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The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Bishop's Secret, by Fergus Hume


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Title: The Bishop's Secret


Author: Fergus Hume



Release Date: November 14, 2007  [eBook #23474]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)


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[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 Jentham,' thought Mr Cargrim, recalling Miss
Whichello's nervous hesitation. 'I wonder what she knows about him. The
man is a mystery, and is in Beorminster for no good purpose. Miss
Whichello and the bishop both know that purpose, I'm certain. Well!
well! two secrets are better than one, and if I gain a knowledge of them
both, I may inhabit Heathcroft Rectory sooner than I expect.'

Cargrim's meditations were here cut short by the falling of heavy drops
of rain, and he put all his mind into his muscles to travel the faster.
Indeed, he almost ran through the new town, and was soon out on the
country road which conducted to the palace. But, in spite of all his
speed, the rain caught him, for with an incessant play of lightning and
a constant roll of thunder came a regular tropical downpour. The rain
descended in one solid mass, flooding the ground and beating flat the
crops. Cargrim was drenched to the skin, and by the time he slipped
through the small iron gate near the big ones, into the episcopalian
park, he looked like a lean water-rat. Being in a bad temper from his
shower bath, he was almost as venomous as that animal, and raced up the
avenue in his sodden clothing, shivering and dripping. Suddenly he heard
the quick trot of a horse, and guessing that the bishop was returning,
he stood aside in the shadow of the trees to let his superior pass by.
Like the chaplain, Dr Pendle was streaming with water, and his horse's
hoofs plashed up the sodden ground as though he were crossing a marsh.
By the livid glare of the lightnings which shot streaks of blue fire
through the descending deluge, Cargrim caught a glimpse of the bishop's
face. It was deathly pale, and bore a look of mingled horror and terror.
Another moment and he had passed into the blackness of the drenching
rain, leaving Cargrim marvelling at the torture of the mind which could
produce so terrible an expression.

'It is the face of Cain,' whispered Cargrim to himself. 'What can his
secret be?'




CHAPTER XIV

'RUMOUR FULL OF TONGUES'


It is almost impossible to learn the genesis of a rumour. It may be
started by a look, a word, a gesture, and it spreads with such
marvellous rapidity that by the time public curiosity is fully aroused,
no one can trace the original source, so many and winding are the
channels through which it has flowed. Yet there are exceptions to this
general rule, especially in criminal cases, where, for the safety of the
public, it is absolutely necessary to get to the bottom of the matter.
Therefore, the rumour which pervaded Beorminster on Monday morning was
soon traced by the police to a carter from Southberry. This man
mentioned to a friend that, when crossing the Heath during the early
morning, he had come across the body of a man. The rumour--weak in its
genesis--stated first that a man had been hurt, later on that he had
been wounded; by noon it was announced that he was dead, and finally the
actual truth came out that the man had been murdered. The police
authorities saw the carter and were conducted by him to the corpse,
which, after examination, they brought to the dead-house in Beorminster.
Then all doubt came to an end, and it was officially declared during the
afternoon that Jentham, the military vagabond lately resident at The
Derby Winner, had been shot through the heart. But even rumour, prolific
as it is in invention, could not suggest who had murdered the man.

So unusual an event in the quiet cathedral city caused the greatest
excitement, and the streets were filled with people talking over the
matter. Amateur detectives, swilling beer in public-houses, gave their
opinions about the crime, and the more beer they drank, the wilder and
more impossible became their theories. Some suggested that the gipsies
camped on Southberry Heath, who were continually fighting amongst
themselves, had killed the miserable creature; others, asserting that
the scamp was desperately poor, hinted at suicide induced by sheer
despair; but the most generally accepted opinion was that Jentham had
been killed in some drunken frolic by one or more Irish harvesters. The
Beorminster reporters visited the police station and endeavoured to
learn what Inspector Tinkler thought. He had seen the body, he had
viewed the spot where it had been found, he had examined the carter,
Giles Crake, so he was the man most likely to give satisfactory answers
to the questions as to who had killed the man, and why he had been shot.
But Inspector Tinkler was the most wary of officials, and pending the
inquest and the verdict of twelve good men and true, he declined to
commit himself to an opinion. The result of this reticence was that the
reporters had to fall back on their inventive faculties, and next
morning published three theories, side by side, concerning the murder,
so that the _Beorminster Chronicle_ containing these suppositions proved
to be as interesting as a police novel, and quite as unreliable. But it
amused its readers and sold largely, therefore proprietor and editor
were quite satisfied that fiction was as good as fact to tickle the long
ears of a credulous public.

As the dead man had lodged at The Derby Winner, and many people had
known him there, quite a sensation was caused by the report of his
untimely end. From morning till night the public-house was thronged with
customers, thirsting both for news and beer. Nevertheless, although
business was so brisk, Mosk was by no means in a good temper. He had
returned early that morning from Southberry, and had been one of the
first to hear about the matter. When he heard who had been killed, he
regarded the committal of the crime quite in a personal light, for the
dead man owed him money, and his death had discharged the debt in a way
of which Mr Mosk did not approve. He frequently referred to his loss
during the day, when congratulated by unthinking customers on the
excellent trade the assassination had brought about.

'For, as I allays ses,' remarked one wiseacre, 'it's an ill wind as
don't blow good to somebody.'

'Yah!' growled Mosk, in his beery voice, 'it's about as broad as it's
long so far as I'm concerned. I've lost a couple of quid through Jentham
goin' and gettin' shot, and it will take a good many tankards of bitter
at thru'p'nce to make that up.'

'Oo d'y think shot 'im, Mr Mosk?'

'Arsk me sum'thin' easier, carn't you? I don't know nothin' about the
cove, I don't; he comes 'ere two, three weeks ago, and leaves owin' me
money. Where he comes from, or who he is, or what he's bin doin' to get
shot I know no more nor you do. All I does know,' finished Mosk,
emphatically, 'is as I've lost two bloomin' quid, an' that's a lot to a
poor man like me.'

'Well, father, it's no good making a fuss over it,' cried Bell, who
overheard his grumbling. 'If Jentham hadn't been shot, we wouldn't be
doing so well. For my part, I'm sorry for the poor soul.'

'Poor blackguard, you mean!'

'No, I don't. I don't call any corpse a blackguard. If he was one, I
daresay he's being punished enough now without our calling him names. He
wasn't the kind of man I fancied, but there's no denying he was
attractive in his own wicked way.'

'Ah!' said a dirty-looking man, who was more than suspected of being a
welcher, 'couldn't he tell slap-up yarns about H'injins an' 'eathens as
bows down to stocks and stones. Oh, no! not he--'

'He could lie like a one-year-old, if that's what y' mean,' said Mosk.

'Bloomin' fine lyin', any'ow,' retorted the critic. 'I'd git orf the
turf if I cud spit 'em out that style; mek m' fortin', I would, on th'
paipers.'

'Y've bin chucked orf the turf often enough as it is,' replied the
landlord, sourly, whereat, to give the conversation a less personal
application, the dirty welcher remarked that he would drain another
bitter.

'I suppose you'll be as drunk as a pig by night,' said Bell, taking the
order. 'Jentham was bad, but he wasn't a swine like you.'

'Garn! 'e got drunk, didn't he? Oh, no! You bet he didn't.'

'He got drunk like a gentleman, at all events. None of your sauce,
Black, or I'll have you chucked. You know me by this time, I hope.'

In fact, as several of the customers remarked, Miss Bell was in a fine
temper that morning, and her tongue raged round like a prairie fire.
This bad humour was ascribed by the public to the extra work entailed on
her by the sensation caused by the murder, but the true cause lay with
Gabriel. He had promised faithfully, on the previous night, to come
round and see Mrs Mosk, but, to Bell's anger, had failed to put in an
appearance--the first time he had done such a thing. As Miss Mosk's
object was always to have an ostensible reason for seeing Gabriel in
order to protect her character, she was not at all pleased that he had
not turned her excuse for calling on him into an actual fact. It is true
that Gabriel presented himself late in the afternoon and requested to
see the invalid, but instead of taking him up to the sickroom, Bell
whirled the curate into a small back parlour and closed the door, in
order, as she remarked, 'to have it out with him.'

'Now, then,' said she, planting her back against the door, 'what do you
mean by treating me like a bit of dirt?'

'You mean that I did not come round last night, Bell?'

'Yes, I do. I told mother you would visit her. I said to Jacob Jarper as
I'd come to ask you to see mother, and you go and make me out a liar by
not turning up. What do you mean?'

'I was ill and couldn't keep my promise,' said Gabriel, shortly.

'Ill!' said Bell, looking him up and down; 'well, you do look ill.
You've been washed and wrung out till you're limp as a rag. White in the
face, black under the eyes! What have you been doing with yourself, I'd
like to know. You were all right when I left you last night.'

'The weather affected my nerves,' explained Gabriel, with a weary sigh,
passing his thin hand across his anxious face. 'I felt that it was
impossible for me to sit in a close room and talk to a sick woman, so I
went round to the stables where I keep my horse, and took him out in
order to get a breath of fresh air.'

'What! You rode out at that late hour, in all that storm?'

'The storm came on later. I went out almost immediately after you left,
and got back at half-past ten. It wasn't so very late.'

'Well, of all mad things!' said Bell, grimly. 'It's easy seen, Mr
Gabriel Pendle, how badly you want a wife at your elbow. Where did you
go?'

'I rode out on to Southberry Heath,' replied Gabriel, with some
hesitation.

'Lord ha' mercy! Where Jentham's corpse was found?'

The curate shuddered. 'I didn't see any corpse,' he said, painfully and
slowly. 'Instead of keeping to the high road, I struck out
cross-country. It was only this morning that I heard of the unfortunate
man's untimely end.'

'You didn't meet anyone likely to have laid him out?'

'No! I met no one. I felt too ill to notice passers-by, but the ride did
me good, and I feel much better this morning.'

'You don't look better,' said Bell, with another searching glance. 'One
would think you had killed the man yourself!'

'Bell!' protested Gabriel, almost in an hysterical tone, for his nerves
were not yet under control, and the crude speeches of the girl made him
wince.

'Well! well! I'm only joking. I know you wouldn't hurt a fly. But you do
look ill, that's a fact. Let me get you some brandy.'

'No, thank you, brandy would only make me worse. Let me go up and see
your mother.'

'I sha'n't! You're not fit to see anyone. Go home and lie down till your
nerves get right. You can see me after five if you like, for I'm going
to the dead-house to have a look at Jentham's body.'

'What! to see the corpse of that unhappy man,' cried Gabriel, shrinking
away.

'Why not?' answered Bell, coolly, for she had that peculiar love of
looking on dead bodies characteristic of the lower classes. 'I want to
see how they killed him.'

'How who killed him?'

'The person as did it, silly. Though I don't know who could have shot
him unless it was that old cat of a Mrs Pansey. Well, I can't stay here
talking all day, and father will be wondering what I'm up to. You go
home and lie down, Gabriel.'

'Not just now. I must walk up to the palace.'

'Hum! The bishop will be in a fine way about this murder. It's years
since anyone got killed here. I hope they'll catch the wretch as shot
Jentham, though I can't say I liked him myself.'

'I hope they will catch him,' replied Gabriel, mechanically. 'Good-day,
Miss Mosk! I shall call and see your mother to-morrow.'

'Good-day, Mr Pendle, and thank you, oh, so much!'

This particular form of farewell was intended for the ears of Mr Mosk
and the general public, but it failed in its object so far as the
especial person it was intended to impress was concerned. When the
black-clothed form of Gabriel vanished, Mr Mosk handed over the business
of the bar to an active pot-boy, and conducted his daughter back to the
little parlour. Bell saw from his lowering brow that her father was
suspicious of her lengthened interview with the curate, and was bent
upon causing trouble. However, she was not the kind of girl to be
daunted by black looks, and, moreover, was conscious that her father
would be rather pleased than otherwise to hear that she was honourably
engaged to the son of Bishop Pendle, so she sat down calmly enough at
his gruff command, and awaited the coming storm. If driven into a
corner, she intended to tell the truth, therefore she faced her father
with the greatest coolness.

'What d'y mean by it?' cried Mosk, bursting into angry words as soon as
the door was closed; 'what d'y mean, you hussy?'

'Now, look here, father,' said Bell, quickly, 'you keep a civil tongue
in your head or I won't use mine. I'm not a hussy, and you have no right
to call me one.'

'No right! Ain't I your lawfully begotten father?'

'Yes, you are, worse luck! I'd have had a duke for my father if I'd been
asked what I wanted.'

'Wouldn't a bishop content you?' sneered Mosk, with a scowl on his
pimply face.

'You're talking of Mr Pendle, are you?' said Bell wilfully
misunderstanding the insinuation.

'Yes, I am, you jade! and I won't have it. I tell you I won't!'

'Won't have what, father? Give it a name.'

'Why, this carrying on with that parson chap. Not as I've a word to say
against Mr Pendle, because he's worth a dozen of the Cargrim lot, but
he's gentry and you're not!'

'What's that got to do with it?' demanded Bell, with supreme contempt.

'This much,' raved Mosk, clenching his fist, 'that I won't have you
running after him. D'y hear?'

'I hear; there is no need for you to rage the house down, father. I'm
not running after Mr Pendle; he's running after me.'

'That's just as bad. You'll lose your character.'

Bell fired up, and bounced to her feet. 'Who dares to say a word against
my character?' she asked, panting and red.

'Old Jarper, for one. He said you went to see Mr Pendle last night.'

'So I did.'

'Oh, you did, did you? and here you've bin talking alone with him this
morning for the last hour. What d'y mean by disgracing me?'

'Disgracing you!' scoffed Bell. 'Your character needs a lot of
disgracing, doesn't it? Now, be sensible, father,' she added, advancing
towards him, 'and I'll tell you the truth. I didn't intend to, but as
you are so unreasonable I may as well set your mind at rest.'

'What are you driving at?' growled Mosk, struck by her placid manner.

'Well, to put the thing into a nutshell, Mr Pendle is going to marry
me.'

'Marry you! Get along!'

'I don't see why you should doubt my word,' cried Bell, with an angry
flush. 'I'm engaged to him as honourably as any young lady could be. He
has written me lots of letters promising to make me his wife, he has
given me a ring, and we're only waiting till he's appointed to be rector
of Heathcroft to marry.'

'Well, I'm d----d,' observed Mr Mosk, slowly. 'Is this true?'

'I'll show you the ring and letters if you like,' said Bell, tartly,
'but I don't see why you should be so surprised. I'm good enough for
him, I hope?'

'You're good-lookin', I dessay, Bell, but he's gentry.'

'I'm going to be gentry too, and I'll hold my own with the best of them.
As Bishop Pendle's daughter-in-law, I'll scratch the eyes out of any of
'em as doesn't give me my place.'

Mosk drew a long breath. 'Bishop Pendle's daughter-in-law,' he repeated,
looking at his daughter with admiration. 'My stars! you are a clever
girl, Bell.'

'I'm clever enough to get what I want, father, so long as you don't put
your foot into it. Hold your tongue until I tell you when to speak. If
the bishop knew of this now, he'd cut Gabriel off with a shilling.'

'Oh, he would, would he?' said Mosk, in so strange a tone that Bell
looked at him with some wonder.

'Of course he would,' said she, quietly; 'but when Gabriel is rector of
Heathcroft it won't matter. We'll then have money enough to do without
his consent.'

'Give me a kiss, my girl,' cried Mosk, clasping her to his breast,
'You're a credit to me, that you are. Oh, curse it! Bell, think of old
Mother Pansey!'

Father and daughter looked at one another and burst out laughing.




CHAPTER XV

THE GIPSY RING


Almost at the very time Mosk was congratulating his daughter on the
conquest of the curate, Captain Pendle was paying a visit to the Jenny
Wren nest. He had only succeeded in obtaining a Saturday to Monday leave
from his colonel, who did not approve of young officers being too long
or too often absent from their duties, and was rejoining his regiment
that very evening. As soon as he could get away from the palace he had
left his portmanteau at the station and had come up to the Cathedral
Close to see Mab. Much to his gratification he found her alone in the
quaint old drawing-room, and blessed the Providence which had sent him
thither at so propitious an hour.

'Aunty is lying down,' explained Mab, who looked rather worried and
pale; 'she has been so upset over this horrid murder.'

'Egad! it has upset everyone,' said George, throwing himself into a
chair. 'My father is so annoyed at such a thing happening in his diocese
that he has retreated to his library and shut himself up. I could hardly
get him to say good-bye. Though, upon my word,' added George, waxing
warm, 'I don't see that the death of a wretched tramp is of such moment;
yet it seems to have annoyed everyone.'

'Including yourself,' said Mab, remarking how worried her lover looked,
and how far from being his pleasant, natural self.

'Yes, my dearest, including myself. When the bishop is annoyed my mother
fidgets over him until she makes herself ill. Knowing this, he is
usually careful not to let her see him when he is out of sorts, but
to-day he was not so discreet, and the consequence is that my mother has
an attack of nerves, and is lying on her sofa bathed in tears, with
Lucy in attendance. Of course, all this has upset me in my turn.'

'Well, George, I suppose it is natural that the bishop should be put
out, for such a terrible crime has not been committed here for years.
Indeed, the _Chronicle_ of last week was remarking how free from crime
this place was.'

'And naturally the gods gave them the lie by arranging a first-class
murder straight away,' said George, with a shrug. 'But why everybody
should be in such a state I can't see. The palace is like an
undertaker's establishment when business is dull. The only person who
seems at all cheerful is that fellow Cargrim.'

'He ought to be annoyed for the bishop's sake.'

'Faith, then, he isn't, Mab. He's going about rubbing his hands and
grinning like a Cheshire cat. I think the sight of him irritated me more
than the mourners. I'm glad to go back to my work.'

'Are you glad to leave me?'

'No, you dear goose,' said he, taking her hand affectionately; 'that is
the bitter drop in my cup. However, I have brought you something to draw
us closer together. There!'

'Oh, George!' cried Mab, looking in ecstasy at the ring he had slipped
on her finger, 'what a lovely, lovely ring, and what a queer one!--three
turquoise stones set in a braid of silver. I never saw so unique a
pattern.'

'I daresay not. It's not the kind of ring you'll come across every day,
and precious hard work I had to get it.'

'Did you buy it in Beorminster?' asked Miss Arden, putting her head on
one side to admire the peculiar setting of the blue stones.

'No; I bought it from Mother Jael.'

'From Mother Jael!--that old gipsy fortune-teller?'

'Precisely; from that very identical old Witch of Endor. I saw it on her
lean paw when I was last in Beorminster, and she came hovering round to
tell my fortune. The queer look of it took my fancy, and I determined to
secure it for our engagement ring. However, the old lady wasn't to be
bribed into parting with it, but last night I rode out to the camp on
Southberry Common and succeeded in getting it off her. She is a regular
Jew at a bargain, and haggled for an hour before she would let me have
it. Ultimately I gave her the price she asked, and there it is on your
pretty hand.'

'How sweet of you, George, to take so much trouble! I shall value the
ring greatly for your sake.'

'And for your own too, I hope. It is a lucky ring, and came from the
East, Mother Jael said, in the old, old days. It looks rather Egyptian,
so perhaps Cleopatra wore it when she went to meet Anthony!'

'Such nonsense! but it is a dear, lovely ring, and I'll wear it always.'

'I think I deserve a kiss from you for my trouble,' said George, drawing
her lovely, glowing face towards him. 'There, darling; the next ring I
place on your finger will be a plain golden one, not from the East, but
from an honest Beorminster jeweller.'

'But, George'--Mab laid her head on his breast--'I am not sure if I
ought to accept it, really. Your father does not know of our
engagement.'

'I intend to tell him when I next visit Beorminster, my love. Indeed,
but that he takes this wretched murder so much to heart I would have
told him to-day. Still, you need not scruple to wear it, dearest, for
your aunt and my mother are both agreed that you will make me the
sweetest of wives.'

'Aunty is always urging me to ask you to tell your father.'

'Then you can inform her that I'll do so next--why, here _is_ your aunt,
my dear.'

'Aunty!' cried Mab, as Miss Whichello, like a little white ghost, moved
into the room. 'I thought your head was so bad.'

'It is better now, my dear,' replied the old lady, who really looked
very ill. 'How do you do, Captain Pendle?'

'Hadn't you better call me George, Miss Whichello?'

'No, I hadn't, my dear man; at least, not until your engagement with Mab
is an accomplished fact.'

'But it is an accomplished fact now, aunty,' said Mab, showing the ring.
'Here is the visible sign of our engagement.'

'A strange ring, but very charming,' pronounced Miss Whichello,
examining the jewel. 'But does the bishop know?'

'I intend to tell him when I come back next week' said George, promptly.
'At present he is too upset with this murder to pay much attention to my
love affairs.'

'Upset with this murder!' cried the little lady, dropping into a chair.
'I don't wonder at it. I am quite ill with the news.'

'I'm sure I don't see why, aunty. This Jentham tramp wasn't a relative,
you know.'

Miss Whichello shuddered, and, if possible, turned paler. 'He was a
human being, Mab,' she said, in a low voice, 'and it is terrible to
think that the poor wretch, however evil he may have been, should have
come to so miserable an end. Is it known who shot him, Captain Pendle?'

'No; there are all sorts of rumours, of course, but none of them very
reliable. It's a pity, too,' added George, reflectively, 'for if I had
only been a little earlier in leaving Mother Jael I might have heard the
shot and captured the murderer.'

'What do you mean, Captain Pendle?' cried Miss Whichello, with a start.

'Why, didn't I tell you? No, of course I didn't; it was Mab I told.'

'What did you tell her?' questioned the old lady, with some impatience.

'That I was on Southberry Heath last night.'

'What were you doing there?'

'Seeing after that gipsy ring for Mab,' explained George, pulling his
moustache. 'I bought it of Mother Jael, and had to ride out to the camp
to make the bargain. As I am going back into harness to-day, there
wasn't much time to lose, so I went off last night after dinner, between
eight and nine o'clock, and the old jade kept me so long fixing up the
business that I didn't reach home until eleven. By Jove! I got a jolly
ducking; looked like an insane river god dripping with wet.'

'Did you see anything of the murder, Captain Pendle?'

'No; didn't even hear the shot, though that wasn't to be wondered at,
considering the row made by rain and thunder.'

'Where was the body found?'

'Somewhere in a ditch near the high road, I believe. At all events, it
wasn't in the way, or my gee would have tumbled across it.'

Miss Whichello reflected. 'The bishop was over at Southberry yesterday,
was he not?' she asked.

'Yes, at a confirmation service. He rode back across the common, and
reached the palace just before I did--about half an hour or so.'

'Did he hear or see anything?'

'Not to my knowledge; but the truth is, I haven't had an opportunity of
asking questions. He is so annoyed at the disgrace to the diocese by the
committal of this crime that he's quite beside himself. I was just
telling Mab about it when you came in. Six o'clock!' cried Captain
George, starting up as the chimes rang out. 'I must be off. If I'm late
at barracks my colonel will parade me to-morrow, and go down my throat,
spurs, boots and all.'

'Wait a moment, Captain Pendle, and I'll come with you.'

'But your headache, aunty?' remonstrated Mab.

'My dear, a walk in the fresh air will do me good. I shall go with
Captain Pendle to the station. Make your adieux, young people, while I
put on my bonnet and cloak.'

When Miss Whichello left the room, Mab, who had been admiring her ring
during the foregoing conversation, was so impressed with its quaint
beauty that she again thanked George for having given it to her. This
piece of politeness led to an exhibition of tenderness on the part of
the departing lover, and during the dragon's absence this foolish young
couple talked the charming nonsense which people in their condition
particularly affect. Realism is a very good thing in its own way, but to
set down an actual love conversation would be carrying it to excess.
Only the exaggerated exaltation of mind attendant on love-making can
enable lovers to endure the transcendentalism with which they bore one
another. And then the look which makes an arrow of the most trifling
phrase, the caress which gives the merest glance a most eloquent
meaning--how can prosaic pen and ink and paper report these fittingly?
The sympathetic reader must guess what George and Mab said to one
another. He must fancy how they said it, and he or she must see in his
or her mind's eye how young and beautiful and glowing they looked when
Miss Whichello, as the prose of their poetry, walked into the room. The
dear old lady smiled approvingly when she saw their bright faces, for
she too had lived in Arcady, although the envious gods had turned her
out of it long since.

'Now, Captain Pendle, when you have done talking nonsense with that
child I'm ready.'

'Do call me George, Miss Whichello,' entreated the captain.

'No, sir; not until your father gives this engagement his episcopalian
blessing. No nonsense. Come along.'

But Miss Whichello's bark was worse than her bite, for she discreetly
left the room, so that the love-birds could take a tender leave of each
other, and Captain Pendle found her standing on the steps outside with a
broad smile on her face.

'You are sure you have not forgotten your gloves, Captain Pendle?' she
asked smilingly.

'No,' replied George, innocently, 'I have them with me.'

'Oh!' exclaimed Miss Whichello, marching down the steps like a toy
soldier, 'in my youth young men in your condition _always_ forgot their
gloves.'

'By Jove! I have left something behind me, though.'

'Your heart, probably. Never mind, it is in safe keeping. None of your
tricks, sir. Come, come!' and Miss Whichello marched the captain off
with a twinkle in her bright eyes. The little old lady was one of those
loved by the gods, for she would undoubtedly die young in heart.

Still, as she walked with Captain Pendle to the station in the gathering
darkness, she looked worried and white. George could not see her face in
the dusk, and moreover was too much taken up with his late charming
interview to notice his companion's preoccupation. In spite of her
sympathy, Miss Whichello grew weary of a monologue on the part of
George, in which the name of 'Mab' occurred fifty times and more. She
was glad when the train steamed off with this too happy lover, and
promised to deliver all kinds of unnecessary messages to the girl George
had left behind him.

'But let them be happy while they can,' murmured Miss Whichello, as she
tripped back through the town. 'Poor souls, if they only knew what I
know.'

As Miss Whichello had the meaning of this enigmatic speech in her mind,
she did not think it was necessary to put it into words, but, silent and
pensive, walked along the crowded pavement. Shortly she turned down a
side street which led to the police-station, and there paused in a quiet
corner to pin a veil round her head--a veil so thick that her features
could hardly be distinguished through it. The poor lady adopted this as
a kind of disguise, forgetting that her old-fashioned poke bonnet and
quaint silk cloak were as well known to the inhabitants of Beorminster
as the cathedral itself. That early century garb was as familiar to the
rascality of the slums as to the richer citizens; even the police knew
it well, for they had often seen its charitable wearer by the bedsides
of dying paupers. It thus happened that, when Miss Whichello presented
herself at the police-station to Inspector Tinkler, he knew her at once,
in spite of her foolish little veil. Moreover, in greeting her he
pronounced her name.

'Hush, hush, Mr Inspector,' whispered Miss Whichello, with a mysterious
glance around. 'I do not wish it to be known that I called here.'

'You can depend upon my discretion, Miss Whichello, ma'am,' said the
inspector, who was a bluff and tyrannical ex-sergeant. 'And what can I
do for you?'

Miss Whichello looked round again. 'I wish, Mr Inspector,' said she, in
a very small voice, 'to be taken by you to the dead-house.'

'To the dead-house, Miss Whichello, ma'am!' said the iron Tinkler,
hardly able to conceal his astonishment, although it was against his
disciplinarian ideas to show emotion.

'There is a dead man in there, Mr Inspector, whom I knew under very
different circumstances more than twenty years ago.'

'Answers to the name of Jentham, perhaps?' suggested Mr Inspector.

'Yes, he called himself Jentham, I believe. I--I--I wish to see his
body;' and the little old lady looked anxiously into Tinkler's purple
face.

'Miss Whichello, ma'am,' said the ex-sergeant with an official air,
'this request requires reflection. Do you know the party in question?'

'I knew him, as I told you, more than twenty years ago. He was then a
very talented violinist, and I heard him play frequently in London.'

'What was his name, Miss Whichello, ma'am?'

'His name then, Mr Inspector, was Amaru!'

'A stage name I take it to be, ma'am!'

'Yes! a stage name.'

'What was his real name?'

'I can't say,' replied Miss Whichello, in a hesitating voice. 'I knew
him only as Amaru.'

'Humph! here he called himself Jentham. Do you know anything about this
murder, Miss Whichello, ma'am?' and the inspector fixed a blood-shot
grey eye on the thick veil.

'No! no! I know nothing about the murder!' cried Miss Whichello in
earnest tones. 'I heard that this man Jentham looked like a gipsy and
was marked with a scar on the right cheek. From that description I
thought that he might be Amaru, and I wish to see his body to be certain
that I am right.'

'Well, Miss Whichello, ma'am,' said the stern Tinkler, after some
deliberation, 'your request is out of the usual course of things; but
knowing you as a good and charitable lady, and thinking you may throw
some light on this mysterious crime--why, I'll show you the corpse with
pleasure.'

'One moment,' said the old lady, laying a detaining hand on the
inspector's blue cloth sleeve. 'I must tell you that I can throw no
light on the subject; if I could I would. I simply desire to see the
body of this man and to satisfy myself that he is Amaru.'

'Very good, Miss Whichello, ma'am; you shall see it.'

'And you'll not mention that I came here, Mr Inspector.'

'I give you my word, ma'am--the word of a soldier. This way, Miss
Whichello, this way.'

Following the rigid figure of the inspector, the little old lady was
conducted by him to a small building of galvanised tin in the rear of
the police-station. Several idlers were hanging about, amongst them
being Miss Bell Mosk, who was trying to persuade a handsome young
policeman to gratify her morbid curiosity. Her eyes opened to their
widest width when she recognised Miss Whichello's silk cloak and poke
bonnet, and saw them vanish into the dead-house.

'Well I never!' said Miss Mosk. 'I never thought she'd be fond of
corpses at her time of life, seeing as she'll soon be one herself.'

The little old lady and the inspector remained within for five or six
minutes. When they came out the tears were falling fast beneath Miss
Whichello's veil.

'Is that the man?' asked Tinkler, in a low voice.

'Yes!' replied Miss Whichello; 'that is the man I knew as Amaru.'




CHAPTER XVI

THE ZEAL OF INSPECTOR TINKLER


The strange affair of Jentham's murder continued to occupy the attention
of the Beorminster public throughout the week; and on the day when the
inquest was held, popular excitement rose to fever heat. Inspector
Tinkler, feeling that the County expected him to do great things worthy
of his reputation as a zealous officer, worked his hardest to gather
evidence likely to elucidate the mystery of the death; but in spite of
the most strenuous exertions, his efforts resulted in total failure. The
collected details proved to be of the most meagre description, and when
the coroner sat on the body nothing transpired to reveal the name, or
even indicate the identity of the assassin who had provided him with a
body to sit on. It really seemed as though the Southberry murder would
end in being relegated to the list of undiscovered crimes.

'For I can't work miracles,' explained the indignant Tinkler, when
reproached with this result, 'and somehow the case has got out of hand.
The motive for the shooting can't be got at; the pistol used ain't to be
picked up, search how you may; and as for the murdering villain who
fired it, if he ain't down below where he ought to be, I'll take my oath
as a soldier he ain't above ground. Take it how you will, this case is a
corker and no mistake.'

It had certainly occurred to Tinkler's bothered mind that Miss Whichello
should be called as a witness, if only to prove that at one time the
dead man had occupied a better position in the world, but after a short
interview with her he had abandoned this idea. Miss Whichello declared
that she could throw no light on the affair, and that she had lost sight
of the quondam violinist for over thirty years. Her recognition of him
as Amaru had been entirely due to the description of his gipsy looks
and the noticeable cicatrice on his face; and she pointed out to Tinkler
that she had not seen the so-called Jentham till after his death;
moreover, it was unlikely that events which had occurred thirty years
before could have resulted in the man's violent death at the present
time; and Miss Whichello insisted that she knew nothing of the
creature's later circumstances or acquaintances. Being thus ignorant, it
was not to be expected that her evidence would be of any value, so at
her earnest request Tinkler held his tongue, and forebore to summon her
as a witness. Miss Whichello was greatly relieved in her own mind when
the inspector came to this conclusion, but she did not let Tinkler see
her relief.

From Mosk, the officer had learned that the vagabond who called himself
Jentham had appeared at The Derby Winner some three weeks previous to
the time of his death. He had given no information as to where he had
last rested, but, so far as Mosk knew, had dropped down from the sky.
Certainly his conversation when he was intoxicated showed that he had
travelled a great deal, and that his past was concerned with robbery,
and bloodshed, and lawlessness; but the man had talked generally as any
traveller might, had refrained from mentioning names, and altogether had
spoken so loosely that nothing likely to lead to a tangible result could
be gathered from his rambling discourses. He had paid his board and
lodging for the first week, but thereafter had lived on credit, and at
the time of his death had owed Mosk over two pounds, principally for
strong drink. Usually he slept at The Derby Winner and loafed about the
streets all day, but at times he went over to the gipsy camp near
Southberry and fraternised with the Romany. This was the gist of Mosk's
information, but he added, as an afterthought, that Jentham had promised
to pay him when certain monies which he expected came into his
possession.

'Who was going to pay him this money?' asked Tinkler, pricking up his
ears.

'Carn't y'arsk me somethin' easier?' growled Mosk; 'how should I know?
He said he was goin' to get the dibs, but who from, or where from, I
dunno', for he held his tongue so far.'

'There was no money in the pockets of the clothes worn by the body,'
said Tinkler, musingly.

'I dessay not, Mr Inspector. I don't b'lieve the cove was expecting any
money, I don't. 'Twas all moonshine--his talk, to make me trust him for
bed and grub, and a blamed fool I've bin doin' so,' grumbled Mosk.

'The pockets were turned inside out, though.'

'Oh, they was, was they, Mr Inspector? Well, that does look queer. But
if there was any light-fingered business to be done, I dessay them
gipsies hev somethin' to do with it.'

'Did the man go to the gipsy camp on Sunday night?'

'Bell ses he did,' replied Mr Mosk, 'but I went over to Southberry in
the arternoon about a little 'oss as I'm sweet on, so I don't know what
he did, save by 'earsay.'

Bell, on being questioned by the inspector, declared that Jentham had
loitered about the hotel the greater part of Sunday, but had taken his
departure about five o'clock. He did not say that he was going to the
camp, but as he often paid a visit to it, she presumed that he had gone
there during that evening. 'Especially as you found his corpse on the
common, Mr Tinkler,' said Bell, 'no doubt the poor wretch was coming
back from them gipsies.'

'Humph! it's not a bad idea,' said Tinkler, scratching his well-shaven
chin. 'Strikes me as I'll go and look up Mother Jael.'

The result of an interview with that iniquitous old beldame proved that
Jentham had certainly been the guest of the gipsies on Sunday evening
but had returned to Beorminster shortly after nine o'clock. He had
stated that he was going back to The Derby Winner, and as it was his
custom to come and go when he pleased, the Romany had not taken much
notice of his departure. A vagrant like Jentham was quite independent of
time.

'He was one of your lot, I suppose?' said Mr Inspector, taking a few
notes in his pocket-book--a secretive little article which shut with a
patent clasp.

'Yes, dearie, yes! Lord bless 'ee,' mumbled Mother Jael, blinking her
cunning eyes, 'he was one of the gentle Romany sure enough.'

'Was he with you long, granny?'

'Three week, lovey, jus' three week. He cum to Beorminster and got
weary like of you Gentiles, so he made hisself comforbal with us.'

'Blackguards to blackguards, and birds of a feather' murmured Tinkler;
then asked if Jentham had told Mother Jael anything about himself.

'He!' screeched the old hag, 'he niver tol' me a word. He cum an' he
go'd; but he kep his red rag to himself, he did. Duvel! he was a cunning
one that Jentham.'

'Was his name Jentham, mother; or was it something else?'

'He called hisself so, dearie, but I niver knowed one of that gentle
Romany as had a Gentile name. We sticks to our own mos'ly. Job! I shud
think so.'

'Are you sure he was a gipsy?'

'Course I am, my noble Gorgio! He could patter the calo jib with the
best of 'um. He know'd lots wot the Gentiles don' know, an' he had the
eagle beak an' the peaked eye. Oh, tiny Jesus was a Romany chal, or may
I die for it!'

'Do you know who killed him?' asked Tinkler, abruptly.

'No, lovey. 'Tweren't one of us, tho' you puts allays the wust on our
backs. Job! dog do niver eat dog, as I knows, dearie.'

'He left your camp at nine o'clock?'

'Thereabouts, my lamb; jes' arter nine!'

'Was he sober or drunk?'

'Betwix' an' between, lovey; he cud walk straight an' talk straight, an'
look arter his blessed life.'

'Humph! seems as though he couldn't,' said Mr Inspector, dryly.

'Duvel! that's a true sayin',' said Mother Jael, with a nod, 'but I don'
know wot cum to him, dearie.'

At the inquest Mother Jael was called as a witness, and told the jury
much the same story as she had related to Tinkler, with further details
as to the movements of the gipsies on that night. She declared that none
of the tribe had left the camp; that Jentham had gone away alone,
comparatively sober; and that she did not hear of his murder until late
the next day. In spite of examination and cross-examination, Mother Jael
could give no evidence as to Jentham's real name, or about his past, or
why he was lingering at Beorminster. 'He cum'd an' he go'd,' said
Mother Jael, with the air of an oracle, and that was the extent of her
information, delivered in a croaking, shuffling, unconvincing manner.

The carter, Giles Crake, who had found the body, was a stupid yokel
whose knowledge was entirely limited to his immediate surroundings.
Perched on his cart, he had seen the body lying in a ditch half full of
water, on the other side of an earthen mound, which extended along the
side of the main road. The spot where he discovered it, was near
Beorminster, and about five miles from the gipsy camp. The man had been
shot through the heart; his pockets had been emptied and turned inside
out; and evidently after the murder the robber had dragged the body over
the mound into the ditch. Giles had not touched the corpse, being
fearful of getting into trouble, but had come on at once to Beorminster
to inform the police of his discovery.

It was Dr Graham who had examined the body when first discovered, and
according to his evidence the man had been shot through the heart
shortly before ten o'clock on Sunday night. The pistol had been fired so
close that the clothing of the deceased over the heart was scorched and
blackened with the powder of the cartridge. 'And from this fact,' added
Graham, with one of his shrewd glances, 'I gather that the murderer must
have been known to Jentham!'

'How is that, doctor?' asked one of the jury.

'Because he must have held him in talk while contemplating the crime,
sir. The murderer and his victim must almost have been breast to breast,
and while the attention of the latter was distracted in some way, the
assassin must have shot him at close quarters.'

'This is all theory, Dr Graham,' said the coroner, who was a rival
practitioner.

'It seems to me that the whole case rests on theory,' retorted Graham,
and shrugged his shoulders.

Before the evidence concerning the matter closed, Inspector Tinkler
explained how difficult it had been to collect even the few details
which the jury had heard. He stated also that although the strictest
search had been made in the vicinity of the crime, the weapon with which
it had been committed could not be found. As the shooting had been done
during a downfall of rain, the assassin's and his victim's footmarks
were visible in the soft clay of the roadway; also there were the marks
of horses' hoofs, so it was probable that the murderer had been mounted.
If this were so, neither gipsies nor harvesters could have killed the
wretched man, as neither the one lot nor the other possessed horses
and--'

'The gipsies have horses to draw their caravans!' interrupted a
sharp-looking juryman.

'To draw their caravans I admit,' said the undaunted Tinkler, 'but not
to ride on. Besides, I would remind you, Mr Jobson, as Mother Jael
declares, that none of her crowd left the camp on that night.'

'Oh, she'd declare anything,' muttered Jobson, who had no great opinion
of Tinkler's brains. 'Have the footmarks in the road been measured?'

'No, they haven't, Mr Jobson!'

'Then they should have, Mr Inspector; you can tell a lot from a
footmark, as I've heard. It's what the French call the Bertillon system
of identification, that's what it is.'

'I don't need to go to France to learn my business,' said Tinkler,
tartly, 'and if I did get the measurements of them footmarks, how am I
to know which is which--Jentham's or his murderer's? and how can I go
round the whole of Beorminster to see whose feet fit 'em? I ask you
that, Mr Jobson, sir.'

At this point, judging that the discussion had gone far enough, the
coroner intervened and said that Mr Inspector had done his best to
unravel a very difficult case. That he had not succeeded was the fault
of the case and not of Mr Inspector, and for his part, he thought that
the thanks of the Beorminster citizens were due to the efforts of so
zealous and intelligent an officer as Tinkler. This sapient speech
reduced the recalcitrant Jobson to silence, but he still held to his
opinion that the over-confident Tinkler had bungled the matter, and in
this view he was silently but heartily supported by shrewd Dr Graham,
who privately considered that Mr Inspector Tinkler was little better
than an ass. However, he did not give vent to this offensive opinion.

The summing-up of the coroner called for little remark. He was a worthy
country doctor, with as much brains as would cover a sixpence, and the
case was beyond him in every way. His remarks to the jury--equally
stupid, with the exception of Jobson--were to the effect that it was
evidently impossible to find out who had killed Jentham, that the man
was a quarrelsome vagabond who probably had many enemies; that no doubt
while crossing the common in a drunken humour he had met with someone as
bad as himself, and had come to high words with him; and that the
unknown man, being armed, had no doubt shot the deceased in a fit of
rage. 'He robbed the body, I daresay, gentlemen,' concluded the coroner,
'and then threw it into the ditch to conceal the evidence of his crime.
As we don't know the man, and are never likely to know him, I can only
suggest that you should find a verdict in accordance with the evidence
supplied to you by the zeal of Inspector Tinkler. Man has done all he
can to find out this Cain, but his efforts have been vain, so we must
leave the punishment of the murderer to God; and as Holy Scripture says
that "murder will out," I have no doubt that some day the criminal will
be brought to justice.'

After this wise speech it was not surprising that the jury brought in a
verdict, 'That the deceased Jentham met with a violent death at the
hands of some person or persons unknown,' that being the kind of verdict
which juries without brains--as in the present instance--generally give.
Having thus settled the matter to their own bovine satisfaction, the
jury went away after having been thanked for their zeal by the coroner.
That gentleman was great on zeal.

'Hum! Hum! Hum!' said Dr Graham to himself, 'there's too much zeal
altogether. I wonder what M. de Talleyrand would have thought of these
cabbages and their zeal. Well, Mr Inspector,' he added aloud, 'so you've
finished off the matter nicely.'

'We have done our best, Dr Graham, sir.'

'And you don't know who killed the man?'

'No, sir, I don't; and what's more, I don't believe anybody ever will
know.'

'Humph, that's your opinion, is it? Do you read much, Mr Inspector?'

'A novel at times, sir. I'm fond of a good novel.'

'Then let me recommend to your attention the works of a French author,
by name Gaboriau. There's a man in them called Lecoq, who would have
found out the truth, Mr Inspector.'

'Fiction, Dr Graham, sir! Fiction.'

'True enough, Mr Inspector, but most fiction is founded on fact.'

'Well, sir,' said Tinkler, with a superior wise smile, 'I should like to
see our case in the hands of your Mr Lecoq.'

'So should I, Mr Inspector, or in the hands of Sherlock Holmes. Bless
me, Tinkler, they'd do almost as much as you have done. It is a pity
that you are not a character in fiction, Tinkler.'

'Why, sir? Why, may I ask?'

'Because your author might have touched you up in weak parts, and have
gifted you with some brains. Good-day, Mr Inspector.'

While Graham walked away chuckling at his banter of this red-tape
official, the official himself stood gasping like a fish out of the
water, and trying to realise the insult levelled at his dignity.
Jobson--a small man--sidled round to the front of him and made a comment
on the situation.

'It all comes of your not measuring them footmarks,' said Jobson. 'In
detective novels the clever fellows always do that, but you'd never be
put into a book, not you!'

'You'll be put into jail,' cried the outraged inspector.

'It's more than Jentham's murderer will if you've got the catching of
him,' said Jobson, and walked off.




CHAPTER XVII

A CLERICAL DETECTIVE


All this time Mr Michael Cargrim had not been idle. On hearing of the
murder, his thoughts had immediately centred themselves on the bishop.
To say that the chaplain was shocked is to express his feelings much too
mildly; he was horrified! thunderstruck! terrified! in fact, there was
no word in the English tongue strong enough to explain his superlative
state of mind. It was characteristic of the man's malignant nature that
he was fully prepared to believe in Dr Pendle's guilt without hearing
any evidence for or against this opinion. He was aware that Jentham had
been cognisant of some weighty secret concerning the bishop's past, for
the concealing of which he was to have been bribed, and when the report
of the murder reached the chaplain's ears, he quite believed that in
place of paying the sum agreed upon, Dr Pendle had settled accounts with
the blackmailer by shooting him. Cargrim took this extreme view of the
matter for two reasons; firstly, because he had gathered from the
bishop's movements, and Jentham's talk of Tom Tiddler's ground, that a
meeting on Southberry Heath had been arranged between the pair;
secondly, because no money was found on the dead body, which would have
been the case had the bribe been paid. To the circumstantial evidence
that the turned-out pockets pointed to robbery, Mr Cargrim, at the
moment, strangely enough, paid no attention.

In considering the case, Cargrim's wish was very much the father to the
thought, for he desired to believe in the bishop's guilt, as the
knowledge of it would give him a great deal of power over his
ecclesiastical superior. If he could only collect sufficient evidence to
convict Dr Pendle of murdering Jentham, and could show him the links in
the chain of circumstances by which he arrived at such a conclusion, he
had little doubt but that the bishop, to induce him to hide the crime,
would become his abject slave. To gain such an immense power, and use it
for the furtherance of his own interests, Cargrim was quite prepared to
compound a possible felony; so the last case of the bishop would be
worse than the first. Instead of being in Jentham's power he would be in
Cargrim's; and in place of taking the form of money, the blackmail would
assume that of influence. So Mr Cargrim argued the case out; and so he
determined to shape his plans: yet he had a certain hesitancy in taking
the first step. He had, as he firmly believed, a knowledge that Dr
Pendle was a murderer; yet although the possession of such a secret gave
him unlimited power, he was afraid to use it, for its mere exercise in
the present lack of material evidence to prove its truth was a ticklish
job. Cargrim felt like a man gripping a comet by its tail, and doubtful
whether to hold on or let go. However, this uncertain state of things
could be remedied by a strict examination into the circumstances of the
case; therefore Cargrim set his mind to searching them out. He had been
present at the inquest, but none of the witnesses brought forward by the
bungling Tinkler had made any statement likely to implicate the bishop.
Evidently no suspicion connecting Dr Pendle with Jentham existed in the
minds of police or public. Cargrim could have set such a rumour afloat
by a mere hint that the dead man and the bishop's strange visitor on the
night of the reception had been one and the same; but he did not think
it judicious to do this. He wanted the bishop's secret to be his alone,
and the more spotless was Dr Pendle's public character, the more anxious
he would be to retain it by becoming Cargrim's slave in order that the
chaplain might be silent regarding his guilt. But to obtain such an
advantage it was necessary for Cargrim to acquaint himself with the way
in which Dr Pendle had committed the crime. And this, as he was obliged
to work by stealth, was no easy task.

After some cogitation the wily chaplain concluded that it would be best
to hear the general opinion of the Beorminster gossips in order to pick
up any stray scraps of information likely to be of use to him.
Afterwards he intended to call on Mr Inspector Tinkler and hear
officially the more immediate details of the case. By what he heard from
the police and the social prattlers, Cargrim hoped to be guided in
constructing his case against Dr Pendle. Then there was the bishop's
London journey; the bishop's cheque-book with its missing butt; the
bishop's journey to and from Southberry on the day and night when the
murder had been committed; all these facts would go far to implicate him
in the matter. Also Cargrim desired to find the missing pistol, and the
papers which had evidently been taken from the corpse. This last idea
was purely theoretical, as was Cargrim's fancy that Jentham's power over
Dr Pendle had to do with certain papers. He argued from the fact that
the pockets of the dead man's clothes had been turned inside out.
Cargrim did not believe that the bishop had paid the blackmail,
therefore the pockets could not have been searched for the money; the
more so, as no possible robber could have known that Jentham would be
possessed of a sum worth committing murder for on that night. On the
other hand, if Jentham had possessed papers which inculpated the bishop
in any crime, it was probable that, after shooting him, the assassin had
searched for, and had obtained, the papers to which he attached so much
value. It was the bishop who had turned the pockets inside out, and, as
Cargrim decided, for the above reason. Certainly, from a commonsense
point of view, Cargrim's theory, knowing what he did know, was feasible
enough.

Having thus arrived at a point where it was necessary to transmute
thought into action, Mr Cargrim assumed his best clerical uniform, his
tallest and whitest jam-pot collar, and drew on a pair of delicate
lavender gloves. Spotless and neat and eminently sanctimonious, the
chaplain took his demure way towards Mrs Pansey's residence, as he
judged very rightly that she would be the most likely person to afford
him possible information. The archdeacon's widow lived on the outskirts
of Beorminster, in a gloomy old barrack of a mansion, surrounded by a
large garden, which in its turn was girdled by a high red brick wall
with broken glass bottles on the top, as though Mrs Pansey dwelt in a
gaol, and was on no account to be allowed out. Had such a thing been
possible, the whole of Beorminster humanity, rich and poor, would
willingly have subscribed large sums to build the wall higher, and to
add spikes to the glass bottles. Anything to keep Mrs Pansey in her
gaol, and prevent her issuing forth as a social scourge.

Into the gaol Mr Cargrim was admitted with certain solemnity by a
sour-faced footman whose milk of human kindness had turned acid in the
thunderstorms of Mrs Pansey's spite. This engaging Cerberus conducted
the chaplain into a large and sepulchral drawing-room in which the good
lady and Miss Norsham were partaking of afternoon tea. Mrs Pansey wore
her customary skirts of solemn black, and looked more gloomy than ever;
but Daisy, the elderly sylph, brightened the room with a dress of white
muslin adorned with many little bows of white ribbon, so
that--sartorially speaking--she was very young, and very virginal, and
quite angelical in looks. Both ladies were pleased to see their visitor
and received him warmly in their several ways; that is, Mrs Pansey
groaned and Daisy giggled.

'Oh, how very nice of you to call, dear Mr Cargrim,' said the sylph.
'Mrs Pansey and I are positively dying to hear all about this very
dreadful inquest. Tea?'

'Thank you; no sugar. Ah!' sighed Mr Cargrim, taking his cup, 'it is a
terrible thing to think that an inquest should be held in Beorminster on
the slaughtered body of a human being. Bread and butter! thank you!'

'It's a judgment,' declared Mrs Pansey, and devoured a buttery little
square of toast with another groan louder than the first.

'Oh, do tell me who killed the poor thing, Mr Cargrim,' gushed Daisy,
childishly.

'No one knows, Miss Norsham. The jury brought in a verdict of wilful
murder against some person or persons unknown. You must excuse me if I
speak too technically, but those are the precise words of the verdict.'

'And very silly words they are!' pronounced the hostess, _ex cathedra_;
'but what can you expect from a parcel of trading fools?'

'But, Mrs Pansey, no one knows who killed this man.'

'They should find out, Mr Cargrim.'

'They have tried to do so and have failed!' 'That shows that what I say
is true. Police and jury are fools,' said Mrs Pansey, with the
triumphant air of one clinching an argument.

'Oh, dear, it is so very strange!' said the fair Daisy. 'I wonder really
what could have been the motive for the murder?'

'As the pockets were turned inside out,' said Mr Cargrim, 'it is
believed that robbery was the motive.'

'Rubbish!' said Mrs Pansey, shaking her skirts; 'there is a deal more in
this crime than meets the eye.'

'I believe general opinion is agreed upon that point,' said the
chaplain, dryly.

'What is Miss Whichello's opinion?' demanded the archdeacon's widow.
Cargrim could not suppress a start. It was strange that Mrs Pansey
should allude to Miss Whichello, when he also had his suspicions
regarding her knowledge of the dead man.

'I don't see what she has to do with it,' he said quietly, with the
intention of arriving at Mrs Pansey's meaning.

'Ah! no more can anyone else, Mr Cargrim. But I know! I know!'

'Know what? dear Mrs Pansey. Oh, really! you are not going to say that
poor Miss Whichello fired that horrid pistol.'

'I don't say anything, Daisy, as I don't want to figure in a libel
action; but I should like to know why Miss Whichello went to the
dead-house to see the body.'

'Did she go there? are you sure?' exclaimed the chaplain, much
surprised.

'I can believe my own eyes, can't I!' snapped Mrs Pansey. 'I saw her
myself, for I was down near the police-station the other evening on one
of my visits to the poor. There, while returning home by the dead-house,
I saw that hussy of a Bell Mosk making eyes at a policeman, and I
recognised Miss Whichello for all her veil.'

'Did she wear a veil?'

'I should think so; and a very thick one. But if she wants to do
underhand things she should change her bonnet and cloak. I knew them!
don't tell me!'

Certainly, Miss Whichello's actions seemed suspicious; and, anxious to
learn their meaning from the lady herself, Cargrim mentally determined
to visit the Jenny Wren house after leaving Mrs Pansey, instead of
calling on Miss Tancred, as he had intended. However, he was in no
hurry; and, asking Daisy for a second cup of tea to prolong his stay,
went on drawing out his hostess.

'How very strange!' said he, in allusion to Miss Whichello. 'I wonder
why she went to view so terrible a sight as that man's body.'

'Ah!' replied Mrs Pansey, with a shake of her turban, 'we all want to
know that. But I'll find her out; that I will.'

'But, dear Mrs Pansey, you don't think sweet Miss Whichello has anything
to do with this very dreadful murder?'

'I accuse no one, Daisy. I simply think!'

'What do you think?' questioned Cargrim, rather sharply.

'I think--what I think,' was Mrs Pansey's enigmatic response; and she
shut her mouth hard. Honestly speaking, the artful old lady was as
puzzled by Miss Whichello's visit to the dead-house as her hearers, and
she could bring no very tangible accusation against her, but Mrs Pansey
well knew the art of spreading scandal, and was quite satisfied that her
significant silence--about nothing--would end in creating something
against Miss Whichello. When she saw Cargrim look at Daisy, and Daisy
look back to Cargrim, and remembered that their tongues were only a
degree less venomous than her own, she was quite satisfied that a seed
had been sown likely to produce a very fertile crop of baseless talk.
The prospect cheered her greatly, for Mrs Pansey hated Miss Whichello as
much as a certain personage she quoted on occasions is said to hate holy
water.

'You are quite an Ear of Dionysius,' said the chaplain, with a
complimentary smirk; 'everything seems to come to you.'

'I make it my business to know what is going on, Mr Cargrim,' replied
the lady, much gratified, 'in order to stem the torrent of infidelity,
debauchery, lying and flattery which rolls through this city.'

'Oh, dear me! how strange it is that the dear bishop saw nothing of
this frightful murder,' exclaimed Daisy, who had been reflecting. 'He
rode back from Southberry late on Sunday night, I hear.'

'His lordship saw nothing, I am sure,' said Cargrim, hastily, for it was
not his design to incriminate Dr Pendle; 'if he had, he would have
mentioned it to me. And you know, Miss Norsham, there was quite a
tempest on that night, so even if his lordship had passed near the scene
of the murder, he could not have heard the shot of the assassin or the
cry of the victim. The rain and thunder would in all human probability
have drowned both.'

'Besides which his lordship is neither sharp-eared nor observant,' said
Mrs Pansey, spitefully; 'a man less fitted to be a bishop doesn't live.'

'Oh, dear Mrs Pansey! you are too hard on him.'

'Rubbish! don't tell me! What about his sons, Mr Cargrim? Did they hear
anything?'

'I don't quite follow you, Mrs Pansey.'

'Bless the man, I'm talking English, I hope. Both George and Gabriel
Pendle were on Southberry Heath on Sunday night.'

'Are you sure!' cried the chaplain, doubtful if he heard aright.

'Of course I am sure,' snorted the lady. 'Would I speak so positively if
I wasn't? No, indeed. I got the news from my page-boy.'

'Really! from that sweet little Cyril!'

'Yes, from that worthless scamp Cyril! Cyril,' repeated Mrs Pansey, with
a snort, 'the idea of a pauper like Mrs Jennings giving her brat such a
fine name. Well, it was Cyril's night out on Sunday, and he did not come
home till late, and then made his appearance very wet and dirty. He told
me that he had been on Southberry Heath and had been almost knocked into
a ditch by Mr Pendle galloping past. I asked him which Mr Pendle had
been out riding on Sunday, and he declared that he had seen them
both--George about eight o'clock when he was on the Heath, and Gabriel
shortly after nine, as he was coming home. I gave the wretched boy a
good scolding, no supper, and a psalm to commit to memory!'

'George and Gabriel Pendle riding on Southberry Heath on that night,'
said the chaplain, thoughtfully; 'it is very strange.'

'Strange!' almost shouted Mrs Pansey, 'it's worse than strange--it's
Sabbath-breaking--and their father riding also. No wonder the mystery of
iniquity doth work, when those high in the land break the fourth
commandment; are you going, Mr Cargrim?'

'Yes! I am sorry to leave such charming company, but I have an
engagement. Good-bye, Miss Norsham; your tea was worthy of the fair
hands which made it. Good-bye, Mrs Pansey. Let us hope that the
authorities will discover and punish this unknown Cain.'

'Cain or Jezebel,' said Mrs Pansey, darkly, 'it's one or the other of
them.'

Whether the good lady meant to indicate Miss Whichello by the second
name, Mr Cargrim did not stay to inquire, as he was in a hurry to see
her himself and find out why she had visited the dead-house. He
therefore bowed and smiled himself out of Mrs Pansey's gaol, and walked
as rapidly as he was able to the little house in the shadow of the
cathedral towers. Here he found Miss Whichello all alone, as Mab had
gone out to tea with some friends. The little lady welcomed him warmly,
quite ignorant of what a viper she was inviting to warm itself on her
hearth, and visitor and hostess were soon chattering amicably on the
most friendly of terms.

Gradually Cargrim brought round the conversation to Mrs Pansey and
mentioned that he had been paying her a visit.

'I hope you enjoyed yourself, I'm sure, Mr Cargrim,' said Miss
Whichello, good-humouredly, 'but it gives me no pleasure to visit Mrs
Pansey.'

'Well, do you know, Miss Whichello, I find her rather amusing. She is a
very observant lady, and converses wittily about what she observes.'

'She talks scandal, if that is what you mean.'

'I am afraid that word is rather harsh, Miss Whichello.'

'It may be, sir, but it is rather appropriate--to Mrs Pansey! Well! and
who was she talking about to-day?'

'About several people, my dear lady; yourself amongst the number.'

'Indeed!' Miss Whichello drew her little body up stiffly. 'And had she
anything unpleasant to say about me?'

'Oh, not at all. She only remarked that she saw you visiting the
dead-house last week.'

Miss Whichello let fall her cup with a crash, and turned pale. 'How does
she know that?' was her sharp question.

'She saw you,' repeated the chaplain; 'and in spite of your veil she
recognised you by your cloak and bonnet.'

'I am greatly obliged to Mrs Pansey for the interest she takes in my
business,' said Miss Whichello, in her most stately manner. 'I did visit
the Beorminster dead-house. There!'




CHAPTER XVIII

THE CHAPLAIN ON THE WARPATH


Miss Whichello's frank admission that she had visited the dead-house
rather disconcerted Mr Cargrim. From the circumstance of the veil, he
had presumed that she wished her errand there to be unknown, in which
case her conduct would have appeared highly suspicious, since she was
supposed to know nothing about Jentham or Jentham's murder. But her
ready acknowledgment of the fact apparently showed that she had nothing
to conceal. Cargrim, for all his acuteness, did not guess that of two
evils Miss Whichello had chosen the least. In truth, she did not wish
her visit to the dead-house to be known, but as Mrs Pansey was cognisant
of it, she judged it wiser to neutralise any possible harm that that
lady could do by admitting the original statement to be a true one. This
honesty would take the wind out of Mrs Pansey's sails, and prevent her
from distorting an admitted fact into a fiction of hinted wickedness.
Furthermore, Miss Whichello was prepared to give Cargrim a sufficient
reason for her visit, so that he might not invent one. Only by so open a
course could she keep the secret of her thirty-year-old acquaintance
with the dead man. As a rule, the little old lady hated subterfuge, but
in this case her only chance of safety lay in beating Pansey, Cargrim
and Company with their own weapons. And who can say that she was acting
wrongly?

'Yes, Mr Cargrim,' she repeated, looking him directly in the face, 'Mrs
Pansey is right. I was at the dead-house and I went to see the corpse of
the man Jentham. I suppose you--and Mrs Pansey--wonder why I did so?'

'Oh, my dear lady!' remonstrated the embarrassed chaplain, 'by no means;
such knowledge is none of our business--that is, none of _my_
business.'

'You have made it your business, however!' observed Miss Whichello,
dryly, 'else you would scarcely have informed me of Mrs Pansey's
unwarrantable remarks on my private affairs. Well, Mr Cargrim, I suppose
you know that this tramp attacked my niece on the high road.'

'Yes, Miss Whichello, I know that.'

'Very good; as I considered that the man was a dangerous character I
thought that he should be compelled to leave Beorminster; so I went to
The Derby Winner on the night that you met me, in order to--'

'To see Mrs Mosk!' interrupted Cargrim, softly, hoping to entrap her.

'In order to see Mrs Mosk, and in order to see Jentham. I intended to
tell him that if he did not leave Beorminster at once that I should
inform the police of his attack on Miss Arden. Also, as I was willing to
give him a chance of reforming his conduct, I intended to supply him
with a small sum for his immediate departure. On that night, however, I
did not see him, as he had gone over to the gipsy camp. When I heard
that he was dead I could scarcely believe it, so, to set my mind at
rest, and to satisfy myself that Mab would be in no further danger from
his insolence when she walked abroad, I visited the dead-house and saw
his body. That, Mr Cargrim, was the sole reason for my visit; and as it
concerned myself alone, I wore a veil so as not to provoke remark. It
seems that I was wrong, since Mrs Pansey has been discussing me.
However, I hope you will set her mind at rest by telling her what I have
told you.'

'Really, my dear Miss Whichello, you are very severe; I assure you all
this explanation is needless.'

'Not while Mrs Pansey has so venomous a tongue, Mr Cargrim. She is quite
capable of twisting my innocent desire to assure myself that Mab was
safe from this man into some extraordinary statement without a word of
truth in it. I shouldn't be surprised if Mrs Pansey had hinted to you
that I had killed this creature.'

As this was precisely what the archdeacon's widow had done, Cargrim felt
horribly uncomfortable under the scorn of Miss Whichello's justifiable
indignation. He grew red, and smiled feebly, and murmured weak
apologies; all of which Miss Whichello saw and heard with supreme
contempt. Mr Cargrim, by his late tittle-tattling conversation, had
fallen in her good opinion; and she was not going to let him off without
a sharp rebuke for his unfounded chatter. Cutting short his murmurs, she
proceeded to nip in the bud any further reports he or Mrs Pansey might
spread in connection with the murder, by explaining much more than was
needful.

'And if Mrs Pansey should hear that Captain Pendle was on Southberry
Heath on Sunday night,' she continued, 'I trust that she will not accuse
him of shooting the man, although as I know, and you know also, Mr
Cargrim, she is quite capable of doing so.'

'Was Captain Pendle on Southberry Heath?' asked Cargrim, who was already
acquainted with this fact, although he did not think it necessary to
tell Miss Whichello so. 'You don't say so?'

'Yes, he was! He rode over to the gipsy camp to purchase an engagement
ring for Miss Arden from Mother Jael. That ring is now on her finger.'

'So Miss Arden is engaged to Captain Pendle,' cried Cargrim, in a
gushing manner. 'I congratulate you, and her, and him.'

'Thank you, Mr Cargrim,' said Miss Whichello, stiffly.

'I suppose Captain Pendle saw nothing of Jentham at the gipsy camp?'

'No! he never saw the man at all that evening.'

'Did he hear the shot fired?'

'Of course he did not!' cried Miss Whichello, wrathfully. 'How could he
hear with the noise of the storm? You might as well ask if the bishop
did; he was on Southberry Heath on that night.'

'Oh, yes, but he heard nothing, dear lady; he told me so.'

'You seem to be very interested in this murder, Mr Cargrim,' said the
little lady, with a keen look.

'Naturally, everyone in Beorminster is interested in it. I hope the
criminal will be captured.'

'I hope so too; do you know who he is?'

'I? my dear lady, how should I know?'

'I thought Mrs Pansey might have told you!' said Miss Whichello, coolly.
'She knows all that goes on, and a good deal that doesn't. But you can
tell her that both I and Captain Pendle are innocent, although I _did_
visit the dead-house, and although he _was_ on Southberry Heath when the
crime was committed.'

'You are very severe, dear lady!' said Cargrim, rising to take his
leave, for he was anxious to extricate himself from his very
uncomfortable and undignified position.

'Solomon was even more severe, Mr Cargrim. He said, "Burning lips and a
wicked heart are like a potsherd covered with silver dross." I fancy
there were Mrs Panseys in those days, Mr Cargrim.'

In the face of this choice proverb Mr Cargrim beat a hasty retreat.
Altogether Miss Whichello was too much for him; and for once in his life
he was at a loss how to gloss over his defeat. Not until he was in
Tinkler's office did he recover his feeling of superiority. With a
man--especially with a social inferior--he felt that he could deal; but
who can contend with a woman's tongue? It is her sword and shield; her
mouth is her bow; her words are the arrows; and the man who hopes to
withstand such an armoury of deadly weapons is a superfine idiot.
Cargrim, not being one, had run away; but in his rage at being compelled
to take flight, he almost exceeded Mrs Pansey in hating the cause of it.
Miss Whichello had certainly gained a victory, but she had also made an
enemy.

'So the inquest is over, Mr Inspector,' said the ruffled Cargrim,
smoothing his plumes.

'Over and done with, sir; and the corpse is now six feet under earth.'

'A sad end, Mr Inspector, and a sad life. To be a wanderer on the face
of the earth; to be violently removed when sinning; to be buried at the
expense of an alien parish; what a fate for a baptised Christian.'

'Don't you take on so, Mr Cargrim, sir!' said Tinkler, grimly. 'There
was precious little religion about Jentham, and he was buried in a much
better fashion than he deserved, and not by the parish either.'

Cargrim looked up suddenly. 'Who paid for his funeral then?'

'A charitable la--person, sir, whose name I am not at liberty to tell
anyone, at her own request.'

'At her own request,' said the chaplain, noting Tinkler's slips and
putting two and two together with wondrous rapidity. 'Ah, Miss Whichello
is indeed a good lady.'

'Did you--do you know--are you aware that Miss Whichello buried him,
sir?' stammered the inspector, considerably astonished.

'I have just come from her house,' replied Cargrim, answering the
question in the affirmative by implication.

'Well, she asked me not to tell anyone, sir; but as she told you, I
s'pose I can say as she buried that corpse with a good deal of expense.'

'It is not to be wondered at, seeing that she took an interest in the
wretched creature,' said Cargrim, delicately feeling his way. 'I trust
that the sight of his body in the dead-house didn't shock her nerves.'

'Did she tell you she visited the dead-house?' asked Tinkler, his eyes
growing larger at the extent of the chaplain's information.

'Of course she did,' replied Cargrim, and this was truer than most of
his remarks.

Tinkler brought down a heavy fist with a bang on his desk. 'Then I'm
blest, Mr Cargrim, sir, if I can understand what she meant by asking me
to hold my tongue.'

'Ah, Mr Inspector, the good lady is one of those rare spirits who "do
good by stealth and blush to find it fame."'

'Seems a kind of silly to go on like that, sir!'

'We are not all rare spirits, Tinkler.'

'I don't know what the world would be if we were, Mr Cargrim, sir. But
Miss Whichello seemed so anxious that I should hold my tongue about the
visit and the burial that I can't make out why she talked about them to
you or to anybody.'

'I cannot myself fathom her reason for such unnecessary secrecy, Mr
Inspector; unless it is that she wishes the murderer to be discovered.'

'Well, she can't spot him,' said Tinkler, emphatically, 'for all she
knows about Jentham is thirty years old.'

Cargrim could scarcely suppress a start at this unexpected information.
So Miss Whichello did know something about the dead man after all; and
doubtless her connection with Jentham had to do with the secret of the
bishop. Cargrim felt that he was on the eve of an important discovery;
for Tinkler, thinking that Miss Whichello had made a confidant of the
chaplain, babbled on innocently, without guessing that his attentive
listener was making a base use of him. The shrug of the shoulders with
which Cargrim commented on his last remark made Tinkler talk further.

'Besides!' said he, expansively, 'what does Miss Whichello know? Only
that the man was a violinist thirty years ago, and that he called
himself Amaru. Those details don't throw any light on the murder, Mr
Cargrim, sir.'

The chaplain mentally noted the former name and former profession of
Jentham and shook his head. 'Such information is utterly useless,' he
said gravely, 'and the people with whom Amaru _alias_ Jentham associated
then are doubtless all dead by this time.'

'Well, Miss Whichello didn't mention any of his friends, sir, but I
daresay it wouldn't be much use if she did. Beyond the man's former name
and business as a fiddler she told me nothing. I suppose, sir, she
didn't tell you anything likely to help us?'

'No! I don't think the past can help the present, Mr Tinkler. But what
is your candid opinion about this case?'

'I think it is a mystery, Mr Cargrim, sir, and is likely to remain one.'

'You don't anticipate that the murderer will be found?'

'No!' replied Mr Inspector, gruffly. 'I don't.'

'Cannot Mosk, with whom Jentham was lodging, enlighten you?'

Tinkler shook his head. 'Mosk said that Jentham owed him money, and
promised to pay him this week; but that I believe was all moonshine.'

'But Jentham might have expected to receive money, Mr Inspector?'

'Not he, Mr Cargrim, sir. He knew no one here who would lend or give him
a farthing. He had no money on him when his corpse was found!'

'Yet the body had been robbed!'

'Oh, yes, the body was robbed sure enough, for we found the pockets
turned inside out. But the murderer only took the rubbish a vagabond was
likely to have on him.'

'Were any papers taken, do you think, Mr Inspector?'

'Papers!' echoed Tinkler, scratching his head. 'What papers?'

'Well!' said Cargrim, shirking a true explanation, 'papers likely to
reveal his real name and the reason of his haunting Beorminster.'

'I don't think there could have been any papers, Mr Cargrim, sir. If
there had been, we'd ha' found 'em. The murderer wouldn't have taken
rubbish like that.'

'But why was the man killed?' persisted the chaplain.

'He was killed in a row,' said Tinkler, decisively, 'that's my theory.
Mother Jael says that he was half seas over when he left the camp, so I
daresay he met some labourer who quarrelled with him and used his
pistol.'

'But is it likely that a labourer would have a pistol?'

'Why not? Those harvesters don't trust one another, and it's just as
likely as not that one of them would keep a pistol to protect his
property from the other.'

'Was search made for the pistol?'

'Yes, it was, and no pistol was found. I tell you what, Mr Cargrim,'
said Tinkler, rising in rigid military fashion, 'it's my opinion that
there is too much tall talk about this case. Jentham was shot in a
drunken row, and the murderer has cleared out of the district. That is
the whole explanation of the matter.'

'I daresay you are right, Mr Inspector,' sighed Cargrim, putting on his
hat. 'We are all apt to elevate the commonplace into the romantic.'

'Or make a mountain out of a mole hill, which is plain English,' said
Tinkler. 'Good-day, Mr Cargrim.'

'Good-day, Tinkler, and many thanks for your lucid statement of the
case. I have no doubt that his lordship, the bishop, will take your very
sensible view of the matter.'

As it was now late, Mr Cargrim returned to the palace, not ill pleased
with his afternoon's work. He had learned that Miss Whichello had
visited the dead-house, that she had known the dead man as a violinist
under the name of Amaru, and had buried him for old acquaintance sake at
her own expense. Also he had been informed that Captain Pendle and his
brother Gabriel had been on Southberry Heath on the very night, and
about the very time, when the man had been shot; so, with all these
materials, Mr Cargrim hoped sooner or later to build up a very pretty
case against the bishop. If Miss Whichello was mixed up with the matter,
so much the better. At this moment Mr Cargrim's meditation was broken in
upon by the voice of Dr Graham.

'You are the very man I want, Cargrim. The bishop has written asking me
to call to-night and see him. Just tell him that I am engaged this
evening, but that I will attend on him to-morrow morning at ten
o'clock.'

'Oh! ho!' soliloquised Cargrim, when the doctor, evidently in a great
hurry, went off, 'so his lordship wants to see Dr Graham. I wonder what
that is for?'




CHAPTER XIX

THE BISHOP'S REQUEST


Whatever Dr Pendle may have thought of the Southberry murder, he kept
his opinion very much to himself. It is true that he expressed himself
horrified at the occurrence of so barbarous a crime in his diocese, that
he spoke pityingly of the wretched victim, that he was interested in
hearing the result of the inquest, but in each case he was guarded in
his remarks. At first, on hearing of the crime, his face had
betrayed--at all events, to Cargrim's jealous scrutiny--an expression of
relief, but shortly afterwards--on second thoughts, as one might
say--there came into his eyes a look of apprehension. That look which
seemed to expect the drawing near of evil days never left them again,
and daily his face grew thinner and whiter, his manner more restless and
ill at ease. He seemed as uncomfortable as was Damocles under the
hair-suspended sword.

Other people besides the chaplain noticed the change, but, unlike
Cargrim, they did not ascribe it to a consciousness of guilt, but to ill
health. Mrs Pendle, who was extremely fond of her husband, and was well
informed with regard to the newest treatment and the latest fashionable
medicine, insisted that the bishop suffered from nerves brought on by
overwork, and plaintively suggested that he should take the cure for
them at some German Bad. But the bishop, sturdy old Briton that he was,
insisted that so long as he could keep on his feet there was no
necessity for his women-folk to make a fuss over him, and declared that
it was merely the change in the weather which caused him--as he phrased
it--to feel a trifle out of sorts.

'It is hot one day and cold the next, my dear,' he said in answer to his
wife remonstrances, 'as if the clerk of the weather didn't know his own
mind. How can you expect the liver of a fat, lazy old man like me not to
respond to these sudden changes of temperature?'

'Fat, bishop!' cried Mrs Pendle, in vexed tones. 'You are not fat; you
have a fine figure for a man of your age. And as to lazy, there is no
one in the Church who works harder than you do. No one can deny that.'

'You flatter me, my love!'

'You under-rate yourself, my dear. But if it _is_ liver, why not try
Woodhall Spa? I believe the treatment there is very drastic and
beneficial. Why not go there, bishop? I'm sure a holiday would do you no
harm.'

'I haven't time for a holiday, Amy. My liver must get well as best it
can while I go about my daily duties--that is if it _is_ my liver.'

'I don't believe it is,' remarked Mrs Pendle; 'it is nerves, my dear,
nothing else. You hardly eat anything, you start at your own shadow, and
at times you are too irritable for words. Go to Droitwich for those
unruly nerves of yours, and try brine baths.'

'I rather think you should go to Nauheim for that weak heart of yours,
my love,' replied Dr Pendle, arranging his wife's pillows; 'in fact, I
want you and Lucy to go there next month.'

'Indeed, bishop, I shall do no such thing! You are not fit to look after
yourself.'

'Then Graham shall look after me.'

'Dr Graham!' echoed Mrs Pendle, with contempt. 'He is old-fashioned, and
quite ignorant of the new medicines. No, bishop, you must go to
Droitwich.'

'And you, my dear, to Nauheim!'

At this point matters came to an issue between them, for Mrs Pendle, who
like most people possessed a fund of what may be called nervous
obstinacy, positively refused to leave England. On his side, the bishop
insisted more eagerly than was his custom that Mrs Pendle should undergo
the Schott treatment at Nauheim. For some time the argument was
maintained with equal determination on both sides, until Mrs Pendle
concluded it by bursting into tears and protesting that her husband did
not understand her in the least. Whereupon, as the only way to soothe
her, the bishop admitted that he was in the wrong and apologised.

All the same, he was determined that his wife should go abroad, and
thinking she might yield to professional persuasions, he sent for Dr
Graham. By Cargrim a message was brought that the doctor would be with
the bishop next morning, so Pendle, not to provoke further argument,
said nothing more on the subject to his wife. But here Lucy came on the
scene, and seemed equally as averse as her mother to Continental travel.
She immediately entered her protest against the proposed journey.

'Mamma is better now than ever she was,' said Lucy, 'and if she goes to
Nauheim the treatment will only weaken her.'

'It will strengthen her in the long run, Lucy. I hear wonderful accounts
of the Nauheim cures.'

'Oh, papa, every Bad says that it cures more patients than any other,
just as every Bad advertises that its waters have so much per cent. more
salt or sodium or iodine, or whatever they call it, than the rest.
Besides, if you really think mamma should try this cure she can have it
at Bath or in London. They say it is just as good in either place as at
Nauheim.'

'I think not, Lucy; and I wish you and your mother to go abroad for a
month or two. My mind is made up on the subject.'

'Why, papa,' cried Lucy, playfully, 'one would think you wanted to get
rid of us.'

The bishop winced and turned a shade paler. 'You are talking at random,
my dear,' he said gravely; 'if it were not for your mother's good I
should not deprive myself of your society.'

'Poor mother!' sighed Lucy, and 'poor Harry,' she added as an
afterthought.

'There need be no "poor Harry" about the matter,' said Dr Pendle, rather
sharply. 'If that is what is troubling you, I daresay Harry will be glad
to escort you and your mother over to Germany.'

Lucy became a rosy red with pleasure. 'Do you really think Harry will
like to come?' she asked in a fluttering voice.

'He is no true lover if he doesn't,' replied her father, with a wan
smile. 'Now, run away, my love, I am busy. To-morrow we shall settle the
question of your going.'

When to-morrow came, Cargrim, all on fire with curiosity, tried his
hardest to stay in the library when Dr Graham came; but as the bishop
wished his interview to be private, he intimated the fact pretty plainly
to his obsequious chaplain. In fact, he spoke so sharply that Cargrim
felt distinctly aggrieved; and but for the trained control he kept of
his temper, might have said something to show Dr Pendle the suspicions
he entertained. However, the time was not yet ripe for him to place all
his cards on the table, for he had not yet conceived a plausible case
against the bishop. He was on the point of pronouncing the name 'Amaru'
to see if it would startle Dr Pendle, but remembering his former
failures when he had introduced the name of 'Jentham' to the bishop's
notice, he was wise enough to hold his tongue. It would not do to arouse
Dr Pendle's suspicions until he could accuse him plainly of murdering
the man, and could produce evidence to substantiate his accusation. The
evidence Cargrim wished to obtain was that of the cheque butt and the
pistol, but as yet he did not see his way how to become possessed of
either. Pending doing so, he hid himself in the grass like the snake he
was, ready to strike his unsuspecting benefactor when he could do so
with safety and effect.

In accordance with his resolution on this point, Mr Cargrim was meek and
truckling while he was with the bishop, and when Dr Graham was announced
he sidled out of the library with a bland smile. Dr Graham gave him a
curt nod in response to his gracious greeting, and closed the door
himself before he advanced to meet the bishop. Nay, more, so violent was
his dislike to good Mr Cargrim, that he made a few remarks about that
apostle before coming to the object of his visit.

'If you were a student of Lavater, bishop,' said he, rubbing his hands,
'you would not tolerate that Jesuitical Rodin near you for one moment.'

'Jesuitical Rodin, doctor! I do not understand.'

'Ah, that comes of not reading French novels, my lord!'

'I do not approve of the moral tone of French fiction,' said the bishop,
stiffly.

'Few of our English Pharisees do,' replied Graham, dryly; 'not that I
rank you among the hypocrites, bishop, so do not take my remark in too
literal a sense.'

'I am not so thin-skinned or self-conscious as to do so, Graham. But
your meaning of a Jesuitical Rodin?'

'It is explained in _The Wandering Jew_ of Eugene Sue, bishop. You
should read that novel if only to arrive by analogy at the true
character of your chaplain. Rodin is one of the personages in the book,
and Rodin,' said the doctor decisively, 'is Cargrim!'

'You are severe, doctor. Michael is an estimable young man.'

'Michael and the Dragon!' said Graham, playing upon the name. 'Humph! he
is more like the latter than the former. Mr Michael Cargrim is the young
serpent as Satan is the old one.'

'I always understood that you considered Satan a myth, doctor!'

'So I do; so he is; a bogey of the Middle and Classical Ages constructed
out of Pluto and Pan. But he serves excellently well for an illustration
of your pet parson.'

'Cargrim is not a pet of mine,' rejoined the bishop, coldly, 'and I do
not say that he is a perfect character. Still, he is not bad enough to
be compared to Satan. You speak too hurriedly, doctor, and, if you will
pardon my saying so, too irreligiously.'

'I beg your pardon, I forgot that I was addressing a bishop. But as to
that young man, he is a bad and dangerous character.'

'Doctor, doctor,' protested the bishop, raising a deprecating hand.

'Yes, he is,' insisted Graham; 'his goodness and meekness are all on the
surface! I am convinced that he is a kind of human mole who works
underground, and makes mischief in secret ways. If you have a cupboard
with a skeleton, bishop, take care Mr Cargrim doesn't steal the key.'

Graham spoke with some meaning, for since the illness of Dr Pendle after
Jentham's visit, he had suspected that the bishop was worried in his
mind, and that he possessed a secret which was wearing him out. Had he
known that the strange visitor was one and the same with the murdered
man, he might have spoken still more to the point; but the doctor was
ignorant of this and consequently conceived the bishop's secret to be
much more harmless than it really was. However, his words touched his
host nearly, for Dr Pendle started and grew nervous, and looked so
haggard and worried that Graham continued his speech without giving him
time to make a remark.

'However, I did not come here to discuss Cargrim,' he said cheerfully,
'but because you sent for me. It is about time,' said Graham, grimly,
surveying the bishop's wasted face and embarrassed manner. 'You are
looking about as ill as a man can look. What is the matter with you?'

'Nothing is the matter with me. I am in my usual health.'

'You look it,' said the doctor, ironically. 'Good Lord, man!' with
sudden wrath, 'why in the name of the Thirty-Nine Articles can't you
tell me the truth?'

'The truth?' echoed the bishop, faintly.

'Yes, my lord, I said the truth, and I mean the truth. If you are not
wrong in body you are in mind. A man doesn't lose flesh, and colour, and
appetite, and self-control for nothing. You want me to cure you. Well, I
can't, unless you show me the root of your trouble.'

'I am worried over a private affair,' confessed Pendle, driven into a
corner.

'Something wrong?' asked Graham, raising his eyebrows.

'Yes, something is very wrong.'

'Can't it be put right?'

'I fear not,' said the bishop, in hopeless tones. 'It is one of those
things beyond the power of mortal man to put right.'

'Your trouble must be serious,' said Graham, with a grave face.

'It is very serious. You can't help me. I can't help myself. I must
endure my sorrow as best I may. After all, God strengthens the back for
the burden.'

'Oh, Lord!' groaned Graham to himself, 'that make-the-best-of-it-view
seems to be the gist of Christianity. What the deuce is the good of
laying a too weighty burden on any back, when you've got to strengthen
it to bear it? Well, bishop,' he added aloud, 'I have no right to ask
for a glimpse of your skeleton. But can I help you in any way?'

'Yes,' cried the bishop, eagerly. 'I sent for you to request your aid.
You can help me, Graham, and very materially.'

'I'm willing to do so. What shall I do?'

'Send my wife and daughter over to Nauheim on the pretext that Mrs
Pendle requires the baths, and keep them there for two months.'

Dr Graham looked puzzled, for he could by no means conceive the meaning
of so odd a request. In common with other people, he was accustomed to
consider Bishop and Mrs Pendle a model couple, who would be as miserable
as two separated love-birds if parted. Yet here was the husband asking
his aid to send away the wife on what he admitted was a transparent
pretext. For the moment he was nonplussed.

'Pardon me, bishop,' he said delicately, 'but have you had words with
your wife?'

'No! no! God forbid, Graham. She is as good and tender as she always is:
as dear to me as she ever was. But I wish her to go away for a time, and
I desire Lucy to accompany her. Yesterday I suggested that they should
take a trip to Nauheim, but both of them seemed unwilling to go. Yet
they must go!' cried the bishop, vehemently; 'and you must help me in my
trouble by insisting upon their immediate departure.'

Graham was more perplexed than ever. 'Has your secret trouble anything
to do with Mrs Pendle?' he demanded, hardly knowing what to say.

'It has everything to do with her!'

'Does she know that it has?'

'No, she knows nothing--not even that I am keeping a secret from her;
doctor,' said Pendle, rising, 'if I could tell you my trouble I would,
but I cannot; I dare not! If you help me, you must do so with implicit
confidence in me, knowing that I am acting for the best.'

'Well, bishop, you place me rather in a cleft stick,' said the doctor,
looking at the agitated face of the man with his shrewd little eyes. 'I
don't like acting in the dark. One should always look before he leaps,
you know.'

'But, good heavens, man! I am not asking you to do anything wrong. My
request is a perfectly reasonable one. I want my wife and daughter to
leave England for a time, and you can induce them to take the journey.'

'Well,' said Graham, calmly, 'I shall do so.'

'Thank you, Graham. It is good of you to accede to my request.'

'I wouldn't do it for everyone,' said Graham, sharply. 'And although I
do not like being shut out from your confidence, I know you well enough
to trust you thoroughly. A couple of months at Nauheim may do your wife
good, and--as you tell me--will relieve your mind.'

'It will certainly relieve my mind,' said the bishop, very emphatically.

'Very good, my lord. I'll do my very best to persuade Mrs Pendle and
your daughter to undertake the journey.'

'Of course,' said Pendle, anxiously, 'you won't tell them all I have
told you! I do not wish to explain myself too minutely to them.'

'I am not quite so indiscreet as you think, my lord,' replied Graham,
with some dryness. 'Your wife shall leave Beorminster for Nauheim
thinking that your desire for her departure is entirely on account of
her health.'

'Thank you again, doctor!' and the bishop held out his hand.

'Come,' said Graham to himself as he took it, 'this secret can't be
anything very dreadful if he gives me his hand. My lord!' he added
aloud, 'I shall see Mrs Pendle at once. But before closing this
conversation I would give you a warning.'

'A warning!' stammered the bishop, starting back.

'A very necessary warning,' said the doctor, solemnly. 'If you have a
secret, beware of Cargrim.'




CHAPTER XX

MOTHER JAEL


Doctor Graham was not the man to fail in carrying through successfully
any scheme he undertook, and what he had promised the bishop he duly
fulfilled. After a rather lengthy interview with Mrs Pendle and her
daughter, he succeeded in arousing their interest in Nauheim and its
baths: so much so, that before he left the palace they were as eager to
go as formerly they had been to stay. This seeming miracle was
accomplished mainly by a skilful appeal to Mrs Pendle's love for
experimenting with new medical discoveries in connection with her
health. She had never tried the Schott treatment for heart dilation, and
indeed had heard very little about it; but when fully informed on the
subject, her interest in it was soon awakened. She soon came to look on
the carbolic spring of Nauheim as the true fountain of youth, and was
sanguine that by bathing for a few weeks in its life-giving waters she
would return to Beorminster hale and hearty, and full of vitality. If
ever Hope told a flattering tale, she did to Mrs Pendle through the lips
of cunning Dr Graham.

'I thought you knew nothing about new medicines or treatments,' she
observed graciously; 'or, if you did, that you were too conservative to
prescribe them. I see I was wrong.'

'You were decidedly wrong, Mrs Pendle. It is only a fool who ceases to
acquire knowledge and benefit by it. I am not a cabbage although I do
live in a vegetable garden.'

Lucy's consent was gained through the glowing description of the benefit
her mother would receive from the Nauheim waters, and the opportune
arrival of Sir Harry Brace contributed to the wished-for result. The
ardent lover immediately declared his willingness to escort Lucy to the
world's end. Wherever Lucy was, the Garden of Eden blossomed; and while
Mrs Pendle was being pickled and massaged and put to bed for
recuperative slumbers, he hoped to have his future wife all to himself.
In her sweet company even the dull little German watering-place would
prove a Paradise. Cupid is the sole miracle-worker in these days of
scepticism.

'It is all right, bishop!' said the victorious doctor. 'The ladies will
be off, with Brace in attendance, as soon as they can pack up a waggon
load of feminine frippery.'

'I am sincerely glad to hear it,' said Dr Pendle, and heaved a sigh of
relief which made Graham wag his head and put in a word of advice.

'You must take a trip yourself, my lord,' he said decisively; 'nothing
like change for mental worry. Go to Bath, or Putney, or Jericho, bishop;
travel is your anodyne.'

'I cannot leave Beorminster just now, Graham. When I can I shall take
your advice.'

The doctor shrugged his shoulders and walked towards the door. There he
paused and looked back at the unhappy face of the bishop. A thought
struck him and he returned.

'Pendle,' he said gently, 'I am your oldest friend and one who honours
and respects you above all men. Why not tell me your trouble and let me
help you? I shall keep your secret, whatever it may be.'

'I have no fears on that score, Graham. If I could trust anyone I should
trust you; but I cannot tell you what is in my mind. No useful result
would come of such candour, for only the One above can help me out of my
difficulties.'

'Is it money worries, bishop?'

'No, my worldly affairs are most prosperous.'

'It is not this murder that is troubling you, I suppose?'

The bishop became as pale as the paper on the desk before him, and
convulsively clutched the arms of his chair. 'The--the murder!' he
stammered, 'the murder, Graham. Why should that trouble me?'

'Cargrim told me that you were greatly upset that such a thing should
have occurred in your diocese.'

'I am annoyed about it,' replied Pendle, in a low voice, 'but it is not
the untimely death of that unhappy man which worries me.'

'Then I give it up,' said the doctor, with another shrug.

'Graham!'

'Yes, what is it?'

'Do you think that there is any chance of the murderer of this man being
discovered?'

'If the case had been handled by a London detective while the clues were
fresh I daresay there might have been a chance,' replied the doctor.
'But that mutton-headed Tinkler has made such a muddle of the affair
that I am certain the murderer will never be captured.'

'Has anything new been discovered since the inquest?'

'Nothing. So far as I know, Tinkler is satisfied and the matter is at an
end. Whosoever killed Jentham has only his own conscience to fear.'

'And God!' said the bishop, softly.

'I always understood that what you Churchmen call conscience was the
still small voice of the Deity,' replied Graham, drily; 'there is no use
in being tautological, bishop. Well, good-day, my lord.'

'Good-day, doctor, and many, many thanks for your kindly help.'

'Not at all. I only wish that you would let me help you to some purpose
by treating me as your friend and unburdening your mind. There is one
great truth that you should become a convert to, bishop.'

'Ay, ay, what is that?' said Pendle, listlessly.

'That medical men are the father-confessors of Protestantism. Good-day!'

Outside the library Cargrim was idling about, in the hope of picking up
some crumbs of information, when Graham took his departure. But the
little doctor, who was not in the best of tempers for another
conversation, shot past the chaplain like a bolt from the bow; and by
the time Cargrim recovered from such brusque treatment was half-way down
the avenue, fuming and fretting at his inability to understand the
attitude of Bishop Pendle. Dr Graham loved a secret as a magpie does a
piece of stolen money, and he was simply frantic to find out what vexed
his friend; the more so as he believed that he could help him to bear
his trouble by sympathy, and perhaps by advice do away with it
altogether. He could not even make a guess at the bishop's hidden
trouble, and ran over all known crimes in his mind, from murder to
arson, without coming to any conclusion. Yet something extraordinary
must be the matter to move so easy-going, healthy a man as Dr Pendle.

'I know more of his life than most people,' thought Graham, as he
trotted briskly along, 'and there is nothing in it that I can see to
upset him so. He hasn't forged, or coined, or murdered, or sold himself
to Pluto-Pan Satan so far as I know; and he is too clear-headed and sane
to have a monomania about a non-existent trouble. Dear, dear,' the
doctor shook his head sadly, 'I shall never understand human nature;
there is always an abyss below an abyss, and the firmest seeming ground
is usually quagmire when you come to step on it. George Pendle is a
riddle which would puzzle the Sphinx. Hum! hum! another fabulous beast.
Well, well, I can only wait and watch until I discover the truth, and
then--well, what then?--why, nothing!' And Graham, having talked himself
into a _cul-de-sac_ of thought, shook his head furiously and strove to
dismiss the matter from his too inquisitive mind. But not all his
philosophy and will could accomplish the impossible. 'We are a finite
lot of fools,' said he, 'and when we think we know most we know least.
How that nameless Unseen Power must smile at our attempts to scale the
stars,' by which remark it will be seen that Dr Graham was not the
atheist Beorminster believed him to be. And here may end his
speculations for the present.

Shortly, Mrs Pendle and Lucy began to pack a vast number of boxes with
garments needful and ornamental, and sufficient in quantity to last them
for at least twelve months. It is true that they intended to remain away
only eight weeks, but the preparations for departure were worthy of the
starting out of a crusade. They must take this; they could certainly not
leave that; warm dresses were needed for possible cold weather; cool
frocks were requisite for probable hot days; they must have smart
dresses as they would no doubt go out a great deal; and three or four
tea-gowns each, as they might stay indoors altogether. In short, their
stock of millinery would have clothed at least half-a-dozen women,
although both ladies protested plaintively that they had absolutely
nothing to wear, and that it would be necessary to go shopping in London
for a few days, if only to make themselves look presentable. Harry
Brace, the thoughtless bachelor, was struck dumb when he saw the immense
quantity of luggage which went off in and on a bus to the railway
station in the charge of a nurse and a lady's-maid.

'Oh, Lord!' said he, aghast, 'are we starting out on an African
expedition, Lucy?'

'Well, I'm sure, Harry, mamma and I are only taking what is absolutely
necessary. Other women would take twice as much.'

'Wait until you and Lucy leave for your honeymoon, Brace,' said the
bishop, with a smile at his prospective son-in-law's long face. 'She
will be one of the other women then.'

'In that case,' said Harry, a trifle grimly, 'Lucy will have to decide
if I am to go as a bridegroom or a luggage agent.'

Of course all Beorminster knew that Mrs Pendle was going to Nauheim for
the treatment; and of course all Beorminster--that is, the feminine
portion of it--came to take tender farewells of the travellers. Every
day up to the moment of departure Mrs Pendle's drawing-room was crowded
with ladies all relating their experiences of English and Continental
travelling. Lucy took leave of at least a dozen dear friends; and from
the way in which Mrs Pendle was lamented over, and blessed, and warned,
and advised by the wives of the inferior clergy, one would have thought
that her destination was the moon, and that she would never get back
again. Altogether the palace was no home for a quiet prelate in those
days.

At the last moment Mrs Pendle found that she would be wretched if her
bishop did not accompany her some way on the journey; so Dr Pendle went
with the travellers to London, and spent a pleasant day or so, being
hurried about from shop to shop. If he had not been the most angelic
bishop in England he would have revolted; but as he was anxious that his
wife should have no cause of complaint, he exhausted himself with the
utmost amiability. But the longest lane has a turning, and the day came
when Mrs Pendle and Lucy, attended by the dazed Harry, left for Nauheim
_via_ Queenborough, Flushing and Cologne. Mrs Pendle declared, as the
train moved away, that she was thoroughly exhausted, which statement the
bishop quite believed. His wonder was that she and Lucy were not dead
and buried.

On returning to the empty palace, Bishop Pendle settled himself down for
a long rest. Remembering Graham's hint, he saw as little of Cargrim as
was compatible with the relationship of business. The chaplain noted
that he was being avoided, and guessing that someone had placed Dr
Pendle on his guard against him, became more secretive and watchful than
ever. But in spite of all his spying he met with little success, for
although the bishop still continued weary-eyed and worried-looking, he
went about his work with more zest than usual. Indeed, he attended so
closely to the duties of his position that Cargrim fancied he was trying
to forget his wickedness by distracting his mind. But, as usual, the
chaplain had no tangible reason for this belief.

And about this time, when most industrious, the bishop began to be
haunted, not by a ghost, which would have been bearable as ghosts appear
usually only in the nighttime, but by a queer little old woman in a red
cloak, who supported herself with a crutch and looked like a wicked
fairy. This, as the bishop ascertained by a casual question, was Mother
Jael, the gipsy friend of Jentham, and the knowledge of her identity did
not make him the easier in his mind. He could not conceive what she
meant by her constant attendance on him; and but that he believed in the
wisdom of letting sleeping dogs lie, he would have resented her
pertinacity. The sight of her became almost insupportable.

Whether Mother Jael intended to terrify the bishop or not it is hard to
say, but the way in which she followed him tormented him beyond measure.
When he left the palace she was there on the road; when he preached in
the cathedral she lurked among the congregation; when he strolled about
Beorminster she watched him round corners, but she never approached him,
she never spoke to him, and frequently vanished as mysteriously and
unexpectedly as she appeared. Wherever he went, wherever he looked, that
crimson cloak was sure to meet his eye. Mother Jael was old and bent and
witch-like, with elf locks of white hair and a yellow, wrinkled face;
but her eyes burned like two fiery stars under her frosted brows, and
with these she stared hard at Bishop Pendle, until he felt almost
mesmerised by the intensity of her gaze. She became a perfect nightmare
to the man, much the same as the little old woman of the coffer was to
Abudah, the merchant in the fantastic eastern tale; but, unlike that
pertinacious beldam, she apparently had no message to deliver. She only
stared and stared with her glittering, evil eyes, until the bishop--his
nerves not being under control with this constant persecution--almost
fancied that the powers of darkness had leagued themselves against him,
and had sent this hell-hag to haunt and torment him.

Several times he strove to speak to her, for he thought that even the
proverb of sleeping dogs might be acted upon too literally; but Mother
Jael always managed to shuffle out of the way. She appeared to have the
power of disintegrating her body, for where she disappeared to on these
occasions the bishop never could find out. One minute he would see her
in her red cloak, leaning on her crutch and staring at him steadily, but
let him take one step in her direction and she would vanish like a
ghost. No wonder the bishop's nerves began to give way; the constant
sight of that silent figure with its menacing gaze would have driven
many a man out of his mind, but Dr Pendle resisted the panic which
seized him at times, and strove to face the apparition--for Mother
Jael's flittings deserved such a name--with control and calmness. But
the effort was beyond his strength at times.

As the weeks went by, Cargrim also began to notice the persecution of
Mother Jael, and connecting her with Jentham and Jentham with the
bishop, he began to wonder if she knew the truth about the murder. It
was not improbable, he thought, that she might be possessed of more
important knowledge than she had imparted to the police, and a single
word from her might bring home the crime to the bishop. If he was
innocent, why did she haunt him? But again, if he was guilty, why did
she avoid him? To gain an answer to this riddle, Cargrim attempted when
possible to seize the elusive phantom of Mother Jael, but three or four
times she managed to vanish in her witch-like way. At length one day
when she was watching the bishop talking to the dean at the northern
door of the cathedral, Cargrim came softly behind her and seized her
arm. Mother Jael turned with a squeak like a trapped rabbit.

'Why do you watch the bishop?' asked Cargrim, sharply.

'Bless ye, lovey, I don't watch 'im,' whined Mother Jael, cringing.

'Nonsense, I've seen you look at him several times.'

'There ain't no harm in that, my lamb. They do say as a cat kin look at
a queen; and why not a pore gipsy at a noble bishop? I say, dearie,' she
added, in a hoarse whisper, 'what's his first name?'

'The bishop's first name? George. Why do you want to know?'

'George!' pondered Mother Jael, taking no notice of the question, 'I
allays though' the sojir was George!'

'He is George too, called after his father. Answer me! Why do you want
to know the bishop's name? and why do you watch him?'

'Ah, my noble Gorgio, that's tellings!'

'No doubt, so just tell it to me.'

'Lord, lovey! the likes of you don't want to know what the likes of me
thinks.'

Cargrim lost his temper at these evasions. 'You are a bad character,
Mother Jael. I shall warn the police about you.'

'Oh, tiny Jesius, hear him! I ain't done nothing wrong. I'm a pore old
gipsy; strike me dead if I ain't.'

'If you tell me something,' said Cargrim, changing his tactics, 'you
shall have this,' and he produced a coin.

Mother Jael eyed the bright half-sovereign he held between finger and
thumb, and her old eyes glistened. 'Yes, dearie, yes! What is it?'

'Tell me the truth about the murder,' whispered Cargrim, with a glance
in the direction of the bishop.

Mother Jael gave a shrill screech, grabbed the half-sovereign, and
shuffled away so rapidly that she was round the corner before Cargrim
could recover from his surprise. At once he followed, but in spite of
all his search he could not find the old hag. Yet she had her eye on
him.

'George! and George!' said Mother Jael, who was watching him from an odd
angle of the wall into which she had squeezed herself, 'I wonder which
of 'em did it?'




CHAPTER XXI

MRS PANSEY'S FESTIVAL


Once a year the archdeacon's widow discharged her social obligations by
throwing open the gaol in which she dwelt. Her festival, to which all
that Beorminster could boast of in the way of society was invited,
usually took the form of an out-of-door party, as Mrs Pansey found that
she could receive more people, and trouble herself less about their
entertainment, by filling her grounds than by crushing them into the
rather small reception-rooms of her house. Besides, the gardens were
really charming, and the wide-spreading green of the lawns, surrounded
by ample flower-beds, now brilliant with rainbow blossoms, looked most
picturesque when thronged with well-dressed, well-bred, well-pleased
guests. Nearly all the invitations had been accepted; firstly, because
Mrs Pansey made things unpleasant afterwards for such defiant spirits as
stayed away; secondly, for the very attractive reason that the meat and
drink provided by the hostess were of the best. Thus Mrs Pansey's
entertainments were usually the most successful of the Beorminster
season.

On this auspicious occasion the clerk of the weather had granted the
hostess an especially fine day. Sunshine filled the cloudless arch of
the blue sky; the air was warm, but tempered by a softly-blowing breeze;
and the guests, to do honour at once to Mrs Pansey and the delightful
weather, wore their most becoming and coolest costumes. Pretty girls
laughed in the sunshine; matrons gossiped beneath the rustling trees;
and the sober black coats of the clerical element subdued the too vivid
tints of the feminine frippery. The scene was animated and full of
colour and movement, so that even Mrs Pansey's grim countenance expanded
into an unusual smile when greeting fresh arrivals. At intervals a band
played lively dance music; there was croquet and lawn-tennis for the
young; iced coffee and scandal for the old. Altogether, the company,
being mostly youthful and unthinking, was enjoying itself immensely, as
the chatter and laughter, and smiling and bowing amply testified.

'Altogether, I may regard it as a distinct success,' said Mrs Pansey,
as, attired in her most Hamlet-like weeds, she received her guests under
the shade of a many-coloured Japanese umbrella. 'And the gardens really
look nice.'

'The gardens of Paradise!' observed the complimentary Cargrim, who was
smirking at the elbow of his hostess.

'Don't distort Holy Writ, if--you--please!' snapped Mrs Pansey, who
still reserved the right of being disagreeable even at her own
entertainment; 'but if you do call this the Garden of Eden, I daresay
there are plenty of serpents about.'

'And many Adams and Eves!' said Dr Graham, surveying the company with
his usual cynicism; 'but I don't see Lilith, Mrs Pansey.'

'Lilith, doctor! what an improper name!'

'And what an improper person, my dear lady. Lilith was the other wife of
Father Adam.'

'How dare you, Dr Graham! the first man a bigamist! Ridiculous! Profane!
Only one rib was taken out of Adam!'

'Lilith wasn't manufactured out of a rib, Mrs Pansey. The devil created
her to deceive Adam. At least, so the Rabbinists tell us!'

'Oh, those Jewish creatures!' said the lady, with a sniff. 'I don't
think much of their opinion. What do Jews know about the Bible?'

'As much as authors generally know about their own books, I suppose,'
said Graham, drily.

'We are becoming theological,' observed Cargrim, smoothly.

'Not to say blasphemous,' growled Mrs Pansey; 'at least, the doctor is,
like all sceptics of his infidel profession. Remember Ananias and his
lies, sir.' 'I shall rather remember Eve and her curiosity,' laughed
Graham, 'and to follow so good an example let me inquire what yonder
very pretty tent contains, Mrs Pansey?'

'That is a piece of Daisy's foolishness, doctor. It contains a gipsy,
whom she induced me to hire for some fortune-telling rubbish.'

'Oh, how sweet! how jolly!' cried a mixed chorus of young voices. 'A
real gipsy, Mrs Pansey?' and the good lady was besieged with questions.

'She is cunning and dirty enough to be genuine, my dears. Some of you
may know her. Mother Jael!'

'Aroint thee, witch!' cried Dr Graham, 'that old beldam; oh, she can
"pen dukherin" to some purpose. I have heard of her; so have the
police.'

'What language is that?' asked Miss Whichello, who came up at this
moment with a smile and a word for all; 'it sounds like swearing.'

'I'd like to see anyone swear here,' said Mrs Pansey, grimly.

'Set your mind at rest, dear lady, I was speaking Romany--the black
language--the calo jib which the gipsies brought from the East when they
came to plunder the hen-coops of Europe.'

'Do you mean to tell me that those creatures have a language of their
own?' asked Miss Whichello, disbelievingly.

'Why not? I daresay their ancestors made bricks on the plain of Shinar,
and were lucky enough to gain a language without the trouble of learning
it.'

'You allude to the Tower of Babel, sir!' said Mrs Pansey, with a scowl.

'Rather to the Tower of Fable, dear lady, since the whole story is a
myth.'

Not caring to hear this duel of words, and rather surprised to learn
that Mother Jael was present, Cargrim slipped away at the first
opportunity to ponder over the information and consider what use he
could make of it. So the old woman still followed the bishop?--had
followed him even into society, and had made herself Mrs Pansey's
professional fortune-teller so that she might still continue to vex the
eyes of her victim with the sight of her eternal red cloak. Dr Pendle
was at that very moment walking amongst the guests, with his youngest
son by his side, and appeared to be more cheerful and more like his
former self than he had been for some time. Apparently he was as yet
ignorant that Mother Jael was in his immediate vicinity; but Cargrim
determined that he should be warned of her presence as speedily as
possible, and be lured into having an interview with her so that his
scheming chaplain might see what would come of the meeting. Also Cargrim
resolved to see the old gipsy himself and renew the conversation which
she had broken off when she had thieved his gold. In one way or another
he foresaw that it would be absolutely necessary to force the woman into
making some definite statement either inculpating or exonerating the
bishop in respect of Jentham's death. Therefore, having come to this
conclusion, Cargrim strolled watchfully through the merry crowd. It was
his purpose to inform Dr Pendle that Mother Jael was telling fortunes in
the gaily-striped tent, and his determination to bring--if possible--the
prelate into contact with the old hag. From such a meeting artful Mr
Cargrim hoped to gather some useful information from the conversation
and behaviour of the pair.

Unfortunately Cargrim was impeded in the execution of this scheme from
the fact of his remarkable popularity. He could not take two steps
without being addressed by one or more of his lady admirers; and
although he saw the bishop no great distance away, he could not reach
him by reason of the detaining sirens. As gracefully as possible he
eluded their snares, but when confronted by Daisy Norsham hanging on the
arm of Dean Alder, he almost gave up hope of reaching his goal. There
was but little chance of escape from Daisy and her small talk. Moreover,
she was rather bored by the instructive conversation of the ancient
parson, and wanted to attach herself to some younger and more frivolous
man. Cupid in cap and gown and spectacles is a decidedly prosy divinity.

'Oh, dear Mr Cargrim!' cried the gushing Daisy, 'is it really you? Oh,
how very sweet of you to come to-day! And what is the very latest news
of poor, dear Mrs Pendle?'

'I believe the Nauheim baths are doing her a great deal of good, Miss
Norsham. If you will excuse--'

'Nauheim!' croaked the dean, with a dry cough, 'is unknown to me save as
a geographical expression, but the town of Baden-Baden, formally called
Aurelia Aquensis, was much frequented by the Romans on account of its
salubrious and health-giving springs. I may also instance Aachen,
vulgarly termed Aix-la-Chapelle, but known to the Latins as Aquisgranum
or--'

'How interesting!' interrupted Daisy, cutting short this Stream of
information. 'You do seem to know everything, Mr Dean. The only German
watering-place I have been to is Wiesbaden, where the doctors made me
get up at five o'clock to drink the waters. And fancy, Mr Cargrim, a
band played at the Kochbrunnen at seven in the morning. Did you ever
hear anything so horrid?'

'Music at so early an hour would be trying, Miss Norsham!'

'Aqua Mattiacae was the Roman appellation of Wiesbaden,' murmured Dr
Alder, twiddling his eye-glass. 'I hear on good medical authority that
the waters are most beneficial to renovate health and arrest decay. I
should advise his lordship, the bishop, to visit the springs, for of
late I have noticed that he appears to be sadly out of sorts.'

'He is looking much better to-day,' observed the chaplain, with a glance
at the bishop, who was now conversing with Miss Whichello.

'Oh, the poor, dear bishop should have his fortune told by Mother Jael.'

'That would hardly be in keeping with his exalted position, Miss
Norsham.'

'Oh, really, I don't see that it is so very dreadful,' cried Daisy, with
one of her silvery peals of artificial laughter, 'and it's only fun.
Mother Jael might tell him if he was going to be ill or not, you know,
and he could take medicine if he was. Besides, she does tell the truth;
oh, really, it's too awful what she knew about me. But I'm glad to say
she prophesied a lovely future.'

'Marriage and money, I presume.'

'Well, you are clever, Mr Cargrim; that is just the fortune she told me.
How did you guess? I'm to meet my future husband here; he is to be rich
and adore me, and I'm to be very, very happy.' 'I am sure so charming a
young lady deserves to be,' said Cargrim, bowing.

'Siderum regina bicornis audi, Luna puellas,' quoted Mr Dean, with a
side glance at the radiant Daisy; and if that confident lady had
understood Latin, she would have judged from this satirical quotation
that Dr Alder was not so subjugated by her charms as to contemplate
matrimony. But being ignorant, she was--in accordance with the
proverb--blissful, and babbled on with a never-failing stream of small
talk, which was at times momentarily obstructed by the heavy masses of
information cast into it by the dean.

Leaving this would-be May and wary old December to their unequal
flirtation, Cargrim again attempted to reach the bishop, but was
captured by Miss Tancred, much to his disgust. She entertained him with
a long and minute account of her rheumatic pains and the means by which
she hoped to cure them. Held thus as firmly as the wedding guest was by
the Ancient Mariner, Cargrim lost the chance of hearing a very
interesting conversation between Miss Whichello and the bishop; but,
from the clouded brow of Dr Pendle, he saw that something was wrong, and
chafed at his enforced detention. Nevertheless, Miss Tancred kept him
beside her until she exhausted her trickle of small talk. It took all
Cargrim's tact and politeness and Christianity to endure patiently her
gabble.

'Yes, bishop,' Miss Whichello was saying, with some annoyance, 'your son
has admired my niece for some considerable time. Lately they became
engaged, but I refused to give my consent until your sanction and
approval had been obtained.'

'George has said nothing to me on the subject,' replied Dr Pendle, in a
vexed tone. 'Yet he should certainly have done so before speaking to
your niece.'

'No doubt! but unfortunately young men's heads do not always guide their
hearts. Still, Captain Pendle promised me to tell you all during his
present visit to Beorminster. And, of course, both Mrs Pendle and your
daughter Lucy know of his love for Mab.'

'It would appear that I am the sole person ignorant of the engagement,
Miss Whichello.'

'It was not with my consent that you were kept in ignorance, bishop. But
I really do not see why you should discourage the match. You can see for
yourself that they make a handsome pair.'

Dr Pendle cast an angry look towards the end of the lawn, where George
and Mab were talking earnestly together.

'I don't deny their physical suitability,' he said severely, 'but more
than good looks are needed to make a happy marriage.'

'Am I to understand that you disapprove of my niece?' cried the little
old lady, drawing herself up.

'By no means; by no means; how can you think me so wanting in courtesy?
But I must confess that I desire my son to make a good match.'

'You should rather wish him to get a good wife,' retorted Miss
Whichello, who was becoming annoyed. 'But if it is fortune you desire, I
can set your mind at rest on that point. Mab will inherit my money when
I die; and should she marry Captain Pendle during my lifetime, I shall
allow the young couple a thousand a year.'

'A thousand a year, Miss Whichello!'

'Yes! and more if necessary. Let me tell you, bishop, I am much better
off than people think.'

The bishop, rather nonplussed, looked down at his neat boots and very
becoming gaiters. 'I am not so worldly-minded as you infer, Miss
Whichello,' said he, mildly; 'and did George desire to marry a poor
girl, I have enough money of my own to humour his whim. But if his heart
is set on making Miss Arden his wife, I should like--if you will pardon
my candour--to know more about the young lady.'

'Mab is the best and most charming girl in the world,' said the little
Jennie Wren, pale, and a trifle nervous.

'I can see that for myself. You misunderstand me, Miss Whichello, so I
must speak more explicitly. Who is Miss Arden?'

'She is my niece,' replied Miss Whichello, with trembling dignity. 'The
only child of my poor sister, who died when Mab was an infant in arms.'

'Quite so!' assented the bishop, with a nod. 'I have always understood
such to be the case. But--er--Mr Arden?'

'Mr Arden!' faltered the old lady, turning her face from the company,
that its pallor and anxiety might not be seen.

'Her father! is he alive?'

'No!' cried Miss Whichello, shaking her head. 'He died long, long ago.'

'Who was he?'

'A--a--a gentleman!--a gentleman of independent fortune.'

Dr Pendle bit his nether lip and looked embarrassed. 'Miss Whichello,'
he said at length, in a hesitating tone, 'your niece is a charming young
lady, and, so far as she herself is concerned, is quite fit to become
the wife of my son George.'

'I should think so indeed!' cried the little lady, with buckram
civility.

'But,' continued the bishop, with emphasis, 'I have heard rumours about
her parentage which do not satisfy me. Whether these are true or not is
best known to yourself, Miss Whichello; but before consenting to the
engagement you speak of, I should like to be fully informed on the
point.'

'To what rumours does your lordship refer?' asked Miss Whichello, very
pale-faced, but very quiet.

'This is neither the time nor place to inform you,' said the bishop,
hastily; 'I see Mr Cargrim advancing. On another occasion, Miss
Whichello, we shall talk about the matter.'

As the chaplain, with three or four young ladies, including Miss
Norsham, was bearing down on the bishop, Miss Whichello recognised the
justice of his speech, and not feeling equal to talk frivolity, she
hastily retreated and ran into the house to fight down her emotion. What
the poor little woman felt was known only to herself; but she foresaw
that the course of true love, so far as it concerned George and Mab, was
not likely to run smooth. Still, she put a brave face on it and hoped
for the best.

In the meantime, Bishop Pendle was enveloped in a whirl of petticoats,
as Cargrim's Amazonian escort, prompted by the chaplain, was insisting
that he should have his fortune told by Mother Jael. The bishop looked
perturbed on hearing that his red-cloaked phantom was so close at hand,
but he managed to keep his countenance, and laughingly refused to comply
with the demand of the ladies.

'Think of what the newspapers would say,' he urged, 'if a bishop were to
consult this Witch of Endor.'

'Oh, but really, it is only a joke!'

'A dignitary of the Church shouldn't joke, Miss Norsham.'

'Why not, your lordship?' put in Cargrim, amiably. 'I have heard that
Richelieu played with a kitten.'

'I am not Richelieu,' replied Dr Pendle, drily, 'nor is Mother Jael a
kitten.'

'It's for a charity, bishop,' said Daisy, imploringly. 'I pay Mother
Jael for the day, and give the rest to Mrs Pansey's Home for servants
out of work.'

'Oh, for a charity,' repeated Dr Pendle, smiling; 'that puts quite a
different complexion on the question. What do you say, Mr Cargrim?'

'I don't think that your lordship can refuse the prayer of these
charming young ladies,' replied the chaplain, obsequiously.

Now, the bishop really wished to see Mother Jael in order to learn why
she haunted him so persistently; and as she had always vanished
heretofore, he thought that the present would be a very good time to
catch her. He therefore humoured the joke of fortune-telling for his own
satisfaction, and explained as much to the expectant company.

'Well, well, young ladies,' said he, good-naturedly, 'I suppose I must
consent to be victimised if only to further the charitable purposes of
Mrs Pansey. Where dwells the sybil?'

'In this tent! This way, your lordship!'

Dr Pendle advanced towards the gaily-striped tent, smiling broadly, and
with a playful shake of the head at the laughing nymphs around, he
invaded the privacy of Mother Jael. With a sigh of relief at having
accomplished his purpose, Cargrim let fall the flap which he had held up
for the bishop's entry, and turned away, rubbing his hands. His aim was
attained. It now remained to be seen what would come of the meeting
between bishop and gipsy.




CHAPTER XXII

MR MOSK IS INDISCREET


While the bishop was conversing with Miss Whichello about the engagement
of George and Mab, the young people themselves were discussing the
self-same subject with much ardour. Captain Pendle had placed two chairs
near a quick-set hedge, beyond the hearing of other guests, and on these
he and Mab were seated as closely as was possible without attracting the
eyes of onlookers. Their attitude and actions were guarded and
indifferent for the misleading of the company, but their conversation,
not being likely to be overheard, was confidential and lover-like
enough. No spectator from casual observation could have guessed their
secret.

'You must tell your father about our engagement at once,' said Mab, with
decision. 'He should have known of it before I consented to wear this
ring.'

'I'll tell him to-morrow, dearest, although I am sorry that Lucy and the
mater are not here to support me.'

'But you don't think that he will object to me, George?'

'I--should--think--not!' replied Captain Pendle, smiling at the very
idea; 'object to have the prettiest daughter-in-law in the county. You
don't know what an eye for beauty the bishop has.'

'If you are so sure of his consent I wonder you did not tell him
before,' pouted Mab. 'Aunty has been very angry at my keeping our
engagement secret.'

'Darling, you know it isn't a secret. We told Cargrim, and when he is
aware of it the whole town is. I didn't want to tell my father until I
was sure you would marry me.'

'You have been sure of that for a long time.'

'In a sort of way,' asserted Captain Pendle; 'but I was not absolutely
certain until I placed a ring on that pretty hand. Now I'll tell my
father, get his episcopalian benediction, and wire the news to Lucy and
the mater. We shall be married in spring. Miss Whichello will be the
bridesmaid, and all will be hay and sunshine.'

'What nonsense you talk, George!'

'I'd do more than talk nonsense if the eyes of Europe were not on us.
Mother Jael is telling fortunes in that tent, my fairy queen, so let us
go in and question her about the future. Besides,' added George, with an
insinuating smile, 'I don't suppose she would mind if I gave you one
kiss.'

Mab laughed and shook her head. 'You will have to dispense with both
kiss and fortune for the present,' said she, 'for your father has this
moment gone into the tent.'

'What! is Saul also among the prophets?' cried George, with uplifted
eyebrows. 'Won't there be a shine in the tents of Shem when it is
published abroad that Bishop Pendle has patronised the Witch of Endor. I
wonder what he wants to know. Surely the scroll of his fortune is made
up.'

'George,' said Mab, gravely, 'your father has been much worried lately.'

'About what? By whom?'

'I don't know, but he looks worried.'

'Oh, he is fidgeting because my mother is away; he always fusses about
her health like a hen with one chick.'

'Be more respectful, my dear,' corrected Mab, demurely.

'I'll be anything you like, sweet prude, if you'll only fly with me far
from this madding crowd. Hang it! here is someone coming to disturb us.'

'It is your brother.'

'So it is. Hullo, Gabriel, why that solemn brow?'

'I have just heard bad news,' said Gabriel, pausing before them. 'Old Mr
Leigh is dying.'

'What! the rector of Heathcroft? I don't call that bad news, old boy,
seeing that his death gives you your step.'

'George!' cried Mab and Gabriel in a breath, 'how can you?'

'Well, Leigh is old and ripe enough to die, isn't he?' said the
incorrigible George. 'Remember what the old Scotch sexton said to the
weeping mourners, "What are ye greeting aboot? If ye dinna bring them
at eighty, when wull ye bring them?" My Scotch accent is bad,' added
Captain Pendle, 'but the story itself is a thing of beauty.'

'I want to tell my father the news,' said Gabriel, indignantly turning
away from George's wink. 'Where is he?'

'With Moth--Oh, there he is,' cried Mab, as the bishop issued from the
sibyl's tent. 'Oh, George, how ill he looks!'

'By Jove, yes! He is as pale as a ghost. Come and see what is wrong,
Gabriel. Excuse me a moment, Mab.'

The two brothers walked forward, but before they could reach their
father he was already taking his leave and shaking hands with Mrs
Pansey. His face was white, his eyes were anxious, and it was only by
sheer force of will that he could excuse himself to his hostess in his
ordinary voice.

'I am afraid the sun has been too much for me, Mrs Pansey,' he said in
his usual sauve tones, 'and the close atmosphere of that tent is rather
trying. I regret being obliged to leave so charming a scene, but I feel
sure you will excuse me.'

'Certainly, bishop,' said Mrs Pansey, graciously enough, 'but won't you
have a glass of sherry or--'

'Nothing, thank you; nothing. Good-bye, Mrs Pansey; your _fete_ has been
most successful. Ah, Gabriel,' catching sight of his youngest son, 'will
you be so good as to come with me?'

'Are you ill, sir?' asked George, with solicitude.

'No, no! a little out of sorts, perhaps. The sun, merely the sun;' and
waving his hand in a hurried manner, Dr Pendle withdrew as quickly as
his dignity permitted, leaning on Gabriel's arm. The curate's face was
as colourless as that of his father, and he seemed equally as nervous in
manner. Captain Pendle returned to Mab in a state of bewilderment, for
which there was surely sufficient cause.

'I never saw the bishop so put out before,' said he with a puzzled look.
'Old Mother Jael must have prophesied blue ruin and murder.'

Murder! The ominous word struck on the ears of Cargrim, who was passing
at the moment, and he smiled cruelly as he heard the half-joking tone in
which it was spoken. Captain George Pendle little thought that the
chaplain took his jesting speech in earnest, and was more convinced
than ever that the bishop had killed Jentham, and had just been warned
by Mother Jael that she knew the truth. This then, as Cargrim
considered, was her reason for haunting the bishop in his incomings and
outgoings.

Of course it was impossible that the bishop's agitation could have
escaped the attention of the assembled guests, and many remarks were
made as to its probable cause. His sudden illness at his own reception
was recalled, and, taken in conjunction with this seizure, it was
observed that Dr Pendle was working too hard, that his constitution was
breaking up and that he sadly needed a rest. The opinion on this last
point was unanimous.

'For I will say,' remarked Mrs Pansey, who was an adept at damning with
faint praise, 'that the bishop works as hard as his capacity of brain
will let him.'

'And that is a great deal,' said Dr Graham, tartly. 'Bishop Pendle is
one of the cleverest men in England.'

'That is right, doctor,' replied the undaunted Mrs Pansey. 'Always speak
well of your patients.'

Altogether, so high stood the bishop's reputation as a transparently
honest man that no one suspected anything was wrong save Graham and Mr
Cargrim. The former remembered Dr Pendle's unacknowledged secret, and
wondered if the gipsy was in possession of it, while the latter was
satisfied that the bishop had been driven away by the fears roused by
Mother Jael's communication, whatever that might be. But the general
opinion was that too much work and too much sun had occasioned the
bishop's illness, and it was spoken of very lightly as a mere temporary
ailment soon to be set right by complete change and complete rest. Thus
Dr Pendle's reputation of the past stood him in good stead, and saved
his character thoroughly in the present.

'Now,' said Cargrim to himself, 'I know for certain that Mother Jael is
aware of the truth, also that the truth implicates the bishop in
Jentham's death. I shall just go in and question her at once. She can't
escape from that tent so easily as she vanished the other day.'

But Cargrim quite underrated Mother Jael's power of making herself
scarce, for when he entered the tent he found it tenanted only by Daisy
Norsham, who was looking in some bewilderment at an empty chair. The
cunning old gipsy had once more melted into thin air.

'Where is she?' demanded Cargrim, regretting that his clerical garb
prevented him from using appropriate language.

'Oh, really, dear Mr Cargrim, I don't know. After the dear bishop came
out so upset with the heat, we all ran to look after him, so I suppose
Mother Jael felt the heat also, and left while our backs were turned. It
is really very vexing,' sighed Daisy, 'for lots of girls are simply
dying to have their fortunes told. And, oh!' making a sudden discovery,
'how very, very dreadful!'

'What is it?' asked the chaplain, staring at her tragic face.

'That wicked old woman has taken all the money. Oh, poor Mrs Pansey's
home!'

'She has no doubt run off with the money,' said Cargrim, in what was for
him a savage tone. 'I must question the servants about her departure.
Miss Norsham, I am afraid that your beautiful nature has been imposed
upon by this deceitful vagrant.'

Whether this was so or not, one thing was clear that Mother Jael had
gone off with a considerable amount of loose silver in her pocket. The
servants knew nothing of her departure, so there was no doubt that the
old crone, used to dodging and hiding, had slipped out of the garden by
some back way, while the guests had been commiserating the bishop's
slight illness. As Cargrim wanted to see the gipsy at once, and hoped to
force her into confessing the truth by threatening to have her arrested
with the stolen money in her pocket, he followed on her trail while it
was yet fresh. Certainly Mother Jael had left no particular track by
which she could be traced, but Cargrim, knowing something of her habits,
judged that she would either strike across Southberry Heath to the tents
of her tribe or take refuge for the time being at The Derby Winner. It
was more probable that she would go to the hotel than run the risk of
being arrested in the gipsy camp, so Cargrim, adopting this argument,
took his way down to Eastgate. He hoped to run Mother Jael to earth in
the tap-room of the hotel.

On arriving at The Derby Winner, he walked straight into the bar, and
found it presided over by a grinning pot-boy. A noise of singing and
shouting came from the little parlour at the back, and when the chaplain
asked for Mr Mosk, he was informed by the smiling Ganymede that 'th'
guv'nor was injiyin' of hisself, and goin' on like one o'clock.'

'Dear! dear!' said the scandalised chaplain, 'am I to understand that
your master has taken more than is good for him?'

'Yuss; he's jist drunk up to jollyness, sir.'

'And Miss Mosk?'

'She's a-tryin' to git 'im t' bed, is young missus, an' old missus is
cryin' upstairs.'

'I shall certainly speak about this to the authorities,' said Cargrim,
in an angry tone. 'You are sober enough to answer my questions, I hope?'

'Yuss, sir; I'm strite,' growled the pot-boy, pulling his forelock.

'Then tell me if that gipsy woman, Mother Jael, is here?'

'No, sir, sh' ain't. I ain't set eyes on 'er for I do'no how long.'

The man spoke earnestly enough, and was evidently telling the truth.
Much disappointed to find that the old crone was not in the
neighbourhood, the chaplain was about to depart when he heard Mosk begin
to sing in a husky voice, and also became aware that Bell, as he judged
from the raised tones of her voice, was scolding her father thoroughly.
His sense of duty got the better of his anxiety to find Mother Jael, and
feeling that his presence was required, he passed swiftly to the back of
the house, and threw open the door of the parlour with fine clerical
indignation.

'What is all this noise, Mosk?' he cried sharply. 'Do you wish to lose
your license?'

Mosk, who was seated in an arm-chair, smiling and singing, with a very
red face, was struck dumb by the chaplain's sudden entrance and sharp
rebuke. Bell, flushed and angered, was also astonished to see Mr
Cargrim, but hailed his arrival with joy as likely to have some moral
influence on her riotous father. Personally she detested Cargrim, but
she respected his cloth, and was glad to see him wield the thunders of
his clerical position.

'That is right, Mr Cargrim!' she cried with flashing eyes. 'Tell him he
ought to be ashamed of drinking and singing with mother so ill
upstairs.'

'I don't mean t'do any 'arm,' said Mosk, rising sheepishly, for the
shock of Cargrim's appearance sobered him a good deal. 'I wos jus'
havin' a glass to celebrate a joyful day.'

'Cannot you take your glass without becoming intoxicated?' said Cargrim,
in disgust. 'I tell you what, Mosk, if you go on in this way, I shall
make it my business to warn Sir Harry Brace against you.'

'I told you how t'would be, father,' put in Bell, reproachfully.

'You onnatural child, goin' agin your parent,' growled Mr Mosk. 'Wasn't
I drinking to your health, 'cause the old 'un at Heathcroft wos passin'
to his long 'ome? Tell me that!'

'What do you mean, Mosk?' asked the chaplain, starting.

'Nothing, sir,' interposed Bell, hurriedly. 'Father don't know what he
is sayin'.'

'Yes, I do,' contradicted her father, sulkily. 'Old Mr Leigh, th' pass'n
of Heathcroft, is dying, and when he dies you'll live at Heathcroft
with--'

'Father! father! hold your tongue!'

'With my son-in-law Gabriel!'

'Your--son-in-law,' gasped Cargrim, recoiling. 'Is--is your daughter the
wife of young Mr Pendle?'

'No, I am not, Mr Cargrim,' cried Bell, nervously. 'It's father's
nonsense.'

'It's Bible truth, savin' your presence,' said Mosk, striking the table.
'Young Mr Pendle is engaged to marry you, ain't he? and he's goin' to
hev the livin' of Heathcroft, ain't he? and old Leigh's a-dyin' fast,
ain't he?'

'Go on, father, you've done it now,' said Bell, resignedly, and sat
down.

Cargrim was almost too surprised to speak. The rector of
Heathcroft--dying; Gabriel engaged to marry this common woman. He looked
from one to the other in amazement; at the triumphant Mosk, and the
blushing girl.

'Is this true, Miss Mosk?' he asked doubtfully.

'Yes! I am engaged to marry Gabriel Pendle,' cried Bell, with a toss of
her head. 'You can tell the whole town so if you like. Neither he nor I
will contradict you.'

'It's as true as true!' growled Mosk. 'My daughter's going to be a
lady.'

'I congratulate you both,' said Cargrim, gravely. 'This will be a
surprise to the bishop,' and feeling himself unequal to the situation,
he made his escape.

'Well, father,' said Bell, 'this is a pretty kettle of fish, this is!'




CHAPTER XXIII

IN THE LIBRARY


Certainly there was little enough to admire in Mr Cargrim's character,
still he was not altogether a bad man. In common with his
fellow-creatures he also had his good qualities, but these were somewhat
rusty for want of use. As Mrs Rawdon Crawley, _nee_ Sharp, remarked,
most people can be good on five thousand a year; and if Cargrim had been
high-placed and wealthy he would no doubt have developed his better
instincts for lack of reasons to make use of his worser. But being only
a poor curate, he had a long ladder to climb, which he thought could be
ascended more rapidly by kicking down all those who impeded his
progress, and by holding on to the skirts of those who were a few rungs
higher. Therefore he was not very nice in his distinction between good
and evil, and did not mind by what means he succeeded, so long as he was
successful. He knew very well that he was not a favourite with the
bishop, and that Dr Pendle would not give him more of the Levitical
loaves and fishes than he could help; but as the holder of the
Beorminster See was the sole dispenser of these viands with whom Cargrim
was acquainted, it behoved him at all risks to compel the bestowal of
gifts which were not likely to be given of free-will. Therefore, Cargrim
plotted, and planned, and schemed to learn the bishop's secret and set
him under his thumb.

But with all the will in the world this schemer was not clever enough to
deal with the evidence he had accumulated. The bishop had had an
understanding with Jentham; he had attempted to secure his silence, as
was proved by the torn-out butt of the cheque-book; he had--as Cargrim
suspected--killed the blackmailer to bury his secret in the grave, and
he had been warned by Mother Jael that she knew of his wicked act. This
was the evidence, but Cargrim did not know how to place it ship-shape,
in order to prove to Bishop Pendle that he had him in his power. It
needed a trained mind to grapple with these confused facts, to follow
out clues, to arrange details, and Cargrim recognised that it was
needful to hire a helper. With this idea he resolved to visit London and
there engage the services of a private inquiry agent; and as there was
no time to be lost, he decided to ask the bishop for leave of absence on
that very night. There is nothing so excellent as prompt attention to
business, even when it consists of the dirtiest kind.

Nevertheless, to allow his better nature some small opportunity of
exercise, Cargrim determined to afford the bishop one chance of escape.
The visit to The Derby Winner had given him at once a weapon and a piece
of information. The rector of Heathcroft was dying, so in the nature of
things it was probable that the living would soon be vacant. From
various hints, Cargrim was aware that the bishop destined this snug post
for his younger son. But Gabriel Pendle was engaged to marry Bell Mosk,
and when the bishop was informed of that fact, Cargrim had little doubt
but that he would refuse to consecrate his son to the living. Then,
failing Gabriel, the chaplain hoped that Dr Pendle might give it to him,
and if he did so, Mr Cargrim was quite willing to let bygones be
bygones. He would not search out the bishop's secret--at all events for
the present--although, if Dean Alder died, he might make a later use of
his knowledge to get himself elected to the vacant post. However, the
immediate business in hand was to secure Heathcroft Rectory at the
expense of Gabriel; so Mr Cargrim walked rapidly to the palace, with the
intention of informing the bishop without delay of the young man's
disgraceful conduct. Only at the conclusion of the interview could he
determine his future course. If, angered at Gabriel, the bishop gave him
the living, he would let the bishop settle his account with his
conscience, but if Dr Pendle refused, he would then go up to London and
hire a bloodhound to follow the trail of Dr Pendle's crime even to his
very doorstep. In thus giving his patron an alternative, Cargrim thought
himself a very virtuous person indeed. Yet, so far as he knew, he might
be compounding a felony; but that knowledge did not trouble him in the
least.

With this pretty little scheme in his head, the chaplain entered the
library in which Dr Pendle was usually to be found, and sure enough the
bishop was there, sitting all alone and looking as wretched as a man
could. His face was grey and drawn--he had aged so markedly since Mrs
Pendle's garden-party that Mr Cargrim was quite shocked--and he started
nervously when his chaplain glided into the room. A nerve-storm,
consequent on his interview with Mother Jael, had exhausted the bishop's
vitality, and he seemed hardly able to lift his head. The utter
prostration of the man would have appealed to anyone save Cargrim, but
that astute young parson had an end to gain and was not to be turned
from it by any display of mental misery. He put his victim on the rack,
and tortured him as delicately and scientifically as any Inquisition of
the good old days when Mother Church, anticipating the saying of the
French Revolution, said to the backsliders of her flock, 'Be my child,
lest I kill thee.' So Cargrim, like a modern Torquemada, racked the soul
instead of the body, and devoted himself very earnestly to this
congenial talk.

'I beg your pardon, my lord,' said he, making a feint of retiring, 'I
did not know that your lordship was engaged.'

'I am not engaged,' replied the bishop, seemingly glad to escape from
his own sad thoughts; 'come in, come in. You have left Mrs Pansey's
_fete_ rather early.'

'But not so early as you, sir,' said the chaplain, taking a chair where
he could command an uninterrupted view of the bishop's face. 'I fear you
are not well, my lord.'

'No, Cargrim, I am not well. In spite of my desire to continue my
duties, I am afraid that I shall be forced to take a holiday for my
health's sake.'

'Your lordship cannot do better than join Mrs Pendle at Nauheim.'

'I was thinking of doing so,' said the bishop, glancing at a letter at
his elbow, 'especially as Sir Harry Brace is coming back on business to
Beorminster. I do not wish my wife to be alone in her present uncertain
state of health. As to my own, I'm afraid no springs will cure it; my
disease is of the mind, not of the body.'

'Ah!' sighed Cargrim, sagely, 'the very worst kind of disease. May I ask
what you are troubled about in your mind?'

'About many things, Cargrim, many things. Amongst them the fact of this
disgraceful murder. It is a reflection on the diocese that the criminal
is not caught and punished.'

'Does your lordship wish the assassin to be captured?' asked the
chaplain, in his softest tone, and with much apparent simplicity.

Dr Pendle raised his head and darted a keen look at his questioner. 'Of
course I do,' he answered sharply, 'and I am much annoyed that our local
police have not been clever enough to hunt him down. Have you heard
whether any more evidence has been found?'

'None likely to indicate the assassin, my lord. But I believe that the
police have gathered some information about the victim's past.'

The bishop's hand clenched itself so tightly that the knuckles whitened.
'About Jentham!' he muttered in a low voice, and not looking at the
chaplain; 'ay, ay, what about him?'

'It seems, my lord,' said Cargrim, watchful of his companion's face,
'that thirty years ago the man was a violinist in London and his
professional name was Amaru.'

'A violinist! Amaru!' repeated Dr Pendle, and looked so relieved that
Cargrim saw he had not received the answer he expected. 'A professional
name you say?'

'Yes, your lordship,' replied the chaplain, trying hard to conceal his
disappointment. 'No doubt the man's real name was Jentham.'

'No doubt,' assented the bishop, indifferently, 'although I daresay so
notorious a vagrant must have possessed at least half a dozen names.'

It was on the tip of Cargrim's tongue to ask by what name Jentham had
been known to his superior, but restrained by the knowledge of his
incapacity to follow up the question, he was wise enough not to put it.
Also, as he wished to come to an understanding with the bishop on the
subject of the Heathcroft living, he turned the conversation in that
direction by remarking that Mr Leigh was reported as dying.

'So Gabriel informed me,' said Dr Pendle, with a nod. 'I am truly sorry
to hear it. Mr Leigh has been rector of Heathcroft parish for many
years.'

'For twenty-five years, your lordship; but latterly he has been rather
lax in his rule. What is needed in Heathcroft is a young and earnest man
with a capacity for organisation, one who by words and deeds may be able
to move the sluggish souls of the parishioners, who can contrive and
direct and guide.'

'You describe an ideal rector, Cargrim,' remarked Dr Pendle, rather
dryly, 'a kind of bishop in embryo; but where is such a paragon to be
found?'

The chaplain coloured and looked conscious. 'I do not describe myself as
a paragon,' said he, in a low voice; 'nevertheless, should your lordship
think fit to present me with the Heathcroft cure of souls, I should
strive to approach in some degree the ideal I have described.'

The bishop was no stranger to Cargrim's ambition, as it was not the
first time that the chaplain had hinted that he would make a good rector
of Heathcroft, therefore he did not feel surprised at being approached
so crudely on the subject. With a testy gesture he pushed back his chair
and looked rather frowningly on the presumptuous parson. But Cargrim was
too sure of his ability to deal with the bishop to be daunted by looks,
and with his sleek head on one side and a suave smile on his pale lips,
he waited for the thunders from the episcopalian throne. However, the
bishop was just as diplomatic as his chaplain, and too wise to give way
to the temper he felt at so downright a request, approached the matter
in an outwardly mild spirit.

'Heathcroft is a large parish,' said his lordship, meditatively.

'And therefore needs a hard-working young rector, replied Cargrim. 'I
am, of course, aware of my own deficiencies, but these may be remedied
by prayer and by a humble spirit.'

'Mr Cargrim,' said the bishop, with a smile, 'do you remember the rather
heterodox story of the farmer's comment on prayer being offered up for
rain? "What is the use of praying for rain," said he, "when the wind is
in this quarter?" I am inclined,' added Dr Pendle, looking very intently
at Cargrim, 'to agree with the farmer.'

'Does that mean that your lordship will not give me the living?'

'We will come to that later, Mr Cargrim. At present I mean that no
prayers will remedy our deficiencies unless the desire to do so begins
in our own breasts.'

'Will your lordship indicate the particular deficiencies I should
remedy?' asked the chaplain, outwardly calm, but inwardly raging.

'I think, Mr Cargrim,' said the bishop, gently, 'that your ambition is
apt to take precedence of your religious feelings, else you would hardly
adopt so extreme a course as to ask me so bluntly for a living. If I
deemed it advisable that you should be rector of Heathcroft, I should
bestow it on you without the necessity of your asking me to give it to
you; but to be plain with you, Mr Cargrim, I have other designs when the
living becomes vacant.'

'In that case, we need say no more, your lordship.'

'Pardon me, you must permit me to say this much,' said Dr Pendle, in his
most stately manner, 'that I desire you to continue in your present
position until you have more experience in diocesan work. It is not
every young man, Mr Cargrim, who has so excellent an opportunity of
acquainting himself with the internal management of the Catholic Church.
Your father was a dear friend of mine,' continued the bishop, with
emotion, 'and in my younger days I owed him much. For his sake, and for
your own, I wish to help you as much as I can, but you must permit me to
be the best judge of when and how to advance your interests. These
ambitions of yours, Michael, which I have observed on several occasions,
are dangerous to your better qualities. A clergyman of our Church is a
man, and--being a priest--something more than a man; therefore it
behoves him to be humble and religious and intent upon his immediate
work for the glory of God. Should he rise, it must be by such qualities
that he attains a higher post in the Church; but should he remain all
his days in a humble position, he can die content, knowing he has
thought not of himself but of his God. Believe me, my dear young
friend, I speak from experience, and it is better for you to leave your
future in my hands.'

These sentiments, being the antithesis to those of Cargrim, were of
course extremely unpalatable to one of his nature. He knew that he was
more ambitious than religious; but it was galling to think that Dr
Pendle should have been clever enough to gauge his character so truly.
His mask of humility and deference had been torn off, and he was better
known to the bishop than was at all agreeable to his cunning nature. He
saw that so far as the Heathcroft living was concerned he would never
obtain it as a free gift from Dr Pendle, therefore it only remained to
adopt the worser course, and force the prelate to accede to his request.
Having thus decided, Mr Cargrim, with great self-control, smoothed his
face to a meek smile, and even displayed a little emotion in order to
show the bishop how touched he was by the kindly speech which had
crushed his ambition.

'I am quite content to leave my future in your hands,' he said, with all
possible suavity, 'and indeed, my lord, I know that you are my best--my
only friend. The deficiency to which you allude shall be conquered by me
if possible, and I trust that shortly I shall merit your lordship's more
unreserved approbation.'

'Why,' said the bishop, shaking him heartily by the hand, 'that is a
very worthy speech, Michael, and I shall bear it in mind. We are still
friends, I trust, in spite of what I consider it was my duty to say.'

'Certainly we are friends, sir; I am honoured by the interest you take
in me. And now, my lord,' added Cargrim, with a sweet smile, 'may I
prefer a little request which was in my mind when I came to see you?'

'Of course! of course, Michael; what is it?'

'I have some business to transact in London, my lord; and I should like,
with your permission, to be absent from my duties for a few days.'

'With pleasure,' assented the bishop; 'go when you like, Cargrim. I am
only too pleased that you should ask me for a holiday.'

'Many thanks, your lordship,' said Cargrim, rising. 'Then I shall leave
the palace to-morrow morning, and will return towards the end of the
week. As there is nothing of particular importance to attend to, I trust
your lordship will be able to dispense with my services during my few
days' absence without trouble to yourself.'

'Set your mind at rest, Cargrim; you can take your holiday.'

'I again thank your lordship. It only remains for me to say that if--as
I have heard--your lordship intends to make Mr Gabriel rector of
Heathcroft, I trust he will be as earnest and devout there as he has
been in Beorminster.'

'I have not yet decided how to fill up the vacancy,' said the bishop,
coldly, 'and let me remind you, Mr Cargrim, that as yet the present
rector of Heathcroft still holds the living.'

'I do but anticipate the inevitable, my lord,' said Cargrim, preparing
to drive his sting into the bishop, 'and certainly, the sooner Mr
Gabriel is advanced to the living the better it will be for his
matrimonial prospects.'

Dr Pendle stared. 'I don't understand you!' he said stiffly.

'What!' Mr Cargrim threw up his hands in astonishment. 'Has not Mr
Gabriel informed your lordship of his engagement?'

'Engagement!' echoed the bishop, half rising, 'do you mean to tell me
that Gabriel is engaged, and without my knowledge!'

'Oh, your lordship!--I thought you knew--most indiscreet of me,'
murmured Cargrim, in pretended confusion.

'To whom is my son engaged?' asked the bishop, sharply.

'To--to--really, I feel most embarrassed,' said the chaplain. 'I should
not have taken--'

'Answer at once, sir,' cried Dr Pendle, irritably. 'To whom is my son
Gabriel engaged? I insist upon knowing.'

'In that case, I must tell your lordship that Mr Gabriel is engaged to
marry Miss Bell Mosk!'

The bishop bounded out of his chair. 'Bell Mosk! the daughter of the
landlord of The Derby Winner?'

'Yes, your lordship.'

'The--the--the--barmaid! My son!--oh, it is--it is impossible!'

'I had it from the lips of the young lady herself,' said Cargrim,
delighted at the bishop's annoyance. 'Certainly Miss Mosk is hardly
fitted to be the wife of a future rector--still, she is a handsome--'

'Stop, sir!' cried the bishop, imperiously, 'don't dare to couple my
son's name with that of--of--of a barmaid. I cannot--I will not--I dare
not believe it!'

'Nevertheless, it is true!'

'Impossible! incredible! the boy must be mad!'

'He is in love, which is much the same thing,' said Cargrim, with more
boldness than he usually displayed before Dr Pendle; 'but to assure
yourself of its truth, let me suggest that your lordship should question
Mr Gabriel yourself. I believe he is in the palace.'

'Thank you, Mr Cargrim,' said the bishop, recovering from his first
surprise. 'I thank you for the information, but I am afraid you have
been misled. My son would never choose a wife out of a bar.'

'It is to be hoped he will see the folly of doing so, my lord,' replied
the chaplain, backing towards the door, 'and now I shall take my leave,
assuring your lordship that I should never have spoken of Mr Gabriel's
engagement had I not believed that you were informed on the point.'

The bishop made no reply, but sank into a chair, looking the picture of
misery. After a glance at him, Cargrim left the room, rubbing his hands.
'I think I have given you a very good Roland for your Oliver, my lord!'
he murmured.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE BISHOP ASSERTS HIMSELF


On being left alone, the bishop sat motionless in his chair for some
considerable time. The information conveyed by Cargrim struck at his
pride, but in his heart he knew well that he had as little right to be
proud as to resent the blow. Casting a look over the past, he saw that
Dr Graham had been right in his reference to the Ring of Polycrates, for
although he was outwardly still prosperous and high-placed, shame had
come upon him, and evil was about to befall. From the moment of
Jentham's secret visit a blight had fallen on his fortunes, a curse had
come upon his house, and in a thousand hidden ways he had been tortured,
although for no fault of his own. There was his secret which he did not
dare even to think of; there was the enforced absence of his wife and
daughter, whom he had been compelled to send away; there was the hidden
enmity of Cargrim, which he did not know how to baffle; and now there
was the shame of Gabriel's engagement to a barmaid; of George's choice
of a wife, who, if rumour could be believed, was the daughter of a
scoundrel. With these ills heaped upon his head, the bishop did not know
how he could ever raise it again.

Still, all these woes were locked up in his own breast, and to the world
he was yet the popular, prosperous Bishop of Beorminster. This
impression and position he was resolved to maintain at all costs,
therefore, to put an end to his last trouble, he concluded to speak
seriously to his sons on the subject of unequal marriages. A pressure of
the electric button summoned the servant, who was instructed to request
Captain Pendle and Mr Gabriel to see their father at once in the
library. It would seem as though they almost expected the message, for
in a few minutes they were both in the room; George, with his usual
jaunty, confident air, but Gabriel with an anxious look. Yet neither of
the young men guessed why the bishop had sent for them; least of all
George, who never dreamed for a moment that his father would oppose his
engagement with Mab Arden.

'Sit down, both of you,' said Dr Pendle, in grave tones, 'I have
something serious to say,' and the bishop took up an imposing position
on the hearthrug. The two sons looked at one another.

'There is no bad news from Nauheim, I hope, sir?' said George, quite
ignorant of the meaning of this exordium.

'No. Lucy's last letter about your mother was very cheerful indeed. I
wish to speak seriously to both of you. As you are the elder, George, I
shall begin with you; Gabriel, I shall reason with later.'

'Reason with me,' wondered the curate. 'Have I been doing anything which
requires me to be reasoned with?' and he gave a half smile, never
thinking how soon his jest would be turned into bitter earnest.

'I think a word in season will do you no harm,' answered his father,
austerely, 'but I shall address myself to George first.'

'I am all attention, sir,' said the captain, rather weary of this
solemnity. 'What have I done?'

'You have concealed from me the fact of your engagement to Miss Arden.'

'Oh!' cried George, smiling, 'so Miss Whichello has been speaking!'

'Yes, she spoke to me to-day, and told me that you had formally engaged
yourself to her niece without my knowledge or sanction. May I inquire
your reason for so singular a course?'

'Is it singular, sir?' asked George, in a half-joking tone. 'I always
understood that it was first necessary to obtain the lady's consent
before making the matter public. I asked Mab to be my wife when I last
visited Beorminster, and I intended to tell you of it this time, but I
find that Miss Whichello has saved me the trouble. However, now that you
know the truth, sir,' said Captain Pendle, with his sunny smile, 'may I
ask for your approval and blessing?'

'You may ask,' said the bishop, coldly, 'but you shall have neither.'

'Father!' The answer was so unexpected that George jumped up from his
chair with a cry of surprise, and even Gabriel, who was in the secret of
his brother's love for Mab, looked astonished and pained.

'I do not approve of the engagement,' went on the bishop, imperturbably.

'You--do--not--approve--of--Mab!' said Captain Pendle, slowly, and his
face became pale with anger.

'I said nothing about the lady,' corrected the bishop, haughtily; 'you
will be pleased, sir, to take my words as I speak them. I do not approve
of the engagement.'

'On what grounds?' asked George, quietly enough.

'I know nothing about Miss Arden's parents.'

'She is the daughter of Miss Whichello's sister.'

'I am aware of that, but what about her father?'

'Her father!' repeated George, rather perplexed. 'I never inquired about
her father; I do not know anything about him.'

'Indeed!' said the bishop, 'it is just as well that you do not.'

Captain Pendle looked disturbed. 'Is there anything wrong with him?' he
asked nervously. 'I thought he was dead and buried ages ago.'

'I believe he is dead; but from all accounts he was a scoundrel.'

'From whose account, bishop?'

'Mrs Pansey's for one.'

'Father!' cried Gabriel, 'surely you know that Mrs Pansey's gossip is
most unreliable.'

'Not in this instance,' replied the bishop, promptly. 'Mrs Pansey told
me some twenty-six years ago, when Miss Whichello brought her niece to
this city, that the child's father was little better than a gaol-bird.'

'Did she know him?' asked George, sharply.

'That I cannot say, but she assured me that she spoke the truth. I paid
no attention to her talk, nor did I question Miss Whichello on the
subject. In those days it had no interest for me, but now that I find my
son desires to marry the girl, I must refuse my consent until I learn
all about her birth and parentage.'

'Miss Whichello will tell us about that!' said George, hopefully.

'Let us trust that Miss Whichello dare tell us.'

'Dare, sir!' cried Captain Pendle, gnawing his moustache.

'I used the word advisedly, George. If what Mrs Pansey asserts is true,
Miss Whichello will feel a natural reluctance to confess the truth about
Miss Arden's father.'

'Admitting as much,' urged Gabriel, seeing that George kept silent,
'surely you will not visit the sins of the father on the innocent
child?'

'It is scriptural law, my son.'

'It is not the law of Christ,' replied the curate.

'Law or no law!' said Captain Pendle, determinedly, 'I shall not give
Mab up. Her father may have been a Nero for all I care. I marry his
daughter all the same; she is a good, pure, sweet woman.'

'I admit that she is all that,' said the bishop, 'and I do not want you
to give her up without due inquiry into the matter of which I speak. But
it is my desire that you should return to your regiment until the affair
can be sifted.'

'Who should sift it but I?' inquired George, hotly.

'If you place it in my hands all will--I trust--be well, my son. I shall
see Miss Whichello and Mrs Pansey and learn the truth.'

'And if the truth be as cruel as you suspect?'

'In that case,' said the bishop, slowly, 'I shall consider the matter;
you must not think that I wish you to break off your engagement
altogether, George, but I desire you to suspend it, so to speak. For the
reasons I have stated, I disapprove of your marrying Miss Arden, but it
may be that, should I be informed fully about her father, I may change
my mind. In the meantime, I wish you to rejoin your regiment and remain
with it until I send for you.'

'And if I refuse?'

'In that case,' said the bishop, sternly, 'I shall refuse my consent
altogether. Should you refuse to acknowledge my authority I shall treat
you as a stranger. But I have been a good father to you, George, and I
trust that you will see fit to obey me.'

'I am not a child,' said Captain Pendle, sullenly.

'You are a man of the world,' replied his father, skilfully, 'and as
such must see that I am speaking for your own good. I ask merely for
delay, so that the truth may be known before you engage yourself
irrevocably to this young lady.'

'I look upon my engagement as irrevocable! I have asked Mab to be my
wife, I have given her a ring, I have won her heart; I should be a mean
hound,' cried George, lashing himself into a rage, 'if I gave her up for
the lying gossip of an old she-devil like Mrs Pansey.'

'Your language is not decorous, sir.'

'I--I beg your pardon, father, but don't be too hard on me.'

'Your own good sense should tell you that I am not hard on you.'

'Indeed,' put in Gabriel, 'I think that my father has reason on his
side, George.'

'You are not in love,' growled the captain, unconvinced.

A pale smile flitted over Gabriel's lips, not unnoticed by the bishop,
but as he purposed speaking to him later, he made no remark on it at the
moment.

'What do you wish me to do, sir?' asked George, after a pause.

'I have told you,' rejoined the bishop, mildly. 'I desire you to rejoin
your regiment and not come back to Beorminster until I send for you.'

'Do you object to my seeing Mab before I go?'

'By no means; see both Miss Arden and Miss Whichello if you like, and
tell them both that it is by my desire you go away.'

'Well, sir,' said Captain Pendle, slowly, 'I am willing to obey you and
return to my work, but I refuse to give up Mab,' and not trusting
himself to speak further, lest he should lose his temper altogether, he
abruptly left the room. The bishop saw him retire with a sigh and shook
his head. Immediately afterwards he addressed himself to Gabriel, who,
with some apprehension, was waiting for him to speak.

'Gabriel,' said Dr Pendle, picking up a letter, 'Harry has written to me
from Nauheim, saying that he is compelled to return home on business. As
I do not wish your mother and Lucy to be alone, it is my desire that you
should join them--at once!'

The curate was rather amazed at the peremptory tone of this speech, but
hastened to assure his father that he was quite willing to go. The
reason given for the journey seemed to him a sufficient one, and he had
no suspicion that his father's real motive was to separate him from
Bell. The bishop saw that this was the case, and forthwith came to the
principal point of the interview.

'Do you know why I wish you to go abroad?' he asked sharply.

'To join my mother and Lucy--you told me so.'

'That is one reason, Gabriel; but there is another and more important
one.'

A remembrance of his secret engagement turned the curate's face crimson;
but he faltered out that he did not understand what his father meant.

'I think you understand well enough,' said Dr Pendle, sternly. 'I allude
to your disgraceful conduct in connection with that woman at The Derby
Winner.'

'If you allude to my engagement to Miss Mosk, sir,' cried Gabriel, with
spirit, 'there is no need to use the word disgraceful. My conduct
towards that young lady has been honourable throughout.'

'And what about your conduct towards your father?' asked the bishop.

Gabriel hung his head. 'I intended to tell you,' he stammered, 'when--'

'When you could summon up courage to do so,' interrupted Dr Pendle, in
cutting tones. 'Unfortunately, your candour was not equal to your
capability for deception, so I was obliged to learn the truth from a
stranger.'

'Cargrim!' cried Gabriel, his instinct telling him the name of his
betrayer.

'Yes, from Mr Cargrim. He heard the truth from the lips of this girl
herself. She informed him that she was engaged to marry you--you, my
son.'

'It is true!' said Gabriel, in a low voice. 'I wish to make her my
wife.'

'Make her your wife!' cried Dr Pendle, angrily; 'this common
girl--this--this barmaid--this--'

'I shall not listen to Bell being called names even by you, father,'
said Gabriel, proudly. 'She is a good girl, a respectable girl--a
beautiful girl!'

'And a barmaid,' said the bishop, dryly. 'I congratulate you on the
daughter-in-law you have selected for your mother!'

Gabriel winced. Much as he loved Bell, the idea of her being in the
society of his delicate, refined mother was not a pleasant one. He could
not conceal from himself that although the jewel he wished to pick out
of the gutter might shine brilliantly there, it might not glitter so
much when translated to a higher sphere and placed beside more polished
gems. Therefore, he could find no answer to his father's speech, and
wisely kept silence.

'Certainly, my sons are a comfort to me!' continued the bishop,
sarcastically. 'I have brought them up in what I judged to be a wise and
judicious manner, but it seems I am mistaken, since the first use they
make of their training is to deceive the father who has never deceived
them.'

'I admit that I have behaved badly, father.'

'No one can deny that, sir. The question is, do you intend to continue
behaving badly?'

'I love Bell dearly--very dearly!'

The bishop groaned and sat down helplessly in his chair. 'It is
incredible,' he said. 'How can you, with your refined tastes and
up-bringing, love this--this--? Well, I shall not call her names. No
doubt Miss Mosk is well enough in her way, but she is not a proper wife
for my son.'

'Our hearts are not always under control, father.'

'They should be, Gabriel. The head should always guide the heart; that
is only common sense. Besides, you are too young to know your own mind.
This girl is handsome and scheming, and has infatuated you in your
innocence. I should be a bad father to you if I did not rescue you from
her wiles. To do so, it is my intention that you shall go abroad for a
time.'

'I am willing to go abroad, father, but I shall never, never forget
Bell!'

'You speak with all the confidence of a young man in love for the first
time, Gabriel. I am glad that you are still sufficiently obedient to
obey me. Of course, you know that I cannot consent to your making this
girl your wife.'

'I thought that you might be angry,' faltered Gabriel.

'I am more hurt than angry,' replied the bishop. 'Have you given this
young woman a promise of marriage?'

'Yes, father; I gave her an engagement ring.'

'I congratulate you, sir, on your methodical behaviour. However, it is
no use arguing with one so infatuated as you are. All I can do is to
test your affection by parting you from Miss Mosk. When you return from
Nauheim we shall speak further on the subject.'

'When do you wish me to go, father?' asked Gabriel, rising submissively.

'To-morrow,' said the bishop, coldly. 'You can leave me now.'

'I am sorry--'

'Sorry!' cried Dr Pendle, with a frown. 'What is the use of words
without deeds? Both you and George have given me a sore heart this day.
I thought that I could trust my sons; I find that I cannot. If-- But it
is useless to talk further. I shall see what absence can do in both
cases. Now leave me, if you please.'

The bishop turned to his desk and busied himself with some papers, while
Gabriel, after a moment's hesitation, left the room with a deep sigh. Dr
Pendle, finding himself alone, leaned back in his chair and groaned
aloud.

'I have averted the danger for the time being,' he said sadly, 'but the
future--ah, me! what of the future?'




CHAPTER XXV

MR BALTIC, MISSIONARY


About this time there appeared in Beorminster an elderly, weather-beaten
man, with a persuasive tongue and the quick, alert eye of a fowl. He
looked like a sailor, and as such was an object of curiosity to inland
folk; but he called himself a missionary, saying that he had laboured
these many years in the Lord's vineyard of the South Seas, and had
returned to England for a sight of white faces and a smack of
civilisation. This hybrid individual was named Ben Baltic, and had the
hoarse voice of a mariner accustomed to out-roar storms, but his
conversation was free from nautical oaths, and remarkably entertaining
by reason of his adventurous life. He could not be said to be
obtrusively religious, yet he gave everyone the impression of being a
good and earnest worker, and one who practised what he preached, for he
neither smoked nor gambled nor drank strong waters. Yet there was
nothing Pharisaic about his speech or bearing.

In a pilot suit of rough blue cloth, with a red bandanna handkerchief
and a wide-brimmed hat of Panama straw, Mr Baltic took up his residence
at The Derby Winner, and, rolling about Beorminster in the true style of
Jack ashore, speedily made friends with people high and low. The low he
became acquainted with on his own account, as a word and a smile in his
good-humoured way was sufficient to establish at least a temporary
friendship; but he owed his familiarity with the 'high' to the good
offices of Mr Cargrim. That gentleman returned from his holiday with
much apparent satisfaction, and declared himself greatly benefited by
the change. Shortly after his resumption of his duties, he received a
visit from Baltic the missionary, who presented him with a letter of
introduction from a prominent London vicar. From this epistle the
chaplain learned that Baltic was a rough diamond with a gift of
untutored eloquence, that he desired to rest for a week or two in
Beorminster, and that any little attention shown to him would be
grateful to the writer. It said much for Mr Cargrim's goodwill and
charity that, on learning all this, he at once opened his arms and heart
to the missionary-mariner. He declared his willingness to make Baltic's
stay as pleasant as he could, but was shocked to learn that the
new-comer had taken up his abode at The Derby Winner. His feelings
extended even so far as remonstrance.

'For,' said Cargrim, shaking his head, 'I assure you, Mr Baltic, that
the place is anything but respectable.'

'And for such reason I stay there, sir. If you want to do good begin
with the worst; that's my motto. The Christian heathen can't be worse
than the Pagan heathen, I take it, Mr Cargrim.'

'I don't know so much about that,' sighed Cargrim. 'Refined vice is
always the most terrible. Witness the iniquities of Babylon and Rome.'

'There ain't much refinement about that blackguard public,' answered the
missionary, without the shadow of a smile, 'and if I can stop all the
swearing and drinking and shuffling of the devil's picture-books which
goes on there, I'll be busy at the Lord's work, I reckon.'

From this position Baltic refused to budge, so in the end Cargrim left
off trying to dissuade him, and the conversation became of a more
confidential character. Evidently the man's qualities were not
over-praised in the letter of introduction, for, on meeting him once or
twice and knowing him better, Cargrim found occasion to present him to
the bishop. Baltic's descriptions of his South Sea labours fascinated Dr
Pendle by their colour and wildness, and he suggested that the
missionary should deliver a discourse of the same quality to the public.
A hall was hired; the lecture was advertised as being under the
patronage of the bishop, and so many tickets were sold that the building
was crowded with the best Beorminster society, led by Mrs Pansey. The
missionary, after introducing himself as a plain and unlettered man,
launched out into a wonderfully vigorous and picturesque description of
those Islands of Paradise which bloom like gardens amid the blue waters
of the Pacific Ocean. He described the fecundity and luxuriance of
Nature, drew word-portraits of the mild, brown-skinned Polynesians, wept
over their enthralment by a debased system of idolatry, and painted the
blessings which would befall them when converted to the gentle religion
of Christ. Baltic had the gift of enchaining his hearers, and the
audience hung upon his speech with breathless attention. The natural
genius of the man poured forth in burning words and eloquent
apostrophes. The subject was picturesque, the language was inspiriting,
the man a born orator, and, when the audience dispersed, everyone, from
the bishop downward, agreed that Beorminster was entertaining an
untutored Demosthenes. Dr Pendle sighed as he thought of the many dull
sermons he had been compelled to endure, and wondered why the majority
of his educated clergy should fall so far behind the untaught,
unconsecrated, rough-mannered missionary.

From the time of that lecture, Ben Baltic, for all his lowly birth and
uncouth ways, became the lion of Beorminster. He was invited by Mrs
Pansey to afternoon tea; he was in request at garden-parties; he gave
lectures in surrounding parishes, and, on the whole, created an
undeniable sensation in the sober cathedral city. Baltic observed much
and said little; his eyes were alert, his tongue was discreet, and, even
when borne on the highest tide of popularity, he lost none of his
modesty and good-humour. He still continued to dwell at The Derby
Winner, where his influence was salutary, for the customers there drank
less and swore less when he was known to be present. Certainly, such
reformation did not please Mr Mosk over-much, and he frequently grumbled
that it was hard a man should have his trade spoilt by a psalm-singing
missionary, but a wholesome fear of Cargrim's threat to inform Sir Harry
checked him from asking Baltic to leave. Moreover, the man was greatly
liked by Mrs Mosk on account of his religious spirit, and approved of by
Bell from the order he kept in the hotel. Therefore Mosk, being in the
minority, could only stand on one side and grumble, which he did with
true English zeal.

It was while Baltic was thus exciting Beorminster that Sir Harry Brace
came back. Gabriel, in pursuance of his father's wish, had gone over to
Nauheim after a short interview with Bell, in which he had told her of
his father's opposition to the match. Bell was cast down, but did not
despair, as she thought that the bishop might soften towards Gabriel
during his absence; so she sent him abroad with a promise that she would
remain true to him until he returned. When the curate joined Mrs Pendle
and Lucy, Sir Harry, with much regret, had to relinquish his pre-nuptial
honeymoon, and returned to Beorminster in the lowest of spirits. The
bishop did not tell him about Gabriel's infatuation for Bell, nor did he
explain that George had engaged himself secretly to Mab Arden, so Harry
was quite in the dark as regards the domestic dissensions, and,
ascribing the bishop's gloom to the absence of his family, visited him
frequently in order to cheer him up. But the dark hour was on Bishop
Pendle, and notwithstanding the harping of this David, the evil spirit
would not depart.

'What is the matter with the bishop?' asked Harry one evening of
Cargrim. 'He is as glum as an owl.'

'I do not know what ails him,' replied the chaplain, who, for reasons of
his own, was resolved to hold his tongue, 'unless it is that he has been
working too hard of late.'

'It isn't that, Cargrim; all the years I have known him he has never
been so down-in-the-mouth before. I fancy he has something on his mind.'

'If you think so, Sir Harry, why not ask him?'

Brace shook his head. 'That would never do!' he answered. 'The bishop
doesn't like to be asked questions. I wish I could see him livelier; is
there nothing you can suggest to cheer him up?'

'Baltic might deliver another lecture on the South Seas!' said Cargrim,
blandly. 'His lordship was pleased with the last one.'

'Baltic!' repeated Sir Harry, giving a meditative twist to his black
moustache, 'that missionary fellow. I was going to ask you something
about him!'

Cargrim looked surprised and slightly nervous. 'Beyond that he is a
missionary, and is down here for his health's sake, I know nothing about
him,' he said hastily.

'You introduced him to the bishop, didn't you?' 'Yes. He brought a
letter of introduction to me from the Vicar of St Ann's in Kensington,
but his biography was not given me.'

'He's been in the South Seas, hasn't he?'

'I believe that his labours lay amongst the natives of the islands!'

'Well, I know him!' said Brace, with a nod.

'You know him!' repeated the chaplain, anxiously.

'Yes. Met him five years ago in Samoa; he was more of a beach-comber
than a missionary in those days. Ben Baltic he calls himself, doesn't
he? I thought so! It's the same man.'

'He is a very worthy person, Sir Harry!'

'So you say. I suppose people improve when they get older, but he wasn't
a saint when I knew him. He racketed about a good deal. Humph! perhaps
he repented when I saved his life.'

'Did you save his life?'

'Well, yes. Baltic was raising Cain in some drunken row along with a set
of Kanakas, and one of 'em got him under to slip a knife into him. I
caught the nigger a clip on the jaw and sent him flying. There wasn't
much fight in old Ben when I straightened him out after that. So he's
turned devil-dodger. I must have a look at him in his new capacity.'

'Whatever he has been,' said Cargrim, who appeared uneasy during the
recital of this little story, 'I am sure that he has repented of his
past errors and is now quite sincere in his religious convictions.'

'I'll judge of that for myself, if you don't mind,' drawled the baronet,
with a twinkle in his dark eyes, and nodding to Cargrim, he strolled
off, leaving that gentleman very uncomfortable. Sir Harry saw that he
was so, and wondered why any story affecting Baltic should render the
chaplain uneasy. He received an explanation some days later from the
missionary himself.

Brace possessed a handsome family seat, embosomed in a leafy park, some
five miles from the city. At present it was undergoing alterations and
repairs, so that it might be a more perfect residence when the future
Lady Brace crossed its threshold as a bride. Consequently the greater
part of the house was in confusion, and given over to painters,
plasterers, and such-like upsetting people. Harry, however, had decided
to live in his own particular rooms, so that he might see that
everything was carried out in accordance with Lucy's wish, and the wing
he inhabited was in fairly good order. Still, Sir Harry being a
bachelor, and extremely untidy, his den, as he called it, was in a state
of pleasing muddle, which oftentimes drew forth rebukes from Lucy. She
was resolved to train her Harry into better ways when she had the wifely
right to correct him, but, as she frequently remarked, it would be the
thirteenth labour of Hercules to cleanse this modern Augean stable.

Harry himself, with male obstinacy, always asserted that the room was
tidy enough, and that he hated to live in a prim apartment. He said that
he could lay his hand on anything he wanted, and that the seeming
confusion was perfect order to him. Lucy gave up arguing on these
grounds, but privately determined that when the honeymoon was over she
would have a grand 'clarin up' time like Dinah in _Uncle Tom's Cabin_.
In the meanwhile, Harry continued to dwell amongst his confused
household gods, like Marius amid the ruins of Carthage.

And after all, the 'den,' if untidy, was a very pleasant apartment,
decorated extensively with evidences of Harry's athletic tastes. There
were boxing-gloves, fencing-foils, dumb-bells, and other aids to
muscular exertion; silver cups won at college sports were ranged on the
mantelpiece; on one wall hung a selection of savage weapons which Harry
had brought from Africa and the South Seas; on the other, a hunting
trophy of whip, spurs, cap and fox's brush was arranged; and pictures of
celebrated horses and famous jockeys were placed here, there and
everywhere. The writing-table, pushed up close to the window, was
littered with papers, and letters and plans, and before this Harry was
seated one morning writing a letter to Lucy, when the servant informed
him that Mr Baltic was waiting without. Harry gave orders for his
instant admittance, as he was curious to see again the sinner turned
saint, and anxious to learn what tide from the far South Seas had
stranded him in respectable, unromantic Beorminster.

When the visitor entered with his burly figure and bright, observant
eyes, Harry gave him a friendly nod, but knowing more about Baltic than
the rest of Beorminster, did not offer him his hand. From his height of
six feet, he looked down on the thick-set little missionary, and telling
him to be seated, made him welcome in a sufficiently genial fashion,
nevertheless with a certain reserve. He was not quite certain if
Baltic's conversion was genuine, and if he found proof of hypocrisy, was
prepared to fall foul of him forthwith. Sir Harry was not particularly
religious, but he was honest, and hated cant with all his soul.

'Well, Ben!' said he, looking sharply at his visitor's solemn red face,
'who would have thought of seeing you in these latitudes?'

'We never know what is before us, sir,' replied Baltic, in his deep,
rough voice. 'It was no more in my mind that I should meet you under
your own fig-tree than it was that I should receive a call through you!'

'Receive a call, man! What do you mean?' asked Harry, negligently. 'By
the way, will you have a cigar?'

'No thank you, sir. I don't smoke now.'

'A whisky and soda, then?'

'I have given up strong waters, sir.'

'Here is repentance indeed!' observed the baronet, with some sarcasm.
'You have changed since the Samoan days, Baltic!'

'Thanks be to Christ, sir, I have,' said the man, reverently, 'and my
call was through you, sir. When you saved my life I resolved to lead a
new one, and I sought out Mr Eva, the missionary, who gave me hope of
being a better man. I listened to his preaching, Sir Harry, I read the
Gospels, I wrestled with my sinful self, and after a long fight I was
made strong. My doubts were set at rest, my sins were washed in the
Blood of the Lamb, and since He took me into His holy keeping, I have
striven to be worthy of His great love.'

Baltic spoke so simply, and with such nobility, that Brace could not but
believe that he was in earnest. There was no spurious affectation, no
cant about the man; his words were grave, his manner was earnest, and
his speech came from the fulness of his heart. If there had been a false
note, a false look, Harry would have detected both, and great would
have been his disgust and wrath. But the dignity of the speech, the
simplicity of the description, impressed him with a belief that Baltic
was speaking truly. The man was a rough sailor, and therefore not
cunning enough to feign an emotion he did not feel, so, almost against
his will, Brace was obliged to believe that he saw before him a Saul
converted into a Paul. The change of Pagan Ben into Christian Baltic was
little else than miraculous.

'And are you now a missionary?' said Brace, after a reflective pause.

'No, Sir Harry,' answered the man, calmly, and with dignity, 'I am a
private inquiry agent!'




CHAPTER XXVI

THE AMAZEMENT OF SIR HARRY BRACE


'A private inquiry agent!' Sir Harry jumped up from his chair with an
angry look, and a sharp ejaculation, neither of which disturbed his
visitor. With his red bandanna handkerchief spread on his knees, and his
straw hat resting on the handkerchief, Baltic looked at his flushed host
calmly and solemnly without moving a muscle, or even winking an eye.
Brace did not know whether to treat the ex-sailor as a madman or as an
impudent impostor. The situation was almost embarrassing.

'What do you mean, sir,' he asked angrily, 'by coming to me with a
cock-and-bull story about your conversion, and then telling me that you
are a private inquiry agent, which is little less than a spy?'

'Is it impossible for such a one to be a Christian, Sir Harry?'

'I should think so. One who earns his living by sneaking can scarcely
act up to the ethics of the Gospels.'

'I don't earn my living by sneaking,' replied Baltic, coolly. 'If I did,
I shouldn't explain my business to you as I have done--as I am doing. My
work is honourable enough, sir, for I am ranged against evil-doers, and
it is my duty to bring their works to naught. There is no need for me to
defend my profession to anyone but you, Sir Harry, as no one but
yourself, and perhaps two other people, know what I really am.'

'They shall know it,' spoke Sir Harry, hastily. 'All Beorminster shall
know of it. We don't care for wolves in sheep's clothing here.'

'Better be sure that I am a wolf before you talk rashly,' said Baltic,
in no wise disturbed. 'I came here to speak to you openly, because you
saved my life, and that debt I wish to square. And let me tell you,
sir, that it isn't Christianity, or even justice, to hear one side of
the question and not the other.'

Harry looked puzzled. 'You are an enigma to me, Baltic.'

'I am here to explain myself, sir. As your hand dashed aside the knife
of that Kanaka you have a claim on my confidence. You'll be a sad man
and a glad man when you hear my story, sir.'

Harry resumed his seat, shrugged his shoulders, and took a leisurely
look at his self-possessed visitor. 'Sad and glad are contradictory
terms, my friend,' said he, carelessly. 'I would rather you explained
riddles than propounded them.'

'Sir Harry! Sir Harry! it is the riddle of man's life upon this earth
that I am trying to explain.'

'You have set yourself a hard task, Baltic, for so far as I can see,
there is no reading of that riddle.'

'Save by the light of the Gospel, sir, which makes all things plain.'

'Baltic,' said Brace, bluntly, 'there is that about you which would make
me sorry to find you a Pharisee or a hypocrite. Therefore, if you
please, we will stop religion and allegory, and come to plain
matter-of-fact. When I knew you in Samoa, you were a sailor without a
ship.'

'Add a castaway and a child of the devil, sir, and you will describe me
as I was then,' burst out Baltic, in his deep voice. 'Hear me, Sir
Harry, and gauge me as I should be gauged. I was, as you know, a
drunken, godless, swearing dog, in the grip of Satan as fuel for hell;
but when you saved my worthless life I saw that it behoved me, as it
does all men, to repent. I sought out a missionary, who heard my story
and set my feet in the right path. I listened to his preaching, I read
the Good Book, and so learned how I could be saved. The missionary made
me his fellow-labourer in the islands, and I strove to bring the poor
heathen to the foot of the cross. For three years I laboured there,
until it was borne in upon me that I was called upon by the Spirit to
labour in the greater vineyard of London. Therefore, I came to England
and looked round to see what task was fittest for my hand. On every
side I saw evil prosper. The wicked, as I noted, flourished like a green
bay tree; so, to bring them to repentance and punishment, I became a
private inquiry agent.'

'Humph! that is a novel kind of missionary enterprise, Baltic.'

'It is a righteous one, Sir Harry. I search out iniquities; I snare the
wicked man in his own nets; I make void the devices of his evil heart.
If I cannot prevent crimes, I can at least punish them by bringing their
doers within the grip of the law. Then when punished by man, they repent
and turn to God, and thereby are saved through their own lusts.'

'Not in many cases, I am afraid. So you regard yourself as a kind of
scourge for the wicked?'

'Yes! When I state that I am a missionary, I regard myself as one who
works in a new way.'

'A kind of _fin-de-siecle_ apostle, in fact,' said Brace, dryly. 'But
isn't the term "missionary" rather a misnomer?'

'No!' replied Baltic, earnestly. 'I do my work in a different way, that
is all. I baffle the wicked, and by showing them the futility of sin,
induce them to lead a new life. I make them fall, only to aid them to
rise; for when all is lost, their hearts soften.'

'You give them a kind of Hobson's choice, I see,' commented Sir Harry,
who was puzzled by the man's conception of his work, but saw that he
spoke in all seriousness. 'Well, Baltic, it is a queer way of calling
sinners to repentance, and I can't understand it myself.'

'My method of conversion is certainly open to misconstruction, sir. That
is why I term myself rather a missionary than a private inquiry agent.'

'I see; you don't wish to scare your promising flock of criminals. Does
anyone here know that you are a private inquiry agent?'

'Mr Cargrim does,' said the ex-sailor, calmly, 'and one other.'

Harry leaned forward with an incredulous look. 'Cargrim knows,' he said
in utter amazement. 'I should think he would be the last man to approve
of your ideas, with his narrow views and clerical red-tapism.'
'Perhaps, so, sir; but in this case my views happen to fall in with his
own. I came to see you, Sir Harry, in order to ease my mind on that
point.'

'In order to ease your mind!' repeated Brace, with a keen look. 'Go on.'

'Sir Harry, I speak to you in confidence about Mr Cargrim. I do not like
that man, sir.'

'You belong to the majority, then, Baltic. Few people like Cargrim, or
trust him. But what is he to you?'

'My employer. Yes, sir, you may well look astonished. Mr Cargrim asked
me down to Beorminster for a certain purpose.'

'Connected with his self-aggrandisement, no doubt.'

'That I cannot tell you, Sir Harry, as Mr Cargrim has not told me his
motive for engaging me in my business capacity. All I know is that he
wishes me to discover who killed a man called Jentham.'

'The deuce!' Harry jumped up with an excited look. 'Why is he taking the
trouble to do that?'

'I can't say, sir, unless it is that he dislikes Bishop Pendle!'

'Dislikes Bishop Pendle, man! And what has all this to do with the
murder of Jentham?'

'Sir,' said Baltic, with a cautious glance around, and sinking his voice
to a whisper, 'Mr Cargrim suspects Dr Pendle of the crime.'

'What!!!' Sir Harry turned the colour of chalk, and sprang back until he
almost touched the wall. 'You hound!' said he, speaking with unnatural
calmness, 'do you dare to sit there and tell me that you have come here
to watch the bishop?'

'Yes, Sir Harry,' was Baltic's stolid rejoinder, 'and calling me names
won't do away with the fact.'

'Does Cargrim believe that the bishop killed this man?'

'Yes, sir, he does, and wishes me to bring the crime home to him.'

'Curse you!' roared Harry, striding across the room, and towering over
the unmoved Baltic, 'I'll wring your neck, sir, if you dare to hint at
such a thing.' 'I am merely stating facts, Sir Harry--facts,' he added
pointedly, 'which I wish you to know.'

'For what purpose.'

'That you may assist me.'

'To hunt down the bishop, I suppose,' said Sir Harry, quivering with
rage.

'No, sir, to save the bishop from Mr Cargrim.'

'Then you do not believe that the bishop is guilty.'

'Sir,' said Baltic, with dignity, 'in London and in Beorminster I have
collected certain evidence which, on the face of it, incriminates the
bishop. But since knowing Dr Pendle I have been observant of his looks
and demeanour, and--after much thought--I have come to the conclusion
that he is innocent of this crime which Mr Cargrim lays to his charge.
It is because of this belief that I tell you my mind and seek your
assistance. We must work together, sir, and discover the real criminal
so as to baffle Mr Cargrim.'

'Cargrim, Cargrim,' repeated Brace, angrily, 'he is a bad lot.'

'That is what I say, Sir Harry. He is one who spreads a snare, and I
wish him to be taken in it himself.'

'Yet Cargrim is your employer, and pays you,' sneered Sir Harry.

'You are wrong,' replied Baltic, quietly. 'I do not take payment for my
work.'

'How do you live then? You were not independent when I knew you.'

'That is true, Sir Harry, but when I arrived in England I found that my
father was dead, and had left me sufficient to live upon. Therefore I
take no fee for my work, but labour to punish the wicked, for religion's
sake.'

Brace muttered something about the heat, and wiped his forehead as he
resumed his seat. The peculiar views held by Baltic perplexed him
greatly, and he could not reconcile the man's desire to capture
criminals with his belief in a religion, the keynote of which is, 'God
is love.' Evidently Baltic wished to convert sinners by playing on their
fears rather than by appealing to their religious feelings, although it
was certainly true that those rascals with whom he had to deal probably
had no elements of belief whatsoever in their seared minds.

But be this as it may, Baltic's mission was both novel and strange, and
might in some degree prove successful from its very originality.
Torquemada burned bodies to save souls, but this man exposed vices, so
that those who committed them, being banned by the law, and made
outcasts from civilisation, should find no friend but the Deity. Harry
was not clever enough to understand the ethics of this conception,
therefore he abandoned any attempt to do so, and treating Baltic purely
as an ordinary detective, addressed himself to the task of arriving at
the evidence which was said to inculpate Dr Pendle in the murder of
Jentham. The ex-sailor accepted the common ground of argument, and in
his turn abandoned theology for the business of everyday life. Common
sense was needed to expose and abase and overturn those criminals whose
talents enabled them to conceal their wickedness; proselytism could
follow in due course. There was the germ of a new sect in Baltic's
conception of Christianity as a terrorising religion.

'Let me hear your evidence against the bishop,' said Sir Harry, calm and
business-like.

Baltic complied with this request and gave the outlines of the case in
barren detail. 'Sir,' said he, gravely, 'some weeks ago, while there was
a reception at the palace, this man Jentham called to see the bishop and
evidently attempted to blackmail him on account of some secret.
Afterwards Jentham, not being able to pay for his board and lodging at
The Derby Winner, promised Mosk, the landlord, that he would discharge
his bill shortly, as he expected the next week to receive much money.
From whom he did not say, but while drunk he boasted that Southberry
Heath was Tom Tiddler's ground, on which he could pick up gold and
silver. In the meantime, Bishop Pendle went up to London and drew out of
the Ophir Bank a sum of two hundred pounds, in twenty ten-pound notes.
With this money he returned to Beorminster and kept an appointment, on
the common, with Jentham, when returning on Sunday night from
Southberry. Whether he paid him the blackmail I cannot say; whether he
killed the man no one can declare honestly; but it is undoubtedly true
that, the next morning, Jentham, whom the bishop regarded as his enemy,
was found dead. These, sir, are the bare facts of the case, and, as you
can see, they certainly appear to inculpate Dr Pendle in the crime.'

This calm and pitiless statement chilled Sir Harry's blood. Although he
could not bring himself to believe that the bishop was guilty, yet he
saw plainly enough that the evidence tended, almost beyond all doubt, to
incriminate the prelate. Yet there might be flaws even in so complete an
indictment, and Harry, seeking for them, began eagerly to question
Baltic.

'Who told you all this?' he demanded with some apprehension.

'Mr Cargrim told me some parts, and I found out others for myself, sir.'

'Does Cargrim know the nature of Dr Pendle's secret?'

'Not that I know of, Sir Harry.'

'Is he certain that there is one?'

'Quite certain,' replied Baltic, emphatically; 'if only on account of
Jentham's boast about being able to get money, and the fact that Bishop
Pendle went up to London to procure the blackmail.'

'How does he know--how does anyone know that the bishop did so?'

'Because a butt was torn out of Dr Pendle's London cheque-book,' said
Baltic, 'and I made inquiries at the Ophir Bank, which resulted in my
discovery that a cheque for two hundred had been drawn on the day the
bishop was in town.'

'Come now, Baltic, it is not likely that any bank would give you that
information without a warrant; but I don't suppose you dared to procure
one against his lordship.'

'Sir,' said Baltic, rolling up his red handkerchief, 'I had not
sufficient evidence to procure a warrant, also I am not in the service
of the Government, nevertheless, I have my own ways of procuring
information, which I decline to explain. These served me so well in this
instance that I know Bishop Pendle drew a cheque for two hundred pounds,
and moreover, I have the numbers of the notes. If the money was paid to
Jentham, and afterwards was taken from his dead body by the assassin, I
hope to trace these notes; in which case I may capture the murderer.'

'In your character of a private inquiry agent?'

'No, Sir Harry, I cannot take that much upon myself. I mentioned that
one other person knew of my profession; that person is Inspector
Tinkler.'

'Man!' cried Brace, with a start, 'you have not dared to accuse the
bishop to Tinkler!'

'Oh, no, sir!' rejoined the ex-sailor, composedly. 'All I have done is
to tell Tinkler that I wish to hunt down the murderer of Jentham, and to
induce him to obtain for me a warrant of arrest against Mother Jael.'

'Mother Jael, the gipsy hag! You don't suspect her, surely!'

'Not of the murder; but I suspect her of knowing the truth. Tinkler got
me a warrant on the ground of her being concerned in the crime--say, as
an accessory after the fact. To-morrow, Sir Harry, I ride over to the
gipsy camp, and then with this warrant I intend to frighten Mother Jael
into confessing what she knows.'

Harry smiled grimly. 'If you get the truth out of her you will be a
clever man, Baltic. Does the bishop know that you suspect him?'

'I don't suspect him, sir,' replied Baltic, rising, 'and the bishop
knows nothing, as he believes that I am a missionary.'

'Well, you are, in your own peculiar way.'

'Thank you, Sir Harry. Only you and Mr Cargrim and Mr Tinkler are aware
of the truth, and I tell you all this, sir, as I neither approve of, nor
believe in, Mr Cargrim. I am certain that Dr Pendle is innocent; Mr
Cargrim is equally certain that he is guilty; so I am working to prove
the truth, and that,' concluded the solemn Baltic, 'will not be what Mr
Cargrim desires.'

'Good God! the man must hate the bishop.'

'Bating your taking the name of God in vain, sir, I believe he does.'

'Well, Baltic, I am greatly obliged to you for your confidence, and feel
thankful that you are on our side. You can command my services in any
way you like, but keep me posted up in all you do.'

'Sir!' said Baltic, gravely, shaking hands with his host, 'you can look
upon me as your friend and well-wisher.'




CHAPTER XXVII

WHAT MOTHER JAEL KNEW


Now, when Baltic and his grizzled head had vanished, Sir Harry must
needs betake himself to Dr Graham for the easing of his mind. The doctor
had known the young man since he was a little lad, and on more than one
occasion had given him that practical kind of advice which results from
experience; therefore, when Harry was perplexed over matters too deep
for him--as he was now--he invariably sought counsel of his old friend.
In the present instance--for his own sake, for the sake of Lucy and
Lucy's father--he told Graham the whole story of Bishop Pendle's
presumed guilt; of Baltic's mission to disprove it; and of Cargrim's
underhanded doings. Graham listened to the details in silence, and
contented himself with a grim smile or two when Cargrim's treachery was
touched upon. When in possession of the facts, he commented firstly on
the behaviour of the chaplain.

'I always thought that the fellow was a cur!' said he, contemptuously,
'and now I am certain of it.'

'Curs bite, sir,' said Brace, sententiously, 'and we must muzzle this
one else there will be the devil to pay.'

'No doubt, when Cargrim receives his wages. Well, lad, and what do you
propose doing?'

'I came to ask your advice, doctor!'

'Here it is, then. Hold your tongue and do nothing.'

'What! and leave that hound to plot against the bishop?'

'A cleverer head than yours is counter-plotting him, Brace,' warned the
doctor. 'While Cargrim, having faith in Baltic, leaves the matter of the
murder in his hands, there can be no open scandal.'

Harry stared, and moodily tugged at his moustache. 'I never thought to
hear you hint that the bishop was guilty,' he grumbled.

'And I,' retorted Graham, 'never thought to hear a man of your sense
make so silly a speech. The bishop is innocent; I'll stake my life on
that. Nevertheless, he has a secret, and if there is a scandal about
this murder, the secret--whatever it is--may become public property.'

'Humph! that is to be avoided certainly. But the secret can be nothing
harmful.'

'If it were not,' replied Graham, drily, 'Pendle would not take such
pains to conceal it. People don't pay two hundred pounds for nothing
harmful, my lad.'

'Do you believe that the money was paid?'

'Yes, on Southberry Heath, shortly before the murder. And what is more,'
added Graham, warmly, 'I believe that the assassin knew that Jentham had
received the money, and shot him to obtain it.'

'If that is so,' argued Harry, 'the assassin would no doubt wish to take
the benefit of his crime and use the money. If he did, the numbers of
the notes being known, they would be traced, whereas--'

'Whereas Baltic, who got the numbers from the bank, has not yet had time
to trace them. Wait, Brace, wait! Time, in this matter, may work
wonders.'

'But, doctor, do you trust Baltic?'

'Yes, my friend, I always trust fanatics in their own particular line of
monomania. Besides, for all his religious craze, Baltic appears to be a
shrewd man; also he is a silent one, so if anyone can carry the matter
through judiciously, he is the person.'

'What about Cargrim?'

'Leave him alone, lad; with sufficient rope he'll surely hang himself.'

'Shouldn't the bishop be warned, doctor?'

'I think not. If we watch Cargrim and trust Baltic we shall be able to
protect Pendle from the consequences of his folly.'

'Folly! What folly?'

'The folly of having a secret. Only women should have secrets, for they
alone know how to keep them.'

'Everyone is of the opposite opinion,' said Brace, with a grin.

'And, as usual, everyone is wrong,' retorted Graham. 'Do you think I
have been a doctor all these years and don't know the sex?--that is, so
far as a man may know them. You take my word for it, Brace, that a woman
knows how to hold her tongue. It is a popular fallacy to suppose that
she doesn't. You try and get a secret out of a woman which she thinks is
worth keeping, and see how you'll fare. She will laugh, and talk and
lie, and tell you everything--except what you want to know. What
strength is to a man, cunning is to a woman. They are the potters, we
are the clay, and--and--and my discourse is as discursive as that of
Praed's vicar,' finished the doctor, with a dry chuckle.

'It has led us a long way from the main point,' agreed Harry, 'and that
is--what is Dr Pendle's secret?'

Graham shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. 'You ask more than I
can tell you,' he said sadly. 'Whatever it is, Pendle intends to keep it
to himself. All we can do is to trust Baltic.'

'Well, doctor,' said Harry, taking a reluctant leave, for he wished to
thresh out the matter into absolute chaff, 'you know best, so I shall
follow your advice.'

'I am glad of that,' was Graham's reply. 'My time is too valuable to be
wasted.'

While this conversation was taking place, Baltic was walking briskly
across the brown heath, in the full blaze of the noonday. A merciless
sun flamed like a furnace in the cloudless sky; and over the vast
expanse of dry burnt herbage lay a veil of misty, tremulous heat. Every
pool of water flashed like a mirror in the sun-rays; the drone of myriad
insects rose from the ground; the lark's clear music rained down from
the sky; and the ex-sailor, trudging along the white and dusty highway,
almost persuaded himself that he was back in some tropical land, less
gorgeous, but quite as sultry, as the one he had left. The day was
fitter for mid June rather than late September.

Baltic made so much concession to the unusual weather as to drape his
red handkerchief over his head and place his Panama hat on top of it;
but he still wore the thick pilot suit, buttoned up tightly, and stepped
out smartly, as though he were a salamander impervious to heat. With his
long arms swinging by his side, his steady, grey eyes observant of all
around him, he rolled on, in true nautical style, towards the gipsy
camp. This was not hard to discover, for it lay only a mile or so from
Southberry Junction, some little distance off the main road. The
missionary saw a huddle of caravans, a few straying horses, a cluster of
tawny, half-clad children rioting in the sunshine; and knowing that this
was his port of call, he stepped off the road on to the grass, and made
directly for the encampment. He had a warrant for Mother Jael's arrest
in his pocket, but save himself there was no one to execute it, and it
might be difficult to take the old woman in charge when she was--so to
speak--safe in the heart of her kingdom. However, Baltic regarded the
warrant only as a means to an end, and did not intend to use it, other
than as a bogey to terrify Mother Jael into confession. He trusted more
to his religiosity and persuasive capabilities than to the power of the
law. Nevertheless, being practical as well as sentimental, he was glad
to have the warrant in case of need; for it was possible that a
heathenish witch like Mother Jael might fear man more than God. Finally,
Baltic had some experience of casting religious pearls before pagan
swine, and therefore was discreet in his use of spiritual remedies.

Dogs barked and children screeched when Baltic stepped into the circle
formed by caravans and tents; and several swart, sinewy, gipsy men
darted threatening glances at him as an intrusive stranger. There burned
a fire near one of the caravans, over which was slung a kettle, swinging
from a tripod of iron, and this was filled with some savoury stew, which
sent forth appetising odours. A dark, handsome girl, with golden
earrings, and a yellow handkerchief twisted picturesquely round her
black hair, was the cook, and she turned to face Baltic with a scowl
when he inquired for Mother Jael. Evidently the Gentiles were no
favourites in the camp of these outcasts, for the men lounging about
murmured, the women tittered and sneered, and the very children spat out
evil words in the Romany language. But Baltic, used to black skins and
black looks, was not daunted by this inhospitable reception, and in
grave tones repeated his inquiry for the sibyl.

'Who are you, juggel-mush?'[A] asked a sinister-looking Hercules.

[A] Juggel-mush: a dog-man.

'I am one who wishes to see Mother Jael,' replied Baltic, in his deep
voice.

'Arromali!'[B] sneered the Cleopatra-like cook. 'She has more to do than
to see every cheating, choring Gentile.'

[B] Arromali: truly.

'Give me money, my royal master,' croaked a frightful cripple. 'My own
little purse is empty.'

'Oh, what a handsome Gorgio!' whined a hag, interspersing her speech
with curses. '(May evil befall him!) Good luck for gold, dearie. (I spit
on your corpse, Gentile!) Charity! Charity!'

A girl seated on the steps of a caravan cracked her fingers, and
spitting three times for the evil eye, burst into a song:--

  'With my kissings and caressings
  I can gain gold from the Gentiles;
  But to evil change my blessings.'

All this clatter and clamour of harsh voices, mouthing the wild gipsies'
jargon, had no effect on Baltic. Seeing that he could gain nothing from
the mocking crowd, he pushed back one or two, who seemed disposed to be
affectionate with a view to robbing his pockets, and shouted loudly,
'Mother Jael! Mother Jael!' till the place rang with his roaring.

Before the gipsies could recover from their astonishment at this sudden
change of front, a dishevelled grey head was poked out from one of the
black tents, and a thin high voice piped, 'Dearie! lovey! Mother Jael be
here!'

'I thought I would bring you out of your burrow,' said Baltic, grimly,
as he strode towards her; 'in with you again, old Witch of Endor, and
let me follow.'

'Hindity-Mush!'[C] growled one or two, but the appearance of Mother
Jael, and a few words from her, sent the whole gang back to their idling
and working; while Baltic, quite undisturbed, dropped on all fours and
crawled into the black tent, at the tail of the hag. She croaked out a
welcome to her visitor, and squatting on a tumbled mattress, leered at
him like a foul old toad. Baltic sat down near the opening of the tent,
so as to get as much fresh air as possible, and also to watch Mother
Jael's face by the glimmer of light which crept in. Spreading his
handsome handkerchief on his knee, according to custom, and placing his
hat thereon, he looked straightly at the old hag, and spoke slowly.

[C] Hindity-Mush: a dirty creature.

'Do you know why I am here, old woman?' he demanded.

'Yes, dearie, yes! Ain't it yer forting as y' wan's tole? Oh, my pretty
one, you asks ole mother for a fair future! I knows! I knows!'

'You know wrong then!' retorted Baltic, coolly. 'I am one who has no
dealings with witches and familiar spirits. I ask you to tell me, not my
fortune--which lies in the hand of the Almighty--but the name of the man
who murdered the creature Jentham.'

Mother Jael made an odd whistling sound, and her cunning old face became
as expressionless as a mask. In a second, save for her wicked black
eyes, which smouldered like two sparks of fire under her drooping lids,
she became a picture of stupidity and senility. 'Bless 'ee, my pretty
master, I knows nought; all I knows I told the Gentiles yonder,' and the
hag pointed a crooked finger in the direction of Beorminster.

'Mother of the witches, you lie!' cried Baltic, in very good Romany.

The eyes of Mother Jael blazed up like torches at the sound of the
familiar tongue, and she eyed the weather-beaten face of Baltic with an
amazement too genuine to be feigned. 'Duvel!' said she, in a high key of
astonishment, 'who is this Gorgio who patters with the gab of a gentle
Romany?'

'I am a brother of the tribe, my sister.'

'No gipsy, though,' said the hag, in the black language. 'You have not
the glossy eye of the true Roman.'

'No Roman am I, my sister, save by adoption. As a lad I left the
Gentiles' roof for the merry tent of Egypt, and for many years I called
Lovels and Stanleys my blood-brothers.'

'Then why come you with a double face, little child?' croaked the
beldam, who knew that Baltic was speaking the truth from his knowledge
of the gipsy tongue. 'As a Gentile I would speak no word, but my brother
you are, and as my brother you shall know.'

'Know who killed Jentham!' said Baltic, hastily.

'Of a truth, brother. But call him not Jentham, for he was of Pharaoh's
blood.'

'A gipsy, mother, or only a Romany rye?'

'Of the old blood, of the true blood, of our religion verily, my
brother. One of the Lovels he was, who left our merry life to eat with
Gorgios and fiddle gold out of their pockets.'

'He called himself Amaru then, did he not?' said Baltic, who had heard
this much from Cargrim, to whom it had filtered from Miss Whichello
through Tinkler.

'It is so, brother. Amaru he called himself, and Jentham and Creagth,
and a dozen other names when cheating and choring the Gentiles. But a
Bosvile he was born, and a Bosvile he died.'

'That is just it!' said Baltic, in English, for he grew weary of using
the gipsy language, in which, from disuse, he was no great proficient.
'How did he die?'

'He was shot, lovey,' replied Mother Jael, relapsing also into the
vulgar tongue; 'shot, dearie, on this blessed common.'

'Who shot him?'

'Job! my noble rye, I can't say. Jentham, he come 'ere to patter the
calo jib and drink with us. He said as he had to see some Gentile on
that night! La! la! la!' she piped thinly, 'an evil night for him!'

'On Sunday night--the night he was killed?'

'Yes, pretty one. The Gorgio was to give him money for somethin' he
knowed.'

'Who was the Gorgio?'

'I don' know, lovey! I don' know!'

'What was the secret, then?' asked Baltic, casting round for
information.

'Bless 'ee, my tiny! Jentham nivir tole me. An' I was curis to know, my
dove, so when he walks away half-seas over I goes too. I follows, lovey,
I follow, but I nivir did cotch him up, fur rain and storm comed mos'
dreful.'

'Did you not see him on that night, then?'

'Sight of my eyes, I sawr 'im dead. I 'eard a shot, and I run, and run,
dearie, fur I know'd as 'e 'ad no pistol; but I los' m'way, my royal
rye, and it was ony when th' storm rolled off as I foun' 'im. He was
lyin' in a ditch. Such was his grave,' continued Mother Jael, speaking
in her own tongue, 'water and grass and storm-clouds above, brother. I
was afraid to touch him, afraid to wait, as these Gentiles might think I
had slain the man. I got back into the road, I did, and there I picked
up this, which I brought to the camp with me. But I never showed it to
the police, brother, for I feared the Gentile jails.'

This proved to be a neat little silver-mounted pistol which Mother Jael
fished out from the interior of the mattress. Baltic balanced it in his
hand, and believing, as was surely natural, that Jentham had been killed
with this weapon, he examined it carefully.

'G. P.,' said he, reading the initials graven on the silver shield of
the butt.

'Ah!' chuckled Mother Jael, hugging herself. 'George Pendle that is,
lovey. But which of 'em, my tender dove--the father or the son?'

'Humph!' remarked Baltic, meditatively, 'they are both called George.'

'But they ain't both called murderer, my brother. George Pendle shot
that Bosvile sure enough, an' ef y'arsk me, dearie, it was the son--the
captain--the sodger. Ah, that it was!'




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE RETURN OF GABRIEL


'My dear Daisy, I am sorry you are going away, as it has been a great
pleasure for me to have you in my house. I hope you will visit me again
next year, and then you may be more fortunate.'

Mrs Pansey made this amiable little speech--which nevertheless, like a
scorpion, had a sting in its tail--to Miss Norsham on the platform of
the Beorminster railway station. After a stay of two months, the town
mouse was departing as she had come--a single young woman; and Mrs
Pansey's last word was meant to remind her of failure. Daisy was quick
enough to guess this, but, displeased at the taunt, chose to understand
it in another and more gracious sense, so as to disconcert her spiteful
friend.

'Fortunate! Oh, dear Mrs Pansey, I have been very fortunate this time.
Really, you have been most kind; you have given me everything I wanted.'

'Excepting a husband, my dear,' rejoined the archdeacon's widow,
determined that there should be no misunderstanding this time.

'Ah! it was out of your power to give me a husband,' murmured Daisy,
wincing.

'Quite true, my dear; just as it was out of your power to gain one for
yourself. Still, I am sorry that Dr Alder did not propose.'

'Indeed!' Daisy tossed her head. 'I should certainly have refused him
had he done so. A woman may not marry her grandfather.'

'A woman may not, but a woman would, rather than remain single,' snapped
Mrs Pansey, with considerable spite.

Miss Norsham carefully inserted a corner of a foolish little
handkerchief into one eye. 'Oh, dear, I do call it nasty of you to speak
to me so,' said she, tearfully. 'You needn't think, like all men do,
that every woman wants to be married. I'm sure I don't.'

The old lady smiled grimly at this appalling lie, but thinking that she
had been a little hard on her departing guest, hastened to apologise.
'I'm sure you don't, dear, and very sensible it is of you to say so.
Judging from my own experience with the archdeacon, I should certainly
advise no one to marry.'

'You are wise after the event,' muttered Daisy, with some anger, 'but
here is my train, Mrs Pansey, thank you!' and she slipped into a
first-class carriage, looking decidedly cross and very defiant. To fail
in husband-hunting was bad enough, but to be taunted with the failure
was unbearable. Daisy no longer wondered that Mrs Pansey was hated in
Beorminster; her own feelings at the moment urged her to thrust the good
lady under the wheels of the engine.

'Well, dear, I'll say good-bye,' said Mrs Pansey, screwing her grim face
into an amiable smile. 'Be sure you give my love to your mother, dear,'
and the two kissed with that show of affection to be seen existing
between ladies who do not love one another over much.

'Horrid old cat!' said Daisy to herself, as she waved her handkerchief
from the now moving train.

'Dear me! how I dislike that girl,' soliloquised Mrs Pansey, shaking her
reticule at the departing Daisy. 'Well! well! no one can say that I have
not done my duty by her,' and much pleased with herself, the good lady
stalked majestically out of the station, on the lookout to seize upon
and worry any of her friends who might be in the vicinity. For his sins
Providence sent Gabriel into her clutches, and Mrs Pansey was transfixed
with astonishment at the sight of him issuing from the station.

'Mr Pendle!' she said, placing herself directly in his way, 'I thought
you were at Nauheim. What is wrong? Is your mother ill? Is she coming
back? Are you in trouble?'

Gabriel could not answer all, or even one of these questions on the
instant, for the sudden appearance and speech of the Beorminster
busybody had taken him by surprise. He looked haggard and white, and
there were dark circles under his eyes, as though he suffered from want
of sleep. Still, the journey from Nauheim might account for his weary
looks, and would have done so to anyone less suspicious than Mrs Pansey;
but that good lady scented a mystery, and wanted an explanation. This,
Gabriel, with less than his usual courtesy, declined to furnish.
However, to give her some food for her mind, he answered her questions
categorically.

'I have just returned from Nauheim, Mrs Pansey,' he said hurriedly.
'There is nothing wrong, so far as I am aware. My mother is much better,
and is benefiting greatly by the baths. She is coming back within the
month, and I am not in trouble. Is there anything else you wish to
know?'

'Yes, Mr Pendle, there is,' said Mrs Pansey, in no wise abashed. 'Why do
you look so ill?'

'I am not ill, but I have had a long sea-passage, a weary railway
journey, and I feel hot, and dirty, and worn out. Naturally, under the
circumstances, I don't look the picture of health.'

'Humph! trips abroad don't do _you_ much good.'

Gabriel bowed, and turned away to direct the porter to place his
portmanteau in a fly. Offended by his silence, Mrs Pansey shook out her
skirts and tossed her sable plumes. 'You have not brought back French
politeness, young man,' said Mrs Pansey, acridly.

'I have been in Germany,' retorted Gabriel, as though that fact
accounted for his lack of courtesy. 'Good-bye for the present, Mrs
Pansey; I'll apologise for my shortcomings when I recover from my
journey.'

'Oh, you will, will you?' growled the archdeacon's widow, as Gabriel
lifted his hat and drove off; 'you'll do more than apologise, young man,
you'll explain. Hoity-toity! here's brazen assurance,' and Mrs Pansey,
with her Roman beak in the air, marched off, wondering in her own
curious mind what could be the reason of Gabriel's sudden return.

Her curiosity would have been gratified had she been present in Dr
Graham's consulting-room an hour later; for after Gabriel had bathed and
brushed up at his lodgings, he paid an immediate visit to the little
doctor. Graham happened to be at home, as he had not yet set out on his
round of professional visits, and he was as much astonished as Mrs
Pansey when the curate made his appearance. Also, like Mrs Pansey, he
was struck by the young man's worn looks.

'What! Gabriel,' he cried, when the curate entered, 'this is an
unexpected pleasure. You look ill, lad!'

'I am ill,' replied Gabriel, dropping into a chair with an air of
fatigue. 'I feel very much worried, and I have come to ask for your
advice.'

'Very pleased to give it to you, my boy, but why not consult the
bishop?'

'My father is the last man in the world I would consult, doctor.'

'That is a strange speech, Gabriel,' said Graham, with a keen look.

'It is the prelude to a stranger story! I have come to confide in you
because you have known me all my life, doctor, and because you are the
most intimate friend my father has.'

'Have you been getting into trouble?'

'No. My story concerns my father more than it does me.'

'Concerns your father!' repeated the doctor, with a sudden recollection
of the bishop's secret. 'Are you sure that I am the proper person to
consult?'

'I am certain of it. I know--I know--well, what I do know is something I
have not the courage to speak to my father about. For God's sake,
doctor, let me tell you my suspicions and hear your advice.'

'Your suspicions!' said Graham, starting from his chair, with a chill in
his blood. 'About--about--that--that murder?'

'God forbid, doctor. No! not about the murder, but about the man who was
murdered.'

'Jentham?'

'Yes, about the man who called himself Jentham. Are you sure we are
quite private here, doctor?'

Graham nodded, and walking to the door turned the key. Then he came back
to his seat and fixed his eyes on the perturbed face of the young man.
'Does your father know that you are back?' he asked.

'No one knows that I am here save Mrs Pansey.'

'Then it won't be a secret long,' said Graham, drily; 'that old magpie
is as good as the town-crier. You left your mother well?'

'Quite well; and Lucy also. I made an excuse to come back.'

'Then your mother and sister do not know what you are about to tell me?'

Gabriel made a gesture of horror. 'God forbid!' said he again, then
clasped his hands over his white face and burst into half hysterical
speech. 'Oh, the horror of it, the horror of it!' he wailed. 'If what I
know is true, then all our lives are ruined.'

'Is it so very terrible, my boy?'

'So terrible that I dare not question my father! I must tell you, for
only you can advise and help us all. Doctor! doctor! the very thought
drives me mad--indeed, I feel half mad already.'

'You are worn out, Gabriel. Wait one moment.'

The doctor saw that his visitor's nerves were overstrained, and that,
unless the tension were relaxed, he would probably end in having a fit
of hysteria. The poor young fellow, born of a weakly mother, was
neurotic in the extreme, and had in him a feminine strain, which made
him unequal to facing trouble or anxiety. Even as he sat there, shaking
and white-faced, the nerve-storm came on, and racked and knotted and
tortured every fibre of his being, until a burst of tears came to his
relief, and almost in a swoon he lay back limply in his chair. Graham
mixed him a strong dose of valerian, felt his pulse, and made him lie
down on the sofa. Also, he darkened the room, and placed a wet
handkerchief on the curate's forehead. Gabriel closed his eyes, and lay
on the couch as still as any corpse, while the doctor, who knew what he
suffered, watched him with infinite pity.

'Poor lad!' he murmured, holding Gabriel's hand in his firm, warm clasp.
'Nature is indeed a harsh stepmother to you. With your nerves, the
pin-prickles of life are so many dagger-thrusts. Do you feel better
now?' he asked, as Gabriel opened his eyes with a languid sigh. 'Much
better and more composed,' replied the wan curate, sitting up. 'You have
given me a magical drug.'

'You may well call it that. This particular preparation of valerian is
nepenthe for the nerves. But you are not quite recovered yet; the swell
remains after the storm, you know. Why not postpone your story?'

'I cannot! I dare not!' said Gabriel, earnestly. 'I must ease my mind by
telling it to you. Doctor, do you know that the visitor who made my
father ill on the night of the reception was Jentham?'

'No, my boy, I did not know that. Who told you?'

'John, our old servant, who admitted him. He told me about Jentham just
before I went to Nauheim.'

'Did Jentham give his name?'

'No, but John, like many other people, saw the body in the dead-house.
He there recognised Jentham by his gipsy looks and the scar on his face.
Well, doctor, I wondered what the man could have said to so upset the
bishop, but of course I did not dare to ask him. By the time I got to
Germany the episode passed out of my mind.'

'And what recalled it?'

'Something my mother said. We were in the Kurgarten listening to the
band when a Hiedelberg student, with his face all seamed and slashed,
walked past us.'

'I know; students in Germany are proud of those duelling scars. Well,
Gabriel, and what then?'

The curate quivered all over, and instead of replying directly, asked
what seemed to be an irrelevant question. 'Did you know that my mother
was a widow when my father married her?' he demanded in low tones.

'Of course I did,' replied Graham, cheerily. 'I was practising in
Marylebone then, and your father was vicar of St Benedict's. Why, I was
at his wedding, Gabriel, and very pretty your mother looked. She was a
Mrs Krant, whose husband had been killed while serving as a volunteer in
the Franco-Prussian War!'

'Did you ever see her husband?'

'No; she did not come to Marylebone until he had left her. The rascal
deserted the poor young thing and went abroad to fight. But why do you
ask all these questions? They cannot but be painful.' 'Because the
sight of that student's face recalled her first husband to my mother.
She said that Krant had a long scar on the right cheek. I immediately
thought of Jentham.'

'Good God!' cried Graham, pushing back his chair. 'What do you mean,
lad?'

'Wait! wait!' said Gabriel, feverishly. 'I asked my mother to describe
the features of her first husband. Not suspecting my reason for asking,
she did so. Krant, she said, was tall, lean, swart and black-eyed, with
a scar on the right cheek running from the ear to the mouth. Doctor!'
cried Gabriel, clutching Graham's hand, 'that is the very portrait of
the man Jentham.'

'Gabriel!' whispered the little doctor, hoarsely, 'do you mean to say--'

'I mean to say that Krant did not die, that Jentham was Krant, and that
when he called on my father he appeared as one from the dead. He is dead
now, but he was alive when my mother became my father's wife.'

'Impossible! Impossible!' repeated Graham, who was ashy pale, and shaken
out of his ordinary self. 'Krant died--died at Sedan. Your father went
over and saw his grave!'

'He did not see the corpse, though. I tell you I am right, doctor. Krant
did not die. My mother is not my father's wife, and we--we--George, Lucy
and myself are in the eyes of the law--nobody's children.' The curate
uttered these last words almost in a shriek, and fell back on the couch,
covering his face with two trembling hands.

Graham sat staring straight before him with an expression of absolute
horror on his withered brown face. He recalled Pendle's sudden illness
after Jentham had paid that fatal visit; his refusal to confess the real
cause of his attack; his admission that he had a secret which he did not
dare to reveal even to his oldest friend, and his strange act in sending
away his wife and daughter to Nauheim. All these things gave colour to
Gabriel's supposition that Jentham was Krant returned from the dead; but
after all it was a supposition merely, and quite unsupported by fact.

'There is no proof of it,' said Graham, hoarsely; 'no proof.'

'Ask my father for the proof,' murmured Gabriel. 'I dare not!'

The doctor could understand that speech very well, and now saw the
reason why Gabriel had chosen to speak to him rather than to the bishop.
It might be true, after all, this frightful fact, he thought, and as in
a flash he saw ruin, disaster, shame, terror following in the train of
its becoming known. This, then, was the bishop's secret, and Graham in
his quick way decided that at all costs it must be preserved, if only
for the sake of Mrs Pendle and her children. The first step towards
attaining this end was to see the bishop and hear confirmation or denial
from his own lips. Once Graham knew all the facts he fancied that he
might in some way--at present he knew not how--help his wretched friend.
With characteristic promptitude he decided on the spot how to act.

'Gabriel,' he said, bending over the unhappy young man, 'I shall see
your father about this at once. I cannot, I dare not believe it to be
true, unless with his own lips he confirms the identity of Krant with
Jentham. You wait here until I return, and sleep if you can.'

'Sleep!' groaned Gabriel. 'Oh, God! shall I ever sleep again?'

'My friend,' said the little doctor, solemnly, 'you have no right to
doubt your father's honour until you hear what he has to say. Jentham
may not be Krant as you suspect. It may be a chance likeness--a--'

Gabriel shook his head. 'You can't argue away what I know to be true,'
he muttered, looking at the floor with dry, wild eyes. 'See my father
and tell him what I have told you. He will not be able to deny his shame
and the disgrace of his children.'

'That we shall see,' said Graham, with a cheerfulness he was far from
feeling. 'I shall see him at once. Gabriel, my boy, hope for the best!'

Again the curate shook his head, and with a groan flung himself down on
the couch with his face to the wall. Seeing that words were vain, the
doctor threw one glance of pity on his prostrate form, and with a sigh
passed out of the room.




CHAPTER XXIX

THE CONFESSION OF BISHOP PENDLE


Mr Cargrim was very much out of temper, and Baltic was the cause of his
unchristian state of mind. As the employer of the so-called missionary
and actual inquiry agent, the chaplain expected to be informed of every
fresh discovery, but with this view Baltic did not concur. In his solemn
way he informed Cargrim that he preferred keeping his information and
methods and suspicions to himself until he was sure of capturing the
actual criminal. When the man was lodged in Beorminster Jail--when his
complicity in the crime was proved beyond all doubt--then Baltic
promised to write out, for the edification of his employer, a detailed
account of the steps taken to bring about so satisfactory a result. And
from this stern determination all Cargrim's arguments failed to move
him.

This state of things was the more vexatious as Cargrim knew that the
ex-sailor had seen Mother Jael, and shrewdly suspected that he had
obtained from the beldam valuable information likely to incriminate the
bishop. Whether his newly-found evidence did so or not, Baltic gravely
declined to say, and Cargrim was furious at being left in ignorance. He
was particularly anxious that Dr Pendle's guilt should be proved without
loss of time, as Mr Leigh of Heathcroft was sinking rapidly, and on any
day a new rector might be needed for that very desirable parish.
Certainly Cargrim, as he fondly imagined, had thwarted Gabriel's
candidature by revealing the young man's love for Bell Mosk to the
bishop. Still, even if Gabriel were not nominated, Dr Pendle had plainly
informed Cargrim that he need not expect the appointment, so the
chaplain foresaw that unless he obtained power over the bishop before
Leigh's death, the benefice would be given to some stranger. It was no
wonder, then, that he resented the silence of Baltic and felt enraged at
his own impotence. He almost regretted having sought the assistance of a
man who appeared more likely to be a hindrance than a help. For once,
Cargrim's scheming brain could devise no remedy.

Lurking about the library as usual, Mr Cargrim was much astonished to
receive a visit from Dr Graham. Of course, the visit was to the bishop,
but Cargrim, being alone in the library, came forward in his silky,
obsequious way to receive the new-comer, and politely asked what he
could do for him.

'You can inform the bishop that I wish to see him, if you please,' said
Graham, with a perfectly expressionless face.

'His lordship is at present taking a short rest,' replied Cargrim,
blandly, 'but anything I can do--'

'You can do nothing, Mr Cargrim. I wish for a private interview with Dr
Pendle.'

'Your business must be important.'

'It is,' retorted Graham, abruptly; 'so important that I must see the
bishop at once.'

'Oh, certainly, doctor. I am sorry to see that you do not look well.'

'Thank you; I am as well as can be expected.'

'Really! considering what, Dr Graham?'

'Considering the way I am kept waiting here, Mr Cargrim,' after which
pointed speech there was nothing left for the defeated chaplain but to
retreat as gracefully as he could. Yet Cargrim might have known, from
past experience, that a duel of words with sharp-tongued Dr Graham could
only end in his discomfiture. But in spite of all his cunning he usually
burnt his fingers at a twice-touched flame.

Extremely curious to know the reason of Graham's unexpected visit and
haggard looks, Cargrim, having informed the bishop that the doctor was
waiting for him, attempted to make a third in the interview by gliding
in behind his superior. Graham, however, was too sharp for him, and
after a few words with the bishop, intimated to the chaplain that his
presence was not necessary. So Cargrim, like the Peri at the Gates of
Paradise, was forced to lurk as near the library door as he dared, and
he strained his ears in vain to overhear what the pair were talking
about. Had he known that the revelation of Bishop Pendle's secret formed
the gist of the interview, he would have been even more enraged than he
was. But, for the time being, Fate was against the wily chaplain, and,
in the end, he was compelled to betake himself to a solitary and sulky
walk, during which his reflections concerning Graham and Baltic were the
reverse of amiable. As a defeated sneak, Mr Cargrim was not a credit to
his cloth.

Dr Pendle had the bewildered air of a man suddenly roused from sleep,
and was inclined to be peevish with Graham for calling at so untoward a
time. Yet it was five o'clock in the afternoon, which was scarcely a
suitable hour for slumber, as the doctor bluntly remarked.

'I was not asleep,' said the bishop, settling himself at his
writing-table. 'I simply lay down for half-an-hour or so.'

'Worn out with worry, I suppose?'

'Yes,' Dr Pendle sighed; 'my burden is almost greater than I can bear.'

'I quite agree with you,' replied Graham, 'therefore I have come to help
you to bear it.'

'That is impossible. To do so, you must know the truth, and--God help
me!--I dare not tell it even to you.'

'There is no need for you to do so, Pendle. I know your secret.'

The bishop twisted his chair round with a rapid movement and stared at
the sympathetic face of Graham with an expression of blended terror and
amazement. Hardly could his tongue frame itself to speech.

'You--know--my--secret!' stuttered Pendle, with pale lips.

'Yes, I know that Krant did not die at Sedan as we supposed. I know that
he returned to life--to Beorminster--to you, under the name of Jentham!
Hold up, man! don't give way,' for the bishop, with a heavy sigh, had
fallen forward on his desk, and, with his grey head buried in his arms,
lay there silent and broken down in an agony of doubt, and fear and
shame.

'Play the man, George Pendle,' said Graham, who knew that the father was
more virile than the son, and therefore needed the tonic of words rather
than the soothing anodyne of medicine. 'If you believe in what you
preach, if you are a true servant of your God, call upon religion, upon
your Deity, for help to bear your troubles. Stand up manfully, my
friend, and face the worst!'

'Alas! alas! many waters have gone over me, Graham.'

'Can you expect anything else if you permit yourself to sink without an
effort?' said the doctor, rather cynically; 'but if you cannot gain
strength from Christianity, then be a Stoic, and independent of
supernatural aid.'

The bishop lifted his head and suddenly rose to his full height, until
he towered above the little doctor. His pale face took upon itself a
calmer expression, and stretching out his arm, he rolled forth a text
from the Psalms in his deepest voice, in his most stately manner: 'In
God is my salvation and my glory, the rock of my strength, and my refuge
is in God.'

'Good!' said Graham, with a satisfied nod; 'that is the proper spirit in
which to meet trouble. And now, Pendle, with your leave, we will
approach the subject with more particularity.'

'It will be as well,' replied the bishop, and he spoke collectedly and
gravely, with no trace of his late excitement. When he most needed it,
strength had come to him from above; and he was able to discuss the sore
matter of his domestic troubles with courage and with judgment.

'How did you learn my secret, Graham?' he asked, after a pause.

'Indirectly from Gabriel.'

'Gabriel,' said the bishop, trembling, 'is at Nauheim!'

'You are mistaken, Pendle. He returned to Beorminster this morning, and
as he was afraid to speak to you on the subject of Jentham, he came to
ask my advice. The poor lad is broken down and ill, and is now lying in
my consulting-room until I return.'

'How did Gabriel learn the truth?' asked Pendle, with a look of pain.

'From something his mother said.'

The bishop, in spite of his enforced calmness, groaned aloud. 'Does she
know of it?' he murmured, while drops of perspiration beaded his
forehead and betrayed his inward agony. 'Could not that shame be spared
me?' 'Do not be hasty, Pendle, your wife knows nothing.'

'Thank God!' said the bishop, fervently; then added, almost immediately,
'You say my wife. Alas! alas! that I dare not call her so.'

'It is true, then?' asked Graham, becoming very pale.

'Perfectly true. Krant was not killed. Krant returned here under the
name of Jentham. My wife is not my wife! My children are illegitimate;
they have no name; outcasts they are. Oh, the shame! Oh, the disgrace!'
and Dr Pendle groaned aloud.

Graham sympathised with the man's distress, which was surely natural
under the terrible calamity which had befallen him and his. George
Pendle was a priest, a prelate, but he was also a son of Adam, and
liable, like all mortals, the strongest as the weakest, to moments of
doubt, of fear, of trembling, of utter dismay. Had the evil come upon
him alone, he might have borne it with more patience, but when it parted
him from his dearly-loved wife, when it made outcasts of the children he
was so proud of, who can wonder that he should feel inclined to cry with
Job, 'Is it good unto Thee that Thou should'st oppress!' Nevertheless,
like Job, the bishop held fast his integrity.

Yet that he might have some comfort in his affliction, that one pang
might be spared to him, Graham assured him that Mrs Pendle was ignorant
of the truth, and related in full the story of how Gabriel had come to
connect Jentham with Krant. Pendle listened in silence, and inwardly
thanked God that at least so much mercy had been vouchsafed him. Then in
his turn he made a confidant of his old friend, recalled the early days
of his courtship and marriage, spoke of the long interval of peace and
quiet happiness which he and his wife had enjoyed, and ended with a
detailed account of the disguised Krant's visit and threats, and the
anguish his re-appearance had caused.

'You remember, Graham!' he said, with wonderful self-control, 'how
almost thirty years ago I was the Vicar of St Benedict's in Marylebone,
and how you, my old college friend, practised medicine in the same
parish.'

'I remember, Pendle; there is no need for you to make your heart ache by
recalling the past.'

'I must, my friend,' said the bishop, firmly, 'in order that you may
fully understand my position. As you know, my dear wife--for I still
must call her so--came to reside there under her married name of Mrs
Krant. She was poor and unhappy, and when I called upon her, as the
vicar of the parish, she told me her miserable story. How she had left
her home and family for the sake of that wretch who had attracted her
weak, girlish affections by his physical beauty and fascinating manners;
how he treated her ill, spent the most of her money, and finally left
her, within a year of the marriage, with just enough remaining out of
her fortune to save her from starvation. She told me that Krant had gone
to Paris, and was serving as a volunteer in the French army, while she,
broken down and unhappy, had come to my parish to give herself to God
and labour amongst the poor.'

'She was a charming woman! She is so now!' said Graham, with a sigh. 'I
do not wonder that you loved her.'

'Loved, sir! Why speak in the past tense? I love her still. I shall
always love that sweet companion of these many happy years. From the
time I saw her in those poor London lodgings I loved her with all the
strength of my manhood. But you know that, being already married, she
could not be my wife. Then, shortly after the surrender of Sedan, that
letter came to tell her that her husband was dead, and dying, had asked
her pardon for his wicked ways. Alas! alas! that letter was false!'

'We both of us believed it to be genuine at the time, Pendle, and you
went over to France after the war to see the man's grave.'

'I did, and I saw the grave--saw it with its tombstone, in a little
Alsace graveyard, with the name Stephen Krant painted thereon in black
German letters. I never doubted but that he lay below, and I looked far
and wide for the man, Leon Durand, who had written that letter at the
request of his dying comrade. I ask you, Graham, who would have
disbelieved the evidence of letter and tombstone?'

'No one, certainly!' replied Graham, gravely; 'but it was a pity that
you could not find Leon Durand, so as to put the matter beyond all
doubt.'

'Find him!' echoed the bishop, passionately. 'No one on earth could have
found the man. He did not exist.'

'Then who wrote the letter?'

'Krant himself, as he told me in this very room, the wicked plotter!'

'But his handwriting; would not his wife have--'

'No!' cried Pendle, rising and pacing to and fro, greatly agitated, 'the
man disguised his hand so that his wife should not recognise it. He did
not wish to be bound to her, but to wander far and wide, and live his
own sinful life. That was why he sent the forged letter to make Amy
believe that he was dead. And she did believe, the more especially after
I returned to tell how I had seen his grave. I thought also that he was
dead. So did you, Graham.'

'Certainly,' assented Graham, 'there was no reason to doubt the fact.
Who would have believed that Krant was such a scoundrel?'

'I called him that when he came to see me here,' said Dr Pendle, with a
passionate gesture. 'Old man and priest as I am, I could have killed him
as he sat in yonder chair, smiling at my misery, and taunting me with my
position.'

'How did he find out that you had married Mrs Krant?'

'By going back to the Marylebone parish. He had been wandering all over
the face of the earth, like the Cain he was; but meeting with no good
fortune, he came back to England to find out Amy, and, I suppose, rob
her of the little money he had permitted her to keep. He knew of her
address in Marylebone, as she had told him where she was going before he
deserted her.'

'But how did he learn about the marriage?' asked Graham, again.

'I cannot tell; but he knew that his wife, after his desertion, devoted
herself to good works, so no doubt he went to the church and asked about
her. The old verger who saw us married is still alive, so I suppose he
told Krant that Amy was my wife, and that I was the Bishop of
Beorminster. But, however he learned the truth, he found his way here,
and when I came into this room during the reception I found him waiting
for me.'

'How did you recognise a man you had not seen?'

'By a portrait Amy had shown me, and by the description she gave me of
his gipsy looks and the scar on his cheek. He had not altered at all,
and I beheld before me the same wicked face I had seen in the portrait.
I was confused at first, as I knew the face but not the name. When he
told me that he was Stephen Krant, that my wife was really his wife,
that my children had no name, I--I--oh, God!' cried Pendle, covering his
face with his hands, 'it was terrible! terrible!'

'My poor friend!'

The bishop threw himself into a chair. 'After close on thirty years,' he
moaned, 'think of it, Graham--the shame, the horror! Oh, God!'




CHAPTER XXX

BLACKMAIL


For some moments Graham did not speak, but looked with pity on the
grief-shaken frame and bowed shoulders of his sorely-tried friend.
Indeed, the position of the man was such that he did not see what
comfort he could administer, and so, very wisely, held his peace.
However, when the bishop, growing more composed, remained still silent,
he could not forbear offering him a trifle of consolation.

'Don't grieve so, Pendle!' he said, laying his hand on the other's
shoulder; 'it is not your fault that you are in this position.'

The bishop sighed, and murmured with a shake of his head, 'Omnis qui
facit peccatum, servus est peccati!'

'But you have not done sin!' cried Graham, dissenting from the text.
'You! your wife! myself! everyone thought that Krant was dead and
buried. The man fled, and lied, and forged, to gain his freedom--to
shake off the marriage bonds which galled him. He was the sinner, not
you, my poor innocent friend!'

'True enough, doctor, but I am the sufferer. Had God in His mercy not
sustained me in my hour of trial, I do not know how I should have borne
my misery, weak, erring mortal that I am.'

'That speech is one befitting your age and office,' said the doctor,
gravely, 'and I quite approve of it. All the same, there is another
religious saying--I don't know if it can be called a text--"God helps
those who help themselves." You will do well, Pendle, to lay that to
heart.'

'How can I help myself?' said the bishop, hopelessly. 'The man is dead
now, without doubt; but he was alive when I married his supposed widow,
therefore the ceremony is null and void. There is no getting behind that
fact.'

'Have you consulted a lawyer on your position?'

'No. The law cannot sanction a union--at least in my eyes--which I know
to be against the tenets of the Church. So far as I know, if a husband
deserts his wife, and is not heard of for seven years, she can marry
again after that period without being liable to prosecution as a
bigamist, but in any case the second ceremony is not legal.'

'Mrs Krant became your wife before the expiration of seven years, I
know,' said Graham, wrinkling his brow.

'Certainly. And therefore she is--in the eyes of the law--a
bigamist'--the bishop shuddered--'although, God knows, she fully
believed her husband to be dead. But the religious point of view is the
one I take, doctor; as a Churchman, I cannot live with a woman whom I
know is not my wife. It was for that reason that I sent her away!'

'But you cannot keep her away for ever, bishop!--at all events, unless
you explain the position to her.'

'I dare not do that in her present state of health; the shock would kill
her. No, Graham, I see that sooner or later she must know, but I wished
for her absence that I might gain time to consider my terrible position.
I have considered it in every way--but, God help me! I can see no
hope--no escape. Alas! alas! I am sorely, sorely tried.'

Graham reflected. 'Are you perfectly certain that Jentham and Krant are
one and the same man?' he asked doubtfully.

'I am certain of it,' replied Pendle, decisively. 'I could not be
deceived in the dark gipsy face, in the peculiar cicatrice on the right
cheek. And he knew all about my wife, Graham--about her family, her
maiden name, the amount of her fortune, her taking up parish work in
Marylebone. Above all, he showed me the certificate of his marriage, and
a number of letters written to him by Amy, reproaching him with his
cruel desertion. Oh, there can be no doubt that this Jentham is--or
rather was--Stephen Krant.'

'It would seem so!' sighed Graham, heavily. 'Evidently there is no hope
of proving him to be an impostor in the face of such evidence.'

'He came to extort money, I suppose?'

'Need you ask!' said the bishop, bitterly. 'Yes, his sole object was
blackmail; he was content to let things remain as they are, provided his
silence was purchased at his own price. He told me that if I paid him
two hundred pounds he would hand over certificate and letters and
disappear, never to trouble me again.'

'I doubt if such a blackguard would keep his word, Pendle. Moreover,
although novelists and dramatists attach such a value to marriage
certificates, they are really not worth the paper they are written
on--save, perhaps, as immediate evidence. The register of the church in
which the ceremony took place is the important document, and that can
neither be handed over nor destroyed. Krant was giving you withered
leaves for your good gold, Pendle. Still, Needs must when Sir Urian
drives, so I suppose you agreed to the bribe.'

The bishop's grey head drooped on his breast, his eyes sought the
carpet, and he looked like a man overwhelmed with shame. 'Yes,' he
replied, in low tones of pain, 'I had not the courage to face the
consequences. Indeed, what else could I do? I could not have the man
denounce my marriage as a false one, force himself into the presence of
my delicate wife, and tell my children that they are nameless. The shock
would have killed Amy; it would have broken my children's hearts; it
would have shamed me in my high position before the eyes of all England.
I was innocent; I am innocent. Yes, but the fact remained, as it remains
now, that I am not married to Amy, that my children are not entitled to
bear my name. I ask you, Graham--I ask you, what else could I do than
pay the money in the face of such shame and disgrace?'

'There is no need to excuse yourself to me, Pendle. I do not blame you
in the least.'

'But I blame myself--in part,' replied the bishop, sadly. 'As an honest
man I knew that my marriage was illegal; as a priest I was bound to put
away the woman who was not--who is not my wife. But think of the shame
to her, of the disgrace to my innocent children. I could not do it,
Graham, I could not do it. Satan came to me in such a guise that I
yielded to his tempting without a struggle. I agreed to buy Jentham's
silence at his own price; and as I did not wish him to come here again,
lest Amy should see him, I made an appointment to meet him on
Southberry Heath on Sunday night, and there pay him his two hundred
pounds blackmail.'

'Did you speak with him on the spot where his corpse was afterwards
found?' asked Graham, in a low voice, not daring to look at his friend.

'No,' answered the bishop, simply, not suspecting that the doctor hinted
at the murder; 'I met him at the Cross-Roads.'

'You had the money with you, I suppose?'

'I had the money in notes of tens. As I was unwilling to draw so large a
sum from the Beorminster Bank, lest my doing so should provoke comment,
I made a special journey to London and obtained the money there.'

'I think you were over-careful, bishop.'

'Graham, I tell you I was overcome with fear, not so much for myself as
for those dear to me. You know how the most secret things become known
in this city; and I dreaded lest my action should become public
property, and should be connected in some way with Jentham. Why, I even
tore the butt of the cheque I drew out of the book, lest any record
should remain likely to excite suspicion. I took the most elaborate
precautions to guard against discoveries.'

'And rather unnecessary ones,' rejoined Graham, dryly. 'Well, and you
met the scamp?'

'I did, on Sunday night--that Sunday I was at Southberry holding a
confirmation service, and as I rode back, shortly after eight in the
evening, I met Jentham, by appointment, at the Cross-Roads. It was a
stormy and wet night, Graham, and I half thought that he would not come
to the rendezvous, but he was there, sure enough, and in no very good
temper at his wetting, I did not get off my horse, but handed down the
packet of notes, and asked him for the certificate and letters.'

'Which, no doubt, he declined to part with at the last moment.'

'You are right,' said the bishop, mournfully; 'he declared that he would
keep the certificate until he received another hundred pounds.'

'The scoundrel! What did you say?' 'What could I say but "Yes"? I was
in the man's power. At any cost, if I wanted to save myself and those
dear to me, I had to secure the written evidence he possessed. I told
him that I had not the extra money with me, but that if he met me in the
same place a week later he should have it. I then rode away downcast and
wretched. The next day,' concluded the bishop, quietly, 'I heard that my
enemy was dead.'

'Murdered,' said Graham, explicitly.

'Murdered, as you say,' rejoined Pendle, tremulously; 'and oh, my
friend, I fear that the Cain who slew him now has the certificate in his
possession, and holds my secret. What I have suffered with that
knowledge, God alone knows. Every day, every hour, I have been expecting
a call from the assassin.'

'The deuce you have!' said the doctor, surprised into unbecoming
language.

'Yes; he may come and blackmail me also, Graham!'

'Not when he runs the risk of being hanged, my friend.'

'But you forget,' said the bishop, with a sigh. 'He may trust to his
knowledge of my secret to force me to conceal his sin.'

'Would you be coerced in that way?'

Dr Pendle threw back his noble head, and, looking intently at his
friend, replied in a firm and unfaltering tone. 'No,' said he, gravely.
'Even at the cost of my secret becoming known, I should have the man
arrested.'

'Well,' said Graham, with a shrug, 'you are more of a hero than I am,
bishop. The cost of exposing the wretch seems too great.'

'Graham! Graham! I must do what is right at all hazards.'

'Fiat justitia ruat coelum!' muttered the doctor, 'there is a morsel
of dictionary Latin for you. The heavens above your family will
certainly fall if you speak out.'

The bishop winced and whitened. 'It is a heavy burden, Graham, a heavy,
heavy burden, but God will give me strength to bear it. He will save me
according to His mercy.'

The little doctor looked meditatively at his boots. He wished to tell
Pendle that the chaplain suspected him of the murder, and that Baltic,
the missionary, had been brought to Beorminster to prove such
suspicions, but at the present moment he did not see how he could
conveniently introduce the information. Moreover, the bishop seemed to
be so utterly unconscious that anyone could accuse him of the crime,
that Graham shrank from being the busybody to enlighten him. Yet it was
necessary that he should be informed, if only that he might be placed on
his guard against the machinations of Cargrim. Of course, the doctor
never for one moment thought of his respected friend as the author of a
deed of violence, and quite believed his account of the meeting with
Jentham. The bishop's simple way of relating the episode would have
convinced any liberal-minded man of his innocence and rectitude. His
accents, and looks, and candour, all carried conviction.

Finally Graham hit upon a method of leading up to the subject of
Cargrim's treachery, by referring to the old gipsy and her
fortune-telling at Mrs Pansey's garden-party. 'What does Mother Jael
know of your secret?' he asked with some hesitation.

'Nothing!' replied the bishop, promptly; 'it is impossible that she can
know anything, unless'--here he paused--'unless she is aware of who
killed Jentham, and has seen the certificate and letters!'

'Do you think she knows who murdered the man?'

'I--cannot--say. At that garden-party I went into the tent to humour
some ladies who wished me to have my fortune told.'

'I saw you go in, bishop; and you came out looking disturbed.'

'No wonder, Graham; for Mother Jael, under the pretence of reading my
hand, hinted at my secret. I fancied, from what she said, that she knew
what it was; and I accused her of having gained the information from
Jentham's assassin. However, she would not speak plainly, but warned me
of coming trouble, and talked about blood and the grave, until I really
believe she fancied I had killed the man. I could make nothing of her,
so I left the tent considerably discomposed, as you may guess. I
intended to see her on another occasion, but as yet I have not done so.'

'Is it your belief that the woman knows your secret?' asked Graham.

'No. On consideration, I concluded that she knew a little, but not
much--at all events, not sufficient to hurt me in any way. Krant--that
is Jentham--was of gipsy blood, and I fancied that he had seen Mother
Jael, and perhaps, in his boastful way, had hinted at his power over me.
Still, I am quite certain that, for his own sake, he did not reveal my
secret. And after all, Graham, the allusions of Mother Jael were vague
and unsatisfactory, although they disturbed me sufficiently to make me
anxious for the moment.'

'Well, bishop, I agree with you. Mother Jael cannot know much or she
would have spoken plainer. So far as she is concerned, I fancy your
secret is pretty safe; but,' added Graham, with a glance at the door,
'what about Cargrim?'

'He knows nothing, Graham.'

'Perhaps not, but he suspects much.'

'Suspects!' echoed the bishop, in scared tones. 'What can he suspect?'

'That you killed Jentham,' said Graham, quietly.

Dr Pendle looked incredulously at his friend. 'I--I--murder--I
kill--what--Cargrim--says,' he stammered; then asked him with a sharp
rush of speech, 'Is the man mad?'

'No; but he is a scoundrel, as I told you. Listen, bishop,' and in his
rapid way Graham reported to Dr Pendle all that Harry Brace had told him
regarding Cargrim and his schemes.

The bishop listened in incredulous silence; but, almost against his
will, he was obliged to believe in Graham's story. That a man whom he
trusted, whom he had treated with such kindness, should have dug this
pit for him to fall into, was almost beyond belief; and when the truth
of the accusation was forced upon him, he hardly knew what to say about
so great a traitor. But he made up his mind to one thing. 'I shall
dismiss him at once!' he said determinedly.

'No, bishop. It is unwise to drive a rat into a corner; and Cargrim may
prove himself dangerous if sharply treated. Better tolerate his presence
until Baltic discovers the real criminal.'

'I don't like the position,' said the bishop, frowning.

'No man would. However, it is better to temporise than to risk all and
lose all. Better let him remain, Pendle.'

'Very well, Graham, I shall take your advice.'

'Good!' Graham rose to depart. 'And Gabriel?' he asked, with his hand on
the door.

'Send him to me, doctor. I must speak to him.'

'You won't scold him for seeing me first, I hope.'

'Scold him,' said the bishop, with a melancholy smile. 'Alas, my friend,
the situation is too serious for scolding!'




CHAPTER XXXI

MR BALTIC ON THE TRAIL


What took place at the interview between Gabriel and his father, Dr
Graham never knew; and indeed never sought to know. He was a discreet
man even for a doctor, and meddled with no one's business, unless--as in
the present instance--forced to do so. But even then his discretion
showed itself; for after advising the bishop to tolerate the presence of
Cargrim until Baltic had solved the riddle he was set to guess, and
after sending Gabriel to the palace, he abstained from further inquiries
and discussions in connection with murder and secret. He had every faith
in Baltic, and quite believed that in time the missionary would lay his
hand on the actual murderer. When this was accomplished, and Cargrim's
attempt to gain illegal power over Pendle was thwarted; then--all chance
of a public scandal being at an end--would be the moment to consider how
the bishop should act in reference to his false marriage. Certainly
there was the possible danger that the criminal might learn the secret
from the certificate and papers, and might reveal it when captured; but
Graham thought it best to ignore this difficulty until it should
actually arise. For, after all, such a contingency might not occur.

'The certificate of marriage between Krant and his wife will reveal
nothing to a man unacquainted with Mrs Pendle's previous name; and
without such knowledge he cannot know that she married the bishop while
her first husband was alive. Certainly she might have mentioned Pendle's
name in the letters, but she would not write of him as a lover or as a
possible husband; therefore, unless the assassin knows something of the
story, which is improbable, and unless he can connect the name of Mrs
Krant with Mrs Pendle--which on the face of it is impossible--I do not
see how he is to learn the truth. He may guess, or he may know for
certain, that Jentham received the two hundred pounds from the bishop,
but he cannot guess that the price was paid for certificate and letters,
especially as he found them on the body, and knows that they were not
handed over for the money. No; on the whole, I think Pendle is mistaken;
in my opinion there is no danger to be feared from the assassin,
whomsoever he may be.'

In this way Graham argued with himself, and shortly came to the
comfortable conclusion that Dr Pendle's secret would never become a
public scandal. Now that Jentham, _alias_ Krant, was dead, the secret
was known to three people only--namely, to the bishop, to himself, and
to Gabriel. If none of the three betrayed it--and they had the strongest
reason for silence--no one else would, or could. The question of the
murder was the immediate matter for consideration; and once Dr Pendle's
innocence was proved by the capture of the real assassin, Cargrim could
be dismissed in well-merited disgrace. With all the will in the world he
could not then harm the bishop, seeing that he was ignorant of the dead
man's relation to Mrs Pendle. Other danger there was none; of that the
little doctor was absolutely assured.

Perhaps the bishop argued in this way also; or it may be he found a
certain amount of relief in sharing his troubles with Gabriel and
Graham; but he certainly appeared more cheerful and less worried than
formerly, and even tolerated the society of Cargrim with equanimity,
although he detested playing a part so foreign to his frank and
honourable nature. However, he saw the necessity of masking his dislike
until the sting of this domestic viper could be rendered innocuous, and
was sufficiently gracious on such occasions as he came into contact with
him. Gabriel was less called upon to be courteous to the schemer, as,
having come to a complete understanding with his father, he rarely
visited the palace; but when he did so his demeanour towards Mr Cargrim
was much the same as of yore. For the good of their domestic peace, both
father and son concealed their real feelings, and succeeded as
creditably as was possible with men of their honourable natures. But
they were not cunning enough--or perhaps sufficiently guarded--to
deceive the artful chaplain. Evil himself, he was always on the alert to
see evil in others.

'I wonder what all this means,' he ruminated one day after vainly
attempting to learn why Gabriel had returned so unexpectedly to
Beorminster. 'The bishop seems unnecessarily polite, and young Pendle
appears to be careful how he speaks. They surely can't suspect me of
knowing about the murder. Perhaps Baltic has been talking; I'll just
give him a word of warning.'

This he did, and was promptly told by the ex-sailor not to advise on
points of which he was ignorant. 'I know my business, sir, none better,'
observed Baltic, in his solemn way, 'and there are few men who are more
aware of the value of a silent tongue.'

'You may be an admirable detective, as you say,' retorted Cargrim,
nettled by the rebuke, 'but I have only your word for it; and you will
permit me to observe that I have not yet seen a proof of your
capabilities.'

'All in good time, Mr Cargrim. More haste less speed, sir. I fancy I am
on the right track at last.'

'Can you guess who killed the man?' asked the chaplain, eagerly waiting
for the bishop's name to be pronounced.

'I never guess, sir. I theorise from external evidence, and then try,
with such brains as God has given me, to prove my theories.'

'You have gained some evidence, then?'

'If I have, Mr Cargrim, you'll hear it when I place the murderer in the
dock. It is foolish to show half-finished work.'

'But if the mur--'

'Hold hard, sir!' interrupted Baltic, raising his head. 'I'll so far
depart from my rule as to tell you one thing--whosoever killed Jentham,
it was not Bishop Pendle.'

Cargrim grew red and angry. 'I tell you it was!' he almost shouted,
although this conversation took place in a quiet corner near the
cathedral, and thereby required prudent speech and demeanour. 'Didn't Dr
Pendle meet Jentham on the common?'

'We presume so, sir, but as yet we have no proof of the meeting.'

'At least you know that he paid Jentham two hundred pounds.'

'Perhaps he did; maybe he didn't,' returned Baltic, quietly. 'He
certainly drew out that amount from the Ophir Bank, but, not having
traced the notes, I can't say if he paid it to the man.'

'But I am sure he did,' insisted Cargrim, still angry.

'In that case, sir, why ask me for my opinion?' replied the
imperturbable Baltic.

If Mr Cargrim had not been a clergyman, he would have sworn at the
complacent demeanour of the agent, and even as it was he felt inclined
to risk a relieving oath or two. But knowing Baltic's religious
temperament, he was wise enough not to lay himself open to further
rebuke; so he turned the matter off with a laugh, and observed that no
doubt Mr Baltic knew his own business best.

'I think I can safely say so, sir,' rejoined Baltic, gravely. 'By the
way, did you not tell me that Captain George Pendle was on the common
when the murder took place?'

'Yes, George was there, and so was Gabriel. Mrs Pansey's page saw them
both.'

'And where is Captain Pendle now, sir?'

'At Wincaster with his regiment; but the bishop has sent for him to come
to Beorminster, so I expect he will be here within the week.'

'I am glad of that, Mr Cargrim, as I wish to ask Captain Pendle a few
questions.'

'Do you suspect him?'

'I can't rightly say, sir,' answered Baltic, wiping his face with the
red bandanna. 'Later on I may form an opinion. Mr Gabriel Pendle comes
to The Derby Winner sometimes, I see.'

'Yes; he is in love with the barmaid there.'

Baltic looked up sharply. 'Mosk's daughter, sir?'

'The same. He wants to marry Bell Mosk.'

'Does--he--indeed?' drawled the agent, flicking his thumb nail against
his teeth. 'Well, Mr Cargrim, he might do worse. There is a lot of good
in that young woman, sir. Mr Gabriel Pendle has lately returned from
abroad, I hear.'

'Yes, from Nauheim.' 'That is in Germany, I take it, sir. Did he travel
on a Cook's ticket, do you know?'

'I believe he did.'

'Oh! humph! I'll say good-bye, then, Mr Cargrim, for the present. I
shall see you when I return from London.'

'Are you going to ask about Gabriel's ticket at Cook's?'

'There's no telling, sir. I may look in.'

'Do you think that Gab--'

'I think nothing as yet, Mr Cargrim; when I do, I'll tell you my
thoughts. Good-day, sir! God bless you!' And Baltic, with a satisfied
expression on his face, rolled away in a nautical manner.

'God bless me indeed!' muttered Cargrim, in much displeasure, for
neither the speech nor the manner of the man pleased him. 'Ugh! I wish
Baltic would stick to either religion or business. At present he is a
kind of moral hermaphrodite, good for neither one thing nor another. I
wonder if he suspects the bishop or his two sons? I don't believe Dr
Pendle is innocent; but if he is, either George or Gabriel is guilty.
Well, if that is so, I'll still be able to make the bishop give me
Heathcroft. He will rather do that than see one of his sons hanged and
the name disgraced. Still, I hope Baltic will bring home the crime to
his lordship.'

With this amiable wish, Mr Cargrim quickened his pace to catch up with
Miss Whichello, whom he saw tripping across the square towards the Jenny
Wren house. The little old lady looked rosy and complacent, at peace
with herself and the whole of Beorminster. Nevertheless, her expression
changed when she saw Mr Cargrim sliding gracefully towards her, and she
received him with marked coldness. As yet she had not forgiven him for
his unauthorised interference on behalf of Mrs Pansey. Cargrim was quick
to observe her buckram civility, but diplomatically took no notice of
its frigidity. On the contrary, he was more gushing and more expansive
than ever.

'A happy meeting, my dear lady,' he said, with a beaming glance. 'Had I
not met you, I should have called to see you as the bearer of good
news.'

'Really!' replied Miss Whichello, drily. 'That will be a relief from
hearing bad news, Mr Cargrim. I have had sufficient trouble of late.'

'Ah!' sighed the chaplain, falling into his professional drawl, 'how
true is the saying of Job, "Man is born--"'

'I don't want to hear about Job,' interrupted Miss Whichello, crossly.
'He is the greatest bore of all the patriarchs.'

'Job, dear lady, was not a patriarch.'

'Nevertheless, he is a bore, Mr Cargrim. What is your good news?'

'Captain Pendle is coming to Beorminster this week, Miss Whichello.'

'Oh,' said the little old lady, with a satirical smile, 'you are a day
after the fair, Mr Cargrim. I heard that news this morning.'

'Indeed! But the bishop only sent for Captain Pendle yesterday.'

'Quite so; and Miss Arden received a telegram from Captain Pendle this
morning.'

'Ah! Miss Whichello, young love! young love!'

The little lady could have shaken Cargrim for the smirk with which he
made this remark. However, she restrained her very natural impulse, and
merely remarked--rather irrelevantly, it must be confessed--that if two
young and handsome people in love with one another were not happy in
their first blush of passion they never would be.

'No doubt, dear lady. I only trust that such happiness may last. But
there is no sky without a cloud.'

'And there is no bee without a sting, and no rose without a thorn. I
know all those consoling proverbs, Mr Cargrim, but they don't apply to
my turtle-doves.'

Cargrim rubbed his hands softly together. 'Long may you continue to
think so, my dear lady,' said he, with a sad look.

'What do you mean, sir?' asked Miss Whichello, sharply.

'I mean that it is as well to be prepared for the worst,' said Cargrim,
in his blandest manner. 'The course of true love--but you are weary of
such trite sayings. Good-day, Miss Whichello!' He raised his hat and
turned away. 'One last proverb--Joy in the morning means grief at
night.'

When Mr Cargrim walked away briskly after delivering this Parthian
shaft, Miss Whichello stood looking after him with an expression of
nervous worry on her rosy face. She had her own reasons to apprehend
trouble in connection with the engagement, and although these were
unknown to the chaplain, his chance arrow had hit the mark. The thoughts
of the little old lady at once reverted to the conversation with the
bishop at the garden-party.

'Mrs Pansey again,' thought Miss Whichello, resuming her walk at a
slower pace. 'I shall have to call on her, and appeal either to her
fears or her charity, otherwise she may cause trouble.'

In the meantime, Mr Baltic, proceeding in his grave way towards
Eastgate, had fallen in with Gabriel coming from The Derby Winner. As
yet the two had never met, and save the name, young Pendle knew nothing
about the ex-sailor. Nevertheless, when face to face with him, he
recognised the man at once as a private inquiry agent whom he had once
spoken to in Whitechapel. The knowledge of his father's secret, of
Jentham's murder and of this stranger's profession mingled confusedly in
Gabriel's head, and his heart knocked at his ribs for very fear.

'I met you in London some years ago,' he said nervously.

'Yes, Mr Pendle; but then I did not know your name, nor did you know
mine.'

'How did you recognise me?' asked Gabriel.

'I have a good memory for faces, sir,' returned Baltic, 'but, as a
matter of fact, Sir Harry Brace pointed you out to me.'

'Sir Har--oh, then you are Baltic!'

'At your service, Mr Pendle. I am down here on business.'

'I know all about it,' replied Gabriel, recovering his nerve with the
knowledge of the man's name and inclination to side with the bishop.

'Indeed, sir! And who told you about it?'

'Sir Harry told Dr Graham, who informed my father, who spoke to me.'

'Oh!' Baltic looked seriously at the curate's pale face. 'Then the
bishop knows that I am an inquiry agent.'

'He does, Mr Baltic. And, to tell you the truth, he is not at all
pleased that you presented yourself in our city as a missionary.'

'I am a missionary,' answered the ex-sailor, quietly. 'I explained as
much to Sir Harry, but it would seem that he has told the worst and kept
back the best.'

'I don't understand,' said the curate, much bewildered.

'Sir, it would take too long for me to explain why I call myself a
missionary, but you can rest assured that I am not sailing under false
colours. As it is, you know me as an agent; and you know also my purpose
in coming here.'

'Yes! I know that you are investigating the mur--'

'We are in the street, sir,' interrupted Baltic, with a glance at
passers-by; 'it is as well to be discreet. One moment.' He led Gabriel
into a quiet alley, comparatively free from listeners. 'This is a rather
rough sort of neighbourhood, sir.'

'Rough certainly, but not dangerous,' replied Gabriel, puzzled by the
remark.

'Don't you carry a pistol, Mr Pendle?'

'No! Why should I?'

'Why indeed? If the Gospel is not a protection enough, no earthly arms
will prevail. Your name is Gabriel, I think, sir.'

'Yes! Gabriel Pendle; but I don't see--'

'I'm coming to an explanation, sir. G. P.' mused Baltic--'same initials
as those of your father and brother, eh, Mr Pendle?'

'Certainly. Both the bishop and my brother are named George.'

'G. P. all three,' said Baltic, with a nod, 'Do you travel abroad with a
Cook's ticket, sir?'

'Usually! Why do you--'

'A through ticket to--say Nauheim--is about three pounds, I believe?'

'I paid that for mine, Mr Baltic. May I ask why you question me in this
manner?' demanded Gabriel, irritably.

Baltic tapped Gabriel's chest three times with his forefinger. 'For your
own safety, Mr Pendle. Good-day, sir!'




CHAPTER XXXII

THE INITIALS


As has before been stated, Dr Graham had another conversation with his
persecuted friend, in which he advised him to tolerate the presence of
Cargrim until Baltic captured the actual criminal. It was also at this
second interview that the bishop asked Graham if he should tell George
the truth. This question the little doctor answered promptly in the
negative.

'For what is the use of telling him?' said he, argumentatively; 'doing
so will make you uncomfortable and George very unhappy.'

'But George must learn the truth sooner or later.'

'I don't see that it is necessary to inform him of it at all,' retorted
Graham, obstinately, 'and at all events you need not explain until
forced to do so. One thing at a time, bishop. At present your task is to
baffle Cargrim and kick the scoundrel out of the house when the murderer
is found. Then we can discuss the matter of the marriage with Mrs
Pendle.'

'Graham!'--the bishop's utterance of the name was like a cry of pain--'I
cannot--I dare not tell Amy!'

'You must, Pendle, since she is the principal person concerned in the
matter. You know how Gabriel learned the truth from her casual
description of her first husband. Well, when Mrs Pendle returns to
Beorminster, she may--I don't say that she will, mind you--but she may
speak of Krant again, since, so far as she is concerned, there is no
need for her to keep the fact of her first marriage secret.'

'Except that she may not wish to recall unhappy days,' put in the
bishop, softly. 'Indeed, I wonder that Amy could bring herself to speak
of Krant to her son and mine.'

'Women, my friend, do and say things at which they wonder themselves,'
said the misogynist, cynically; 'probably Mrs Pendle acted on the
impulse of the moment and regretted it immediately the words were out of
her mouth. Still, she may describe Krant again when she comes back, and
her listener may be as clever as Gabriel was in putting two and two
together, and connecting your wife's first husband with Krant. Should
such a thing occur--and it might occur--your secret would become the
common property of this scandalmongering place, and your last condition
would be worse than your first. Also,' continued Graham, with the air of
a person clinching an argument, 'if you and Mrs Pendle are to part, my
poor friend, she must be told the reason for such separation.'

'Part!' echoed the bishop, indignantly. 'My dear Amy and I shall never
part, doctor. I wonder that you can suggest such a thing. Now that Krant
is dead beyond all doubt, I shall marry his widow at once.'

'Quite so, and quite right,' assented Graham, emphatically; 'but in that
case, as you can see for yourself, you must tell her that the first
marriage is null and void, so as to account for the necessity of the
second ceremony.' The doctor paused and reflected. 'Old scatterbrain
that I am,' said he, with a shrug, 'I quite forgot that way out of the
difficulty. A second marriage! Of course! and there is your riddle
solved.'

'No doubt, so far as Amy and I are concerned,' said Pendle, gloomily,
'but so late a ceremony will not make my children legitimate. In
England, marriage is not a retrospective act.'

'They manage these things better in France,' opined Graham, in the
manner of Sterne; 'there a man can legitimise his children born out of
wedlock if he so chooses. There was a talk of modifying the English Act
in the same way; but, of course, the very nice people with nasty ideas
shrieked out in their usual pig-headed style about legalised immorality.
However,' pursued the doctor, in a more cheerful tone, 'I do not see
that you need worry yourself on that point, bishop. You can depend upon
Gabriel and me holding our tongues; you need not tell Lucy or George,
and when you marry your wife for the second time, all things can go on
as before. "What the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve at,"
you know.'

'But my eye sees, and my heart grieves,' groaned the bishop.

'Pish! don't make an inquisition of your conscience, Pendle. You have
done no wrong; like greatness, evil has been thrust upon you.'

'I am certainly an innocent sinner, Graham.'

'Of course you are; but now that we have found the remedy, that is all
over and done with. Wait till Jentham's murderer is found, then turn
Cargrim out of doors, marry Mrs Krant in some out-of-the-way parish, and
make a fresh will in favour of your children. There you are, bishop!
Don't worry any more about the matter.'

'You don't think that I should tell Brace that--?'

'I certainly don't think that you should disgrace your daughter in the
eyes of her future husband,' retorted the doctor, hotly; 'marry your
wife and hold your tongue. Even the Recording Angel can take no note of
so obviously just a course.'

'I think you are right, Graham,' said the bishop, shaking his friend's
hand with an expression of relief. 'In justice to my children, I must be
silent. I shall act as you suggest.'

'Then that being so, you are a man again,' said Graham, jocularly, 'and
now you can send for George to pay you a visit.'

'Do you think there is any necessity, Graham? The sight of him--'

'Will do you good, Pendle. Don't martyrise yourself and look on your
children as so many visible evidences of sin. Bosh! I tell you, bosh!'
cried the doctor, vigorously if ungallantly. 'Send for George, send for
Mrs Pendle and Lucy, and throw all these morbid ideas to the wind. If
you do not,' added Graham, raising a threatening finger, 'I shall write
out a certificate for the transfer of the cleverest bishop in England to
a lunatic asylum.'

'Well, well, I won't risk that,' said the bishop, smiling. 'George shall
come back at once.'

'And all will be gas and gaiters, to quote the immortal Boz. Good-day,
bishop! I have prescribed your medicine; see that you take it.'

'You are a tonic in yourself, Graham.'

'All men of sense are, Pendle. They are the salt of the earth, the
oxygen in the moral atmosphere. If it wasn't for my common sense,
bishop,' said the doctor, with a twinkle, 'I believe I should be weak
enough to come and hear you preach.'

Dr Pendle laughed. 'I am afraid the age of miracles is past, my friend.
As a bishop, I should reprove you, but--'

'But, as a good, sensible fellow, you'll take my advice. Well, well,
bishop, I have had more obstinate patients than my college chum.
Good-day, good-day,' and the little doctor skipped out of the library
with a gay look and a merry nod, leaving the bishop relieved and
smiling, and devoutly thankful for the solution of his life's riddle. At
that moment the noble verse of the Psalmist was in his mind and upon his
lips--'God is our refuge and our strength: a very present help in
trouble.' Bishop Pendle was proving the truth of that text.

So the exiled lover was permitted to return to Beorminster, and very
pleased he was to find himself once more in the vicinity of his beloved.
After congratulating the bishop on his recovered cheerfulness and
placidity, George brought forward the name of Mab, and was pleased to
find that his father was by no means so opposed to the match as
formerly. Dr Pendle admitted again that Mab was a singularly charming
young lady, and that his son might do worse than marry her. Late events
had humbled the bishop's pride considerably; and the knowledge that
George was nameless, induced him to consider Miss Arden more favourably
as a wife for the young man. She was at least a lady, and not a barmaid
like Bell Mosk; so the painful fact of Gabriel setting his heart so low
made George's superior choice quite a brilliant match in comparison. On
these grounds, the bishop intimated to Captain Pendle that, on
consideration, he was disposed to overlook the rumours about Miss
Arden's disreputable father and accept her as a daughter-in-law. It was
with this joyful news that George, glowing and eager, as a lover should
be, made his appearance the next morning at the Jenny Wren house.

'Thank God the bishop is reasonable,' cried Miss Whichello, when George
explained the new position. 'I knew that Mab would gain his heart in the
end.'

'She gained mine in the beginning,' said Captain George, fondly, 'and
that, after all, is the principal thing.'

'What! your own heart, egotist! Does mine then count for nothing?'

'Oh!' said George, slipping his arm round her waist, 'if we begin on
that subject, my litany will be as long as the Athanasian Creed, and
quite as devout.'

'Captain Pendle!' exclaimed Miss Whichello, scandalised both by embrace
and speech--both rather trying to a religious spinster.

'Miss Whichello,' mimicked the gay lover, 'am I not to be received into
the family under the name of George?'

'That depends on your behaviour, Captain Pendle. But I am both pleased
and relieved that the bishop consents to the marriage.'

'Aunty!' cried Mab, reddening a trifle,'don't talk as though it were a
favour. I do not look upon myself as worthless, by any means.'

'Worthless!' echoed George, gaily; 'then is gold mere dross, and
diamonds but pebbles. You are the beauty of the universe, my darling,
and I your lowest slave.' He threw himself at her feet. 'Set your pretty
foot on my neck, my queen!'

'Captain Pendle,' said Miss Whichello, striving to stifle a laugh, 'if
you don't get up and behave properly I shall leave the room.'

'If you do, aunty, he will get worse,' smiled Mab, ruffling what the
barber had left of her lover's hair. 'Get up at once, you--you mad
Romeo.'

George rose obediently, and dusted his knees. 'Juliet, I obey,' said he,
tragically; 'but no, you are not Juliet of the garden; you are
Cleopatra! Semiramis! the most imperious and queenly of women. Where did
you get your rich eastern beauty from, Mab? What are you, an Arabian
princess, doing in our cold grey West? You are like some dark-browed
queen! A daughter of Bohemia! A Romany sorceress!'

Mab laughed, but Miss Whichello heaved a quick, impatient sigh, as
though these eastern comparisons annoyed her. George was unconsciously
making remarks which cut her to the heart; and almost unable to control
her feelings, she muttered some excuse and glided hastily from the room.
With the inherent selfishness of love, neither George nor Mab paid any
attention to her emotion or departure, but whispered and smiled and
caressed one another, well pleased at their sweet solitude. George spent
one golden hour in paradise, then unwillingly tore himself away. Only
Shakespeare could have done justice to the passion of their parting.
Kisses and sighs, last looks, final handclasps, and then George in the
sunshine of the square, with Mab waving her handkerchief from the open
casement. But, alas! workaday prose always succeeds Arcadian rhyme, and
with the sinking sun dies the glory of the day.

With his mind hanging betwixt a mental heaven and earth, after the
similitude of Mahomet's coffin, George walked slowly down the street,
until he was brought like a shot eagle to the ground by a touch on the
shoulder. Now, as there is nothing more annoying than such a bailiff's
salute, George wheeled round with some vigorous language on the tip of
his tongue, but did not use it when he found himself facing Sir Harry
Brace.

'Oh, it's you!' said Captain Pendle, lamely. 'Well, with your
experience, you should know better than to pull up a fellow unawares.'

'You talk in riddles, my good George,' said Harry, staring, as well he
might, at this not very coherent speech.

'I have just left Miss Arden,' explained George, quite unabashed, for he
did not care if the whole world knew of his love.

'Oh, I beg your pardon, I understand,' replied Brace, with a broad
smile; 'but you must excuse me, old chap. I am--I am out of practice
lately, you see. "My love she is in Germanee," as the old song says. I
wish to speak with you.'

'All right. Where shall we go?'

'To the club. I must see you privately.'

The Beorminster Club was just a short distance down the street, so
George followed Harry into its hospitable portals and finally accepted a
comfortable chair in the smoking-room, which, luckily for the purpose of
Brace, was empty at that hour. The two young men each ordered a cool
hock-and-soda and lighted two very excellent cigarettes which came out
of the pocket of extravagant George. Then they began to talk, and Harry
opened the conversation with a question.

'George,' he said, with a serious look on his usually merry face, 'were
you on Southberry Heath on the night that poor devil was murdered?'

'Oh, yes,' replied Captain Pendle, with some wonder at the question. 'I
rode over to the gipsy camp to buy a particular ring from Mother Jael.'

'For Miss Arden, I suppose?'

'Yes; I wished for a necromantic symbol of our engagement.'

'Did you hear or see anything of the murder?'

'Good Lord, no!' cried the startled George, sitting up straight. 'I
should have been at the inquest had I seen the act, or even heard the
shot.'

'Did you carry a pistol with you on that night?'

'As I wasn't riding through Central Africa, I did not. What is the
meaning of these mysterious questions?'

Brace answered this query by slipping his hand into his breast-pocket
and producing therefrom a neat little pistol, toy-like, but deadly
enough in the hand of a good marksman. 'Is this yours?' he asked,
holding it out for Captain Pendle's inspection.

'Certainly it is,' said George, handling the weapon; 'here are my
initials on the butt. Where did you get this?'

'It was found by Mother Jael near the spot where Jentham was murdered.'

Captain Pendle clapped down the pistol on the table with an ejaculation
of amazement. 'Was he shot with this, Harry?'

'Without doubt!' replied Brace, gravely. 'Therefore, as it is your
property, I wish to know how it came to be used for that purpose.'

'Great Scott, Brace! you don't think that I killed the blackguard?'

'I think nothing so ridiculous,' protested Sir Harry, testily.

'You talk as if you did, though,' retorted George, smartly.

'I thrashed that Jentham beast for insulting Mab, but I didn't shoot
him.'

'But the pistol is yours.'

'I admit that, but--Good Lord!' cried Captain Pendle, starting to his
feet.

'What now?' asked Brace, turning pale and cold on the instant.

'Gabriel! Gabriel! I--I gave this pistol to him.'

'You gave this pistol to Gabriel? When? Where?'

'In London,' explained George, rapidly. 'When he was in Whitechapel I
knew that he went among a lot of roughs and thieves, so I insisted that
he should carry this pistol for his protection. He was unwilling to do
so at first, but in the end I persuaded him to slip it into his pocket.
I have not seen it from that day to this.'

'And it was found near Jentham's corpse,' said Brace, with a groan.

The two young men looked at one another in horrified silence, the same
thoughts in the mind of each. The pistol had been in the possession of
Gabriel; and Gabriel on the night of the murder had been in the vicinity
of the crime.

'It--it is impossible,' whispered George, almost inaudibly, 'Gabriel can
explain.'

'Gabriel _must_ explain,' said Brace, firmly; 'it is a matter of life
and death!'




CHAPTER XXXIII

MR BALTIC EXPLAINS HIMSELF


It was Miss Whichello, who, on the statement of Mrs Pansey as reported
by Mr Cargrim, had told George of his brother's presence on Southberry
Heath at the time of Jentham's murder. She had casually mentioned the
fact during an idle conversation; but never for one moment had she
dreamed of connecting Gabriel with so atrocious a crime. Nor indeed did
Captain Pendle, until the fact was rudely and unexpectedly brought home
to him by the production of the pistol. Nevertheless, despite this
material evidence, he vehemently refused to credit that so gentle a
being as Gabriel had slain a fellow-creature deliberately and in cold
blood, particularly as on the face of it no reason could be assigned for
so hazardous an act. The curate, in his loyal brother's opinion, was
neither a vindictive fool nor an aimless murderer.

With this latter opinion Sir Harry very heartily agreed. He had the
highest respect for Gabriel as a man and a priest, and could not believe
that he had wantonly committed a brutal crime, so repulsive to his
benign nature, so contrary to the purity and teachings of his life. He
was quite satisfied that the young man both could, and would, explain
how the pistol had passed out of his possession; but he did not seek the
explanation himself. Baltic, previous to his departure for London, had
made Brace promise to question Captain Pendle about the pistol, and
report to him the result of such conversation. Now that the pistol was
proved to have been in the keeping of Gabriel, the baronet knew very
well that Baltic would prefer to question so important a witness
himself. Therefore, while waiting for the agent's return, he not only
himself refrained from seeing Gabriel, but persuaded George not to do
so.

'Your questions will only do more harm than good!' expostulated Brace,
'as you have neither the trained capacity nor the experience to examine
into the matter. Baltic returns to-morrow, and as I have every faith in
his judgment and discretion, it will be much better to let him handle
it.'

'Who is this Baltic you talk of so much?' asked the captain,
impatiently.

'He is a private inquiry agent who is trying to discover the man who
killed Jentham.'

'On behalf of Tinkler, I suppose?'

'He is working with Tinkler in the matter,' replied Brace, evasively,
for he did not want to inform George, the rash and fiery, of his
father's peril and Cargrim's treachery.

'Baltic is a London detective, no doubt?'

'Yes, his brains are more equal than Tinkler's to the task of solving
the riddle.'

'He won't arrest Gabriel, I hope,' said George, anxiously.

'Not unless he is absolutely certain that Gabriel committed the crime;
and I am satisfied that he will never arrive at that certainty.'

'I--should--think--not,' cried Captain Pendle, with disdain. 'Gabriel,
poor boy, would not kill a fly, let alone a man. Still, these legal
bloodhounds are coarse and unscrupulous.'

'Baltic is not, George. He is quite a new type of detective, and works
rather from a religious than a judicial point of view.'

'I never heard of a religious detective before,' remarked George,
scornfully.

'Nor I; it is a new departure, and I am not sure but that it is a good
one, incongruous as it may seem.'

'Is the man a hypocrite?'

'By no means. He is thoroughly in earnest. Here, in public, he calls
himself a missionary.'

'Oh! oh! the wolf in the skin of a sheep!'

'Not at all. The man is--well, it is no use my explaining, as you will
see him shortly, and then can judge for yourself. But if you will take
my advice, George, you will let Baltic figure the matter out on his own
slate, as the Americans say. Don't mention his name or actual business
to anyone. Believe me, I know what I am talking about.'

'Very well,' grumbled George, convinced by Harry's earnestness, but by
no means pleased to be condemned to an interval of ignorance and
inactivity. 'I shall hold my tongue and close my eyes. But you agree
with me that Gabriel did not kill the brute?'

'Of course! From the first I never had any doubts on that score.'

Here for the time being the conversation ended, and George went his way
to play the part of a careless onlooker. But for his promise, he would
have warned Gabriel of the danger which threatened him, and probably
have complicated matters by premature anger. Luckily for all things, his
faith in Brace's good sense was strong enough to deter him from so rash
and headlong a course; therefore, at home and abroad, he assumed a
gaiety he did not feel. So here in the episcopalian palace of
Beorminster were three people, each one masking his real feelings in
intercourse with the others. The bishop, his son and his scheming
chaplain were actors in a comedy of life which--in the opinion of the
last--might easily end up as a tragedy. No wonder their behaviour was
constrained, no wonder they avoided one another. They were as men living
over a powder magazine which the least spark would explode with
thunderous noise and damaging effect.

Baltic was the _deus ex machina_ to strike the spark for ignition, but
he seemed in no hurry to do so. Punctual to his promise he returned to
Beorminster, and heard Sir Harry's report about the pistol with grave
attention. Without venturing an opinion for or against the curate, he
asked Sir Harry to preserve a strict silence until such time as he gave
him leave to speak, and afterwards took his way to Gabriel's lodgings in
the lower part of the town. There he was fortunate enough to find young
Pendle within doors, and after a lengthy interview with him on matters
connected with the crime, he again sought the baronet. A detailed
explanation to that gentleman resulted in a visit of both to Sir Harry's
bank, and an interesting conversation with its manager. When Brace and
Baltic finally found themselves on the pavement, the face of the first
wore an expression of exultation, while the latter, in his reticent way,
looked soberly satisfied. Both had every reason for these signs of
triumph, for they had touched the highest pinnacle of success.

'I suppose there can be no doubt about it, Baltic?'

'None whatever, Sir Harry. Every link in the chain of evidence is
complete.'

'You are a wonderful man, Baltic; you have scored off that fool of a
Tinkler in a very neat way.'

'The inspector is no fool in his own sphere, sir,' reproved the serious
ex-sailor, 'but this case happened to be beyond it.'

'And beyond him also,' chuckled the baronet.

'There is no denying that, Sir Harry. However, the man is useful in his
own place, and having done my part, I shall now ask him to do his.'

'What is his task, eh?'

'To procure a warrant on my evidence. The man must be arrested this
afternoon.'

'And then, Baltic?'

'Then, sir,' said the man, solemnly, 'I shall be no longer an agent, but
a missionary; and in my own poor way I shall strive to bring him to
repentance.'

'After bringing him to the gallows. A queer way of inducing good,
Baltic.'

'Whoso loseth all gaineth all,' quoted Baltic, in all earnestness; 'my
mission is not to destroy souls but to save them.'

'Humph! you destroy the material part for the salvation of the
spiritual. A man called Torquemada conducted his religious crusade in
the same way some hundreds of years ago, and has been cursed for his
system by humanity ever since. Your morality--or rather I should say
your religiosity--is beyond me, Baltic.'

'_Magnas veritas et praevalebit!_' misquoted Baltic, solemnly, and,
touching his hat roughly, turned away to finish the work he felt himself
called upon by his religious convictions to execute.

Harry looked after him with a satirical smile. 'You filched that morsel
of dog Latin out of the end of the English dictionary, my friend,' he
thought, 'and your untutored mind does not apply it with particular
relevancy. But I see that, like all fanatics, you distort texts and
sayings into fitting your own peculiar views. Well, well, the ends you
aim at are right enough, no doubt, but your method of reaching them is
as queer a one as ever came under my notice. Go your ways, Torquemada
Baltic, there are the germs of a mighty intolerant sect in your kind of
teaching, I fear,' and in his turn Sir Harry went about his own affairs.

Inspector Tinkler, more purple-faced and important than ever, sat in his
private office, twirling his thumbs and nodding his head for lack of
business on which to employ his mighty mind. The afternoon, by some
freak of the sun which had to do with his solar majesty's unusual spotty
complexion, was exceptionally hot for a late September day, and the heat
made Mr Inspector drowsy and indolent. He might have fallen into the
condition of an official sleeping beauty, but that a sharp knock at the
door roused him sufficiently to bid the knocker enter, whereupon a
well-fed policeman presented himself with the information--delivered in
a sleepy, beefy voice--that Mr Baltic wished to see Mr Tinkler. The name
acted like a douche of iced water on the inspector, and he sharply
ordered the visitor to be admitted at once. In another minute Baltic was
in the office, saluting the head of the Beorminster police in his usual
grave style.

'Ha, Mr Baltic, sir!' rasped out Tinkler, in his parade voice, 'I am
glad to see you. There is a seat, and here am I; both at your service.'

'Thank you, Mr Inspector,' said Baltic, and, taking a seat, carefully
covered his knees with the red bandanna, and adjusted his straw hat on
top of it according to custom.

'Well, sir, well,' grunted Mr Inspector, pompously, 'and how does your
little affair get on?'

'It has got on so far, sir, that I have come to ask you for a warrant of
arrest.'

'By George! eh! what! Have you found him?' roared Tinkler, starting back
with an incredulous look.

'I have discovered the man who murdered Jentham! Yes.'

'Good!' snapped Tinkler, trying to conceal his amazement by a reversion
to his abrupt military manner. 'His name?'

'I'll tell you that when I have related my evidence incriminating him.
It is as well to be orderly, Mr Inspector.'

'Certainly, Mr Baltic, sir. Order is at the base of all discipline.'

'I should rather say that discipline is the basis of order,' returned
Baltic, with a dry smile; 'however, we can discuss that question later.
At present I shall detail my evidence against'--Mr Inspector leaned
eagerly forward--'against the man who killed Jentham.' Mr Inspector
threw himself back with a disappointed snort.

''Tention!' threw out Tinkler, and arranged pen and ink and paper to
take notes. 'Now, Mr Baltic, sir!'

'My knowledge of the man Jentham,' droned Baltic, in his monotonous
voice, 'begins at the moment I was informed by Mr Cargrim that he called
at the palace to see Bishop Pendle a few days before he met with his
violent end. It would appear--although of this I am not absolutely
certain--that the bishop knew Jentham when he occupied a more
respectable position and answered to another name!'

'Memorandum,' wrote down Tinkler, 'to inquire if his lordship can supply
information regarding the past of the so-called Jentham.'

'The bishop,' continued the narrator, with a covert smile at Tinkler's
unnecessary scribbling, 'was apparently sorry to see an old friend in a
homeless and penniless condition, for to help him on in the world he
gave him the sum of two hundred pounds.'

'That,' declared Tinkler, throwing down his pen, 'is charity gone
mad--if'--he emphasised the word--'if, mark me, it is true.'

'If it were not true I should not state it,' rejoined Baltic, gravely.
'As a Christian I have a great regard for the truth. Bishop Pendle drew
that sum out of his London account in twenty ten-pound notes. I have the
numbers of those notes, and I traced several to the possession of the
assassin, who must have taken them from the corpse. On these grounds, Mr
Inspector, I assert that Dr Pendle gave Jentham two hundred pounds.'
Tinkler again took up his pen. 'Memo,' he set down, 'to ask his lordship
if he helped the so-called Jentham with money. If so, how much?'

'As you know,' resumed Baltic, with deliberation, 'Jentham was shot
through the heart, but the pistol could not be found. It is now in my
possession, and I obtained it from Mother Jael!'

'What! did she kill the poor devil?'

'I have already said that the murderer is a man, Mr Inspector. Mother
Jael knows nothing about the crime, save that she heard the shot and
afterwards picked up the pistol near the corpse. I obtained it from her
with considerable ease!'

'By threatening her with the warrant I gave you, no doubt.'

Baltic shook his head. 'I made no mention of the warrant, nor did I
produce it,' he replied, 'but I happen to know something of the Romany
tongue, and be what the Spaniards call "_affeciado_" to the gipsies.
When Mother Jael was convinced that I was a brother of tent and road,
she gave me the pistol without ado. It is best to work by kindness, Mr
Inspector.'

'We can't all be gipsies, Mr Baltic, sir. Proceed! What about the
pistol?'

'The pistol,' continued Baltic, passing over the envious sneer, 'had a
silver plate on the butt, inscribed with the letters "G.P." I did not
know if the weapon belonged to Bishop George Pendle, Captain George
Pendle, or to Mr Gabriel Pendle.'

Inspector Tinkler looked up aghast. 'By Jupiter! sir, you don't mean to
tell me that you suspected the bishop? Damme, Mr Baltic, how dare you?'

Now the missionary was not going to confide in this official thick-head
regarding Cargrim's suspicions of the bishop, which had led him to
connect the pistol with the prelate; so he evaded the difficulty by
explaining that as the lent money was a link between the bishop and
Jentham, and the initials on the pistol were those of his lordship, he
naturally fancied that the weapon belonged to Dr Pendle, 'although I
will not go so far as to say that I suspected him,' finished Baltic,
smoothly.

'I should think not!' growled Tinkler, wrathfully. 'Bishops don't murder
tramps in England, whatever they may do in the South Seas!' and he made
a third note, 'Memo.--To ask his lordship if he lost a pistol.'

'As Captain George Pendle is a soldier, Mr Inspector, I fancied--on the
testimony of the initials--that the pistol might belong to him. On
putting the question to him, it appeared that the weapon was his
property--'

'The devil!'

'But that he had lent it to Mr Gabriel Pendle to protect himself from
roughs when that young gentleman was a curate in Whitechapel, London.'

'Well, I'm--d--blessed!' ejaculated Tinkler, with staring eyes; 'so Mr
Gabriel killed Jentham!'

'Don't jump to conclusions, Mr Inspector. Gabriel Pendle is innocent. I
never thought that he was guilty, but I fancied that he might supply
links in the chain of evidence to trace the real murderer. Of course,
you know that Mr Gabriel lately went to Germany?'

'Yes, I know that.'

'Very good! As the initials "G. P." also stood for Gabriel Pendle, I was
not at all sure but what the pistol might be his. For the moment I
assumed that it was, that he had shot Jentham, and that the stolen money
had been used by him.'

'But you hadn't the shadow of a proof, Mr Baltic.'

'I had the pistol with the initials,' retorted the missionary, 'but, as
I said, I never suspected Mr Gabriel. I only assumed his guilt for the
moment to enable me to trace the actual criminal. To make a long story
short, Mr Inspector, I went up to London and called at Cook's office.
There I discovered that Mr Gabriel had paid for his ticket with a
ten-pound note. That note,' added Baltic, impressively, 'was one of
those given by the bishop to Jentham and stolen by the assassin from the
body of his victim. I knew it by the number.'

Tinkler thumped the desk with his hand in a state of uncontrolled
excitement. 'Then Mr Gabriel must be guilty,' he declared in his most
stentorian voice.

'Hush, if you please,' said Baltic, with a glance at the door. 'There
is no need to let your subordinates know what is not true.'

'What is not true, sir?'

'Precisely. I questioned Mr Gabriel on my return, and learned that he
had changed a twenty-pound note at The Derby Winner prior to his
departure for Germany. Mosk, the landlord, gave him the ten I traced to
Cook's and two fives. Hush, please! Mr Gabriel also told me that he had
lent the pistol to Mosk to protect himself from tramps when riding to
and from Southberry, so--'

'I see! I see!' roared Tinkler, purple with excitement. 'Mosk is the
guilty man!'

'Quite so,' rejoined Baltic, unmoved. 'You have hit upon the right man
at last.'

'So Bill Mosk shot Jentham. Oh, Lord! Damme! Why?'

'Don't swear, Mr Inspector, and I'll tell you. Mosk committed the murder
to get the two hundred pounds. I suspected Mosk almost from the
beginning. The man was almost always drunk and frequently in tears. I
found out while at The Derby Winner that he could not pay his rent
shortly before Jentham's murder. After the crime I learned from Sir
Harry Brace, the landlord, that Mosk had paid his rent. When Mr Gabriel
told me about the lending of the pistol and the changing of the note, I
went to Sir Harry's bank, and there, Mr Inspector, I discovered that the
bank-notes with which he paid his rent were those given by the bishop to
Jentham. On that evidence, on the evidence of the pistol, on the
evidence that Mosk was absent at Southberry on the night of the murder,
I ask you to obtain a warrant and arrest the man this afternoon.'

'I shall see a magistrate about it at once,' fussed Tinkler, tearing up
his now useless memoranda. 'Bill Mosk! Damme! Bill Mosk! I never should
have thought a drunken hound like him would have the pluck to do it.
Hang me if I did!'

'I don't call it pluck to shoot an unarmed man, Mr Inspector. It is
rather the act of a coward.'

'Coward or not, he must swing for it,' growled Tinkler. 'Mr Baltic, sir,
I am proud of you. You have done what I could not do myself. Take my
hand and my thanks, sir. Become a detective, sir, and learn our trade.
When you know our business you will do wonders, sir, wonders!'

In the same patronising way a rush-light might have congratulated the
sun on his illuminating powers and have advised him to become--a penny
candle.




CHAPTER XXXIV

THE WAGES OF SIN


While the wickedness and fate of Mosk were being discussed and settled
in Inspector Tinkler's office, Bishop Pendle was meditating on a very
important subject, important both to his domestic circle and to the
wider claims of his exalted position. This was none other than a
consideration of Gabriel's engagement to the hotelkeeper's daughter, and
an argument with himself as to whether or no he should consent to so
obvious a _mesalliance_. The bishop was essentially a fair dealer, and
not the man to do things by halves, therefore it occurred to him that,
as he had consented to George's marriage with Mab, he was bound in all
honour to deliberate on the position of his youngest son with regard to
Miss Mosk. To use a homely but forcible proverb, it was scarcely just to
make beef of one and mutton of the other, the more especially as Gabriel
had behaved extremely well in relation to his knowledge of his parents'
painful position and his own nameless condition. Some sons so placed
would have regarded themselves as absolved from all filial ties, but
Gabriel, with true honour and true affection, never dreamed of acting in
so heartless a manner; on the contrary, he clung the closer to his
unhappy father, and gave him, as formerly, both obedience and filial
love. Such honourable conduct, such tender kindness, deserved to be
rewarded, and, as the bishop determined, rewarded it should be in the
only way left to him.

Having arrived at this liberal conclusion, Dr Pendle decided to make
himself personally known to Bell and see with his own eyes the reported
beauty which had captivated Gabriel. Also, he wished to judge for
himself as to the girl's clever mind and modesty and common sense, all
of which natural gifts Gabriel had represented her as possessing in no
ordinary degree. Therefore, on the very afternoon when trouble was
brewing against Mosk in the Beorminster Police Office, the bishop of the
See took his way to The Derby Winner. The sight of Dr Pendle in the
narrow streets of the old town fluttered the slatternly dwellers therein
not a little, and the majority of the women whisked indoors in mortal
terror, lest they should be reproved _ex cathedra_ for their untidy
looks and unswept doorsteps. It was like the descent of an Olympian god,
and awestruck mortals fled swift-footed from the glory of his presence.
To use a vigorous American phrase, they made themselves scarce.

The good bishop was amused and rather amazed by this universal
scattering, for it was his wish to be loved rather than feared. He was
in a decidedly benign frame of mind, as on that very morning he had
received a letter from his wife stating that she was coming home within
a few days, much benefited by the Nauheim baths. This latter piece of
intelligence particularly pleased the bishop, as he judged thereby that
his wife would be better able to endure the news of her first husband's
untimely re-appearance. Dr Pendle was anxious that she should know all
at once, so that he could marry her again as speedily as possible, and
thereby put an end to an uncomfortable and dangerous state of things.
Thus reflecting and thus deciding, the bishop descended the stony street
in his usual stately manner, and even patted the heads of one or two
stray urchins, who smiled in his face with all the confidence of
childhood. Afterwards, the mothers of those especial children were
offensively proud at this episcopal blessing, and had 'words' with less
fortunate mothers in consequence. Out of such slight events can
dissensions arise.

As Dr Pendle neared The Derby Winner he was unlucky enough to encounter
Mrs Pansey, who was that afternoon harassing the neighbourhood with one
of her parochial visitations. She carried a black bag stuffed with
bundles of badly-printed, badly-written tracts, and was distributing
this dry fodder as food for Christian souls, along with a quantity of
advice and reproof. The men swore, the women wept, the children
scrambled out of the way when Mrs Pansey swooped down like a black
vulture; and when the bishop chanced upon her he looked round as though
he wished to follow the grateful example of the vanishing population.
But Mrs Pansey gave him no chance. She blocked the way, spread out her
hands to signify pleasure, and, without greeting the bishop, bellowed
out in pretty loud tones, 'At last! at last! and not before you are
needed, Dr Pendle.'

'Am I needed?' asked the mystified bishop, mildly.

'The Derby Winner!' was all that Mrs Pansey vouchsafed in the way of an
explanation, and cast a glance over her shoulder at the public-house.

'The Derby Winner,' repeated Dr Pendle, reddening, as he wondered if
this busybody guessed his errand. 'I am now on my way there.'

'I am glad to hear it, bishop!' said Mrs Pansey, with a toss of her
plumed bonnet. 'How often have I asked you to personally examine into
the drinking and gambling and loose pleasures which make it a Jericho of
sin?'

'Yes, yes, I remember you said something about it when you were at the
palace.'

'Said something about it, my lord; I said everything about it, but now
that you will see it for yourself, I trust you will ask Sir Harry Brace
to shut it up.'

'Dear, dear!' said the bishop, nervously, 'that is an extreme measure.'

'An extreme necessity, rather,' retorted Mrs Pansey, wagging an
admonitory finger; 'do not compound with shameless sin, bishop. The
house is a regular upas tree. It makes the men drunkards'--Mrs Pansey
raised her voice so that the whole neighbourhood might hear--'the women
sluts'--there was an angry murmur from the houses at this term--'and the
children--the children--' Mrs Pansey seized a passing brat. 'Look at
this--this image of the Creator,' and she offered the now weeping child
as an illustration.

Before Dr Pendle could say a word, the door of a near house was flung
violently open, and a blowzy, red-faced young woman pounced out, all on
fire for a fight. She tore the small sinner from the grasp of Mrs
Pansey, and began to scold vigorously. 'Ho indeed, mum! ho indeed! and
would you be pleased to repeat what you're a-talkin' of behind ladies'
backs.'

'Mrs Trumbly! the bishop, woman!'

'No more a woman than yourself, mum; and beggin' his lordship's parding,
I 'opes as he'll tell widders as ain't bin mothers not to poke their
stuck-up noses into what they knows nothing of.'

By this time a crowd was collecting, and evinced lively signs of
pleasure at the prospect of seeing the Bishop of Beorminster as umpire
in a street row. But the bishop had heard quite enough of the affray,
and without mincing matters fled as quickly as his dignity would permit
towards the friendly shelter of The Derby Winner, leaving Mesdames
Pansey and Trumbly in the thick of a wordy war. The first-named lady
held her own for some considerable time, until routed by her
antagonist's superior knowledge of Billingsgate. Then it appeared very
plainly that for once she had met with her match, and she hastily
abandoned the field, pursued by a storm of highly-coloured abuse from
the irate Mrs Trumbly. It was many a long day before Mrs Pansey ventured
into that neighbourhood again; and she ever afterwards referred to it in
terms which a rigid Calvinist usually applies to Papal Rome. As for Mrs
Trumbly herself, the archdeacon's widow said the whole Commination
Service over _her_ with heartfelt and prayerful earnestness.

Bell flushed and whitened, and stammered and trembled, when she beheld
the imposing figure of the bishop standing in the dark, narrow passage.
To her he was a far-removed deity throned upon inaccessible heights,
awesome and powerful, to be propitiated with humbleness and prayer; and
the mere sight of him in her immediate neighbourhood brought her heart
into her mouth. For once she lost her nonchalant demeanour, her free and
easy speech, and stood nervously silent before him with hanging head and
reddened cheeks. Fortunately for her she was dressed that day in a quiet
and well-fitting frock of blue serge, and wore less than her usual
number of jingling brassy ornaments. The bishop, who had an eye for a
comely figure and a pretty face, approved of her looks; but he was
clever enough to see that, however painted and shaped, she was made of
very common clay, and would never be able to take her place amongst the
porcelain maidens to whom Gabriel was accustomed. Still she seemed
modest and shy as a maid should be, and Dr Pendle looked on her kindly
and encouragingly.

'You are Miss Mosk, are you not?' he asked, raising his hat.

'Yes, my--my lord,' faltered Bell, not daring to raise her eyes above
the bishop's gaiters. 'I am Bell Mosk.'

'In that case I should like some conversation with you. Can you take me
to a more private place?'

'The little parlour, my lord; this way, please,' and Bell, reassured by
her visitor's kindly manner, conducted him into her father's private
snuggery at the back of the bar. Here she placed a chair for the bishop,
and waited anxiously to hear if he came to scold or praise. Dr Pendle
came to the point at once.

'I presume you know who I am, Miss Mosk?' he said quietly.

'Oh, yes, sir; the Bishop of Beorminster.'

'Quite so; but I am here less as the bishop than as Gabriel's father.'

'Yes,' whispered Bell, and stole a frightened look at the speaker's
face.

'There is no need to be alarmed,' said Dr Pendle, encouragingly. 'I do
not come here to scold you.'

'I hope not, my lord!' said Miss Mosk, recovering herself a trifle, 'as
I have done nothing to be scolded for. If I am in love with Gabriel, and
he with me, 'tis only human nature, and as such can't be run down.'

'That entirely depends upon the point of view which is taken,' observed
the bishop, mildly. 'For instance, I have a right to be annoyed that my
son should engage himself to you without consulting me.'

Bell produced a foolish little lace handkerchief. 'Of course, I know I
ain't a lady, sir,' said she, tearfully. 'But I do love Gabriel, and I'm
sure I'll do my best to make him happy.'

'I do not doubt that, Miss Mosk; but are you sure that you are wise in
marrying out of your sphere?'

'King Cophetua loved a beggar maid, my lord; and the Lord of Burleigh
married a village girl,' said Bell, who knew her Tennyson, 'and I'm sure
I'm as good as both lots.'

'Certainly,' assented the bishop, dryly; 'but if I remember rightly, the
Lord of Burleigh's bride sank under her burden of honours.'

Bell tossed her head in spite of the bishop's presence. 'Oh, she had no
backbone, not a bit. I've got heaps more sense than she had. But you
mustn't think I want to run after gentlemen, sir. I have had plenty of
offers; and I can get more if I want to. Gabriel has only to say the
word and the engagement is off.'

'Indeed, I think that would be the wiser course,' replied the bishop,
who wondered more and more what Gabriel could see in this commonplace
beauty attractive to his refined nature, 'but I know that my son loves
you dearly, and I wish to see him happy.'

'I hope you don't think I want to make him miserable, sir,' cried Bell,
her colour and temper rising.

'No! no! Miss Mosk. But a matter like this requires reflection and
consideration.'

'We have reflected, my lord. Gabriel and me's going to marry.'

'Indeed! will you not ask my consent?'

'I ask it now, sir! I'm sure,' said Bell, again becoming tearful, 'this
ain't my idea of love-making, to be badgered into saying I'm not good
enough for him. If he's a man let him marry me, if he's a worm he
needn't. I've no call to go begging. No, indeed!'

The bishop began to feel somewhat embarrassed, for Miss Mosk applied
every word to herself in so personal a way, that whatever he said
constituted a ground of offence, and he scarcely knew upon what lines to
conduct so delicate a conversation. Also the girl was crying, and her
tears made Dr Pendle fear that he was exercising his superiority in a
brutal manner. Fortunately the conversation was brought abruptly to an
end, for while the bishop was casting about how to resume it, the door
opened softly and Mr Mosk presented himself.

'Father!' cried Bell, in anything but pleased tones.

'My gal!' replied Mosk, with husky tenderness--'and in tears. What 'ave
you bin sayin' to her, sir?' he added, with a ferocious glance at
Pendle.

'Hush, father! 'tis his lordship, the bishop.' 'I know'd the bishop's
looks afore you was born, my gal,' said Mosk, playfully, 'and it's proud
I am to see 'im under m' umble roof. Lor'! 'ere's a 'appy family
meeting.'

'I think,' said the bishop, with a glance at Mosk to assure himself that
the man was sober--'I think, Miss Mosk, that it is advisable your father
and myself should have a few words in private.'

'I don't want father to interfere--' began Bell, when her parent gripped
her arm, and cutting her short with a scowl conducted her to the door.

'Don't you git m' back up,' he whispered savagely, 'or you'll be
cussedly sorry for yerself an' everyone else. Go to yer mother.'

'But, father, I--'

'Go to yer mother, I tell y',' growled the man, whereupon Bell, seeing
that her father was in a soberly brutal state, which was much more
dangerous than his usual drunken condition, hastily left the room, and
closed the door after her. 'An' now, m' lord,' continued Mosk, returning
to the bishop, 'jus' look at me.'

Dr Pendle did so, but it was not a pretty object he contemplated, for
the man was untidy, unwashed and frowsy in looks. He was red-eyed and
white-faced, but perfectly sober, although there was every appearance
about him of having only lately recovered from a prolonged debauch.
Consequently his temper was morose and uncertain, and the bishop, having
a respect for the dignity of his position and cloth, felt uneasy at the
prospect of a quarrel with this degraded creature. But Dr Pendle's
spirit was not one to fail him in such an emergency, and he surveyed Mr
Caliban in a cool and leisurely manner.

'I'm a father, I am!' continued Mosk, defiantly, 'an' as good a father
as you. My gal's goin' to marry your son. Now, m' lord, what have you to
say to that?'

'Moderate your tone, my man,' said the bishop, imperiously; 'a
conversation conducted in this manner can hardly be productive of good
results either to yourself or to your daughter.'

'I don' mean any 'arm!' replied Mosk, rather cowed, 'but I mean to 'ave
m' rights, I do.'

'Your rights? What do you mean?'

'M' rights as a father,' explained the man, sulkily. 'Your son's bin
runnin' arter m' gal, and lowerin' of her good name.'

'Hold your tongue, sir. Mr Pendle's intentions with regard to Miss Mosk
are most honourable.'

'They'd better be,' threatened the other, 'or I'll know how to make 'em
so. Ah, that I shall.'

'You talk idly, man,' said the bishop, coldly.

'I talk wot'll do, m' lord. Who's yer son, anyhow? My gal's as good as
he, an' a sight better. She's born on the right side of the blanket, she
is. There now!'

A qualm as of deadly sickness seized Dr Pendle, and he started from his
chair with a pale face and a startled eye.

'What do you--you--you mean, man?' he asked again.

Mosk laughed scornfully, and lugging a packet of papers out of his
pocket flung it on the table. 'That's what I mean,' said he;
'certif'cate! letters! story! Yer wife ain't yer wife; Gabriel's only
Gabriel an' not Pendle at all!'

'Certificate! letters!' gasped the bishop, snatching them up. 'You got
these from Jentham.'

'That I did; he left them with me afore he went out to meet you.'

'You--you murderer!'

'Murderer! Halloa!' cried Mosk, recoiling, pale and startled.

'Murderer!' repeated Dr Pendle. 'Jentham showed these to me on the
common; you must have taken them from his dead body. You are the man who
shot him.'

'It's a lie,' whispered Mosk, with pale lips, shrinking back, 'an' if I
did, you daren't tell. I know your secret.'

'Secret or not, you shall suffer for your crime,' cried the bishop, with
a stride towards the door.

'Stand back! It's a lie! I'm desperate. I didn't kill--Hark!'

There was a noise outside which terrified the guilty conscience of the
murderer. He did not know that the officers of justice were at the door,
nor did the bishop, but the unexpected sound turned their blood to
water, and made their hearts, the innocent and the guilty, knock at
their ribs. A sharp knock came at the door.

'Help!' cried the bishop. 'The murderer!' and he sprang forward to
throw himself on the shaking, shambling wretch. Mosk eluded him, but
uttered a squeaking cry like the shriek of a hunted hare in the jaws of
the greyhound. The next instant the room seemed to swarm with men, and
the bishop as in a dream heard the merciless formula of the law
pronounced by Tinkler,--

'In the name of the Queen I arrest you, William Mosk, on a charge of
murder.'




CHAPTER XXXV

THE HONOUR OF GABRIEL


Great as had been the popular excitement over Jentham's death, it was
almost mild compared with that which swept through Beorminster when his
murderer was discovered and arrested. No one had ever thought of
connecting Mosk with the crime; and even on his seizure by warrant many
declined to believe in his guilt. Nevertheless, when the man was brought
before the magistrates, the evidence adduced against him by Baltic was
so strong and clear and irrefutable that, without a dissenting word from
the Bench, the prisoner was committed to stand his trial at the ensuing
assizes. Mosk made no defence; he did not even offer a remark; but,
accepting his fate with sullen apathy, sunk into a lethargic,
unobservant state, out of which nothing and no person could arouse him.
His brain appeared to have been stunned by the suddenness of his
calamity.

Many people expressed surprise that Bishop Pendle should have been
present when the man was arrested, and some blamed him for having even
gone to The Derby Winner. A disreputable pot-house, they whispered, was
not the neighbourhood in which a spiritual lord should be found. But Mrs
Pansey, for once on the side of right, soon put a stop to such talk by
informing one and all that the bishop had visited the hotel at her
request in order to satisfy himself that the reports and scandals about
it were true. That Mosk should have been arrested while Dr Pendle was
making his inquiries was a pure coincidence, and it was greatly to the
bishop's credit that he had helped to secure the murderer. In fact, Mrs
Pansey was not very sure but what he had taken the wretch in charge with
his own august hands.

And the bishop himself? He was glad that Mrs Pansey, to foster her own
vanity, had put this complexion on his visit to the hotel, as it did
away with any need of a true but uncomfortable explanation. Also he had
carried home with him the packet tossed on the table by Mosk, therefore,
so far as actual proof was concerned, his secret was still his own. But
the murderer knew it, for not only were the certificate and letters in
the bundle, but there was also a sheet of memoranda set down by Krant,
_alias_ Jentham, which proved clearly that the so-called Mrs Pendle was
really his wife.

'If I destroy these papers,' thought the bishop, 'all immediate evidence
likely to reveal the truth will be done away with. But Mosk knows that
Amy is not my wife; that my marriage is illegal, that my children are
nameless; out of revenge for my share in his arrest, he may tell someone
the story and reveal the name of the church wherein Amy was married to
Krant. Then the register there will disclose my secret to anyone curious
enough to search the books. What shall I do? What can I do? I dare not
visit Mosk. I dare not ask Graham to see him. There is nothing to be
done but to hope for the best. If this miserable man speaks out, I shall
be ruined.'

Dr Pendle quite expected ruin, for he had no hope that a coarse and
cruel criminal would be honourable enough to hold his tongue. But this
belief, although natural enough, showed how the bishop misjudged the
man. From the moment of his arrest, Mosk spoke no ill of Dr Pendle; he
hinted at no secret, and to all appearances was quite determined to
carry it with him to the scaffold. On the third day of his arrest,
however, he roused himself from his sullen silence, and asked that young
Mr Pendle might be sent for. The governor of the prison, anticipating a
confession to be made in due form to a priest, hastily sent for Gabriel.
The young man obeyed the summons at once, for, his father having
informed him of Mosk's acquaintance with the secret, he was most anxious
to learn from the man himself whether he intended to talk or keep
silent. It was with a beating heart that Gabriel was ushered into the
prison cell.

By special permission the interview was allowed to be private, for Mosk
positively refused to speak in the presence of a third person. He was
sitting on his bed when the parson entered, but looked up with a gleam
of joy in his blood-shot eyes when he was left alone with the young man.

''Tis good of you to come and see a poor devil, Mr Pendle,' he said in a
grateful voice. 'Y'll be no loser by yer kin'ness, I can tell y'.'

'To whom should a priest come, save to those who need him?'

'Oh, stow that!' growled Mosk, in a tone of disgust; 'if I want religion
I can get more than enough from that Baltic cove. He's never done
preachin' and prayin' as if I were a bloomin' 'eathen. No, Mr Pendle, it
ain't as a priest as I asked y' t' see me, but as a man--as a
gentleman!' His voice broke. 'It's about my poor gal,' he whispered.

'About Bell,' faltered Gabriel, nervously clasping his hands together.

'Yes! I s'pose, sir, you won't think of marryin' her now?'

'Mosk! Mosk! who am I that I should visit your sins on her innocent
head?'

'Hold 'ard!' cried Mosk, his face lighting up; 'does that Bible speech
mean as y' are goin' to behave honourable?'

'How else did you expect me to behave? Mosk!' said Gabriel, laying a
slim hand on the man's knee, 'after your arrest I went to The Derby
Winner. It is shut up, and I was unable to enter, as Bell refused to see
me. The shock of your evil deed has made your wife so ill that her life
is despaired of. Bell is by her bedside night and day, so this is no
time for me to talk of marriage. But I give you my word of honour, that
in spite of the disgrace you have brought upon her, Bell shall be my
wife.'

Mosk burst out crying like a child. 'God bless you, Mr Pendle!' he
sobbed, catching at Gabriel's hand. 'You have lifted a weight off my
heart. I don't care if I do swing now; I daresay I deserve to swing, but
as long as she's all right!--my poor gal! It's a sore disgrace to her.
And Susan, too. Susan's dyin', y' say! Well, it's my fault; but if I've
sinned I've got to pay a long price for it.'

'Alas! alas! the wages of sin is death.'

'I don't want religion, I tell 'ee,' said Mosk, drying his eyes; 'I've
lived bad and I'll die bad.' 'Mosk! Mosk! even at the eleventh hour--'

'That's all right, Mr Pendle; I know all about th' 'leventh hour, and
repentance and the rest of th' rot. Stow it, sir, and listen. You'll
keep true to my gal?'

'On the honour of a gentleman. I love her; she is as dear to me now as
she ever was.'

'That's wot I expected y' to say, sir. Y' allays wos a gentleman. Now
you 'ark, Mr Pendle; I knows all about that mar--'

'Don't speak of it!' interrupted Gabriel, with a shudder.

'I ain't goin' to, sir. His lor'ship 'ave the papers I took from him as
I did for; so no one but yerself an' yer father knows about 'em. I
sha'n't breathe a word about that Krant marriage to a single, solitary
soul, and when I dies the secret will die with me. You're actin' square
by my poor gal, sir, so I'm agoin' to act square by you. It ain't for me
to cover with shame the name as you're goin' to give my Bell.'

'Thank you!' gasped Gabriel, whose emotion at this promise was so great
that he could hardly speak, 'thank you!'

'I don' need no thanks, sir; you're square, an' I'm square. So now as
I've got that orf m' mind you'd better go. I ain't fit company for the
likes of you.'

'Let me say a prayer, Mosk?'

'No, sir; it's too late to pray for me.'

Gabriel raised his hand solemnly. 'As Christ liveth, it is not too late.
Though your sins be as--'

'Goo'bye,' interrupted Mosk, and throwing himself on his bed, he turned
his face to the wall. Not another word of confession or repentance could
Gabriel get him to speak. Nevertheless, the clergyman knelt down on the
chill stones and implored God's pardon for this stubborn sinner, whose
heart was hardened against the divine grace. Mosk gave no sign of
hearing the supplication; but when Gabriel was passing out of the cell,
he suddenly rushed forward and kissed his hand. 'God, in His mercy, pity
and pardon you, Mosk,' said Gabriel, and left the wretched man with his
frozen heart shivering under the black, black shadow of the gallows.

It was with a sense of relief that the curate found himself once more
in the sunshine. As he walked swiftly along towards the palace, to carry
the good news to his father, he thanked God in his heart that the shadow
of impending disaster had passed away. The incriminating papers were in
the right hands; their secret was known only to himself, to Graham, and
to the bishop. When the truth was told to his mother, and her position
had been rectified by a second marriage, Gabriel felt that all would be
safe. Cargrim knew nothing of the truth, and therefore could do nothing.
With the discovery of the actual criminal all his wicked plans had come
to naught; and it only remained for the man he had wronged so deeply to
take from him the position of trust which he had so dishonourably
abused. As for Gabriel himself, he determined to marry Bell Mosk, as he
had promised her miserable father, and to sail with his wife for the
mission fields of the South Seas. There they could begin a new life,
and, happy in one another's love, would forget the past in assiduous
labours amongst the heathen. Baltic knew the South Seas; Baltic could
advise and direct how they should begin to labour in that vineyard of
the Lord; and Baltic could start them on a new career for the glory of
God and the sowing of the good seed. With thoughts like these, Gabriel
walked along, wrapped in almost apocalyptic visions, and saw with
inspired gaze the past sorrows of himself and Bell fade and vanish in
the glory of a God-guided, God-provided future. It was not the career he
had shadowed forth for himself; but he resigned his ambitions for Bell's
sake, and aided by love overcame his preference for civilised ease.
_Vincit, qui se vincit._

While Gabriel was thus battling, and thus overcoming, Baltic was seated
beside Mosk, striving to bring him to a due sense of his wickedness and
weakness, and need of God's forgiveness. He had prayed, and reproved,
and persuaded, and besought, many times before; but had hitherto been
baffled by the cynicism and stubborn nature of the man. One less
enthusiastic than Baltic would have been discouraged, but, braced by
fanaticism, the man was resolved to conquer this adversary of Christ and
win back an erring soul from the ranks of Satan's evil host. With his
well-worn Bible on his knee, he expounded text after text, amplified
the message of redemption and pardon, and, with all the eloquence
religion had taught his tongue, urged Mosk to plead for mercy from the
God he had so deeply offended. But all in vain.

'Wot's th' use of livin' bad all these years, and then turnin' good for
five minutes?' growled Mosk, contemptuously. 'There ain't no sense in
it.'

'Think of the penitent thief, my brother. He was in the same position as
you now are, yet he was promised paradise by God's own Son!'

Mosk shrugged his shoulders. 'It's easy enough promisin', I daresay; but
'ow do I know, or do you know as the promise 'ull be kept?'

'Believe and you shall be saved.'

'I can't believe what you say.'

'Not what I say, poor sinner, but what Christ says.'

There was no possible answer to this last remark, so Mosk launched out
on another topic. 'I like yer cheek, I do,' he growled; 'it's you that
have got me into this mess, and now you wants me to take up with your
preaching.'

'I want to save your soul, man!'

'You'd much better have saved my life. If you'd left me alone I wouldn't
have bin caught.'

'Then you would have gone on living in a state of sin. So long as you
were safe from the punishment of man you would not have turned to God.
Now you must. He is your only friend.'

'It's more nor you are. I don't call it friendship to bring a man to the
gallows!'

'I do--when he has committed a crime,' said Baltic, gravely. 'You must
suffer and repent, or God will not forgive you. You are Cain, for you
have slain your brother.'

'You've got to prove that,' growled Mosk, cunningly; 'look, Mr Baltic,
jus' drop religion for a bit, and tell me 'ow you know as I killed that
cove.'

Baltic closed his Bible, and looked mildly at the prisoner. 'The
evidence against you is perfectly clear, Mosk,' said he, deliberately.
'I traced the notes stolen from the dead man to your possession. You
paid your rent to Sir Harry Brace with the fruits of your sin.' 'Yes, I
did!' said Mosk, sullenly. 'I know it ain't no good sayin' as I didn't
kill Jentham, for you're one too many for me. But wot business had he to
go talkin' of hundreds of pounds to a poor chap like me as 'adn't one
copper to rub agin the other? If he'd held his tongue I'd 'ave known
nothin', and he'd 'ave bin alive now for you to try your 'and on in the
religious way. Jentham was a bad 'un, if you like.'

'We are all sinners, Mosk.'

'Some of us are wuss than others. With the 'ception of murderin' Jentham
and priggin' his cash, I ain't done nothin' to no one as I knows of.
Look here, Mr Baltic, I've done one bit of business to-day with the
parson, and now I'm goin' to do another bit with you. 'Ave you pen and
paper?'

'Yes!' Baltic produced his pocket-book and a stylographic pen. 'Are you
going to confess?'

'I'spose I may as well,' said Mosk, scowling. 'You'll be blaming young
Mr Pendle, or the bishop, if I don't; an' as the fust of 'em's goin' to
marry my Bell, I don't want trouble there.'

'Won't you confess from a sense of your sin?'

'No, I won't. It's my gal and not repentance as makes me tell the truth.
I want to put her an' young Mr Pendle fair and square.'

'Well,' said Baltic, getting ready to write, 'confession is a sign that
your heart is softening.'

'It ain't your religion as is doing it, then,' sneered Mosk. 'Now then,
fire away, old cove.'

The man then went on to state that he was desperately hard up when
Jentham came to stay at The Derby Winner, and, as he was unable to pay
his rent, he feared lest Sir Harry should turn him and his sick wife and
much-loved daughter into the streets. Jentham, in his cups, several
times boasted that he was about to receive a large sum of money from an
unknown friend on Southberry Heath, and on one occasion went so far as
to inform Mosk of the time and place when he would receive it. He was
thus confidential when very drunk, on Mosk reproaching him with not
paying for his board and lodging. As the landlord was in much need of
money, his avarice was roused by the largeness of the sum hinted at by
Jentham; and thinking that the man was a tramp, who would not be missed,
he determined to murder and rob him. Gabriel Pendle had given--or
rather, had lent--Mosk a pistol to protect himself from gipsies, and
vagrants, and harvesters on his frequent night journeys across the
lonely heath between Beorminster and Southberry. On the Sunday when the
money was to be paid at the Cross-Roads, Mosk rode over to Southberry;
and late at night, about the time of the appointment, he went on
horseback to the Cross Roads. A storm came on and detained him, so it
was after the bishop had given the money to Jentham that Mosk arrived.
He saw the bishop departing, and recognised his face in the searching
glare of the lightning flashes. When Dr Pendle had disappeared, Mosk
rode up to Jentham, who, with the money in his hand, stood in the
drenching rain under the sign-post. He looked up as the horse
approached, but did not run away, being rendered pot-valiant by the
liquor he had drunk earlier in the evening. Before the man could
recognise him, Mosk had jumped off his horse; and, at close quarters,
had shot Jentham through the heart. 'He fell in the mud like a 'eap of
clothes,' said Mosk, 'so I jus' tied up the 'oss to the sign-post, an'
went through his pockets. I got the cash--a bundle of notes, they
wos--and some other papers as I found. Then I dragged his corp into a
ditch by the road, and galloped orf on m' oss as quick as I cud go back
to Southberry. There I stayed all night, sayin' as I'd bin turned back
by the storm from riding over to Beorminster. Nex' day I come back to m'
hotel, and a week arter I paid m' rent to Sir 'Arry with the notes I'd
stole. I guv a ten of 'em to young Mr Pendle, and two fives of m' own,
as he wanted to change a twenty. If I'd know'd as it was dangerous I'd
hev gone up to London and got other notes; but I never thought I'd be
found out by the numbers. No one thought as I did it; but I did. 'Ow did
you think 'twas me, guv'nor?'

'You were always drunk,' answered Baltic, who had written all this down,
'and I sometimes heard you talking to yourself. Then Sir Harry said that
you had paid your rent, and he did not know where you got the money
from. Afterwards I found out about the pistol and the notes you had
paid Sir Harry. I had no proof of your guilt, although I suspected you
for a long time; but it was the pistol which Mother Jael picked up that
put me on the right track.'

'Ah, wos it now?' said Mosk, with regret. 'Th' 'oss knocked that out of
m' 'and when I wos tyin' him up, and I 'adn't no time to look for it in
the mud an' dark. Y' wouldn't hev caught me, I s'pose, if it hadn't bin
for that bloomin' pistol?'

'Oh, yes, I would,' rejoined Baltic, coolly; 'the notes would have
hanged you in any case, and I would have got at them somehow. I
suspected you all along.'

'Wish y' 'adn't come to m' house,' muttered Mosk, discontentedly.

'I was guided there by God to punish your sin.'

'Yah! Stuff! Gimme that confession and I'll sign it.'

But Baltic, wary old fellow as he was, would not permit this without due
formality. He had the governor of the gaol brought to the cell, and Mosk
with a laugh signed the confession which condemned him in the presence
of two witnesses. The governor took it away with him, and again left
Baltic and the murderer alone. They eyed one another.

'Now that I know all--' began Baltic.

'Y' don't know all,' interrupted Mosk, with a taunting laugh; 'there's
sumthin' I ain't told y', an' I ain't agoin' to tell.'

'You have confessed your sin, that is enough for me. God is softening
your hard heart. Grace is coming to your soul. My brother! my brother!
let us pray.'

'Sha'n't! Leave me alone, can't y'?'

Baltic fell on his knees. 'Oh, merciful God, have pity upon this most
unhappy man sunk in the pit of sin. Let the Redeemer, Thy only begotten
Son, stretch out His saving--'

Mosk began to sing a comic song in a harsh voice.

'His saving hand, oh God, to drag this poor soul from perdition. Let him
call upon Thy most Holy Name out of the low dungeon. Cut him not off in
the--'

'Stop! stop!' shrieked the unhappy man, with his fingers in his ears,
'oh, stop!'

'His sins are as scarlet, but the precious blood of the Lamb will bleach
them whiter than fine wool. Have mercy, Heavenly Father--'

Mosk, over-wrought and worn out, began to sob hysterically. At the sound
of that grief Baltic sprang to his feet and laid a heavy hand on the
shoulder of the sinner.

'On your knees! on your knees, my brother,' he cried in trumpet tones,
with flashing eyes, 'implore mercy before the Great White Throne. Now is
the time for repentance. God pity you! Christ save you! Satan loose
you!' And he forced the man on to his knees. 'Down in Christ's name.'

A choking, strangled cry escaped from the murderer, and his body pitched
forward heavily on the cold stones. Baltic continued to pray.




CHAPTER XXXVI

THE REBELLION OF MRS PENDLE


'Thank God!' said the bishop, when he heard from Gabriel's lips that the
criminal, who knew his secret, had promised to be silent, 'at last I can
breathe freely; but what a price to pay for our safety--what a price!'

'Do you mean my marriage to Bell?' asked Gabriel, steadily.

'Yes! If she was undesirable before, she is more so now. So far as I
have seen her I do not think she is the wife for you; and as the
daughter of that blood-stained man--oh, Gabriel, my son! how can I
consent that you should take her to your bosom?'

'Father,' replied the curate, quietly, 'you seem to forget that I love
Bell dearly. It was not to close Mosk's mouth that I consented to marry
her; in any case I should do so. She promised to become my wife in her
time of prosperity, and I should be the meanest of men did I leave her
now that she is in trouble. Bell was dear to me before; she is dearer to
me now; and I am proud to become her husband.'

'But her father is a murderer, Gabriel!'

'Would you make her responsible for his sins? That is not like you,
father.'

The bishop groaned. 'God knows I do not wish to thwart you, for you have
been a good son to me. But reflect for one moment how public her
father's crime has been; everywhere his wickedness is known; and should
you marry this girl, your wife, however innocent, must bear the stigma
of being that man's daughter. How would you, a sensitive and refined man
shrinking from public scandal, bear the shame of hearing your wife
spoken about as a murderer's daughter?'

'I shall take steps to avert that danger. Yes, father, when Bell becomes
my wife we shall leave England for ever.'

'Gabriel! Gabriel!' cried the bishop, piteously, 'where would you go?'

'To the South Seas,' replied the curate, his thin face lighting up with
excitement; 'there, as Baltic tells us, missionaries are needed for the
heathen. I shall become a missionary, father, and Bell will work by my
side to expiate her father's sin by aiding me to bring light to those
lost in darkness.'

'My poor boy, you dream Utopia. From what I saw of that girl, she is not
one to take up such a life. You will not find your Priscilla in her. She
is of the world, worldly.'

'The affliction which has befallen her may turn her thoughts from the
world.'

'No!' said the bishop, with quiet authority. 'I am, as you know, a man
who does not speak idly or without experience, and I tell you, Gabriel,
that the girl is not the stuff out of which you can mould an ideal wife.
She is handsome, I grant you; and she seems to be gifted with a fair
amount of common sense; but, if you will forgive my plain speaking of
one dear to you, she is vain of her looks, fond of dress and admiration,
and is not possessed of a refined nature. She says that she loves you;
that may be; but you will find that she does not love you sufficiently
to merge her life in yours, to condemn herself to exile amongst savages
for your sake. Love and single companionship are not enough for such an
one; she wants--and she will always want--society, flattery, amusement
and excitement. My love for you, Gabriel, makes me anxious to think well
of her, but my fatherly care mistrusts her as a wife for a man of your
nature.'

'But I love her,' faltered Gabriel; 'I wish to marry her.'

'Believe me, you will never marry her, my poor lad.'

Gabriel's face flushed. 'Father, would you forbid--?'

'No,' interrupted Dr Pendle. 'I shall not forbid; but she will decline.
If you tell her about your missionary scheme, I am confident she will
refuse to become your wife. Ask her by all means; keep your word as a
gentleman should; but prepare yourself for a disappointment.'

'Ah, father, you do not know my Bell.'

'It is on that point we disagree, Gabriel. I do know her; you do not.
My experience tells me that your faith is misplaced.'

'We shall see,' said Gabriel, standing up very erect; 'you judge her too
harshly, sir. Bell will become my wife, I am sure of that.'

'If she does,' replied the bishop, giving his hand to the young man, 'I
shall be the first to welcome her.'

'My dear, dear father!' cried Gabriel, with emotion, 'you are like
yourself; always kind, always generous. Thank you, father!' And the
curate, not trusting himself to speak further, lest he should break down
altogether, left the room hurriedly.

With a weary sigh Dr Pendle sank into his seat, and pressed his hand to
his aching head. He was greatly relieved to know that his secret was
safe with Mosk; but his troubles were not yet at an end. It was
imperative that he should reprove and dismiss Cargrim for his duplicity,
and most necessary for the rearrangement of their lives that Mrs Pendle
should be informed of the untimely resurrection of her husband. Also,
foreseeing the termination of Gabriel's unhappy romance, he was
profoundly sorry for the young man, knowing well how disastrous would be
the effect on one so impressionable and highly strung. No wonder the
bishop sighed; no wonder he felt depressed. His troubles had come after
the manner of their kind, 'not in single spies, but in battalions,' and
he needed all his strength of character, all his courage, all his faith
in God, to meet and baffle anxieties so overwhelming. In his affliction
he cried aloud with bitter-mouthed Jeremiah, 'Thou hast removed my soul
far off from peace; I forget prosperity.'

In due time Mrs Pendle reappeared in Beorminster, wonderfully improved
in health and spirits. The astringent waters of Nauheim had strengthened
her heart, so that it now beat with regular throbs, where formerly it
had fluttered feebly; they had brought the blood to the surface of the
skin, and had flushed her anaemic complexion with a roseate hue. Her eyes
were bright, her nerves steady, her step brisk; and she began to take
some interest in life, and in those around her. Lucy presented her
mother to the bishop with an unconcealed pride, which was surely
pardonable. 'There, papa,' she said proudly, while the bishop was lost
in wonder at this marvellous transformation. 'What do you think of my
patient now?'

'My dear, it is wonderful! The Nauheim spring is the true fountain of
youth.'

'A very prosaic fountain, I am afraid,' laughed Mrs Pendle; 'the
treatment is not poetical.'

'It is at least magical, my love. I must dip in these restorative waters
myself, lest I should be taken rather for your father than your--' Here
Dr Pendle, recollecting the falsity of the unspoken word, shut his mouth
with a qualm of deadly sickness--what the Scotch call a grue.

Mrs Pendle, however, observant rather of his looks than his words, did
not notice the unfinished sentence. 'You look as though you needed a
course,' she said anxiously; 'if I have grown younger, you have become
older. This is just what happens when I am away. You never can look
after yourself, dear.'

Not feeling inclined to spoil the first joy of reunion, Dr Pendle turned
aside this speech with a laugh, and postponed his explanation until a
more fitting moment. In the meantime, George and Gabriel and Harry were
hovering round the returned travellers with attentions and questions and
frequent congratulations. Mr Cargrim, who had been sulking ever since
the arrest of Mosk had overthrown his plans, was not present to spoil
this pleasant family party, and the bishop spent a golden hour or so of
unalloyed joy. But as the night wore on, this evanescent pleasure passed
away, and when alone with Mrs Pendle in her boudoir, he was so gloomy
and depressed that she insisted upon learning the cause of his
melancholy.

'There must be something seriously wrong, George,' she said earnestly;
'if there is, you need not hesitate to tell me.'

'Can you bear to hear the truth, Amy? Are you strong enough?'

'There _is_ something serious the matter, then?' cried Mrs Pendle, the
colour ebbing from her cheeks. 'What is it, George? Tell me at once. I
can bear anything but this suspense.'

'Amy!' The bishop sat down on the couch beside his wife, and took her
hand in his warm, encouraging clasp. 'You shall know all, my dearest;
and may God strengthen you to bear the knowledge.'

'George! I--I am calm; I am strong; tell me what you mean.'

The bishop clasped her in his arms, held her head to his breast, and in
low, rapid tones related all that had taken place since the night of the
reception. He did not spare himself in the recital; he concealed
nothing, he added nothing, but calmly, coldly, mercilessly told of
Krant's return, of Krant's blackmail, of Krant's terrible end. Thence he
passed on to talk of Cargrim's suspicions, of Baltic's arrival, of
Mosk's arrest, and of the latter's promise to keep the secret of which
he had so wickedly become possessed. Having told the past, he discussed
the present, and made arrangements for the future. 'Only Gabriel and
myself and Graham know the truth now, dearest,' he concluded, 'for this
unhappy man Mosk may be already accounted as one dead. Next week you and
I must take a journey to some distant parish in the west of England, and
there become man and wife for the second time. Gabriel will keep silent;
George and Lucy need never know the truth; and so, my dearest, all
things--at least to the public eye--shall be as they were. You need not
grieve, Amy, or accuse yourself unjustly. If we have sinned, we have
sinned innocently, and the burden of evil cannot be laid on you or me.
Stephen Krant is to blame; and he has paid for his wickedness with his
life. So far as we may--so far as we are able--we must right the wrong.
God has afflicted us, my dearest; but God has also protected us;
therefore let us thank Him with humble hearts for His many mercies. He
will strengthen us to bear the burden; through Him we shall do
valiantly. "For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will give
grace and glory; no good thing will He withhold from them that walk
uprightly."'

How wonderful are women! For weeks Bishop Pendle had been dreading this
interview with his delicate, nervous, sensitive wife. He had expected
tears, sighs, loud sorrow, bursts of hysterical weeping, the wringing of
hands, and all the undisciplined grief of the feminine nature. But the
unexpected occurred, as it invariably does with the sex in question. To
the bishop's unconcealed amazement, Mrs Pendle neither wept nor
fainted; she controlled her emotion with a power of will which he had
never credited her with possessing, and her first thought was not for
herself, but for her companion in misfortune. Placing her hands on
either side of the bishop's face, she kissed him fondly, tenderly,
pityingly.

'My poor darling, how you must have suffered!' she said softly. 'Why did
you not tell me of this long ago, so that I might share your sorrow?'

'I was afraid--afraid to--to speak, Amy,' gasped the bishop, overwhelmed
by her extraordinary composure.

'You need not have been afraid, George. I am no fairweather wife.'

'Alas! alas!' sighed the bishop.

'I am your wife,' cried Mrs Pendle, answering his thought after the
manner of women; 'that wicked, cruel man died to me thirty years ago.'

'In the eyes of the law, my--'

'In the eyes of God I am your wife,' interrupted Mrs Pendle, vehemently;
'for over twenty-five years we have been all in all to one another. I
bear your name, I am the mother of your children. Do you think these
things won't outweigh the claims of that wretch, who ill-treated and
deserted me, who lied about his death, and extorted money for his
forgery? To satisfy your scruples I am willing to marry you again; but
to my mind there is no need, even though that brute came back from the
grave to create it. He--'

'Amy! Amy! the man is dead!'

'I know he is; he died thirty years ago. Don't tell me otherwise. I am
married to you, and my children can hold up their heads with anyone. If
Stephen Krant had come to me with his villainous tempting, I should have
defied him, scorned him, trod him under foot.' She rose in a tempest of
passion and stamped on the carpet.

'He would have told; he would have disgraced us.'

'There can be no disgrace in innocence,' flashed out Mrs Pendle,
fierily. 'We married, you and I, in all good faith. He was reported
dead; you saw his grave. I deny that the man came to life.'

'You cannot deny facts,' said the bishop, shaking his head.

'Can't I? I'd deny anything so far as that wretch is concerned. He
fascinated me when I was a weak, foolish girl, as a serpent fascinates a
bird. He married me for my money; and when it was gone his love went
with it. He treated me like the low-minded brute he was; you know he
did, George, you know he did. When he was shot in Alsace, I thanked God.
I did! I did! I did!'

'Hush, Amy, hush!' said Dr Pendle, trying to soothe her excitement, 'you
will make yourself ill!'

'No, I won't, George; I am as calm as you are; I can't help feeling
excited. I wished to forget that man and the unhappy life he led me. I
did forget him in your love and in the happiness of our children. It was
the sight of that student with the scarred face that made me think of
him. Why, oh, why did I speak about him to Lucy and Gabriel? Why? Why?'

'You were thoughtless, my dear.'

'I was mad, George, mad; I should have held my tongue, but I didn't. And
my poor boy knows the truth. You should have denied it.'

'I could not deny it.'

'Ah! you have not a mother's heart. I would have denied, and lied, and
swore its falsity on the Bible sooner than that one of my darlings
should have known of it.'

'Amy! Amy! you are out of your mind to speak like this. I deny what is
true? I, a priest?--a--'

'You are a man before everything--a man and a father.'

'And a servant of the Most High,' rebuked the bishop, sternly.

'Well, you look on it in a different light to what I do. You suffered; I
should not have suffered. I don't suffer now; I am not going back thirty
years to make my heart ache.' She paused and clenched her hands. 'Are
you sure that he is dead?' she asked harshly.

'Quite sure; dead and buried. There can be no doubt about it this time!'

'Is it necessary that we should marry again?'

'Absolutely necessary,' said the bishop, decisively.

'Then the sooner we get it over the better,' replied Mrs Pendle,
petulantly. 'Here'--she wrenched the wedding ring off her finger--'take
this! I have no right to wear it. Neither maid, wife, nor widow, what
should I do with a ring?' and she began to laugh.

'Stop that, Amy!' cried the bishop, sharply, for he saw that, after all,
she was becoming hysterical. 'Put the ring again on your finger, until
such time as I can replace it by another. You are Krant's widow, and as
his widow I shall marry you next week.'

As a drop of cold water let fall into boiling coffee causes the bubbling
to subside, so did these few stern words cool down Mrs Pendle's
excitement. She overcame her emotion; she replaced the ring on her
finger, and again resumed her seat by the bishop. 'My poor dear George,'
said she, smoothing his white hair, 'you are not angry with me?'

'Not angry, Amy; but I am rather vexed that you should speak so
bitterly.'

'Well, darling, I won't speak bitterly again. Stephen is dead, so do not
let us think about him any more. Next week we shall marry again, and all
our troubles will be at an end.'

'They will, please God,' said the bishop, solemnly; 'and oh, Amy,
dearest, let us thank Him for His great mercy.'

'Do you think He has been merciful?' asked Mrs Pendle, doubtfully, for
her religious emotion was not strong enough to blind her to the stubborn
fact that their troubles had been undeserved, that they were innocent
sinners.

'Most merciful,' murmured the bishop, bowing his head. 'Has He not shown
us how to expiate our sin?'

'Our sin; no, George, I won't agree to that. We have not sinned. We
married in the fullest belief that Stephen was dead.'

'My dear, all that is past and done with. Let us look to the future, and
thank the Almighty that He has delivered us out of our troubles.'

'Yes, I thank Him for that, George,' said Mrs Pendle, meekly enough.

'That is my own dear Amy,' answered the bishop; and producing his pocket
Bible, he opened it at random. His eye alighted on a verse of Jeremiah,
which he read out with thankful emotion,--

'And I will deliver thee out of the hand of the wicked; and I will
redeem thee out of the hand of the terrible.'




CHAPTER XXXVII

DEA EX MACHINA


As may be guessed, Captain Pendle, now that the course of true love ran
smoother, was an assiduous visitor to the Jenny Wren house. He and Mab
were all in all to one another, and in the egotism of their love did not
trouble themselves about the doings of their neighbours. It is true that
George was relieved and pleased to hear of Mosk's arrest and confession,
because Gabriel was thereby exonerated from all suspicion of having
committed a vile crime; but when reassured on this point, he ceased to
interest himself in the matter. He was ignorant that his brother loved
Bell Mosk, as neither Baltic nor the bishop had so far enlightened him,
else he might not have been quite so indifferent to the impending trial
of the wretched criminal. As it was, the hot excitement prevalent in
Beorminster left him cold, and both he and Mab might have been dwellers
in the moon for all the interest they displayed in the topic of the day.
They lived, according to the selfish custom of lovers, in an Arcadia of
their own creation, and were oblivious to the doings beyond its borders.
Which disregard was natural enough in their then state of mind.

However, George, being in the world and of the world, occasionally
brought to Mab such scraps of news as he thought might interest her. He
told her of his mother's return, of her renewed health, of her pleasure
in hearing that the engagement had been sanctioned by the bishop, and
delivered a message to the effect that she wished to see and embrace her
future daughter-in-law--all of which information gave Mab wondrous
pleasure and Miss Whichello a considerable amount of satisfaction, since
she saw that there would be no further question of her niece's
unsuitability for George.

'You deserve some reward for your good news,' said Mab, and produced a
silk knitted necktie of martial red, 'so here it is!'

'Dearest,' cried Captain Pendle, kissing the scarf, 'I shall wear it
next to my heart;' then, thinking the kiss wasted on irresponsive silk,
he transferred it to the cheek of his lady-love.

'Nonsense!' said Miss Whichello, smiling broadly; 'wear it round your
neck like a sensible lover.'

'Are lovers ever sensible?' inquired the captain, with a twinkle.

'I know one who isn't,' cried Mab, playfully. 'No, sir,' removing an
eager arm, 'you will shock aunty.'

'Aunty has become hardened to such shocks,' smiled Miss Whichello.

'Aunty has been as melancholy as an owl of late,' retorted Mab,
caressing the old lady; 'ever since the arrest of that man Mosk she has
been quite wretched.'

'Don't speak of him, Mab.'

'Halloo! said George, with sudden recollection, 'I knew there was
something else to tell you. Mosk is dead.'

Miss Whichello gave a faint shriek, and tightly clasped the hand of her
niece. 'Dead!' she gasped, pale-cheeked and low-toned. 'Mosk dead!'

'As a door nail,' rejoined George, admiring his present; 'he hanged
himself last night with his braces, so the gallows have lost a victim
and Beorminster society a sensation trial of--'

'George!' cried Mab, in alarm, 'don't talk so; you will make aunty
faint.'

And indeed the little old lady looked as though she were on the point of
swooning. Her face was white, her skin was cold, and leaning back her
head she had closed her eyes. Captain Pendle's item of news had produced
so unexpected a result that he and Mab stared at one another in
surprise.

'You shouldn't tell these horrors, George.'

'My love, how was I to know your aunt took an interest in the man?'

'I don't take an interest in him,' protested Miss Whichello, faintly;
'but he killed Jentham, and now he kills himself; it's horrible.'

'Horrible, but necessary,' assented George, cheerfully; 'a man who
murders another can't expect to get off scot-free. Mosk has only done
for himself what the law would have done for him. I'm sorry for Baltic,
however.'

'The missionary! Why, George?'

'Because this suicide will be such a disappointment to him. He has been
trying to make the poor devil--beg pardon--poor wretch repent; but it
would seem that he has not been successful.'

'Did he not confess to Mr Baltic?' asked Miss Whichello, anxiously.

'I believe so; he repented that far.'

'Do you know what he told him?'

'That he had killed Jentham, and had stolen his money.'

'Did he say if he had found any papers on Jentham's body?'

'Not that I know of,' replied George, staring. 'Why! had Jentham any
particular papers in his possession?'

'Oh, I don't know; I really can't say,' answered Miss Whichello,
confusedly, and rose unsteadily to her feet. 'Mab, my dear, you will
excuse me, I am not very well; I shall go to my bedroom.'

'Let me come too, aunty.'

'No! no!' Miss Whichello waved her niece back. 'I wish to be alone,' and
she left the room abruptly, without a look at either of the young
people. They could not understand this strange behaviour. Mab,
woman-like, turned on Captain Pendle.

'It is all your fault, George, talking of murders and suicides.'

'I'm awf'ly sorry,' said the captain, penitently, 'but I thought you
would like to hear the news.'

'Not the police news, thank you,' said Mab, with dignity.

'Why not? Something to talk about, you know.'

'You have me to talk about, Captain Pendle.'

'Oh!' George sprang forward. 'Let us discuss that subject at once. You
deserve some punishment for calling me out of my name. There, wicked
one!'

'George,' very faintly, 'I--I shall not allow it! You--you should ask
permission.'

'Waste of time,' said the practical George, and slipped his arm round
her waist.

'Oh, indeed!'--indignantly--'well, I--' Here Captain Pendle punished her
again, after which Mab said that he was like all men, that he ought to
be ashamed of himself, etc., etc., etc. Then she frowned, then she
smiled, and finally became a meek and patient Grissel to the unfeigned
delight of the superior mind. So the pair forgot Mosk and his wretched
death, forgot Miss Whichello and her strange conduct, and retreated from
the world into their Arcadia--Paradise--Elysium, in which it is best
that all sensible people should leave this pair of foolish lovers.

Miss Whichello had other things to think of than this billing and
cooing. She went to her bedroom, and lay down for ten minutes or so;
then she got up again and began pacing restlessly to and fro. Her
thoughts were busy with Mosk, with his victim, with Baltic; she wondered
if Jentham had been in possession of certain papers, if these had been
stolen by Mosk, if they were now in the pocket of Baltic. This last idea
made her blood turn cold and her heart drum a loud tattoo. She covered
her face with her hands; she sat down, she rose up, and in a nervous
fever of apprehension leaned against the wall. Then, after the manner of
those over-wrought, she began to talk aloud.

'I must tell someone; I must have advice,' she muttered, clenching her
hands. 'It is of no use seeing Mr Baltic; he is a stranger; he may
refuse to help me. Dr Graham? No! he is too cynical. The bishop?' She
paused and struck her hands lightly together. 'The bishop! I shall see
him and tell him all. For his son's sake, he will help my poor darling.'

Having made up her mind to this course, Miss Whichello put on her
old-fashioned silk cloak and poke bonnet. Then she fished a bundle of
papers, yellow with age, out of a tin box, and slipped them into her
capacious pocket. Biting her lips and rubbing her cheeks to bring back
the colour, she glided downstairs, stole past the drawing-room door like
a guilty creature, and in another minute was in the square. Here she
took a passing fly, and ordered the man to drive her to the palace as
speedily as possible.

'I trust I am acting for the best,' murmured the little old lady, with a
sigh. 'I think I am; for if Bishop Pendle cannot help me, no one else
can. After thirty years, oh God! my poor, poor darling!'

In the Greek drama, when the affairs of the _dramatis personae_ became so
entangled by circumstance, or fate, or sheer folly as to be beyond their
capability of reducing them to order, those involved in such disorder
were accustomed to summon a deity to accomplish what was impossible for
mortals to achieve. Then stepped the god out of a machine to redress the
wrong and reward the right, to separate the sheep from the goats and to
deliver a moral speech to the audience, commanding them to note how
impossible it was for man to dispense with the guidance and judgment and
powerful aid of the Olympian Hierarchy. Miss Whichello's mission was
something similar; and although both she and Bishop Pendle were ignorant
that she represented the 'goddess out of a machine' who was to settle
all things in a way conducive to the happiness of all persons, yet such
was the case. Impelled by Fate, she sought out the very man to whom her
mission was most acceptable; and seated face to face with Bishop Pendle
in that library which had been the scene of so many famous interviews,
she unconsciously gave him a piece of information which put an end to
all his troubles. She had certainly arrived at the eleventh hour, and
might just as well have presented herself earlier; but Destiny, the
playwright of the Universe, always decrees that her dramas should play
their appointed time and never permits her arbitrator to appear until
immediately before the fall of the green curtain. So far as the
Beorminster drama was concerned, the crucial moment was at hand, the
actor--or rather actress--who was to remedy all things was on the scene,
and shortly the curtain would fall on a situation of the rough made
smooth. Then red fire, marriage bells, triumphant virtue and cowering
guilt, with a rhyming tag, delivered by the prettiest actress, of 'All's
well that ends well!'

'I come to consult you confidentially,' said Miss Whichello, when she
and the bishop were alone in the library. 'I wish to ask for your
advice.'

'My advice and my friendship are both at your service, my dear lady,'
replied the courteous bishop.

'It is about Mab's parents,' blurted out the little old lady.

'Oh!' The bishop looked grave. 'You are about to tell me the truth of
those rumours which were prevalent in Beorminster when you brought Miss
Arden home to your house?'

'Yes. I daresay Mrs Pansey said all sorts of wicked things about me,
bishop?'

'Well, no!'--Dr Pendle wriggled uneasily--'she spoke rather of your
sister than of you. I do not wish to repeat scandal, Miss Whichello, so
let us say no more about the matter. Your niece shall marry my son; be
assured of that. It is foolish to rake up the past,' added the bishop,
with a sigh.

'I must rake up the past; I must tell you the truth,' said Miss
Whichello, in firm tones, 'if only to put a stop to Mrs Pansey's evil
tongue. What did she say, bishop?'

'Really, really, my dear lady, I--'

'Bishop, tell me what she said about my sister. I will know.'

Reluctantly the bishop spoke out at this direct request. 'She said that
your sister had eloped in London with a man who afterwards refused to
marry her, that she had a child, and that such child is your niece, Miss
Arden, whom you brought to Beorminster after the death of your unhappy
sister.'

'A fine mixture of truth and fiction indeed,' said the old lady, in a
haughty voice. 'I am obliged to Mrs Pansey for the way in which she has
distorted facts.'

'I fear, indeed, that Mrs Pansey exaggerates,' said Dr Pendle, shaking
his head.

'With all due respect, bishop, she is a wicked old Sapphira!' cried Miss
Whichello, and forthwith produced a bundle of papers out of her pocket.
'My unfortunate sister Annie did run away, but she was married to her
lover on the very day she left our house in London, and my darling Mab
is as legitimate as your son George, Dr Pendle.'

The bishop winced at this unlucky illustration. 'Have you a proof of
this marriage, Miss Whichello?' he asked, with a glance at the papers.

'Of course I have,' she replied, untying the red tape with trembling
fingers. 'Here is the certificate of marriage which my poor Annie gave
me on her dying bed. I would have shown it before to all Beorminster had
I known of Mrs Pansey's false reports. Look at it, bishop.' She thrust
it into his hand. 'Ann Whichello, spinster; Pharaoh Bosvile, bachelor.
They were married in St Chad's Church, Hampstead, in the month of
December 1869. Here is Mab's certificate of birth; she was christened in
the same church, and born in 1870, the year of the Franco-German war, so
as this is ninety-seven, she is now twenty-seven years of age, just two
years older than your son, Captain Pendle.'

With much interest the bishop examined the two certificates of birth and
marriage which Miss Whichello placed before him. They were both legally
perfect, and he saw plainly that however badly Bosvile might have
behaved afterwards to Ann Bosvile she was undoubtedly his wife.

'Not that he would have married her if he could have helped it,' went on
Miss Whichello, while the bishop looked at the documents, 'but Annie had
a little money--not much--which she was to receive on her wedding day,
so the wretch married her and wrote to my dear father for the money,
which, of course, under grandfather's will, had to be paid. Father never
would see Annie again, but when the poor darling wrote to me a year
afterwards that she was dying with a little child by her side, what
could I do but go and comfort her? Ah, poor darling Annie!' sobbed the
little old lady, 'she was sadly changed from the bright, beautiful girl
I remembered. Her husband turned out a brute and a ruffian and a
spendthrift. He wasted all her money, and left her within six months of
the marriage--the wretch! Annie tried to support herself by needlework,
but she took cold in her starving condition and broke down. Then Mab was
born, and she wrote to me. I went at once, bishop, but arrived just in
time to get those papers and close my dear Annie's eyes. Afterwards I
brought Mab back with me to Beorminster, but I kept her for some time in
London on account of my father. When I did bring her here, and I showed
him the marriage certificate, he got quite fond of the little pet. So
all these years Mab has lived with me quite like my own sweet child, and
your son is a lucky man to win her love,' added the old maid, rather
incoherently. 'It is not everyone that I would give my dear Annie's
child to, I can tell you, bishop. So that's the whole story, and a sadly
common one it is.'

'It does you great credit, Miss Whichello,' said Dr Pendle, patting her
hand; 'and I have the highest respect both for you and your niece. I am
proud, my dear lady, that she should become my daughter. But tell me how
your unhappy sister became acquainted with this man?'

'He was a violinist,' replied Miss Whichello, 'a public violinist, and
played most beautifully. Annie heard him and saw him, and lost her head
over his looks and genius. He called himself Amaru, but his real name
was Pharaoh Bosvile.'

'A strange name, Miss Whichello.'

'It is a gipsy name, bishop. Bosvile was a gipsy. He learned the violin
in Hungary or Spain, I don't know which, and played wonderfully.
Afterwards he had an accident which hurt his hand, and he could not
play; that was the reason he married Annie--just for her money, the
wretch!'

'A gipsy,' murmured the bishop, who had turned pale.

'Yes; an English gipsy, but like all those people he wandered far and
near. The accident which hurt his hand also marked his cheek with a
scar.'

'The right cheek?' gasped Dr Pendle, leaning forward.

'Why, yes,' said Miss Whichello, rather astonished at the bishop's
emotion; 'that was how I recognised him here when he called himself
Jentham. He--'

With a cry the bishop sprang to his feet in a state of uncontrollable
agitation, shaking and white. 'W--was Jentham--Bos--Bosvile?' he
stammered. 'Are--are you sure?'

'I am certain,' replied Miss Whichello, with a scared look. 'I have seen
him dozens of times. Bishop!' Her voice rose in a scream, for Dr Pendle
had fallen forward on his desk.

'Oh, my God!' cried the bishop. 'Oh, God most merciful!'

The little old lady was trembling violently. She thought that the bishop
had suddenly gone out of his mind. Nor was she reassured when he stood
up and looked at her with a face, down which the tears were streaming.
Never had Miss Whichello seen a man weeping before, and the sight
terrified her much more than an outburst of anger would have done. She
looked at the bishop, he looked at her, and they were both ashy white,
both overcome with nervous emotion.

After a moment the bishop opened a drawer and took out a bundle of
papers. Out of these he selected the marriage certificate of his wife
and Krant, and compared it with the certificate of Pharaoh Bosvile and
Ann Whichello.

'Thank God!' he said again, in a tremulous voice. 'This man as Bosvile
married your sister in 1869, as Krant he married Mrs Pendle in 1870.'

'Married Mrs Pendle!' shrieked Miss Whichello, darting forward.

'Yes. She was a Mrs Krant when I married her, and as her husband was
reported dead, I believed her to be his widow.'

'But she was not his widow!'

'No, for Krant was Jentham, and Jentham was alive after my marriage.'

'I don't mean that,' cried Miss Whichello, laying a finger on her
sister's certificate, 'but Jentham as Bosvile married Annie in 1869.'

'He married my wife in October 1870,' said the bishop, breathlessly.

'Then his second marriage was a false one,' said Miss Whichello, 'for in
that year, in that month, my sister was still alive. Mrs Pendle was
never his wife.'

'No, thank God!' said the bishop, clasping his hands, 'she is my own
true wife after all.'




CHAPTER XXXVIII

EXIT MR CARGRIM


Once informed of the welcome truth, Dr Pendle lost no time in having it
verified by documents and extraneous evidence. This was not the affair
of hours, but of days, since it entailed a visit to St Chad's Church at
Hampstead, and a rigorous examination of the original marriage and death
certificates. Also, as Bosvile, _alias_ Krant, _alias_ Jentham was said
to be a gipsy on the authority of Miss Whichello, and as the information
that Baltic was in the confidence of Mother Jael had trickled through
Brace and Graham to the bishop, the last named considered it advisable
that the ex-sailor should be informed of the actual truth. Now that Dr
Pendle was personally satisfied of the legality of his marriage, he had
no hesitation in acquainting Baltic with his life-history, particularly
as the man could obtain from Mother Jael an assurance, in writing if
necessary, that Bosvile and Jentham were one and the same. For the
satisfaction of all parties concerned, it was indispensable that proof
positive should be procured, and the matter settled beyond all doubt.
The position, as affecting both the private feelings and social status
of Bishop and Mrs Pendle, was too serious a one to be dealt with
otherwise than in the most circumspect manner.

After Miss Whichello's visit and revelation, Dr Pendle immediately
sought out his wife to explain that after all doubts and difficulties,
and lies and forgeries, they were as legally bound to one another as any
couple in the three Kingdoms; that their children were legitimate and
could bear their father's name, and that the evil which had survived the
death of its author was now but shadow and wind--in a word,
non-existent. Mrs Pendle, who had borne the shock of her pseudo
husband's resurrection so bravely, was quite overwhelmed by the good
news of her re-established position, and fainted outright when her
husband broke it to her. But for Lucy's sake--as the bishop did not wish
Lucy to know, or even suspect anything--she afterwards controlled her
feelings better, and, relieved from the apprehension of coming danger,
speedily recovered her health and spirits. She was thus, at a week's
end, enabled to attend in the library a council of six people summoned
by her husband to adjust the situation. The good bishop was nothing if
not methodical and thorough; and he was determined that the matter of
the false and true marriages should be threshed out to the last grain.
Therefore, the council was held _ex aequo et bono_.

On this momentous occasion there were present the bishop himself and Mrs
Pendle, who sat close beside his chair; also Miss Whichello, fluttered
and anxious, in juxtaposition with Dr Graham; and Gabriel, who had
placed himself near Baltic the sedate and solemn-faced. When all were
assembled, the bishop lost no time in speaking of the business which had
brought them together. He related in detail the imposture of Jentham,
the murder by Mosk, who since had taken his own life, and the revelation
of Miss Whichello, ending with the production of the documents proving
the several marriages, and a short statement explaining the same.

'Here,' said Dr Pendle, 'is the certificate of marriage between Pharaoh
Bosvile and Ann Whichello, dated December 1869. They lived together as
man and wife for six months up to May 1870, after which Bosvile deserted
the unhappy lady.'

'After spending all her money, the wretch!' put in Miss Whichello,
angrily.

'Bosvile!' continued the bishop, 'had previously made the acquaintance
of my wife, then Amy Lancaster, under the false name of Stephen Krant;
and so far won her love that, thinking him a single man, she consented
to marry him.'

'No, bishop,' contradicted Mrs Pendle, very positively, 'he did not win
my love; he fascinated me with his good looks and charming manners, for
in spite of the scar on his cheek Stephen was very handsome. Some friend
introduced him to my father as a Hungarian exile hiding under the name
of Krant from Austrian vengeance; and my father, enthusiastic on the
subject of patriotism, admitted him to our house. I was then a weak,
foolish girl, and his wicked brilliancy drew me towards him. When he
learned that I had money of my own he proposed to marry me. My father
objected, but I was infatuated by Stephen's arts, and became his wife in
October 1870.'

'Quite so, my love,' assented her husband, mildly; 'as an inexperienced
girl you were at the mercy of that Belial. You were married as you say
in October 1870; here, to prove that statement, is the certificate,' and
the bishop passed it to Baltic. 'But at the time of such marriage Mrs
Bosvile was still alive. Miss Whichello can vouch for this important
fact!'

'Ah! that I can,' sighed the little old lady, shaking her head. 'My poor
darling sister did not die until January 1871, and I was present to
close her weary--weary eyes. Is not that the certificate of her death
you are holding?'

'Yes,' answered the bishop, simply, and gave the paper into her
outstretched hand. 'You can now understand, my friends,' he continued,
addressing the company generally, 'that as Mrs Bosvile was alive in
October 1870, the marriage which her husband then contracted with Miss
Lancaster was a false one.'

'That is clear enough,' murmured the attentive Baltic, nodding.

'It thus appears,' resumed the bishop, concisely, 'that when I
married--as I thought--Amy Krant, a widow, in September 1871, I really
and truly wedded Amy Lancaster, a spinster. Therefore this lady'--and
here the bishop clasped tenderly the hand of Mrs Pendle--'is my true,
dear wife, and has been legally so these many years, notwithstanding
Bosvile's infamous assertion to the contrary.'

'Thank God! thank God!' cried Mrs Pendle, with joyful tears. 'Gabriel,
my darling boy!' and she stretched out her disengaged hand to caress her
son. Gabriel kissed it with unconcealed emotion.

In the meantime, Dr Graham was examining the bishop's marriage
certificate with sharp attention, as he thought he espied a flaw.
'Pardon me, my dear Pendle,' said he, in his crisp voice, 'but I see
that Mrs Pendle became your wife under a name which we now know was not
then her own. Does that false name vitiate the marriage?'

'By no means,' replied the bishop, promptly. 'I took counsel's opinion
on that point when I was in London. It is as follows'--and Dr Pendle
read an extract from a legal-looking document. '"A marriage which is
made in ignorance in a false name is perfectly good. The law on the
subject appears to be this--If a person, to conceal his or her identity,
assumes either a wrong name or description, so as to practically obtain
a secret marriage, the marriage is void; but if the wrong name or
description is adopted by accident or innocently, the marriage is good."
Therefore,' added Dr Pendle, placing the paper on one side, 'Mrs Pendle
was not Bosvile's wife on two distinct grounds. Firstly, because his
true wife was alive when he married her. Secondly, because he
fraudulently made her his wife by giving a false name and description.
Regarding my own marriage, it is a good one in law, because Mrs Pendle's
false name of Krant was adopted in all innocence. There is no court in
the realm of Great Britain,' concluded the bishop, with conviction,
'that would not uphold my marriage as true and lawful, and God be
thanked that such is the case!'

'God be thanked!' said Gabriel, in his turn, and said it with heartfelt
earnestness. Graham, bubbling over with pleasure, jumped up in his
restless way, and gave a friendly hand in turn to Dr Pendle and his
wife. 'I congratulate you both, my dear friends,' said he, not without
emotion. 'You have won through your troubles at last, and can now live
in much-deserved peace for the rest of your lives. _Deus nobis haec otia
fecit!_ Hey, bishop, you know the Mantuan. Well, well, you have paid
forfeit to the gods, Pendle, and they will no longer envy your good
fortune, or seek to destroy it.'

'Graham, Graham,' said the bishop, with kindly tolerance, 'always these
Pagan sentiments.'

'Ay! ay! I am a Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,' quoted the doctor,
rubbing his hands. 'Well, we cannot all be bishops.'

'We can all be Christians,' said Baltic, gravely. 'Ah!' retorted
Graham. 'What we should be, and what we are, Mr Baltic, are points
capable of infinite discussion. At present we should be smiling and
thankful, which,' added he, breaking off, 'Miss Whichello is not, I
regret to see.'

'I am thinking of my poor sister,' sobbed the old lady. 'How do I know
but that the villain did not deceive her also by making her his wife
under a false name?'

'No, madam!' interposed Baltic, eagerly. 'Bosvile was the man's true
name, therefore he was legally your sister's husband. I wrote down a
statement by Mother Jael that Jentham was really Pharaoh Bosvile, and,
at my request, she signed the same. Here it is, signed by her and
witnessed by me. I shall give it to you, my lord, that you may lock it
up safely with those certificates.'

'Thank you, Mr Baltic,' said the bishop, taking the slip of paper
tendered by the missionary, 'but I trust that--er--that this woman knows
little of the truth.'

'She knows nothing, my lord, save that Bosvile, for his own purposes,
took the names of Amaru and Jentham at different times. The rogue was
cunning enough to keep his own counsel of his life amongst the Gentiles;
of his marriages, false and true, Mother Jael is ignorant. Set your mind
at rest, sir, she will never trouble you in any way.'

'Good!' said Dr Pendle, drawing a long breath of relief. 'Then, as such
is the case, my friends, I think it advisable that we should keep our
knowledge of Bosvile's iniquities to ourselves. I do not wish my son
George or my daughter Lucy to learn the sad story of the past. Such
knowledge would only vex them unnecessarily.'

'And I'm sure I don't want Mab to know what a villain her father was,'
broke in Miss Whichello. 'Thank God she is unlike him in every way, save
that she takes after him in looks. When Captain Pendle talks of Mab's
rich Eastern beauty, I shiver all over; he little knows that he speaks
the truth, and that Mab has Arab blood in her veins.'

'Not Arab blood, my dear lady,' cried Graham, alertly; 'the gipsies do
not come from Arabia, but, as is believed, from the north of India. They
appeared in Europe about the fifteenth century, calling themselves,
falsely enough, Egyptians. But both Borrow and Leland are agreed
that--'

'I don't want to hear about the gipsies,' interrupted Miss Whichello,
cutting short the doctor's disquisition; 'all I know is, that if Bosvile
or Jentham, or whatever he called himself, is a sample of them, they are
a wicked lot of Moabites. I wonder the bishop lets his son marry the
child of one, I do indeed!'

'Dear Miss Whichello,' said Mrs Pendle, putting her arm round the poor
lady's neck, 'both the bishop and myself are proud that Mab should
become our daughter and George's wife. And after all,' she added
naively, 'neither of them will ever know the truth!'

'I hope not, I'm sure,' wept Miss Whichello.' I buried that miserable
man at my own expense, as he was Mab's father. And I have had a stone
put up to him, with his last name, "Jentham," inscribed on it, so that
no one might ask questions, which would have been asked had I written
his real name.'

'No one will ask questions,' said the bishop, soothingly, 'and if they
do, no answers will be forthcoming; we are all agreed on that point.'

'Quite agreed,' answered Baltic, as spokesman for the rest; 'we shall
let the dead past bury its dead, and God bless the future.'

'Amen!' said Dr Pendle, and bowed his grey head in a silence more
eloquent than words.

So far the rough was made smooth, with as much skill as could be
exercised by mortal brains; but after Dr Pendle had dismissed his
friends there yet remained to him an unpleasant task, the performance of
which, in justice to himself, could not longer be postponed. This was
the punishment and dismissal of Michael Cargrim, who indeed merited
little leniency at the hands of the man whose confidence he had so
shamefully abused. Serpents should be crushed, traitors should be
punished, however unpleasant may be the exercise of the judicial
function; for to permit evil men to continue in their evil-doing is to
encourage vicious habits detrimental to the well-being of humanity. The
more just the judge, the more severe should he be towards such
calculating sinners, lest, infected by example, mankind should become
even more corrupt than it is. Bishop Pendle was a kindly man, who wished
to think the best of his fellow-creatures, and usually did so; but he
could not blind himself to the base and plotting nature of Cargrim; and,
for the sake of his family, for the well-being of the Church, for the
benefit of the schemer himself, he summoned him to receive rebuke and
punishment. He was not now the patron, the benefactor; but the judge,
the ecclesiastical superior, severe and impartial.

Cargrim obeyed the summons unwillingly enough, as he knew very well that
he was about to receive the righteous reward of his deeds. A day or so
before, when lamenting to Baltic that Dr Pendle had proved innocent, the
man had rebuked him for his baseness, and had given him to understand
that the bishop was fully aware of the contemptible part which he had
acted. Deserted by his former ally, ignorant of Dr Pendle's secret,
convinced of Mosk's guilt, the chaplain was in anything but a pleasant
position. He was reaping what he had so industriously sown; he was
caught in his own snare, and saw no way of defending his conduct. In a
word, he was ruined, and now stood before his injured superior with pale
face and hanging head, ready to be blamed and sentenced without uttering
one word on his own behalf. Nor, had he possessed the insolence to do
so, could he have thought of that one necessary word.

'Michael,' said the bishop, mildly, 'I have been informed by Mr Baltic
that you accused me of a terrible crime. May I ask on what grounds you
did so?'

Cargrim made no reply, but, flushing and paling alternately, looked
shamefaced at the carpet.

'I must answer myself, I see,' continued Dr Pendle, after a short
silence; 'you thought that because I met Jentham on the heath to pay him
some money I murdered him in the viciousness of my heart. Why should you
think so ill of me, my poor boy? Have I not stood in the place of your
father? Have I not treated you as my own son? You know that I have. And
my reward is, that these many weeks you have been secretly trying to
ruin me. Even had I been guilty,' cried the bishop, raising his voice,
'it was not your place to proclaim the shame of one who has cherished
you. If you had such wicked thoughts in your heart, why did you not come
boldly before me and accuse me to my face? I should then have known how
to answer you. I can forgive malice--yes, even malice--but not deceit.
Did you never think of my delicate wife, of my innocent family, when
plotting and scheming my ruin with a smiling face? Alas! alas! Michael,
how could you act in a way so unworthy of a Christian, of a gentleman?'

'What is the use of crying over spilt milk?' said Cargrim, doggedly.
'You have the advantage now and can do what you will.'

'What do you mean by talking like that?' said the bishop, sternly. 'Have
the advantage now indeed; I never lost the advantage, sir, so far as you
are concerned. I did not murder that wretched man, for you know that
Mosk confessed how he shot him for the sake of the money I gave him. I
knew of Jentham in other days, under another name, and when he asked me
for money I gave it to him. My reason for doing so I do not choose to
tell you, Mr Cargrim. It is not your right to question my actions. I am
not only your elder, but your ecclesiastic superior, to whom, as a
priest, you are bound to yield obedience. That obedience I now exact.
You must suffer for your sins.'

'You can't hurt me,' returned Cargrim, with defiance.

'I have no wish to hurt you,' answered the bishop, mildly; 'but for your
own good you must be punished; and punish you I will so far as lies in
my power.'

'I am ready to be punished, my lord; you have the whip hand, so I must
submit.'

'Michael, Michael, harden not your heart! Repent of your wickedness if
it is in you to do so. I cannot spare you if I would. _Bonis nocet quis
quis pepercerit malis_; that is a true saying which, as a priest, I
should obey, and which I intend to obey if only for your own benefit.
After punishment comes repentance and amendment.'

Cargrim scowled. 'It is no use talking further, my lord,' he said
roughly. 'As I have acted like a fool, I must take a fool's wages.'

'You are indeed a fool,' rejoined the bishop, coldly, 'and an ungrateful
fool to boot, or you would not thus answer one who has your interest at
heart. But as you take up such a position, I shall be brief. You must
leave my house at once, and, for very shame, I should advise you to
leave the Church.'

'Leave the Church?' echoed Cargrim, in dismay.

'I have said it. As a bishop, I cannot entrust to a guilty man the care
of immortal souls.'

'Guilty? I am guilty of nothing.'

'Do you call malice, falsehood, dissimulation nothing?'

'You cannot unfrock me for what I have done,' said Cargrim, evading a
direct reply. 'You may have the will, but you have not the power.'

Dr Pendle looked at him in amazement 'Yours is indeed an evil heart,
when you can use such language to me,' he said sorrowfully. 'I see that
it is useless to argue with you in your present fallen condition.'

'Fallen condition, my lord?'

'Yes, poor lad! fallen not only as a priest, but as a man. However, I
shall plead no more. Go where you will, do what you will, although I
advise you once more not to insult an offended God by offering prayers
for others which you need for yourself. Yet, as I am unwilling that you
should starve, I shall instruct my banker in London to pay you a monthly
sum of money until you are beyond want. Now go, Michael. I am bitterly
disappointed in you; and by your own acts you have put it out of my
power to keep you by my side. Go! Repent--and pray.'

The chaplain, with a look of malice on his face, walked, or rather
slunk, towards the door. 'You magnify my paltry sins,' he flung back.
'What of your own great ones?'

'Dare you, wretched man, to speak against your spiritual head!'
thundered the bishop, starting to his feet, vested with the imperious
authority of the Church. 'Go! Quit my sight, lest I cast you out from
amongst us! Go!'

Before the blaze of that righteous wrath, Cargrim, livid and trembling,
crept away like a beaten hound.




CHAPTER XXXIX

ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL


'Bell! Bell! do not give me up.'

'I must, Gabriel; it is my duty.'

'It is your cruelty! Ah, you never loved me as I love you.'

'That is truer than you think, my poor boy. I thought that I loved you,
but I was wrong. It was your position which made me anxious to marry
you; it was your weak nature which made me pity you. But I do not love
you; I never did love you; and it is better that you should know the
truth before we part.'

'Part? Oh, Bell! Bell!'

'Part,' repeated Bell, firmly, 'and for ever.'

Gabriel's head drooped on his breast, and he sighed as one, long past
tears, who hears the clods falling on the coffin in which his beloved
lies. He and Bell Mosk were seated in the little parlour at the back of
the bar, and they were alone in the house, save for one upstairs, in the
room of Mrs Mosk, who watched beside the dead. On hearing of her
husband's rash act, the poor wife, miserable as she had been with the
man, yet felt her earlier love for him so far revive as to declare that
her heart was broken. She moaned and wept and refused all comfort, until
one night she closed her eyes on the world which had been so harsh and
bitter. So Bell was an orphan, bereft of father and mother, and crushed
to the earth by sorrow and shame. In her own way she had loved her
father, and his evil deed and evil end had struck her to the heart. She
was even glad when her mother died, for she well knew that the sensitive
woman would never have held up her head again, after the disgrace which
had befallen her. And Bell, with a white face and dry eyes, long past
weeping, sat in the dingy parlour, refusing the only comfort which the
world could give her weary heart. Poor Bell! poor, pretty Bell!

'Think, Gabriel,' she continued, in a hard, tearless voice, 'think what
shame I would bring upon you were I weak enough to consent to become
your wife. I had not much to give you before; I have less than nothing
now. I never pretended to be a lady; but I thought that, as your wife, I
should never disgrace you. That's all past and done with now. I always
knew you were a true gentleman--honourable and kind. No one but a
gentleman like you would have kept his word with the daughter of a
murderer. But you have done so, dear, and I thank and bless you for your
kindness. The only way in which I can show how grateful I am is to give
you back your ring. Take it, Gabriel, and God be good to you for your
upright kindness.'

There was that in her tone which made Gabriel feel that her decision was
irrevocable. He mechanically took the ring she returned to him and
slipped it on his finger. Never again was it removed from where he
placed it at that moment; and in after days it often reminded him of the
one love of his life. With a second sigh, hopeless and resigned, he rose
to his feet, and looked at the dark figure in the twilight of the room.

'What are your plans, Bell?' he asked in an unemotional voice, which he
hardly recognised as his own.

'I am going away from Beorminster next week,' answered the girl,
listlessly. 'Sir Harry has arranged all about this hotel, and has been
most kind in every way. I have a little money, as Sir Harry paid me for
the furniture and the stock-in-trade. Of course I had to pay f--father's
debts'--she could hardly speak the words--'so there is not much left.
Still, I have sufficient to take me to London and keep me until I can
get a situation.'

'As--as a barmaid?' asked Gabriel, in a low voice.

'As a barmaid,' she replied coldly. 'What else am I fit for?'

'Can I not help you?'

'No; you have given me all the help you could, by showing me how much
you respect me.'

'I do more than respect you, Bell; I love you.' 'I am glad of that,'
replied Bell, softly; 'it is a great thing for a miserable girl like me
to be loved.'

'Bell! Bell! no one can cast a stone at you.'

'I am the daughter of a murderer, Gabriel; and I know better than you
what the world's charity is. Do you think I would stay in this place,
where cruel people would remind me daily and hourly of my father's sin?
Ah, my dear, I know what would be said, and I don't wish to hear it. I
shall bury my poor mother, and go away, never to return.'

'My poor Bell! God has indeed laid a heavy burden upon you.'

'Don't!' Her voice broke and the long-absent tears came into her eyes.
'Don't speak kindly to me, Gabriel; I can't bear kindness. I have made
up my mind to bear the worst. Go away; your goodness only makes things
the harder for me. After all, I am only a woman, and as a woman I must
w-e-e-p.' She broke down, and her tears flowed quickly.

'I shall go,' said Gabriel, feeling helpless, for indeed he could do
nothing. 'Good-bye, Bell!' he faltered.

'Good-bye!' she sobbed. 'God bless you!'

Gabriel, with a sick heart, moved slowly towards the door. Just as he
reached it, Bell rose swiftly, and crossing the room threw her arms
round his neck, weeping as though her overcharged heart would break. 'I
shall never kiss you again,' she wailed,'never, never again!'

'God bless and keep you, my poor darling!' faltered Gabriel.

'And God bless you! for a good man you have been to me,' she sobbed, and
then they parted, never to meet again in this world.

And that was the end of Gabriel Pendle's romance. At first he thought of
going to the South Seas as a missionary, but his father's entreaties
that he should avoid so extreme a course prevailed, and in the end he
went no further from Beorminster than Heathcroft Vicarage. Mr Leigh died
a few days after Bell vanished from the little county town: and Gabriel
was presented with the living by the bishop. He is a conscientious
worker, an earnest priest, a popular vicar, but his heart is still sore
for Bell, who so nobly gave him up to bear her own innocent disgrace
alone. Where Bell is now he does not know; nobody in Beorminster
knows--not even Mrs Pansey--for she has disappeared like a drop of water
in the wild waste ocean of London town. And Gabriel works on amid the
poor and needy with a cheerful face but a sore heart; for it is early
days yet, and his heart-wounds are recent. No one save the bishop knows
how he loved and lost poor Bell; but Mrs Pendle, with the double
instinct of woman and mother, guesses that her favourite son has his own
pitiful romance, and would fain know of it, that she might comfort him
in his sorrow. But Gabriel has never told her; he will never tell her,
but go silent and unmarried through life, true to the memory of the
rough, commonplace woman who proved herself so noble and honourable in
adversity. And so no more of these poor souls.

It is more pleasant to talk of the Whichello-Pansey war. '_Bella
matronis detestata_,' saith the Latin poet, who knew little of the sex
to make such a remark. To be sure, he was talking of public wars, and
not of domestic or social battles; but he should have been more
explicit. Women are born fighters--with their tongues; and an
illustration of this truth was given in Beorminster when Miss Whichello
threw down the gage to Mrs Pansey. The little old lady knew well enough
that when George and Mab were married, the archdeacon's widow would use
her famous memory to recall the scandals she had set afloat nearly
thirty years before. Therefore, to defeat Mrs Pansey once and for all,
she called on that good lady and dared her to say that there was any
disgrace attached to Mab's parentage. Mrs Pansey, anticipating an easy
victory, shook out her skirts, and was up in arms at once.

'I know for a fact that your sister Ann did not marry the man she eloped
with,' cried Mrs Pansey, shaking her head viciously.

'Who told you this fact?' demanded Miss Whichello, indignantly.

'I--I can't remember at present, but that's no matter--it's true.'

'It is not true, and you know it is an invention of your own spiteful
mind, Mrs Pansey. My sister was married on the day she left home, and I
have her marriage certificate to prove it. I showed it to Bishop
Pendle, because you poisoned his mind with your malicious lies, and he
is quite satisfied.'

'Oh, any story would satisfy the bishop,' sneered Mrs Pansey; 'we all
know what he is!'

'We do--an honourable Christian gentleman; and we all know what you
are--a scandalmongering, spiteful, soured cat.'

'Hoity-toity! fine language this.'

'It is the kind of language you deserve, ma'am. All your life you have
been making mischief with your vile tongue!'

'Woman,' roared Mrs Pansey, white with wrath, 'no one ever dared to
speak like this to me.'

'It's a pity they didn't, then,' retorted the undaunted Miss Whichello;
'it would have been the better for you, and for Beorminster also.'

'Would it indeed, ma'am?' gasped her adversary, beginning to feel
nervous; 'oh, really!' with a hysterical titter, 'you and your
certificate--I don't believe you have it.'

'Ask the bishop if I have not. He is satisfied, and that is all that is
necessary, you wicked old woman.'

'You--you leave my house.'

'I shall do no such thing. Here I am, and here I'll stay until I speak
my mind,' and Miss Whichello thumped the floor with her umbrella, while
she gathered breath to continue. 'I haven't the certificate of my
sister's marriage--haven't I? I'll show it to you in a court of law, Mrs
Pansey, when you are in the dock--the dock, ma'am!'

'Me in the dock?' screeched Mrs Pansey, shaking all over, but more from
fear than wrath. 'How--how--dare you?'

'I dare anything to stop your wicked tongue. Everybody hates you; some
people are fools enough to fear you, but I don't,' cried Miss Whichello,
erecting her crest; 'no, not a bit. One word against me, or against Mab,
and I'll have you up for defamation of character, as sure as my name's
Selina Whichello.'

'I--I--I don't want to say a word,' mumbled Mrs Pansey, beginning to
give way, after the manner of bullies when bravely faced.

'You had better not. I have the bishop and all Beorminster on my side,
and you'll be turned out of the town if you don't mind your own
business. Oh, I know what I'm talking about,' and Miss Whichello gave a
crow of triumph, like a victorious bantam.

'I am not accustomed to this--this violence,' sniffed Mrs Pansey,
producing her handkerchief; 'if you--if you don't go, I'll call my
servants.'

'Do, and I'll tell them what I think of you. I'm going now.' Miss
Whichello rose briskly. 'I've had my say out, and you know what I intend
to do if you meddle with my affairs. Good-day, Mrs Pansey, and good-bye,
for it's a long time before I'll ever cross words with you again,
ma'am,' and the little old lady marched out of the room with all the
honours of war.

Mrs Pansey was completely crushed. She knew quite well that Miss
Whichello was speaking the truth about the marriage, and that none of
her own inventions could stand against the production of the
certificate. Moreover, she could not battle against the Bishop of
Beorminster, or risk a realisation of Miss Whichello's threat to have
her into court. On the whole, the archdeacon's widow concluded that it
would be best for her to accept her defeat quietly and hold her tongue.
This she did, and never afterwards spoke anything but good about young
Mrs Pendle and her aunt. She even sent a wedding present, which was
accepted by the victor as the spoils of war, and was so lenient in her
speeches regarding the young couple that all Beorminster was amazed, and
wished to know if Mrs Pansey was getting ready to join the late
archdeacon. Hitherto the old lady had stormed and bullied her way
through a meek and terrified world; but now she had been met and
conquered and utterly overthrown. Her nerve was gone, and with it went
her influence. Never again did she exercise her venomous tongue. To use
a vulgar but expressive phrase, Mrs Pansey was 'wiped out'.

Shortly before the marriage of George and Mab, the tribe of gipsies over
which Mother Jael ruled vanished into the nowhere. Whither they went
nobody knew, and nobody inquired, but their disappearance was a relief
both to Miss Whichello and the bishop. The latter had decided that, to
run no risks, it was necessary Mab should be married under her true
name of Bosvile; and as Mother Jael knew that such was Jentham's real
name, Miss Whichello fancied she might come to hear that Mab was called
so, and make inquiries likely to lead to unpleasantness. But Mother Jael
went away in a happy moment, so Miss Whichello explained to her niece
and George that the name of the former was not 'Arden' but 'Bosvile.'
'It is necessary that I should tell you this, dear, on account of the
marriage,' said the little old lady; 'your parents, my dearest Mab, are
dead and gone; but your father was alive when I took you to live with
me, and I called you by another name so that he might not claim you. He
was not a good man, my love.'

'Never mind, aunty,' cried Mab, embracing the old lady. 'I don't want to
hear about him. You are both my father and my mother, and I know that
what you say is right. I suppose,' she added, turning shyly to George,
'that Captain Pendle loves Miss Bosvile as much as he did Miss Arden!'

'A rose by any other name, and all the rest of it,' replied George,
smiling. 'What does it matter, my darling? You will be Mab Pendle soon,
so that will settle everything, even your meek husband.'

'George,' said Miss Bosvile, solemnly, 'if there is one word in the
English language which does _not_ describe you, it is "meek."'

'Really! and if there is one name in the same tongue which fits you like
a glove, it is--guess!'

'Angel!' cried Mab, promptly.

George laughed. 'Near it,' said he, 'but not quite what I mean. The
missing word will be told when we are on our honeymoon.'

In this way the matter was arranged, and Mab, as Miss Bosvile, was
married to Captain Pendle on the self-same day, at the self-same hour,
that Lucy became Lady Brace. If some remarks were made on the name
inscribed in the register of the cathedral, few people paid any
attention to them, and those who did received from Miss Whichello the
same skilful explanation as she had given the young couple. Moreover, as
Mother Jael was not present to make inquiries, and as Mrs Pansey had not
the courage to hint at scandal, the matter died a natural death. But
when the honeymoon was waning, Mab reminded George of his promise to
supply the missing word.

'Is it goose?' she asked playfully.

'No, my sweetest, although it ought to be!' replied George, pinching his
wife's pretty ear. 'It is Mab Pendle!' and he kissed her.

Brisk Dr Graham was at the double wedding, in his most amiable and least
cynical mood. He congratulated the bishop and Mrs Pendle, shook hands
warmly with the bridegroom, and just as warmly--on the basis of a
life-long friendship--kissed the brides. Also, after the wedding
breakfast--at which he made the best speech--he had an argument with
Baltic about his penal conception of Christianity. The ex-sailor had
been very mournful after the suicide of Mark, as the rash act had proved
how shallow had been the man's repentance.

'But what can you expect?' said Graham, to him. 'It is impossible to
terrify people into a legitimate belief in religion.'

'I don't want to do that, sir,' replied Baltic, soberly. 'I wish to lead
them to the Throne with love and tenderness.'

'I can hardly call your method by such names, my friend. You simply ruin
people in this life to fit them, in their own despite, for their next
existence.'

'When all is lost, doctor, men seek God.'

'Perhaps; but that's a shabby way of seeking Him. If I could not be
converted of my own free will, I certainly shouldn't care about being
driven to take such a course. Your system, my friend, is ingenious, but
impossible.'

'I have yet to prove that it is impossible, doctor.'

'Humph! I daresay you'll succeed in gaining disciples,' said Graham,
with a shrug. 'There is no belief strange enough for some men to doubt.
After Mormonism and Joseph Smith's deification, I am prepared to believe
that humanity will go to any length in its search after the unseen. No
doubt you'll form a sect in time, Mr Baltic. If so, call your disciples
Hobsonites.'

'Why, Dr Graham?'

'Because the gist of your preaching, so far as I can understand, is a
Hobson's choice,' retorted the doctor. 'When your flock of criminals
lose everything through your exposure of their crimes, they have
nothing left but religion.'

'Nothing left but God, you mean, sir; and God is everything.'

'No doubt I agree with the latter part of your epigram, Baltic, although
your God is not my God.'

'There is only one God, doctor.'

'True, my friend; but you and I see Him under different forms, and seek
Him in different ways.'

'Our goal is the same!'

'Precisely; and that undeniable fact does away with the necessity of
further argument. Good-bye, Mr Baltic. I am glad to have met you;
original people always attract me,' and with a handshake and a kindly
nod the little doctor bustled off.

So, in his turn, Baltic departed from Beorminster, and lost himself in
the roaring tides of London. It is yet too early to measure the result
of his work; to prognosticate if his peculiar views will meet with a
reception likely to encourage their development into a distinct sect.
But there can be no doubt that his truth and earnestness will, some
day--and perhaps at no very distant date--meet with their reward. Every
prophet convinced of the absolute truth of his mission succeeds in
finding those to whom his particular view of the hereafter is acceptable
beyond all others. So, after all, Baltic, the untutored sailor, may
become the founder of a sect. What his particular 'ism' will be called
it is impossible to say; but taking into consideration the man's
extraordinary conception of Christianity as a punishing religion, the
motto of his new faith should certainly be '_Cernit omnia Deus vindex!_'
And Baltic can find the remark cut and dried for his quotation in the
last pages of the English dictionary.

So the story is told, the drama is played, and Bishop Pendle was well
pleased that it should be so. He had no taste for excitement or for
dramatic surprises, and was content that the moving incidents of the
last few weeks should thus end. He had been tortured sufficiently in
mind and body; he had, in Dr Graham's phrase, paid his forfeit to the
gods in expiation of a too-happy fortune, therefore he might now hope to
pass his remaining days in peace and quiet. George and Lucy were
happily married; Gabriel was close at hand to be a staff upon which he
could lean in his old age; and his beloved wife, the companion of so
many peaceful years, was still his wife, nearer and dearer than ever.

When the brides had departed with their several grooms, when the wedding
guests had scattered to the four winds of heaven, Bishop Pendle took his
wife's hand within his own, and led her into the library. Here he sat
him down by her side, and opened the Book of all books with reverential
thankfulness of soul.

'I called upon thy name, O Lord, out of the low dungeon.'

'Thou drewest near in the day that I called upon thee: thou saidst, Fear
not!'

And the words, to these so sorely-tried of late, were as the dew to the
thirsty herb.



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