'Certainly I saw you,' replied Cargrim, salving his conscience with the
Jesuitic saying that the end justifies the means. 'And I was informed
that you were a decayed clergyman seeking assistance.'

'I have been most things in my time,' observed the stranger, gloomily,
'but not a parson. You are one, I perceive.'

Cargrim bowed. 'I am the chaplain of Bishop Pendle.'

'And the busybody of Beorminster, I should say,' rejoined the man with a
sneer. 'See here, my friend,' and he rapped Cargrim on the breast with a
shapely hand, 'if you interfere in what does not concern you, there will
be trouble. I saw Dr Pendle on private business, and as such it has
nothing to do with you. Hold your tongue, you black crow, and keep away
from me,' cried the stranger, with sudden ferocity, 'or I'll knock your
head off. Now you know,' and with a fierce glance the man moved out of
the doorway and sauntered round the corner before Cargrim could make up
his mind how to resent this insolence.

'Hum!' said he to himself, with a glance at the tall retiring figure,
'that is a nice friend for a bishop to have. He's a jail-bird if I
mistake not; and he is afraid of my finding out his business with
Pendle. Birds of a feather,' sighed Mr Cargrim, entering the hotel. 'I
fear, I sadly fear that his lordship is but a whited sepulchre. A look
into the bishop's past might show me many things of moment,' and the fat
living of Heathcroft seemed almost within Cargrim's grasp as he came to
this conclusion.

'Now then, sir,' interrupted a sharp but pleasant female voice, 'and
what may you want?'

Mr Cargrim wheeled round to answer this question, and found himself face
to face with a bar, glittering with brass and crystal and bright-hued
liquors in fat glass barrels; also with an extremely handsome young
woman, dressed in an astonishing variety of colours. She was
high-coloured and frank-eyed, with a great quantity of very black hair
twisted into many amazing shapes on the top of her head. In manner she
was as brisk as a bee and as restless as a butterfly; and being adorned
with a vast quantity of bracelets, and lockets, and brooches, all of
gaudy patterns, jingled at every movement. This young lady was Miss Bell
Mosk, whom the frequenters of The Derby Winner called 'a dashing
beauty,' and Mrs Pansey 'a painted jade.' With her glittering ornaments,
her bright blue dress, her high colour, and general air of vivacity, she
glowed and twinkled in the lamp-light like some gorgeous-plumaged
parrot; and her free speech and constant chatter might have been
ascribed to the same bird.

'Miss Mosk, I believe,' said the polite Cargrim, marvelling that this
gaudy female should be the refined Gabriel's notion of feminine
perfection.

'I am Miss Mosk,' replied Bell, taking a comprehensive view of the
sleek, black-clothed parson. 'What can I do for you?'

'I am Mr Cargrim, the bishop's chaplain, Miss Mosk, and I wish to see Mr
Pendle--Mr Gabriel Pendle.'

Bell flushed as red as the reddest cabbage rose, and with downcast eyes
wiped the counter briskly with a duster. 'Why should you come here to
ask for Mr Pendle?' said she, in guarded tones.

'I called at his lodgings, Miss Mosk, and I was informed that he was
visiting a sick person here.'

'My mother!' replied Bell, not knowing what an amazing lie the chaplain
was telling. 'Yes! Mr Pendle comes often to see--my mother.'

'Is he here now?' asked Cargrim, noticing the hesitancy at the end of
her sentence; 'because I wish to speak with him on business.'

'He is upstairs. I daresay he'll be down soon.'

'Oh, don't disturb him for my sake, I beg. But if you will permit me I
shall go up and see Mrs Mosk.'

'Here comes Mr Pendle now,' said Bell, abruptly, and withdrew into the
interior of the bar as Gabriel appeared at the end of the passage. He
started and seemed uneasy when he recognised the chaplain.

'Cargrim!' he cried, hurrying forward. 'Why are you here?' and he gave a
nervous glance in the direction of the bar; a glance which the chaplain
saw and understood, but discreetly left unnoticed.

'I wish to see you,' he replied, with great simplicity; 'they told me at
your lodgings that you might be here, so--'

'Why!' interrupted Gabriel, sharply, 'I left no message to that effect.'

Cargrim saw that he had made a mistake. 'I speak generally, my dear
friend--generally,' he said in some haste. 'Your worthy landlady
mentioned several houses in which you were in the habit of seeing sick
people--amongst others this hotel.'

'Mrs Mosk is very ill. I have been seeing her,' said Gabriel, shortly.

'Ay! ay! you have been seeing Mrs Mosk!'

Gabriel changed colour and cast another glance towards the bar, for the
significance of Cargrim's speech was not lost on him. 'Do you wish to
speak with me?' he asked coldly.

'I should esteem it a favour if you would allow me a few words,' said
Cargrim, politely. 'I'll wait for you--outside,' and in his turn the
chaplain looked towards the bar.

'Thank you, I can come with you now,' was Gabriel's reply, made with a
burning desire to knock Cargrim down. 'Miss Mosk, I am glad to find that
your mother is easier in her mind.'

'It's all due to you, Mr Pendle,' said Bell, moving forward with a toss
of her head directed especially at Mr Cargrim. 'Your visits do mother a
great deal of good.'

'I am sure they do,' said the chaplain, not able to forego giving the
girl a scratch of his claws. 'Mr Pendle's visits here must be delightful
to everybody.'

'I daresay,' retorted Bell, with heightened colour, 'other people's
visits would not be so welcome.'

'Perhaps not, Miss Mosk. Mr Pendle has many amiable qualities to
recommend him. He is a general and deserved favourite.'

'Come, come, Cargrim,' interposed Gabriel, anxiously, for the fair
Bell's temper was rapidly getting the better of her; 'if you are ready
we shall go. Good evening, Miss Mosk.'

'Good evening, Mr Pendle,' said the barmaid, and directed a spiteful
look at Cargrim, for she saw plainly that he had intentionally deprived
her of a confidential conversation with Gabriel. The chaplain received
the look--which he quite understood--with an amused smile and a bland
inclination of the head. As he walked out arm-in-arm with the reluctant
Pendle, Bell banged the pewters and glasses about with considerable
energy, for the significant demeanour of Cargrim annoyed her so much
that she felt a great inclination to throw something at his head. But
then, Miss Mosk was a high-spirited girl and believed in actions rather
than speech, even though she possessed a fair command of the latter.

'Well, Cargrim,' said Gabriel, when he found himself in the street with
his uncongenial companion, 'what is it?'

'It's about the bishop.'

'My father! Is there anything the matter with him?'

'I fear so. He told me that he was going to London.'

'What of that?' said Gabriel, impatiently. 'He told me the same thing
yesterday. Has he gone?'

'He left by the afternoon train. Do you know the object of his visit to
London?'

'No. What is his object?'

'He goes to consult a specialist about his health.'

'What!' cried Gabriel, anxiously. 'Is he ill?'

'I think so; some nervous trouble brought on by worry.'

'By worry! Has my father anything on his mind likely to worry him to
that extent?'

Cargrim coughed significantly. 'I think so,' said he again. 'He has not
been himself since the visit of that stranger to the palace. I fancy the
man must have brought bad news.'

'Did the bishop tell you so?'

'No; but I am observant, you know.'

Privately, Gabriel considered that Cargrim was a great deal too
observant, and also of a meddlesome nature, else why had he come to spy
out matters which did not concern him. Needless to say, Gabriel was
thinking of Bell at this moment. However, he made no comment on the
chaplain's speech, but merely remarked that doubtless the bishop had his
own reasons for keeping silent, and advised Cargrim to wait until he was
consulted in connection with the matter, before troubling himself
unnecessarily about it 'My father knows his own business best,'
finished Gabriel, stiffly, 'if you will forgive my speaking so plainly.'

'Certainly, certainly, Pendle; but I owe a great deal to your father,
and I would do much to save him from annoyance. By the way,' with an
abrupt change of subject, 'do you know that I saw the stranger who
called at the palace two nights ago during the reception?'

'When? Where?'

'At that hotel, this evening. He looks a dangerous man.'

Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. 'It seems to me, Cargrim, that you are
making a mountain out of a mole hill. A stranger sees my father, and
afterwards you meet him at a public-house; there is nothing strange in
that.'

'You forget,' hinted Cargrim, sweetly, 'this man caused your father's
illness.'

'We can't be sure of that; and in any case, my father is quite clever
enough to deal with his own affairs. I see no reason why you should have
hunted me out to talk such nonsense. Good-night, Cargrim,' and with a
curt nod the curate stalked away, considerably annoyed by the meddlesome
spirit manifested by the chaplain. He had never liked the man, and, now
that he was in this interfering mood, liked him less than ever. It would
be as well, thought Gabriel, that Mr Cargrim should be dismissed from
his confidential office as soon as possible. Otherwise he might cause
trouble, and Gabriel mentally thought of the high-coloured young lady in
the bar. His conscience was not at ease regarding his admiration for
her; and he dreaded lest the officious Cargrim should talk about her to
the bishop. Altogether the chaplain, like a hornet, had annoyed both Dr
Pendle and his son; and the bishop in London and Gabriel in Beorminster
were anything but well disposed towards this clerical busybody, who
minded everyone's business instead of his own. It is such people who
stir up muddy water and cause mischief.

Meanwhile, the busybody looked after the curate with an evil smile; and,
gratified at having aroused such irritation as the abrupt parting
signified, turned back to The Derby Winner. He had seen Bell, he had
spoken to Gabriel, he had even secured an unsatisfactory conversation
with the unknown man. Now he wished to question Mrs Mosk and acquaint
himself with her nature and attitude. Also he desired to question her
concerning the military stranger; and with this resolve presented
himself again before Miss Mosk, smiling and undaunted.

'What is it?' asked the young lady, who had been nursing her grievances.

'A mere trifle, Miss Mosk; I wish to see your mother.'

'Why?' was Bell's blunt demand.

'My reasons are for Mrs Mosk's ears alone.'

'Oh, are they? Well, I'm afraid you can't see my mother. In the first
place, she's too ill to receive anyone; and in the second, my father
does not like clergymen.'

'Dear! dear! not even Mr Pendle?'

'Mr Pendle is an exception,' retorted Bell, blushing, and again fell to
wiping the counter in a fury, so as to keep her hands from Mr Cargrim's
ears.

'I wish to see Mrs Mosk particularly,' reiterated Cargrim, who was bent
upon carrying his point. 'If not, your father will do.'

'My father is absent in Southberry. Why do you want to see my mother?'

'I'll tell her that myself--with your permission,' said Cargrim,
suavely.

'You sha'n't, then,' cried Bell, and flung down her duster with
sparkling eyes.

'In that case I must go away,' replied Cargrim, seeing he was beaten,
'and I thank you, Miss Mosk, for your politeness. By the way,' he added,
as he half returned, 'will you tell that gentleman with the scar on the
cheek that I wish to see him also?'

'Seems to me you wish to see everybody about here,' said Bell,
scornfully. 'I'll tell Mr Jentham if you like. Now go away; I'm busy.'

'Jentham!' repeated Cargrim, as he walked homeward. 'Now, I wonder if
I'll find that name in the bishop's cheque-book.'




CHAPTER VII

AN INTERESTING CONVERSATION


When Mr Cargrim took an idea into his head it was not easy to get it out
again, and to this resolute obstinacy he owed no small part of his
success. He was like the famous drop of water and would wear away any
human stone, however hard it might be. Again and again, when baffled, he
returned with gentle persistence to the object he had in view, and
however strong of will his adversary happened to be, that will was
bound, in the long run, to yield to the incessant attacks of the
chaplain. At the present moment he desired to have an interview with Mrs
Mosk, and he was determined to obtain one in spite of Bell's refusal.
However, he had no time to waste on the persuasive method, as he wished
to see the invalid before the bishop returned. To achieve this end he
enlisted the services of Mrs Pansey.

That good lady sometimes indulged in a species of persecution she termed
district-visiting, which usually consisted in her thrusting herself at
untoward times into poor people's houses and asking them questions about
their private affairs. When she had learned all she wished to know, and
had given her advice in the tone of a command not to be disobeyed, she
would retire, leaving the evidence of her trail behind her in the shape
of a nauseous little tract with an abusive title. It was no use any poor
creature refusing to see Mrs Pansey, for she forced herself into the
most private chambers, and never would retire unless she thought fit to
do so of her own will. It was for this reason that Cargrim suggested the
good lady should call upon Mrs Mosk, for he knew well that neither the
father, nor the daughter, nor the whole assembled domestics of the
hotel, would be able to stop her from making her way to the bedside of
the invalid; and in the devastated rear of Mrs Pansey the chaplain
intended to follow.

His principal object in seeing Mrs Mosk was to discover what she knew
about the man called Jentham. He was lodging at The Derby Winner, as
Cargrim ascertained by later inquiry, and it was probable that the
inmates of the hotel knew something as to the reasons of his stay in
Beorminster. Mr Mosk, being as obstinate as a mule, was not likely to
tell Cargrim anything he desired to learn. Bell, detesting the chaplain,
as she took no pains to conceal, would probably refuse to hold a
conversation with him; but Mrs Mosk, being weak-minded and ill, might be
led by dexterous questioning to tell all she knew. And what she did know
might, in Cargrim's opinion, throw more light on Jentham's connection
with the bishop. Therefore, the next morning, Cargrim called on the
archdeacon's widow to inveigle her into persecuting Mrs Mosk with a
call. Mrs Pansey, with all her acuteness, could not see that she was
being made use of--luckily for Cargrim.

'I hear the poor woman is very ill,' sighed the chaplain, after he had
introduced the subject, 'and I fear that her daughter does not give her
all the attention an invalid should have.'

'The Jezebel!' growled Mrs Pansey. 'What can you expect from that
flaunting hussy?'

'She is a human being, Mrs Pansey, and I expect at least human
feelings.'

'Can you get blood out of a stone, Mr Cargrim? No, you can't. Is that
red-cheeked Dutch doll a pelican to pluck her breast for the benefit of
her mother? No, indeed! I daresay she passes her sinful hours drinking
with young men. I'd whip her at a cart's tail if I had my way.'

'Gabriel Pendle is trying to bring the girl to a sense of her errors.'

'Rubbish! She's trying to bring him to the altar, more like. I'll go
with you, Mr Cargrim, and see the minx. I have long thought that it is
my duty to reprove her and warn her mother of such goings-on. As for
that weak-minded young Pendle,' cried Mrs Pansey, shaking her head
furiously, 'I pity his infatuation; but what can you expect from such a
mother as his mother? Can a fool produce sense? No!'

'I am afraid you will find the young woman difficult to deal with.'

'That makes me all the more determined to see her, Mr Cargrim. I'll tell
her the truth for once in her life. Marry young Pendle indeed!' snorted
the good lady. 'I'll let her see.'

'Speak to her mother first,' urged Cargrim, who wished his visit to be
less warlike, as more conducive to success.

'I'll speak to both of them. I daresay one is as bad as the other. I
must have that public-house removed; it's an eye-sore to Beorminster--a
curse to the place. It ought to be pulled down and the site ploughed up
and sown with salt. Come with me, Mr Cargrim, and you shall see how I
deal with iniquity. I hope I know what is due to myself.'

'Where is Miss Norsham?' asked the chaplain, when they fell into more
general conversation on their way to The Derby Winner.

'Husband-hunting. Dean Alder is showing her the tombs in the cathedral.
Tombs, indeed! It's the altar she's interested in.'

'My dear lady, the dean is too old to marry!'

'He is not too old to be made a fool of, Mr Cargrim. As for Daisy
Norsham, she'd marry Methuselah to take away the shame of being single.
Not that the match with Alder will be out of the way, for she's no
chicken herself.'

'I rather thought Mr Dean had an eye to Miss Whichello.'

'Stuff!' rejoined Mrs Pansey, with a sniff. 'She's far too much taken up
with dieting people to think of marrying them. She actually weighs out
the food on the table when meals are on. No wonder that poor girl Mab is
thin.'

'But she isn't too thin for her height, Mrs Pansey. She seems to me to
be well covered.'

'You didn't notice her at the palace, then,' snapped the widow, avoiding
a direct reply. 'She wore a low-necked dress which made me blush. I
don't know what girls are coming to. They'd go about like so many Eves
if they could.'

'Oh, Mrs Pansey!' remonstrated the chaplain, in a shocked tone.

'Well, it's in the Bible, isn't it, man? You aren't going to say Holy
Writ is indecent, are you?'

'Well, really, Mrs Pansey, clergyman as I am, I must say that there are
parts of the Bible unfit for the use of schools.'

'To the pure all things are pure, Mr Cargrim; you have an impure mind, I
fear. Remember the Thirty-Nine Articles and speak becomingly of holy
things. However, let that pass,' added Mrs Pansey, in livelier tones.
'Here we are, and there's that hussy hanging out from an upper window
like the Jezebel she is.'

This remark was directed against Bell, who, apparently in her mother's
room, was at the window amusing herself by watching the passers-by. When
she saw Mrs Pansey and the chaplain stalking along in black garments,
and looking like two birds of prey, she hastily withdrew, and by the
time they arrived at the hotel was at the doorway to receive them, with
fixed bayonets.

'Young woman,' said Mrs Pansey, severely, 'I have come to see your
mother,' and she cast a disapproving look on Bell's gay pink dress.

'She is not well enough to see either you or Mr Cargrim,' said Bell,
coolly.

'All the more reason that Mr Cargrim, as a clergyman, should look after
her soul, my good girl.'

'Thank you, Mr Pendle is doing that.'

'Indeed! Mr Pendle, then, combines business with pleasure.'

Bell quite understood the insinuation conveyed in this last speech, and,
firing up, would have come to high words with the visitors but that her
father made his appearance, and, as she did not wish to draw forth
remarks from Mrs Pansey about Gabriel in his hearing, she discreetly
held her tongue. However, as Mrs Pansey swept by in triumph, followed by
Cargrim, she looked daggers at them both, and bounced into the bar,
where she drew beer for thirsty customers in a flaming temper. She
dearly desired a duel of words with the formidable visitor.

Mosk was a lean, tall man with a pimpled face and a military moustache.
He knew Mrs Pansey, and, like most other people, detested her with all
his heart; but she was, as he thought, a great friend of Sir Harry
Brace, who was his landlord, so for diplomatic reasons he greeted her
with all deference, hat in hand.

'I have come with Mr Cargrim to see your wife, Mr Mosk,' said the
visitor.

'Thank you, ma'am, I'm sure it's very kind of you,' replied Mosk, who
had a husky voice suggestive of beer. 'She'll be honoured to see you,
I'm sure. This way, ma'am.'

'Is she very ill?' demanded the chaplain, as they followed Mosk to the
back of the hotel and up a narrow staircase.

'She ain't well, sir, but I can't say as she's dying. We do all we can
to make her easy.'

'Ho!' from Mrs Pansey. 'I hope your daughter acts towards her mother
like as a daughter should.'

'I'd like to see the person as says she don't,' cried Mr Mosk, with
sudden anger. 'I'd knock his head off. Bell's a good girl; none better.'

'Let us hope your trust in her is justified,' sighed the mischief-maker,
and passed into the sickroom, leaving Mosk with an uneasy feeling that
something was wrong. If the man had a tender spot in his heart it was
for his handsome daughter; and it was with a vague fear that, after
presenting his wife to her visitors, he went downstairs to the bar. Mrs
Pansey had a genius for making mischief by a timely word.

'Bell,' said he, gruffly, 'what's that old cat hinting at?'

'What about?' asked Bell, tossing her head till all her ornaments
jingled, and wiping the counter furiously.

'About you! She don't think I should trust you.'

'What right has she to talk about me, I'd like to know!' cried Bell,
getting as red as a peony. 'I've never done anything that anyone can say
a word against me.'

'Who said you had?' snapped her father; 'but that old cat hints.'

'Let her keep her hints to herself, then. Because I'm young and
good-looking she wants to take my character away. Nasty old puss that
she is!'

'That's just it, my gal. You're too young and good-looking to escape
folks' talking; and I hear that young Mr Pendle comes round when I'm
away.'

'Who says he doesn't, father? It's to see mother; he's a parson, ain't
he?'

'Yes! and he's gentry too. I won't have him paying attention to you.'

'You'd better wait till he does,' flashed out Bell. 'I can take care of
myself, I hope.'

'If I catch him talking other than religion to you I'll choke him in his
own collar,' cried Mr Mosk, with a scowl; 'so now you know.'

'I know as you're talking nonsense, father. Time enough for you to
interfere when there's cause. Now you clear out and let me get on with
my work.'

Reassured by the girl's manner, Mosk began to think that Mrs Pansey's
hints were all moonshine, and after cooling himself with a glass of
beer, went away to look into his betting-book with some horsey pals. In
the meantime, Mrs Pansey was persecuting his wife, a meek, nervous
little woman, who was propped up with pillows in a large bed, and seemed
to be quite overwhelmed by the honour of Mrs Pansey's call.

'So you are weak in the back, are you?' said the visitor, in loud tones.
'If you are, what right have you to marry and bring feeble children into
the world?'

'Bell isn't feeble,' said Mrs Mosk, weakly. 'She's a fine set-up gal.'

'Set-up and stuck-up,' retorted Mrs Pansey. 'I tell you what, my good
woman, you ought to be downstairs looking after her.'

'Lord! mum, there ain't nothing wrong, I do devoutly hope.'

'Nothing as yet; but you shouldn't have young gentlemen about the
place.'

'I can't help it, mum,' said Mrs Mosk, beginning to cry. 'I'm sure we
must earn our living somehow. This is an 'otel, isn't it? and Mosk's a
pop'lar character, ain't he? I'm sure it's hard enough to make ends meet
as it is; we owe rent for half a year and can't pay--and won't pay,'
wailed Mrs Mosk, 'unless my 'usband comes 'ome on Skinflint.'

'Comes home on Skinflint, woman, what do you mean?'

'Skinflint's a 'orse, mum, as Mosk 'ave put his shirt on.'

Mrs Pansey wagged her plumes and groaned. 'I'm sadly afraid your
husband is a son of perdition, Mrs Mosk. Put his shirt on Skinflint,
indeed!'

'He's a good man to me, anyhow,' cried Mrs Mosk, plucking up spirit.

'Drink and betting,' continued Mrs Pansey, pretending not to hear this
feeble defiance. 'What can we expect from a man who drinks and bets?'

'And associates with bad characters,' put in Cargrim, seizing his
chance.

'That he don't, sir,' said Mrs Mosk, with energy. 'May I beg of you to
put a name to one of 'em?'

'Jentham,' said the chaplain, softly. 'Who is Jentham, Mrs Mosk?'

'I know no more nor a babe unborn, sir. He's bin 'ere two weeks, and I
did see him twice afore my back got so bad as to force me to bed. But I
don't see why you calls him bad, sir. He pays his way.'

'Oh,' groaned Mrs Pansey, 'is it the chief end of man to pay his way?'

'It is with us, mum,' retorted Mrs Mosk, meekly; 'there ain't no denying
of it. And Mr Jentham do pay proper though he _is_ a gipsy.'

'He's a gipsy, is he?' said Cargrim, alertly.

'So he says, sir; and I knows as he goes sometimes to that camp of
gipsies on Southberry Heath.'

'Where does he get his money from?'

'Better not inquire into that, Mr Cargrim,' said Mrs Pansey, with a
sniff.

'Oh, Mr Jentham's honest, I'm sure, mum. He's bin at the gold diggin's
and 'ave made a trifle of money. Indeed, I don't know where he ain't
been, sir. The four pints of the compass is all plain sailing to 'im;
and his 'airbreadth escapes is too h'awful. I shivers and shudders when
I 'ears 'em.'

'What is he doing here?'

'He's on business; but I don't know what kind. Oh, he knows 'ow to 'old
'is tongue, does Jentham.'

'He is a gipsy, he consorts with gipsies, he has money, and no one knows
where he comes from,' summed up Cargrim. 'I think, Mrs Pansey, we may
regard this man as a dangerous character.'

'I shouldn't be surprised to hear he was an Anarchist,' said Mrs Pansey,
who knew nothing about the man. 'Well, Mrs Mosk, I hope we've cheered
you up. I'll go now. Read this tract,' bestowing a grimy little
pamphlet, 'and don't see too much of Mr Pendle.'

'But he comforts me,' said poor Mrs Mosk; 'he reads beautiful.'

Mrs Pansey grunted. Bold as she was she did not like to speak quite
plainly to the woman, as too free speech might inculpate Gabriel and
bring the bishop to the rescue. Besides, Mrs Pansey had no evidence to
bring forward to prove that Gabriel was in love with Bell Mosk.
Therefore she said nothing, but, like the mariner's parrot, thought the
more. Shaking out her dark skirts she rose to go, with another grunt
full of unspoken suspicions.

'Good-day, Mrs Mosk,' said she, pausing at the door. 'When you are
low-spirited send for me to cheer you up.'

Mrs Mosk attempted a curtsey in bed, which was a failure owing to her
sitting position; but Mrs Pansey did not see the attempt, as she was
already half-way down the stairs, followed by Cargrim. The chaplain had
learned a trifle more about the mysterious Jentham and was quite
satisfied with his visit; but he was more puzzled than ever. A tramp, a
gipsy, an adventurer--what had such a creature in common with Bishop
Pendle? To Mr Cargrim's eye the affair of the visit began to assume the
proportions of a criminal case. But all the information he had gathered
proved nothing, so it only remained to wait for the bishop's return and
see what discoveries he could make in that direction. If Jentham's name
was in the cheque-book the chaplain would be satisfied that there was an
understanding between the pair; and then his next move would be to learn
what the understanding was. When he discovered that, he had no doubt but
that he would have Dr Pendle under his thumb, which would be a good
thing for Mr Cargrim and an unpleasant position for the bishop.

Mrs Pansey stalked down to the bar, and seeing Bell therein, silently
placed a little tract on the counter. No sooner had she left the house
than Bell snatched up the tract, and rushing to the door flung it after
the good lady.

'You need it more than I do,' she cried, and bounced into the house
again.

It was with a quiver of rage that Mrs Pansey turned to the chaplain. She
was almost past speech, but with some difficulty and much choking
managed to convey her feelings in two words.

'The creature!' gasped Mrs Pansey, and shook her skirts as if to rid
herself of some taint contracted at The Derby Winner.




CHAPTER VIII

ON SATURDAY NIGHT


The bishop returned on Saturday morning instead of on Friday night as
arranged, and was much more cheerful than when he left, a state of mind
which irritated Cargrim in no small degree, and also perplexed him not a
little. If Dr Pendle's connection with Jentham was dangerous he should
still be ill at ease and anxious, instead of which he was almost his old
genial self when he joined his wife and Lucy at their afternoon tea. Sir
Harry was not present, but Mr Cargrim supplied his place, an exchange
which was not at all to Lucy's mind. The Pendles treated the chaplain
always with a certain reserve, and the only person who really thought
him the good young man he appeared to be, was the bishop's wife. But
kindly Mrs Pendle was the most innocent of mortals, and all geese were
swans to her. She had not the necessary faculty of seeing through a
brick wall with which nature had gifted Mrs Pansey in so extraordinary a
degree.

As a rule, Mr Cargrim did not come to afternoon tea, but on this
occasion he presented himself; ostensibly to welcome back his patron, in
reality to watch him. Also he was determined, at the very first
opportunity, to introduce the name of Jentham and observe what effect it
had on the bishop. With these little plans in his mind the chaplain
crept about the tea-table like a tame cat, and handed round cake and
bread with his most winning smile. His pale face was even more
inexpressive than usual, and none could have guessed, from outward
appearance, his malicious intents--least of all the trio he was with.
They were too upright themselves to suspect evil in others.

'I am so glad to see you are better, bishop,' said Mrs Pendle,
languidly trifling with a cup of tea. 'Your journey has done you good.'

'Change of air, change of air, my dear. A wonderful restorative.'

'Your business was all right, I hope?'

'Oh, yes! Indeed, I hardly went up on business, and what I did do was a
mere trifle,' replied the bishop, smoothing his apron. 'Has Gabriel been
here to-day?' he added, obviously desirous of turning the conversation.

'Twice!' said Lucy, who presided over the tea-table; 'and the second
time he told mamma that he had received a letter from George.'

'Ay, ay! a letter from George. Is he quite well, Lucy?'

'We shall see that for ourselves this evening, papa. George is coming to
Beorminster, and will be here about ten o'clock to-night.'

'How vexing!' exclaimed Dr Pendle. 'I intended going over to Southberry
this evening, but I can't miss seeing George.'

'Ride over to-morrow morning, bishop,' suggested his wife.

'Sunday morning, my dear!'

'Well, papa!' said Lucy, smiling, 'you are not a strict Sabbatarian, you
know.'

'I am not so good as I ought to be, my dear,' said Dr Pendle, playfully
pinching her pretty ear. 'Well! well! I must see George. I'll go
to-morrow morning at eight o'clock. You'll send a telegram to Mr Vasser
to that effect, if you please, Mr Cargrim. Say that I regret not being
able to come to-night.'

'Certainly, my lord. In any case, I am going in to Beorminster this
evening.'

'You are usually more stay-at-home, Mr Cargrim. Thank you, Lucy, I will
take another cup of tea.'

'I do not care for going out at night as a rule, my lord, observed the
chaplain, in his most sanctimonious tone, 'but duty calls me into
Beorminster. I am desirous of comforting poor sick Mrs Mosk at The Derby
Winner.'

'Oh, that is Gabriel's pet invalid,' cried Lucy, peering into the
teapot; 'he says Mrs Mosk is a very good woman.'

'Let us hope so,' observed the bishop, stirring his new cup of tea. 'I
do not wish to be uncharitable, my dear, but if Mrs Pansey is to be
believed, that public-house is not conducted so carefully as it should
be.'

'But _is_ Mrs Pansey to be believed, bishop?' asked his wife, smiling.

'I don't think she would tell a deliberate falsehood, my love.'

'All the same, she might exaggerate little into much,' said Lucy, with a
pretty grimace. 'What is your opinion of this hotel, Mr Cargrim?'

The chaplain saw his opportunity and seized it at once. 'My dear Miss
Pendle,' he said, showing all his teeth, 'as The Derby Winner is the
property of Sir Harry Brace I wish I could speak well of it, but candour
compels me to confess that it is a badly-conducted house.'

'Tut! tut!' said the bishop, 'what is this? You don't say so.'

'Harry shall shut it up at once,' cried Lucy, the pretty Puritan.

'It is a resort of bad characters, I fear,' sighed Cargrim, 'and Mrs
Mosk, being an invalid, is not able to keep them away.'

'What about the landlord, Mr Cargrim?'

'Aha!' replied the chaplain, turning towards Mrs Pendle, who had asked
this question, 'he is a man of lax morals. His boon companion is a tramp
called Jentham!'

'Jentham!' repeated Dr Pendle, in so complacent a tone that Cargrim,
with some vexation, saw that he did not associate the name with his
visitor; 'and who is Jentham?'

'I hardly know,' said the chaplain, making another attempt; 'he is a
tramp, as I have reason to believe, and consorts with gipsies. I saw him
myself the other day--a tall, lean man with a scar.'

The bishop rose, and walking over to the tea-table placed his cup
carefully thereon. 'With a scar,' he repeated in low tones. 'A man with
a scar--Jentham--indeed! What do you know of this person, Mr Cargrim?'

'Absolutely nothing,' rejoined the chaplain, with a satisfied glance at
the uneasy face of his questioner. 'He is a gipsy; he stays at The Derby
Winner and pays regularly for his lodgings; and his name is Jentham. I
know no more.'

'I don't suppose there is more to know,' cried Lucy, lightly.

'If there is, the police may find out, Miss Pendle.'

The bishop frowned. 'As the man, so far as we know, has done nothing
against the laws,' said he, quickly, 'I see no reason why the police
should be mentioned in connection with him. Evidently, from what Mr
Cargrim says, he is a rolling stone, and probably will not remain much
longer in Beorminster. Let us hope that he will take himself and his bad
influence away from our city. In the meantime, it is hardly worth our
while to discuss a person of so little importance.'

In this skilful way the bishop put an end to the conversation, and
Cargrim, fearful of rousing his suspicions, did not dare to resume it.
In a little while, after a few kind words to his wife, Dr Pendle left
the drawing-room for his study. As he passed out, Cargrim noticed that
the haggard look had come back to his face, and once or twice he glanced
anxiously at his wife. In his turn Cargrim examined Mrs Pendle, but saw
nothing in her manner likely to indicate that she shared the uneasiness
of her husband, or knew the cause of his secret anxiety. She looked calm
and content, and there was a gentle smile in her weary eyes. Evidently
the bishop's mind was set at rest by her placid looks, for it was with a
sigh of relief that he left the room. Cargrim noted the look and heard
the sigh, but was wholly in the dark regarding their meaning.

'Though I daresay they have to do with Jentham and this secret,' he
thought, when bowing himself out of the drawing-room. 'Whatever the
matter may be, Dr Pendle is evidently most anxious to keep his wife from
knowing of it. All the better.' He rubbed his hands together with a
satisfied smirk. 'Such anxiety shows that the secret is worth learning.
Sooner or later I shall find it out, and then I can insist upon being
the rector of Heathcroft. I have no time to lose, so I shall go to The
Derby Winner to-night and see if I can induce this mysterious Jentham to
speak out. He looks a drunken dog, so a glass of wine may unloosen his
tongue.'

From this speech it can be seen that Mr Cargrim was true to his Jesuitic
instincts, and thought no action dishonourable so long as it aided him
to gain his ends. He was a methodical scoundrel, too, and arranged the
details of his scheme with the utmost circumspection. For instance,
prior to seeing the man with the scar, he thought it advisable to find
out if the bishop had drawn a large sum of money while in London for the
purpose of bribing the creature to silence. Therefore, before leaving
the palace, he made several attempts to examine the cheque-book. But Dr
Pendle remained constantly at his desk in the library, and although the
plotter actually saw the cheque-book at the elbow of his proposed
victim, he was unable, without any good reason, to pick it up and
satisfy his curiosity. He was therefore obliged to defer any attempt to
obtain it until the next day, as the bishop would probably leave it
behind him when he rode over to Southberry. This failure vexed the
chaplain, as he wished to be forearmed in his interview with Jentham,
but, as there was no help for it, he was obliged to put the cart before
the horse--in other words, to learn what he could from the man first and
settle the bribery question by a peep into the cheque-book afterwards.
The ingenious Mr Cargrim was by no means pleased with this slip-slop
method of conducting business. There was method in his villainy.

That evening, after despatching the telegram to Southberry, the chaplain
repaired to The Derby Winner and found it largely patronised by a noisy
and thirsty crowd. The weather was tropical, the workmen of Beorminster
had received their wages, so they were converting the coin of the realm
into beer and whisky as speedily as possibly. The night was calm and
comparatively cool with the spreading darkness, and the majority of the
inhabitants were seated outside their doors gossiping and taking the
air. Children were playing in the street, their shrill voices at times
interrupting the continuous chatter of the women; and The Derby Winner,
flaring with gas, was stuffed as full as it could hold with artizans,
workmen, Irish harvesters and stablemen, all more or less exhilarated
with alcohol. It was by no means a scene into which the fastidious
Cargrim would have ventured of his own free will, but his desire to
pump Jentham was greater than his sense of disgust, and he walked
briskly into the hotel, to where Mr Mosk and Bell were dispensing drinks
as fast as they were able. The crowd, having an inherent respect for the
clergy, as became the inhabitants of a cathedral city, opened out to let
him pass, and there was much less swearing and drinking when his black
coat and clerical collar came into view. Mosk saw that the appearance of
the chaplain was detrimental to business, and resenting his presence
gave him but a surly greeting. As to Bell, she tossed her head, shot a
withering glance of defiance at the bland new-comer, and withdrew to the
far end of the bar.

'My friend,' said Cargrim, in his softest tones, 'I have come to see
your wife and inquire how she is.'

'She's well enough,' growled Mosk, pushing a foaming tankard towards an
expectant navvy, 'and what's more, sir, she's asleep, sir, so you can't
see her.'

'I should be sorry to disturb her, Mr Mosk, so I will postpone my visit
till a more fitted occasion. You seem to be busy to-night.'

'So busy that I've got no time for talking, sir.'

'Far be it from me to distract your attention, my worthy friend,' was
the chaplain's bland reply, 'but with your permission I will remain in
this corner and enjoy the humours of the scene.'

Mosk inwardly cursed the visitor for making this modest request, as he
detested parsons on account of their aptitude to make teetotalers of his
customers. He was a brute in his way, and a Radical to boot, so if he
had dared he would have driven forth Cargrim with a few choice oaths.
But as his visitor was the chaplain of the ecclesiastical sovereign of
Beorminster, and was acquainted with Sir Harry Brace, the owner of the
hotel, and further, as Mosk could not pay his rent and was already in
bad odour with his landlord, he judged it wise to be diplomatic, lest a
word from Cargrim to the bishop and Sir Harry should make matters worse.
He therefore grudgingly gave the required permission.

'Though this ain't a sight fit for the likes of you, sir,' he grumbled,
waving his hand. 'This lot smells and they swears, and they gets rowdy
in their cups, so I won't answer as they won't offend you.'

'My duty has carried me into much more unsavoury localities, my friend.
The worse the place the more is my presence, as a clergyman, necessary.'

'You ain't going to preach, sir?' cried Mosk, in alarm.

'No! that would indeed be casting pearls before swine, replied Cargrim,
in his cool tones. 'But I will observe and reflect.'

The landlord looked uneasy. 'I know as the place is rough,' he said
apologetically, 'but 'tain't my fault. You won't go talking to Sir
Harry, I hope, sir, and take the bread out of my mouth?'

'Make your mind easy, Mosk. It is not my place to carry tales to your
landlord; and I am aware that the lower orders cannot conduct themselves
with decorum, especially on Saturday night. I repine that such a scene
should be possible in a Christian land, but I don't blame you for its
existence.'

'That's all right, sir,' said Mosk, with a sigh of relief. 'I'm rough
but honest, whatever lies may be told to the contrary. If I can't pay my
rent, that ain't my fault, I hope, as it ain't to be expected as I can
do miracles.'

'The age of miracles is past, my worthy friend,' replied Cargrim, in
conciliatory tones. 'We must not expect the impossible nowadays. By the
way'--with a sudden change--'have you a man called Jentham here?'

'Yes, I have,' growled Mosk, looking suspiciously at his questioner.
'What do you know of him, sir?'

'Nothing; but I take an interest in him as he seems to be one who has
known better days.'

'He don't know them now, at all events, Mr Cargrim. He owes me money for
this last week, he does. He paid all right at fust, but he don't pay
now.'

'Indeed,' said the chaplain, pricking up his ears, 'he owes you money?'

'That he does; more nor two quid, sir. But he says he'll pay me soon.'

'Ah! he says he'll pay you soon,' repeated Cargrim; 'he expects to
receive money, then?'

'I s'pose so, tho' Lord knows!--I beg pardon, sir--tho' goodness knows
where it's coming from. He don't work or get wages as I can see.'

'I think I know,' thought Cargrim; then added aloud, 'Is the man here?'

'In the coffee-room yonder, sir. Half drunk he is, and lying like a good
one. The yarns he reels off is wonderful.'

'No doubt; a man like that must be interesting to listen to. With your
permission, Mr Mosk, I'll go into the coffee-room.'

'Straight ahead, sir. Will you take something to drink, if I may make so
bold, Mr Cargrim?'

'No, my friend, no; thank you all the same,' and with a nod Cargrim
pushed his way into the coffee-room to see the man with the scar.




CHAPTER IX

AN EXCITING ADVENTURE


Mr Cargrim found a considerable number of people in the coffee-room, and
these, with tankards and glasses before them, were listening to the
conversation of Jentham. Tobacco smoke filled the apartment with a thick
atmosphere of fog, through which the gas-lights flared in a nebulous
fashion, and rendered the air so hot that it was difficult to breathe in
spite of the windows being open. At the head of the long table sat
Jentham, drinking brandy-and-soda, and speaking in his cracked, refined
voice with considerable spirit, his rat-like, quick eyes glittering the
while with alcoholic lustre. He seemed to be considerably under the
influence of drink, and his voice ran up and down from bass to treble as
he became excited in narrating his adventures.

Whether these were true or false Cargrim could not determine; for
although the man trenched again and again on the marvellous, he
certainly seemed to be fully acquainted with what he was talking about,
and related the most wonderful stories in a thoroughly dramatic fashion.
Like Ulysses, he knew men and cities, and appeared to have travelled as
much as that famous globe-trotter. In his narration he passed from China
to Chili, sailed north to the Pole, steamed south to the Horn, described
the paradise of the South Seas, and discoursed about the wild wastes of
snowy Siberia. The capitals of Europe appeared to be as familiar to him
as the chair he was seated in; and the steppes of Russia, the deserts of
Africa, the sheep runs of Australia were all mentioned in turn, as
adventure after adventure fell from his lips. And mixed up with these
geographical accounts were thrilling tales of treasure-hunting, of
escapes from savages, of perilous deeds in the secret places of great
cities; and details of blood, and war, and lust, and hate, all told in a
fiercely dramatic fashion. The man was a tramp, a gipsy, a ragged,
penniless rolling-stone; but in his own way he was a genius. Cargrim
wondered, with all his bravery, and endurance, and resource, that he had
not made his fortune. The eloquent scamp seemed to wonder also.

'For,' said he, striking the table with his fist, 'I have never been
able to hold what I won. I've been a millionaire twice over, but the
gold wouldn't stay; it drifted away, it was swept away, it vanished,
like Macbeth's witches, into thin air. Look at me, you country cabbages!
I've reigned a king amongst savages. A poor sort of king, say you; but a
king's a king, say I; and king I have been. Yet here I am, sitting in a
Beorminster gutter, but I don't stay in it. By ----,' he confirmed his
purpose with an oath, 'not I. I've got my plans laid, and they'll lift
me up to the stars yet.'

'Hev you the money, mister?' inquired a sceptical listener.

'What's that to you?' cried Jentham, and finished his drink. 'Yes, I
have money!' He set down his empty glass with a bang. 'At least I know
where to get it. Bah! you fools, one can get blood out of a stone if one
knows how to go about it. I know! I know! My Tom Tiddler's ground isn't
far from your holy township,' and he began to sing,--

  'Southberry Heath's Tom Tiddler's ground,
  Gold and silver are there to be found.
  It's dropped by the priest, picked up by the knave,
  For the one is a coward, the other is brave.

More brandy, waiter; make it stiff, sonny! stiff! stiff! stiff!'

The man's wild speech and rude song were unintelligible to his stupid,
drink-bemused audience; but the keen brain of the schemer lurking near
the door picked up their sense at once. Dr Pendle was the priest who was
to drop the money on Southberry Heath, and Jentham the knave who was to
pick it up. As certainly as though the man had given chapter and verse,
Cargrim understood his enigmatic stave. His mind flashed back to the
memory that Dr Pendle intended to ride over to Southberry in the
morning, across the heath. Without doubt he had agreed to meet there
this man who boasted that he could get blood out of a stone, and the
object of the meeting was to bribe him to silence. But however loosely
Jentham alluded to his intention of picking up gold, he was cunning
enough, with all his excitement, to hold his tongue as to how he could
work such a miracle. Undoubtedly there was a secret between Dr Pendle
and this scamp; but what it might be, Cargrim could by no means guess.
Was Jentham a disreputable relation of the bishop's? Had Dr Pendle
committed a crime in his youth for which he was now being blackmailed?
What could be the nature of the secret which gave this unscrupulous
blackguard a hold on a dignitary of the Church? Cargrim's brain was
quite bewildered by his conjectures.

Hitherto Jentham had been in the blabbing stage of intoxication, but
after another glass of drink he relapsed into a sullen, silent
condition, and with his eyes on the table pulled fiercely at his pipe,
so that his wicked face looked out like that of a devil from amid the
rolling clouds of smoke. His audience waited open-mouthed for more
stories, but as their entertainer seemed too moody to tell them any
more, they began to talk amongst themselves, principally about horses
and dogs. It was now growing late, and the most respectable of the crowd
were moving homeward. Cargrim felt that to keep up the dignity of his
cloth he should depart also; for several looks of surprise were cast in
his direction. But Jentham and his wild speeches fascinated him, and he
lurked in his corner, watching the sullen face of the man until the two
were left the sole occupants of the room. Then Jentham looked up to call
the waiter to bring him a final drink, and his eyes met those of Mr
Cargrim. After a keen glance he suddenly broke into a peal of discordant
laughter, which died away into a savage and menacing growl.

'Hallo!' he grumbled, 'here is the busybody of Beorminster. And what may
you want, Mr Paul Pry?'

'A little civility in the first place, my worthy friend,' said Cargrim,
in silky tones, for he did not relish the insolent tone of the satirical
scamp.

'I am no friend to spies!'

'How dare you speak to me like that, fellow?'

'You call me a fellow and I'll knock your head off,' cried Jentham,
rising with a savage look in his eyes. 'If you aren't a spy why do you
come sneaking round here?'

'I came to see Mrs Mosk,' explained the chaplain, in a mighty dignified
manner, 'but she is asleep, so I could not see her. In passing the door
of this room I heard you relating your adventures, and I naturally
stopped to listen.'

'To hear if I had anything to say about my visit to your bishop, I
suppose?' growled Jentham, unpleasantly. 'I have a great mind to tell
him how you watch me, you infernal devil-dodger!'

'Respect my cloth, sir.'

'Begin by respecting it yourself, d---- you. What would his lordship of
Beorminster say if he knew you were here?'

'His lordship does know.'

Jentham started. 'Perhaps he sent you?' he said, looking doubtful.

'No, he did not,' contradicted Cargrim, who saw that nothing was to be
learned while the man was thus bemused with drink. 'I have told you the
reason of my presence here. And as I am here, I warn you, as a
clergyman, not to drink any more. You have already had more than
enough.'

Jentham was staggered by the boldness of the chaplain, and stared at him
open-mouthed; then recovering his speech, he poured forth such a volley
of vile words at Cargrim that the chaplain stepped to the door and
called the landlord. He felt that it was time for him to assert himself.

'This man is drunk, Mosk,' said he, sharply, 'and if you keep such a
creature on your premises you will get into trouble.'

'Creature yourself!' cried Jentham, advancing towards Cargrim. 'I'll
wring your neck if you use such language to me. I've killed fifty better
men than you in my time. Mosk!' he turned with a snarl on the landlord,
'get me a drink of brandy.'

'I think you've had enough, Mr Jentham,' said the landlord, with a
glance at Cargrim, 'and you know you owe me money.'

'Curse you, what of that?' raved Jentham, stamping. 'Do you think I'll
not pay you?'

'I've not seen the colour of your money lately.'

'You'll see it when I choose. I'll have hundreds of pounds next
week--hundreds;' and he broke out fiercely, 'get me more brandy; don't
mind that devil-dodger.'

'Go to bed,' said Mosk, retiring, 'go to bed.'

Jentham ran after him with an angry cry, so Cargrim, feeling himself
somewhat out of place in this pot-house row, nodded to Mosk and left the
hotel with as much dignity as he could muster. As he went, the burden of
Jentham's last speech--'hundreds of pounds! hundreds of pounds!'--rang
in his ears; and more than ever he desired to examine the bishop's
cheque-book, in order to ascertain the exact sum. The secret, he
thought, must indeed be a precious one when the cost of its preservation
ran into three figures.

When Cargrim emerged into the street it was still filled with people, as
ten o'clock was just chiming from the cathedral tower. The gossipers had
retired within, and lights were gleaming in the upper windows of the
houses; but knots of neighbours still stood about here and there,
talking and laughing loudly. Cargrim strolled slowly down the street
towards the Eastgate, musing over his late experience, and enjoying the
coolness of the night air after the sultry atmosphere of the
coffee-room. The sky was now brilliant with stars, and a silver moon
rolled aloft in the blue arch, shedding down floods of light on the
town, and investing its commonplace aspect with something of romance.
The streets were radiant with the cold, clear lustre; the shadows cast
by the houses lay black as Indian ink on the ground; and the laughter
and noise of the passers-by seemed woefully out of place in this magical
white world.

Cargrim was alive to the beauty of the night, but was too much taken up
with his thoughts to pay much attention to its mingled mystery of shadow
and light. As he took his musing way through the wide streets of the
modern town, he was suddenly brought to a standstill by hearing the
voice of Jentham some distance away. Evidently the man had quarrelled
with the landlord, and had been turned out of the hotel, for he came
rolling along in a lurching, drunken manner, roaring out a wild and
savage ditty, picked up, no doubt, in some land at the back of beyond.

  'Oh, I have treked the eight world climes,
    And sailed the seven seas:
  I've made my pile a hundred times,
    And chucked the lot on sprees.

  But when my ship comes home, my lads,
    Why, curse me, don't I know
  The spot that's worth, the blooming earth,
    The spot where I shall go.

  They call it Callao! for oh, it's Callao.
    For on no condition
    Is extradition
  Allowed in Callao.'

Jentham roared and ranted the fierce old chanty with as much gusto and
noise as though he were camping in the waste lands to which the song
applied, instead of disturbing the peace of a quiet English town. As his
thin form came swinging along in the silver light, men and women drew
back with looks of alarm to let him pass, and Cargrim, not wishing to
have trouble with the drunken bully, slipped into the shadow of a house
until he passed. As usual, there was no policeman visible, and Jentham
went bellowing and storming through the quiet summer night like the
dissolute ruffian he was. He was making for the country in the direction
of the palace, and wondering if he intended to force his way into the
house to threaten Dr Pendle, the chaplain followed immediately behind.
But he was careful to keep out of sight, as Jentham was in just the
excited frame of mind to draw a knife: and Cargrim, knowing his lawless
nature, had little doubt but that he had one concealed in his boot or
trouser belt. The delicate coward shivered at the idea of a
rough-and-tumble encounter with an armed buccaneer.

On went Jentham, swinging his arms with mad gestures, and followed by
the black shadow of the chaplain, until the two were clear of the town.
Then the gipsy turned down a shadowy lane, cut through a footpath, and
when he emerged again into the broad roadway, found himself opposite the
iron gates of the episcopalian park. Here he stopped singing and shook
his fist at them.

'Come out, you devil-dodger!' he bellowed savagely. 'Come out and give
me money, or I'll shame you before the whole town, you clerical
hypocrite.' Then he took a pull at a pocket-flask.

Cargrim listened eagerly in the hope of hearing something definite, and
Jentham gathered himself together for further denunciation of the
bishop, when round the corner tripped two women, towards whom his
drunken attention was at once attracted. With a hoarse chuckle he reeled
towards them.

'Come along m' beauty,' he hiccuped, stretching out his arms, 'here's
your haven. Wine and women! I love them both.'

The women both shrieked, and rushed along the road, pursued by the
ruffian. Just as he laid rude hands on the last one, a young man came
racing along the footpath and swung into the middle of the road. The
next moment Jentham lay sprawling on his back, and the lady assaulted
was clinging to the arm of her preserver.

'Why, it's Mab!' said the young man, in surprise.

'George!' cried Miss Arden, and burst into tears. 'Oh, George!'

'Curse you both!' growled Jentham, rising slowly. 'I'll be even with you
for that blow, my lad.'

'I'll kick you into the next field if you don't clear out,' retorted
George Pendle. 'Did he hurt you, Mab?'

'No! no! but I was afraid. I was at Mrs Tears, and was coming home with
Ellen, when that man jumped on to us. Oh! oh! oh!'

'The villain!' cried Captain Pendle; 'who is he?'

It was at this moment that, all danger being over, Cargrim judged it
judicious to emerge from his retreat. He came forward hurriedly, as
though he had just arrived on the scene.

'What is the matter?' he exclaimed. 'I heard a scream. What, Captain
Pendle! Miss Arden! This is indeed a surprise.'

'Captain Pendle!' cried Jentham. 'The son of the bishop. Curse him!'

George whirled his stick and made a dash at the creature, but was
restrained by Mab, who implored him not to provoke further quarrels.

George took her arm within his own, gave a curt nod to the chaplain,
whom he suspected had seen more of the affray than he chose to admit,
and flung a word to Jentham.

'Clear out, you dog!' he said, 'or I'll hand you over to the police.
Come, Mab, yonder is Ellen waiting for you. We'll join her, and I shall
see you both home.'

Jentham stood looking after the three figures with a scowl. 'You'll hand
me over to the police, George Pendle, will you?' he muttered, loud
enough for Cargrim to overhear. 'Take care I don't do the same thing to
your father,' and like a noisome and dangerous animal he crept back in
the shadow of the hedge and disappeared.

'Aha!' chuckled Cargrim, as he walked towards the park gates, 'it has to
do with the police, then, my lord bishop. So much the better for me, so
much the worse for you.'




CHAPTER X

MORNING SERVICE IN THE MINSTER


The cathedral is the glory of Beorminster, of the county, and, indeed,
of all England, since no churches surpass it in size and splendour, save
the minsters of York and Canterbury. Founded and endowed by Henry II. in
1184 for the glory of God, it is dedicated to the blessed Saint Wulf of
Osserton, a holy hermit of Saxon times, who was killed by the heathen
Danes. Bishop Gandolf designed the building in the picturesque style of
Anglo-Norman architecture; and as the original plans have been closely
adhered to by successive prelates, the vast fabric is the finest example
extant of the Norman superiority in architectural science. It was begun
by Gandolf in 1185, and finished at the beginning of the present
century; therefore, as it took six hundred years in building, every
portion of it is executed in the most perfect manner. It is renowned
both for its beauty and sanctity, and forms one of the most splendid
memorials of architectural art and earnest faith to be found even in
England, that land of fine churches.

The great central tower rises to the height of two hundred feet in
square massiveness, and from this point springs a slender and graceful
spire to another hundred feet, so that next to Salisbury, the great
archetype of this special class of ecclesiastical architecture, it is
the tallest spire in England. Two square towers, richly ornamented,
embellish the western front, and beneath the great window over the
central entrance is a series of canopied arches. The church is cruciform
in shape, and is built of Portland stone, the whole being richly
ornamented with pinnacles, buttresses, crocketted spires and elaborate
tracery. Statues of saints, kings, queens and bishops are placed in
niches along the northern and southern fronts, and the western front
itself is sculptured with scenes from Holy Scripture in the quaint
grotesque style of mediaeval art. No ivy is permitted to conceal the
beauties of the building; and elevated in the clear air, far above the
smoke of the town, it looks as fresh and white and clean cut as though
it had been erected only within the last few years. Spared by Henry
VIII. and the iconoclastic rage of the Puritans, Time alone has dealt
with it; and Time has mellowed the whole to a pale amber hue which adds
greatly to the beauty of the mighty fane. Beorminster Cathedral is a
poem in stone.

Within, the nave and transepts are lofty and imposing, with innumerable
arches springing from massive marble pillars. The rood screen is ornate,
with figures of saints and patriarchs; the pavement is diversified with
brasses and carved marble slabs, and several Crusaders' tombs adorn the
side chapels. The many windows are mostly of stained glass, since these
were not destroyed by the Puritans; and when the sun shines on a
summer's day the twilight interior is dyed with rich hues and quaint
patterns. As the Bishop of Beorminster is a High Churchman the altar is
magnificently decorated, and during service, what with the light and
colour and brilliancy, the vast building seems--unlike the dead aspect
of many of its kind--to be filled with life and movement and living
faith. A Romanist might well imagine that he was attending one of the
magnificent and imposing services of his own faith, save that the
uttered words are spoken in the mother tongue.

As became a city whose whole existence depended upon the central shrine,
the services at the cathedral were invariably well attended. The
preaching attracted some, the fine music many, and the imposing ritual
introduced by Bishop Pendle went a great way towards bringing
worshippers to the altar. A cold, frigid, undecorated service, appealing
more to the intellect than the senses, would not have drawn together so
vast and attentive a congregation; but the warmth and colour and musical
fervour of the new ritual lured the most careless within the walls of
the sacred building. Bishop Pendle was right in his estimate of human
nature; for when the senses are enthralled by colour and sound, and vast
spaces, and symbolic decorations the reverential feeling thus
engendered prepares the mind for the reception of the sublime truths of
Christianity. A pure faith and a gorgeous ritual are not so incompatible
as many people think. God should be worshipped with pomp and splendour;
we should bring to His service all that we can invent in the way of art
and beauty. If God has prepared for those who believe the splendid
habitation of the New Jerusalem with its gates of pearl and its streets
of gold, why should we, His creatures, stint our gifts in His service,
and debar the beautiful things, which He inspires us to create with
brain and hand, from use in His holy temple? 'Out of the fulness of the
heart the mouth speaketh,' and out of the fulness of the hand the giver
should give. 'Date et dabitur!' The great Luther was right in applying
this saying to the church.

One of the congregation at St Wulf's on this particular morning was
Captain George Pendle, and he came less for the service than in the
hope--after the manner of those in love--of meeting with Mab Arden.
During the reading of the lessons his eyes were roving here and there in
search of that beloved face, but much to his dismay he could not see it.
Finally, on a chair near a pillar, he caught sight of Miss Whichello in
her poke bonnet and black silk cloak, but she was alone, and there were
no bright eyes beside her to send a glance in the direction of George.
Having ascertained beyond all doubt that Mab was not in the church, and
believing that she was unwell after the shock of Jentham's attack on the
previous night, George withdrew his attention from the congregation, and
settled himself to listen attentively to the anthem. It was worthy of
the cathedral, and higher praise cannot be given. 'I have blotted out as
a thick cloud,' sang the boy soloist in a clear sweet treble, 'I have
blotted out thy transgressions, and as a cloud thy sins.' Then came the
triumphant cry of the choir, borne on the rich waves of sound rolling
from the organ, 'Return unto me, for I have redeemed thee.' The lofty
roof reverberated with the melodious thunder, and the silvery altoes
pierced through the great volume of sound like arrows of song. 'Return!
Return! Return!' called the choristers louder and higher and clearer,
and ended, with a magnificent burst of harmony, with the sublime
proclamation, 'The Lord hath redeemed Jacob, and glorified himself in
Israel!' When the white-robed singers resumed their seats, the organ
still continued to peal forth triumphant notes, which died away in
gentle murmurs. It was like the passing by of a tempest; the stilling of
the ocean after a storm.

Mr Cargrim preached the sermon, and, with a vivid recollection of his
present enterprise, waxed eloquent on the ominous text, 'Be sure thy sin
will find thee out.' His belief that the bishop was guilty of some
crime, for the concealment of which he intended to bribe Jentham, had
been strengthened by an examination on that very morning of the
cheque-book. Dr Pendle had departed on horseback for Southberry after an
early breakfast, and after hurriedly despatching his own, Cargrim had
hastened to the library. Here, as he expected, he found the cheque-book
carelessly left in an unlocked drawer of the desk, and on looking over
it he found that one of the butts had been torn out. The previous butt
bore a date immediately preceding that of Dr Pendle's departure for
London, so Cargrim had little difficulty in concluding that the bishop
had drawn the next cheque in London, and had torn out the butt to which
it had been attached. This showed, as the chaplain very truly thought,
that Dr Pendle was desirous of concealing not only the amount of the
cheque--since he had kept no note of the sum on the butt--but of hiding
the fact that the cheque had been drawn at all. This conduct, coupled
with the fact of Jentham's allusion to Tom Tiddler's ground, and his
snatch of extempore song, confirmed Cargrim in his suspicions that
Pendle had visited London for the purpose of drawing out a large sum of
money, and intended to pay the same over to Jentham that very night on
Southberry Heath. With this in his mind it was no wonder that Cargrim
preached a stirring sermon. He repeated his warning text over and over
again; he illustrated it in the most brilliant fashion; and his appeals
to those who had secret sins, to confess them at once, were quite
heartrending in their pathos. As most of his congregation had their own
little peccadilloes to worry over, Mr Cargrim's sermon made them quite
uneasy, and created a decided sensation, much to his own gratification.
If Bishop Pendle had only been seated on his throne to hear that
sermon, Cargrim would have been thoroughly satisfied. But, alas! the
bishop--worthy man--was confirming innocent sinners at Southberry, and
thus lost any chance he might have had of profiting by his chaplain's
eloquence.

However, the congregation could not be supposed to know the secret
source of the chaplain's eloquence, and his withering denunciations were
supposed to arise from a consciousness of his own pure and open heart.
The female admirers of Cargrim particularly dwelt in after-church gossip
on this presumed cause of the excellent sermon they had heard, and when
the preacher appeared he was congratulated on all sides. Miss Tancred
for once forgot her purse story, and absolutely squeaked, in the highest
of keys, in her efforts to make the young man understand the amount of
pleasure he had given her. Even Mrs Pansey was pleased to express her
approval of so well chosen a text, and looked significantly at several
of her friends as she remarked that she hoped they would take its
warning to heart.

George came upon his father's chaplain, grinning like a heathen idol, in
the midst of a tempestuous ocean of petticoats, and the bland way in
which he sniffed up the incense of praise showed how grateful such
homage was to his vain nature. At that moment he saw himself a future
bishop, and that at no very great distance of time. Indeed, had the
election of such a prelate been in the hands of his admirers, he would
have been elevated that very moment to the nearest vacant episcopalian
throne. Captain Pendle looked on contemptuously at this priest-worship.

'The sneaking cad!' he thought, sneering at the excellent Cargrim. 'I
dare say he thinks he is the greatest man in Beorminster just now. He
looks as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.'

There was no love lost between the chaplain and the captain, for on
several occasions the latter had found Cargrim a slippery customer, and
lax in his notions of honour; while the curate, knowing that he had not
been clever enough to hoodwink George, hated him with all the fervour
and malice of his petty soul. However, he hoped soon to have the power
to wound Captain Pendle through his father, so he could afford to smile
blandly in response to the young soldier's contemptuous look. And he
smiled more than ever when brisk Miss Whichello, with her small face,
ruddy as a winter apple, marched up and joined in the congratulations.

'In future I shall call you Boanerges, Mr Cargrim,' she cried, her
bright little eyes dancing. 'You quite frightened me. I looked into my
mind to see what sins I had committed.'

'And found none, I'm sure,' said the courtly chaplain.

'You would have found one if you had looked long enough,' growled Mrs
Pansey, who hated the old maid as a rival practitioner amongst the poor,
'and that is, you did not bring your niece to hear the sermon. I don't
call such carelessness Christianity.'

'Don't look at my sins through a microscope, Mrs Pansey. I did not bring
Mab because she is not well.'

'Oh, really, dear Miss Winchello,' chimed in Daisy Norsham. 'Why, I
thought that your sweet niece looked the very picture of health. All
those strong, tall women do; not like poor little me.'

'You need dieting,' retorted Miss Whichello, with a disparaging glance.
'Your face is pale and pasty; if it isn't powder, it's bad digestion.'

'Miss Whichello!' cried the outraged spinster.

'I'm an old woman, my dear, and you must allow me to speak my mind. I'm
sure Mrs Pansey always does.'

'You need not be so very unpleasant! No, really!'

'The truth is always unpleasant,' said Mrs Pansey, who could not forbear
a thrust even at her own guest, 'but Miss Whichello doesn't often hear
it,' with a dig at her rival. 'Come away, Daisy. Mr Cargrim, next time
you preach take for your text, "The tongue is a two-edged sword."'

'Do, Mr Cargrim,' cried Miss Whichello, darting an angry glance at Mrs
Pansey, 'and illustrate it with the one to whom it particularly
applies.'

'Ladies! ladies!' remonstrated Cargrim, while both combatants ruffled
their plumes like two fighting cocks, and the more timid of the
spectators scuttled out of the way. How the situation would have ended
it is impossible to say, as the two ladies were equally matched, but
George saved it by advancing to greet Miss Whichello. When the little
woman saw him, she darted forward and shook his hand with unfeigned
warmth.

'My dear Captain Pendle,' she cried, 'I am so glad to see you; and thank
you for your noble conduct of last night.'

'Why, Miss Whichello, it was nothing,' murmured the modest hero.

'Indeed, I must say it was very valiant,' said Cargrim, graciously. 'Do
you know, ladies, that Miss Arden was attacked last night by a tramp and
Captain Pendle knocked him down?'

'Oh, really! how very sweet!' cried Daisy, casting an admiring look on
George's handsome face, which appealed to her appreciation of manly
beauty.

'What was Miss Arden doing to place herself in the position of being
attacked by a tramp?' asked Mrs Pansey, in a hard voice. 'This must be
looked into.'

'Thank you, Mrs Pansey, I have looked into it myself,' said Miss
Whichello. 'Captain Pendle, come home with me to luncheon and tell me
all about it; Mr Cargrim, you come also.'

Both gentlemen bowed and accepted, the former because he wished to see
Mab, the latter because he knew that Captain Pendle did not want him to
come. As Miss Whichello moved off with her two guests, Mrs Pansey
exclaimed in a loud voice,--

'Poor young men! Luncheon indeed! They will be starved. I know for a
fact that she weighs out the food in scales.' Then, having had the last
word, she went home in triumph.




CHAPTER XI

MISS WHICHELLO'S LUNCHEON-PARTY


The little lady trotted briskly across the square, and guided her guests
to a quaint old house squeezed into one corner of it. Here she had been
born some sixty odd years before; here she had lived her life of
spinsterhood, save for an occasional visit to London; and here she hoped
to die, although at present she kept Death at a safe distance by
hygienic means and dietary treatment. The house was a queer survival of
three centuries, with a pattern of black oak beams let into a
white-washed front. Its roof shot up into a high gable at an acute
angle, and was tiled with red clay squares, mellowed by Time to the hue
of rusty iron. A long lattice with diamond panes, and geraniums in
flower-pots behind them, extended across the lower storey; two little
jutting windows, also of the criss-cross pattern, looked like two eyes
in the second storey; and high up in the third, the casement of the
attic peered out coyly from under the eaves. At the top of a flight of
immaculately white steps there was a squat little door painted green and
adorned with a brass knocker burnished to the colour of fine gold. The
railings of iron round the area were also coloured green, and the
appearance of the whole exterior was as spotless and neat as Miss
Whichello herself. It was an ideal house for a dainty old spinster such
as she was, and rested in the very shadow of the Bishop Gandolf's
cathedral like the nest of a bright-eyed wren.

'Mab, my dear!' cried the wren herself, as she led the gentlemen into
the drawing-room, 'I have brought Captain Pendle and Mr Cargrim to
luncheon.'

Mab arose out of a deep chair and laid aside the book she was reading.
'I saw you crossing the square, Captain Pendle,' she said, shaking his
hand. 'Mr Cargrim, I am glad to see you.'

'Are you not glad to see me?' whispered George, in low tones.

'Do you need me to tell you so?' was Mab's reply, with a smile, and that
smile answered his question.

'Oh, my dear, such a heavenly sermon!' cried Miss Whichello, fluttering
about the room; 'it went to my very heart.'

'It could not have gone to a better place,' replied the chaplain, in the
gentle voice which George particularly detested. 'I am sorry to hear you
have suffered from your alarm last night, Miss Arden.'

'My nerves received rather a shock, Mr Cargrim, and I had such a bad
headache that I decided to remain at home. I must receive your sermon
second-hand from my aunt.'

'Why not first-hand from me?' said Cargrim, insinuatingly, whereupon
Captain George pulled his moustache and looked savage.

'Oh, I won't tax your good nature so far,' rejoined Mab, laughing. 'What
is it, aunty?' for the wren was still fluttering and restless.

'My dear, you must content yourself with Captain Pendle till luncheon,
for I want Mr Cargrim to come into the garden and see my fig tree; real
figs grow on it, Mr Cargrim,' said Miss Whichello, solemnly, 'the very
first figs that have ever ripened in Beorminster.'

'I am glad it is not a barren fig tree,' said Cargrim, introducing a
scriptural allusion in his most clerical manner.

'Barren indeed! it has five figs on it. Really, sitting under its shade
one would fancy one was in Palestine. Do come, Mr Cargrim,' and Miss
Whichello fluttered through the door like an escaping bird.

'With pleasure; the more so, as I know we shall not be missed.'

'Damn!' muttered Captain Pendle, when the door closed on Cargrim's smile
and insinuating looks.

'Captain Pendle!' exclaimed Miss Arden, becomingly shocked.

'Captain Pendle indeed!' said the young man, slipping his arm round Mab;
'and why not George?'

'I thought Mr Cargrim might hear.'

'He ought to; like the ass, his ears are long enough.'

'Still, he is anything but an ass--George.'

'If he isn't an ass he's a beast,' rejoined Pendle, promptly, 'and it
comes to much the same thing.'

'Well, you need not swear at him.'

'If I didn't swear I'd kick him, Mab; and think of the scandal to the
Church. Cargrim's a sneaking, time-serving sycophant. I wonder my father
can endure him; I can't!'

'I don't like him myself,' confessed Mab, as they seated themselves in
the window-seat.

'I should--think--not!' cried Captain George, in so deliberate and
disgusted a tone that Mab laughed. Whereat he kissed her and was
reproved, so that both betook themselves to argument as to the
righteousness or unrighteousness of kissing on a Sunday.

George Pendle was a tall, slim, and very good-looking young man in every
sense of the word. He was as fair as Mab was dark, with bright blue eyes
and a bronzed skin, against which his smartly-pointed moustache appeared
by contrast almost white. With his upright figure, his alert military
air, and merry smile, he looked an extremely handsome and desirable
lover; and so Mab thought, although she reproved him with orthodox
modesty for snatching a kiss unasked. But if men had to request favours
of this sort, there would not be much kissing in the world. Moreover,
stolen kisses, like stolen fruit, have a piquant flavour of their own.

The quaint old drawing-room, with its low ceiling and twilight
atmosphere, was certainly an ideal place for love-making. It was
furnished with chairs, and tables, and couches, which had done duty in
the days of Miss Whichello's grandparents; and if the carpet was old, so
much the better, for its once brilliant tints had faded into soft hues
more restful to the eye. In one corner stood the grandfather of all
pianos, with a front of drawn green silk fluted to a central button;
beside it a prim canterbury, filled with primly-bound books of
yellow-paged music, containing, 'The Battle of the Prague,' 'The
Maiden's Prayer,' 'Cherry Ripe,' and 'The Canary Bird's Quadrilles.'
Such tinkling melodies had been the delight of Miss Whichello's youth,
and--as she had a fine finger for the piano (her own observation)--she
sometimes tinkled them now on the jingling old piano when old friends
came to see her. Also there were Chippendale cupboards with glass doors,
filled with a most wonderful collection of old china--older even than
their owner; Chinese jars heaped up with dried rose leaves spreading
around a perfume of dead summers; bright silken screens from far Japan;
foot-stools and fender-stools worked in worsted which tripped up the
unwary; and a number of oil-paintings valuable rather for age than
beauty. None of your modern flimsy drawing-rooms was Miss Whichello's,
but a dear, delightful, cosy room full of faded splendours and relics of
the dead and gone so dearly beloved. From the yellow silk fire-screen
swinging on a rosewood pole, to the drowsy old canary chirping feebly in
his brass cage at the window, all was old-world and marvellously proper
and genteel. Withal, a quiet, perfumed room, delightful to make love in,
to the most beautiful woman in the world, as Captain George Pendle knew
very well.

'Though it really isn't proper for you to kiss me,' observed Mab,
folding her slender hands on her white gown. 'You know we are not
engaged.'

'I know nothing of the sort, my dearest prude. You are the only woman I
ever intend to marry. Have you any objections? If so, I should like to
hear them.'

'I am two years older than you, George.'

'A man is as old as he looks, a woman as she feels. I am quite
convinced, Miss Arden, that you feel nineteen years of age, so the
disparity rests rather on my shoulders than on yours.'

'You don't look old,' laughed Mab, letting her hand lie in that of her
lover's.

'But I feel old--old enough to marry you, my dear. What is your next
objection?'

'Your father does not know that you love me.'

'My mother does; Lucy does; and with two women to persuade him, my dear,
kind old father will gladly consent to the match.'

'I have no money.'

'My dearest, neither have I. Two negatives make an affirmative, and
that affirmative is to be uttered by you when I ask if I may tell the
bishop that you are willing to become a soldier's wife.'

'Oh, George!' cried Mab, anxiously, 'it is a very serious matter. You
know how particular your father is about birth and family. My parents
are dead; I never knew them; for my father died before I was born, and
my mother followed him to the grave when I was a year old. If my dear
mother's sister had not taken charge of me and brought me up, I should
very likely have gone on the parish; for--as aunty says--my parents were
paupers.'

'My lovely pauper, what is all this to me? Here is your answer to all
the nonsense you have been talking,' and George, with the proverbial
boldness of a soldier, laid a fond kiss on the charming face so near to
his own.

'Oh, George!' began the scandalised Mab, for the fifth time at least,
and was about to reprove her audacious lover again, when Miss Whichello
bustled into the room, followed by the black shadow of the parson.
George and Mab sprang apart with alacrity, and each wondered, while
admiring the cathedral opposite, if Miss Whichello or Cargrim had heard
the sound of that stolen kiss. Apparently the dear, unsuspecting old
Jenny Wren had not, for she hopped up to the pair in her bird-like
fashion, and took George's arm.

'Come, good people,' she said briskly, 'luncheon is ready; and so are
your appetites, I've no doubt. Mr Cargrim, take in my niece.'

In five minutes the quartette were seated round a small table in Miss
Whichello's small dining-room. The apartment was filled with oak
furniture black with age and wondrously carved; the curtains and carpet
and cushions were of faded crimson rep, and as the gaily-striped
sun-blinds were down, the whole was enwrapped in a sober brown
atmosphere restful to the eye and cool to the skin. The oval table was
covered with a snow-white cloth, on which sparkled silver and crystal
round a Nankin porcelain bowl of blue and white filled with deep red
roses. The dinner-plates were of thin china, painted with sprawling
dragons in yellow and green; the food, in spite of Mrs Pansey's report,
was plentiful and dainty, and the wines came from the stock laid down
by the father of the hostess in the days when dignitaries of the Church
knew what good wine was. It is true that a neat pair of brass scales was
placed beside Miss Whichello, but she used them to weigh out such
portions of food as she judged to be needful for herself, and did not
mar her hospitality by interfering with the appetites of her guests. The
repast was tempting, the company congenial, and the two young men
enjoyed themselves greatly. Miss Whichello was an entertainer worth
knowing, if only for her cook.

'Mab, my dear,' cried the lively old lady, 'I am ashamed of your
appetite. Don't you feel better for your morning's rest?'

'Much better, thank you, aunty, but it is too hot to eat.'

'Try some salad, my love; it is cool and green, and excellent for the
blood. If I had my way, people should eat more green stuff than they
do.'

'Like so many Nebuchadnezzars,' suggested Cargrim, always scriptural.

'Well, some kinds of grass are edible, you know, Mr Cargrim; although we
need not go on all fours to eat them as he did.'

'So many people would need to revert to their natural characters of
animals if that custom came in,' said George, smiling.

'A certain great poet remarked that everyone had a portion of the nature
of some animal,' observed Cargrim, 'especially women.'

'Then Mrs Pansey is a magpie,' cried Mab, with an arch look at her aunt.

'She is a magpie, and a fox, and a laughing hyaena, my dear.'

'Oh, aunty, what a trinity!'

'I suppose, Cargrim, all you black-coated parsons are rooks,' said
George.

'No doubt, captain; and you soldiers are lions.'

'Aunty is a Jenny Wren!'

'And Mab is a white peacock,' said Miss Whichello, with a nod.

'Captain Pendle, protect me,' laughed Miss Arden. 'I decline to be
called a peacock.'

'You are a golden bird of paradise, Miss Arden.'

'Ah, that is a pretty compliment, Captain Pendle. Thank you!'

While George laughed, Cargrim, rather tired of these zoological
comparisons, strove to change the subject by an allusion to the
adventure of the previous night. 'The man who attacked you was certainly
a wolf,' he said decisively.

'Who was the man?' asked Miss Whichello, carefully weighing herself some
cheese.

'Some tramp who had been in the wars,' replied George, carelessly; 'a
discharged soldier, I daresay. At least, he had a long red scar on his
villainous-looking face. I saw it in the moonlight, marking him as with
the brand of Cain.'

'A scar!' repeated Miss Whichello, in so altered a tone that Cargrim
stared at her, and hastened to explain further, so as to learn, if
possible, the meaning of her strange look.

'A scar on the right cheek,' he said slowly, 'from the ear to the
mouth.'

'What kind of a looking man is he?' asked the old lady, pushing away her
plate with a nervous gesture.

'Something like a gipsy--lean, tall and swarthy, with jet-black eyes and
an evil expression. He talks like an educated person.'

'You seem to know all about him, Cargrim,' said Captain Pendle, in some
surprise, while Miss Whichello, her rosy face pale and scared, sat
silently staring at the tablecloth.

'I have several times been to an hotel called The Derby Winner,'
explained the chaplain, 'to see a sick woman; and there I came across
this scamp several times. He stays there, I believe!'

'What is his name?' asked Miss Whichello, hoarsely.

'Jentham, I have been informed.'

'Jentham! I don't know the name.'

'I don't suppose you know the man either, aunty?'

'No, my love,' replied Miss Whichello, in a low voice. 'I don't suppose
I know the man either. Is he still at The Derby Winner, Mr Cargrim?'

'I believe so; he portions his time between that hotel and a gipsy camp
on Southberry Common.'

'What is he doing here?'

'Really, my dear lady, I do not know.'

'Aunty, one would think you knew the man,' said Mab, amazed at her
aunt's emotion.

'No, Mab, I do not,' said Miss Whichello, vehemently; more so than the
remark warranted. 'But if he attacks people on the high road he should
certainly be shut up. Well, good people,' she added, with an attempt at
her former lively manner, 'if you are finished we will return to the
drawing-room.'

All attempts to restore the earlier harmony of the visit failed, for the
conversation languished and Miss Whichello was silent and distraught.
The young men shortly took their leave, and the old lady seemed glad to
be rid of them. Outside, George and Cargrim separated, as neither was
anxious for the other's company. As the chaplain walked to the palace he
reflected on the strange conduct of Miss Whichello.

'She knows something about Jentham,' he thought. 'I wonder if she has a
secret also.'




CHAPTER XII

BELL MOSK PAYS A VISIT


Although the palace was so near Beorminster, and the sphere of Gabriel's
labours lay in the vicinity of the cathedral, Bishop Pendle did not
judge it wise that his youngest son should dwell beneath the paternal
roof. To teach him independence, to strengthen his will and character,
and because he considered that a clergyman should, to a certain extent,
share the lot of those amongst whom he laboured, the bishop arranged
that Gabriel should inhabit lodgings in the old town, not far from The
Derby Winner. It was by reason of this contiguity that Gabriel became
acquainted with the handsome barmaid of the hotel, and as he was a more
weak-natured man than his father dreamed of, it soon came about that he
fell in love with the girl. Matters between them had gone much further
than even Cargrim with all his suspicions guessed, for in the skilful
hands of Miss Mosk the curate was as clay, and for some time he had been
engaged to his charmer. No one knew this, not even Mrs Mosk, for the
fair Bell was quite capable of keeping a secret; but Gabriel was firmly
bound to her by honour, and Bell possessed a ring, which she kept in the
drawer of her looking-glass and wore in secret, as symbolic of an
engagement she did not dare to reveal.

On Sunday evening she arrayed herself in her best garments, and putting
on this ring, told her mother that she was going to church. At first Mrs
Mosk feebly objected, as her husband was away in Southberry and would
not be back all night; but as Bell declared that she wanted some
amusement after working hard at pulling beer all the week, Mrs Mosk gave
way. She did not approve of Bell's mention of evening service as
amusement, but she did approve of her going to church, so when the young
lady had exhibited herself to the invalid in all her finery, she went
away in the greatest good-humour. As the evening was hot, she had put on
a dress of pale blue muslin adorned with white ribbons, a straw hat with
many flowers and feathers, and to finish off her costume, her gloves and
shoes and sunshade were white. As these cool colours rather toned down
the extreme red of her healthy complexion, she really looked very well;
and when Gabriel saw her seated in a pew near the pulpit, behaving as
demurely as a cat that is after cream, he could not but think how pretty
and pious she was. It was probably the first time that piety had ever
been associated with Bell's character, although she was not a bad girl
on the whole; but that Gabriel should gift her with such a quality
showed how green and innocent he was as regards the sex.

The church in which he preached was an ancient building at the foot of
the hill, crowned by the cathedral. It was built of rough, grey stone,
in the Norman style of architecture, and very little had been done to
adorn it either within or without, as the worshippers were few and poor,
and Low Church in their tendencies. Those who liked pomp and colour and
ritual could find all three in the minster, so there was no necessity to
hold elaborate services in this grey, cold, little chapel. In her heart
Bell preferred the cathedral with its music and choir, its many
celebrants and fashionable congregation, but out of diplomacy she came
to sit under Gabriel and follow him as her spiritual guide.
Nevertheless, she thought less of him in this capacity, than as a future
husband likely to raise her to a position worthy of her beauty and
merits, of both of which she entertained a most excellent opinion.

As usual, the pews were half empty, but Gabriel, being a devout parson,
performed the service with much earnestness. He read the lessons, lent
his voice to the assistance of the meagre choir, and preached a short
but sensible discourse which pleased everyone. Bell did not hear much of
it, for her mind was busy with hopes that Gabriel would shortly induce
his father to receive her as a daughter-in-law. It is true that she saw
difficulties in the way, but, to a clever woman like herself, she did
not think them unconquerable. Having gone so far as to engage herself to
the young man, she was determined to go to the whole length and benefit
as much as possible for her sacrifice--as she thought it--of accepting
the somewhat trying position of a curate's wife. With her bold good
looks and aggressive love of dress and amusement, Bell was hardly the
type likely to do credit to a parsonage. But any doubts on that score
never entered her vain mind.

When the service was over, and the sparse congregation had dwindled
away, she went round to the vestry and asked Jarper, the cross old
verger, if she could see Mr Pendle. Jarper, who took a paternal interest
in the curate, and did not like Miss Mosk over much, since she stinted
him of his full measure of beer when he patronised her father's hotel,
replied in surly tones that Mr Pendle was tired and would see no one.

'But I must see him,' persisted Bell, who was as obstinate as a mule.
'My mother is very ill.'

'Then why don't ye stay t'ome and look arter her?'

'She sent me out to ask Mr Pendle to see her, and I want none of your
insolence, Jacob Jarper.'

'Don't 'ee be bold, Miss Mosk. I hev bin verger here these sixty year, I
hev, an' I don't want to be told my duty by sich as you.'

'Such as me indeed!' cried Bell, with a flash of the paternal temper.
'If I wasn't a lady I'd give you a piece of my mind.'

'He! he!' chuckled Jarper, ''pears as yer all ladies by your own way of
showin'. Not that y'ain't 'andsome--far be it from me to say as you
ain't--but Muster Pendle--well, that's a different matter.'

At this moment Gabriel put an end to what threatened to develop into a
quarrel by appearing at the vestry door. On learning that Mrs Mosk
wished to see him, he readily consented to accompany Bell, but as he had
some business to attend to at the church before he went, he asked Bell
to wait for a few minutes.

'I'll be some little time, Jarper,' said he kindly to the sour old
verger, 'so if you give me the keys I'll lock up and you can go home to
your supper.'

'I _am_ hungry, Muster Pendle,' confessed Jarper, 'an' it ain't at my
time of life as old folk shud starve. I've locked up the hull church
'ceptin' the vestry door, an' 'eres th' key of't. Be careful with the
light an' put it out, Muster Pendle, for if you burns down the church,
what good is fine sermons, I'd like to know?'

'It will be all right, Jarper. I'll give you the key to-morrow.
Good-night!'

'Good-night, Jarper!' chimed in Bell, in her most stately manner.

'Thankee, Muster Pendle, good-night, but I don't want no beer fro' you
this evening, Miss Bell Mosk,' growled the old man, and chuckling over
this exhibition of wit he hobbled away to his supper.

'These common people are most insolent,' said Bell, with an affectation
of fine ladyism. 'Let us go into the vestry, Gabriel, I wish to speak to
you. Oh, you needn't look so scared; there's nobody about, now that old
Dot-and-carry-one has gone'--this last in allusion to Jarper's lameness.

'Bell, please, don't use such language,' remonstrated Gabriel, as he
conducted her into the vestry; 'someone might hear.'

'I don't care if someone does,' retorted Miss Mosk, taking a chair near
the flaring, spluttering gas jet, 'but I tell you there is no one about.
I wouldn't be here alone with you if there were. I'm as careful of my
own reputation as I am of yours, I can tell you.'

'Is your mother ill again?' asked Gabriel, arranging some sheets of
paper on the table and changing the conversation.

'Oh, she's no better and no worse. But you'd better come and see her, so
that folks won't be talking of my having spoken to you. A cat can't look
at a jug in this town without they think she's after the cream.'

'You wish to speak with me, Bell?'

'Yes, I do; come and sit 'longside of me.'

Gabriel, being very much in love, obeyed with the greatest willingness,
and when he sat down under the gas jet would have taken Bell in his
arms, but that she evaded his clasp. 'There's no time for anything of
that sort, my dear,' said she sharply; 'we've got to talk business, you
and I, we have.'

'Business! About our engagement?'

'You've hit it, Gabriel; that's the business I wish to understand. How
long is this sort of thing going on?'

'What sort of thing?'

'Now, don't pretend to misunderstand me,' cried Bell, with acerbity, 'or
you and I shall fall out of the cart. What sort of thing indeed! Why, my
engagement to you being kept secret; your pretending to visit mother
when it's me you want; my being obliged to hide the ring you gave me
from father's eyes; that's the sort of thing, Mr Gabriel Pendle.'

'I know it is a painful position, dearest, but--'

'Painful position!' echoed the girl, contemptuously. 'Oh, I don't care
two straws about the painful position. It's the danger I'm thinking
about.'

'Danger! What do you mean? Danger from whom?'

'From Mrs Pansey; from Mr Cargrim. She guesses a lot and he knows more
than is good for either you or I. I don't want to lose my character.'

'Bell! no one dare say a word against your character.'

'I should think not,' retorted Miss Mosk, firing up. 'I'd have the law
on them if they did. I can look after myself, I hope, and there's no man
I know likely to get the better of me. I don't say I'm an aristocrat,
Gabriel, but I'm an honest girl, and as good a lady as any of them. I'll
make you a first-class wife in spite of my bringing up.'

Gabriel kissed her. 'My darling Bell, you are the sweetest and cleverest
woman in the world. You know how I adore you.'

Bell knew very well, for she was sharp enough to distinguish between
genuine and spurious affection. Strange as it may appear, the refined
and educated young clergyman was deeply in love with this handsome, bold
woman of the people. Some lovers of flowers prefer full blown-roses,
ripe and red, to the most exquisite buds. Gabriel's tastes were the
same, and he admired the florid beauty of Bell with all the ardour of
his young and impetuous heart. He was blind to her liking for
incongruous colours in dress: he was deaf to her bold expressions and
defects in grammar. What lured him was her ripe, rich, exuberant beauty;
what charmed him was the flash of her white teeth and the brilliancy of
her eyes when she smiled; what dominated him was her strong will and
practical way of looking on worldly affairs. Opposite natures are often
attracted to one another by the very fact that they are so undeniably
unlike, and the very characteristics in Bell which pleased Gabriel were
those which he lacked himself.

Undoubtedly he loved her, but, it may be asked, did she love him? and
that is the more difficult question to answer. Candidly speaking, Bell
had an affection for Gabriel. She liked his good looks, his refined
voice, his very weakness of character was not unpleasing to her. But she
did not love him sufficiently to marry him for himself alone. What she
wished to marry was the gentleman, the clergyman, the son of the Bishop
of Beorminster, and unless Gabriel could give her all the pleasures and
delights attendant on his worldly position, she was not prepared to
become Mrs Gabriel Pendle. It was to make this clear to him, to clinch
the bargain, to show that she was willing to barter her milkmaid beauty
and strong common sense for his position and possible money, that she
had come to see him. Not being bemused with love, Bell Mosk was
thoroughly practical, and so spoke very much to the point. Never was
there so prosaic an interview.

'Well, it just comes to this,' she said determinedly, 'I'm not going to
be kept in the background serving out beer any longer. If I am worth
marrying I am worth acknowledging, and that's just what you've got to
do, Gabriel.'

'But my father!' faltered Gabriel, nervously, for he saw in a flash the
difficulties of his position.

'What about your father? He can't eat me, can he?'

'He can cut me off with a shilling, my dear. And that's just what he
will do if he knows I'm engaged to you. Surely, Bell, with your strong
common sense, you can see that for yourself!'

'Of course I see it,' retorted Bell, sharply, for the speech was not
flattering to her vanity; 'all the same, something must be done.'

'We must wait.'

'I'm sick of waiting.'

Gabriel rose to his feet and began to pace to and fro. 'You cannot
desire our marriage more than I do,' he said fondly. 'I wish to make
you my wife in as public a manner as possible. But you know I have only
a small income as a curate, and you would not wish us to begin life on a
pittance.'

'I should think not. I've had enough of cutting and contriving. But how
do you intend to get enough for us to marry on?'

'My father has promised me the rectorship of Heathcroft. The present
incumbent is old and cannot possibly live long.'

'I believe he'll live on just to spite us,' grumbled Bell. 'How much is
the living worth?'

'Six hundred a year; there is also the rectory, you know.'

'Well, I daresay we can manage on that, Gabriel. Perhaps, after all, it
will be best to wait, but I don't like it.'

'Neither do I, my dear. If you like, I'll tell my father and marry you
to-morrow.'

'Then you would lose Heathcroft.'

'It's extremely probable I would,' replied Gabriel, dryly.

'In that case we'll wait,' said Bell, springing up briskly. 'I don't
suppose that old man is immortal, and I'm willing to stick to you for
another twelve months.'

'Bell! I thought you loved me sufficiently to accept any position.'

'I do love you, Gabriel, but I'm not a fool, and I'm not cut out for a
poor man's wife. I've had quite enough of being a poor man's daughter.
When poverty comes in at the door, love flies out of the window. That's
as true as true. No! we'll wait till the old rector dies, but if he
lasts longer than twelve months, I'll lose heart and have to look about
me for another husband in my own rank of life.'

'Bell,' said Gabriel, in a pained voice, 'you are cruel!'

'Rubbish!' replied the practical barmaid, 'I'm sensible. Now, come and
see mother.'




CHAPTER XIII

A STORMY NIGHT


Having given Gabriel plainly to understand the terms upon which she was
prepared to continue their secret engagement, Bell kissed him once or
twice to soften the rigour of her speech. Then she intimated that she
would return alone to The Derby Winner, and that Gabriel could follow
after a reasonable interval of time had elapsed. She also explained the
meaning of these precautions.

'If the old cats of the town saw you and I walking along on Sunday
night,' said she, at the door of the vestry, 'they would screech out
that we were keeping company, and in any case would couple our names
together. If they did, father would make it so warm for me that I should
have to tell the truth, and then--well,' added Miss Mosk, with a
brilliant smile, 'you know his temper and my temper.'

'You are sure it is quite safe for you to go home alone?' said Gabriel,
who was infected with the upper-class prejudice that every unmarried
girl should be provided with a chaperon.

'Safe!' echoed the dauntless Bell, in a tone of supreme contempt. 'My
dear Gabriel, I'd be safe in the middle of Timbuctoo!'

'There are many of these rough harvest labourers about here, you know.'

'I'll slap their faces if they speak to me. I'd like to see them try it,
that's all. And now, good-bye for the present, dear. I must get home as
soon as possible, for there is a storm coming, and I don't want to get
my Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes spoilt.'

When she slipped off like a white ghost into the gathering darkness,
Gabriel remained at the door and looked up to the fast clouding sky. It
was now about nine o'clock, and the night was hot and thundery, and so
airless that it was difficult to breathe. Overhead, masses of black
cloud, heavy with storm, hung low down over the town, and the earth,
panting and worn out with the heat, waited thirstily for the cool drench
of the rain. Evidently a witch-tempest was brewing in the halls of
heaven on no small scale, and Gabriel wished that it would break at once
to relieve the strain from which nature seemed to suffer. Whether it was
the fatigue of his day's labour, or the late interview with Bell which
depressed him, he did not know, but he felt singularly pessimistic and
his mind was filled with premonitions of ill. Like most people with
highly-strung natures, Gabriel was easily affected by atmospheric
influence, so no doubt the palpable electricity in the dry, hot air
depressed his nerves, but whether this was the cause of his restlessness
he could not say. He felt anxious and melancholy, and was worried by a
sense of coming ill, though what such ill might be, or from what quarter
it would come, he knew not. While thus gloomily contemplative, the great
bell of the cathedral boomed out nine deep strokes, and the hollow sound
breaking in on his reflections made him wake up, shake off his dismal
thoughts, and sent him inside to attend to his work. Yet the memory of
those forebodings occurred to him often in after days, and read by the
light of after events, he was unable to decide whether the expectation
of evil, so strongly forced upon him then, was due to natural or
supernatural causes. At present he ascribed his anxieties to the
disturbed state of the atmosphere.

In the meantime, Bell, who was a healthy young woman, with no nerves to
be affected by the atmosphere, walked swiftly homeward along the airless
streets. There were few people on their feet, for the night was too
close for exercise, and the majority of the inhabitants sat in chairs
before their doors, weary and out of temper. Nature and her creatures
were waiting for the windows of the firmament to be opened, for the air
to be cleansed, for life to be renewed. Bell met none of the harvesters
and was not molested in any way. Had she been spoken to, or hustled,
there is no doubt she would have been as good as her word and have
slapped her assailant's face. Fortunately, there was no need for her to
proceed to such extremes.

At the door of The Derby Winner she was rather surprised to find Miss
Whichello waiting for her. The little old lady wore her poke bonnet and
old-fashioned black silk cloak, and appeared anxious and nervous, and
altogether unlike her usual cheery self. Bell liked Miss Whichello as
much as she disliked Mrs Pansey, therefore she greeted her with
unfeigned pleasure, although she could not help expressing her surprise
that the visitor was in that quarter of the town so late at night. Miss
Whichello produced a parcel from under her voluminous cloak and offered
it as an explanation of her presence.

'This is a pot of calf's-foot jelly for your mother, Miss Mosk,' she
said. 'Mr Cargrim came to luncheon at my house to-day, and he told me
how ill your mother is. I was informed that she was asleep, so, not
wishing to disturb her, I waited until you returned.'

'It is very kind of you to take so much trouble, Miss Whichello,' said
Bell, gratefully receiving the jelly. 'I hope you have not been waiting
long.'

'Only ten minutes; your servant told me that you would return soon.'

'I have been to church and stopped after service to talk to some
friends, Miss Whichello. Won't you come in for a few minutes? I'll see
if my mother is awake.'

'Thank you, I'll come in for a time, but do not waken your mother on my
account. Sleep is always the best medicine in case of sickness. I hope
Mrs Mosk is careful of her diet.'

'Well, she eats very little.'

'That is wise; very little food, but that little nourishing and
frequently administered. Give her a cup of beef-tea two or three times
in the night, my dear, and you'll find it will sustain the body
wonderfully.'

'I'll remember to do so,' replied Bell, gravely, although she had no
intention of remaining awake all night to heat beef-tea and dose her
mother with it, especially as the invalid was not ill enough for such
extreme measures. But she was so touched by Miss Whichello's kindness
that she would not have offended her, by scouting her prescription, for
the world.

By this time Miss Whichello was seated in a little private parlour off
the bar, illuminated by an oil-lamp. This Bell turned up, and then she
noticed that her visitor looked anxious and ill at ease. Once or twice
she attempted to speak, but closed her mouth again. Bell wondered if Mrs
Pansey had been at work coupling her name with that of Gabriel's, and
whether Miss Whichello had come down to relieve her conscience by
warning her against seeing too much of the curate. But, as she knew very
well, Miss Whichello was too nervous and too much of a lady to give her
opinion on questions unasked, and therefore, banishing the defiant look
which had begun to harden her face, she waited to hear if it was any
other reason than bestowing the jelly which had brought the little old
spinster to so disreputable a quarter of the town at so untoward an
hour. Finally Miss Whichello's real reason for calling came out by
degrees, and in true feminine fashion she approached the main point by
side issues.

'Is your father in, Miss Mosk?' she asked, clasping and unclasping her
hands feverishly on her lap.

'No, Miss Whichello. He rode over this afternoon to Southberry on
business, and we do not expect him back till to-morrow morning. Poor
father!' sighed Bell, 'he went away in anything but good spirits, for he
is terribly worried over money matters.'

'The payment of his rent is troubling him, perhaps!'

'Yes, Miss Whichello. This is an expensive hotel, and the rent is high.
We find it so difficult to make the place pay that we are behindhand
with the rent. Sir Harry Brace, our landlord, has been very kind in
waiting, but we can't expect him to stand out of his money much longer.
I'm afraid in the end we'll have to give up The Derby Winner. But it is
no good my worrying you about our troubles,' concluded Bell, in a more
vivacious tone; 'what do you wish to see father about, Miss Whichello?
Anything that I can do?'

'Well, my dear, it's this way,' said the old lady, nervously. 'You know
that I have a much larger income than I need, and that I am always ready
to help the deserving.' 'I know, Miss Whichello! You give help where
Mrs Pansey only gives advice. I know who is most thought of; that I do!'

'Mrs Pansey has her own methods of dispensing charity, Miss Mosk.'

'Tracts and interference,' muttered Bell, under her breath; 'meddlesome
old tabby that she is.'

'Mr Cargrim was at my house to-day, as I told you,' pursued Miss
Whichello, not having heard this remark, 'and he mentioned a man called
Jentham as a poor creature in need of help.'

'He's a poor creature, I daresay,' said Miss Mosk, tossing her head,
'for he owes father more money than he can pay, although he does say
that he'll settle his bill next week. But he's a bad lot.'

'A bad lot, Miss Mosk?'

'As bad as they make 'em, Miss Whichello. Don't you give him a penny,
for he'll only waste it on drink.'

'Does he drink to excess?'

'I should think so; he finishes a bottle of brandy every day.'

'Oh, Miss Mosk, how very dreadful!' cried Miss Whichello, quite in the
style of Daisy Norsham. 'Why is he staying in Beorminster?'

'I don't know, but it's for no good, you may be sure. If he isn't here
he's hob-nobbing with those gipsy wretches who have a camp on Southberry
Common. Mother Jael and he are always together.'

'Can you describe him?' asked Miss Whichello, with some hesitation.

'He is tall and thin, with a dark, wicked-looking face, and he has a
nasty scar on the right cheek, slanting across it to the mouth. But the
funny thing is, that with all his rags and drunkenness there is
something of the gentleman about him. I don't like him, yet I can't
dislike him. He's attractive in his own way from his very wickedness.
But I'm sure,' finished Bell, with a vigorous nod, 'that he's a
black-hearted Nero. He has done a deal of damage in his time both to men
and women; I'm as sure of that as I sit here, though I can give no
reason for saying so.'

Miss Whichello listened to this graphic description in silence. She was
very pale, and held her handkerchief to her mouth with one trembling
hand; the other beat nervously on her lap, and it was only by a strong
effort of will that she managed to conquer her emotion.

'I daresay you are right,' she observed, in a tremulous voice. 'Indeed,
I might have expected as much, for last night he frightened my niece and
her maid on the high road. I thought it would be best to give him money
and send him away, so that so evil a man should not remain here to be a
source of danger to the town.'

'Give him money!' cried Miss Mosk. 'I'd give him the cat-o-nine tails if
I had my way. Don't you trouble about him, Miss Whichello; he's no
good.'

'But if I could see him I might soften his heart,' pleaded the old lady,
very much in earnest.

'Soften a brick-bat,' rejoined Bell; 'you'd have just as much success
with one as with the other. Besides, you can't see him, Miss
Whichello--at all events, not to-night--for he's on the common with his
nasty gipsies, and--won't be back till the morning. I wish he'd stay
away altogether, I do.'

'In that case I shall not trouble about him,' said the old lady, rising;
'on some future occasion I may see him. But you need not say I was
asking for him, Miss Mosk.'

'I won't say a word; he'd only come worrying round your house if he
thought you wanted to give him money.'

'Oh, he mustn't do that; he mustn't come there!' cried Miss Whichello,
alarmed.

'He won't, for I'll hold my tongue. You can rest easy on that score,
Miss Whichello. But my advice is, don't pick him up out of the mire;
he'll only fall back into it again.'

'You have a bad opinion of him, Miss Mosk.'

'The very worst,' replied Bell, conducting her guest to the door; 'he's
a gaol-bird and a scallywag, and all that's bad. Well, good-night, Miss
Whichello, and thank you for the jelly.'

'There is no need for thanks, Miss Mosk. Good-night!' and the old lady
tripped up the street, keeping in the middle of it, lest any robber
should spring out on her from the shadow of the houses.

The storm was coming nearer, and soon would break directly over the
town, for flashes of lightning were weaving fiery patterns against the
black clouds, and every now and then a hoarse growl of thunder went
grinding across the sky. Anxious to escape the coming downfall, Miss
Whichello climbed up the street towards the cathedral as quickly and
steadily as her old legs could carry her. Just as she emerged into the
close, a shadow blacker than the blackness of the night glided past her.
A zig-zag of lightning cut the sky at the moment and revealed the face
of Mr Cargrim, who in his turn recognised the old lady in the bluish
glare.

'Miss Whichello!' he exclaimed; 'what a surprise!'

'You may well say that, Mr Cargrim,' replied the old lady, with a
nervous movement, for the sound of his voice and the sudden view of his
face startled her not a little. 'It is not often I am out at this hour,
but I have been taking some jelly to Mrs Mosk.'

'You are a good Samaritan, Miss Whichello. I hope she is better?'

'I think so, but I did not see her, as she is asleep. I spoke with her
daughter, however.'

'I trust you were not molested by that ruffian Jentham, who stays at The
Derby Winner,' said Cargrim, with hypocritical anxiety.

'Oh, no! he is away on Southberry Heath with his gipsy friends, I
believe--at least, Miss Mosk told me so. Good-night, Mr Cargrim,' she
added, evidently not anxious to prolong the conversation. 'I wish to get
under shelter before the storm breaks.'

'Let me see you to your door at least.'

Miss Whichello rejected this officious offer by dryly remarking that she
had accomplished the worst part of her journey, and bidding the chaplain
'Good-night,' tripped across the square to her own Jenny Wren nest.
Cargrim looked after her with a doubtful look as she vanished into the
darkness, then, turning on his heel, walked swiftly down the street
towards Eastgate. He had as much aversion to getting wet as a cat, and
put his best foot foremost so as to reach the palace before the rain
came on. Besides, it was ten o'clock--a late hour for a respectable
parson to be abroad.

'She's been trying to see Jent

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