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THE
BISHOPS EMERALDS


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THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
ACTOR. iBNOX AND
TII.bBN FOUNDATIONS
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MABEL BANNISTER


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J.  \Tl r .''\.PANY


THE
BISHOP'S EMERALDS
BY
HOUGHTON TOWNLEY

NEW YORK
W. J. WATT & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS


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1940 L
CoPyRIGHT, 1908,
W. J. WATT & COMPANY
Æublished June, 19o8
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THE
BISHOP'S EMERALDS





The Bishop's Emeralds
CHAPTER I
LADY HESTER CARDEW was the Bishop's second
wife, and as such was regarded with a certain amount
of suspicion. For one thing, she was very handsome.
Bishops' wives, and, indeed, the wives of the clergy
generally, do not usually err on the side of excessive
physical attractiveness, and a Bishop's lady should
surely embody the consolidated virtues and leading
characteristics of all the helpmeets of the cloth. She
refused to be dowdy; she drove her own dogcart; she
wore bright colors whenever the sun shone; and gen-
erally displayed a fine, healthy, physical energy and en-
joyment of life. Her hair was such a beautiful auburn
that the spiteful said it was dyed. She rode a bicycle
and was at home on a horse, and it was whispered that
her ladyship had openly stated that her husband's
public position alone prevented her riding to hounds.
They forgave the widower Bishop, who was but a
man, and fleshly—a large, handsome, expansive, dog-
matic, loud-voiced person with broad shoulders, and
standing six feet in his socks—because he had suc-
cumbed to the wiles of Lady Hester Lennox in very
different surroundings. They had married when he
was merely the vicar of St. Saviour's-in-the-East, and
could not be expected to view matrimony in the severe
light that beats upon an episcopal throne. He Was no-
body then.
The East Ripley Gazette, at the time of the Bishop's


2 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
enthronement, had devoted a whole page to the life-
story of his lordship, in which the curious learned all
that there was to know of his eventful life, and read
how he found his second bride in the East End of Lon-
don, where the beautiful lady was wearing herself to a
shadow in the cause of the poor and lowly. That was
fifteen years ago, and the diocese was prepared to give
the lady full credit for that heroic period of her exist-
ence; but they could not forgive her being fashionable
now.
So much for the general opinion of the diocese.
Lady Hester was popular with the county, conscien-
tious to a fault in her duties, ever moving, ever busy,
yet apparently never quite happy. Sympathizers de-
clared that the stress and sorrow of that sad period of
battle in the slums still lingered. Others thought that
tragedy lurked in her big brown eyes, which laughed
and wept in shadow; and her sweet, sympathetic, for-
giving soul went out to wrong-doers with such lenient
charity that the Bishop himself was often compelled to
admonish, and protest that she lacked a proper sense
of the expediency of earthly chastisement. She car-
ried the Christian doctrine of forgiveness of sins to ab-
surd lengths, especially in judging the sins of women.
She had actually been known to talk to a divorced
woman in the streets of Ripley, and had been found
out in attempting to hush up a scandal, the suppression
of which would have robbed the diocese of at least
three months' tea table gossip. Such conduct might
be Christian, but was it wise?
The county acclaimed her "a good sort." She was
invited everywhere, and, sad to relate, she danced.
Yes, she actually danced. Her other sins were also
tabulated:—


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 3
She was only thirty-eight!
She refused to wear black bonnets.
She rode horseback unattended.
She played tennis.
She lived.
She did not flirt. That saved her, and every lovesick
girl made her a confidante. As for the Bishop, he idol-
ized his wife. So did Jack Cardew, the Bishop's son by
his first wife.
Jack was twenty-five, and beginning his career at
the Bar. His relationship to the prelate helped him a
little, but his briefs were short and the vacations long.
He was at home now at the Palace, and, the vacation
being near its end, he contemplated an early return to
London.
******
Jack wanted to marry on nothing a year—or next to
it—and the Bishop had put his foot down. Bishop
Cardew's foot for trampling undesirable schemes was
large and firm. The beautiful girl about whom the dif-
ference of opinion had arisen between the Bishop and
his son was at the present time a guest in the house,
and the Bishop blamed his wife for bringing her there.
Lady Hester herself could not have quite explained
why Mabel Bannister had stayed so long. Six weeks
ago the girl was the guest of Lady Beatrice Carew, a
neighbor and daughter of the Marquis of Ripley, and
Lady Hester had suddenly extended an invitation to
the Palace, because she wanted to see more of the girl.
A slim, tall, upstanding, fair-haired stripling, with a
fine poise of the head, a proud, almost disdainful, grey
eye, a baby mouth, and a foreign vivacity, for which
her education abroad was doubtless largely responsi-
ble. This was Mabel Bannister.


4 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
Jack Cardew, who was very much in love, was much
incensed at his father's opposition, because in an ex-
pansive moment the Bishop had patronizingly admit-
ted that Mabel was the very counterpart of Lady Hes-
ter fifteen years ago, except for the spirit of folly, the
light laugh, and the easy, careless bearing, which were
so different from the restrained earnestness of the
world-weary Lady Hester at the time of her first meet-
ing with the vicar of St. Saviour's-in-the-East.
But there was a practical side to the whole business.
Jack was unable to enlighten his father concerning
Mabel Bannister's family connections. She was an un-
known, a chance schoolfellow of Lady Beatrice Carew
at an Italian convent school, a girl without a mother,
daughter of an indolent man about town whose social
position seemed to be summed up in the membership
of several smart clubs and the entree to some good
country houses; and since childhood she had known
no home save school and the hospitality of schoolfel-
lows. The seminaries were of the best, the very best,
and her friends were staunch, loyal, and devoted, and
vied with one another in having the motherless girl
near them. Indeed, for the last year, ever since Ma-
bel's finishing at B , she had lived almost entirely
in the houses of her friends, with an occasional flying
visit to her father's London chambers at Stratton
Street, Mayfair.
Her stay at the Palace was now coming to an un-
timely end, and constraint had fallen on everybody
since the Bishop withheld his necessary consent to the
engagement of his son—who was dependent upon him
for income—with a lady of no fortune or family.
Jack was in open mutiny. An appeal to his step-
mother brought no comfort, only a counsel of "Pa-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS S
tience, patience." Mabel was entirely under Jack's in-
fluence. They were madly in love, and she, trans-
formed by her passion from girlhood to womanhood,
was ready to defy the whole world (and cry in Lady
Hester's lap for sympathy).
A week of suspense had gone by. A sudden, strange
calm had settled down. The Bishop made no sugges-
tion to his wife that Mabel should be sent away; and
Jack appeared to have accepted the situation with
grave resignation. Mabel neither wept nor smiled, but
fell into long abstractions and stared into space, purs-
ing her lips finely in a manner suggestive of an obsti-
nate resolution.
Lady Hester, who seemed to understand the work-
ing of the girl's mind as if it were her own, instinctively
divined the truth. It came upon her one day all in a
rush.
"They are going to marry secretly," she cried. "Se-
cretly! God forbid!"
There was a note of horror in that "God forbid!"
and she blanched as in the face of an awful peril.
After that she watched Mabel's every movement un-
til the day fixed for the supposed departure for Lon-
don. Jack, under pretence of a sudden call to town,
was leaving the Palace on the same day, but earlier.
Mabel was not going till midday.
His farewell to the girl before his father and mother
at the breakfast table was almost that of a stranger,
so frigidly polite and absurdly indifferent was it.
The parting was unreal. They were going to meet
again, and something must be done. Lady Hester was
in a fever.


CHAPTER II
THE Bishop suspected nothing, nor did he notice the
tremor in Jack's voice, or the lingering, emotional
handgrip. He scarcely glanced at the pale, determined
face. Mabel studied the pattern on her plate, and,
when her lover offered his hand, bade him farewell with
ridiculous nonchalance. If this was the parting of
broken-hearted lovers their passion was made of shal-
low stuff, and the Bishop felt that he was justified in
crushing the projected marriage.
To tell the truth, he was a little disappointed. In his
fatherly heart he sympathized with the young people.
He understood enough of feminine charm to feel that
had he been in Jack's place, he could not have relin-
quished lovely Mabel Bannister so casually. For all
her defects of character and family, she was the sort to
drive young men mad. He had nerved himself for
much trouble and argument with his son, and several
finely rounded periods and enlightening speeches, spe-
cially prepared for Jack's edification in hours of youth-
ful despair, looked like being unrequired.
The Bishop, much relieved at the passing of the
storm, betook him to his day's duties; but Lady Hes-
ter prepared for action.
Mabel avoided her hostess all the morning under
plea of final packing, yet twice sought her out, and
with moist eyes asked some futile question. Each time
she hovered like one on the brink of tears, or confes-
sion, yet mastered the impulse. At last, when it was
6


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 7
time to watch the clock and talk of dressing, it be-
came necessary to express the usual civilities, and she
feelingly protested that she had been oh! so happy at
the Palace, that she would never forget Lady Hester's
kindness, and would ever remember her as the one
dear, dear, sweet woman of her life.
Then she burst into a flood of tears—hysterical,
shamefaced sobbing.
Lady Hester delivered her bomb.
"Mabel, I know your secret. You cannot deceive
me. You are going up to town to marry Jack. You're
not going home at all."
"Why do you say that?" gasped the girl.
"Because I know. You cannot deny it."
Taken off her guard and rendered helpless and tear-
ful, Mabel took refuge in excuses.
"Oh! we love each other so—and he pleaded so hard.
I wanted him to let me confide in you, but he refused.
He is unshakable in his determination. Oh, Lady
Hester, you can't know, you can't understand, what it
is to love, as we love. Marrying as you did—and—
and the Bishop not a young man "she halted in
her naive rudeness and faltered, "you know what I
mean. We are both young and—and this is the heyday
of life, and"
"You are both foolish and impatient. You are only
quoting secondhand Jack's preposterous arguments."
"Nothing will move us from our purpose, even if
we have to live apart all our lives. We are going to
get married!"
"Mabel, Mabel, are you the nice, reasonable, clear-
headed girl with a sense of humor that I grew so fond
of? Don't you see the absurdity of what you are do-


8 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
ing? Is there no such thing as patience and self-sac-
rifice for the sake of others?"
"I know, I know. Jack admits that it would have
been better to wait—if we could have waited—and if
we could be sure that things would come right in the
end. But we're going to make things certain. We
are not to live together—at present. At least"
"Well?"
"We are going for a short honeymoon, of course."
The girl buried her crimson face in her trembling
hands, then flung herself into the elder woman's arms.
"And are you concealing this from your father?"
asked Lady Hester.
"Yes—and no. That is, father has raised no objec-
tion to my engagement. I wrote to him about it."
"But he has never even seen Jack."
"Oh, you don't know father. When I wrote to him
he just sent me a charming letter full of confidence in
my good sense and judgment, and gave the engage-
ment his blessing; and that's all he'll trouble about it.
He says I mustn't expect more than a hundred pounds
for my trousseau; so, you see, he can't make much fuss
just because it's a little hurried."
"You are not giving him any opportunity to object
by this rash acceptance of Jack's mad scheme."
"We cannot exist apart," sobbed the girl, "and we
resolved yesterday that no living soul should come be-
tween us."
"Neither shall they, my dear," murmured Lady Hes-
ter, clasping the girl gently to her breast. "All I ask
is, don't—don't marry secretly."
"But what does it matter?" pleaded the girl, a little
frightened at the sudden intensity of the appeal, and
breaking away to dry her tears.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 9
Lady Hester paced the room for a few moments like
a soul in torment. Her cheeks were white and her lips
drawn with emotion.
"Oh, how can I make you understand? How can I
frame words to warn you against a thing you may re-
gret to your dying day? You must be saved from this
folly at all costs. You must—you shall."
"Oh, Lady Hester, you won't interfere? Jack would
never forgive you. It's too late now. The train starts
in an hour. Please don't make me cry. I shall look
horrid. I am resolved. I've given my word, my oath.
Why should we ever regret?"
"Mabel," cried the elder woman, seizing her hand,
"you must, of your own accord, withdraw from the po-
sition you have taken up. A secret marriage is an
abomination of hell."
The words came out with great suddenness, and the
dignified Lady Hester became strangely hysterical.
She recovered herself with a great effort, seeing that
her extravagance of speech had only startled the obsti-
nate girl.
"You think I'm exaggerating. But if you only knew
the misery, the lifelong regret that can follow a secret
marriage. If I could only tell you my own story—oh!
what am I saying? Can I find no arguments to con-
vince you of your wickedness, Mabel? Oh, think—
think!"
"Practically I have my father's consent. The rest i*
Jack's affair," replied the girl, proudly.
"Mabel, Mabel, can you keep a secret if I tell you
something—something about myself that you don't
know—that nobody knows? No, why should I? Oh,
Mabel, will you believe me when I tell you that I speak
upon this matter with authority—that I have known—


io THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
I mean, that I have seen—the dreadful misery that can
come from a secret marriage."
"I don't know what you mean," Mabel observed,
calmly.
"Oh, girl, don't compel me to explain! Don't you
understand what I'm trying to tell you? Just now you
questioned my knowledge of love and youthful passion.
I was young as you once, and as foolish. I, like you,
listened to honeyed, plausible pleading. It was to be
secret, romantic, and beautiful. Secret, do you hear?
Secret! And oh, the misery of it, the sickening deceit!
Be brave and strong and face everything openly. If you
mean to defy us all, be courageous and urge the same
upon Jack. If you should ever regret, there will be no
escape. Don't I know to my cost what it means? The
very suggestion of secrecy sickens me. You might
have to carry the burden of it to your grave. Girl,
listen! I have been through it. I know."
"Do you mean that you were married secretly—mar-
ried to the Bishop secretly?"
"No, no!" cried the hysterical woman with a rasping
laugh. "It was before that—oh! what am I saying?"
"You mean that you were married before you be-
came Mrs. Cardew!" exclaimed the girl in white as-
tonishment.
"Did I say so? Well, if I said so much I must tell
you more. I must justify myself. I am mad to speak
of it, yet the desire gnaws at my heart. But you must
swear eternal fidelity and faithfulness to me, Mabel,
whatever the issue of this business may be. You
•mustn't mention to a living soul what I am going to
tell you? You promise?"
"I promise, of course."
"Mabel, when I was your age I was very much like


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 11
you, except that I lived a secluded life in Bath with two
straight-laced, old-fashioned, rich, maiden aunts, to
whom I was indebted for everything, and from whom
I should one day inherit an income. I was an orphan.
My father, a spendthrift, penniless peer, was dead. I
never knew a mother. My life was very dull, and there
came a man into it, who set my heart afire. My guar-
dians objected to him—and wisely. He was nobody—
worse, he was a fraud. He pleaded for a secret mar-
riage, and—and I consented.
"You understand the gravity of what I am telling
you? This is a secret, a sacred confidence. I have
never spoken of it to any other woman. For some
months, with the aid of a foolish, sentimental friend,
I lived a double life, discovering each day a new defect
in the idol I adored, until at last my eyes were opened.
He proved to be a dreadful sham. He was fond of me,
in his way, no doubt. He must have loved me, or he
would never have let me go as he did. But he was a
black sheep. Little by little the truth began to dawn
on me that I had linked myself to one who had only
his persuasive guile to recommend him, a villain, a
fraud, an adventurer—worse, a thief."
"A thief."
"Yes. He confessed his vile life to me little by little.
He wanted me to play the fascinating decoy; for he was
a polished high-flying scoundrel. Fortunately for me,
he put himself in my power by his confessions, and I
was able to free myself and dictate my own terms—
which were silence, and secrecy, and freedom. Free-
dom! He drove a hard bargain—God only knows how
hard—but I knew that I must be free at any price, or
be forever damned and ruined; and he let me go. A
thief! Yes. He robbed me of all.—Ah, it shocks you,


12 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
I can see. You didn't think that I had this tragedy m
my life. You didn't know that I had suffered and been
driven mad to the verge of self-destruction. But I
worked out my own salvation. I left him. and to keep
myself from going crazy, I plunged into a hard, grind-
ing life of self-denial in the East End. I worked for
others—the only way to forget private sorrows. Then,
by chance, I was freed by a merciful Providence. My
precious husband died, and my secret with him. ... I
rose to the surface again, and felt that I had a right to
live. I had told nobody. Better for me perhaps if I
had. I thought that I could bear it all alone, that the
years would wither my secret. Foolish hope—each
day it grows greener and greener. There are moments
when I can scarcely keep my lips from screaming out
the truth to my good, unsuspecting husband. A secret
like this is a pestilent seed, it grows and grows and
bears an endless crop of rank deceits. At first I bore
it well. I had injured no one but myself, and—and an-
other of whom I cannot speak. I took joy in life again
after a fashion; and I bruised my heart to subtler ten-
dernesses by ministering to the pains and sorrows of
others more unfortunate. I imagined myself ennobled,
purified. Then I met my present husband, who offered
me a share in his hard thankless labors and his meagre
vicar's home in a grim, sordid, squalid corner of the
great city of sin and suffering. I refused at first. I
could not confess because I knew that my story would
destroy the dear, absurd ideals of me that he had
formed—and he was my only friend. His wife was
dead—she was a weak commonplace person. I was all
to him that she could never have been, and he pleaded
»o forcibly, and—and I was terribly lonely. I had
hidden my secret that I might go back to the life and


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 13
the friends I had lost; only to find that I could not. I
was another person."
"But you married Mr. Cardew—and you never told
him?"
"Yes. Have I not said so? I stifled my conscience
by weak unconvincing sophistries as you are doing. I
married him. Oh, yes; I did it deliberately, thinking
that I could atone by lightening his grey existence. At
first I was rewarded beyond my deserts. You know
how his fortunes changed ever for the better. The
time for confession had gone by. I dared not speak.
You see what infamy this abominable secrecy breeds."
"You ought not to have told me this," observed
Mabel coldly and quietly.
"I had to tell some one. It has been gnawing at my
heart for years. But I have abased myself to you to
warn you and save you from a similar fate. Mabel,
Mabel, you will not do this ridiculous, secret, wicked
thing."
"There is no similarity in our two cases," the girl
continued, remorselessly. "And I have my father's
consent. Here is his letter."
Lady Hester, having gone too far, was frightened,
and felt it incumbent upon her to recover her compo-
sure. She dried her tears, and tried to read the letter;
but her eyes refused to see, and her senses to under-
stand. Her hands dropped, and she turned again to
MabeL
"You will abandon this marriage? For my sake you
will?" she urged plaintively. "Think how I have be-
trayed and humbled myself to point the moral"
"Jack will be waiting for me. I cannot abandon it
now. I can't—you must see that I can't. Jack would
be broken-hearted. Everything is arranged, and Tom


14 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
Nestor, of St. Jude's, is to perform the ceremony. So
you see somebody knows and sympathizes. Tom Nes-
tor thinks"
"Mabel, you must, you must—you shall!" cried Lady
Hester, hysterical with helplessness.
"No. I will not."
It was a very quiet and determined refusal.
"You must. If you persist I shall tell the Bishop,"
cried the other in petulant despair; "I won't see you
ruin your own and Jack's life in this fashion." She
walked threateningly towards the door. "I shall send
a messenger at once, and"
"If you tell I shall tell," replied Mabel, breathing
hard. There was no mistaking her meaning.
Lady Hester collapsed into a chair, and covered her
face with her hands.
"Girl, you are going to ruin, and you want to ruin
me, too."
Mabel showed by her calm and determined manner
that all further argument was useless. She was
alarmed, too, by the unsought burden of responsibility.
She refrained from any further reference to the out-
burst; and the other, scared by her quiet confidence,
was humbled and abashed to the verge of panic. The
girl's calm was forced, her farewell tearless and hard.
But Euston was still some distance away; and her
heart was full of misgiving and uncertainty.


CHAPTER III
THE arrival platform at Euston is not a very inspirit-
ing place, but on a sunshiny day it can appear quite
cheerful to an expectant bridegroom awaiting the com-
ing of her whom he regards as brighter than the sun-
shine and more wonderful than all the triumphs of rail-
way engineering skill.
Jack Cardew paced up and down restlessly. He was
a handsome fellow, lithe and active, with more of the
soldier about him than the lawyer, a stiff carriage, and
a small, shapely head, with fresh coloring, and a very
unlegal small brown mustache, sharply trimmed. His
grey eyes were full and convincing, and just sufficiently
nervous not to be bold. To-day his cheeks were
flushed with long-repressed excitement. He was ex-
cited and tremulously nervous—as a man should be
when he is taking the greatest step in his life contrary
to the dictates of common sense and in direct opposi-
tion to the wishes of his best friends. He argued his
business with himself, employing almost forensic elo-
quence in his attempts to demolish the case for the de-
fendants. "Here am I," he mentally cried, addressing
an imaginary jury of well-wishers, "a young man in the
pride of early manhood, passionately in love with the
most adorable of her sex, condemned by an old-fash-
ioned and obtuse parent to patiently wait until fortune
shall smile upon me. Meanwhile the precious hours
and barren years are passing, and two souls are made
15


16 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
wretched by living apart when there is no earthly rea-
son why they should not be joined together in the
holiest of bonds. Here am I, struggling at the Bar,
confronted with years of drudgery, compelled to run
the gauntlet of all the temptations of this great city,
while the sweetest girl in the world is eating her heart
out in some other place, longing for me every hour of
the day, yet forbidden to join her life with mine because
I have not attained that position of wealth and dignity
which my father considers necessary for the son of the
Bishop of Ripley. I am of age, and can marry whom I
choose. My father is well aware of that. It is only the
question of income that keeps me in his power. Men
and women should marry, not eat their hearts out dur-
ing the best years of their lives. And there are some
men who cannot live alone. I am one of them. Some
cannot work unless their minds are at ease. That is
my temperament. It is monstrous that"
Further sophistical arguments were cut short by the
roaring arrival of the train. It glided in majestically
with remorseless, inevitable force, and Jack vaguely
likened it to the rush of fate that was to carry him to-
day irresistibly to the terminus of his bachelorhood.
He scanned the vibrating crowd of alighting passen-
gers with some trepidation, expecting every moment
to see his goddess, yet at the sight of every woman
that was not Mabel he dreaded that she had changed
her mind.
A tall, slim figure in a white dress, wearing a be-
witching hat, was standing at the door of a first-class
carriage watching his excitement with some amuse-
ment. She was within a few yards of him. He ran to
her, and she almost jumped into his arms. He wanted
to hug her there and then, but she, with practical co-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 17
quetry, evaded even a kiss, and uttered the prosaic
word "Luggage."
Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, but not
with happiness. Two hours in the train—hours of
mental uncertainty—had produced a state of nervous
indecision. Lady Hester's pitiful story and her cogent
arguments were ringing in her ears. Patience! pa-
tience!
Why had she been so rash?
The lovers had planned to spend the honeymoon in
the little village of Weybury, at the foot of the Chil-
tern Hills, where there was some excellent trout-fish-
ing; and presently Jack bundled his bride into a cab
and they drove off for St. Jude's, hoping all the way
that no one they knew would recognize them, and so
self-conscious that it seemed to be only necessary for
a friend to see them to guess their errand by clairvoy-
ance. Jack's fingers closed on Mabel's gloved hand,
and he held it tight in a fierce grip that was meant to
signify inflexible determination; but she drew her hand
away, and dabbed her eyes with a ridiculous little lace
handkerchief.
"What, crying?"
"Oh, yes, Jack. Don't you think we had better re-
consider things after all?" She turned her great wist-
ful eyes to his, knowing perfectly well what he would
say.
"Your courage failing, darling?" He bent so near
to her crimson cheek that an errand-boy in the street
greeted them with a whistling shriek of derision, fol-
lowed by some rude remarks about "leaving the gal
alone."
"Oh, Jack, I must tell you. Lady Hester knows."
"You told her?" he cried, startled.


i8 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"No; she found out for herself. She taxed me with
it, and I couldn't tell her a lie. I had to own up."
"She'll tell father," he cried in alarm.
"No, she has promised not to do that. She'll keep
our secret."
"It's deuced inconvenient. What an infernal nuis-
ance!" cried Jack, who was much more startled than
he cared to admit.
"Oh, Jack, she urged me to abandon the idea of get-
ting married to-day. She counselled patience. She
said that it was only necessary for us to wait a little
while and she would be able to influence the Bishop.
Don't you think we might change our minds after all?
We are sure of one another, Jack, without—well"
"Darling, darling!" cried the bridegroom reprov-
ingly.
Mabel began to tremble. Tears filled her eyes. "Of
course, Jack, if you insist"
"I do insist," he cried hotly. "Mabel, I thought you
were looking forward to our little honeymoon."
"So I am—so I am!" she hastened to assure him.
"Mabel, the other day you swore that you loved me,
and that you would follow me to the ends of the earth.
You would be mine forever. You would give yourself
to me body and soul."
"Of course, Jack, of course. When a woman loves
nothing else matters. Am I not giving myself to you
by marrying secretly to-day?"
"Yes, darling; but you suggested backing out."
"Oh! no, no, no."
"Then let's say no more about it. The hours will be
short enough."
"Yes, Jack."
She slipped her hand into his, and the cab rumbled


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 19
on. She had made her attempt to reverse his decision,
and it had failed. There was no more to be said.
But she had not tried very hard.
******
Meanwhile, Lady Hester, at the Palace, had not
been idle. At first she was overwhelmed with remorse
at the futile revelation of her secret. Then reaction
set in. She knew it to be her duty to inform the
Bishop of his son's folly at all costs before it was too
late; but it was not easy. The Bishop would have to
be found, and when at last the news reached him, he
would be powerless to take any steps to interfere. If
anything was to be done she alone must accomplish it.
Fortunately, in mentioning the name of Tom Nes-
tor, late curate of Ripley, Mabel had given a clue to the
place where the marriage was to be celebrated. A tel-
egram might carry some weight. She resolved to wire
a last appeal to Jack himself, care of Tom Nestor. But
by the time the telegraph form was under her hand the
appeal became a threat:—
"You must abandon your plan, or I shall tell your
father to-day. Wire reply.—MOTHER."
This telegram greeted Jack and his bride on their ar-
rival at St. Jude's. Jack handed it silently to Mabel,
who read it and passed it back again without comment.
They looked at one another in dismay, but gave the
Rev. Tom no clue to their trouble. They were in the
vestry of the dingy St. Pancras Church, and Tom Nes-
tor, a sandy-haired, lanky young man was getting into
his surplice.
"It's too late now," whispered Jack in desperation,
rapidly formulating a plan. "We must go on, darling,
and brave it out. Are you ready?"


20 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"I am yours to do with as you will. I have prom-
ised."
She linked her arm in his, and they went into the
church to wait Tom's convenience. And there they
were married, with hired witnesses, kneeling hand in
hand, like two naughty children. Tom rattled through
the ceremony with his usual shocking elocution, the
ring was slipped on the trembling finger, and at the
conclusion of the ceremony Jack pressed his bride to
his heart, regardless of the pew-opener and the brass-
cleaner.
They returned to Euston as man and wife, receiving
Tom's congratulations on the step of the cab; and it
was not until the railway terminus was reached that
they found time to consider the real gravity of what
had been done.
"I do hope your father won't be angry—that is, if
Lady Hester tells him," sighed Mabel. "I think it will
be very mean of her, and she'll be sorry if she does."
"I don't care what she tells him," growled Jack.
Then he pictured the furious anger of his lordship and
trembled for the financial future.
"I'll tell you what, little wife," he cried with sudden
inspiration as they paced up and down the platform.
"Father mustn't know, and mother mustn't tell him.
In fact, mother herself mustn't know. You see it's an
awful responsibility for her to keep such a thing from
her husband; but if I telegraph to her and say that
we've changed our minds—well, then, we are not mar-
ried as far as she is concerned, are we? How would
that do?"
"Oh, Jack, can't we avoid secrecy and deceit?"
"Our marriage is our affair, and nobody else's. I
shall send the telegram. It will relieve her of the re-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 21
sponsibility. She can think what she likes, but she'll
only know what we choose to tell her. There's a tele-
graph- office in the station. Don't be alarmed, little
one. Leave it all to me. I'll wire her 'Plans aban-
doned for the present.—JACK.' How will that do?"
She nodded, and sighed regretfully, and pleaded
with her fine eyes, but Jack darted off and disappeared.
He came back congratulating himself upon his astute-
ness; and when his pale, anxious wife reopened the dis-
cussion he silenced her with a laugh and a playful
threat that if she said any more he would kiss her there
and then on the platform before all the people.
He darted off again to bribe the guard to reserve a
first-class carriage, and when that manoeuvre was suc-
cessfully accomplished, the excitement of adventure en-
tered their veins, their spirits rose, and they were in-
sanely happy.
******
Lady Hester, waiting in suspense, and still hopeful
that the reckless sacrifice of her secret might not have
been in vain, received the lying message and read it
with tears of joy, never doubting for a moment that
she had conquered.


CHAPTER IV
FOUR days later Jack Cardew returned home, look-
ing less grave than usual, and not nearly so depressed
as a broken-hearted swain should. The complete ab-
sence of any despair rather seemed to suggest that
there had been meetings with his sweetheart in Lon-
don.
The Bishop was no simpleton, but he hated decep-
tion of any kind. He had commanded his son to con-
tinue no more than a casual acquaintance with Mabel
Bannister; and Jack had apparently accepted the situa-
tion, under the threat of a discontinuation of his allow-
ance of £200 a year. He now saw that his commands
were certain to be disobeyed.
He was diplomatically genial to Jack on his return.
He took his son's arm and walked him round the gar-
den, discussing local affairs and seme Episcopal mat-
ters that interested Jack not at all. But discussion
with his father while he was in a good temper was not
to be lost by the bridegroom, who was faced by the fact
that sooner or later he must overcome the Bishop's ob-
jections and break the startling news of his marriage.
It was not easy.
The Bishop himself broke the ice with a sudden dis-
concerting question:—
"When did you last see Mabel Bannister, Jack?"
"I have seen her—once—in London," replied the
bridegroom evasively, feeling excruciatingly uncom-
fortable.
"My boy, you think I'm an old fool. I've come to
22


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 23
the conclusion that I owe you some further explanation
of my objection to Mabel Bannister as your wife. I
didn't intend to discuss her any more, but I see it is
necessary. Have you met Mr. Bannister?"
"Yes, father, the other evening. I saw him at the
club, and introduced myself. He seems a charming
man, with the most polished manners. He spoke of
you in the highest terms."
"Humph!" grunted the Bishop. "I'm sorry that the
admiration is not mutual."
"Why do you object to him, father?"
"My dislike is founded upon things I have heard."
"Heard!" echoed Jack loftily and disdainfully.
"Yes, don't repeat my words. The knowledge came
to me when we were at St. Saviour's. I attended the
deathbed of a man named Judd, who came to grief
through Bannister, and the poor fellow in his last hours
was troubled by thoughts of the misery and ruin he
had wrought at Bannister's instigation. Judd was once
at Oxford, destined for the Church, but he degen-
erated. He went to the bad, eventually ending as a
rascally begging-letter writer; and he died miserably in
a garret. I knew him slightly in his Oxford days, then
lost sight of him; and when next I came across him
it was on his death-bed, rambling, raving, dying. He
ascribed his downfall and ruin to this man Bannister.
I never understood the nature of the crimes the poor
fellow had committed, but he seemed to be much trou-
bled by the recollections of one particular injury done
to a woman whom Bannister had ruined. He declared
that Bannister made love to a girl in Bath under an as-
sumed name—and there was a child. For reasons of
his own, and apparently to keep the matter from the
woman's people, the child was taken away by the father


24 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
and put out to nurse. The girl's relatives knew noth-
ing of her trouble. Then Judd was sent to the woman
by Bannister to tell her that the child was dead. It
was a lie. That was the first bit of dirty work he did
for him. Later Judd was again sent to play the hum-
bug and pitch up a pitiful, plausible tale—this time to
tell the woman the story of Bannister's own death. He
carried the thing out artistically, and Bannister's de-
mise was even advertised in the usual way in all the
papers. Thus Bannister—I forget what his alias was
then—passed out of existence so far as the girl was
concerned.
"I don't pretend to understand the object of it all,
but the thing was vile and disgraceful. The girl was
deserted, and the child—God knows what became of
that. I sometimes shudder when I remember poor
Judd's last shrieking moments, and wonder whether
anything more terrible than putting it out to nurse was
ever done to the child. I believe Bannister wanted to
marry money, and, having concealed his real name and
identity from his victim, thought it best to wipe out all
record of his guilty intrigue by allowing her to imagine
that he was dead."
"An ugly business," murmured Jack. "But, surely,
Mabel should not be blamed for her father's youthful
sins. Nobody has anything to say against Mr. Ban-
nister now. He is most popular. He is received ev-
erywhere. Surely, you wouldn't visit the sins of the
fathers upon the children unnecessarily?"
"It is the divine law."
"But, father, you're judging Mr. Bannister, on your
own showing, solely from the ravings of a dissolute
wreck who had lost all sense of accuracy and fair state-
ment."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 25
"My boy, I cannot forget that betrayed, deserted,
ruined woman going through life with her sin heavy
upon her. I believe she was a lady of position. And
of the little child—where is it now? Grown to woman-
hood with the passing of years, with neither a mother's
nor a father's care, and living a life of penury, if not of
shame. What becomes of the children of dissolute
men farmed out among harpies and murderesses? You
know as well as I do, Jack. You saw something of it
at St. Saviour's. You remember the woman I got
prosecuted at George Street—the one who got rid of
five children in a year, and not one of them her own?"
"The picture you draw is an exaggerated one, father.
Men who move in the smart set in London do wild
things in their youth, and grow to middle-age as re-
spectable citizens. If you were to drag out all the
skeletons from the cupboards of Mayfair they would
make a sorry exhibition. Can I love Mabel less be-
cause her father was dissolute in his youth? No!"
cried Jack hotly.
"Tut-tut, my boy, don't shout at me. I'm not deaf.
I told you that I—er—might have been un-Christian
and uncharitable. God forbid that I should defame the
character of any nice girl because of her father's early
sins. Miss Bannister's mother is dead, I understand.
No doubt she was well-bred, and brought the money
to her husband that he needed. But I don't like the
man's record. Is he rich?"
"I don't know, father. You ought to meet him. I'm
sure you'd change your opinion. And nothing will al-
ter my regard for Mabel. Your opposition, father,
only postpones the day when we come together, in
spite of you. We are pledged to one another. But


2~6 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
Mr. Bannister naturally refuses his consent to our mar-
riage until you also agree."
'That is very proper of him."
"You really must know Mr. Bannister, father."
"I will."
"Ah!" cried the bridegroom, hugely relieved. His
difficulties were already dwindling. In imagination he
saw himself and Mabel going again to the altar, and his
secret marriage ratified in a full blaze of Episcopal pub-
licity.
"The diocesan conference takes place the week after
next," said the Bishop thoughtfully. "We shall have
to entertain many people then. It would be easier to
ask Mr. Bannister in an informal manner to come to
one of the meetings."
Jack smiled grimly at the idea of Mr. Bannister at a
church conference.
"He might stay the night," added the Bishop. "I
don't want to have to entertain the man alone. Your
mother may not like him."
"I'm sure she'll be only too pleased to meet Mabel's
father," cried the enthusiastic lover. "No one can be
fonder of Mabel than mother."
"Very well, then. He shall be asked."


CHAPTER V
MR. HORACE BANNISTER was one of the most per-
fectly groomed men in London, a familiar figure in
Bond Street, and an assiduous student of modern art.
His chambers in Stratton Street reflected the man—a
roomy suite in correct taste, not too severe, but just
masculine enough to give no hint of an effeminate
touch, although luxurious to a fault. Choice water-
colors, pencil sketches, and rare prints lined the walls,
so close to one another that all other mural decoration
was superfluous. Huge lounges filled the corners of
the sitting rooms, and the original windows had been
replaced by something latticed and quaint. The rooms
were on two floors, and only one manservant lived
upon the premises. All work of a feminine kind was
done by a visiting charwoman accustomed to "the best
families."
There was not a picture gallery in the West End
where they did not know Mr. Bannister. Each fresh
exhibition advertised in the gutters on the boards of
the sandwich men extracted his shilling, and he could
often be seen critically examining a Sainton silver point
through the large eyeglass that he always held at a lit-
tle distance from the eye, as though it were a magnifier.
He would go into raptures over enamels and repousse.
Inlaid precious stones positively fascinated him (and
he always made a point of discovering who bought the
specially valuable ones). When the exquisitely beauti-
ful necklet of pearls and diamonds in silver designed
27


aS THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
by Fallerie was stolen from Harwell's Gallery, he al-
most wept with vexation—so they say.
He was singularly good looking, with black, waving
hair and pointed beard of the same glossy texture and
color. Not a tinge of grey; not a wrinkle of age. On
the wrong side of forty, he remained young, and looked
like one who lived well and easily. The eyeglass gave
a slight severity and hauteur to his bearing when in
repose; but when he smiled he was irresistible.
Wherever fashionable people foregathered — or,
rather, moneyed people—there Horace Bannister was
to be found. He lived in clubs, and played bridge in-
cessantly, which made him also an acceptable guest in
many large country houses. When he traveled, he was
always accompanied by Voss, his man, the most per-
fect, self-effacing, impenetrable gentleman's gentleman
that ever drew breath.
It was only natural that Mr. Horace Bannister and
Voss should not regard the presence of tall, slim Mabel
at the Stratton Street flat as altogether convenient.
Bannister, apparently, was delighted to have her when-
ever she came—until she had been there a few days,
when he always jumped at the suggestion of her going
anywhere else—much to Voss's relief. The presence
of the bright-eyed, light-hearted girl, singing about the
place and setting things straight, and prying into cor-
ners, drove Voss almost wild, to the complete destruc-
tion of his wonted imperturbability. She had already
stumbled upon several strange things, the use of which
was quite unknown to Voss, but which he stored away
again with alacrity; yet she suspected nothing.
On the same day that Jack returned home, Mabel
arrived at Stratton Street. The four days' bride chose
the hour when her father would be taking his morning


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 29
stroll, and crept guiltily into the house. Voss was
startled, for he had received no intimation of her com-
ing; and she blushed crimson, as if her secret could be
read in her face.
How dingy the dark rooms seemed. She found her-
self wondering how long she would be obliged to live
here before Jack could have her always; and fell a-
dreaming at once.
She got through the ordeal of facing her father very
well. He greeted her languidly, and taking her soft
cheeks in his supple white hands, kissed her affection-
ately, yet with that leisurely deliberation which charac-
terized all his movements.
"So my little girl has come home from the dear
Bishop's palace."
"Yes, father," responded the bride, flushing hot and
cold at the unavoidable lie.
"And Jack Cardew, the Bishop's son, wants to marry
my little girl?"
"Yes, father."
"All in good time—all in good time."
Then he laughed, a rasping laugh, and threw back
his handsome head as if the idea tickled him immensely.
"Why do you laugh like that, father?" she asked.
"It's so funny. But never mind. There's no need
to talk about it—not yet."
He wheeled round an armchair preparatory to set-
tling himself for a dip into his Times. Voss, like a
shadow, glided to his elbow with cigars, and found ex-
cuses for remaining in the room.
"Let's have a look at you, Mabel," observed the lan-
guid father, as Voss held a lighted match to his cigar.
"Stand there. Ah! Good figure, but slender—fine
hair—good teeth—eyes not too virginal—almost too


3o THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
deep and understanding for an innocent school girl."
A crimson flush dyed the bride's cheek, and the man
frowned a little as he watched its sudden rise. "Ah,
and no fool either!" he continued. "Frocks? Rather
simple and short, but that can be remedied. I think
we'll be able to develop you."
"Have you done, father?" she asked, with an awk-
'ward laugh. The laugh died away, and the flash of
timidity turned to anger as she saw her father's eyes
seek those of the wooden-faced Voss, as if in confirma-
tion and approval of his words. This was a little trick
tof "his that had worried her before. It seemed so ill-
bred, and futile, too, for Voss might have been stone
for all the response he gave.
"We'll have to find a few men to amuse you, Mabel.
You must make the most of yourself. Darken those
eyebrows a little. The dark eyebrow with the light
hair gives more directness to the appeal of the eye.
Cheeks a little thin in color, my dear. You must call
on my friend Madame Beatty, at No. 206. She will
give you a few tips on coloring that will be invaluable.
She will explain how to make the flush spread from
the cheek back towards the ear artistically. It gives
the effect of youth in fullest bloom, and helps the glit-
ter of the eye. Be careful with the tinting. You
mustn't overdo it at your age."
"Father, you horrify me."
"My dear girl, that is quite the mildest horror that
you will encounter in the next few weeks."
Again his eyes glittered and turned to seek the other
man's, as much as to say, "Eh, Voss?" But Voss was
carrying an ash tray to the table at his master's elbow,
and would not see.
"Try a different dressing of the hair. It is becom-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 31
ing enough like that, but too girlish. Study the
fashion papers and the Gibson girls—the real ones, I
mean, not the picture post-cards. Now run away,
there's a good little girl, and study your mirror for
awhile. I want you to make the best of yourself for my
sake as well as your own."
He hid himself behind the ample pages of the Times,
and the girl swept from the room shocked and of-
fended. When the door closed the paper dropped
sharply and Mr. Bannister consulted Voss.
"Well, and what do you think, Voss?"
"I think she'll fetch 'em all right," replied the stony-
faced one. "But you'll have trouble with her. Better
let her work in the dark. Don't expect her to help
you with the cards yet. She'll kick. I can give you
the old tip as usual." Voss stroked first his little left
•whisker and then the right with a significant gesture.
"Yes, but we can't win much that way."
"Better go slow at first—until she's broke in."
"Has the Bishop's son got any money, Voss?"
"Not a cent."
"Then we must rule him out of the reckoning. What
about young Blunt?"
"The Kaffir plunger. Yes, he'd do to go on with."
"Very well, I'll bring him round at about three. I
shall say nothing to her. You can casually mention
that I am bringing a friend for a game of cards, and I
should like her to give him tea."
"That's right. Go easy."
"Sir," corrected Bannister.
"Go easy, sir," replied Voss with a grin that showed
how wonderfully expansive and expressive his face
could really be when the locks and bolts were undone.
"You are apt to forget the proper way to address


32 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
me," continued the master. "As you get used to the
girl being here you'll drop into the old way as if we
were quite alone if you are not careful."
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Bannister returned to his Times, and after a
casual glance at the headings of the principal columns,
confined his attention to the law reports and police
news.
******
"Mabel, this is Mr. Blunt. Blunt—my daughter."
"Daughter? Good lord! Didn't know you was old
enough to have a daughter, Bannister. How d'ye do,
Miss Bannister? Pleased to make your acquaintance."
She saw before her a short, thick-set, sandy-haired
man of thirty, with a brick-red face, the bluest of blue
shirts, a light, woolly suit of blanket-like texture and
color, bright yellow boots, and an enormous gold
watch-chain. He offered her a big, fat, moist hand,
and gave her a rough grip that made her wince.
"She's going to give us some tea," observed Ban-
nister, wheeling round a chair for his guest.
"Some what?" queried the guest, in mock horror.
"I thought you knew me better than that. Can't play
cards on tea."
"Voss, the whisky."
"Ah, that's better, eh, missy?"
At a loss for words, she gazed coldly upon the young
man, who had commenced to ogle her admiringly, and
was expanding visibly with the intention of being very
friendly.
"No, no; not that nasty, fiery stuff, Voss," cried Ban-
nister, in sharp reproof, as his man brought forward a
tray; "let's have the old 'pot still.' Mr. Blunt knows
whisky when he tastes it."


#Aſ|||||||-
|Ķſ
“STUDY THE FASHION PAPERS AND THE Gibson girls...”
-Page 3r





THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 33
"Rather!" ejaculated Blunt, with a wink at Mabel
that started at the corner of his mouth and absorbed
the entire side of his face.
"Blunt generally knows a good thing when he sees
it, eh, Blunt?"
"Ha! ha!" chuckled Mr. Blunt, nodding to Mabel,
"that's one for you. Know a good thing when I see it,
eh? Ha! ha!"
He was the most odious young man she had ever
met, and the commonest. She was glad that in the
conversation which followed her father left her out of
it. Blunt vainly tried to win her approval and draw
her, but she applied herself to making tea. Voss mixed
the guest a very stiff drink, with more whisky than
soda, and unobtrusively prepared the card table by the
window.
"Your little girl going to join us?" asked Blunt geni-
ally, when play was about to commence.
"As you please, Blunt. I'm afraid she's rather green;
but you can teach her a thing or two, eh, Blunt?"
"Ha! ha!" chuckled Blunt again, hugely gratified.
"There ain't many girls I couldn't teach a thing or two,
eh?"
The girl voted him a vain, vulgar booby, but he
seemed very smart with the cards. She took a hand
at poker reluctantly, after many excuses. Voss hov-
ered round, apparently unnoticed by the men; but to
Mabel, whose eyes saw everything, he was a perpetual
irritation. Twice she saw her father glance at his man
rather strangely during the early deals—that question-
ing look which had irritated her in the morning. Each
time the fellow took no notice, but stood rubbing his
little side whiskers while gazing thoughtfully at the
door. Then her father played his hand—and won. He


34 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
had the most marvelous luck. Blunt grew savage
when he lost, and the stakes rose to a height that
alarmed the girl, although she was accustomed to card
parties in country houses. Once Blunt's luck turned,
and he regained a very large sum. Voss coughed and
dropped a tray, and Bannister scowled at him as though
it were his fault. Voss looked up at the ceiling next
time he scratched his left whisker, and his master's
spirits rose. He scratched his whisker deliberately and
slowly as often as nine times.
Bannister protested that this was his lucky week. He
certainly seemed unable to lose.
Voss replenished the men's glasses assiduously, his
master's from one bottle and Blunt's from another, the
latter's in huge quantities, until Mabel herself cried out
to him in protest. Her father gave her an angry flash
that withered her up—and Blunt gurgled thickly over
his cards. He lost again and again, and cursed, utterly
regardless of a lady's presence at the table.
Bannister's eyes sought those of the watching Voss,
and Voss cast swift glances at the guest's hand as he
passed, and signalled. It must have been a signal.
The girl's color faded. She grew faint with horror.
"Attend to your cards, Mabel, darling. Remember
that your losses are mine also, because I shall have to
clear off your liabilities," said her father, sweetly.
"Blunt is a wonderful fellow for sudden changes of luck.
He has twice cleaned me out at the club."
"There's d d little luck coming my way this af-
ternoon," growled Blunt, sorting his cards.
That deal, and several others were disastrous to him,
and he flung down the cards at last, protesting that he
never could play in the afternoon. When he rose from
the table he staggered. Mabel, sick with disgust, wel-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 35
corned the relief, and rose too. Her heart was beating
painfully, and her head throbbing as if it would burst.
As soon as she conveniently could, she slipped from the
room.
*******
My father a cheat!
The thought was treachery; the idea preposterous.
Yet her eyes had seen. She could not doubt the evi-
dence of her senses. Her delightful, fastidious, tact-
ful, suave father, who could not bear a jarring sound
or a false note of color, and was scrupulously nice in
all the small things of life, could not possibly conde-
scend to work in league with a common manservant
and cheat at cards.
A cheat?
No. He must be an instinctive gambler, who played
as one under the influence of an overmastering pas-
sion, one of the gamblers she had met in novels, who
would sell their souls to win at any cost. If he cheated,
it must be because he could not help it, as the klepto-
maniac steals, because he must. Any other idea was
monstrous. The collusion of Voss—if there was any
collusion at all—must have been due to the man's own
eagerness for his master to win.
It was so petty, so horrible, that the more she
thought of it the less real it became. With true femi-
nine inconsistency she resolved to believe only what
she wanted to believe—that she had made an absurd
mistake, and misjudged her father terribly.
Nevertheless, the idol was cracked. Her immacu-
late parent was under suspicion. It was wonderful how
many things, that hitherto troubled her not at all, sud-
denly demanded explanation. Why had she always


36 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
lived apart from her father? How did he live? Upon
what income, and how derived?
Her talks with her husband had done much to stimu-
late these inquiries; but the possibility of mystery and
ugliness in the background of her father's life had
never suggested itself before. Jack had asked a dozen
questions that she could not answer; and had seemed
surprised at her ignorance of such vital matters as the
maiden name of her mother, and knowledge of any
kinsfolk of her father. She had explained to Jack that
she had no relations. Her mother died abroad at the
time. of her birth—place unstated—and her father was,
so far as she knew, her only relation. She had been
taught to regard this as sufficient.
It was when Jack began to talk about his people, to
tell of his aunts, uncles, and cousins, that a curious
sense of aloneness came to her. She was astonishingly
ignorant of her antecedents.
Her father's intimates, whom she had seen at foreign
spas, and fashionable centres during her brief holiday
visits, always seemed a little too intimate. They ogled
her and annoyed him; yet he had seemed unable to
check their familiarity. There were no women with
whom she was allowed to be friendly, except titled and
well-known people whom she met on the promenades
and other public places. They were civil but bored,
and evidently found her de trop. The homes of her
schoolfellows were opened to her, warmly at first, and
sympathy for a motherless girl made her many friends.
She was clever, and possessed that unusual charm that
drew women to her, and bound her to them, if not with
hoops of steel, at least with an indulgent intimacy that
ripened with time, and assured her of a friendly wel-
come at several houses in England and on the Conti-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 37
nent. A few of these friends had dropped away sud-
denly. Her father had charmed them at first. He was
delightful. He was everybody's friend. Then he
moved on, and a strange constraint fell upon every-
body, definite but inexplicable, and through this iciness
there came a tinge of sympathy and sorrow for the
motherless girl. All this Mabel had felt in a vague
way. Now, reviewing the past by the light of present
suspicions, these lapses became pregnant with mean-
ing.
A horrible and definite explanation of these strange
rebuffs was afforded by this glimpse behind the scenes
of her father's life. If he were a gambler, and some-
times a cheat—it could only be sometimes No,
the thought was unthinkable, and she put it away.
It is surprising what four days of matrimony will do
in altering or awakening a girl's point of view. Four
days with Jack had stirred all the latent energy of her
young brain. Love had aroused mothering instincts
and a passionate desire to better the world and all the
people in it, especially Jack, and her father, and the ob-
stinate Bishop. She had dreamed of this marriage as
the turning-point of Jack's undistinguished career. He
was to be appreciated and helped by everybody, her
father most of all. And now!
She shuddered, then laughed at her own morbid
folly in making mountains out of molehills.
She heard Voss go out—then her father and Blunt.
All was quiet, and the sudden tumult that had worked
in her brain died down; but she felt the need of physical
activity. She must find something to do. She entered
the sitting room, which still reeked of smoke, and saw
the spirit bottles on the side table. Her curiosity was
aroused, and it conquered her loyalty. She examined


38 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
the bottles. The darker liquid, which had been given
to Blunt, was undoubtedly whisky. The lighter, in the
other bottle, had a faint unpleasant odor much less defi-
nite. She poured out a little and tasted it.
It was not spirit at all—it most resembled sherry and
water. Bannister evidently kept a cool head while he
plied his guests with spirits. Deception again, treach-
ery, and lies.
It was horrible; it was mean, cunning, vile. And
she—what was she?
"Oh, Jack, Jack, what have I done!" she cried, and
buried her ashen face in her hands.
*******
Tears would not come. She sat shrivelled up, her
youth gone, swept away forever by this fateful knowl-
edge.
Many unintelligible things now flashed up clear and
terrible. Her father had always been so very anxious
to get her into the houses of the rich and those who
squandered money. He had taught her card games as
though they were an indispensable science; and he had
shown her with elaborate care how to beware of cheats
at bridge—how to cheat, in fact. She had laughed in-
nocently at the time. Now it seemed to have a painful
significance.
"Oh, what would Jack think if he knew? And the
Bishop? And Lady Hester? My father a cheat—in
league with a common servant."
Blunt had obviously been plied with drink, and drink
of a different kind to that taken by her father. She
wished with all her heart that she had remained in
ignorance; and, as is often the habit of those who sud-
denly come upon painful knowledge, began to juggle
with facts. Perhaps she was mistaken about the sig-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 39
nals. And, after all, her father could choose his own
drink. Why should he be held responsible if his friends
drank more than was good for them? That was their
affair. She tried to think so. She compelled herself
to think so, diverting her attention by "tidying up" in
the grateful absence of the officious Voss.
The room was littered with cards and cigar ash, but
she knew the cabinet where Voss kept the cards. She
found it almost full of new packs, enough to stock a
shop. At the back of the drawer was a broken packet,
half'full, from which cards had been withdrawn.
"The commonest and crudest form of swindling,
chiefly practiced upon drunken men, is by using con-
cealed cards, a scheme at once simple and dangerous."
Her father's own words recurred to her, and she ran
through the packet. It contained only the lesser num-
bers; all the Court cards were missing.
The packet dropped from her trembling fingers and
scattered on the floor. At the same moment the key
turned in the outer door of the flat, and her father re-
turned. Guilty self-consciousness overwhelmed her.
She scrambled them all back into the cabinet anyhow,
but too late to escape detection.
Bannister gave one glance, and frowned. Then he
smiled, and looked another way.
"Always busy, little girl," he murmured, as he drew
off his gloves languidly. "There's nothing like it. If
we could afford a staff of servants you should recline
on rose leaves and sup on honey. But alas! we must
work. Talking of roses"
"You never work, father."
"Never work, my child? I've had a most laborious
afternoon—and I've made four hundred pounds. Four
hundred pounds, little girl!" He pinched her cheek


40 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
affectionately. "And what is more important to you, I
have been to Solomon's to buy something that will
cancel the commission due to you, an exquisite bunch
of roses. You can have a new dress, too, if you like,
for your next visit to the dear Bishop."
"Father," she cried, with a gulp of stifled indigna-
tion. "I think it wicked to win so much as four hun-
dred pounds in one afternoon from a man who—well,
he was almost drunk."
"Shocking exaggeration, my child. Don't glare and
choke over your words like that. Why is it that vir-
tuous indignation—and everything else virtuous, in
fact—is so horribly distorting and self-torturing?"
"It was monstrous. It was—dishonest."
"My child, I am tired. Don't bore me with school-
girl ethics." He dropped softly and wearily into a com-
fortable lounge, and pulled up a pillow for his head.
"You are old enough to observe the ways of the
world now without making injudicious observations
and comments. Discretion in a woman is more valu-
able than beauty. You have the latter—cultivate the
former quality."
"Father, you can't expect me to sit by and see abom-
inable things done, and"
"Little girls should be seen and not heard. I've only
half glanced through my Times, and in a few minutes it
will be time to dress for dinner."
A letter from Jack—a big fat letter. The color rushed
to Mabel's face, and her ringers trembled as she opened
the envelope. It was like a breath of fresh air from the
Chilterns. From Jack! the same Jack that she had left
behind. But was she the same woman? Ages seemed


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 41
to have passed, mountains to have arisen, and the dis-
tance between them had widened to the width of an
ocean.
"Riplcy, Wednesday.
"My DEAR SWEET SECRET,
"It is dreadful down here without you. I can't think
now how I tore myself away just to put in an appear-
ance at home when I might be in London, where I
could at least see you sometimes. It's an awful strain
keeping up the delusion with Lady Hester that we are
painfully waiting, like good little children, till the ap-
ples are plucked for us by other people. She almost
wept over me when I returned a bachelor (!).
"I have one good piece of news for you, sweetheart.
I sounded the governor, and found that he was not
nearly so dogmatic and obstinate as I thought. It ap-
pears his objection to you was due to something he had
heard about your naughty papa—something that oc-
curred probably twenty years ago, when he was young
and wild. It was an ugly story. Perhaps it wasn't true
at all. He only got hold of it from a dying man who
was half mad and trying to make a good end of things
after a life of evil. Father so far melted before we had
done our talk as to be charitable, and promised to meet
your dad. The governor is really an awfully decent
sort, but he's an awful stickler for form and family and
all that sort of thing, you know. And if he had the
slightest suspicion that your dear papa was not all that
a good-looking, popular widower ought to be, he
would be very nasty.
"That little crib at £300 a year, which I told you
looked like coming my way, is off. Bates has got it.
I'm bitterly disappointed. It places me more than ever


42 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
at the mercy of the old man, who is really vcrj con-
scientious about money. So prime your gay papa for a
dull time at the Palace; and if he could rail against the
Education Bill and the Radicals he would go straight
to father's heart at once.
"Warn him not to mention bridge; for it is father's
pet aversion, and he is preaching against it at the pres-
ent time. There is nothing else I can suggest. When~
ever I close my eyes I hear the ripple of the trout
stream and the kissing of the leaves overhead. Oh for
an hour under that weeping willow with my head in
your lap! But I am forgetting our compact of secrecy.
This is not a proper letter to write to Miss Bannister.
So good night, sweetheart. Write and tell me where
I can meet you on Thursday.
"Your loving, ahem!
"JACK.
"P. S.—An awfully queer thing happened last night.
Father, being in an expansive mood, showed me some
old photos of himself taken long before I was born, and
a miniature which, at first, I mistook for you. It was
the very image. But it was only Lady Hester in a
nurse's uniform taken when she was about twenty.
The likeness was really amazing. So much for coin-
cidences. Of course, I didn't fail to drive home the
moral that being the son of my father it was only natu-
ral that I should admire that style of beauty."


CHAPTER VI
MR. RICHARD BANNISTER sat in a hard but comfort-
able chair while Voss brushed his hair with a pair of ex-
quisite tortoise-shell brushes. He held a letter in his
hand which seemed to amuse him. By the reflection
in the mirror Voss was able to watch the supercilious
curl of his master's thin lip, and the whimsical pucker-
ing of the crowsfeet about the eyes.
The valet paused in his labors and peered over his
master's shoulder at the letter, a brush poised in each
hand waiting for the next stroke and oscillating in mid-
air, while he also read from beginning to the end of
the epistle. The brushes remained inactive so long that
Mr. Bannister became aware of the impertinent scru-
tiny. Instead of rebuking this man he handed the let-
ter up over his shoulder for the servant's more com-
fortable perusal.
It was only a formal invitation from Lady Hester
Cardew to Mr. Richard Bannister, begging him to
come to Ripley, and make the Palace his headquarters
for one night. Voss gripped the letter with an inactive
finger and held it aloft, brush and all, to get a dear
perusal. He smiled thoughtfully as he handed it back,
and put extra vigor into the finer manipulation of the
glossy hair.
"What do you think of it?" asked the master, with a
whimsical smile, surveying his man in the mirror.
"Seems all right," was Voss's comment. Then, after
a pause, "Going?"
43


44 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Haven't made up my mind."
"It's the right set. Most respectable, and wonderful
soft."
"I'm afraid 'soft' society doesn't stimulate me to a
properly adventurous spirit, Voss. I get bored and im-
patient."
"Not impatient," chuckled Voss. "There never was
a chap so patient. I thought I knew how to wait; but
you, oh, lor'! You make me ache."
"The man who follows a profession at once difficult,
artistic, and dangerous, should never rush at anything,
Voss. One good coup in three weeks, carried to a suc-
cessful issue and finished out of hand, without the
slightest trail for anxiety left behind, is far better than
a dozen rash, hasty ventures and hairbreadth escapes,
leaving behind a gnawing consciousness that some
false step, some forgotten clue, may bring retribution
and disaster. Have you ever had an 'uneasy conscience,
Voss?"
Voss was puzzled. He paused in giving a pleasing
twist to the front lock, and gazed into the mirror in-
quiringly. Seeing there only a quizzical smile, he asked
with a grin—
"Who're you getting at?"
"I mean what I say. Have you ever had an uneasy
conscience?"
"Maybe—occasional."
"A rare luxury, evidently. Now, I'll warrant that
the sensation was entirely due to the dread that some
act or avoidable indiscretion might bring trouble in the
uncertain future."
"How will that do?" asked Voss, combing the lock
uninterested. "Is that front bit too high?"
"Of course it is." Mr. Bannister seized the comb


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 45
petulantly. "Hair should fall softly, in natural fashion.
Only a butcher or a hairdresser likes his hair to resem-
ble oiled wood."
The dandy caressed his beautiful front lock, with the
grey strand in the centre, and studied the effect at dif-
ferent angles, like a woman. His soft, slender, white
hand rested on the comb in a manner that suggested
an acute sensibility of touch, combined with cat-like
deliberation of movement. The interest he took in his
appearance was keen; but he looked well pleased when
he had completed his toilet.
On the table in front of him was a large framed pho-
tograph of Mabel, taken by the most expensive pho-
tographer in Paris. It was a really charming picture,
and his gaze was held by it. Then he sighed and bent
nearer the mirror to examine the crowsfeet about his
lustrous Italian eyes.
"Of course, you'll go?" queried Voss casually. His
mind had been running in the same groove since he
last spoke. His master's had floated over the whole
range of paternity, youth, love, marriage, old-age, pal-
sied limbs, and chilling death. He wondered if pater-
nity really did bring any compensations in declining
years—whether the love of a daughter was more worth
winning, and keeping, than the love of a wife or a pas-
sionate houri. Voss's query brought him back. He
sighed and allowed his servant to help him on with
his faultless morning coat, but made no reply.
"Bishop Cardew is one of the Northallerton family,"
observed Voss; "the chap who used to do the hero in
the East End—the one old Judd went to when he took
on religion after the drink had done for him. He mar-
ried a nurse, or a sister of mercy, or something of that
sort—a woman with a title. She's his second wife.


46 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
He's a cousin of the Marquis of Northallerton. I read
it in the paper the other day. Caught my eye 'cos it
mentioned the Cardew emeralds, which was left away
from the marquis's side of the family, and now belong
to the Bishop's lady—which is a waste, as she never
wears 'em. In the paper it said there was twenty thou-
sand pounds' worth at the Palace from year's end to
year's end and never worn, only kept in a glass case.
Lord! some people is fools. Emeralds is fetching a bit
just now—fetching double, some say."
Mr. Bannister was listening, but he appeared to be
taking more interest in the last touches of his toilet.
While his back was turned he casually remarked—
"Would you be surprised to hear, Voss, that my silly
girl is going to marry the Bishop's son?"
Voss paused in the act of folding his master's dress-
ing-gown and looked up, his face as expressionless as
a mask of wax. Then surprise gave place to another
emotion, and a curiously foxy and cunning look crept
into his eyes. Speech came at last.
"Garn! you're getting at me."
"'Tis true, and funny 'tis, 'tis true. That's why I'm
invited to the palace; the palace being, I am given to
understand, a large, uncomfortable, dreary mansion, in
a sleepy, stupid town."
Voss indulged in a rare luxury; he laughed. He
sometimes chuckled, but rarely did mirth commandeer
all the muscles of his face.
Bannister flashed round angrily.
"D—n you! what are you laughing at? Do you
think my daughter isn't good enough for a jumped-up
Bishop's son? Gad, man, is there a girl in the peerage
more fitted to wear a coronet, or as well fitted?"
"I ain't got nothing to say against her looks," replied


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 47
Voss sulkily, as he took up his master's silk hat and
brushed it mechanically. "But I thought you was go-
ing to turn her into money. If she'd only top the wink
to young Blunt and keep him dangling, you could get
a clear thousand out of the silly mug."
"A girl in love is not likely to easily lend herself to
vulgar intrigue, Voss. You never calculate for the ex-
istence of finer feelings. Be careful, that hat had three
ugly scratches on the front yesterday. If you can't get
them out throw the hat away. There's another wait-
ing in my box at Scott's. Allow me. The brush this
way, if you please. Not so rough." He took the hat
with a touch that was a caress, and delicately
smoothed it, while Voss looked on superciliously.
"I thought you reckoned upon the gal as an invest-
ment," observed Voss, when the hat was in proper
order and the brush handed back to him; "that you was
going to get back all you'd spent on her and more, and
she was going to increase your respectability and give
you 'tong.'"
"Ton," corrected Bannister, with a twinge. "Voss,
you were in Paris long enough to get a better accent
than that. And to think that you swindled English
hotel keepers as a French count before I took you in
hand and made a gentleman's gentleman of you! I
can hardly believe it when I hear your accent."
"Broken English is a simple lingo, but to talk French
as you do, easy as whistling, requires eddication."
"Ah! that's so. You're in your proper sphere as
my valet. But I wish you'd curb your natural vulgar-
ity of idea, and not gurgle at the mention of jewels. To
use one of your favorite expressions, 'I am not on that
lay now.'"


48 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Bah!" exclaimed Voss; "clubs and play and city
companies and all them things is finnicking."
"A steady income, Voss, a steady income."
"Yes, and what do you do with it? That's what I
can't make out. You must be making a tidy bit."
"You get your share, my good fellow," snapped the
master, with unusual acerbity. He only allowed his
servant and partner a certain limit of familiarity.
"Oh! I ain't complaining. But you don't spend like
you used to, not of late years."
Mr. Bannister poised his silk hat at the proper an-
gle on his head, and intently examined his reflection in
the full-length mirror at close quarters and for quite a
long time.
"What's the matter?" queried Voss.
"Sir," corrected the other sharply.
"Sir."
"It's the flight of time that is worrying me, Voss,"
sighed Bannister. "Age is creeping on me. I've no
intention of ending my days in discreditable obscurity."
"Why, you're not much over forty yet. That ain't
old."
"Have you noticed my recent interest in land agents'
catalogues and County Life?"
"Yes, I've seen it. I thought you was thinking of
crib-cracking?"
"Voss, you shock me; your instincts are so abomi-
nably low. I'm thinking of settling down as a country
gentleman."
Voss raised his eyebrows. He was past being aston-
ished at anything.
"A new lay," he observed wearily, "and in the coun-
try?"" i..
"Not a new 'lay,' as you call it, but a retirement from


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 49
business. I'm going to buy a nice little place in the
country, just large enough for my old age, with a little
land and some shooting. By that time I hope to see
you, Voss, installed as an honest publican in some
thriving inn—near a race course, say—at a convenient
distance, a very considerable distance."
He paused in the act of drawing on a glove, and
picked up a copy of County Life which lay open on a
side table.
"Here's a little place, £7,000. Six miles from Rip-
ley, one mile from church and post."
"And how far from the county jail?" asked Voss,
with obvious anger. Evidence of Bannister's affluence
always annoyed him. It gave extra strength to the
master's whip-hand, for money is power, even against
the law, and much more against an humble law-
breaker.
"I could buy the place, Voss, but I couldn't keep it
up. It looks pretty, and shooting pheasants is, I'm
sure, a better game than fleecing pigeons."
Bannister held out his hand for his cane.
"I don't want to meet Miss Mabel this morning.
She's looking red-eyed and worried. She saw too
much when Blunt was here."
"That was your fault," replied Voss sharply.
"Sir."
"Your fault, sir," corrected Voss, polishing his mas-
ter's malacca vigorously. "You got into a paddy, and
you wouldn't see my signs. I went as close as I dared.
Cards is nasty things when women is about. Jewels is
better."
"Voss, you're a thief by instinct. I am an artist. I
see and understand how easy it is to convey wealth
from one owner to another. I use the same ingenuity


50 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
and thought that financiers apply to the amassing of
wealth by so-called honorable means. The jewels of
the Bishop's lady, for instance, are no more hers than
mine. They are in reality a part of the wealth of a nation
—the wealth that ebbs and flows with the tide, and is
cast here and there, in large waves and little eddies,
ever changing, ever shifting, according to circum-
stance and the luck of birth, marriage, and death."
"Here, stow it!" growled Voss savagely. He, too,
allowed only a certain measure of superiority in his
master, as his master allowed only a certain familiarity.
"Talk sense. What about the Bishop's emeralds?"
"Twenty thousand pounds did you say they were
worth?"
"So the papers said. That was the face value when
they last changed hands, twenty years ago. Twenty
thousand pounds' worth of emeralds! Lord! it makes
your mouth water. They must be worth at least forty
thousand now."
"But if the Bishop's son marries my daughter they'll
be hers in due course."
"I ain't dealing in futures, or floating in fairy tales,"
retorted Voss irritably. To him the marriage of Mabel
with a Bishop's son savored of rank absurdity; yet it
frightened him a little, for he had long ago learned to
dread the bold flights which the master mind of Ban-
nister occasionally sprang upon him.
"Well, at least I think I'll go down and visit the
Bishop," observed Bannister at length. He surveyed
himself again in the full-length mirror with evident sat-
isfaction. "The Bishop's lady is delightful, I am told.
Order me the last six numbers of the Guardian, the
Churchman, or any standard religious paper. I must
read up my subject."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 51
"You're a fair wonder," murmured Voss, as he
rubbed his hands softly.
He saw emeralds in the air, and they meant excite-
ment and change of scene.
*******
The same post that brought Mr. Bannister his invi-
tation to the Palace brought Mabel a letter from Lady
Hester. The sight of the familiar writing was enough
to set the girl palpitating. It brought back her last in-
terview—the pale face, the urgent entreaties, the ner-
vous, hysterical warning, and the amazing confession.
Whatever Lady Hester might say or do in the fu-
ture, Mabel felt some satisfaction that she at least had
been honest and faithful to Jack. She had married him
without reserve or deception, believing her father to
be an honorable gentleman, and her own life had been
blameless; whereas Lady Hester had suppressed the
most vital of all facts in entering matrimony—she had
been married before, and did not speak.
To a young girl it seemed incredible that any one
could be so charming as Lady Hester and at once so
foolish and wicked. She gave little thought to the nat-
ural shame and despair of a woman of Lady Hester's
social position who finds herself allied to a social pariah,
a thief, or to the wild cravings for peace when chance
freed her and allowed her to go back to her own world,
unsmirched in conscience, and safe from the pointing
finger of scorn so long as she remained silent. True,
Mabel herself had acquiesced in the wilful deception of
Lady Hester after having given a promise, but she
salved her conscience by regarding that as Jack's af-
fair, and there was nothing for it but to go on with the
deception.
It was not the need for hiding her marriage that


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 53
longer a boy, but there is no overlooking the fact that
he is dependent upon his father for his income, and
you'll ruin him if you allow him to deceive the Bishop.
An early, rash, secret marriage could but spoil his ca-
reer at the Bar, which is only just beginning. Keep a
clear conscience, and you'll have the joy of a light heart
—a priceless possession, never sufficiently valued until
too late.
"I have asked your father to come down, and I leave
it to you to manage the rest. I understand from Jack
that your father was rather wild in his youth, and that
he mixes with a set against whom the Bishop has been
preaching very vigorously of late; but both are men
of the world, so there ought not to be anxiety about
their meeting. Personally, I am looking forward to
meeting him. From what you have told me, I'm sure
he must be a particularly charming and fascinating
man. I confess to a little nervousness, for I'm afraid
he will find us dull. I forgot to mention that the Bishop
has written to him forbidding any engagement between
yourself and Jack, and your father has replied that he,
too, would not think of 'sanctioning any such union'—
I am quoting his own phrase, dear—unless it seemed
advisable after mature deliberation on both sides, and
there were proper settlements, and so on. So you see,
Jack having no money at all, and not being in the posi-
tion to make settlements, makes things all the more
awkward. Nevertheless, I fancy your father's letter
has impressed the Bishop. I am writing all this in the
strictest confidence and with the greatest frankness,
dear, because I want you to marry Jack. Don't have
any doubts on that point. Come down with your father
if you wish, but I should advise you to stay away, and
Jack too.


54 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Don't meet Jack in town, there's a good girl. Wait,
and let everything be honest and above board. Don't
deceive anybody; it doesn't pay in the long run. Con-
vention is a terrible octopus; its claws reach out in
every direction.
"By the way, Aunt Caroline is here. You will have
heard Jack mention her. She has wormed out all there
is to know about you already, and she is very curious
about you and your family, and especially about your
mother, your upbringing, schooling, and all that sort of
thing, you know. She's not really a spiteful person,
her intentions are always good; but, like many good
people, she arrives at her results by particularly un-
comfortable methods. Give your father a hint to se-
cure her good opinion.
"Mabel, it will all come right, dear. Spur Jack on
to work. Marriage will be all the sweeter when it
comes from the consciousness of having earned the
right of independence and love.
"You see I am confident for your future, and I sign
myself in anticipation, your loving mother,
"HESTER CARDEW."
Mabel shed a few tears over this letter. It wrung
her heart both ways, and, instead of making the way
seem easier, only softened the quicksands.


CHAPTER VII
MABEL was constrained and nervous in her father's
presence. A barrier had arisen between them which
neither flowers nor smiles could displace. The beauti-
ful blooms which he had ordered as her "commission"
on the infamous card-sharping business were un-
touched until Voss discreetly distributed them about
the rooms, where their odor sickened her, and recalled
unceasingly the things she would forget.
She was to meet Jack in town to-day—their first
meeting after the all too brief honeymoon—and in-
stead of the delicious flutter of joy and expectant ex-
citement that should have been hers by right, she was
trembling, sick with apprehension, guilty, and ill at
ease. Lady Hester's letter was as salt in her wounds.
The enormity of her folly in marrying Jack so hurriedly
seemed to have grown into a crime. She set out to
meet him, nevertheless, and, like all criminals, was suf-
ficiently vain of her appearance to wear her prettiest
frock—a muslin thing that hung cloud-like upon her
swift-moving, graceful form. As she stepped into
Bond Street, pale, except for the sharp flush on her
cheeks, and with sparkling, troubled eyes, nervous and
roving, many a head was turned to gaze after her.
When she hailed a cab the knowing ones guessed that
her errand was not a prosaic one.
The cool air beat upon her hot brow, and her tired
eyes opened wider, as from a cleansing breath. She
heard again the ripple of the trout stream and the whis-
55


56 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
per of the wind amongst the leaves. She was going to
meet Jack—her husband—and what else mattered?
He and she were one, bound indissolubly. The trou-
bles and scruples of Lady Hester and the backslidings
of her father were but pawns in the game. Life was
love and love was life, and it was only in the beginning.
As the cab turned into Piccadilly she passed some
people that she knew, and dropped her head nervously
so that the brim of the large Romney hat screened her
face. There was a block in the traffic later, and a cab
drew up almost opposite her containing an over-
dressed bounder, who stared impudently through his
eye-glass and smiled after surveying her. He guessed
that she was off to meet a man; it was written all over
her.
If Jack had been there the insolent fellow would not
have dared.
Yes; Jack was all she had. When the dusty green of
Hyde Park came into view she strained her eyes for
the first glimpse of the lithe, tall form of her lover—
her husband.
Husband!
She murmured the word and lingered over it fondly,
and laughed the low, soft laugh of careless excitement.
With an insouciance worthy of her father she flung
care to the winds, and forgot the card-sharping, the
Bishop, and Lady Hester.
She leaned forward eagerly at Prince's Gate, and was
ready to cry with delight at the sight of Jack restlessly
pacing the shady plane avenue and switching the grass
viciously with his stick. Her blood tingled hot and
eager. She could not keep still. She waved her little
handkerchief wildly. When they came face to face, she
was all smiles, happiness, and love. She almost leaped


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 57
into his arms, and evidently expected to be embraced,
but Jack, with true British marital self-consciousness,
drew himself up stiffly, looking nervously to right and
left.
"Oh, Jack, Jack!" was all she could say as her hands
rested in his. His eyes showed how delighted he was
to see her again. The cabman surveyed the meeting
with a critical, fore-calculating eye, wondering whether
the gentleman would pay or the lady. After they had
walked a few yards he called after them.
"Beggin' your pardon, miss"
"I must pay the cabman and send him away, dear-
est," whispered Jack, and Mabel came down to earth—
or nearly.
The cabman did not drive away. He waited and
watched the lovers pass into the gardens. Jack felt al-
most nervous.
"We've got to be careful," he whispered anxiously;
"there are such an infernal lot of people about that I
know, and people who know the governor too. They
mustn't see us, or there'll be the dickens to pay. It's
deuced hard on a chap that he can't walk with his own
dear little wife in a public park without having to play
the fox. But there, it won't be for long, little one. My
clever little girl is going to see to all that. She's going
to get round the old boy, and then"
"And then?" she asked, and she shivered as from a
cold wind. She came right down to earth with a dull,
heavy thud.
"Why, then we'll own up. Oh, darling, you don't
know what it is to be married and live in chambers, and
go on with the old life just the same."
"Yes, I do, Jack. You don't suppose that I find
Stratton Street a paradise."


58 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"It's home, though." She shuddered again. "Home!
How often I've thought of home since last week, Ma-
bel, and dreamed of it, and imagined my little fairy
presiding at the evening meal. Then comes disillusion-
ment, and I eat my solitary chop in a gaudy restaurant,
where men are dining with their wives and sweethearts,
all jolly, and off to the theatre. And from my corner
I sit and groan and think of—my wife."
"Don't, Jack, don't! You mustn't grip my arm like
that. That woman over there in the blue frock looks
very much like Mrs. Selwyn Carton. She'll see you.
She is looking this way. Let's take the other path."
Jack rattled on, grumbling and laughing by turns,
until he had exhausted his small stock of news. Then
it occurred to him that he had done all the talking and
Mabel the listening.
"Well, little one, and what is your news? How goes
it with your adorable dad? What would he say if he
knew you were shopping in Kensington Gardens—
eh?"
"I don't think he'd mind very much," replied Mabel,
with a gasp and a horrid choking in her throat.
"Then he's not a very particular chap—eh? Rather
a good sort, though."
"I—I don't know."
It was on her lips to tell Jack everything, but loyalty,
pride, and shame impelled her to hold her peace. Why
should she worry Jack with her troubles when he had
so many of his own?
Perhaps if she had spoken then things might have
turned out differently.
Woman-like, she tried to change the conversation;
but Jack wanted to know if his father-in-law—how
strange it sounded on his lips—was going down to the


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 59
Palace. When she told him that the invitation had
been accepted he laughed joyfully.
"That's ripping, little girl. You're a rare little
schemer, full of tact and artfulness. You'll be a gold
mine to me when I'm made a judge. Once let our
fathers meet, and imagine they are settling our affairs
for us, then all will be well; though I think I'd better
see papa-in-law, darling, and coach him up in the part
he has to play—without letting him suspect it, of
course."
"I don't think I would, Jack, not yet."
Again she struggled to explain, to confess, to warn
him. Her tongue was tied. She laughed frivolously
instead, and talked of Weybury and the incidents of the
honeymoon—of anything that would help her to for-
get the awful tangle into which things were drifting.
The Long Water gleaming in the morning sunlight
reminded them of Weybury and their stolen holiday,
and fired Jack with eagerness for new indiscretions.
He was rash enough to suggest another brief escape
from civilization, but Mabel vetoed the project with a
firmness that hurt his vanity.
"No, Jack—impossible!"
"Nothing is impossible when one really loves," he
retorted loftily.
"Don't be silly, Jack. We must be very careful—for
your sake."
"Why should I be compelled to live apart from my
wife?" cried Jack contentiously, as if demolishing the
arguments of the plaintiff. Why should I suffer tor-
tures of loneliness? Why"
"Jack, you must, you must. One false step, and we
shall be discovered. Oh, dear! I am already weary
of deceit. I wish"


60 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Don't say that you wish we hadn't been down to
Weybury. That would be unkind, Mabel. I thought
you were happy there."
"Of course, Jack, of course. You know I was. But
you must understand that a woman, when she's mar-
ried"—Jack grinned delightedly—"must make her hus-
band's welfare her first thought."
"Mabel, I don't care a hang for my welfare just now,
or the world, or father, or anything else—but you."
They were standing facing each other, and he excit-
edly seized his wife, careless of eye-witnesses, but shel-
tered by a screen of close-growing rhododendrons.
"Mabel, I can't do without you. You must come down
to my chambers in the Temple. I want you to see the
place. You know you said you wanted to."
"Jack! After all our noble resolutions at Weybury?
How patient we were to be, and how strong!"
"Mabel, don't look at me with serious eyes like that.
They were never meant for anything but laughter.
There's something about you this morning that makes
me reckless. You're looking such a picture of re-
strained devilment that"
"I don't feel it, Jack."
"Well, never mind, you look it. You're such a queer
mixture of demureness and diablerie. I'm sure if I
suggested to you that we should run a race down to
the Long Water, and play touch like little urchins
round the penny chairs, you'd enter into the fun and
enjoy yourself like the dear little kiddie that you are."
Mabel was excited more than elated. The rhythm
of Jack's full baritone vibrated in her very heart-
strings; when he was in high spirits and reckless his
mood was contagious. And what woman in love can


62 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
been a row about you at home; and trust her for guess-
ing who you are."
"And Lady Hester begged me not to see you, Jack,"
observed Mabel, with a woebegone look. They stood
and looked at one another foolishly. Then they both
laughed at the absurdity of their position—husband
and wife in a fever of anxiety at having been seen to-
gether by a maiden aunt.
"Mabel," cried Jack, with a sudden burst of despera-
tion, "if you don't promise to come down and see me
in the Temple, I'll just hug you where you stand, be-
fore all these people." He seized her arm, and she
jumped away in mock terror.
"I'll come, Jack, I'll come. I'm bewildered by the
difficulties that beset us. But there is love." She
slipped her arm in his. They passed again into the
shelter of the trees where the shadows were deeper, and
only a few nurse maids and their charges disturbed the
solitude.
Gone were all her fine resolutions, and the half-
formed notions of abandoning Jack forever and freeing
him from the incubus of a disreputable father-in-law.
After all, their world was themselves, and they must
revel in the sunlight. Let to-morrow bring its burdens
and responsibilities. To-day was theirs.
The day after would be Aunt Caroline's.
Jack was feverishly eager that they should snatch a
few hours of wedded bliss in the Temple, despite reso-
lutions to the contrary; and it was when urging this
sort of indiscretion that Jack showed that great facility
of argument and fluency of persuasive speech that had
already stood him in such good stead at the Bar.
Mabel protested that it was horribly indiscreet, but
he demolished her weak arguments by the most ele-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 63
mentary logic. He talked long and eloquently; and
what could a young and infatuated wife do but submit?
Her father's erratic manner of life and the absence of
any female relatives left her very much her own mis-
tress to come and go as she pleased; so that she, per-
sonally, ran very little risk in visiting a supposed bach-
elor in chambers, and would find little difficulty in ab-
senting herself from Stratton Street. As for Jack, he
argued that, though brick walls might have ears, they
had fewer eyes than London streets. He declared that
with a wife's occasional counsel he would be another
man. The future would hold no terrors for him, and
the high pinnacle upon which the woolsack rested was
at once lowered to a quite moderate elevation. Despite
their experience with Aunt Caroline and the danger
of being observed, they kissed farewell beneath the
trees, in full view of Mrs. Selwyn Carton's maid, who
was airing her mistress's discarded blue frock in se-
questered paths.
Mabel parted from her husband with her head in a
whirl, cheeks crimson, and eyes glistening. She walked
all the way home, and only in Bond Street became
really conscious of the presence of other people in the
world. She suddenly caught sight of her father gazing
in a jeweler's window, and halted guiltily, uncertain
whether to slip by or to join him.
He had seen her reflection in a window mirror, and
was watching her approach. At the psychologic mo-
ment he turned and greeted her affectionately, and
drew her to the window.
"Look! is it not beautiful?" He pointed to a glitter-
ing ring, which caught a ray of the sunlight as it nes-
tled on its white velvet cushion. "The design is an in-


64 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
spiration—so simple, yet so elegant. Mabel, you must
have that ring."
Before she could protest Bannister drew her into the
shop, where, apparently, he was well known. He en-
tered with a languid air, and smiled genially on the
fussy manager.
"Good morning, Bowman. You're looking well."
"Pleasure to see you again, sir; such a long time
since we had the pleasure. Saw you looking at that
ring we have just received from our Paris house. It's
quite in your style."
"Let's see it, Bowman. I haven't bought a jewel for
weeks. I've successfully mastered my infatuation for
beautiful gems for at least twenty-one days."
Mabel looked up at her father in some mystification,
knowing so little of his habits and moods.
The jeweler saw the look, and explained:
"Your father, Miss Bannister, has a wonderful taste
in this sort of thing." He gently put forward a tray of
gems.
"Ah, I've bought many a jewel from Bowman," ob-
served Bannister patronizingly, as he drew forward a
chair for Mabel; "and I've sold him a good few, too.
I never keep them long."
"Well, it's a pleasant hobby, sir, collecting jewels."
"Deuced expensive, Bowman."
"Oh, no, sir," smiled the jeweler deprecatingly.
"You're a good hand at a bargain, sir. The things
you've sold me brought their value, I'm sure."
"I only bring Bowman my bargains," explained Ban-
nister to Mabel, who was looking at the ring with nat-
ural delight, but with a tremulous fear of she knew not
what. "When I see a thing like that going at a reason-
able price I must have it. And when I grow tired of


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 65
it I bring it back to Bowman. Gems of all kinds have a
wonderful fascination for me—haven't they, Bowman?
—till I weary of them. But of late I've held myself in
check—eh?"
"Well, you haven't brought us anything lately, sir.
We were almost giving you up as lost."
"And how much is the ring, Bowman?"
"Well, to you, sir, fifty guineas. You know its value
too well for me to ask you more."
Bowman purred as if he were being very clever, and
Bannister smiled languidly as though he were flat-
tered.
"Do you like it, Mabel?"
"It's lovely, father, but I have five already."
"Discard the one you like least and Bowman will buy
it—won't you, Bowman?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Well, my daughter likes the ring, Bowman, so we'll
have it. By the way, I haven't a check-book on me."
"That's all right, sir. Your convenience is ours, sir.''
"Is that an emerald?" asked Bannister, screwing his
eyeglass on more tightly, and pointing to a gem in the
glass case on the counter.
"Yes, sir, a particularly dark one."
"They're worth their money now—emeralds?"
queried Bannister casually.
"Yes, indeed, sir. We could take more emeralds
than we can get just now. There's a run on them."
"Indeed, is that so? I believe I've quite a number in
my collection—foolish big things I bought years ago."
"Really, that is very interesting."
"In my ignorance I bought them because they were
big. The settings were atrocious, and I had them un-
mounted."


66 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"I should like to see them very much, sir. But when
you tell me the jewels are ugly I can scarcely credit it,
for it is not like you to buy ugly things, sir."
"Ah, I bought them years ago, when I thought the
price of more importance than the setting—when I
first began collecting, and got the gem mania badly."
Again Mabel looked wonderingly at her father.
"Miss Bannister would probably like them cut
down," said Bowman, expanding genially towards Ma-
bel.
"Oh, no; such things are not for little girls," said
Bannister sharply. "The ring is enough. If you have
a blank check, Bowman, I'll settle for the ring out of
hand."
"By the bye, sir, I believe we owe you something.
We bought something of yours a month or two ago,
and we never settled."
"Oh, I can't be bothered now, Bowman. You must
still owe me the balance 011 that transaction. You
know how I hate bothering about money."
"As you please, sir, as you please. But I would
rather"
"Nonsense, Bowman, you're as safe as the Bank of
England."
"It's very kind of you to say so, sir." Mr. Bowman
smiled again, and produced a blank check book.
Bannister dashed off a check, talking all the while,
and forgot to sign it until he was reminded.
"Dear, dear, I am so careless in these matters," he
explained with a drawl, and signing with the weary air
of a man burdened with superfluous wealth.
Mr. Bowman packed the ring for Mabel, and bowed
them out with a very sweet smile for Mabel. He ad-
mired her exquisite grace, especially the poise of her


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 67
beautiful neck, which seemed, to his eyes, especially
designed to display a diamond necklace to perfection—
and he had several in his shop that might tempt the
fastidious Mr. Bannister. But so far he had bought
more jewels of the gentleman than he had sold him.
Mabel walked home with her father as beside a total
stranger. He talked amusingly and cleverly on every
subject except jewels and his recent purchase. But
the suspicion was deepening that the idol of her school
days had more than feet of clay. He was hollow, un-
real, mysterious, terrifying. She knew that, in his own
cynical way, he was cunningly revealing to her his real
personality. She shrank from the revelation with ter-
ror. That he had been lying to the jeweler she was
certain, but to what end?
She escaped from him as soon as they arrived home,
and shut herself in her little bedroom—her only refuge
in their very confined flat.
The imperative necessity of understanding more, of
knowing all that there was to know about herself, her
father, her dead mother, her lack of relatives, gripped
her with a keen desire to probe. She was in the toils
of mystery, and everything about her assumed a new
aspect.
Voss from an obsequious man servant had become
an enigma, a factor in the household to be reckoned
with, an unknown quantity, and a venomous influence.
He was with her father now.
Voss was reading something aloud to his master, and
she caught the word "Cardew" and "emeralds."
She stepped softly from her room. The corridor
was dark and narrow, but it was covered with a thick
carpet, so that her foot fall was inaudible. A paroxysm
of inquisitiveness had seized her. She must know at all


68 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
costs the things she dared not ask. But the wildest
nightmare never approached the horror of the revela-
tion that was to follow.
Voss's unpleasant voice was raised to a high-pitched,
inexpressive monotone, and he gabbled as he read
aloud. He had rediscovered the paragraph concerning
the Bishop of Ripley's family jewels which he had prev-
iously quoted to Bannister, and was now reading it
with a considerable amount of noise intended for em-
phasis.
"The Bishop is one of the Gladstone creations, and
as a Churchman a Tory, but distinguished by his plain
speaking and unconventional sermons. He owes not a
little of his success to his charming wife, the only
daughter of the late Marquis of Cromarty, the Irish
peer. She is a most popular figure in society, but
brought her husband no great dowry, for the poverty
of the Lennox estates is proverbial. Her interest in
church work, however, is as keen as her husband's. She
is the fortunate possessor by her marriage of the Car-
dew emeralds, which were once famous at Court. These
emeralds, by the way, came to the Bishop through his
mother, and are reported to be the finest in the world,
the value of one necklace alone being estimated at
£20,000. Although possessed of exquisite taste in the
matter of dress, Lady Hester has affected puritanical
severity of late years, and the famous Cardew gems are
never worn. But they are always available for the in-
spection of connoisseurs at the Palace, where they are
kept on show as part of the family heirlooms."
"There you are," said Voss triumphantly. "What did
I tell you? They don't keep 'em at the bank."
"I only said it was probable," replied Bannister irrit-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 69
ably. "Don't talk so loud. I've not made up my mind
at all."
"The old dodge will work," urged Voss eagerly; "it
worked before. A chisel in the window, a wire across
the path, a duster round my boots, and a walk over the
flower-beds to make it look as though the business had
been done from the outside; then Mr. Bannister's valet
will tell a fairy tale about a man creeping along the cor-
ridor, the alarm will be raised, the sparklers gone, and
the police will rush off and scour the whole country
for a burglar. I'll take good care not to go near the
swag, so they can't suspect me. But you, being a gen-
tleman, no one will question what part of the house you
was in. Once get 'em out of the house and cut 'em
up, and the rest is as easy as winking. Why, then
you'd be able to buy your place in the country."
"When I want your advice I'll ask for it," hissed
Bannister, with an impulsive, angry movement towards
the door. "Haven't I told you before that I won't al-
low business to be discussed while there is a third per-
son in the house?" Do you want the girl "The
rest was inaudible, except when Voss's voice broke in
again, rather insolently—
"How was I to know the girl was in? I thought she
was out. I didn't see "The door closed with a
bang, and silence followed.
Mabel tottered back to her room, trembling and
white, and understanding, yet stubbornly refusing to
accept the wild suggestion that was forming on her
brain.
Thieves! Common thieves!
Lady Hester's story came back—the sudden disillu-
sionment when she discovered that she had married a
plausible scamp. The coincidence was ghastly in its


70 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
suggestiveness. But for that story she would not have
believed it possible for a man like her father, who moved
among the best, and professed the most fastidious re-
finement, to be a social vampire, working in league
with light-fingered rascals of the class of Voss.
She laughed hysterically at the absurdity of the idea,
and gazed round with blanched face at her luxurious
surroundings. Here was no sign of poverty, no sign of
war with mankind. Her own life, as far as she remem-
bered it, had never rubbed shoulders with low and vul-
gar associations. She had moved only amongst the
rich. Her intimates belonged to the most favored
class. And yet—the daughter of a thief! Horrible!
The noble image of the fine old Bishop of Ripley
flashed up like an ogre of condemnation. What would
he say if he knew? And she, his son's wife, his daugh-
ter, walking perilous paths with an unscrupulous, un-
abashed fraud of a father. It was no use shirking the
awful truth. Many things, hitherto inexplicable and
mysterious, were now made clear. She flushed, now
hot, now cold, as queer memories surged through her
brain.
Her father's affection for herself was undoubted. He
had given proof of it in diverse ways. But she under-
stood now the meaning of many strange moods and fits
of irritation that would come over him when he had
been lavish with his caresses. She remembered scenes
long ago, when she was a little girl, and there were
tears in his eyes at parting from her at the convent
gate—genuine tears, such as a mother might shed.
Could a rogue be sentimental?
She had always imagined that her likeness to her
mother had endeared her to him. He said so once, and


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 71
could not bear to talk of the dead. Was it true? Was
anything true or real about her?
The shock was overwhelming. She was helpless and
panic-stricken. She could not face a meeting with him
any more that day, and, pleading a sick headache, re-
mained in her room, wrestling with the awful problem.
If she had not been Jack's wife it would have been less
terrifying. She could have disappeared utterly—
where to, when, or how she did not speculate. In the
great revolt panic succeeded panic as she considered
the wheels within wheels, the mesh in which she was
entangled by her rash marriage with Jack. She was
numbed with fear at the thought of her father visiting
the Palace. He and his rascally servant were going
there as honored guests—to steal. No other construc-
tion could be put upon their talk.
To steal! From Jack's father!
Oh, the mad indiscretion of her marriage! She had
ruined Jack utterly. She faced the worst bravely and
desperately, and resolved that no one must know of
that dreadful false step. No one knew; no one must
ever know. That was her first and dominant idea.
A night of broken rest with dreadful dreams, a morn-
ing grey and hopeless, with no course of action decided
upon, no fixed resolve, and the necessity of attending
to bodily needs in the way of food.
The woman who came to the flat to cook by the day
when required brought her breakfast, but she sickened
at the thought of eating the bread of sin—of crime.
Her father sent an affectionate message, with some
beautiful flowers, and a more practical mark of con-
cern in the shape of a prescription made up by a neigh-
boring chemist. The exquisite rogue was a man, after
all, with the same instincts, affections, and sympathies


72 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
as his fellows. He, too, suffered from headaches, and
could not bear to think of his beautiful Mabel endur-
ing physical pain and spoiling her flower-like beauty.
He supposed that it was the Blunt incident, which her
sharp eyes had detected more by accident than by de-
sign upon his part, and was genuinely sorry. He had
encountered the symptoms of revolt and horror in a
high-spirited woman before—many years ago—and
knew the virulence of the poison. He instictively
dreaded that the malady would take the same course
and end in the same way, unless he took steps to throw
dust in his child's eyes and enabled her to recover her
lost self-respect. He had no notion of the real extent
of her knowledge.


CHAPTER VIII
"I SAY, Mrs. Maguire, can't you hear me?"
Jack thrust his head through the narrow opening of
his bedroom door and shouted for his ancient laun-
dress, who was always in the way except when wanted.
"Did you call, sir?" inquired a pale woman with a
thin voice, as she shuffled into the sitting room, which
adjoined the bedroom. "I've got a nasty return of my
last winter's cold. I'm a bit deaf on the left side, sir—
the side what's mostly against your door, sir."
"Sorry you're not well, Mrs. Maguire, but I want
you to give me a little extra time this morning. You
see, I've a friend coming to tea—a very particular
friend—er—ah—a lady, and I want the place to look
clean, tidy, and decent. It isn't what a lady would call
clean, Mrs. Maguire."
"If I can't satisfy you, sir, there's plenty others wait-
ing for my services. I know my business, sir. Twenty
years come Michaelmas, and never no complaint be-
fore. Not clean!"
"Oh, lor'!" sighed Jack, as he waited for the lady to
pause for want of breath. "You quite misunderstand
me. What I mean is this: I want all my old bits of
things to look like new this afternoon—polished and all
that—and some flowers and plants put into the vases."
"Oh, if that's what you want why didn't you say so
at first? And before you goes out, sir, if you could
give me the money to get the flowers, being, as it
were, a bit short. It's nearin' the end of the week."
73


74 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Right you are, here's a sovereign. Get some cakes
and things, and—yes—better buy a pot of jam. Ladies
like jam sandwiches—don't they? Sort of afternoon
tea is what I want for—for a lady. My aunt, you
know."
"Oh, indeed, sir, your aunt. It's wonderful how fond
of the Temple the ladies is. But there's many stairs,
if she's elderly."
"Yes, yes; get on with the preparations and clear out
by two at least."
"I'll be finished, sir, never fear. Mr. Newbolt be-
low is going at two to-day, and I've got to clean his
stairs, so I shall be 'andy if you should want me."
Jack said angry things internally and retreated. But
he was soon singing and whistling with amazing light-
heartedness, and brushing his hair with unwonted
vigor. This was the great day that was to bring the
wife of his bosom home to the domestic—and much-
neglected—hearth.
His chambers in the Temple were not particularly
luxurious or artistic. They could hardly be said to re-
flect the man, because the general design was some
hundreds of years old, and the furniture, though of less
antiquity, showed signs of wear by a previous tenant.
It is not possible to impress one's personality upon a
second-hand tenement without fair time and a clean
sweep of the previous owner's leavings.
Jack spent as little time there as possible—much less
time, perhaps, than his future career needed. But all
that would be altered. Mabel would come, and with
one touch of her magic fingers transform the place into
a paradise. She was to bring in the sunshine, and not
be shocked at the paucity of the furniture for the sun
to shine upon. There was one easy chair, certainly,


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 75
and a horsehair sofa that would support one person
when the hollow in the centre was filled with a cushion.
There was a charming old window much in need of
cleaning, a mantel shelf loaded with pipes, and papers,
and china ornaments that were once worth sixpence-
halfpenny each. Several pictures were pinned upon the
wall, and the large pedestal desk looked like business;
but the mass of documents upon it allowed no room for
the breakfast tray, which, perforce, stood upon a
rickety card table in a dark corner.
Mrs. Maguire did her best—or her worst—with the
place, and Jack was beginning to count the hours to
the time of Mabel's expected arrival. He stood in the
centre of the sitting room with a feeling that it was
not altogether gay. Despite the flowers, which he had
rearranged himself rather clumsily, and the clean white
tablecloth with two large holes in it, and the pile of
stale restaurant pastry that was to tempt the appetite
of his "maiden aunt," there was no air of festivity about
the place. An extra vigorous sweeping of the car-
pets had caused the dust to settle on everything, and
Jack thought with dismay of Mabel's white muslin,
fully expecting her to appear as he had seen her last
and continue exactly where they had left off.
His heart was throbbing almost painfully when the
actual hour arrived and passed by. He listened for her
step on the stairs, and inwardly cursed Mrs. Maguire's
scrubbing brush. Presently there was a pause in the
stair washing, murmuring apologies from Mrs. Ma-
guire, and a light, quick step.
It was she at last.
He flung wide the door, and wanted to shout like a
school boy. His arms instinctively spread out to re-
ceive his wife with a great, joyous hug, but he received


76 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
a check when a dark-clad figure, with a pale face and
great woebegone eyes speaking nervous terror, came
faltering towards him.
"My darling!" he cried, and folded her to his heart.
"Welcome, little wife! Why, what"
"Oh!" gasped Mrs. Maguire, ten stairs below, de-
spite her deafness. "Little wife, eh? Another of them
hussies! He's as bad as the rest."
"So you have come," he cried, as he closed the door.
But his voice dropped; he was chilled.
"Jack," she quavered, without so much as looking
round at his festive preparations. "I have come, but
I am going away again. I must go—at once."
"Go at once, darling! But why? What have you
come for?"
"Only to go away again, Jack—only to say good-
bye."
"Come to say good-bye!" gasped Jack, in dull
amazement.
He was not quite sure of her meaning.
She turned her eyes to his face piteously. "Yes,
Jack, you'll be surprised, and shocked, and heart-
broken, and angry, I know. But I can't stay. I must
get back at once. I oughtn't to have been seen here.
That horrid woman on the stairs was quite rude to me,
and told me you were expecting your aunt, and I'd bet-
ter not go up."
"Oh, that's all right!" laughed Jack. "I thought to
stifle her curiosity and get her out of the way by a fic-
tion. You are the aunt. But why this state of excite-
ment? What has happened?"
"Jack, you'll think it very strange; but I can't tell
you what has happened. Things are different with me.
I'm not the person I was—or rather, I thought I was.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 77
We made an awful mistake in not taking Lady Hester's
advice. Oh, Jack, I have ruined you. But it is not
too late."
"Ruined me? What do you mean? Have they
found out at home?"
"No, not at your home."
"Ah, at yours? Pshaw! Papa turned up rusty?
Well, we'll soon talk him over."
"My father doesn't know, Jack. God forbid that he
should."
"Then what is there to worry about?"
"Jack, Jack, I am almost crazy! I've thought every-
thing out from every point of view until I'm nearly
mad. Our marriage was a mistake—a hideous, awful
mistake."
"Mabel!"
"Nobody knows but Tom Nestor, and he must be
sworn to silence. Nobody knows. Nobody ever must
know. It's for your good, Jack. You're a man, and
you've got to live and make a career for yourself. You
mustn't be ruined by—oh, how can I tell you!—I can't
tell you—I can't—I simply can't!"
"Look here, little girl, you're upset and talking in
riddles. Come here—let me put my arms about you
and sober you. You're excited."
"Jack, Jack, I am heartbroken. You don't under-
stand. I've really come to say good-bye—no, don't
touch me. Keep away! I can't bear it."
"Oh, if it's like that, I'll hear your explanation from
the hearthrug," observed Jack, rather testily. He took
up his position in front of the mantelpiece and rammed
his hands into his trousers pockets. "Come now, what
is it? What have I done? What have you done?
What has happened?"


78 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS.
Mabel sat with writhing Sands clasped in lie? lap,
shoulders bent, and eyes cast on the ground. She
wrestled manfully with her torturing sorrow, yet true
to the quixotic resolution she had made, to keep her
own counsel. She had nerved herself to face Jack and
deny him so much as a touch of the hand lest :she could
break down in hopeless despair.
"Jack, I know you'll think me strange—mad if you
like, but I can't explain. I am not the person I thought
I was. My father is not the man I imagined. I don't
know who my mother was, and whether I have a right
to the name I bear. I am nobody—nothing—worse
than nothing. I should bring discredit upon you.
Your father would never forgive me, and Lady Hes-
ter—ah, well, Lady Hester might understand. But
we must part, Jack. Yes, don't look at me like that,
as though you were amused. It is breaking my heart,
but it will have to come, and better now than later,
when people had found out and I had compromised
you by—by coming here, for instance."
Jack's face grew serious. The tragedy in Mabel's
eyes was too real. The determination of her little
mouth was grim and threatening.
"Look here, Mabel, I see you're upset, and it's no
good my being angry with you. But I'd prepared tea
and got the place ready for your homecoming, and was
looking forward to a jolly, happy time, when you burst
upon me with mystery and threats that stagger a chap.
Take off your hat, little girl, and settle down and re-
cover your balance. Here's a nice, comfortable chair
I've had recovered for you. As for saying good-bye
—well—it's all tommyrot, you know. There can be no
earthly reason for a husband and wife to part unless love
is dead and they are sick of one another. Even then


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 79
they don't generally part until one or the other has had
too much of it. And we haven't begun."
"Oh, if I had only known!" sobbed Mabel, bursting
into tears at last, and burying her face in her hands.
Her grief was so tumultuous that Jack caught his
breath in alarm and stood staring helplessly.
"What's the matter, Mabel? What have I done?
You can't have repented in this short time. Why,
how many hours is it since we parted in Kensington
Gardens? Explain yourself. Here, don't cry. Tell
me what you want. What is it? You've no business
to keep me in the dark. Look here, Mabel, I say,
don't cry like that, for God's sake! I don't know what
on earth to do or say to comfort you."
He dropped on one knee before her and tried to
draw her to him. But she shrank away. "No, no,
don't touch me. It is all over. It must be. It is
your only chance, Jack. It isn't too late. You've got
to forget me."
"But we're married."
"Yes. I know. But I never intend to be your wife."
"Never intend? Why?"
"I cannot explain, Jack. It would only mean need-
less misery for me and sorrow and disgrace for you."
"Needless misery for you? Is your love for me
dead, then?"
"Y—yes."
"Oh, that's comforting. You seem to have arrived
at that frame of mind rather quickly."
He returned to the hearthrug pale with anger and
mortification.
"Jack, I—I am a disgraceful person. You would.be
ashamed of me. You could never own me. You


8o THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
would be ruined socially, and in time you would come
to despise me."
Jack scratched his head and showed signs of rising
temper. He kicked away the hassock beside the arm-
chair, and took a turn up and down the room.
"I know you've a right to be angry," faltered Mabel,
raising a trembling hand. "You will think dreadful
things of me, and there will come a time when you'll
curse the day we ever met; we mustn't meet again."
"Mabel, you're talking nonsense," cried Jack, with
gathering anger in his fine eyes.
"Don't look at me like that, Jack, I can't bear it. I
don't want you to think hardly of me. It is not alto-
gether my fault."
"Is it mine, then?" he blazed out. "What have I
done in heaven's name that my wife comes to me in
this amazing, sensational fashion, and coolly tells me
that I must regard my marriage as nothing, and forget
her, and go through life as though I'd never known the
love of a wife. At last, I thought I'd known it. Were
you playing with me? Did you treat it as a joke?
Do you suppose the bond tied by Tom Nestor isn't
really binding?"
"People have married before," she faltered, "and
have lived to regret it, and parted, and—and the mere
ceremony can't much matter to a man after the first
twinge of sorrow is over, especially if the woman never
raises her voice to say a word, or admits that she is his
wife. I've thought it all out, Jack. I am impossible
to you as a wife. Your family would disown me. It
is good-bye."
"You appal me."
Poor Jack felt cold shudders down his back, as he
saw the implacable earnestness in his wife's face. She


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 81
meant what she said, and he knew enough of her al-
ready to understand that she had a will of her own
when her emotions were roused.
"Jack, you wouldn't like them to say that you had
married an adventuress?"
"An adventuress?"
"Yes, and the daughter of an adventurer. You think
my father is a gentleman—oh, I can't, I can't tell you.
Those four days at Weybury were the happiest in my
life."
"Mabel, you don't mean it!" cried Jack, triumph-
antly, in accents of real relief. He rushed to her and
folded her in his arms.
"Don't!" she groaned, as though his touch were
agony. "I shall never know happiness again. I must
forget the past."
He clasped her to his heart and pressed hot kisses on
her cheeks. "Mabel, you've been hiding something
from me, something I ought to know. But I don't
care. You are mine—mine! I love you. You are
my little wife, and I've got you here imprisoned in my
arms and you cannot escape me. I don't believe your
stories. You love me. There was no sham. Kiss
me, darling. You are in my arms. We're here alone,
away from all the world, and whatever your trouble is,
it is mine."
"Let me go!" she gasped, thrusting herself away
from him whitefaced and terrified as though his lips
were afire. "Let me go! I'm too horrible and loathy.
I am a living fraud. I can never look again into the
faces of those who have been kind to me—and you,
Jack, you'll drive me to kill myself if you don't let me
go. Let me go, I tell you. You are killing me."
"I won't. I won't!" he cried passionately, holding
her to him in a grasp of steel.


82 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Jack, you shan't!" she screamed in a wild outburst
of hysterical frenzy. A mad cry that was almost a
shriek escaped her lips, and Jack's blood ran cold. He
released her like a hot coal, for an instant, almost
doubted her sanity.
The tense moment was startlingly relieved by a dull
thud on the outer door. One heavy bang at the
knocker was followed by another a trifle louder. It
was Mrs. Maguire's accustomed summons, and usually
heralded her imminent entry without further ceremony
when Jack was alone—and the door was not locked.
He had forgotten to turn the key, and Mrs. Maguire's
head appeared with startling suddenness. Jack strode
to the door with a curse upon his lips.
"What the"
"Your aunt, sir," announced Mrs. Maguire calmly,
quite unmoved by the outburst. "She's come. I told
her that you was engaged for a few minutes; but she's
got as far as the second landing, and says she finds the
stairs so trying she'd be glad if you'd give her your
arm."
"It's nobody for me, you idiot! Go away."
"Beg pardon, sir, she asked for you. 'Tell him it's
Aunt Caroline,' she says; 'he doesn't expect me, but as
I was passing I called,' and she ain't got no card."
"Aunt Caroline!" groaned Jack, vaguely recalling a
long-forgotten promise of his aunt to visit him in his
chambers and be shown over the Temple Church.
"She mustn't see me!" cried Mabel, recovering her
equilibrium in the face of danger.
"No, miss, that's what I thought," observed Mrs.
Maguire tartly. "She is trying the next flight, sir."
"Let me go," whispered Mabel appealingly.
"You can't go down; you'll meet her on the stairs,"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 83
>!•'.
groaned Jaclc, and, of course, he fell back on the an-
cient and convenient expedient much beloved by
•Writers of farce, and occasionally resorted to by bachel-
ors and owners of chambers with limited accommoda-
tions. He pointed to the door of the inner room, and
Mabel vanished., -
Jack smoothecl his ruffled hair, and tried to recover
his balance am! his breath. Surprise was following
upon surprise so rapidly that it was not easy to assume
composed features. He quite forgot to hide the evi-
dences of festive preparations, but he was sufficiently
a humbug to play his part well. As soon as he could
control his voice and rearrange his tie he dashed down
the staircase to greet his father's sister.
"Well, aunt, this is a surprise! How are you?
Who'd have thought of expecting you?"
"Who'd thought of finding you at the top of so many
stairs, Jack—and such dirty ones?" This with a with-
ering look at draggled Mrs. Maguire, who sniffed her
resentment.
"Is it much further up, Jack?"
"Only a few stairs, aunt. That's my door there, at
the top."
"With your assistance I can—(puff)—get up. I'll
never attempt it again."
"I wish you had not attempted it now," thought
Jack, but he declared that it was very good of her to
have tried.
"I was passing the Temple, and we drove through.
When I saw the name Middle Temple Lane I remem-
bered my promise to call, and yours to take me over
the church. I think it's the only important church in
London I have never yet seen, and I regard its inspec-
tion as a duty."


84 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"It's a bad day to-day, aunt—that's right, only two
more stairs—and—and if you're going over the church
wouldn't you go before tea and save a double climb?
I can soon get my hat and come down to you. Don't
come any higher."
"What! struggle up these stairs again for tea? No,
Jack, thank you. I suppose this person who attends
to your comforts can make a cup of tea?"
"Oh, that'll be all right, aunt. Mind the bend, it's
rather dangerous."
Aunt Caroline was a very severe, prim, upright old
lady of more than medium height, good-looking in her
way, but pallid, sharp-eyed, hook-nosed, and hawk-like.
She was never strong, except in mind. She was
dressed in a black, close-fitting costume, that displayed
a figure still handsome. Her head was set upon her
shoulders uncompromisingly, and her black chiffon
bonnet was by no means frumpish, and harmonized
well with her sombre appearance. A lady undoubted-
ly, but one of the old school that considers it bad form
to bend the back and droop even in declining years.
Her eyes usually missed nothing, and her tongue was
nimble. Jack trembled inwardly as he led her into the
sittting-room.
"Is this where you work and live?" she asked, paus-
ing on the threshold and raising her forbidding pince-
nez.
"Yes, aunt, this is my humble abode. Not very
gorgeous—is it?"
"It looks comfortable enough. Humph! flowers.
Never knew you were fond of flowers."
"Oh, yes, aunt—always," cried the truthful nephew
eagerly; "always fond of flowers, but never took much
trouble about the place—always did at Oxford. It re-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 85
lieves the gloom a bit—doesn't it. Sit down, aunt, and
we'll get you some tea."
"I never saw any flowers at Oxford."
Aunt Caroline waved away the newly-covered arm-
chair in favor of a hard, wooden-backed thing near the
wall, from which point of vantage she could survey
everything. Her eyes alighted first upon the holes in
the table cloth, then she stared at the two cups and the
plate of indigestible pastry, the thin bread-and-butter,
cut by Jack himself—also full of holes—and at a wine-
glass, from which a beautiful red rose drooped grace-
fully, set beside one of the cups as a mark of favor to
the expected guest.
For whom else but a woman?
Aunt Caroline was transfixed with astonishment and
discreet horror, and it was a full minute before she
could withdraw her frigid gaze—a minute of cold ter-
ror for Jack, whose brow grew clammy with the mental
effort of groping in the mists of self-consciousness for a
suitable remark to break the spell. Aunt Caroline came
to his rescue adroitly with a cold, steely utterance.
"It is remarkably fine weather, Jack."
"Yes, aunt, awfully fine; so—so good for roses. Aw-
fully fine weather for roses!" exclaimed Jack, repeating
himself stupidly and putting a boisterous emphasis into
his remarks, when Aunt Caroline's eyes turned once
more to the wine-glass. "There's a chap comes here
sometimes to tea with me who is awfully fond of roses.
I picked that one out for him in case he should come."
"Then you are expecting him?" queried Aunt Caro-
line icily.
"Yes, he may turn up at any moment. But it is un-
certain."
"And does he eat that peculiarly repulsive pastry?"


86 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
She bent down and examined Mrs. Maguire's pur-
chases through her lorgnette.
"Oh, he can eat anything. So can I."
"You have changed then, my boy. You used to be
a particularly dainty feeder."
"Oh, you get cured of that in chambers, you know.
Burnt bacon for breakfast and emaciated fried eggs."
Aunt Caroline looked at the clock, wondering men-
tally how long she could keep her carriage waiting
in the hope of being on the spot when the gentleman
with the cast-iron interior turned up. Jack busied
himself with the kettle on the gas ring to hide his con-
straint. He knew perfectly well that Aunt Caroline
did not believe a word he had said. The pause gave
her eagle eye time to sweep the apartment, and in a
moment she detected the presence of a thing under
Jack's boot which a mere man would never notice—a
woman's veil, light as gossamer. She gave a little
snort, and Jack turned inquiringly.
"Did you speak, aunt?"
"No," she replied, with a sniff, again surveying her
surroundings and diagnosing the building structure.
"That must be his bedroom," she thought, "that the
kitchen. If I stay here long enough I shall make my-
self very much in the way, and perhaps learn something."
Jack talked volubly about Ripley and the Temple,
and churches, and everything likely to interest his
aunt; but her answers were monosyllabic, and she fell
into long abstractions with her eyes glued upon his
bedroom door, as though her piercing gaze would pene-
trate the panels. He devoutly hoped that Mabel would
not make a sound. Aunt Caroline paid very little at-
tention to his conversation, for, during a pause, she
blurted out without any preamble—


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 87
"You ought to get married, Jack. This is not the
sort of place for a decent man to live in."
"No, aunt; I agree with you. It is not; and I want
to get married. I can't imagine a more blissful state;
but father has other views."
"Does he know the life you're living?"
This was rather disconcerting, and Jack was flus-
tered.
"The life I'm leading? Oh, yes. I've told him
how miserable it is in this ghastly place; but, you see,
I can't afford anything better. Not only does he scout
the idea of my marrying, but he refuses to sanction
even an engagement."
"I should think so, indeed!"
"Yet you say I ought to get married, aunt."
There was an awkward pause.
"Who's the girl, Jack?" snapped the old lady, biting
off her words one by one, with her eyes fastened upon
the rose. He positively gasped. He could not an-
swer. He ran his hand over his hair uneasily, and
stammered before he could reply.
"The—the—lady I am in love with is—is the most
charming girl imaginable. Father likes her, and
mother simply adores her.'"
"So I've heard. Is she respectable?"
"Aunt!"
"Does she dress in clouds of white muslin, and go
about unattended in the park in the morning, holding
hands with men?"
"Ah, you've seen her!" cried Jack, with a wonderful
burst of memory, and beaming genially. "Of course,
you passed us."
"If she is the person I saw with you in Kensington
Gardens, I don't think much of her. Your father is


88 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
quite right. Matrimony is a precarious business, and
a man's wife should bring' him credit and not be a gay
flyabout who has never known a mother's care, and
runs wild meeting men in the park."
"But she was meeting me, aunt. We love each
other."
"Yet you promised not to see her for the present."
"I am not aware that I promised anything. Father
made some absurd stipulations, forgetting that I am
no longer a boy."
"Jack, that's not the sort of woman for you. Have
you forgotten that you have no money?"
"Am I likely to forget it here?" he groaned gloom-
ily.
"Have you forgotten that you are my heir, Jack?"
"Well—well, I never thought about it, aunt. What
has that to do with it?"
"It has this to do with it, my boy, that if you showed
any promise of succeeding in your profession and ap-
plying yourself to the serious business of life, I should
be quite prepared to supplement your father's allow-
ance by another equally large"
"Oh! aunt, that's wonderfully kind of you! I never
thought of such a thing."
"No, nor I, till it came to my ears that you were
philandering with women instead of attending to your
work."
"Philandering, aunt? I am in dead earnest. There
is only one woman for me"
"Yes, and that is Beatrice Carew," snapped the old
lady. "The girl has been in love with you for years.
She is well connected, and a splendid match in every
way."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 89
"Beatrice, my wife!" exclaimed Jack, with a smile of
incredulity. "I never thought of such a thing."
"Yes, you did, until this fluffy schoolgirl person with
her foreign ways came along from Italy, or wherever
she came from, and fooled you by a display of frivolity
and animation to which you were not accustomed.
Beatrice Carew is in every way desirable.
"I'care nothing for Beatrice, aunt. Besides, she's
Mabel's dearest friend. I never cared a rap for Bea-
trice."
"Nonsense! You hunted with her, played tennis
with her, walked with her, fished with her"
"But you were always there, aunt. You know that
very well"
"Yes, and if this Mabel person hadn't come along
you would have married Beatrice. I should have seen
to that."
Jack shrugged his shoulders and smiled with a su-
perior air that irritated the elder lady.
"Jack, who saw to your bringing up?"
"Why you did, aunt—after mother died."
"And before that, too. Your mother, poor thing,
was always helpless; and I'm afraid you're the same,
unless you're looked after."
Again Jack shrugged his shoulders. Aunt Caroline
glared once more at the rose. "I brought you up with
decent ideas, and I intended that you should marry as
early as possible a decent woman."
"There's only one woman for me, aunt. I am re-
solved."
"Oh, yes, love in a cottage on nothing a year. Pov-
erty, squabbles, and a good man spoiled by a silly wife.
I am quite in accord with your father. You must cast
this Mabel person out of your mind."


9o THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"This Mabel person, as you call her, is all the world
to me."
"Nonsense, my dear boy. There are more women
than one in the world, and I'm sorry to see that you've
already found it out."
Jack, with an apparently absent-minded movement,
pushed the wine-glass with the rose behind the teapot
out of sight.
"You'll be easily consoled, Jack; and, what is more
to the point, you'll be able to marry Beatrice Carew
comfortably. She has a reasonable income, though a
small one; and as for you—well, do you know how
much I'm worth?"
"I haven't the faintest idea, aunt. I never thought
about it."
"How do you think I manage to keep up a house in
town and the cottage at Ripley, and horses, and ser-
vants?"
"I never really gave it any consideration. You and
father have never known the want of money—that's
all I know. I supposed that father"
"Perhaps you'll be surprised to hear that your fath-
er's private income is less than mine?"
Jack opened his eyes wide in astonishment.
"Would you be surprised to know that it was I
who paid for your education and your debts at Oxford
—everything?"
"Well, aunt, you know, you've been such a mother
to me—that—that"
"That you have set no value upon services rendered.
So like a man! Jack, my income is three thousand a
year—and I don't spend two. I am your father's
elder sister, and most of the money was left to me for
fear he should squander it in the fantastic philanthropic


LIHE BISHOP'S EMERALDS. 91
schemes which absorbed all his interest as a young
man. I've looked upon the money largely as left in
trust. I have no other nephews and nieces, and your
father has enough now for all his needs. I can spare at
lease a thousand a year for you, Jack"
"Aunt!"
"When you are married."
"You overwhelm me."
"Don't be overwhelmed. Money never changes
hands without conditions. It is Beatrice Carew or no-
body. If you marry this foreign-bred, frivolous per-
son with the loose manners, not a penny will you get,
now—or hereafter!"
"Then, aunt, I can only thank you for your good
wishes and decline."
"Tut-tut, boy. Don't make an absurd parade of sen-
timent. You haven't an ounce of it in your nature."
"I'm sure I can't see how you arrive at that estimate
of me."
"Can't you?" snapped the old lady, bristling.
"That's how I arrrive at it," dragging out the rose.
"Will you kindly explain to me how a man who pro-
fesses to be irrevocably lost in love with Miss Mabel
Nobody can fill in the hours with this sort of thing—
and this?" Aunt Caroline made a dive with her um-
brella and raised the trampled veil which had been torn
from Mabel's hat in the struggle with her husband.
"Where on earth did that come from?" queried
Jack, screwing up his eyes, and peering at it with won-
derful innocence. "What is it?"
"A woman's veil. You can't deceive me. Ah, I
know the sort, my boy. I've not lived in the world for
over fifty years with my eyes shut, although I am your
maiden aunt. And, what is more, the sort of woman


92 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
who likes to eat that stuff," indicating the plate of hor-
rible Fleet Street confectionery, "must be of the low-
est type."
Jack was completely nonplussed. He bit his lip,
and choked, and tried to protest, but the old lady
hushed him down. Yet, despite her assumed anger,
there was just a twinkle of amusement in her stern
eyes. Aunt Caroline could be surprisingly human at
times. In fact, the humanity came uppermost rather
suddenly.
"Who is she, Jack?" she asked almost confidentially,
and with an eager, feminine curiosity which sug-
gested that Aunt Caroline had a certain sporting in-
stinct. "Is that the one?" indicating with her um-
brella the portrait of a buxom minor actress peeping
out from behind the corner of the picture of the
cathedral. It was only a card from a cigarette packet;
but Aunt Caroline didn't know that.
"Aunt, your suggestions wound me. They are so
abominably low," cried Jack, with hauteur.
"Where's your friend who adores roses, then, eh?
He hasn't come yet. And does this belong to the lady
who scrubs the stairs?"
She spread out the veil and examined it before the
light. "Yes, it looks like it, doesn't it? Shall we ask
the stair-lady? Or shall I go into that room there,
and tell your actress to come out? No, my boy, it's
no good blustering, fuming, and grinding your teeth
like that. I'm not preaching any sermons"—again
she smiled that queer smile—"or saying that I'm
shocked beyond words, because I'm not. I suspected
it. I was afraid of it. I know you better than you
know yourself, Jack."
"Wonderful penetration!" sneered Jack, now thor-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 93
oughly roused, and bubbling over with injured inno-
cence.
"I never made unfounded assertions; and I'm quite
prepared to admit that, after all, it may be only a
harmless tea-party of two that an old woman has dis-
turbed. Your sleeping apartment has, in the emer-
gency, been turned into a hiding-place, regardless of
appearances. We will assume it is nothing worse than
that."
"Aunt, you are jumping at conclusions."
"I'm not," contradicted the old lady, snapping out
her words; "I'll prove them, if you like."
Without any warning, she stepped over to the bed-
room door, and with the heavy, cat's-eye knob of her
parasol banged once, loudly, upon the thin oak panel,
which gave out a sound like a pistol shot. A startled
cry escaped Mabel involuntarily.
Aunt Caroline laughed—not a pleasant laugh,—a
rasping, acid chuckle that set Jack's teeth on edge.
"Now, then, Jack, we'll go and look over the church.
I'm sorry to be a nuisance. But I cannot risk coming
here again; and I must see the church. If I'm making
demands upon your time, I consider I am entitled to
it. You owe me something, my boy. I gave you a
good training, which seems to have been of little
value. If you'll go over the church with me, it may
bring you to a more sober frame of mind, and allow
the lady to escape and go home quietly."
Jack sighed despairingly. He was cornered.
He was accustomed to obey Aunt Caroline from
childhood; and to irritate her further by a refusal
would only prejudice his case at home. That her si-
lence was to be bought by discreet behavior he did not
doubt. Aunt Caroline had a way of rising to amazing


94 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
heights of discretion in times of crisis, and could be
blind and deaf at will. She stalked with dignity to the
door, and waited for him to open it, then out on to the
landing, surveying everything as she went, and shud-
dering at the dirt on the walls. Jack lingered, and she
knew why. She smiled sardonically and waited at the
top of the stairs. He stepped to his bedroom door
and whispered, "Wait for me, darling, I shan't be
long;" then followed like a school-boy taken to church
for punishment.
Mabel had heard everything through the slender
wooden partition which divided the two rooms. All
that had passed only seemed to confirm the wisdom of
her decision to release her husband. She had already
injured him and lowered him in the eyes of his foster-
mother by coming to his chambers unattended; but she
burned with indignation at the old woman's horrible
insinuations. She longed to rush out into the fresh
air. She had regarded herself as vile enough since her
discovery of her father's infamy, but there were others
ready to consider her viler.
She looked round for her veil, and her eye caught
sight of the rose in the wine-glass. She seized it and
pressed it to her lip, sobbing quietly.
The worst part of her task was over. She had pre-
pared Jack, but she could not face a continuation of
the interview so rudely interrupted. She could bear
reproaches; but Jack's arm about her, and his wild
caresses would utterly break her up.
She sat down at the writing-table and pencilled off a
note, saying good-bye, with a promise of a letter; then,
taking the rose, fled down the damp, newly-scrubbed
stairs, out into the roadway.


CHAPTER IX
To a stranger the Temple is a labyrinth of passages,
with the maximum number of corners and the mini-
mum number of exits—a weary maze for those who
would escape its quiet in haste. Mabel hurried on
guiltily, striving to find a way out, and flushing hot be-
neath the gaze of every inquisitive man who stared at
her. They seemed to be questioning her presence in
a place given over to men. Aunt Caroline's sneers
were still fresh in her memory. When at last she es-
caped through a dirty iron gateway into a stuffy court,
and thence into the Strand, she was well-nigh des-
perate. An idle cab conveyed her home, and the
glances of the passers-by intensified her feeling of iso-
lation. She had been accustomed to go about alone
before, but since Aunt Caroline's scathing comments
she was horribly self-conscious.
Yet what did it matter? She was alone forever
now, and could not expect to go about wrapped in
cotton-wool. An adventurer's daughter! A name-
less thing in pretty clothes, unfit to associate with
even the shabby City clerks or the humblest shop-
girls!
A chaperone indeed! A wife without a husband, a
daughter without a father, eating the bread of sin. She
sought consolation in the fact that Jack had escaped.
His aunt had not seen her, and apparently had no sus-
picion of their marriage. At any other time she would
have laughed at the suggestion of Jack and Beatrice
95


96 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
Carew marrying; now it was with a twinge of jealousy
she realized that by opposing his aunt he would forfeit
wealth in the future and very necessary comfort in the
immediate present.
Yes, it was fortunate that she had not ruined Jack
utterly. She choked down her sobs and set her teeth,
and tried to look upon the world from a new point of
view. So far she had been dependent upon friends
for human society and sympathy, with the crowning
joy of Jack's love. It was hard to realize that she
was now but a straw on the current of the great stream
of London life—homeless almost, for she could not
stay at Stratton Street. The very clothes she wore
belonged by right to some one else, since they must
have been secured with tainted gold.
She wondered where she would be in a year's time,
what humble, honest post she would be filling. Would
it be in a dreadful shop? She was not skilled enough
for a clerk, and even a girl in a shop must have a train-
ing and a beginning and honorable antecedents.
She thought of appealing to Lady Hester, as the
only person who could understand her terrible plight.
Lady Hester had faced a worse situation and come
through the ordeal unscathed. But then Lady Hester
was somebody before she fell into the toils of a bad
husband, and could go back to what she had left. She
was not leaving a man she loved to set behind her all
that was worth having and go back to nothing, penni-
less, friendless, and helpless, with that ignorance of the
way to work which comes of a life of comfort and lux-
ury.
On her arrival home Voss opened the door of the
flat, and a rank odor of cigars puffed into her face.
She heard voices, the loudest of them easily recog-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 97
nizable as Blunt's; he was laughing and shouting tri-
umphantly.
"The master wishes to see you the moment you re-
turn, miss," said Voss softly. "Mr. Blunt is here."
What a sickening memory the name recalled! She
had no intention of watching the pigeon being plucked
again, and would have escaped to her room; but her
father heard the door close, and cried out—
"Who is that?"
Voss barred her progress to her room, and she was
forced to enter the sitting-room.
"Ah! how d'you do? Good afternoon," cried
Blunt, who was beaming. He gave one look up from
his cards, crossed his right hand over his left to offer
her a hand, and hardly took his eyes from the cards.
"I'm winning," he explained. "There you are!
Fifty again. Ah, yes, I am winning to-day. My luck
has turned, and your dad is fair wild. He can't win
even on a bluff."
"Sit down, Mabel. That's a pretty rose you've got,"
observed Bannister, motioning to Voss to wheel
forward an arm-chair.
"I think I'll take off my things," murmured Mabel,
eager to escape, yet interested, in spite of herself, to
hear that Blunt was winning.
"No, don't go," urged Blunt. He shuffled the cards
and stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth, and
found time to give her an admiring glance. "Yes, a
very pretty rose," he murmured, shifting the cigar to
the other side with his lips and puffing out clouds.
"Fair as the bosom that bears it—eh? Ha, ha! Not
exactly what I meant, but—you know."
"I expect Blunt would like the rose if you could
spare it, Mabel. He's a grower of roses, you know.


98 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
A wonderful chap for flowers. Look at that bunch of
lilies over there—his own growing, and brought for
you."
"It was very kind," murmured Mabel mechanically.
"But the rose is falling already. I—I think I'll put it
in water."
"Ha, ha! Given her by some johnny!" chuckled
Blunt. "Won't give it up—eh?"
She colored deeply, and Bannister gave her a swift
look.
Blunt won again, and Voss hovered round. Mabel
watched the fellow as a cat watches a mouse, but though
he passed a sidelong look at the cards, she saw no se-
cret signs. The stakes were very high, and her father
would, of course, win in a minute. But he did not.
She was puzzled. Was it, after all, a delusion? Had
she jumped to dreadful conclusions without sufficient
evidence?
She dropped back in the easy-chair and took up a
newspaper, watching her father stealthily all the time.
The genuine concern on his face was very puzzling.
He seemed to be trying hard to win, and the cards were
always against him. Voss brought forward whisky
and her father drank freely, forgetting his guest in the
interest of the game.
She went cold all over with doubt and fear. She had
not yet measured her father's genius for deception.
He was losing for Blunt's benefit and for hers, to throw
dust in the eyes of both by losing heavily for once in
a way, and making a great fuss about it for Mabel's
edification. He had repented of his haste in allowing
her a glimpse behind the scenes of his life. He liked
everything to go smoothly and softly, for he was gen-
uinely fond and proud of his beautiful daughter.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 99
There was really no need for her delicate susceptibilities
to be wounded rashly.
He had decided many things in the last few hours.
He, too, had been taking stock of the situation, and
had made several noble resolves—noble, that is, for
him.
Resolution I was that it would be wiser to keep the
ugly side of his life from Mabel altogether.
Resolution 2: She should marry the Bishop's son
at all costs.
Resoution 3: He would economize and labor fever-
ishly for one year more, until that substantial dot at
the bank was large enough for him to turn respectable.
Resolution 4: He was going to purchase the little
place near Ripley, if on examination it proved to be
all that the advertisement represented.
The idea of abandoning for ever the dangerous pro-
fession by which he had become rich had been steadily
maturing for three years now—ever since Mabel had
grown to womanhood. But it needed several big suc-
cesses, several risky ventures yet, before he could
amass the proper amount to maintain himself in re-
spectability and luxury commensurate with his needs
and usual habits of life. Each year he needed less and
saved more, but it was slow work.
Voss brought in tea. Mabel poured it out with a
trembling hand, keeping an eye on the game all the
time. Voss waited near, in full view, behind Blunt's
chair, and scratched his cheek idly, as if bored and in-
different. Bannister flashed an angry look at him and
played his hand and—lost, muttering, "Extraordinary
luck! extraordinary luck!" At which Blunt chuckled
and jumped in his seat in ecstasy, like a delighted
school-boy. 60721B


ioo THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"It's turning at last—my luck's in! I told you it
would. Thank you, I'll take tea. Don't often touch
it, but from your fair hands—eh?"
She passed the cup, and her hand shook so badly
that Voss raised his eyebrows in respectful surprise.
Gone was her wild resolution to denounce her
father, regardless of consequences. The dust thrown
in her eyes did not blind her, but it dimmed her vision,
and caused her to flounder. She had too much sense
to utterly disregard the evidence of her senses upon
previous occasions; but somehow things did not seem
so dreadful, and she quaked at her rashness in jumping
to such frightful conclusions.
Oh, if she could only doubt more! If she could al-
low but a glimmer of hope! It meant—Jack and love!
Her father won the next deal. Blunt pushed aside
his tea rudely. "I always lose if I touch the d d
stuff."
Mabel trembled again. Her father won once more,
but it was only a temporary change of luck. Blunt
grew desperate, doubled the stakes, and played ex-
citedly, like a novice, and won. He laughed derisively
in his joy, and Bannister pretended to lose his tem-
per, which pleased Blunt almost as much as winning,
for the languid exquisite usually never turned a hair.
It was a triumph to excite the imperturable Mr. Ban-
nister.
Mabel would have escaped, but her father called her
back. "We shall be done in a minute. Once more,
Blunt, and then we stop, or you'll clean me out."
Play finished, Bannister rose and stretched himself
and smoothed his pointed beard, and looked with
pleasure upon his daughter. He recovered his broken


102 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
resolved at all costs to suffer all that was demanded of
her until the proper time for rebellion.
"Yes; she's going to marry the Bishop's son. It is
all settled."
"Father, you are premature. You know it isn't set-
tled."
"Oh, yes; Jack's father and I settled it this morn-
ing."
"This morning!" she murmured in surprise.
"Yes; I breakfasted with Panoli, the dramatist, this
morning. He gathers to his table all the notabilities
of the day, and the Bishop was in town and going to
be there, so I invited myself. I was dreading my prom-
ised visit to the Palace; churchmen are not in my line.
But when I saw the jolly old Bishop—fine old fellow
he is, too,—and put the matter sensibly to him as
father to father, he came round to my way of thinking.
You see, it was all a matter of settlements. They're
devils for cash, those church boys. He didn't want his
son to marry a penniless nobody; but I explained that
I could spare you a thousand a year, and he was as
meek as a lamb. As a matter of fact, he didn't intend
to allow his son as much as that, but he'll have to. You
can manage on a thousand, Mabel." Then, turning to
Blunt, "It ought to be enough for a girl—eh, Blunt?"
"Well, I reckon if she's got her father's tastes and
freehandedness with money, it won't go far," chuckled
Blunt, counting up his winnings on a bit of paper at
the card table.
This indiscriminate revelation of family affairs be-
fore Blunt was done to disarm questioning on her part.
She understood that; but her consternation at this
news was written on her face.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 103
"Then—then you are not going down to the Pal-
ace?" she stammered.
"Oh, dear, yes. I want to see your friend, Lady
Hester. The dear old Bishop is a man of the world,
and a jolly old boy. I've accepted his invitation there
for a week." ,
Voss, who was clearing away the tea things, almost
dropped a cup in his astonishment and joy. This was
the first intimation he had received of his senior part-
ner's next move.
"I think I'll put that rose in water," murmured
Mabel chokingly, and rendered utterly dazed by the
conflicting ideas aroused by these surprises. She was
almost on the verge of a faint. The ground seemed to
turn to cotton wool, the pictures on the walls swam
before her eyes; she overturned the wine glass and
dropped the rose. How she escaped from the room
she scarcely knew.
When she came to herself she was seated on the side
of her bed, with Jack's rose all crumpled in her hand.
Everything settled—and a thousand a year!
Either she had been the victim of an absurd delu-
sion about her father's manner of life, or he was lying
for Blunt's benefit.
The situation was confusing in the extreme. Doubt
surged on doubt until she floundered in a sea of con-
flicting emotions. She recalled her father's lies to Mr.
Bowman, the jeweler, about his collection of gems.
Was this last pronouncement of the same order? Yet
he never lied deliberately to her.
She had no knowledge whatever of his finances. He
might be rich, for all she knew. She had supposed him
to be a beggarly adventurer, living from hour to hour
upon what he could filch from honest men. An al-


104 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
lowance of a thousand a year sounded large, but not so
large to a girl accustomed to the conversation of very
wealthy people. Yet she knew school girl friends who
had embarked on matrimony with three hundred for
pin money from their parents, and considered them-
selves fortunate. Jack had talked of making a thou-
§and a year at the Bar in the dim future, as though it
would mean unlimited riches.
Again, her father's promises to the Bishop might
be wilful deception. Yet the talk of buying property
near Ripley argued considerable wealth, and she knew
that it had been a cherished ambition with him to own
a place in the country. His continuous interest in land
agents' catalogues and occasional journeys, and oft-
expressed admiration of places he spied from the rail-
way carriage windows, all colored his assertion that
he was in a position to become a landed proprietor.
Before she would have taken all these things as a mat-
ter of course, never questioning where the money
came from. But now the hopeless mystification of ev-
erything was maddening.


CHAPTER X
FOR a brief hour Mabel managed to delude herself
into the belief that her infamous suspicions of her father
were groundless, and the future was rosy; but femi-
nine instinct was stronger than reason. She suspected
that his estate near Ripley and the thousand a year
were only items in an elaborate fraud of which the un-
suspecting Bishop and herself were to be the victims.
Any doubts she might have had about his meeting
the Bishop at the dramatist's house were set at rest
by an impetuous telegram from Lady Hester, which
arrived as she was dressing for dinner.
"Bishop just home. Have heard the news. Said it
would come all right. Come down with your father
to-morrow.—HESTER."
To-morrow—as soon as that? It was like him to
give her no warning of his movements. She could not
demand his refusal of the Bishop's invitation unless
she gave reasons; and when it came to speaking out,
her accusations seemed too preposterous and terrible.
It would mean a heart-rending scene with one inevita-
ble end—flight from her father's roof.
They now dined frequently at the houses of her
father's friends, or at some West End hotel, where
he generally managed to meet people he knew; for the
culinary arrangements at the flat were very variable,
and quite inadequate to satisfy Mr. Bannister's fastidi-
ous tastes, and he shunned tete-a-tetes with his daugh-
ter. He ate little at home, and Mabel put up uncom-
plainingly with whatever she could get when her


io6 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
father's engagements made it impossible for Her to ac-
company him.
This evening he had announced, on passing her door,
that it was to be "dinner at the Berkeley," and Lady
Charley's afterwards—Lady Charley being a well-
known and rather rapid person at whose house a mixed
gathering assembled nearly every evening for play,
and where stakes ran high. Her father's luck at cards
was proverbial; it had a terrible significance now; and
she shuddered at the thought of accompanying him.
Yet it had to be faced. It would give her one more op-
portunity of watching him. Voss certainly would not
be there; and, if he won—well, how was she to know
the means employed, when others, more experienced,
gamblers by instinct and hard-headed men of the
world, were taken in.
She looked five years older as she stood in the little
sitting room waiting for him, a motionless figure in
shadowy black draperies, against which her white
shoulders and arms and colorless face gleamed like
ivory in an ebon setting. The red-shaded light of the
electric lamp, an exquisite bronze figure holding the
light aloft, sent a soft and mysterious glow over every-
thing, and intensified the pallor of the drawn, anxious
face. Her eyes glowed large and luminous with a
flickering, uncertain, dangerous light in them. She
moved mechanically towards a little table containing
a collection of Japanese curios—tiny opium bottles of
green jade, pink coral, and amber, and some wonder-
ful little ivories and bronzes, and her nervous white
fingers played over these treasures with an indefinite
fluttering movement which told of mental pre-occupa-
tion. Then her eyes traveled round the room, the con-
tents of which she seemed to be really seeing for the


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 107
first time. Everything about her told of wealth, of
refinement; and there was that undeniable restfulness
about the place which at once satisfied the mind and
the eye. She looked round wonderingly and critically;
there was no jarring or false note anywhere. A beau-
tiful landscape by Corot set the key for the whole
room; its silver-grey tones intensified by the soft red
of the heavy silk with which the walls were covered,
the rosy glow of which also emphasized the delicacy
of some flower studies by Fantin Latour—queer pic-
tures for a man's room. There were quaint, antique
silver vessels filled with flowers on every table. He
loved flowers. Remembering this gentle trait, she
again set the balance in his favor; for by some odd
method of reasoning women are always willing to be-
lieve the best of a man who is fond of children, dogs,
and flowers; and they always associate crime with re-
serve, ferocity, and ugliness.
Her reverie was broken by the sharp tinkle from
the little Empire clock upon the mantel-shelf. A thin,
shuddering sigh came brokenly from her lips, which
again grew hard in expression, and the dangerous
gleam leaped back into her eyes as she heard Voss
speaking to her father. She drew on her long white
gloves; tugging at them in a sharp, impatient manner
quite new to her, like a woman of action, not the lack-
adaisical, pleasure-loving, feminine, flower-like thing
she had always been. She had dressed with unusual
rapidity, and her whole being was alert, ready for ac-
tion. The wife and woman in her were awakened.
The lowest depths were stirred. Her whole life hung
in the balance.
If her father could wear a mask and make his moves
stealthily in the dark, so could she. She was powerless


io8 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
to control anything, but at least she could watch the
current and peer into the eddies, and decide whether
she was to go helplessly on the bosom of a raging tor-
rent or strike boldly for the shore.
"I am a wife—a wife!" she murmured inwardly. "I
must be forbearing. I must risk nothing, and be pa-
tient for Jack's sake. I have been rash; I must be cau-
tious, and cunning. If I make a mistake I lose all and
gain nothing. But I must know, I must know."
Voss followed her father into the sitting room, car-
rying his evening coat and hat. Bannister looked his
best in evening dress, so distingue, so slender, so re-
strained in movement. There was something foreign
—or perhaps better expressed in the word "cosmopoli-
tan"—in his bearing. The sharp pointed crimped
beard, the dark eyes, the graceful black hair with the
grey tuft over the forehead, and the white effeminate
hands suggested the foreign diplomat, or Italian or
Russian aristocrat, rather than a trim, well-groomed
Englishman. He was humming lightly to himself, and
gave no greeting to Mabel, although his eye swept
over her in a swift, comprehensive glance of approval.
He acted as though no cloud existed between them,
and no change had taken place in his light-hearted
daughter. He addressed all his remarks to Voss, how-
ever, and with a final "Come along, child," led the way
down stairs to the cab.
They drove in silence to Piccadilly. The hotel por-
ter smilingly assisted her to alight. The head waiter
received them genially, and ushered them to the table
which was always reserved for Mr. Bannister till after
a certain hour.
"No, no, not there." He waved his disapproval.
"Not to-night. I am expecting a guest. The other
table, if you please."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 109
"Who is the guest, father?" she managed to ask.
"All in good time, little girl—all in good time. I
invited no one; but I have a suspicion that a gentle-
man who knows where to find us at this hour will turn
up by accident and join us."
"You don't mean Mr. Blunt? We can't be seen
with him here. He is so dreadful."
"Blunt—good heavens, no!"
She was not left long in uncertainty. Before the
soup was removed her father's eyes glanced quickly
towards the door, and he waved genially to some one
who immediately made his way across to their table.
Her back was turned towards the newcomer, and she
dreaded to look round. She feared everybody now,
and trembled at the sight of a friend.
"Mabel, my child, a friend of yours," murmured
Bannister, with a smile as he rose. Mabel looked up,
and, to her amazement, saw Jack bending down with
outstretched hand and beaming face.
"Jack?" she gasped, looking very frightened.
"I got your telegram, Mr. Bannister," explained
Jack, wringing his future father-in-law's hand genially.
"It was very kind of you. I also had a wire from Lady
Hester," this with a meaning look at Mabel, who
dropped her eyes, and went paler than ever.
Jack joined them for the meal, and he tried to cover
his disappointment at Mabel's strange, cold timidity by
an excess of amiability and boisterousness, and she
could not help comparing his rough, British gaiety
with her father's suave self-possession. Bannister
talked of everything but the subject which was upper-
most in the minds of all; but as the meal progressed
Jack broached the subject of the recent meeting with
his father. Bannister at once enlarged upon the


HO THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
Bishop's charming personality, and declared that he
was looking forward to going to Ripley with the great-
est zest. Mabel was coming too.
Jack gave a swift glance across; and she explained
that Lady Hester had invited her by telegram.
"I wish I could come too," he declared sadly. "But
I've unfortunately got a brewery case coming on that
will keep me busy for a week. If I can get away for
the week-end I shall certainly run down."
Mabel was eating nothing, and her husband, who
was by no means blind, saw that there was a change in
her. At the mention of her father's visit to the Palace
she gave him a frightened look; a strange expression
of bewilderment swam in her eyes. Remembering his
extraordinary interview with her in the Temple, he
knew that something was wrong, but was quite unable
to imagine the source of the trouble. Bannister kept
the conversation running on the Palace and Ripley,
and made many inquiries concerning the surrounding
country and the little property known as Dingle Hall.
Jack knew the old place well, and described it. When
Bannister casually remarked that he was coming down
to purchase the place if it came up to his expectations,
Jack stared in obvious surprise.
"Ah, you think an idler, a town idler like me, has
no need of a place like that. I'm a town bird, I admit.
But I have accepted so much hospitality from my
friends that the time is coming when I must return it,
or they will grow tired and forget me. You two young
people won't be able to afford an estate in the country
yet awhile—so I understand from your father, Jack—•
but when I'm under the ground Dingle Hall may come
in useful to you."
"You speak as though everything, even to details,


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS in
*
had been settled between you and father, Mr. Ban-
nister."
"Well, practically so, my boy. You see, it was a
question of settlements; and when I told the Bishop
that I was prepared to make Mabel an allowance of a
large slice of my income, he withdrew all opposition at
once. I can't spare her more than a thousand a year,
Jack; but she's very dear to me. It will mean the cur-
tailment of a good many unnecessary extravagances,
a little less play, and a little more sport in the fresh
air of the country. By the bye, who's going to win the
Hunt Cup?"
"I never bet," replied Jack tamely, rather staggered,
and subdued by Bannister's easy way of talking of
money and country estates.
"Racing isn't much in my line, either," observed
Bannister. "But I always have a hundred on the Hunt
Cup. It gives one an interest in the running. Let me
see, who won last year? Ah, I remember, I went down
on the Duke of Redmond's motor. There's a fellow
for you, one who ought to be worth a gold mine to a
lawyer. Always in litigation. You know him?"
Jack humbly disclaimed any knowledge of so ex-
alted a person, but thought his father knew the duke.
Mabel listened in increasing wonderment and confu-
sion. How impossible it seemed that a man moving
in her father's set coul_d be the scamp adventurer that
she had imagined from the overheard conversations
with Voss. Once more she choked down her wild
doubts, and tried to smile and be natural, and the color
returned to her cheeks.
Jack's eyes had been greedily devouring her. She
was in a charming gown that he had not seen before,


ii2 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
and her hair was dressed in a manner new to him. She
seemed less girlish, but exquisite.
"My wife—my wife!" he was saying to himself when-
ever there was a pause; and her mysterious hysterical
outburst of the early afternoon receded further and
further into the back ground. Bannister's announce-
ment that he was going to allow Mabel an income
much larger than his own, a sum that would make mar-
riage pleasant and easy, moved the young man to al-
most affectionate geniality.
What a handsome pair they were, and what a bore
he felt beside the polished cosmopolitan! How ignor-
ant he was on even such trivial matters as the delicacies
of the table. Bannister made a splendid host, and had
selected strange, fascinating dishes and rare vintages
for Jack's benefit. Mabel was sufficiently wide awake
to know that her father did not take so much trouble
over everybody, but that he could take a great deal of
pains in this fashion when he had an object in view. It
was reasonable enough that a man should desire the
esteem of his son-in-law; yet, to the suspicious, watch-
ful girl, he seemed to be overdoing it; and Jack was
surrendering to his blandishments with almost boyish
simplicity, and drinking an unusual quantity of cham-
pagne.
The favor was all on Bannister's side; yet the arch-
rascal managed to convey to Jack the idea that the
penniless barrister was conferring an honor in seek-
ing Mabel for a bride. Once in discussing love and
marriage Jack was so moved by his host's broad-
minded views that he was on the point of dropping
a gentle hint, and there was one reckless moment when
he almost blurted out the truth—that they were mar-
ried. But a look of terror in Mabel's eyes warned him


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 113
to desist. To him there seemed to be no time like the
present for revealing the inevitable secret; such a good
opportunity might not come again; and Mr. Bannister
would be an invaluable ally against Aunt Caroline; but
his solemn pledge to Mabel that he would not divulge
anything until they had both agreed upon the moment
of revelation kept his tongue quiet.
Bannister appeared to see nothing of the looks that
passed between the young people. He pretended to
be examining the ceiling and caressing his beard when
Mabel was darting her warning glances across. He
was puzzled. There was something between these two
—some secret understanding. He rather dreaded that
Mabel might have injudiciously told the story of the
Blunt incident. Yet, if so, it must have had very little
effect on Jack.
He tried to draw the two together in conversation,
and so discover the lie of the land; but Mabel had
scarce word for her husband, and Bannister fell back
upon trivial conversation again. He laughingly told
them some anecdotes about well known people, es-
pecially a story concerning a rather flighty lady who
was dining in a far corner of the room with a gentle-
man who certainly was not her husband. His remarks
were chiefly directed to Jack; but once or twice the
young husband's eyes twinkled as Bannister hinted at
a certain suspicion that the lady had been out of town
when she was supposed to be in London. In an un-
guarded moment—and being well primed with his
father-in-law's champagne—Jack gave a sly look at his
wife, and dropped certain references that would have
been in bad taste uttered in the presence of an unmar-
ried girl. Mabel looked down at her plate, blushing
deeply, and Bannister was staggered. The under-


II4 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
standing between the lovers was amazingly intimate,
and there was a subtle change in his child. She was
no longer a girl. What was it? What was behind the
veil of that new modesty?
All at once the truth flashed upon him. He almost
cried his thought aloud.
"Egad—they're married!"
He breathed heavily with the astonishment of it; but
the next instant was smoothing his beard and survey-
ing the ceiling decorations absently, while Jack talked
foolishly of the delight of honeymoons—obviously for
Mabel's edification. She went hot and cold at his reck-
less allusions, and at last found her voice to change the
conversation.
It was too late. Bannister understood now the
meaning of all the things that had puzzled him, of the
sudden mental change in his child—the leap from girl-
hood to womanhood. Yes, it must be that. They were
married. It was obvious.
When he recovered from his surprise, he laughed
in soft triumph; and, as Jack gazed inquiringly, the
elder man pointed across the room to a queer head-
dress, which, he pretended, had evoked his mirth.


CHAPTER XI
THE Bishop of Ripley had dined well; but he was
tired. He had traveled from town after breakfasting
there with Mr. Panoli, and later attending a meeting
at the Sunday School Institute. On his arrival he
learned that his sister Caroline had come down by the
previous train to consult him and stay the night. She
always came thus without invitation. She had done
it in the time of his first wife, and Lady Hester had
been powerless to alter her ways. Her room was
always ready for her, and she used the place rather
freely.
Perish the thought that the Bishop was not pleased
to see her! Nevertheless, he would have been just as
comfortable if she had not arrived. Dinner tete-a-tete
with his charming wife would have been pleasanter
than with Caroline sitting like a death's head at the
feast. He knew why she had come. It was about Jack.
He was weary of her letters on the subject, the last of
which he had not answered; and it was awkward that
she should arrive on this day, of all days, when he had
practically withdrawn all opposition to Jack's mar-
riage.
The quiet satisfaction in Lady Hester's face, and the
relish with which she imparted to Aunt Caroline, be-
fore dinner, the joyful news that all friction between
Jack and his father was at an end, and the engagement
a settled fact, was particularly galling. Aunt Caroline
never did, and never would, approve of her brother's
"5


u6 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
choice of a wife; and now he had chosen one for Jack,
of the same worldly, sensuous, ornamental type, Caro-
line felt it her duty to bring her heaviest guns into ac-
tion.
The Bishop wanted to talk to his wife at dinner
about Mr. Bannister, who had made a remarkable im-
pression, and Lady Hester would have revelled,
woman-like, in every little detail of the business of
Jack's engagement. It was an event in their colorless,
domestic life. But Caroline's grim, uncompromising
stare all through dinner had compelled the conversa-
tion to turn upon other matters. The Bishop pleaded
fatigue, and betook himself to the library, leaving his
wife to face the music and give Caroline what details
she thought wise.
Jack's aunt had not been consulted at any point.
Everything had been rushed through, apparently, in a
deceitful, shame-faced fashion. That the engagement
should have been sanctioned by her brother, without
his introducing Mabel to his sister—to whom he owed
so much—was, from her point of view, little less than
an insult. Having had views of her own concerning
her nephew's welfare, this upsetting of plans was very
provoking, and merited the most uncompromising op-
position.
Lady Hester led the way after dinner to the gaunt,
white drawing room, where a particular chair was al-
ways reserved for Aunt Caroline to doze in for an hour
after meals. But the good lady was not dozing any
more, and she was not going to be carried off by Lady
Hester. She followed her brother into the library,
where he had subsided into a spacious lounge with a
coffee and a liqueur by his side.
"Ah! Caroline," he murmured drowsily as she en-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 117
tered. "The evening papers are on the table"—yawn
—"I don't think you'll find them interesting."
"I was looking for you, John, not the papers. You
are avoiding me, and I can guess the reason why. No,
don't get up. This chair by the table will do."
It was a sombre, old, brown room, completely lined
with books in gilt-edged bookcases reaching to the ceil-
ing, and in the centre was a large, oval table with the
heavy, high-backed, carved oak arm chairs upholstered
in red leather set at equal intervals round it. The am-
ple floor space was broken by spreading lounge chairs
of greater comfort, and large writing desks occupied
the spaces in front of the two wide windows. Aunt
Caroline dropped into one of the high-backed seats,
which harmonized appropriately with her gaunt, un-
compromising figure.
The Bishop settled himself doggedly, and stared
straight ahead, with his hands folded on his waistcoat,
compelled to listen when he would rather be deaf.
"John, this preposterous engagement of Jack to the
Bannister girl is a mistake."
"It is late, my dear, don't you think, to take up that
attitude. The matter was settled to-day. Perhaps
Hester hasn't told you what a good match it will be
for Jack. The girl will have a thousand a year, and a
reversion in Dingle Hall estate, or some other place
equally good—which Mr. Bannister is negotiating for,
I believe. Jack is not brilliant, Caroline, and we have
always been agreed that marriage is the very best thing
for a young man, provided that he incurs no burden-
some obligations likely to handicap him in his career.
My son, I'm happy to say, has not altogether disap-
pointed me. He is not, as I said just now, brilliant, but
he is busy with his fourth large brief, and he has won
all the other three."


u8 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"He is reckless and inclined to pleasure"
"And so were we, Caroline, at his age." Caroline
sniffed and shuddered. "Miss Bannister is a very
charming girl."
"I'm glad you think so."
"Don't you, Caroline?"
"I've never seen her," snorted the irate lady, sit-
ting more erect and growing stiffer. Her nostrils di-
lated, and her grey eyes flashed.
"Dear me—dear me, is that so?" murmured the
Bishop, with assumed surprise.
"When I say I have not seen her, I mean under
proper conditions. I admit I saw her in the park the
other morning, unattended—except by Jack—and be-
having atrociously."
"Well, lovers, Caroline, lovers. When the cat's
away, you know"
"There is no cat in this case. The girl has no mother,
and her father is a profligate and a gambler."
The Bishop shifted uneasily, and showed signs of
growing irritation.
"In his youth Mr. Bannister may not have been all
that one would have desired; but you cannot deny that
he has brought his daughter up as a man should, giving
her every opportunity, every accomplishment, every
care, spending money lavishly"
"Have I not done the same for Jack?"
"That is beside the mark, Caroline. What is your
objection to the girl? If you have any, say it out-
right."
"Who is she? I mean, who was her mother; and
who was her mother's mother? Who, if it comes to
that, is Mr. Bannister?"
"Well, really—er—I didn't acquaint myself with the


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 119
whole genealogical tree of the Bannisters. The man
is a gentleman, and a widower. He is going to settle
down in the country, and that is why he is buying Din-
gle Hall."
"Buying Dingle Hall doesn't give the girl a mother,"
Aunt Caroline snorted.
"Hester and I both like the girl. Jack is in love with
her. What would you have me do?"
The old lady tapped irritably on the newspapers lying
on the table at her side, and her fingers worked faster
and faster as her anger warmed. She struggled with
herself for a few moments, then blurted out her next
remark with all the intensity of long pent-up irritation.
"Hester likes her!—of course, always Hester. John,
I have never said anything to you about your own fool-
ish marriage—your second marriage, I mean—or your
wisdom in the selection of a wife; but you know you've
made a mistake, and I've helped you to recover. I've
kept things straight for you, and guided your frivolous
wife through the quicksands for more than fifteen years
now; and I thought you had learned a lesson. I even
imagined you had bought sufficient experience to with-
stand the wiles of a cooing, simpering, sensuous
woman, and had mastered and outgrown worldly lust
and admiration."
"Caroline!" he cried, passionately thumping the ta-
ble.
"Oh! yes; we've got one over-dressed, powdered,
perfumed, social fly-about in the family. We don't
want any more. The world has forgiven you, John,
and they made you a Bishop in spite of your second
wife. But you surely are not going to let your son
follow in your footsteps"
"Silence, Caroline!" thundered the Bishop, starting


120 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
up. "How dare you talk to me like this—you, who
have known nothing but kindness and consideration
from Hester ever since we were married. Your jeal-
ousy is ludicrous after all these years. There is a limit
to your interference in our affairs, my good sister."
"I've never interfered."
"Thanks to the good sense and tact of my wife you
have not been able to. Caroline, I've known for years
that you have hated my wife, and I chose to ignore it,
out of consideration for your sincere love for Jack.
Keep the wicked thing in check. It is an ugly sin."
The irate lady tried to speak, but rage choked her
utterance. The Bishop rarely put his foot down, but
when he was roused he was not always judicious in his
choice of words, outside the pulpit.
"If you had been at home, Caroline, you might have
seen Mabel Bannister, and have judged for yourself.
The boy is hopelessly in love, and the girl too. They
rushed into things. I couldn't send the girl to Switzer-
land to receive the seal of your approval; but I called
a halt. I never really intended to refuse my consent;
but I did think it right and proper that Jack should not
be engaged till he was in a position to support a wife.
At that time I believed the girl to be the daughter of
an impecunious idler."
"A profligate and a gambler, a man who lives by
playing cards, cried Caroline.
"Really, Caroline, your freedom of assertion is ap-
palling. Where do you get these notions?"
"Never mind how I get them. I have them."
"That is very feminine."
"And you are a very masculine fool, John."
"Really, Caroline! Confound you!"
"Really, John!"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 121
She rose and faced him, white and glaring.
"Tut, tut, tut, tut!" cried the Bishop, waving her im-
patiently back to her seat, and turning his back upon
her to pace the long room. "Don't let us quarrel, for
goodness' sake. You set your heart upon Jack marry-
ing Beatrice Carew, and he has chosen some one else.
My wife and I approve of his choice. The matter is
settled. I admire the boy's determination and single-
ness of purpose! And, if you must be told everything,
he would have married her without my consent. I am
letting you into the secrets now, for Hester has con-
fided to me that she was only just in time to stop them
marrying on the quiet. What do you think of that?"
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried his sister shrilly, and
tearing holes in the Times with her fingers to relieve
her feelings. "The boy is fooling away his time in Lon-
don with loose women."
"Caroline!" cried the Bishop in horror. It was his
turn to go white, and distend his nostrils, and frown
fiercely.
"I tell you it is true. I've come down here straight
from his chambers this afternoon. I paid him a sur-
prise visit, and found a woman hidden in his rooms. I
took them by surprise, and there was no time for her
to get out. Oh, yes, it's true. But I wasn't as sur-
prised as you are. He ought to have married Beatrice
before he took up his residence in London alone. I
was prepared to resign part of my income in his favor,
and give him a fair chance. But you and your wife,
with your quixotic notions of liberty and independence
and romance, and seeing the world, allowed the boy to
go out into temptation"
"Caroline, Jack is not a child," shouted the Bishop
angrily. "And I won't have you traducing him by in-
famous assertions that you can't prove."


122 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"I tell you there was a woman in his chambers this
afternoon."
"You saw her there?"
"No, I didn't. But I heard her; and Jack lied to
me, as he was bound to do."
"Caroline, your imagination has run riot," gasped
the Bishop, who was more staggered than he cared to
admit. "You have no proof."
His sister tugged at her skirt to find a pocket, and
took out something which she flung upon the table,
where it fell noiselessly.
"Is that a thing a man wears?" she asked, pointing
to Mabel's veil. "I found that in his rooms. The boy
has got into the mire, and doesn't know where he is.
The disposition to petticoat influence is hereditary.
You were wild once, John—before you were ordained.
You remember how you broke out"
"Silence!" thundered the Bishop, stamping his foot,
and clenching his fist, ashen with passion.
"Oh, you don't frighten me, John, for I know I'm in
the right. A young man in love who can entertain that
class of woman to tea in his rooms"
"Was there no man there?"
Aunt Caroline smiled pityingly and superciliously.
"But you didn't see any woman, Caroline?"
"No, but I made her cry out by striking the inner
door and frightening her."
"There might have been two women there," sug-
gested the Bishop helplessly.
"There were only cups for two, John. One for the
person, the other for poor Jack, who can't live with-
out Mabel Bannister."
"Stop, Caroline, stop! Don't talk to me any more!
Leave me alone," groaned the Bishop, waving towards


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 123
the door. "Send Hester to me. I must talk with her.
This is awful."
"Hester—always Hester," sneered the jealous sister.
"Can't you discuss a simple matter likfe this with me
frankly, and decide what is to be done?"
"Frankly, Caroline? Your speech is much too
frank, and your suspicions too vile. Ah! I see it all.
The whole thing is plain as a pikestaff. Jack and Mabel
have been meeting in London. I forbade it. It was
an absurd condition to make. Yes, they've been meet-
ing."
"Well, that is no news."
"Can't you understand, Caroline? They couldn't
meet where they would be seen, and—and—the girl has
gone to tea at his chambers. It is very simple."
"Good heavens!" gasped Aunt Caroline, who with
all her perspicacity never dreamed of this. "John, you
make it worse and worse. You're now insinuating that
Jack is a cad, and the girl—well—I'll send Hester to
you. This is not a fit matter for me to discuss. She
probably understands that sort of thing."
Left alone, the Bishop gave way to a sudden out-
burst. He stamped his foot and ground his teeth, and
his lips seemed to be shaping words of unchristianlike
violence. His fingers clawed the air, and he looked as
though it would have eased him considerably if he
could have seized somebody's throat.
His eye caught the veil on the table, and he picked
it up. Its soft, filmy texture on his fingers must have
had a soothing influence, for he stopped, and smoothed
it out, and examined it. It was undoubtedly a woman's
veil, and a very pretty one. It seemed a familiar veil,
too.
When the door opened quietly and Lady Hester en-
* CI.UR


i24 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
tered, reposeful and slow of movement, a slight smile
upon her lips, she almost laughed to see her husband
standing in comic dismay with a gauzy veil spread out
on his fingers.
"What have you got there, John—-my veil?" she
asked, coming up and putting a gentle hand upon his
arm.
"Hester, this is a woman's veil, isn't it?"
"Of course it is."
"A young woman's veil?"
"Well—it's mine," with a laugh.
"Yours?"
"Well, it isn't Caroline's, is it, with those gold
threads? By the bye, Caroline seems excited. Have
you been having words about Jack?"
"This veil, Hester, are you sure it is yours?"
She took the gossamer thing into her hands, and ex-
amined it more closely. "Well, it looks like mine,
though it seems large. But it must be mine, because it
is a piece from the length I brought from Geneva. I
shared it with Mabel. We halved it. But as she is not
here it can't be hers. What's the matter, dear? You
look worried."
"Hester," groaned the Bishop in sepulchral tones,
"Caroline has been to Jack's chambers and surprised a
woman there—with this veil. The woman dropped
this veil."
"Oh!"
This evidence concerning the ownership of the veil
was all that was needed to endorse Caroline's spiteful
assertions. She fingered the veil for a few moments,
then she spoke her mind.
"The old cat!" she exclaimed passionately. But,
seeing that she had shocked her husband, she laughed.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 125
Then with that dreadful inconsequence which was one
of her charming traits, she whispered confidentially,
"John, they must be married at once."
"And are you not shocked, Hester?"
"Good heavens, no! Jack is always having tea par-
ties at his chambers. Why, Beatrice and I went there
the first week he got the place to himself. Jack is a
gentleman, and Mabel the sweetest and proudest of
girls. But for me they would have been married now.
I really wish I hadn't interfered. Caroline must be
suppressed. She has come down here with the delib-
erate intention of wrecking Jack's engagement and
preventing his marriage. If she intends to stay over
to-morrow, when the Bannisters come down, I shall
ask her to go."
"Hester, you can't do that. I quite agree with you
that they should be married as soon as possible, or
there will be a scandal. Jack ought to know better."
The Bishop paced up and down in his favorite way
with his hands behind his back. "I'm surprised at him.
I'm shocked. It was ridiculously weak and foolish. It
has given Caroline a stick to beat the girl with, and she
won't scruple to use it. Not that I think Caroline will
continue her opposition when things are settled, once
and for all, by a wedding. Yes, Hester, you are right
—the wedding as soon as possible—that is, if Mr. Ban-
nister is agreeable. He rather hinted at a long engage-
ment, and spoke of the folly of hasty marriages, but
I've no doubt that when he understands Jack's peculiar,
impetuous temperament, and sees that there is noth-
ing to be gained by waiting, he will raise no objec-
tions."
Aunt Caroline did not give them long alone together.
The door opened and she appeared once more. Hes-


126 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
ter's lips were hard set, and her eyes flashed danger-
ously.
"Well?" asked the old lady, with the air of one who
has come for the decision of a judge. ''Well?"
"What is it you want, Caroline?" asked Lady Hes-
ter sharply. "You told me that John wished to speak
to me alone. I have hardly had five words with him."
"Well, and have you decided?" asked the eager old
lady, quite unabashed. "Have you settled the fate of
the gambler's daughter?"
Hester paled with anger, and the Bishop, who hated
scenes, turned away, sniffing and coughing, as though
he were clearing his throat for a sermon. His wife
spoke first, and to the point courageously.
"John and I have decided that the sooner Jack and
Mabel are married the better. The less delay, the
fewer secret meetings there will be between them."
"Then you approve!" cried Caroline, aghast, display-
ing the palms of her hands in astonishment.
"Certainly not, neither of their actions nor yours.
No one with proper feeling would approve of a young
man's maiden aunt going uninvited to his chambers to
pry into his private affairs, and collect evidence of noth-
ing like—like a detective."
"Hester, Hester," protested the Bishop reproach-
fully, "remember my sister's views are strictly ortho-
dox in these matters."
"They're just horrid, and spiteful, and unkind," cried
Lady Hester, losing all patience.
The Bishop prepared for an explosion; but Aunt
Caroline only snorted contemptuously, and turned to
her brother. "John, your wife surely does not voice
your sentiments when she says that you would hasten
this preposterous marriage"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 127
"Caroline, you must leave this matter to me and my
wife. Jack is not a child. He will probably settle the
matter for himself. The Bannisters are coming to-
morrow, and it will be time enough then to reconsider
things—if any reconsideration is necessary—after you
have seen the girl herself."
"I don't want to see her, or her father either. This
house is no place for him. He's a rascal. I don't be-
lieve his name is Bannister at all. He is strongly sus-
pected of being a card sharper, and in one London club
there has been talk of asking him to retire. Besides,
he hasn't been Mr. Bannister all his life. There was a
time when he posed as a 'Mr. Gordon' in Vienna."
"Hester, Hester, what's the matter?" cried the
Bishop, running to his wife's assistance. She had
turned angrily upon the elder woman; but the torrent
of her words was stemmed at the outset by the name
of Gordon. She went white to the lips, and faltered.
Aunt Caroline supposed that wicked passion was chok-
ing her brother's wife; but the Bishop knew better.
She seemed really ill.
"Don't bother about me," she murmured, sinking
into a chair, and recovering very quickly. "Arguments
of this kind always upset me."
"But you are quite white, my darling. Caroline, how
dare you upset Hester in this fashion? I forbid you
and everybody else to say anything more about Jack's
engagement. There seems to be need of a little more
Christian charity and forbearance. Mr. Bannister's
daughter is not responsible for her father's weak-
nesses."
"No, she only inherits them."
"Silence, Caroline!—or you will exasperate me be-
yond endurance. If you don't like the Bannisters you'd


128 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
better not be here when they come. Hester, my dear,
sit in a lower chair; you will feel better."
"Oh, it is nothing—nothing," cried the startled wife,
with a forced laugh; but all the while that name was
ringing in her brain—Gordon!—Gordon! Her own
name. The name taken on her first marriage. Aunt
Caroline had rapped it out with such strange, marked
emphasis, accompanied by a withering, triumphant
look, that, for a moment, the veil seemed to have been
ripped from the past. Of course the coincidence could
have nothing to do with Mabel and her father; but her
nerves were raw from much anxiety. That dreadful
time, which had been swallowed up in the mists of for-
getfulness, seemed to be coming back daily, hourly—
nearer, nearer. She could almost hear Richard Gor-
don's voice suggesting that she should accompany him
to Vienna and prey upon the traveling Americans, who
at that time were beginning to overrun Europe and
flood Continental towns with their dollars.
Aunt Caroline subsided obstinately when the Bishop
shouted and dictated in his pulpit voice, as she always
did. She swept from the room, muttering that she in-
tended to see both Mr. and Miss Bannister, and would
on no account lose the opportunity.
Lady Hester was powerless to put any pressure
upon the lady in matters concerning Jack's welfare; for
Tack had always been considered Aunt Caroline's prop-
erty since his mother's death; and her position in the
household was that of Jack's wealthy guardian. When-
ever the son of the house was coming home, Caroline
was informed as a matter of duty, and she put in an ap-
pearance as though she were his natural mother. The
sincerity of her love was her excuse; and of late years
she had interfered very little with Lady Hester, or


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 129
even intruded upon her social gatherings. She held
aloof, keeping largely to her own room in the west
wing, and only appearing at intervals. Unfortunately
for Lady Hester, Jack's affairs were to the front just
now, and so was Aunt Caroline.
Next morning found the old lady pottering about
Jack's rooms, straightening up with her own hands,
and running over his spare linen and dress ties to see
that all was ready. She laid out and brushed his extra
dress suit, and even dusted his patents upon the boot-
trees. These things were outside Lady Hester's juris-
diction altogether; but, if the door had not been locked,
the mistress of the house might have seen the old lady
drop a tear or two as she grappled with the demon of
jealousy which was at the root of a good deal of her op-
position to Jack's marriage. She was losing her boy,
the boy for whom she had economized, and scraped,
and saved for twenty years, in order to leave him a
fortune and start him handsomely in life. He was in
the toils of a strange woman, of an adventurer's daugh-
ter, and she had not been consulted at any stage. She
alternated between tears and bursts of irritability,
opening and shutting drawers with a bang, and doing
small violences to the furniture like a man.
There was little or nothing for her to do there, but
she could not do enough.


CHAPTER XII
LADY HESTER had quite recovered from her guilty
scare of the previous night. The mere coincidence of
a name was enough to stop her heart beating just now;
and she rated herself soundly for her weakness in the
presence of Aunt Caroline. She was busy preparing
for her guests, several of whom had been invited to
dine specially to meet the Bannisters. She also lost no
time in spreading the news of Jack's engagement in the
neighborhood. Every outsider coming to the house
with formal congratulations was an ally on her side
against the enemy.
She was in a flutter of expectation and excitement.
In brief intervals of rest her mind jumped forward as
far as the wedding, and she had resolved exactly what
she would wear, chosen the color for the bridesmaids'
gowns, and settled the composition of the dinner party
at the Palace after Jack and Mabel were one, and Aunt
Caroline was squelched forever.
After the wedding the old lady would have no possi-
ble excuse for interfering with the domestic arrange-
ments of the Palace, or harrying the maids under pre-
tence of making things comfortable for Jack—for no
manservant had been allowed to pamper the Bishop's
son and encourage him in habits of indolence and fop-
pery. Aunt Caroline did not believe in personal ser-
vants. No lady's maid ever dressed her; such affecta-
tions were the monopoly of the Bishop's wife.
By the time that Mabel and her father were due to
130


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 131
arrive, Lady Hester had worked herself into a state of
excitement. She wanted the dinner party to be a suc-
cess. She desired with a woman's natural vanity to
make a good impression upon Mr. Bannister, who,
from all accounts, was a person who appreciated femi-
nine beauty, and understood the worth of an exquisite
gown as well as any woman. She had chosen a par-
ticularly artistic creation, quite her most effectual frock,
and one that harmonized well with her wonderful hair,
its pale gold surface covered with an exquisite tracery
of softest orange velvet. The dress fitted her perfectly,
too, revealing the lines of her figure somewhat gener-
ously, and falling about her feet in a foam of rippling
flounces.
The room that Mabel occupied during her stay at the
Palace was again at her disposal, although so far no
communication had come from the girl to Lady Hes-
ter either as friend or hostess. Bannister had wired
that they would be coming down by motor car in the
afternoon, and pleaded for a little grace in case there
should be delay. There had been heavy rain for an
hour, and that probably accounted for his arriving
at the Palace when the light was fading. Lady Hester
heard the car enter the courtyard, and drew aside the
curtains as excitedly as any girl. She saw the ponder-
ous motor swing round the bend of the drive, with a
faultless chauffeur in white overalls, and two people in
the tonneau. Mabel's pale face was recognizable in-
stantly. Her father's eyes were shaded by a large peak
cap, but his eyeglass caught a glint of light, and his
trim beard concealed the lines of his face. He looked
young and interesting, however, much younger than
she expected.
The house steward received the guests in the ab-


I32 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
sence of the host and hostess in their dressing rooms;
and Bannister inquired anxiously if his man had come
down by train.
His man had. Voss was there, and was already busy
in his master's room—and several other rooms where
the doors were open, peeping, prying, measuring, cal-
culating, speculating, and generally making himself ac-
quainted with the geography of the rambling old
house.
Mr. Bannister was also concerned about his new car
—he had only hired it for a month—and explained po-
litely that he was very particular where it was housed.
The Bishop kept no proper motor house, and he sug-
gested that it should go to an inn in Ripley, within tele-
phone call.
The car was sent away—which was convenient. It
prevented the chauffeur from informing the staff of the
household that he was not on the strength of Mr. Ban-
nister's establishment in town.
Lady Hester heard the soft, drawling tones of the
guest as he passed along the corridor outside her room
in the wake of Gray, the butler. There was something
strangely musical in the voice that was almost familiar.
It was possible that she might have met him before at
some social function, where he passed unnoticed among
other guests; there was certainly something in his
bearing in the car that was familiar.
Mabel had rushed up stairs without ceremony. Her
previous stay at the Palace had made her more or less
at home there. She was told that her old room was
ready; but instead of going there she asked for Lady
Hester. When told that her hostess was dressing, she
turned her steps to the familiar room, and knocked
without hesitation, a sharp, impatient rapping.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS I 33
“Who is it?”
“It is I—Mabel. May I came in P’’ said a tense,
thrilling, anxious voice.
“Yes, Mabel, come in.”
Lady Hester, although only half through her toilet,
turned with open arms to greet Jack's future wife.
“Ah, my dear girl—at last !” she cried. “But how
pale you are. Are you cold P Did you get wet?”
“Oh, no, no,” replied Mabel, rubbing her cheeks. “I
must apologize for coming to you like this. But—
but I wanted to see you. Would it be asking too much
to have my room changed?”
“Certainly, if you wish it. I thought you liked that
room, because of the window seat.”
“Can I have one next to father?”
“Yes, dear, if you wish it. Speak to Gray about it,
Or Harriet.”
Mabel felt that some explanation was wanted for this
unusual request, and stammered out an excuse.
“You see—you see, Miss Cardew's room is so near
mine now.”
“Oh, yes, of course, of course—I understand,”
laughed Lady Hester. “It will be nicer, perhaps, if you
are near your father. Besides, you know the place so
well, you can pilot him through the maze of corridors
upstairs. You have plenty of time to get ready, Mabel.
I hope you've brought a stock of pretty dresses, child.
I’ve invited quite a lot of people to meet you, and we
are to have a really festive gathering. I have spread
the news of your engagement far and wide, because
Aunt Caroline has set her heart upon wrecking it. Be
civil to her, for heaven's sake. If she insults you, over-
look it. If she ignores you, you must ignore her. She
is quite helpless. When you are introduced to her, go


134 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
up and kiss her—and may I be there to see the fun!
She's a very good soul at bottom, but the depths are a
long way down. You must manage the old lady skill-
fully. If there's any fighting to be done, leave that to
me. You must make it all right with Aunt Caroline,
because she's got heaps of money, and Jack must have
it; or else it will go to a home for lost dogs, or incom-
petent curates. Stay with me awhile and let us discuss
the wedding."
But the girl made excuses.
"I'm disturbing you. I shall be in the way while you
dress; besides, it's late already, and I've a lot to do."
Lady Hester detected the change of tone instantly.
A latent anxiety and apprehensiveness had crept into
Mabel's voice, dulling its vivacity and youthfulness.
She turned to the girl in kindly scrutiny.
"Mabel, aren't you happy? You look so worried
and unlike yourself, child. You're not regretting?"
"No. Of course I'm happy now everything's settled.
But the journey down upset me, I fancy. I'm not used
to fast motors; and we came down at an awful pace."
"I didn't know your father had such a fine car."
"No?"
"Has he had it long?"
"I'm sure I don't know. He doesn't tell me much
about his affairs. I'll go and dress now. We'll talk
presently."
"He shall take Aunt Caroline out for a drive—and
lose her," laughed Lady Hester, and Mabel escaped.
Lady Hester hurried feverishly through her dress-
ing. The excitement had given her a rosy flush. Her
eyes were sparkling, and she had never looked younger
since she became Lady Hester Cardew. She seemed
to have bridged the gap of years, and gone back to the


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 135
days before sorrow and anxiety had thinned her
cheeks, and darkened the shadows beneath her eyes.
She was in the ripest maturity of womanhood, life's In-
dian summer. The girlish vivacity was gone, but the
stately, graceful figure remained; and as she surveyed
her full-length reflection in the long mirror she laughed
triumphantly to think that Mabel herself, with all the
bloom of youth, could not outshine her this evening.
One more critical survey, comprehensive and satis-
fied—her gown was a complete success, and its unusual
gaiety of tone pleased her—and she hurried down. She
rustled along the soft-carpeted corridor to the head of
the broad, curved stone staircase that leads down to
the oak hall of Ripley Palace. Some one was descend-
ing ahead of her, a perfectly groomed, broad-
shouldered man, whom she guessed at once to be Mr.
Bannister. She intended to introduce herself, and
while he stood poised on the last stair, with his back
towards her, gazing up at the grand oak carving upon
which the light from the lamp in the centre fell softly
and mysteriously, she ran impetuously down three
steps. Her foot caught in the chiffon flounce of her
dress—she stumbled—and put out her hand to save
herself; but she was too far away from the balustrade.
With a cry she went down, half turning as she fell, and
measured her length upon the stairs with a dreadful
thud.
It all happened in a moment. The man down below
turned in astonishment, for he had supposed himself
to be alone. He rushed up two stairs at a time. "Are
you hurt?" he cried. "Let me assist you, madam."
She moaned in pain and tried to rise. He put his
arm under her and lifted her up, so that his face came
over hers; and when the first swooning sensation had
passed, she looked up with a forced smile of apology.


136 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"It's awfully kind of you—but"
Their eyes met, and the man gasped in startled con-
fusion.
"Good God!—Hester!"
He almost let her fall, but recovered his composure
with remarkable suddenness. His eyes were gazing
into hers, but still she did not understand. The light
shone down upon her face where she had fallen, where-
as his was in shadow, with the lamp above him. He
raised her gently, and, when at last she stood alone,
holding on to the balustrade, and trying to laugh at
what was a painful shock, she saw him plainly.
"Who—are you?" she asked, with growing uneasi-
ness. He was familiar, yet strange. Memory found
its tongue. She screamed—
"Dick!"
He seized her wrists roughly, and shook her back to
reason. "Silence!" he whispered. "Don't be a fool.
Don't give yourself away."
"Hester, my love!" said the voice of the Bishop, who
emerged from the library, and stood with the handle
of the door in his hand, looking upward anxiously.
"Did I hear you cry out?"
"Yes—yes, I fell, dear. My foot caught in my
dress"
"A very nasty fall, a most dangerous fall, Bishop,"
explained Bannister. "Fortunately I was here to help
her. I think you're better now, Lady Cardew."
"I'm afraid you're not, dear," cried the Bishop anxi-
ously. "Look at her—quick!—she'll fall."
The Bishop ran forward, but Bannister was before
him, and Lady Hester dropped fainting into his arms.
He held her to him, full of concern and sympathy,
and carried her down the few remaining stairs, thrust-





THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 137
ing the Bishop aside. Even then he could not relin-
quish her. His arms would not unclasp from that soft,
yielding form that once was his—that seemed to be
still his. It brought back the old days with a rush—
the painful, hysterical scenes—the last wild quarrel
that had ended even as this fright had ended, in a faint-
ing woman dropping into her husband's arms, merci-
fully dazed by a wild convulsion of emotion too terrible
to bear consciously and live.
"Set her down—set her down!" cried the Bishop,
helplessly waving his hands and fidgeting round, ready
to lend assistance when the other had released her.
"There's no couch here. I can't drop her on the
floor," snarled Bannister, as though he, and not the
Bishop, had the prior right to take the lead in this
emergency. Nevertheless, he allowed Hester's form
to sink gently, and supported her head upon his knee.
"Bring water—bring water!" gasped the Bishop,
turning to the first person near—Aunt Caroline.
"What's the fuss?" asked the old lady, levelling her
glasses and surveying the strange scene, the deathlike
woman in the yellow gown—a brilliant gleaming patch
of color, relieved by the dark carpet and the black
clothes of Bannister.
"Water, Caroline—water! She's fainted."
"Water won't help her. She's coming round. Let
her head go lower, man. Don't hold her like that."
Bannister came back to the present surroundings,
and Voss was at his elbow with a glass of water, coming
from no one knew where.
Lady Hester was recovering with low moans, mur-
muring "Dick! Dick!"—but fortunately the words
were inaudible to all but Bannister, who bent low over
her, peering so close to her face, that Aunt Caroline
took him by the coat and tugged him away.


138 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Give her air, man. She won't recover if you
smother her like that. Haven't you ever seen a faint-
ing woman before?"
Bannister for once forgot himself. He gave Aunt
Caroline a glance that was devilish in its angry remon-
strance, but soon returned to Hester. "Pull yourself
together, Lady Cardew," he said, putting considerable
emphasis on the name Cardew. "The Bishop is here,
and—and your mother."
"Mother?" murmured Aunt Caroline angrily.
"This is Mr. Bannister, Caroline. He caught Hes-
ter as she fell and carried her down for me. See, her
eyes are opening now. Hester, do you think you'll be
able to get up?"
"Oh, yes, John." She saw only the Bishop. Con-
sciousness of her surroundings came back slowly; then
Bannister's warning eyes came within range, and she
screamed a little, drawing away, as from a spectre.
"It's only Mr. Bannister, Hester darling."
It was Bannister's hand that raised her to her feet.
She tried to laugh, but it was a very sorry attempt.
They were joined by others now, news of the acci-
dent having spread through the household. Mabel
came running down stairs, looking almost as white as
her hostess, and dreading, she knew not what. As far
as she could see, there had been a scene, and her father
was in the thick of it; and Aunt Caroline, too, whom
she now saw face to face for the first time.
"I'm quite all right," sighed Lady Hester, waving
them all away. "I'm completely recovered. And I'm
much obliged to—to this gentleman for his timely aid.
Mabel—this is your father, I suppose?"
"Yes, dearest, Mr. Bannister," explained the Bishop.
"This is a strange introduction, and I wish it could


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 139
have happened under happier circumstances. Caro-
line, this is Mr. Bannister—my sister."
Bannister smiled sweetly, and advanced to the grim
lady, instinctively divining where his chief difficulty lay.
"Miss Cardew, you spoke to me just now, and I fear
I was rude. I should have given way to your superior
knowledge. Allow me to offer you my apologies, and
shake you by the hand. I have heard of you from
your nephew; and if you are worthy of half his praises
your acquaintance is indeed to be desired. Mabel, my
dear, this is Miss Cardew, Jack's aunt, whom he has so
longed for you to see."
"Sorry the desire was not mutual," sniffed Miss Car-
dew rudely, and raising her pince-nez to give Mabel a
more discomposing stare. "Perhaps when I know
Miss Bannister better I shall be able to meet her more
cordially."
"Caroline! Caroline!" cried the Bishop in amaze-
ment; but Caroline had turned and disappeared into the
library.
"Mr. Bannister, you must excuse my sister. She is
impulsive, and—and very fond of Jack. She's jealous
—that's the long and short of it," he whispered. "An
old woman's jealousy is a strange and terrible infliction.
Take no notice of it. You'll esteem her highly when
you know her better."
Mabel could have cried with humiliation, but she
set her teeth, and her pale face showed no trace of emo-
tion. Her meeting with Aunt Caroline was a failure.
"Give me your arm a moment, Mabel," asked Lady
Hester, rising from the chair into which they had put
her. "I shall be all right soon. That's right. Take
me upstairs—for a few moments—and all of you go
away, and forget me for a little time."


140 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
She bore up wonderfully. Only Mabel could see
the awful struggle to be calm. Bannister drew the
Bishop into the library with an easy, familiar clutch
of the arm, intended to be sympathetic.
"It is so disturbing to see one's own wife lose con-
sciousness," he observed. "I've been through it,
Bishop. And the thing they hate most is to have a
fuss made about it. Leave her to my daughter for a
little while, and if she doesn't pull round, I should in-
sist upon her going to bed. That was a nasty fall she
had, and she must have h.drt herself badly to have
fainted so quickly."
"Of course she must. Hester never faints. You've
no idea what a turn it gave me to see her so white.
Poor Hester! She mustn't go through with a dinner
party if she's in pain. They are nasty stairs, too, to fall
down."
He went back to the hall to look at the stairs, and
asked to be shown the point where she slipped. Ban-
nister had to describe the whole thing in detail, with a
little fanciful coloring. He threw in a few words of
praise of Lady Hester's fortitude, and cleverly con-
trived to lead the Bishop to talk of himself and his wife
when they returned to the library.
The Bishop fell into the trap, and, while imagining
he was talking of Jack's future, told Mr. Bannister all
that gentleman wanted to know about his past. Ban-
nister vainly strove to draw Aunt Caroline into the con-
versation. She sat at the far end of the library behind
a copy of the Guardian, over the top of which she
watched as she listened. She saw strange lights flash
in Bannister's eyes; a quizzical smile played round the
corners of his mouth; and there were moments when
he passed his hand across his hair, as if worried and be-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 141
wildered. But sardonic amusement was twinkling in
his eyes most of the time.
When the Bishop was called away to meet some
guests from the neighborhood who were arriving, Ban-
nister forgot all about the old lady in the corner. He
dropped into a chair and chuckled.
"You seem amused, sir," observed Aunt Caroline.
He was taken off his guard—but only for a moment.
"It was this," he explained, tapping an open copy of
Punch upon the library table.
r'Humph! Clever of you to laugh before you saw it.
Ah, you may well smile at my brother's absurd talk
about his second marriage. And as there is a proposal
to make you one of the family, I don't apologize for re-
ferring to it. It never had my approval, and it never
will. But it did not provide me with as much amuse-
ment as you seem to get out of it. You evidently knew
Lady Hester before her marriage."
"I?" cried Bannister, with barefaced innocence. "I
never had that privilege, madam, or perhaps she would
not have become Mrs. Cardew. A magnificent crea-
ture—a perfect woman!"
"Then why did she call you Dick?"
"Call me Dick?" he murmured in magnificent aston-
ishment. "My name is not Dick."
"You are Mr. Richard Bannister, are you not?"
"True, my name is Richard. But I've never been
called Dick—always Richard. Dick is horribly familiar
—a sort of name that suggests everybody's friend."
"Don't try to fool me by prevaricating. She called
you Dick; and you have never been known as Dick!
Yet you remind me of Dick Gordon, of Vienna; per-
haps you reminded her of Dick Gordon."
"Dick Gordon, of Vienna?" echoed Bannister, slowly


142 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
and wonderingly. "Wherever have I heard that name
before? Was he a jockey?"
"No, an adventurer, and a rascal."
"The scoundrel! Was he a friend of yours whom I
resemble?" unable to resist the temptation to make
Aunt Caroline furious. "Surely never an intimate of
the Bishop's family! I've been told I'm like a popular
actor, a French nobleman, and one of the Greek
statues—but never like—like—what name did you say,
'Gordon?' Did the resemblance frighten Lady Hes-
ter, poor woman! Do you think it was that?"
"I'm sure of it," replied the old lady grimly, with
the nearest approach to a smile that she could summon
on this irritating day of days. She admired Mr. Ban-
nister's sangfroid. His impertinence was superb; and
Aunt Caroline was not utterly devoid of a sense of
humor.
Further conversation was interrupted by the hasty
return of the Bishop, who came to announce that Lady
Hester would be obliged to abandon the idea of ap-
pearing at dinner. She seemed very much upset—al-
most hysterical, in fact, and begged to be excused. His
guests came almost at his heels, and were introduced
to Mr. Bannister, and all joined in commiserating their
host, and expressing sorrow for Lady Hester.
"Caroline, my dear, you must take my wife's place,
and look after Mr. Bannister.'"


'*'"
CHAPTER XIII
IT was a strange dinner party. The guests had been
carefully selected in order to make a more than usually
genial gathering. Manipulated by Lady Hester they
should have mixed excellently. For Aunt Caroline,
Lady Hester had invited a particular protege of the
Bishop's sister, an elderly reformed bachelor, who had,
of late years, given up wild ways—and drink—for ac-
tive church work and mothers' meetings, and Sunday
school organizations. Mr. Crick was his name, a small,
white-haired, pimply-faced person of uncertain age,
probably sixty; but with the small, spare figure of a
boy. He stuttered slightly—unkind people said as the
result of nervous debility following a life of dissipation.
This person found himself without a partner now that
Aunt Caroline was in charge of the lion of the evening
—the elder lion, that is, in the second degree, for of
course Jack was the centre of much interest and con-
gratulation among the Bishop's friends, although he
soon subsided into a secondary place, for Bannister
outshone everybody.
It was a pleasant scene, the gaily decorated table
loaded with white flowers, and rare fruits set in dishes
of silver gilt, old family plate of which Lady Hester
was especially fond, although it only saw light on spe-
cial occasions. At one end of the long table the Bishop,
with a stout lady on his right, the archdeacon's wife;
and facing him Aunt Caroline, grim and severe; on her
right the thief. Near the Bishop was the reformed
character, Mr. Crick, looking down at his plate, and
143


I44 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
feeling exquisitely uncomfortable. Bannister—who
knew several of the men at the table before he met them
there—peered across at Mr. Crick with critical, inquir-
ing eyes, in which there was a suspicion of latent recog-
nition. Mr. Crick bowed his head as if prayers were in
progress; but at last, in an unguarded moment, caught
Mr. Bannister's eye.
A marked expression of severity transfixed Mr. Ban-
nister's features. He paused in his conversation as if
shocked to see Mr. Crick at the table of a Bishop, and,
when the opportunity came, he bent over Aunt Caro-
line, and whispered—
“Pray, who is that person at the other end of the
table—the man with the red face?”
“That is Mr. Crick. I see you recognize him. He
is the gentleman who knew Dick Gordon in Vienna.”
“Good heavens, you don't mean to say you got that
ridiculous notion about my likeness to—er—what
name did you say?”
“Dick Gordon.”
“Ah, to Dick Gordon, from poor old Crick?”
“I did.”
“Madam,” whispered Bannister impressively, “I don't
like to criticize my host's visitors; but really that per-
son ought not to be at your table. When did they re-
lease him from the asylum ?”
“From the asylum ?” gasped Aunt Caroline.
“Yes. He was put away. Haven't you heard of it?
He comes of good family, I believe; but he drank
shockingly; and then he had delusions—that was why
he was put away. His chief delusion was that he was
being cheated when he lost at cards. He accused Lord
Strathmeny of cheating at baccarat, and was promptly
kicked out of the club,”


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS I45
“Is that so?” murmured Aunt Caroline, rather dis-
concerted. The news did not surprise her so much as
Bannister's amazing nonchalance and persistence in re-
fusing to be insulted or abashed by his “likeness” to
Dick Gordon. She was almost sorry for her haste in
making rash assertions on the evidence of so unreliable
a person as Mr. Crick. But it was odd that she had not
heard of the asylum incident—and unfortunate.
Mr. Crick knew everybody in the great world of
London—at least, so he pretended—and to him Aunt
Caroline had gone, when she first heard of Jack's en-
gagement, to learn all about Mr. Bannister. The infor-
mation that Bannister was really an adventurer under
an alias was stated with much emphasis by the little
man—in Mr. Bannister's absence—and he had once
made a similar accusation in a London club, while un-
der the influence of drink. Unfortunately Mr. Crick
himself was such a discredited person that—although
he had undoubtedly recognized in Mr. Bannister a cer-
tain traveling American of years ago who passed as
Mr. Dick Gordon, and fleeced him at cards—he was
painfully uncomfortable now at having defamed one
who was received everywhere, even at a Bishop's ta-
ble. At the time of Aunt Caroline's inquiry Mr. Crick
had no notion that Jack Cardew had engaged himself
to Miss Bannister, or he would not have dared to make
the rash accusation.
“Madam, you must confront me with that person
after dinner,” whispered Bannister, pressing home his
advantage. “If you have anything to do with him he'll
be making libelous assertions concerning your private
life. By the bye, that reminds me, I think I’ve heard
him mention you.”
“Mention me?” gasped Aunt Caroline.


146 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Yes. Surely you are the Bishop's sister whom he
accused of eloping to Paris with a rascally curate—
named Judd, I think—a bad lot who went utterly to
the dogs."
Aunt Caroline gave an awful gulp. Mr. Bannister
had pitched upon her one and only indiscretion of the
past, a silly elopement at thirty with her grandfather's
curate many years ago. They got as far as Dover,
where she discovered that her lover had no intention
of marrying her; on learning which she virtuously re-
turned to her father's roof, and eschewed men and mar-
riage ever after. How on earth Mr. Crick could ever
have become possessed of this knowledge was not ap-
parent; and it turned her quite green with faintness.
"Don't think for a moment, Miss Cardew, that I
credit anything that person alleges," whispered Ban-
nister. "We have both been fooled. I only mention
this to show you how absolutely unreliable he is. I
should give him the cold shoulder, if I were you; and
drop a hint to the Bishop that the man he is entertain-
ing is a rascal, although so very well connected. I'm
sorry for his people; the Cricks are a proud family; but
lunatics at the dinner table—well, I'll leave him in your
hands, Miss Cardew. . . . Yes, Bishop, I heard what you
said. Honeymoons are going out of fashion, but it was
a good fashion in its day."
Mabel looked pale and Jack grinned.
"Ah, you are right," cried the Bishop heartily, "I
can truly say that the pleasantest weeks of my exist-
ence were spent away from the hum and bustle of life
in country lanes and green fields—eh, Mabel? What
do you think? And you, Jack, you don't veto a honey-
moon, surely?"
"I don't know," responded Jack sheepishly; and Ma-
bel dropped her eyes, coloring for the first time.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 147
Bannister adroitly changed the conversation, and,
between every few sentences, managed to glare with
virtuous indignation at poor Mr. Crick, until the help-
less little man wanted to crawl under the table with
mortification. After dinner he managed to get nearer
to the gentleman and whisper that he would like a
few words with him in private. Mr. Crick declined the
honor timorously, and began a lame apology; but Ban-
nister looked so deadly and devilish that the words
dried up in his shrivelled throat, and he almost felt
Dick Gordon's fingers clutching him there.
*******
Upstairs a wretched woman sat all huddled up on the
bearskin rug before the empty grate in her husband's
bedroom.
She had wandered there like a restless soul, pacing
from room to room, and had dropped down overcome.
The awful realization that she had no right under the
roof of this house, much less in this sanctum—beloved
by the Bishop because it was tended only by her hands
—was slowly making itself felt. The flowers in the
vases, the carefully dusted row of books by the bed-
head, the little table with writing material by the win-
dow, on which the clean blotter was always ready, with
a new quill by its side, in case he should want to put to
paper his burning thoughts; the fine old chest in which
she kept his vestments and linen softly perfumed; the
big oil painting of St. Saviour's-in-the-East in the gor-
geous gold frame presented to the Bishop by his late
parishioners; the large Chesterfield lounge in front of
the fire—all these brought back with a rush the be-
loved reality of her life for the last twenty years, the
life that was ruined in one crashing collapse.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 149
Gordon, the wild girlish love that she gave the plausi-
ble rascal, and the honeymoon in detachments—a few
days at a time; then the brief period of married life
abroad under the shelter of a friend's chaperonage, and
the discovery of her husband's real mode of life. The
horror of that revelation drove her well-nigh crazy at
the time, and added to it was another problem loom-
ing. Motherhood had claimed her, and she went
through all the horror of concealing the birth of a lit-
tle girl, born in secrecy and knowing no father, and
placed in the care of strangers.
Then followed the parting—the release.
In her present dazed condition she could only think
of the one vital thing—that Dick was down stairs, Dick,
her girlish idol whom she had loved with all a woman's
passion even after the mask was stripped from him—
loved him because, though he had shamefully dragged
her into deep, dark waters, he was always kind, and
seemed to have been genuinely sorry for the ruin he
had wrought. Yet he had been crueller than the vilest
betrayer.
She gave no thought to Mabel at present. She only
existed in the demented woman's mind as Jack's
sweetheart. That the beautiful girl was Dick Gordon's
daughter, perhaps her own daughter, alive and grown
to womanhood, was not yet a solid idea. Stupefied and
stunned, it was Dick, and Dick only, that filled her
horizon. She cared not how he had lived, or what ties
he had contracted since their parting; he was not dead,
and living he was a menace, and a terror. How often
she had wept—even after her marriage—over the recol-
lection of the reckless, contrite lover-husband, who had
sworn before heaven that, if she no longer respected
him, he would release her, because he loved her. Dick


ISO THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
Gordon in those days was tender-hearted wherever a
woman was concerned. He had a little pride too. He
saw the futility of clinging to the beautiful girl whom
he had ruined but could not degrade, and devised his
own cunning, plausible scheme to release her. It cost
him something to give her up. Their child was put out
to nurse; but its baby fingers had tightened upon his,
its eyes had smiled innocently upon him, and the rogue
realized the existence of a passion hitherto undreamt
of, the passion of paternity. In his despair at the fail-
ure of all his plans to secure a dashing, beautiful, reck-
less mate to help him prey upon his victims, he was
faced with the necessity of giving up both his wife and
child.
And Dick Gordon was never good at giving up any-
thing.
It was a wonderful triumph over self that made him
relinquish Hester. But the child was his; she could
not take it back to her friends. He advised her to con-
ceal it and go back to spinsterhood. She wanted to
have it near her, but he had no desire for the child to
be reared by a bitter, disappointed woman, and taught
to hate him. It jarred upon his idea of what was nice
and charming. His vivid imagination had depicted the
child growing up into a little thing with golden hair,
decked out in white and toddling after him; and later as
a romping school girl—still picturesque and delight-
ful; then as a daughter grown to womanhood, an orna-
ment and comfort to his old age—for Bannister, who
loved youth and hated grey hairs, dreaded old age, and,
unlike most rascals, stuck rigidly to a banking account.
He was clever enough to know that he could not be a
rascal all his days, and that money easily made was just
as easily saved. He never considered himself as hav-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 151
ing anything in common with the white-haired, spong-
ing, pathetic wrecks who were the grandfathers of his
profession; and he had urged this fact upon his wife
when she scornfully spurned him, as an inducement to
wait until he could turn respectable.
Dick Gordon parted from his beautiful wife in the
full flush of sentimental grief; and he wanted to do
what he considered the right thing. The only service
he could render her was to die and free her completely.
That was inconvenient; but the renegade curate Judd
was paid to tell the plausible tale of Gordon's and the
child's death. The thing was carried through, like ev-
erything attempted by Dick Gordon, artistically, and
with no loose edges.
At that time the sentimental rogue thought he would
never enter England again, having made it rather hot
for himself in one or two directions—and as Hester
had violently declared that she, on her side, would
never again leave English soil, the supposed death and
a new alias seemed likely to answer all purposes. It
left her free to live what life she chose; and at the same
time give him complete liberty with safety, for she had
threatened to expose him, and he was never quite sure
what she might do.
They had met again, and she could not expose him
now.
Little by little all that she had heard of Mr. Bannister
from Mabel and Jack came back to her; the descrip-
tion of his luxurious rooms in Bond Street, his fastidi-
ous ways, his love of glitter and color and fine clothes,
his love of art, his priceless collection of etchings—all
these things belonged to the old Dick Gordon. He
was more flourishing than ever, apparently, for he had
motor cars now. For one brief moment she allowed


152 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
herself to believe and hope that it might be an honor-
able life he was living, on wealth that had come to him
by some lucky and legitimate channel.
There was not much time to speculate. The flood
gates of memory were open, and a torrent of recollec-
tions swept onward, beating down all the barriers set
up during the years of her second marriage. In her
first panic and clear realization of the truth the pres-
ent was as nothing, a background only for the past,
all the details of which showed with startling distinct-
ness. She even found herself recalling the gowns she
wore on different occasions during her brief married
life abroad; and especially one which Dick had always
admired; and some orchids he had bought her to wear
with it; magnificent blooms of flaming yellow. She
looked down at the mass of billowy chiffon with which
her fingers were playing. Yes, they were almost the
same shade as the velvet on the gown she was wear-
ing. A ghastly smile dawned in her eyes; to vanish
again on the instant as consciousness of her surround-
ings brought into prominence the present, with its
overwhelming crisis.
It was of herself that she must think. What line of
action must she take?
Dinner over, the Bishop, she knew, would make an
excuse to come and see how she was. She would have
to face him, and look into those steady and kindly eyes
and—lie.
She was not his wife now. The situation was wild
and fantastic. As she compelled her mind to contem-
plate it, a wave of cold terror swept over her. It was as
if the solid ground from beneath her had given away,
and she had become the sport of some new element,
with powers that she could neither gauge nor control.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 153
Of what account were the years that were gone,
those years that she and the Bishop had spent together,
planning good works and building up a grand reputa-
tion? It had been a life lived upon the thin crust of a
morass. She had married Dick Gordon and loved him,
and he died—but he was now alive. She recalled every
word of the curt announcement of his death in the
papers, her first sense of relief, and later a kindlier feel-
ing and regret that she had not been with him at the
end, to say at least that she forgave him. And now a
vengeful God had brought him back—back to her. It
seemed like a punishment for her wicked deception of
the man who now loved and trusted her.
Dick Gordon alive! And Dick Gordon was the
father of Mabel, the girl Jack was going to marry!
Mabel was Dick Gordon's daughter!
His daughter!—Dick's daughter!
By whom?
Her own child had died, else
She sat up suddenly, rigid and pale, every nerve and
pulse in her body held tensely in the grip of a new
thought. Her lips grew dry and dropped apart, and a
thin scream came from beneath them; a cry scarcely
human, save for its note of agony. Then her hands
went up to her throbbing temples, and closed across
her face, which was distorted and agonized. For a few
minutes she remained in this position, then dragged
herself towards the divan, where she knelt and tried to
pray. She could not compose her thoughts. No
words came. She rose to her feet and rushed from the
Bishop's room to her own as though chased by fiends,
her strangled sobs almost choking her.
A maid servant who was in the corridor hurried to-
wards her; but Lady Hester passed quickly into her
room, shut the door and bolted it.


154 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
One idea alone possessed her. No one must see her
like this. All self-control was gone, and she feared for
her terrible secret. All she desired was time to steady
herself and think out the situation in all its bearings.
The story of Dick Gordon's death was a lie and a
fraud. Why not the story of the child's death, too?
How she had wept over the lost babe, cursing herself
for her weakness in letting them take it from her! And
she had believed them when they told her it was dead.
She let the child go—the precious gift vouchsafed to
her by Heaven under circumstances of supreme trial,
but none the less given into her sacred care, a trust
from God. And how had she discharged this trust?
She had let Dick take it away, and accepted a stranger's
word that it was dead.
Mabel!—his daughter!
Mabel Bannister. She repeated the name to herself
again and again. Perhaps Dick had taken a second
wife. Yes, that was the solution of it. Then she re-
membered the Bishop's comments on Mabel's likeness
to herself.
"My daughter!" she cried wonderingly. "Mine! He
calls her his—she must be mine too—mine!"
Why did he hide the child away? He had spoken of
it as an incumbrance to be got rid of; yet Mabel's
life was a record of innocent girlhood and an indulgent
father's love.
And Mabel was to marry Jack. It was amazing—
maddening. Who was she?
It was Farce grinning through Tragedy's mask.
Jack, the Bishop's son, was to marry Mabel, the daugh-
ter of the adventurer, Dick Gordon, knowing nothing
of her antecedents, and believing her to be the child of
a gentleman. And Bannister was going to buy Dingle
Hall and settle a thousand a year upon his daughter.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 155
That must be all a fraud. He could not be rich. Yet
he used to boast that, by the time he was forty, he
would have amassed a fortune, and would be indepen-
dent of his precarious, adventurous existence. He had
a way, too, of achieving everything he set his heart on
with real determination. It was just possible that he
had grown wealthy; that he was now what he seemed
to be. She had lived down the past—why not he?
She laughed at the absurdity of it; but her laugh
ended in a scream the sound of which sobered her; and
she hid her face in the lace coverlet of her bed, striv-
ing to stifle the choking hysterical cries. Reason
seemed to be tottering. Like many self-contained and
seemingly undemonstrative women, Lady Hester was
extremely emotional. Circumstances had, in a great
measure, altered her disposition, and now, when the
guard arm was down, she shrank back, appalled at her
own weakness. But she was not a weak woman, and
she was supremely conscious that her only hope lay
in self-control. She must pull herself together and
meet Dick Gordon face to face. There must be no fal-
tering, no hesitancy. One false move on her part, and
she might bring ruin upon the life of the man who had
given her the only peace and true happiness she had
ever known, the man to whom honor was as the breath
of life. She wanted, and must obtain at all costs, a re-
spite from immediate ruin and exposure. Dick Gor-
don must be bribed or silenced somehow.
She owed the Bishop much before; she owed him
more now; his good name must not be besmirched or
his honor dimmed. She could die—she must die, if
death would wipe out all offences; and by her own
hand, if need be, to save him.
The necessity of uttering her thoughts to some one


156 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
else was overmastering her. Her brain was racing,
teeming with ideas; but they were nebulous, needing
speech to make them concrete. She talked aloud, but
her voice sounded harsh and discordant, and she
clapped both hands over her mouth, and bit the flesh
in her struggle to master her hysteria. It was the
sight of her own reflection in the mirror at last that
steadied her; for the face that looked into hers was
haggard and drawn, a tablet on which any one could
read that which she would hide.
Again she thought of Mabel—Mabel, who might be
her own daughter, the babe taken from her, the child
she had mourned as dead, accepting death as Heaven's
punishment for her desertion. It was here, beside her,
grown to womanhood. The long arm of coincidence
and the remorseless chain of circumstance bound her
with iron shackles from which she could not escape.
She was tethered, no matter in what direction she
struggled to get free.
Some one rapped at the door.
A definite and clearer appreciation of her difficulties
came to her with appalling clearness. She expected
the Bishop, yet dreaded to see him; and while she hesi-
tated a moment, uncertain of the command of her rea-
son, Aunt Caroline's voice made itself heard—a potent
and cruel reminder of the vengeance at hand.
The Bishop, unable to leave his guests, had sent his
sister to inquire after the invalid, and to see whether
Lady Hester had dined. He had heard from the but-
ler, who was devoted to her ladyship, that the tray sent
to her boudoir had come down untouched, and that
her ladyship had locked herself in her bedroom. The
sound of Aunt Caroline's hard, clear voice gave back
to the terrified woman the courage which had deserted
her.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 157
"What do you want?"
"It is I, Caroline. My brother wishes to know if you
are any better. Let me in, Hester. I don't expect to
be kept waiting on the mat like a housemaid."
"I'm sorry I can't let you in. I'm coming down
shortly, but I want to be left quiet a little longer." She
spoke slowly, like a weary invalid. She was weary
enough, God knows; but Aunt Caroline's voice and
manner raised all the spirit she had in her. She would
have given the world to shout at her and tell her to
go away, for Aunt Caroline of all people would be the
first to triumph at her downfall.
In this she did the old lady an injustice. As Ban-
nister knew—and as his old colleague the Rev. Silas
Judd knew—Aunt Caroline had, in her day, risen to
amazing heights of indiscretion, and was only saved
from a villain by her own level-headedness. If Lady
Hester had only known, she would have been a valua-
ble ally in the present awful crisis; for Caroline Car-
dew was one of those queer old women who go
through life with an unreasoning suspicion of their
own sex, and absolute distrust of the self-contained
woman; but let them loose in the middle of a real
tragedy and arouse their sympathy, and they will cham-
pion a woman against their better judgment, and, if
need be, against the world. And such a woman was
Caroline Cardew.
"If you don't want me to come in I'm sure I don't
want to. But if you're ill, somebody ought to see
what's wrong with you; and if you're not ill it's very
bad taste on your part to select this particular evening
to make a scene, when the house is full of all sorts of
horrible people who are here at your invitation. I
shall send your maid to you."


158 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"No, no—go away," groaned the wretched sufferer,
and her misery must have crept into her voice, for
Aunt Caroline's voice softened.
"You'd better have some one with you," she per-
sisted.
"Then send Miss Bannister to me, please—that is,
if she can come without being missed."
"Of course she'll be missed. But I'll tell her you
want her."
The rest of Aunt Caroline's muttering was lost as
she walked away with an angry frown that meant no
good to any one.
Lady Hester rose quickly from the couch, where she
had thrown herself, and lighting the candles on her
dressing table, peered anxiously' at the woman in the
mirror. She was deathly pale, and there were heavy
shadows about the eyes; but no signs of weeping.
She opened her bedroom door and looked into the
corridor. Aunt Caroline was standing at the landing
window gazing intently at something in the yard be-
low.
"You needn't trouble to ask Mabel to come up, Car-
oline; I've decided to come down."
Aunt Caroline did not reply; a usual habit with her
when she was displeased; but she had not, as a matter
of fact, heard the remark. She was too intent in watch-
ing a man in the yard below, a servant who was appar-
ently counting the windows, indicating them one after
the other by the aid of a pencil in his hand. She could
neither see the color of his clothes nor his face, but he
looked like Mr. Bannister's solemn faced man.
"Queer," she muttered, as she walked slowly down
stairs.
Somebody was singing in the drawing room, and she


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 159
waited till the song was finished; then, passing in, went
up to Mabel, saying icily, "Lady Hester requires your
presence upstairs."
Mabel rose to go, quaking with apprehension.
The men in the drawing room were almost merry;
they had warmed up after dinner; but, as usual, with
the hostess absent, they had drawn together in a knot,
and the women were left very much to themselves, with
only Mr. Crick to entertain them.
Bannister was amusing the Bishop and the archdea-
con and a very youthful curate with some good stories
particularly appealing to churchmen, and they were
laughing heartily. The Bishop forgot to be frigidly
polite. He applauded all his guest's sallies with gusto;
while Mr. Crick, on the other hand, was not at all bril-
liant or amusing, and a silence fell upon the women
which had gradually made itself felt. Aunt Caroline,
who had been very much disconcerted by Bannister's
amazing knowledge of her past—learned by him from
the rascal Judd of course—found that she could not
talk herself or listen to other people. She sat glued
to her chair, ever and anon turning her eyes upon Ban-
nister with amazement. One moment she admired his
incomparable sangfroid; the next she doubted whether
after all he was a villain and a rascal. Then she glanced
at the stammering, idiotic Mr. Crick, who was making
feeble jokes and giggling over them to the point of suf-
focation, and wondered which of the two it was safest
to trust to keep her awful secret.
As a matter of fact poor Mr. Crick had never said
a word to Bannister concerning Aunt Caroline's early
peccadilloes, and knew nothing of them; while she, of
course, could not question him on the point.
The old lady's suspicions might have died a natural


160 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
death but for the extraordinary conduct of Lady Hes-
ter herself, and her dramatic recognition of Mr. Ban-
nister earlier in the evening. Hester must be very ill
indeed to keep away from her guests and surrender the
reins of government to her sister-in-law. Under ordi-
nary circumstances she would crawl down if she were
dying, rather than disappoint her friends and ruin a
festive gathering like this. But fresh surprises awaited
Caroline when Hester, pale as marble, calm and self-
composed, entered the room, and walked up to the
nearest guest as though nothing had happened.
"Oh, my dear—you're better? I'm so glad," cried
the archdeacon's wife, impulsively going to meet the
pale, calm looking woman.
The others of course crowded round. The Bishop
jumped up, and hurried over to his wife, whom he
seized by the arms gleefully, like a big school boy. "Ah,
my darling—that's right. You're better now. You're
looking pale, though. I hope you're not overdoing it."
"Oh, no, no—only a faint. When I caught my foot
in my dress and fell, the shock was greater than I
thought."
"If it hadn't been for me she would have fallen the
whole flight," chimed in Bannister.
"Yes, Mr.—er—Mr. Bannister. I haven't thanked
you."
"It was my privilege to be of service," replied Mr.
Bannister, with a queer, complacent smile that was not
lost upon Aunt Caroline and struck terror to Lady
Hester's soul. He adjusted his eyeglass critically and
almost rudely. Anger rose in the wretched wife's
breast because he was obviously only amused. He was
unabashed, perfectly self-possessed, and playing the po-
lite guest in the house of his own wife as though it were


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 161
the most ordinary thing in the World for a woman to
have two husbands—and one of them a Bishop.
"Sit down and rest, my dear," suggested the Bishop.
"Yes, don't tire yourself," echoed the women.
"This chair is extremely comfortable, Lady Cardew,"
said Bannister softly; and he drew forward a big
lounge chair, setting it beside a standard lamp.
She accepted dumbly, and tried to keep her eyes
from his face. Curiosity, fear, hauteur, anger, all in
turn flashed from her eyes; and Mabel, sitting by
Jack's side at the other end of the room, turning over
a pile of music for the benefit of a stout lady with vocal
accomplishments who was going to the piano, looked
across and saw the furtive glances passing between
her father and her friend. They mystified and at the
same time frightened her; for she guessed that the
faint upon the stairs was due in some way to the meet-
ing with her father. Lady Hester must have had some
previous knowledge of him—and was it to his credit?
Bannister had carefully put Lady Hester's chair un-
der the light that he might talk to her and look at her
well—she was so changed; and the alteration made on
a beautiful woman by the passage of years is always
interesting—if it is not painful. The amazing novelty
of it grips the attention. The woman is the same, yet
not the same. The old ego is behind, but the outer
shell breathes a different atmosphere. The eyes—
those fine eyes!—moved in exactly the same way; the
lips had the same curve; the cheeks were a little fuller,
yet so slightly altered as to defy the minutest examina-
tion. The hair was differently dressed; the superb
neck and shoulders were fuller, giving a new dignity to
the torso, yet the graceful proportions were the same.
The modern fashion in hair dressing had perhaps made


162 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
the greatest change of all in the woman of twenty
years ago. Dignity of design had taken the place of
girlish curls; the amazing, beautiful, and unusual color
was the same, and the complexion retained the old
peach-like bloom, except for the heightened pallor of
to-night, which he knew to be unusual.
Bannister's attempted tete-a-tete with Lady Hester
was interrupted, and again he became the centre of a
group. The men begged him to tell some more
stories; and called the women to listen; but he begged
to be excused, and protested that it might jar on Lady
Hester. If she could have found it in her heart at that
moment to thank him, she would have been grateful.
The stout lady having settled at the piano, with Jack
on duty by her side Mabel was free to drop back into
the cushions of the lounge and watch the issue of the
tragedy.
So far the girl had been able to evade any direct
questioning by Jack, who was burning with curiosity
and eager for enlightenment. She had avoided sitting
out with him in the hall, and carefully kept within ear-
shot of the other guests. When he muttered sulkily
about her want of feeling, she whispered that they must
be more distant and avoid the watchful eyes of Aunt
Caroline.
He was incensed at his aunt's manner of glaring at
Mabel when they first met, as though she were a rep-
tile, and he had an uncomfortable suspicion that she
might have guessed her to be the lady discovered at his
chambers. That, of course, would account for a good
deal; yes, it was wiser to disarm her suspicion.
All her interest was now concentrated upon Mr. Ban-
nister. Mabel had noticed this at dinner, and strained
her ears to catch a little of her father's conversation


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 163
with the old lady, but not a word had she heard, al-
though she saw that Mr. Crick was under observation,
and that Miss Cardew got up from the dinner table
looking flurried and uneasy.
Finding it impossible to talk privately to his wife,
Bannister joined the party who were at the other end
of the room ostensibly listening to the lady at the piano;
but his eyes were greedily devouring his wife, the new
and more wonderful Hester. Mabel watched him in
fascinated amazement. She had never seen him look
like that at any woman, although she had seen many
a woman try to win his approval. As he gazed at his
wife's familiar, yet unfamiliar, charms, his color came
and went, and his eyes glittered with an exultation that
was unusual, disconcerting, and terrible to the woman.
A constraint fell upon the company after the arrival
of Lady Hester. No one seemed quite at ease; conver-
sation flickered and died, and at times there was a sud-
den hush in the great drawing room that was depress-
ing.
Lady Hester felt it, and made a supreme effort, call-
ing all her natural instincts as hostess and mistress of
the house into play. But her faculties seemed numb
and unresponsive. Yet nothing was really changed.
All that was here was hers—except Dick Gordon. He
was an interloper, an outlaw, a vulture.
He too had changed with the passing of years, but
not for the better. His eye was keener, his cheeks thin-
ner, his beard with the foreign point a novelty that of-
fended. He looked harder, crueller, and more sinister.
And, after all, he was as much in her power as she in
his. She was no longer the impressionable, easily
cowed, easily swayed girl of twenty years ago. Now
was the time for her to show what she had learned by


164 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
suffering, and let Dick Gordon see that she had de-
veloped character and courage, and a recklessness al-
most as daring as his own.
"I'm really feeling much better, and you're all so
absurdly quiet," she cried, jumping up. "You're all
thinking about me instead of amusing yourselves. Mr.
Crick, you don't know Mrs. Harkaway, do you? I
ought to have introduced you. Come over here. And
Mrs. Bennett, you sing, don't you? That duet I heard
at your house was charming. Won't you sing it now
with Mr. Bennett?"
Mrs. Bennett explained that it was only a frivolous
little thing. A cold had robbed her of her voice.
Wouldn't somebody else step into the breach? Didn't
Mr. Bannister sing? She was quite sure that he did—
he looked like it.
Mr. Bannister smilingly disclaimed any talent in that
particular direction, and said that he expected his
daughter to take on her shoulders the burden of her
father's share of the entertaining.
"Miss Bannister sings," exclaimed two or three peo-
ple at once.
Jack, who had never heard Mabel sing, jumped at
the idea. It was a novelty, and he was quite excited
about it. Mabel gulped down an inclination to sob.
How could she sing to-night, with Jack there—ruined,
and Lady Hester shaking with terror at the sight of
her father—and the Bishop blissfully unconscious that
anything was amiss? The old gentleman was carrying
on a rather heated argument in whispers with the arch-
deacon over Clause IV. of the Education Bill. To
focus attention upon herself was the last thing she de-
sired. But Jack drew her forward playfully, deter-
mined to dispel the clouds somehow.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 165
Lady Hester had forgotten Mabel's existence in
these dazed moments of panic and mental confusion.
She forced herself to attend, and smiled a mechanical
smile.
His daughter!
This was the girl—the Mabel that she had taken to
her heart of late in a way quite unusual with her, the
girl whose voice and face had always seemed familiar
as half-forgotten music—Dick Gordon's daughter. Af-
ter all, maternity must be a divine instinct akin to in-
spiration.
Her daughter! Her own child!
The girl seated herself at the piano, and ran her
trembling fingers over the keys. The music brought
back a little courage. She began in a quavering voice
an old Italian convent song which few of those pres-
ent could understand, except the Bishop and Bannister.
The former applauded vigorously at the end, and, turn-
ing to his wife, with beaming countenance exclaimed—
"Hester, for a few moments, when she began, I could
have sworn it was your voice. How is it we never
knew that she sang?"
"Yes, Lady Hester sings too, and we had forgotten
it," cried Mrs. Bennett, who was very eager to be
asked again. "Ah! how well I remember your singing
in the anthem solo at St. Saviour's ever so many years
ago. Dear old Saviour's! where you were married,
too, wasn't it?"
Dick Gordon coughed behind his handkerchief, and
reddened to the eyes. He was laughing. It roused the
demon of resourcefulness in Hester, and her fear
dropped away. She could have struck him. Her voice
rang cold as steel and her eyes flashed as she de-
manded—


166 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"What amuses you, Mr. Bannister?"
"Oh, nothing—nothing," he replied, and darted an
answering glance to her challenge. "The name of St.
Saviour's recalled to my mind an old friend of my
youth, a curate, a sad dog in his day. I remember his
going to take duty at St. Saviour's, and he wanted me
to come too. I'm sorry now I didn't. A queer fellow,
but never intended for the church. He had a weakness
for elopements"—Aunt Caroline choked—"he was in
love at least once a week, and always drowned his dis-
appointments in strong liquor. A black sheep. He
went utterly to the dogs; but he was an amusing fel-
low."
The Bishop coughed and looked uncomfortable, and
darted a glance at Jack, who looked another way.
"He fell on bad days at last and died miserably, I
heard. Did you ever know of such a person, Lady
Hester, while you were at—I forget the name of the
church?"
"St. Saviour's," murmured the wretched woman. "I
never heard of any such person."
"I once met a curate of that name," observed Aunt
Caroline coldly, and with wonderful self-possession.
"He was a friend of that Dick Gordon of whom we
were speaking at dinner."
At the name of Dick Gordon Lady Hester gave a
great choke and a gulp that was something between
a scream and a sob. She clutched at her full, white
throat.
"Hester, my dear Hester! You're really not well.
You shouldn't have come down," cried the Bishop,
running to her. "Caroline, my dear, take her up-
stairs."
Everybody crowded round full of sympathy, and


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 167
Bannister glared savagely at Aunt Caroline. But Lady
Hester would not give in. She protested that she
would be better presently. And Aunt Caroline was
satisfied that she had probed a certain distance into
the mystery. Hester had known Dick Gordon, and
Crick's assertions were not far wrong after all.
Lady Hester's mental suffering was as plain to Mabel
as if interpreted by spoken words. She saw that her
father was stabbing her friend with invisible darts.
While the others imagined that mere physical weak-
ness was the trouble, she knew that the woman was
being cruelly broken. She stepped quickly up to her
father, and, going close to him, flashed a look into his
eyes that he had never seen there before.
"Why did you do it? You're a coward! You—
you"
"Tut-tut, be quiet, child. Don't make a fool of your-
self," he whispered between his grinding teeth. He
looked as though he could have struck her; but Jack
came towards them, and his features were instantly
wreathed in smiles.
"Mabel, my darling," he purred, "I'm sure Jack
would like to talk to you. He hasn't had five minutes
alone with you since we came down. Go over there
and amuse him. I have much to say to the Bishop."
Jack was only too glad to get his wife into a corner,
and, taking advantage of the interest aroused by Lady
Hester, he tackled her seriously.
"You haven't written to me, Mabel."
"I had no time. Everything was so hurried."
"And I want to know what you meant by talking of
good-bye."
"I can't explain now—not here," she replied almost
absently, watching Lady Hester and her father all the
time.


168 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Never mind my mother, attend to me, little girl. I
want to know why"
"Ah, she's laughing now. She must be feeling bet-
ter."
"Oh, yes, your father is taking her in hand. He'll
amuse her and bring her round. It was only a little
faintness. She'll be all right after a night's rest. You
needn't be so alarmed. You look as though you
thought your father would eat her."
It was true; the girl's eyes watched the pair as if fas-
cinated. She saw her father seat himself at his hostess's
side and talk commonplaces; and Lady Hester forced
an artificial laugh, and kept up the farce until the in-
terest which had been concentrated upon her was with-
drawn; then with a stealthy glance to left and right to
be sure that she was unobserved, she talked swiftly and
earnestly.
"Mabel, attend to me. Have you lost all interest in
my society? Have you forgotten?" whispered Jack
petulantly.
"No, Jack, but don't talk to me just now, not to-
night."
"Oh, if you are bored or annoyed with me"
"I'm neither, Jack, dearest. I've much to say to you
that can't be said with all these people near. And I
can't say it—just yet. I must have time."
"I'll come to you to-night after they are all gone and
the others are in bed; then we can talk in privacy."
"To-night—here? Oh no, no, I've changed my
room. It would be madness."
"Nonsense. I can get to your room all right. And
who is to know? They'll be asleep by midnight."
"No, not here. You terrify me."
"Well, I seem to have become a regular bogey of a


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 169
husband already," he growled, tugging at his mustache.
"What do you think I came down for but to see you?"
Very much the same sort of conversation was in pro-
gress on the other side of the room, where Lady Hes-
ter was masking her excitement by a pretence of show-
ing Bannister a Japanese mirror and talking sotto voce.
"I must see you—I must talk to you alone," she
whispered. "You must go away at once."
"Nonsense," he replied, "I am coming down to buy
Dingle Hall and live near you."
"You will do nothing of the kind."
"I shall. There are the young people to consider—
my daughter."
"Yours?"
There was a world of query in her voice.
"Yes, mine—and yours," he whispered, with a cynical
smile.
"I knew it—I guessed it—I felt it. Oh, Mabel!"
She rose with an impulsive movement, and walked
swiftly across to Mabel, who rose quickly, just in time
to catch her sobbing mother in her arms.
"I knew it—I knew it! She ought not to have come
down," cried the Bishop helplessly. "Caroline! Caro-
line!"


CHAPTER XIV
A YOUNG wife in her night dress praying beside her
bed. The prayer a jumble of appeals, questions, lamen-
tations, and sobs.
The room was a severe, old-fashioned one with a
four-poster, and red curtains hanging from a massive
canopy which reached to the low ceiling. On the dress-
ing table candles burned, one on either side of the large
oval mirror. The girl's pretty clothes were strewn
about in confusion, showing that she had undressed
hastily with her mind on other things. Her hair was
tumbling over her eyes, and gathered in two long plaits,
one on either shoulder—as Jack loved to see them. She
looked more girlish than in her modish satin gown
earlier in the evening. Her eyes were dry; but her
throat was thick with sobs that seemed to be choking
her. Her soft white hands were clenched upon the
pink coverlet, twining and working in harmony with
the twisting of her troubled brain.
She had locked the door, and the key was on the bed.
Jack had refused to listen to her denial, and was com-
ing for the explanation which she could not give. He
was coming to his wife to look into happy, bright eyes,
and hear her confess that she was once more happy in
his love.
To risk detection thus was reckless; it was foolish;
but it was an enterprise to Jack's taste. Stolen kisses
were ever sweetest, and he was determined that the
clouds which had risen between them should be speed-
ily scattered by satisfactory explanations. His curios-
170


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 171
ity to know the reason for her change of attitude was
stronger than his discretion. He would not be guided
by his wise little wife.
"I shan't let him in. O God, help me!—guide me—
give me courage to go where I can never see him
more," she prayed. "Don't let me ruin him and be a
drag upon him all his life till he grows to hate me. He
knows I love him—he will never doubt that. And he
will understand—he must understand—that it was for
his good I am doing this. My father is a bad man—a
cruel man. He is only using me for his own ends. He
is weaving a web about this house. O God, you can
understand. Guide me, help me, show me where to go!
I am so very much alone."
There was a rustle on the corridor outside. Her
heart stood still; her breath strangled in her throat,
and she could not extinguish the second candle. She
looked round in panic.
A regular knocking at her door, soft and steady, yet
dangerously loud. She made a sound in moving to-
wards the door, and knocked over a scent bottle. The
person outside evidently heard.
"Mabel, I'm coming in—may I?"
It was Lady Hester. The voice was husky and
hardly recognizable. Mabel tried to answer, but the
words choked her. She wanted to temporize and make
an excuse; but ere she could articulate the door opened,
and Lady Hester, in a long cream dressing gown, and
with her hair untouched since retiring to rest, entered
and closed the door after her. The mother could not
keep away from her child.
"Mabel, my dear," she cried, extending her arms
with strange tenderness; "Mabel, I wanted to see you
before I went to sleep."


172 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
The girl came to her obediently. There was a
strange, illuminating, beatific expression in those big,
tearless eyes. They seemed to be telling her some-
thing.
Lady Hester folded her daughter to her heart and
dropped her head upon her shoulder. She kissed the
soft, girlish cheek, and passed her hands over the tur-
bulent hair. Then she drew away and stood with her
back to the candle, in order that the light might fall on
Mabel's face and reveal the eyes that had always
seemed to be saying something to her that she could
not understand.
"My child—my child!" she murmured, and kissed
her again, holding her tight. Then the flood gates
opened—tears at last.
Still holding the girl from her at arm's length and
looking into her face, she spoke with more calmness.
"You are going to marry Jack, Mabel. That's what
I came to see you about. The Bishop seems to have
thought out and arranged everything—in his own mind
—in rather a hurried way. I don't want you to think
me unkind, or mysterious, but—but I want you to put
it off for a little while. A nice, long engagement, so
that all things may be straightened out."
"I don't think I am going to marry Jack at all," said
Mabel quietly.
"No? You have quarrelled, then?" asked Lady
Hester, with very little show of surprise, and striving
in vain to repress the excitement in her voice.
"You see, when we were engaged I didn't know—
whom I was."
"Then you know now. He has told you?"
"Ah, then I am right," sobbed Mabel. "You, too,
know the kind of man my father is. He is not fit to be


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 173
in this house. I am not fit to be here. Jack must
never be ruined by me."
"So the cross is bearing you down too," said Lady
Hester impressively. "What has he told you?" This
anxiously, and with her eyes averted.
"He has told me nothing. I've guessed how he
lives, how he must always live. Who I am, and
whether I have any right to the name I bear, I don't
know. Sometimes I hope that I may not be his child
at all."
"Would to God you were not, Mabel! Oh, my darl-
ing, you are"
The confession would not come. The agonized
mother flung her arms about the girl and held her to
her breast again, twining her arms tightly and impul-
sively about her, but she could not speak the amazing
words.
Mabel broke away at last, sobbing as badly as Lady
Hester.
"You knew him. You must have known him before
to-night," faltered the girl. "Tell me, what do you
know about him? You told me about a man once, a
villain who took you into strange company and showed
you another side of life to that you were used to. Did
you ever meet my father in those days? Birds of a
feather flock together, they say. Oh, it is horrible!
Yet he seems to have always known decent people and
to have visited nice houses. Oh, tell me he isn't what
I think he is. I know that men are often gamblers and
unscrupulous—I've heard about it often—and some
women always cheat at bridge—but he isn't—he
isn't"
"Yes he is, Mabel; he is a thief!" cried the other
bitterly. "I see you have found him out. At least,
that is what he was when—when I met him."


174 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Oh—oh! I shall kill myself," sobbed the wretched
girl. "I won't know him. I won't live with him. I
won't ever touch him. He is vile, although he is my
father. If I haven't courage enough to kill myself I—
I shall kill him. I am quite alone—I've got nobody. It
doesn't matter what I do or what becomes of me."
"Yes, you have some one, Mabel. You have me."
"Oh, you can't know me," cried the girl hysterically,
drawing away. "I'm not fit to sit at your table. The
Bishop, if he knew, would be horrified. Oh, how shab-
bily I am treating him by letting him imagine my father
is a gentleman, and an equal! Oh, Lady Hester, Lady
Hester, he has only come down here to steal. I know
it. I overheard it."
"To steal—here!"
"Yes, and he's brought that man Voss with him."
"Voss? Who is Voss? The name seems familiar."
"He's his servant, or pretends to be. But he's
quite familiar with him when they're alone, although
father insults him all the time. They're planning some-
thing dreadful, I know they are. They want your
emeralds."
"Oh, the emeralds are in a safe, dear," laughed Lady
Hester mirthlessly. Again she drew the unhappy girl
to her, and looked wonderingly into her eyes, ready
to unburden her heart and make the great confession
which must come sooner or later. The words would
not shape themselves. Her emotions were too over-
powering—she grew dizzy again. The cords of her
brain seemed to be snapping. She opened her arms
dumbly, and Mabel, seeing the pain in her face, came to
her embrace tenderly and comforted her.
They stood thus for a few moments, the elder woman
weeping quietly on the younger's shoulder, making but


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 175
one shadow against the candle light. They forgot all
else but their troubles.
They did not hear the door softly open behind them,
but they heard it close. The next moment Jack's voice
cried exultantly—
"Ah, I've got here, you see, little girl." He took a
bound forward, and the women jumped apart.
"Jack!" gasped Mabel.
Her cry was echoed by Lady Hester.
"Jack?—here?"
"Good Lord—mother!" gasped Jack, falling back
breathlessly and shamefaced. Then he cursed beneath
his breath, while Lady Hester stood gazing at him in
astonishment. Mabel hurried into a dressing gown,
timid and ashamed.
Jack saw that he was caught. He ground his teeth
and set his jaws obstinately; then rammed his hands
into the pockets of his dressing gown, and stood await-
ing the inevitable.
"Jack, you here at this time of night? What do you
mean? Why have you come?"
Lady Hester looked from one to the other; but Ma-
bel was only crying miserably, and playing with the
lace of her dressing gown.
"We're caught, that's all," growled Jack defiantly.
"Mabel, you might have told me you expected visitors,
or have you arranged this as a surprise for me? Does
mother know?"
"She knows no more than she has seen, Jack. I've
told her nothing, and what she thinks I don't care. As
I am never going to marry you, Jack, it doesn't matter
what I do, or what Lady Hester knows."
Jack stared uncomprehendingly.
"She has discovered our secret," he muttered awk-
wardly.


176 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Secret—secret?" cried Lady Hester despairingly,
flinging up her hands.
"We're married," he added.
"Oh, fools, fools! why couldn't you wait? You de-
ceived me—both of you."
"Yes, we're married, that's the long and short of it,"
growled Jack, diving his hands deeper into his pockets,
and striding up and down as though he were bored at
this intrusion of Lady Hester into his domestic affairs.
"Married!" echoed Lady Hester. "Secretly?"
'Yes, married," he snapped. "Married. And what
of it?" He jerked out his reply in a temper, and glared
at his stepmother. "We've been married ever so long."
"Oh, Jack, Jack, you needn't have told her!" moaned
Mabel, sinking into a chair.
"Needn't have told! I'm not going to have people
thinking idiotic things about you and me. It's got
to be kept quiet. But what does it matter now? Father
has agreed to everything; so it hurts nobody."
"Fools! fools!" cried Lady Hester, flinging up her
hands again, and making for the door. "Your secret
is safe with me—but God help you!"
With a sob she escaped, leaving Jack more nettled
than ever, and utterly mystified.
Still dumb, he stared at his wife with as much dignity
as he could command in a dressing gown and slippers,
angry and irritated; angry at being caught out by Lady
Hester, irritated because he was vaguely conscious that
there was mystery in progress, something outside his
ken. He was temperamentally very like his father, and
hated anything that was not plain sailing.
Mabel had dropped into a chair, where she sat hud-
dled up with her hands clenched on her knees, the very
picture of weary despair. He waited for her to speak


“YES, MARRIED,” HE snapped. “MARRIED.”
—Page 176





THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 177
now that Lady Hester had left them. It was only nat-
ural and proper that his wife should give him an ex-
planation of the extraordinary interview which he had
interrupted. But she remained silent, troubled, and
self-engrossed. She was still overpowered and swayed
by the emotions that stirred her when she talked to
Lady Hester about her father; and her brain was be-
numbed; the present, with its hideous complications,
filled her horizon. What mattered the future? All her
bold resolves were rendered useless now Lady Hester
knew of her marriage. Renunciation was of no avail.
Jack naturally would demand an explanation, and she
could give none—without telling all the hideous truth
about her father and her own mysterious origin.
One fact alone stood out from the bewildering tan-
gle. It was still impossible for them to face the world
together as husband and wife.
It was awful to be the veriest plaything of circum-
stances. How could Jack hold up his head if he knew
he had a thief for a father-in-law, and that his own
father's cherished heirlooms were at that moment in
jeopardy? What would he think of her as the decoy
and cat's-paw of a rascal who had used her to get into
the Palace solely for the purpose of robbery?
Scalding tears forced themselves from under her
burning eyelids, and as they fell upon her clenched
hands she looked down at them, half expecting to see
them blister the white flesh. Surely no girl had ever
endured such torture as hers.
"Well, Mabel, perhaps you will explain why I find
Lady Hester here, and why you allow me to get caught
like this." Jack's voice was hard and cold.
"You should never have come—you should never
have come!" she moaned, wringing her hands.


i;8 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"And while we are on the explanation tack, perhaps
you'll also give the reason for your extraordinary be-
havior in town, where you talked about good-bye for-
ever, and all that sort of thing. Aunt Caroline caught
us then, and now it's Lady Hester. .What's the mean-
ing of it?"
"Lady Hester took me by surprise. I couldn't send
her away. I—I forgot you were coming for the mo-
ment.
"Forgot, eh?" exclaimed Jack loftily. "One would
thing we had been married six months."
"Jack, we ought not to have married at all. We
ought not to have deceived Lady Hester."
"Look here, Mabel, is all this emotion and agitation
due to what you overheard of Aunt Caroline's conver-
sation in the Temple about Beatrice Carew? Why
have you changed so utterly?"
"There is no change in me, Jack. The change is in
other people. Oh—don't ask me—don't drive me
crazy!" she exclaimed, starting up and clasping her
throbbing temples.
The piteous trouble in her eyes moved him in spite
of his anger. "Mabel, my darling, you're not yourself at
all. You're not my sweet little wife who fished with me
at Weybury, and planned out a rosy future, and"
"No, I'm not, Jack—I'm not."
Further explanations were cut short by a step out-
side, and a knocking at the door. Lady Hester had re-
turned. Jack opened the door, and she beckoned to
him to come outside.
"Your father, Jack. He has heard that you're going
up to town the first thing in the morning, and as he
won't see you then, he wants to talk to you to-night
and is going to your room. He may be there before


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 179
you. Quick! You must not let him suspect anything."
With one troubled look at Mabel, Jack fled. Lady
Hester, after watching him go, went in to comfort her
daughter.
Her daughter!
She put her arms about her, lovingly and tenderly.
There was no anger now, only a great pity; and she
folded her to her heart, murmuring, "My poor child—
my poor child! This comes of listening to a man in
love."
She wept with her, alternately whispering words of
comfort and words of gentle condemnation until she
was compelled to hurry away in order to avoid inquiry
from the Bishop.
Mabel locked herself in, and paced the room till the
candles burned low in their sockets, groping blindly in
the maze of doubt and difficulty, vainly seeking an out-
let that promised some possibility of sane, rational con-
duct. She was hemmed in on every side. The cords
of love were tugging at her heart. Matrimony chained
her to Jack, and filial ties hedged her round. She was
tethered hand and foot! There seemed to be only one
way out—to die.
That was too wild and irrational to appeal to her
level-headed instincts. Youth was hot within her; life
was still precious; and she had always been accustomed
to put her head on her pillow at night with a pleasant
consciousness that the morning would dawn fair and
bright with another day full of possibilities of joy and
health. To contemplate self-extinction by violence was
repugnant and horrible.
Jack, on his way to his room, hurried blindly along
the dark corridor to the west wing, and, after going a
few yards, bumped into some one coming in the oppo-
site direction—a man.


i8o THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
It was Voss. But to Jack he was a stranger, or
nearly so.
"Who the—dickens are you?"
"I'm Mr. Bannister's man, sir."
"What are you doing down here at this hour of the
night?"
"Just getting some water for Mr. Bannister, sir. I
couldn't find the bath room for the hot water, sir.
Would you be so kind as to direct me?"
"There's a bath room in the other wing, three yards
away from your master's room. Don't be an idiot.
Look about you when the lights are up, and don't come
prowling about the house like this."
"I'm very sorry, sir. I'd no idea I had wandered so
far. I'm much obliged to you, sir. I'll find the other
bath room."
Jack hurried on, for he heard the Bishop's door
opening, and his father's voice telling Lady Hester not
to wait up for him, as he might be a long time.
What the Bishop had to say to his son was not in-
teresting. It bored Jack unutterably. It was a well-
meant, paternal homily on marriage, and the duties of
marriage, its responsibilities and ideals. It was almost
a sermon. The old gentleman was careful to refrain
from revealing anything he had learned through Aunt
Caroline of the lady hidden in the Temple; but much
of the Bishop's talk about chivalry and discretion and
the fair name of her who was to be his wife was
prompted by Aunt Caroline's revelations.
Jack, being a married man, and a worried one at that,
naturally took little interest in a private sermon from
his parent concerning the proper frame of mind in
which to approach the altar. The Bishop sat on the
end of his son's bed in a manner that was meant to be


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 181
genial, fatherly, and confidential; and if Jack had
opened his heart to his natural mentor, he might have
sprung upon the old gentleman the great secret which
was worrying him exceedingly. He had no idea that
keeping up the sham of bachelorhood after the honey-
moon was over would be such a strain.
The most interesting part of the discourse came at
the end, when the Bishop announced that, in view of
Mr. Bannister's generous settlement upon his daugh-
ter, he (the Bishop) could do no less than double
Jack's present allowance, to prevent him being too
much dependent on his wife.
The small hours were well advanced when the
Bishop returned to his room. All the up-stairs lights
were extinguished, and he groped his way as best he
could, going softly for fear of disturbing his wife. He
stopped outside her door for an instant and listened,
because he fancied he heard a movement within. She
was evidently not yet asleep, for the light showed
through the keyhole of the door; or she might have
fallen asleep and have left the candle burning. He was
about to knock and turn the handle when a stifled
sound, like a sob, disturbed the stillness—and the next
instant the candle went out.
"I'd better not disturb her. Poor Hester! One of
her nervous attacks; her fall must have shaken her
badly."
He passed on, and, like Jack, tumbled on some one
in the darkness. "Who is it?" he murmured.
"It is only me, sir, Mr. Bannister's man. I was go-
ing to get him some hot water. There's none in the
other bath-room."
"Well, my man, go quietly. Another time light the
gas at the end of the corridor before you try to find
your way in a strange house."


182 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Yes, my lord—certainly, my lord. But I didn't
care to take the liberty for fear I should disturb any-
body."
A few minutes after the Bishop had begun to un-
dress, he heard Voss turning on the tap in the bath-
room, making a deal of unnecessary noise. He almost
went out to rate him soundly for daring to run the risk
of disturbing her ladyship by such carelessness; and
he voted Mr. Bannister's man a stupid idiot.
Voss carried an empty can to his master's room, and
let himself in. Banninster was not yet in bed. He
was lounging at his ease on a couch reading—he was
always late to bed. He looked up when Voss entered,
showing irritation.
"Sorry," murmured Voss, "but I was obliged to
come. I ran into the Bishop, and told him a yarn
about hot water. Everybody seems to be prowling
about the corridors to-night; first her ladyship, then
Mr. Jack, and then the Bishop."
"Where have you been?" asked Bannister, as he
closed his book and stretched his arms languidly with
a yawn.
"Been prospecting."
"There's no need, you fool. I told you so."
"But we must know the ground."
"You'll do as I tell you. I say it is unnecessary."
"I've counted the windows from outside. It's the
third from the end. The safe must be in the wall, and
the wall quite a yard thick."
"You needn't concern yourself with useless calcula-
tions. It won't be done that way. There are other
means of opening safes than those you would employ,
my good Voss."
The fellow tidied up the bedroom in the mechanical


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 183
way of a servant. He was a strange combination of
servility, usefulness, and villainy.
"Emeralds ain't easy," he murmured thoughtfully
as he folded a towel. "They ain't like diamonds,
where one's just like another. Emeralds"
"Silence!" hissed Bannister, blazing out at him with
unusual energy. "Don't let me hear you mention the
word within four walls. You're growing more and
more careless. I'm here to arrange the marriage of
my daughter to the Bishop's son; that is enough for
the present. Have you talked to the other servants?"
"Yes, I've gassed about the way we live in town, and
money no object, and all that sort of thing; and what a
lucky boy Master Jack Lawyer is to marry an heiress."
"And what do they say?"
"That Aunt Caroline—that is, Miss Cardew—ain't
taking to it at all kind; and nothing goes right in this
house if she don't cotton to it. She means to make
trouble, and talks as though the girl was only down
here on appro', so to speak."
"I think I've put a check upon Aunt Caroline."
Bannister smiled and stroked his beard, and dropped
his eye-glass, and surveyed himself pleasantly in the
mirror.
"Do I look old, Voss?"
"Old—what do you mean?"
"Do you think I've changed much in twenty years?"
"No, not since I've known you."
"Ah, I wear very well. Do you think I've im-
proved?" He ran his fingers lovingly through his
hair.
"Matter of taste," observed Voss, who rather won-
dered at the strange question. He knew from old as-
sociation that it was always necessary to wait till his
master arrived at the point, and tint to forestall him.


184 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Do you think Lady Hester has changed?"
"How should I know?"
"You never saw her before?"
"No."
"Quite sure?"
"I seemed to fancy her sort of familiar. But them
sort of people get their photographs in the papers,
and when you meet 'em they're like old friends. But
I reckon you've met her before." This with a grin.
"Oh! How do you arrive at that?"
"I see her fall down-stairs. Lor', it gave me a turn!
I thought you was spotted at the beginning; but no
doubt it's all right. Old flame, I suppose?"
"Yes, we were rather—friendly once, years ago, at
about the time when I first took you in hand, Voss."
"She was a kid then, surely."
"No, not exactly. She looks young, doesn't she?"
"Yes, for an old codger like the Bishop."
"Ah, you think somebody younger would appeal to
her. She and I look more suited to one another than
the present arrangement, eh?"
"Oh, I see your game," grinned Voss. "Going the
soft way as usual. No, no, it won't work. She ain't
that sort."
"That is a matter beyond your powers of discern-
ment, Voss. I thought it best to warn you, so that
you may make yourself useful—and scarce, sometimes
—and keep that watchful eye of yours upon corridors
and staircases, and garden paths. You understand?"
Voss frowned his disapproval. He showed his pre-
occupation by folding and re-folding a towel that was
in his hand, until Bannister fidgeted uneasily.
"You will notice that I don't ask your advice on the
matter, Voss. I merely give you an indication of what
to expect."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 185
"Just so," sighed Voss, with monumental weariness
intended to signify disapproval.
"Now you can bring that chair and brush my hair
quietly for five minutes—with the medium brushes.
I've got a headache; and I shan't sleep to-night unless
my nerves are mechanically soothed. And don't hum
and whistle while you're doing it. It annoys me."
Voss unpacked the brushes, and cast an eye at the
clock on the mantelpiece. It was one-thirty. Then
he began his task, and looked, as he brushed, at his
master's reflection in the mirror. He saw an unusual
brilliancy of eye, a slight pink flush—very rare—upon
each cheek, and supercilious lips muttering nervously
as if in imaginary conversation. These were the only
signs of excitement that he ever detected in his mas-
ter, and they appeared on very special occasions only.
He gave the solution as "Emeralds."
He was wrong. It was a woman, whose aching
head was tossing on a pillow not far away. Bannister
was thinking of her, and remembering how she looked
years ago, when the pillow was smoothed by his own
white hand.


CHAPTER XV
BREAKFAST at the Palace was always an uncertain
meal. The Bishop's duties necessitated so many
erratic journeys that he was wont to describe himself
as "a commercial traveler of the Church," and a fixed
breakfast-hour was impossible. On the morning after
the dinner to celebrate Jack's engagement he was astir
earlier than usual, and his son was off before eight, re-
turning to town by train.
Lady Hester breakfasted in her room, pleading in-
disposition—and, indeed, she looked ill. Her husband
was much concerned, and suggested the family doc-
tor, but she protested that she would be better soon,
and needed no advice. She begged him to go about
his duties for the day—which necessitated a short jour-
ney—without troubling about their guests, and come
back as soon as possible.
Mr. Bannister never breakfasted in public if he could
avoid it, begging indulgence on the plea of insomnia.
Voss attended him in his room, and announced that
her ladyship was indisposed. He smiled.
Mabel was the only one besides Aunt Caroline who
appeared down-stairs at the regulation hour. She
had avoided Jack, taking cowardly refuge behind her
bedroom door; but she waved to him from her win-
dow as her father's "second motor" took him to the
station, and the anxious husband was much relieved.
The fluttering handkerchief, although waved by a sor-
row-stricken, tearful woman, who was uncertain
whether it might not be her last farewell, suggested
18$


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 187
at a distance a touch of gaiety. He hoped that she
was feeling better this morning, and that her secret
worry, whatever it was, would cure itself. He com-
pelled his brain to a careful consideration of the brew-
ery case, which he ought never to have left for an in-
stant. The brief was in his bag, and he spread it out
on his lap, resolved to employ every precious moment
in priming himself with dry facts and technicalities.
It was not easy. The recollection of Mabel's
pained, drawn face and terrified eyes persistently in-
terfered. He wondered, too, what Lady Hester would
do—what attitude she would adopt with regard to
their secret, and what the consequences would be if
she informed his father.
The brewery case was more important at the
moment because, if it went well, it would mean more
work and the possibility of independence of his fath-
er's purse. He sincerely hoped that Lady Hester
would not be so foolish as to precipitate a crisis. The
Bishop would be furious, especially after the dinner of
last night, which advertised to the world his complete
ignorance of anything more serious than an engage-
ment. The hasty marriage was a mistake, and he had
been entirely at fault.
Instead of conning his brief, he found himself dic-
tating imaginary letters to his wife demanding an ex-
planation of her mysterious trouble and advising her
how to tackle Lady Hester.
The state of mind of Lady Hester was pitiable. She
forced herself to remain in bed until the Bishop had
made his farewell; then she leapt up and paced her
room again—she had been pacing it nearly all the


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 189
skein; yet it gave Lady Hester an ally and a confidante,
which was something to a woman aching with years
of lonely brooding.
f Her agonizing bewilderment alternated with brief
transports of joy when she thought of her child. Mabel
was hers, beautiful and delightful, all that she could
have wished, untainted by her strange parentage, un-
spoiled by her motherless training, with her innocence
carefully guarded and respected by her extraordinary
father. It argued the presence of some good in the
man. She sought comfort in the thought that Mabel
being married to Jack, was out of Dick Gordon's jur-
isdiction for ever; and whatever happened, no one
could rob her of her motherhood. It was this one
brief, fixed star in the whirling constellation of revolv-
ing troubles that saved her reason. The necessity of
safeguarding herself would not have been sufficient
to steady her without the all-absorbing need of shield-
ing the Bishop and her daughter. It was for others
she must work. She, personally, was utterly lost,
hopelessly discredited and done for. The Bishop was
no longer her husband. The shackles of that early
wedlock held her to the villain who once imagined
that he could mould her to his will, and would cer-
tainly make fresh terms. It must be a duel to the
death, for her own sake, for her child's sake; and the
Bishop's claims were greater than either. Woman-
like, she was ready for any sacrifice, any subterfuge,
any lie, to keep inviolate his spotless reputation.
To confess anything to him now was out of the ques-
tion, until she knew what her former husband was
going to do. The shock of Jack's secret marriage
would be enough for the old man to bear. If the real
state of his domestic affairs was known to him his ac-


190 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
tion would be swift and terrible. He would not spare
himself or her. She would be put away as an unclean
thing; and the world would mock at the reverend man
for a fool who had been hoodwinked by a designing
woman.
What a triumph for Aunt Caroline! Strange as it
may seem, her greatest dread was of what the old lady
would say and do if she got so much as an inkling of
the truth. The name Dick Gordon upon Aunt Caro-
line's lips had struck terror to her soul, and at first
suggested that she knew everything; but a little rea-
soning made it clear that this could not be so.
For the sake of appearances Lady Hester sent a
polite message to her guests pleading indisposition, and
begged that Mr. Bannister and Mabel would follow
their own inclinations until lunch time.
Mr. Bannister's reply was that he hoped Lady Hes-
ter would on no account trouble about him. He
would take the opportunity of motoring over to Din-
gle Hall, and sincerely hoped that he would find her
better at lunch time.
The message, delivered by Voss with due obse-
quiousness, was tantamount to a truce. He was going
to give her a few hours' respite. He was in no hurry.
Always leisurely; and always more deadly when he ap-
proached things slowly.
Mabel had something of her mother's power of self-
control before others. She had gone down to break-
fast to find Aunt Caroline already there, presiding in
solitary state. The greeting between the two women
was frigid in the extreme. The girl, true to her prom-
ise to Jack to be tolerant, shut her eyes to the obvious


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 191
rudeness of the other's greeting. So far as she under-
stood, Aunt Caroline knew nothing to her detriment,
and had no suspicion of the shadow in the house. So
she applied herself to propitiate Jack's aunt with well-
bred tact and gentleness, conscious that the very worst
Aunt Caroline could think about her was not nearly
so bad as the truth.
The conversation ranged over a limited area, includ-
ing the weather, the cathedral, the Bishop's latest por-
trait in the Graphic, and the singing in the drawing-
room over-night. The old lady's replies were sharp
and blunt to the verge of offence. Yet she was not in-
sensible to the girl's gentle voice, her well-bred air,
and her persistent deference to one who was her elder.
She had more leisure to inspect her personal charms,
to note the soft, melting eyes, the small hands, the low,
restrained voice, and the very plain, simple, morning
gown. In spite of a desire to be antagonistic her
curiosity was aroused, and she startled Mabel by one
or two questions. After staring ahead out of the win-
dow for some time, lost in thought, as though Mabel
did not exist, she suddenly rapped out an embarrassing
inquiry.
"When did your mother die, child?"
"I—I'm sure I don't know. I was too young to
remember. I never had any knowledge of my mother.
I think she died when I was born."
"You think. Don't you know?"
"I have never questioned my father closely upon the
subject. It is a painful one with him, and he has never
discussed it with me."
"Humph! Strange thing for a girl not to know.
Who zvas your mother?"
Mabel looked puzzled and confused. She did not
quite understand the other's exact meaning.


192 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"I meant what was her family, her maiden name?
You surely have relations who could tell you what your
father's sensitive disposition prevented him discussing.''
This with a sneer was not lost upon Mabel.
"I have no relatives but my father."
"I suppose I seem rude to you," observed the stiff
old lady, after another pause, piercing the girl through
with her cold, grey eyes.
"Not at all—not at all."
"You see, I'm Jack's aunt. You are being treated as
one of the family, and I suppose you think you are go-
ing to marry him."
"That rests with Jack, doesn't it?" replied the girl
evasively.
"You haven't told me who your mother was. What
was her maiden name?"
"That I have never been told; and I fear it had lit-
tle interest for me because—because, having no rela-
tions"
"An extraordinary position. I've never heard of
such a case. Your father has money, I believe, and
he inherited it from some one. Are his family Lon-
don people?"
"I have never heard him speak of his family, except
to say that he was an only son, left an orphan while he
was at Oxford."
Mabel's face was white as the table-cloth, and she
dared not face those relentless eyes. Aunt Caroline
smelt a rat. "The girl knows all about her father, and
something to his discredit," she thought. "She's only
an artful hussy after all."
The impression that Mabel had made up to this point
was distinctly favorable; but to all inquiries about her
father she replied with such palpable hesitation and


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 193
embarrassment that her mental suffering showed in
her face, which was a mirror of pain.
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of
Voss in the breakfast-room—Voss subdued, soft-voiced,
and self-effacing. He entered apologetically, and ap-
proached Miss Cardew humbly, as if distressed at hav-
ing to disturb her. He came with a message from his
master.
"Mr. Bannister's compliments, and he is going over
to Dingle Hall after breakfast in the motor. If Miss
Cardew has not made any arrangements for the morn-
ing he would esteem it a favor if she would accompany
him and give him the benefit of her valuable advice."
The naive audacity of it took away her breath. Once
again she found herself staggered and disconcerted,
wondering whether, after all, she had not done this
amiable gentleman a serious injustice by listening to
Mr. Crick's libellous slanders. She had never ridden
in a motor car, and would dearly have loved to accept.
Caution and suspicion got the better of her. "The
rascal wants to kill me," she thought, and replied
tartly—
"My compliments to Mr. Bannister, but I never
motor."
Voss bowed and withdrew; and when he was well
behind the old lady's back allowed his face to express
some disappointment. He returned to his master,
who was lounging in dressing-gown and slippers, and
making a poor breakfast, chiefly on the contents of the
Times.
"Well?" asked Bannister, looking up as Voss en-
tered.
"No go," replied the other. "She don't motor;
she ain't taking any."


i94 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"What are we to do then, Voss? The old girl must
be quieted somehow and got out of the way. I sup-
pose she intends to remain here for some time."
"So her maid says. She almost lives here when
there is anything going on, or anybody is visiting the
Bishop—just the time they don't want her."
"Have you any suggestions, Voss?"
Voss scratched his right whisker and looked wise.
"It would have been better to take her out and smash
her up altogether."
"Ah, yes. Something that will keep her to her bed
is the only thing that will serve us."
"I could give her a drop of something in her tea.
I've got a bottle or two with me."
"No, no, Voss, none of your mixtures. I thought
you were cured of that weakness of yours for crude
methods belonging to mediaeval ages."
"Oh, they'll do for all ages, and the old girl's not so
very old."
Bannister smiled pityingly. "I said mediaeval ages,
middle ages."
"Well, I said it was good for any age."
Bannister laughed softly, and gave up attempting to
translate his meaning. He loved to use phrases that
were beyond Voss's understanding, and the more
stupid the man's blunders the more he was pleased.
"Drugs are the implements of reckless fools, Voss,
and at best their effect is only temporary. It is al-
ways mysterious, and liable to provoke suspicion. No,
you must think of something better."
"A telegram," suggested Voss. "A message from a
dying friend, or something of that sort."
"A mere temporary expedient, and clumsier than
the others."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 195
"How long do you want for your philandering with
the Bishop's lady?"
"An unlimited time. It will be impossible to get
ten words with her with that old dragon about."
"Take the lady in the motor, and leave the old girl
at home."
"Ah, that is better, Voss. My compliments to her
ladyship, and does she think that a gentle ride in the
motor to Dingle Hall will do her headache good."
Voss departed to find Lady Hester's maid, and pres-
ently returned with the answer.
"Her ladyship's compliments, and she is sure it
would make her headache worse."
Bannister laughed, and rose and paced the room
with unusual energy. He paused before the mirror
and admired himself—and laughed again. There was
no mirth, but rather irritation.
"Ho, ho," we are haughty, are we? We throw
down the gage. Very well, we shall see. Voss, my
compliments to her ladyship, and I feel sure that the
motor ride will do her good."
Voss, unaware of the nature of his master's power
over the mistress of the house, elevated his eyebrows
in surprise. But it was not his place to question.
Assuming his best wooden-faced expression, he went
off again to find Lady Hester's maid.
When he was gone Bannister showed less restraint.
His eyes brightened, and those red patches on the pale
cheeks glowed over the edge of his beard. He men-
tally reviewed his chances of success.
"She will come, or she will not. If she does, well
and good; if not, I shall know the spirit in which to
approach her. I could not expect her to be glad to
see me. But the shock over, surely memory will


196 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
arouse the woman in her. I saw her looking at me
very strangely last night. Ah, yes, I think I have im-
proved." This to his small mirror.
He strode into his dressing-room and admired him-
self before the long mirror. With the comb he ar-
ranged his beautiful black front locks, caressed his
beard to a nice point, and indulged in a pose of inor-
dinate vanity—that vanity which is the inevitable char-
acteristic of your thorough-going criminal.
Yet he was irritated that Lady Hester's lovely
image, although changed by time, should still fire his
admiration. He could remember distinctly how she
looked last night, everything she wore, even to the
combs in her hair. Being the only woman who had
ever aroused in him a spark of self-respect, the only
one who ever touched his better self, he had loved her
as deeply as it was possible for a man so self-absorbed
to love any one. A procession of women had filed
through his life, amorous, indecorous, useful, roman-
tic, passionate, according to mood and circumstances
and the chance encounters of his wandering life. For
some he had set snares. Others had come of their
own accord and flung themselves hysterically into his
arms. All found him utterly merciless. Only for one
woman had he ever made a self-sacrifice.
His surrender of his young wife had cost him many
a pang. The girl whom he had ruined, but loved, and
whom he could never have hoped to break and bend
to his dishonorable mode of life, had been voluntarily
released at some cost to himself. Perhaps it was the
only time in his life that he had ever taken any trouble
to undo a wrong. His elaborate fraud to make her
think him dead—and at the same time to wipe out the
personality of Dick Gordon—was his way of trying to


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 197
make amends. He relieved her of the incumbrance of
the child, and descended gracefully to the grave
through the columns of the Times, flattering himself
that he had done a noble act by severing as far as possi-
ble the ties that bound them, and leaving her free to
return unsullied, as far as the world knew, to spinster-
hood.
The recollection of it had always been one of his
most comforting memories. Whenever his self-
esteem needed a little tonic he was accustomed to look
back upon that episode as a positive orgie of self-abne-
gation. Out of regard for this woman whom he had
loved he reared her child as she would have had it
reared, had she known that it lived. Thus did he
liquidate his debt to her, and at the same time indulge
a mild instinct of paternity which, next to his love for
his lost wife, was his only constant human emotion. If
Mabel had been a boy he would have preferred to have
her drowned; being a girl, and the daughter of her
lovely mother, there was a possibility of her growing
up to be a joy and an ornament, a comfort and a play-
thing. During her childhood he saw her at intervals
—sometimes very long ones—and each time was more
pleased and more satisfied with his venture in pater-
nity. He regarded his child as an investment for his
old age, and an amusement for idle hours. She was
a pretty pet, and he loved her much as he would have
loved a dog.
As the romance of his life receded into the past, dim
and shadowy, he looked back upon it as an episode be-
gun and ended. He refused to consider the woman
any further as a living personality moving in another
world to his own. Whether she had married, or died,
or immured herself in a convent, he cared not. She


198 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
had ceased to exist as a reality—until he took her in his
arms the other night, warm and pulsating, a very real
thing; the same old Hester, but ripened in the sun-
shine of peace and prosperity. How the blood had
raced through his veins! What an effort to retain his
usual sangfroid! It was only later, when his sense of
humor was tickled by the amazing irony of the situa-
tion, that he managed to recover his equilibrium, and
survey the woman and her new husband with cynical
amusement.
He was still magnanimous enough to hold his peace
and not interfere with Hester in her new sphere if
she would show a spark of gratitude for the great self-
abnegation of his youth. With his perverted sense of
virtue he still considered that he had done a great and
chivalrous act under the influence of disappointed
youthful passion. He was not equal to such self-denial
now-a-days, and he wanted full credit for past virtue.
Mabel's secret marriage with Jack had complicated
things in such a way that Hester's future and his own
were once more irrevocably linked. He did not for a
moment contemplate robbing her of the proud posi-
tion of wife to the Bishop of Ripley. He expected her
to cling to it as to life itself.
Mabel was her child. She knew it now; and he was
willing to share his daughter with her mother. In
what way better than by Mabel's marriage with the
Bishop's son? Jack was no blood relation of the girl,
and he was a reasonably good match. A husband had
come upon the scene in the nick of time to take care
of her, just when her eyes were opening to the things
around her, and she was likely to become troublesome
to her parent. Her marriage with a Bishop's son was
an appreciable testimony to his own respectability,


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 199
issued at a propitious moment when his reputation was
getting distinctly frayed at the edges, and the allotted
span of his criminal career was nearing its close.
The caution and deliberation which had stood him
in such stead in his raids upon society was also respon-
sible for his lifelong determination to prosper on his
ill-gotten wealth and retire from business like any
other successful artist. His gambling profits were
never large—he was too cute to win always, and, when
occasion needed, could lose as effectively as he won.
To win always was a fool's game. To lose cleverly
and effectively was artistic, and set him on a different
plane from the professional swindler. But at intervals
during the years after his parting with Hester, oppor-
tunities of bringing off big things had come in his way
—brought to his notice chiefly by the greedier and
less artistic Voss—venture not for hundreds, but for
thousands—diamonds, and bonds, filched chiefly from
silly women traveling in strange countries. These
had filled the exchequer to overflowing. He never
attempted anything where the odds were not in his
favor ten to one. Voss did the dirty work, and his
master took the lion's share. Voss was fairly rich, too,
thanks to the almost despotic control exercised over
him by the superior mind of his master. Both rascals
worked for a common end, strengthened and fortified
by a financial backing which is as useful in the sheep-
shearing business as in any other.
They wanted one more big coup, one handsome haul
to round off the balance; and it had come their way in
the inevitable cycle of professional luck, in the shape
of Lady Hester's emeralds. Voss intended to have
them. The value of the emeralds—quite an unknown
quantity—increased as his imagination played round
them.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 201
tion of love which had come over him last night in a.
wave of passionate desire. The violence of it had sur-
prised and troubled him. This morning he tried to be
amused at it. Hester, with her conscientious scruples
and high notions of honor, would scorn to deceive the
Bishop. It would be madness. Yet he liked the idea
of that kind of madness in a woman, and was vain
enough to believe that he could provoke it at will if he
chose to exert his irresistible powers of fascination. It
offered a pleasant prospect of excitement in the days
of social respectability to come; with Hester at the
Palace and himself at Dingle Hall—a pretty and divert-
ing situation.
The more he thought of her the harder it was to put
the temptation behind him. Why should he have com-
punction in robbing the Bishop of Hester—it was really
the Bishop who had robbed him. A man could not sin
with his own wife. In fact, he had a perfect right to be
jealous of the prelate.
He scorned the idea of jealousy; yet there had been
an ugly gnawing at his heart and a growing hatred of
the pompous, benevolent old gentleman. When he
saw them together last night, and witnessed the pre-
late's tender anxiety, and possessive, caressing way
with Mrs. Dick Gordon, it made him savage.
Bah! jealousy was a woman's weakness. A man of
the world should despise it. Yet he was eager and im-
patient to draw her to himself, if only to quarrel and
begin recriminations. The moments of the Bishop's
absence had already become precious. He wanted to
see her face to face—as in the old days.
Voss returned with her ladyship's answer.
"She won't go. Says she hopes she'll be well enough
this afternoon to take you to the Cathedral and show
you the points of interest."


202 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Ah, that's better," laughed Bannister softly.
Then he wondered if she had chosen the Cathedral
as a place for discussion because it offered sanctuary,
and would allow her to keep him at arm's length. She
was afraid, obviously; afraid to be alone with him. She
doubted her own strength.
The idea pleased his vanity. He hummed a little
tune, and placed himself in Voss's hands for dressing
with an almost eager haste, as though he would hurry
on the hours to the time of meeting.
Before his toilet was finished to his complete satis-
faction, Lady Hester's maid left a sealed note at the
door, which Voss passed to his master wonderingly.
Bannister opened it quickly, and his eyes danced as he
read.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, with a big sigh of satisfaction,
and folded the grey sheet carefully. "There is no an-
swer, Voss."
Voss fidgeted. He expected his partner to confide
in him; but he was mistaken. Bannister never im-
parted to his man any details of affaires d'amour. Judg-
ing by his high humor and evident satisfaction it was
obvious that the missive exceeded his most sanguine
expectations.


CHAPTER XVI
MABEL'S cross-examination at the hands of Aunt
Caroline was conveniently interrupted by the arrival of
a very early visitor. The old lady, who was sitting op-
posite a window looking across the broad acres of the
Palace park, saw a horsewoman riding through the
chestnut trees in the direction of the house.
It was Beatrice Carew, who for the last two years
had been accustomed to call in unconventional fashion
upon Lady Hester whenever the mood seized her.
"Ah, Beatrice!" murmured the old lady, "the very
person I wanted to see." And she left the room with-
out apology to greet the new arrival in the hall.
Now Beatrice had been Mabel's friend; perhaps her
dearest and best. They met four years previously at
an Italian convent school, and struck up an intimate
acquaintance, which was renewed after Beatrice left
and Mabel had finally settled in her native country. It
was to see Mabel that Beatrice had come over to the
Palace to-day, rising with the lark, as was her way, and
riding unattended across country from her father's
house at an hour when most people were thinking of
going down to breakfast. In the ordinary way Mabel
would have run out to greet her friend; but since the
eavesdropping in the Temple, and Aunt Caroline's
frank observations concerning Jack's future, she felt
a little constrained. She was glad enough to be re-
lieved of the old lady, and was in no mood to greet her
once dear friend.
It was only natural that the girls were not quite so
203


204 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
devoted since Jack had fallen in love with Mabel. Lady
Hester had discreetly refrained from inviting Beatrice
to the celebrations over night; but the girl had heard of
the official engagement, and had bravely come to offer
her congratulations.
She rode straight into the stable yard without cere-
mony, and flung the reins of her horse to the nearest
man. Then, with a bound, she dismounted, curtly re-
marking that she would not be long.
The Marquis of Ripley's daughter was a big-boned
girl of a very modern type, athletic, brusque, and off-
handed to the verge of rudeness. The only daughter
in a large family of boys, she had grown masculine in
her ways. She was a very downright person, and
boasted openly that she had not an ounce of romance in
her disposition. She was independent to a fault, and
almost intolerant of small acts of chivalry and cour-
tesy on the part of men. This had earned her a reputa-
tion for angularity and snappishness. But everything
she did was done seriously and with all her might. She
had no sympathy with simpering, fainting, hysterical
girls of her own age, and the surest way for a man to
provoke a snub was to profess admiration of her in
complimentary terms.
"She ought to have been a boy," was the verdict of
the women who knew Beatrice Carew. All were
slightly apologetic for her; and nobody more fiercely
resented being championed than she.
This independence of character provoked great re-
spect for the girl in many quarters. Miss Cardew ad-
mired her. "There was no nonsense about Beatrice;"
and it was the greatest praise the old lady could give
any girl. It summed up everything from her point of
view. She objected to the ultra-sentimental, the ultra-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 205
religious, or the ultra-frivolous young woman, and had
settled in her mind long ago that Beatrice was the
ideal mate for Jack, because that young man showed
excitable, emotional tendencies, and required—from
her point of view—keeping in check. And what bet-
ter way to steady an impressionable, romantically-in-
clined young man, whose vocation needed the sound-
est of common sense, than to marry him to a clear-
headed, practical girl.
Beatrice was not beautiful; yet none but an enemy
would have called her plain. She was just healthy and
normal. Her mouth was not too large, her eyes were
not too small, her nose was of quite a common shape,
and her hands were strong enough to master the tough-
est mounts in her father's stable. She hunted, of
course, as a lady should; but she never rode a bicycle,
and this was a point in her favor with Aunt Caroline.
Her feet were not small; but then she could do twenty
miles on foot level with Jack any day; and her boots
were always designed for walking, not for coquettish
exhibition.
Her habit was a loose-fitting one, and her whip was
old and shabby. Her gloves were large, and had seen
a good deal of wear. She was not untidy; but there
was nothing unusually trim and smart about her. She
wandered towards the house flicking her skirt with her
whip and staring at anything that caught her eye with
the free and easy manner of one quite at home, and in
no hurry.
Aunt Caroline met her at the top of the steps.
"Good morning, aunt," she observed curtly. This
was a familiar term to which she had grown accustomed
from much association with Jack.
"Good morning, my dear Beatrice. I am very
pleased to see you. We must have a talk together."


206 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Mabel here?" asked Beatrice laconically.
"You mean Miss Bannister, I presume?" This with
a sniff.
"Well, her name is Mabel, isn't it? You ought to
know it by this time. Hear she's going to be one of
the family. Looks like rain, doesn't it?" Beatrice
turned and stared straight down the chestnut avenue,
as though quite unconcerned.
"I think it rather rests with you, Beatrice, whether
she becomes one of the family or not."
"Eh? Rests with me? What rot!"
Aunt Caroline was not offended. She objected to all
such expressions in women—except from Beatrice.
"Come in, my child. I want to talk to you. We
have much to say to each other."
"Oh no, I won't come in. I was just riding across—
heard Mabel was here—thought I'd look in. Had
breakfast yet?"
"We have just finished—only just."
"What, all of you?"
"No, Jack has gone to town, my brother is off some-
where, as usual, and Hester is not well."
"Oh, then, I'll come in. Where's Mabel?"
"This way, my dear," murmured the old lady coax-
ingly, opening the door of the library and beckoning
her in mysteriously. Beatrice cast a lightning glance
around the hall and took in everything. She saw Jack's
cap and stick lying on a table, and she seemed to be
swallowing a lump in her throat. Her voice was cold
and quite bored when next she spoke.
"Not in the mood for talk this morning, aunt."
"Beatrice, my dear, you've heard the awful news?"
whispered Aunt Caroline tragically, as she closed the
door.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 207
"About Jack's engagement? Oh yes, everybody
knows of it by this time, I suppose. Why didn't they
invite me last night?"
"I do not issue the invitations from this house, Beat-
rice."
"Mabel's a friend of mine. It was I who introduced
her here. She might have thought about me when the
cards were going out."
"Mabel, as you call her, had nothing to do with it.
Miss Bannister has no standing in this house—thank
God!—at present."
"You don't like her?"
"You are very blunt in your observations, Beatrice."
"Always am. Find it easiest—saves time. What's
the matter with Mabel? Nice enough, sweet enough,
and pretty enough for anybody. Jack has found that
out."
"Ah! if he had only been a little less blind!"
"Blind? He seems to have been pretty wide awake."
"Do you mean that he deceived you, Beatrice?"
"Deceived me?" cried the girl, flashing out. "How
dare you say such a thing. What has he got to deceive
me about?"
"Beatrice, Beatrice, you know what my intentions
were with regard to you and Jack."
"Goodness gracious, you don't mean to say you are
still harping on that old idea? Jack's engaged. How
could you have imagined that Jack would ever give
a thought to me? I told you so before. You made me
very angry then, and you make me angry now. It re-
quires two for that sort of thing, and it was never in
my line. Go too much to do. Never thought much of
Jack—except as a good pal."
"Pal! My child, what horrid terms you use. You


208 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
have known one another for years. You have been
the most intimate friends. Jack has told you all his
troubles, and you are the only girl he ever really con-
sistently devoted himself to."
"Because he didn't love me. That was it. Always
knew it. And never could have loved Jack myself. I
should have bullied him." Her fingers tightened on
her whip. She was ready to lie or make any foolish
assertion rather than admit that Beatrice Carew
showed preference for any man or felt disappointed on
hearing of the engagement of another woman. "Jack
has loved half-a-dozen girls," sneered Beatrice, "and
Mabel is the last. I was never one of them, and don't
you ever insinuate that I was. If you do, I'll—I'll
never forgive you. I've come over to offer my con-
gratulations to Mabel. If you allow her to think that
—good heavens!—Jack and I? Preposterous! I'd
never set foot in the place again or hold up my head
before my friends. She's more to me than any girl I've
ever known, and I intend she shall be happy with Jack.
She's just one of those soft, mousey sort of girls that
he loves, but she's true as steel. She's going to have
money, too, I hear. News to me. Always thought
they were poor. So much the better for Jack. And
you told me that when he married you were going to
allow him a really handsome income. That will be
splendid for them."
"Never!" cried Aunt Caroline, crossing her arms
and nursing her elbows, and drawing herself up stiffly
in her high-backed chair.
"You can't go back on your word, and Jack must
have money. You promised me."
"Yes, I promised you. If you married Jack"
"There you go again—for goodness' sake stop!


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 209
There was never any idea of that except in your imagi-
nation, Miss Cardew. I wouldn't marry Jack for all the
gold in the Indies. He's not my sort—too much talk.
But talk is his profession now, and a poor one. It's
mean if you cry off and let him be dependent upon his
wife for income. That's what it'll mean. It's horrible."
Caroline frowned and scrutinized the girl keenly.
The mask of indifference fitted so well that even the
keen old lady failed to penetrate it. There were no
symptoms of the broken heart, and the girl's sharp,
practical appreciation of a situation puzzling for older
heads rather disconcerted her.
"Jack's money affairs are his father's and my busi-
ness, Beatrice."
"Not Jack's then?" sneered Beatrice impertinently.
"It is not parsimony on my part, or greed of wealth.
It is disapproval of the girl herself that tightens my
purse strings. He will never marry her, Beatrice.
Mark my words. This engagement is nothing. Her
father is nothing. He has nothing. He's a scamp."
"You seem to know him pretty well," observed Beat-
rice, with growing interest. "Mabel didn't give me
that impression."
"The child is a fool—at least, I thought she was. I
am now inclined to believe that she's perfectly well
aware that her father is a humbug."
Beatrice puckered her brows and was thoughtful,
and looked out of the window. Miss Cardew did not
speak like this, as a rule, without chapter and verse
"Never liked him myself," she observed. "Not the
sort of man to appeal to you or me, aunt. Too much
perfume—finnicking in his habits—never rides if he
can help it—always ready for cards first thing after
breakfast. But women rave about him."


2io THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Because most women are fools, Beatrice."
"Oh! Never noticed it."
"Beatrice, your snappy, laconic way of contradict-
ing me is not polite for a girl of your age."
"Who's contradicting?" cried Beatrice, looking al-
most startled, and relinquishing the languid posture
into which she had dropped.
"You are. You are extremely curt, not to say im-
pertinent in manner. I know you don't really mean it,
or I could not overlook it. I'm fond of you; I'm work-
ing for your benefit, for your happiness, you know that.
You've got to marry Jack; you want to marry him;
you're in love with him, you know you are."
"I'm not. How dare you! Say that again"
Beatrice jumped up, and twisted her tapering whip in
both hands threatening. "Say that again, and I'll—
I'll break something." She gazed savagely at two old-
fashioned, hideous, but precious, Dresden shepherd-
esses on the mantel-shelf. "I won't have you say it. It
isn't true. I—I hate him. I won't stay in this house.
Do you think I come here for—for Jack?"
"It is only the accident of his going to town that
has prevented your seeing him this morning, my dear.
And I don't think you came to see either me or Mabel."
"How dare you! How can you insult me by such
insinuations! Jack may have to put up with your ab-
surd ideas, but I won't."
Aunt Caroline smiled provokingly, for Beatrice was
as near to tears as any one had ever seen her. She was
grinding her teeth, and twisting her whip savagely.
Her eyes blazed and roamed round in search of some-
thing fragile to sweep to the floor.
The passionate outburst was checked by the opening
of the door. Mabel entered, pale and astonished, and


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 211
almost withdrew at the sight of Aunt Caroline. But,
seeing Beatrice, her careworn eyes lighted up and she
advanced eagerly.
"Beatrice," she cried, with tremulous joy, and
opened her arms. The two girls embraced, and Beat-
rice hugged her friend with genuine fervor while Aunt
Caroline looked on astonished. No one had ever seen
Beatrice Carew hug any one before—or even kiss a
woman if she could possibly avoid it.
"You're looking pale, Mabel," cried the visitor, hold-
ing her friend at arm's length, and controlling herself
with difficulty. Mabel wished Miss Cardew at the other
end of the earth, and so did Beatrice. The faint cloud
that had risen between the friends had melted in the
warmth of that simple embrace. They understood one
another; and an understanding was possible now that
Mabel's engagement was a fixed and settled thing.
Beatrice scorned jealousy as a disease of brainless femi-
ninity; and Mabel was in sore need of a friend.
Miss Cardew withdrew to a window, where she stood
with folded arms, gazing sternly at the landscape. She
was evidently not going away, yet disdained to notice
the existence of Mabel Bannister.
"You'd better go, aunt. We've got lots to talk
about," cried Beatrice rudely. Mabel gasped, and Aunt
Caroline flushed with annoyance. Only Beatrice dared
"cheek" the old lady like this. Not even the Bishop
could chaff her as Beatrice did.
"Well, if you don't go we must," she continued, with
a laugh. "We can't go out into the garden because
it is coming on to rain, and no one is likely to disturb
us here."
"If my presence is an offence"
"It isn't, aunt, you know that very well. It's only


212 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
superfluous and embarrassing." Then, turning to Ma-
bel, "You'll soon learn how to treat Aunt Caroline,
Mabel—she's the best-hearted soul in the world, the
dearest old thing, if you don't take her seriously. Her
bite isn't half as bad as her bark. Everybody's afraid
of her but me—I'm not—and when she's rude to me
I'm rude to her. Then we have a flare up, and it clears
the air. And she simply loves Jack better than a Chris-
tian woman should love anything in this wicked world."
Aunt Caroline snorted and tried to speak. Anger
shook her from head to foot. This was mortification
indeed before the upstart child, Mabel.
"It's no good, aunt," cried Beatrice, checking the
outburst with upraised arm. "I'm not going to quar-
rel. I'm an angel this morning. Everything will come
all right presently, you silly old, dear thing." Beatrice,
with a laugh, suddenly flung her arms round the old
lady's neck and kissed her on the cheek.
Poor Aunt Caroline was utterly unnerved. The act
was as surprising as it was rare; and she had learned
by experience that it was useless to attempt to argue
with Beatrice when her deeper feelings were aroused.
The girl was playing a part—she was scarcely master
of herself. This show of impudence and rudeness was
only her way of hiding the rents in a broken heart, and
giving vent to feminine feelings that would have best
been relieved by a flood of tears.
The old lady stalked from the room.
"So you are going to marry Jack?"
Beatrice put her hands upon her friend's shoulders,
and looked her straight in the eyes. Mabel was weary
of the talk of "going to marry," and she would have
liked to scream out, "I am married," but prudence for-
bade. She was longing for a confidante; but a half-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 213
confession would be no good; and how could she ex-
plain her suspicions of her father to Beatrice, who was
fond of Jack? Her friend searched her face keenly,
and saw the lines of care, the evasive glance with a
touch of panic in it, and the many signs of general suf-
fering too subtle to be particularized.
"Have they been worrying you? You mustn't mind
Aunt Caroline. She's just jealous of Jack, and will find
fault with any one who comes between her and her
boy."
"No, it isn't that."
"Then why unhappy when everything is coming your
way? The old boy is agreeable; Lady Hester de-
lighted, of course; and Jack in the seventh heaven of
delight. Saw him when he came down here the other
day—he didn't see me. He was walking about as though
he owned the earth and had a reversionary interest in
something beyond it. Aunt Caroline seems to object
to your father."
A look of terror swept over Mabel's face. "Yes, she
evidently doesn't like him. He plays cards too much
for her, I suppose. You see, she is very strict in her
notions."
"Fiddlesticks! She's not strict at all. I've played
cards with her on a Sunday. No, there's something
else behind, Mabel. What is it? Can't you trust me?"
"I can't trust anybody," cried the girl, suddenly col-
lapsing into a chair and wringing her hands. "Some-
times I wish—I wish that you and Jack"
"Oh, Aunt Caroline has been talking about me and
Jack, has she? An old woman's delusions. You've
been quarrelling with Jack, that's what's the matter."
"No, I haven't. I'm in a dreadful predicament, and
no one can help me. I've ruined Jack."


214 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"That's a tall order. You're not worrying about
Aunt Caroline's money, surely. I'll make her life a
burden to her if she doesn't shell out."
"It isn't money—it isn't Jack—it is myself. Oh,
don't ask me any more, or you'll tempt me to say things
I shall regret."
Beatrice frowned and looked more puzzled than
ever.
"What have you been doing, Mabel?"
"I—oh, nothing."
Lady Hester, white and ill, entered the library at
the moment, and interrupted the inevitable confession.
Beatrice would have drawn her friend's secret from her
little by little by the mere exercise of sympathy; but it
was not to be.
Beatrice greeted the mistress of the house with her
usual laconic abruptness, and explained that she had
come over to offer her congratulations to Mabel on her
approaching marriage. The word marriage came out
with difficulty, for Lady Hester must have known the
state of Beatrice's feelings, and it was hard to assume
indifference before one naturally so sympathetic.
"Yes, everything is settled," murmured Lady Hes-
ter, going to the table and searching for a newspaper.
"Forgot me in your dinner party last night, didn't
you?" observed Beatrice curtly.
"So I did! Good heavens! how absurd of me. I put
your name down, I'm sure. Didn't I send you a card?"
"No. When's the wedding?"
"Well, we have hardly got as far as that," replied
Lady Hester, with a wan smile and a glance at Mabel,
whose eyes were full of fear. "Mr. Bannister has come
down to stay with us for a little while."
"Yes; I saw his motor waiting in the stable yard


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 215
just now. Are you going out in it?" Beatrice glanced
at the folded mackintosh which Lady Hester had flung
over the back of a chair.
"Oh, no, I hate motors. It is raining, and I've been
seedy. I thought a little walk in the grounds would
do me good."
"Good idea. Let's all go," suggested Beatrice. "Ma-
bel, get yourself a 'tosh. I simply love a walk in the
rain."
"No, no, you girls must stay here. You've got lots
to say to one another."
"Oh, no, indeed," protested Mabel, "but I've got
some letters to write. If you and Beatrice feel like
walking in the rain, I'm sure I don't. I think I'll write
my letters upstairs."
She moved nervously towards the door, and Lady
Hester's eyes followed her with a strange, yearning
look that was not lost upon Beatrice. She knew that
her hostess was very fond of Mabel, as an elder woman
can be fond of a younger, and patronize her, and give
her a good time in a big house which is always full of
guests, but she was at a loss to understand the almost
hungry admiration with which she followed every step,
every movement of the girl. The troubled mother held
out her hand to touch her as she passed—then recov-
ered with an effort, and crushed down the impulse, so
new, and strange, and weakening.
Mabel escaped. It seemed to be her vocation now
to dodge through life, to evade questions and looks,
and watch and wait for the next move in the tragic
game of sins and secrets. She was afraid to be away
long from the upper corridor, where her father's room
was. From the open door of her bedroom she had
kept a sharp watch upon Voss; but nothing that was
not quite normal had happened.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 217
brought to the front door. He was in a long white
mackintosh and cap, and was striding down the chest-
nut avenue, smoking a cigar.
"Well, good-bye, Lady Hester. I'll come over again
to see Mabel before she goes back. And I must pay
my respects to the adorable Bannister. Expects every-
body to fall down and worship him, doesn't he? That's
the worst of being an Adonis. Not my sort. You like
him?"
"I detest—I detest men of that kind as a rule, but
he seems a very agreeable person."
"Surprised at 'Rippey' taking to him." "Rippey" was
the pet name of the Bishop, which Beatrice never
scrupled to use before his wife. "He's rather a dog,
isn't he?"
"I'm sure I don't understand your allusions," replied
Lady Hester haughtily. The girl's levity grated.
"Evidently made an impression on you. I mustn't
say anything. Well, so long! My mare is in the yard,
and I'll have to get wet."
"I sincerely hope I'm not driving you away. Let
me ring and have your horse brought round," mur-
mured Lady Hester. "I know I'm very stupid this
morning. It is my head."
"Want me to clear. I understand. Shouldn't come
here if you didn't give me the straight tip when you
wanted me to go. But as a rule you're more frank
about it."
"You really mustn't go in the wet, Beatrice. I have
many things to do this morning"
"And you want me to go. Good-bye!"
Beatrice kissed her hand in good humor and strode
out of the room, slamming the door after her like a
man. Lady Hester at once became feverishly active.


218 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
She slipped on her mackintosh and drew the cape over
her head. Then softly and guiltily she slipped out of
the house by the front door, the nearest way to the ave-
nue and the quickest for getting out of sight. The
sun broke through and the rain stopped. She took a
different path to the one chosen by the man in the mo-
toring coat, but did not go far. She turned down a
side path and through an opening in the hedge to a
portion of the kitchen garden which had once been a
favorite resort of the inmates of the house in the old
days. Here a Grecian arbor, supported by two white
columns falling to decay, ivy-grown and neglected, pro-
vided shelter for Mr. Bannister. A yew hedge made
a screen, and it was quite the most secluded spot in the
grounds.
He was already there, watching the rain and smok-
ing. As Lady Hester came through the opening in
the hedge he flung his cigar away, and stepped forth to
greet her.
"Ah, my dear Hester—my dear Lady Hester, I
should say—you have chosen a quiet spot indeed, a lost
corner of the world. I can smell the mildew of past
ages in this spiders' paradise. Why didn't you come
with me in the motor? Ah, it is quite like old times—
a clandestine meeting while the old people doze after
meals. Don't sit there, it is dirty."
She had taken his proffered hand as if mesmerized.
His voice subdued her and rang like forgotten music
in her ears. She was faint and could not stand. He
dusted the old, rickety seat with his handkerchief, and
led her to the most convenient resting place. But she
shook him off.
"Don't touch me. I haven't much time. I want to
know what you intend to do?"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 219
"Do, my dear Hester? What would you have me
do? This delightful encounter after the lapse of years
was unfortunate, coming when it did. I for one do not
regret it, although I admit that it makes me feel a fraud
and a humbug. You thought I was dead."
"Of course, I did," she moaned. "Why didn't you
die? Why have you come back to torture me and ruin
me? You wrecked my life once. You mean to wreck
it again."
"Tut-tut, Hester, you do me an injustice. I've come
down here to marry my girl to your husband's son, and
the long arm of coincidence has been reaching out
rather far, that is all. The world is a very small place,
after all."
"What do you mean to do—what do you mean to
do?" she cried hoarsely, drumming her clenched hands
upon her knees.
"There is nothing for me to do. Rather ask me
what I feel."
"But we must come to some decision at once. I can-
not go on like this in misery and terror. I am living
with a man who is not my husband."
"But he is your husband, my dear Hester."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Dick Gordon died years ago. Mr.
Richard Bannister has no connection with the old firm.
Cherie, you didn't suppose for a moment that I came
here to disturb the sweet placidity of this cathedral
town by a hideous scandal?"
"Why did you deceive me? Why did you tell me
that my child was dead?" sobbed the woman, breaking
down from pure impotence.
"It was the outcome of a quixotic and chivalrous de-
sire to give freedom to one who regarded me as a


220 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
monster of iniquity. Hester, I loved you in the old
days, you know I did." He dropped down beside her,
and seized her arm roughly. His tone changed. All
cynicism dropped away, and a tigerish light leaped into
his eyes. "You wanted to be free, and I, like a fool,
gave up the only thing that was worth having—the
woman I loved. You couldn't go back to your old
life and take the child with you, and I had no fancy for
having it brought up to revile the name of its father.
I've brought her up well, Hester. You yourself could
not have done it better. She's unsullied, innocent, and
pure. Moreover, I suspect she is already married to
your precious step-son."
"You suspect. You don't know?"
"I am pretty well sure of it. She deceived me a lit-
tle while back and disappeared for four days. I've
taken the trouble to make inquiries; and I have very
grave suspicions that Miss Mabel is really Mrs. Car-
dew."
"Does she know that you suspect it?"
"I see the idea doesn't startle you. Perhaps you
know something of it?"
"I—why should you think that I have any knowl-
edge of it?"
"Hester, you can't deceive me. You are lying. Your
dear, sweet face is like it always was, readable as an
open book. I can see the emotions as they pass. Your
thoughts are written in your countenance."
He tried to take her hand tenderly and draw her to
him; but she shook him off with fierce anger.
"If you can read me so well, perhaps you know what
I feel when I see you here before me in the flesh, devil-
ish, cruel as ever. I hate you! I wish you were dead!
If I had the strength to do it I would kill you—yes, kill
you here where you stand now."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 221
He laughed harshly, then reddened to the roots of
his hair with rage. But he only shrugged his shoulders
and dropped back into the old tone.
"'Murder by a Bishop's wife!' What a lovely head-
line for the evening papers! 'The mystery of a past un-
veiled. Lady of title with two husbands. The body in
the summer house.'"
"Ah, you think I'm the woman you knew years ago.
You think you can sneer me into subjection and taunt
me into despair. I have changed. I know the world
better now."
"So I observe, my dear Hester. You are older, and
should know better. And you have improved in looks,
but you can't afford to spoil them by tears and hys-
teria." He pulled out his cigar case. "You don't mind
my smoking? The odor of this place is offensive. The
mildew of years is on the place, and the same mildew
seems to have settled in your brain as well. Yet it
hasn't spoiled the peach-like bloom of your skin, or the
cherry red of your lips, and your teeth are as pearly
white and as wonderful when you smile as ever. If I
were you I shouldn't wrestle with mental problems;
they only deepen the crows' feet round the eyes. Rely
upon your physical charm—a woman's most potent
weapon—for—I am but a man."
He lighted the cigar leisurely, looking at her all the
while. She shrank beneath his gaze, which was dim
with lustful passion. "I'm to be bought, but not to be
bullied, Hester. You are mine, all mine. I have
chosen to live away from you and deliver you up to
my lord the Bishop of Ripley, but it is too great an
effort of self-sacrifice. When I see you again, more
delightful than ever, is it to be wondered that Mr.
Richard Bannister wants Dick Gordon's wife; and is it


222 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
wise on the part of the lady who holds so responsible
and prominent a public position to flaunt her charms
—I note that you have put on a charming dress—be-
fore her dead husband, and load him with reproaches
at the same time? Have you no word of thanks for
poor Dick Gordon, who's dead?"
"What do you mean? Speak plainly. Let me un-
derstand the worst, whatever it is. Then I shall know
what to do."
"The worst is, Hester, that you are still devilishly
beautiful, and that I am as much in love with you as
ever. I'm not good at giving up anything that I want,
and when ripe fruit is dangling before my lips—
well ." He sidled nearer.
"Stand away—stand away, or I'll scream! You
shan't touch me, you vile, detestable thing!"
He drew back, stung to the quick, but mastered him-
self quickly. Shrugging his shoulders, he walked out
of the arbor on to the garden path, where he looked up
at the sky.
"The rain has stopped. You'll be able to come with
me in the motor after all. You'd better get ready."
"In the motor? I'm not coming."
"You'll come because I tell you to, do you hear?" he
cried, stamping his foot and blazing out for the first
time. He shook from head to foot, and his eyes seemed
to be starting out of his head. "Do you hear what I
say? Come with me in the motor. Get ready. I ex-
pect my wife—do you hear?—my wife, to join me in
twenty minutes."
He strode away without a look back, puffing fiercely
at his cigar, and disappeared through the opening in
the hedge out on to the grass that edged the drive. He
saw a girl on horseback coming towards him, and he


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 223
passed her by, unseeing. A moment later Lady Hes-
ter, faint and terrified, followed in his wake, just after
Beatrice had passed. She followed her husband as if
fascinated. He was her master still. She had lost
ground in the first encounter.
Beatrice turned round on her saddle and looked back.
"Oh, that's why she wanted to get rid of me. Who'd
have thought it! It's pretty rotten of her."
Those twenty minutes allowed her by Bannister were
perhaps the most agonizing of Lady Hester's life. She
had received an ultimatum which was in substance,
"Obey me, and there is hope; defy me, and you are
lost."
The situation was an impasse. One dominant idea
only survived in the whirlwind of emotions that swept
over her—the Bishop's good name must be safeguarded
at all costs, no matter how great the sacrifice. It was
she who had sinned, she who must suffer. Things
might have been better if Jack's marriage had not taken
place; she could have gone away with Mabel—where
or how she did not question—for the tie which bound
her daughter to the Bishop's son was stronger than
that unholy bond which had linked her to the Bishop
for so many years. The tangles in the mesh were
knotted, and knotted again. There was no unravelling
them. It was a nightmare where every step leads to
greater terror.
The minutes slipped by before she could decide to
go with her husband or defy him. When fifteen had
passed, her body seemed to tell her what her brain had
resolved; for she moved about the room, mechanically
collecting her garments, and all the time praying that


224 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
she might have strength to refuse. She rang for Har-
riet, her maid—a plain, old-fashioned domestic of the
vicarage days who refused to be called by her surname
—and .announced that, after all, she was going for a
spin in the motor, and required her rugs to be taken
down to the car.
At the last moment the wretched woman stood on
the stairs irresolute and trembling. It was possible
for him to wreck her life, and that of her child, and the
man she regarded as her husband, and provoke a hide-
ous scandal; yes, it was surely better to temporize.
She wilfully shut out any recollection of his strange
glances in the summer house, and would not permit
herself to believe that he was more than an ordinary
villain, playing with her, as a cat plays with a field
mouse, with no intention of devouring it.
The arrival of Harriet and the rugs was the first in-
timation that Bannister received of his wife's capitula-
tion. He smiled triumphantly, and stood at the door
of the car ready for her. He was wondering how she
would look. He had noticed that some women made a
striking picture in a motor veil.
She descended the steps with outward calmness, mur-
muring instructions to the footman as she passed, as
though the drive were the most ordinary occurrence—•
as indeed it was, so far as the servants were concerned.
He offered his hand to assist her at the step, and his
grasp closed upon her fingers tightly. Perhaps it was
triumph, perhaps it was intended as a hint of his power
to crush her. She wrenched her hand free as from con-
tamination. He seated himself beside her, and talked
commonplaces for the benefit of the chauffeur; but as
soon as the car was well under way, and whizzing along
the winding lanes to Dingle Hall, he bent nearer and
tried to be amiable.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 225
She was incapable of any conversation, and shrank
away in fear. His eyes scorched her. They were ever
roving over her, noting the subtle differences made by
the lapse of years. He slipped his fingers over hers;
and when she tried to release herself, he held them in
a vise-like grip and shot a warning glance of anger. He
intended to be on a very familiar footing. His way
with women was always familiar, and they allowed him
a deal of license because of his insinuating courtesy and
gentleness. To his wife every touch was like the sear-
ing of hot irons—at first, until her hand had rested in
his for some time; then she was surprised at her indif-
ference. The years seemed to be wiped out. His clasp
was more familiar than the Bishop's. It deadened her
will power, and produced a sense of deplorable weak-
ness.
If he could mesmerize her thus, and carry her back
over the gulf of years by a clasp of the hand, what was
she going to do if he pressed his attentions further?
He spoke softly, and bent near to her face. When
she murmured confused answers, his eyes followed the
movements of her ripe, full lips with obvious pleasure.
She remembered, as if yesterday, all his old tricks of
admiration, and points of her beautiful person that he
had praised and worshipped with passionate abandon-
ment. In those days he always said the things a woman
loves to hear, noted and admired the points which she
knew to be her best, and made her feel that he was the
natural complement of her nature.
She did not feel that now. It was only the intense
familiarity and the bold admiration of the eye that re-
mained. The man, the lover, the husband, was dead.
This was the shell of him; a dangerous libertine hidden
within. Her purity was in jeopardy, her honor at stake,
yet she was defenceless, and driven into a corner.


226' THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
Therefore she temporized. She studiously refrained
from referring to the difficulties of the situation, and
listened while he talked, and stared ahead, sometimes
as if turned to stone, until they reached Dingle Hall,
which she knew well by sight.
Bannister was impressed by the first glance at his
future home; for he had settled in his mind that this
place was going to answer his purpose, and was re-
solved to make it do, on account of its close proximity
to the Palace. The agent's photographs and descrip-
tions had not lied. It was a charming old house,
creeper-clad over the old portions, and gleaming white
where a large wing and stables had been added within
the last generation. He forgot his companion, and
keenly scrutinized everything as they passed till they
drew up before the door, and the caretaker shuffled out.
"More than promising," he exclaimed, jumping
down with unusual alacrity. "You're coming over the
place, Hester, of course?"
"You're surely not going to look over it?" she mur-
mured. "You are not serious? You don't really want
the place?"
He smiled a queer smile, then laughed outright at
her. "I believe, Hester, that you imagine I can't af-
ford it. You're living in the old days. Things have
changed since then. I may have been a sinner, but
never a fool. And I did not—ahem—er—earn money
in order to spend it with both hands. I dare say, if the
truth were known, I am as rich as the dear Bishop.
Come and look over the place, and give me the advan-
tage of your advice. Your taste was always faultless.
You must advise me in the furnishing, and you shall
come over, sometimes, and visit me."
"Never!"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 227
"Really, we are too haughty altogether. Hester,
you will look over the place?"
"No."
"I insist!"
She obeyed meekly and followed him, shaking with
fear. On the threshold he waved away the caretaker,
and announced that he would go over the place un-
guided. His terrified wife hung back, but he seemed
so genuinely interested in the house, and talked so nat-
urally and enthusiastically, that he seemed like the old
Dick who was ever hot upon a new scheme that prom-
ised big possibilities.
"This would make a fine billiard room," he ex-
claimed. "That room out there for cigars—and cards.
No, perhaps we'll do without the cards. Let us see the
library. What a fine corridor this, with the windows
down one side. My pictures would look well along
there. Yes, I've got some masterpieces at home, Hes-
ter. I told you I would have them some day. I
bought them, too—most of them. You must see my
flat in Stratton Street. It is unique in its way. This
hall seems small; don't you think so?—but there, I sup-
pose it is large enough for a house of this size. That's
a nice grate there."
She found herself interested in spite of herself; for
what woman does not love the imaginary furnishing of
a house? He seemed to have forgotten her existence
as anything but a listener, and talked in the frankest
and most natural manner possible with almost boyish
enthusiasm. There was no doubting his sincerity. He
meant to have the place. Once she found herself won-
dering who would pay for it, and what was the nature
of the swindle. She could not accustom herself to the
idea of a rogue grown rich by cautious economy.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
They exhausted all the rooms of the house, and be-
fore they had finished the survey he announced his sat-
isfaction and intention to purchase. The grounds were
the next to be visited, and at the first suggestion of
getting out into the open air she agreed with too much
alacrity.
"Yes, let us go into the grounds," she murmured,
making for the door. They were in a large room on
the first floor looking out on to the tiny park belted
with woodland. Her obvious fear of being too long
alone with him emphasized her helplessness.
"Not so fast, my dear Hester," he cried, seizing her
arm. "You should cultivate repose; it is especially de-
sirable in a Bishop's lady. We are quite alone now.
No one can hear or interfere with us. Come to the
window and let me have a good look at you. I've been
admiring you all the way here, and I'm hanged if I've
got any eyes for the house when you are by my side.
How do you manage it? How do you keep this won-
derful youthfulness? Is it ease and contentment? I
could never have imagined you contented in the smug
atmosphere of the church after—well, after our life.
It's funny. It makes me laugh."
"Let us look at the grounds and get home," she
urged, breaking away.
His fingers slipped from her soft, round arm to her
wrist, and he caught her gloved hand. She cried out
as if in pain. He passionately pressed her fingers to his
lips, then allowed her to drop away suddenly. The
miserable terror and consternation in her face angered
him. Yet he was so very satisfied with himself and
with the progress of things generally that he could af-
ford to be merciful.
"There, there! I'm not going to eat you. You


23o THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"By all means, my dear Hester, by all means. I have
tired you; allow me. I hate to see you like this. It
makes me feel that it is my fault, whereas I would see
you all smiles and tenderness as once upon a time. Ah,
me!"
Her eyes blazed out resentfully in their helpless mis-
ery. He meant to be kind, and she imagined that he
was trying to be cruel, and stabbing her at every vul-
nerable point. He shrugged his shoulders, and wan-
dered away to survey his land.
It was his already, and he walked with the step of a
Briton. If Hester could have found it in her heart to
admire him ever so little, she would have seen him at
his best at this moment The languid, cynical affecta-
tion of the man disappeared. He was keen as a sports-
man, eager as an explorer. After a long survey, which
seemed as satisfactory as his examination of the house,
he returned to the car and jumped in.
On the return journey he was preoccupied.
The woman sat huddled up at the other end of the
seat, burning to question him, and longing to know
what his real attitude towards her and the Bishop
was going to be, yet afraid to speak.
He was furnishing Dingle Hall, and engaging ser-
vants, and receiving the county, a free man, with Voss
banished forever, and no care for the morrow. It was
only when he thought of his visitors, and pictured the
Bishop and Hester arriving at the house of Jack's
father-in-law in solemn state, that he looked at his wife.
Then he laughed, but gave her no clue to his mirth.
She could have struck him. She was beginning to
think of killing him. It seemed to be the only way. So
long as he was on the earth he would do evil and breed
misery. She looked at him stealthily once or twice,


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 231
and wondered if it was very difficult for a woman to
strangle the life out of a man, or whether she could
stab, or shoot, and whether she would be horror-struck
when she saw him lying dead at her feet. She even al-
lowed herself to wonder what he would look like—
dead.
Her case was desperate. It seemed more desperate
than that of any other woman who had ever lived in
the world before. And on the basis that desperate ills
need desperate remedies, violent death was surely only
a merciful end to a villain.
BUSINESS 4
P C! ;,


CHAPTER XVII
AUNT CAROLINE had a visitor. She received him
almost secretly in the little room known as "the Up-
stairs Study," adjoining Jack's bedroom.
The visitor had been sent for, and came in fear and
trembling. It was Mr. Crick. The old lady intended
to get to the bottom of the mystery about Bannister.
The slackness of everybody else in the matter only
spurred her to greater effort. Beatrice Carew's off-
hand treatment she regarded as due to girlish ignor-
ance and inexperience. But her brother had no right
to give his son in marriage to the daughter of a man
whose character was not spotless, and against whom
the breath of scandal was raised in something more vig-
orous than whispers. Mr. Crick was her authority;
either he had grossly deceived her, or he knew more
than he had said.
The poor little man arrived in a somewhat excited
state, for he had fortified his courage with something
stronger than righteous indignation. He was terribly
afraid of Bannister. He knew that his enemy would
not scruple to damage him in the eyes of the Bishop;
so he sneaked up to the house by a sidewalk through
the park, and inquired nervously of the footman if Mr.
Bannister was in the house. On being told that he
had gone off on his motor for the afternoon, accom-
panied by his daughter, Mr. Crick found courage as he
strode into Aunt Caroline's presence. Her first glance
was one of keen scrutiny—to see if he were quite sober.
She opened the interview with a blunt question.
232


234 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
I was a member of the English Club there, and a guest
of a wealthy American, who had rented a large house.
Everybody in the English colony knew everybody else,
and we used to play cards, of course, and the stakes
were rather high. The Americans were free with their
money, and—and—well, I had more to spend then
than I have now. There was a fellow there, devilish
handsome chap and all that, whom the women made
much of; and my friend Hyam, the millionaire, intro-
duced him to the English Club and made him a mem-
ber. He said he belonged to a good old Scotch fam-
ily, and as there are a good many Gordons, it was im-
possible to deny the fact, wasn't it? He singled me
out for his friendship."
"Why?" asked Aunt Caroline, with disconcerting
directness.
"Well—er—I was playing cards a good deal, I sup-
pose, and I was impressionable. He always had one or
two Polish princesses running after him, and—one of
them liked me—and turned out to be an out-and-out
swindler. She ruined everybody she played with—ex-
cept Dick Gordon, who always won—and they played
into each other's hands. They rooked me of a thou-
sand pounds in a fortnight."
"Who—the Polish princesses?"
"No, this Dick Gordon and his confederate. Hyam
must have lost quite two thousand, and one night there
was a row at the club. Some of the men agreed to
watch him. Though they didn't actually catch him
cheating—that is to say, enough to make it a criminal
matter—they were all pretty sure; and in the middle of
a game Hyam lost his temper, jumped up, and struck
Gordon in the face. They were mostly young men, ex-
cept Hyam, and they wanted to give the fellow a lick-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 235
ing; but he crawled out of it somehow, and next day
he was gone, Polish princess and all. He must have
cleared three or four thousand pounds in about a week.
It was too steep, it really was."
"You will pardon my asking the question, Mr. Crick,
but did you—were you drinking at the time?"
"Well, we were all a little—er—on, don't you know,
except Gordon. But the drink didn't hurt us after
Gordon had gone."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, I've got no proof, of course, but some of us
thought our drinks were hocussed."
Miss Cardew elevated her eyebrow and looked puz-
zled.
"Thought the drink was doctored, you know, especi-
ally one night when we adjourned from the club to Gor-
don's swagger rooms at his hotel. He always cut a
dash and stayed at the best place. That's where he
first struck up the acquaintance with Hyam; and that's
how I came to know him."
"And have you never met him since then?"
"I—no, not until a year ago, when I saw him—as
Bannister—in London. He seemed to know every-
body, and he had a grown-up daughter who visited
quite the best houses. I supposed that he had married
money."
"Who was the girl's mother, Mr. Crick? Did this
Dick Gordon have no wife in those days?"
"Never that I heard of—unless the Polish princess
—the dark one—was his wife."
"Good heavens! what terrible possibilities you sug-
gest. My nephew engaged to the daughter of a swind-
ling, Polish hussy; a girl with a scoundrel for a father!"
".Well, you know, you mustn't say that exactly—at


236 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
least, not on my authority. I can't prove anything
against the fellow, you know, except what other people
say, don't you know. He won too much; but then, if
they could have proved that he had cheated they would
have horsewhipped him, or put him in jail, or run him
through in a duel. But they couldn't catch him, you
see."
"He was publicly insulted, you say. That's enough,
Mr. Crick. I suspected the man the moment I set eyes
on him. He has rascal written in his face. He's a hy-
pocrite and a liar. Oh, my poor Jack!—my poor Jack!
What have you done? What has my brother done?
He has been hopelessly taken in. He always was a
simpleton. He must revoke his consent. And we must
see him together, Mr. Crick. You will tell him what
you have told me, and we'll see what he will do."
"Oh, no, no, I'd rather not, if you don't mind,"
gasped Mr. Crick, mopping his moist forehead again,
and shuffling painfully. "It's libel, you know. What
I've told you was in strictest confidence, Miss Cardew.
I'd no idea when you first mentioned his name that his
daughter was engaged to your nephew. I don't really
know anything about him. He may have married most
respectably, and have come into money, and be able to
explain his change of name, and all that—whereas I'm
nobody, and a discredited person, though I owe every
thing to you and the Bishop."
"Mr. Crick, you will show your gratitude by expos-
ing this rascal. It is a quarter to four, and the car-
riage has gone down to the station to meet my brother.
Ah, there it is, returning. We will go to him together,
and implore him"
"I'd rather not, if you don't mind. You see, it's
beastly awkward for a fellow, after twenty years, to


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 237
rake up a scandal against another chap who's got ev-
erybody on his side. I shouldn't wonder if he didn't
say something beastly about me. We were a rackety
lot in those days."
"Mr. Crick, if you have anything to hide, anything
that you are ashamed of, confess it to me now, that I
may know where we stand with this villain."
"Of course, you mustn't forget that Hyam was drunk
when he struck Gordon; and Gordon could have got
him expelled from the club if he had liked. But you
see, he cleared off. That looked queer, didn't it?"
"Mr. Crick, we will put this matter to the Bishop.
When he knows the truth, he will admit that you are
his son's best friend."
Mr. Crick again protested, and perspired, and stam-
mered, and choked, and grew quite incoherent in his
nervous excitement. When the front door closed be-
hind the Bishop, and his cheery voice was heard asking
where Mr. and Miss Bannister were, she dragged the
poor little man down into the hall to greet her brother
on the mat, as it were.
"Ah, Mr. Crick," cried the Bishop, "how go the prep-
arations for the bazaar? You've been busy with my
sister, I see. Nothing like it—work, work—organize,
organize. An active life is the thing for you, Crick.
You look a different man."
"John, Mr. Crick has an important communication
to make to you," said Caroline, in sepulchral tones.
This way to the library, Mr. Crick. What you have
to say must be said behind closed doors."
The Bishop looked annoyed. He had been listening
to important communications all day, and had con-
ducted a service and preached a sermon, and performed
the opening ceremony at a new mission hall, since


238 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
breakfast, and there was more to do before he could
call his soul his own and dine in peace with his wife and
his guests.
"Well, Mr. Crick, what is it?" he cried brusquely,
as he slammed the door after him.
"I—I really have nothing to tell, Bishop. Miss Car-
dew insists that I should see you; but, as I have ex-
plained, it is quite unnecessary."
"Caroline, I am very busy to-day. Why do you
worry me?"
"John, the future of your son hangs in the balance.
Will you ruin him forever? Will you shut your eyes
and ears to the truth? Do you know the kind of man
you are harboring under your roof?"
"Caroline, I do believe you are still determined to
annoy my son's future father-in-law. Your intentions
may be good—your methods are abominable—abom-
inable. Mr. Bannister and I understand one another.
Jack is engaged. That is the end of it. Mr. Crick, say
what you have to say, if it concerns my son, and be
quick about it."
"I really—I'd rather not. It's a beastly caddish
thing of a fellow, don't you know, to make charges
against a man that he can't substantiate. I really know
nothing definite about Mr. Bannister."
"That was not what you told me, Mr. Crick," cried
Aunt Caroline, in shrill amazement. "Explain to my
brother about the swindling in Vienna, and the Polish
princesses, and the public humiliation of Dick Gordon,
the swindler—now masquerading as Bannister—and
his hasty flight."
"Well, really, you know, all those things, when put
together, did look rather awkward, you know. But in
a court of law"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 239
"But we're not in a court of law. John, Mr. Crick
is still suffering from nerves, I fear, and has lost the
courage of his opinions. He has satisfied me that this
man, this Mr. Bannister, is nothing more than a com-
mon swindler, whose right name is Gordon. He was a
swindler in Vienna, and narrowly escaped imprison-
ment."
"Are you sober—I mean, when did all this happen?"
cried the Bishop irritably.
"Well, you see, it was twenty years ago—or nearly."
"Mr. Crick, it seems to me that you have been be-
having most indiscreetly," observed the Bishop pom-
pously. "You probably are confusing Mr. Bannister
with some other person altogether; and, on your own
showing, you have nothing serious to urge against him.
Now I, on the other hand, know something about Mr.
Bannister's past. I know that he has not been all—
but there, why should I reveal his secrets to a perfect
stranger? Mr. Bannister is a most highly esteemed
person in London society. His friends are titled,
wealthy, and intellectual people. I myself met him at
Mr. Panoli's among men of light and leading lions of
the intellectual world. He enchanted us all. Far be it
from me to rake up the past, and throw the escapades
of his youth in his teeth. Jack is of the same opinion;
and for Miss Bannister's sake I think it is highly neces-
sary that this malicious traducing of an honorable gen-
tleman should stop. Should stop, Caroline, do you
hear?"
"John, that man has hypnotized you."
"Caroline, prejudice has blinded you. Let me tell
you that your behavior to Miss Bannister is cruel, and
unworthy of a Christian lady; but, there, Mr. Crick, we
will not bore you with family discussions that are more


24o THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
suited to the privacy of the domestic hearth. I wish
you good afternoon, Mr. Crick. You will excuse me,
I am sure. I have much to do. My sister will no doubt
see that you have tea."
"Yes, tea. I should like a cup of tea," gasped Mr.
Crick, making a swallowing motion with his parched
throat. His shattered nervous system had undergone
a severe strain; and the Bishop always terrified him.
Aunt Caroline was rendered helpless with impotent
rage. Her brother had deliberately snubbed her be-
fore the miserable worm Crick, and she could endure
no more. The whirling of Mr. Bannister's motor an-
nounced the return of the swindler from his second
journey to Dingle Hall that day, and further discussion
about his affairs was impossible. Aunt Caroline stalked
out with as much dignity as she could command, and
passed across the hall into the drawing room, ignoring
the entry of Mr. Bannister and Mabel. Bannister gave
Crick a withering, searching glance. He examined
him through his eyeglass very much as he might have
surveyed a half-drowned mongrel dog, or a cat without
a tail.
The Bishop came out to greet his guest in the hall.
"Well, Bannister—well, Mabel, what do you think of
Dingle Hall?"
"It's all settled. Bishop," replied Bannister gaily. "I
am charmed. The place is so good and so cheap, that
I almost feel there must be some hideous drawback to
it which I have not yet discovered. You, Mabel, what
do you think of it?"
"Oh, I think it's a pretty place," replied Mabel coldly.
"She thinks I'm rash and extravagant, Bishop. She
wonders what I shall do all alone, in such a big house.
But I tell her that she must regard it as her home when


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 241
I'm under ground. After all, it is only money invested,
not spent. What is seven thousand pounds?"
"What, indeed!" murmured the Bishop, who really
thought that seven thousand pounds was an immense
sum of money. He had never been able to handle such
an amount at one time in his life. He felt sure that
Bannister must be much richer than he had admitted.
"My coachman tells me you drove the wife over, this
morning—and, by the way, I haven't seen her yet. I
suppose her head is better."
"I motored her over after breakfast, and she was de-
lighted. In fact, I showed her the room which I in-
tend to call the Bishop's Room, for it is always to be at
your disposal and hers."
"Ah, a quaint idea, and very nice of you, Bannister.
But it is rather near home. You shall reserve it for
Caroline." The Bishop chuckled at his little joke, for
he believed that she could hear him through the half-
open drawing room door.
"Miss Cardew will ever be a welcome guest at my
house, Bishop—my son-in-law's mother, as it were; he
has told me what a wonderful lady she is, and how
much he is indebted to her. Mabel, my dear, I've left
my cigar case on the front seat of the motor. You
might get it before Roche drives away." Then, as soon
as she had departed, he approached the Bishop, and,
laying a hand gently upon his arm, murmured, "Miss
Cardew is not quite nice to me, Bishop; but I take no
notice of it. She regards me as an interloper; and I
can quite understand it. But it is worrying my daugh-
ter, I fear; so that if you notice she looks distressed,
please ignore it. It will all come right presently."
"Jealousy, my dear Bannister, jealousy—a fond
woman's jealousy. I apologize for my sister. I am
shocked."


242 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Oh no, no, on no account take up that attitude, but
make allowances for my daughter. And Lady Hester
is troubled about it as well. I don't want to give the
good lady pain. Her overwrought feelings are carry-
ing her away. Only natural, only natural. She is los-
ing her boy, as she expresses it, and it is a wrench. Let
us all decide to take no notice."
"I quite agree with you, Bannister, quite agree with
you. It is very generous and considerate of you. My
sister's intentions are the best in the world, but at times
she is a little jealous, that's all."
The Bishop looked at Mabel admiringly, as she en-
tered with the cigar case. He was very fond of his fu-
ture daughter-in-law. He loved her as he loved all
pretty things, and was always correspondingly genial.
"I'm afraid you are finding it dull while Jack is away,
Mabel. We must do something to amuse you. I must
speak to Hester about it. I'm afraid there isn't much
here to interest a girl. What do girls like, now?
Dresses, jewels? By the bye, have you seen the eme-
ralds?"
Mabel's hands clenched, and she held herself in con-
trol with difficulty. She could not answer.
"Hester must show them to you. Hester, my dear,"
he exclaimed, as his wife descended the staircase, pale
and calm, "I've just been telling Mabel that you must
show her the emeralds."
"Oh, yes," murmured Hester huskily. "They are in
the safe."
Mr. Bannister appeared to be utterly oblivious of the
conversation. He had turned to the hall table where
the afternoon post was spread out, and he was running
over his letters.
"We must have the emeralds down, Hester. I won-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 243
der you have never shown them to Mabel before. Are
you quite sure your head is better, my dear? You look
very pale." The Bishop rose and took his wife's hand
tenderly, and looked anxiously into her face. But her
eyes were downcast, and her hand trembled.
"A little shaky," she murmured, "a little shaky."
"Mabel, you must look after Hester, and insist upon
her showing you the emeralds. They're worth seeing.
They're always stowed away in the safe, and nobody
ever has a look at them. I had them put in a glass case,
so that they could be displayed with greater ease. I
am very proud of them. They've been in the family for
generations, and I'm told they're very valuable—more
valuable than ever."
"Father is a collector of precious stones," observed
Mabel icily, giving her father a glance that startled him.
He darted one sharp look at her, then laughed.
"Yes, but I keep mine at the bank."
"Indeed!" murmured the Bishop, who saw here fur-
ther evidence of Bannister's wealth. "Mabel must be
well stocked with trinkets then, and may perhaps take
less interest in our emeralds—her emeralds some day—•
than most girls."
"I got a mania for collecting precious stones years
ago," explained Bannister, addressing Hester, who was
cold and calm. "I could never resist a fine diamond,
and I once bought some immense emeralds, too. I be-
lieve they have doubled or trebled in value. I should
like to compare them with yours, Lady Hester; it would
be some guide. Yes, Mabel will have jewelry enough,
My collection will be hers some day; but if she were
to wear all the stones I have bought at various times,
she would make a sensation."
"Lucky girl," murmured the Bishop.


244 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Many of the stones are not mounted; but now that
Mabel is to be married I suppose I shall have to have
some of them made up for her. Lady Hester must ad-
vise us. I have only to look around this house to see
that her taste in design is excellent. By the bye, I
quite forgot to say that many of them belonged to my
family," continued Bannister airily, keeping an eye on
the half-open door of the library, where Aunt Caro-
line was, and speaking in a loud voice. "My father was
a Yorkshire squire of the old school with a long pedi-
gree, of which he was very proud, and he never let the
family jewels go away from the male line. Being the
last of my race I have benefited by his wisdom, and
Mabel will have the advantage of them."
The two women looked at one another, and in Ma-
bel's eyes there was a piteous appeal for guidance. If
the elder woman had given half a hint of encourage-
ment she would have blazed out there and then, and
denounced her father as a fraud, without any real evi-
dence to substantiate the allegation.


CHAPTER XVIII
MABEL had spent most of the day watching Voss.
The man had become a terror to her. Under plea of
a headache she had stayed in her room with the door
ajar. Three or four times she had gone in the direction
of Lady Hester's boudoir, and each time Voss was hov-
ering somewhere near, chatting to a servant—especi-
ally to Harriet. Harriet Banks was neither young nor
foolish, but she believed that Mr. Voss's interest in her
was purely spontaneous and disinterested. As the
valet and confidential servant of Mr. Bannister, who
was to be one of the family, he seemed entitled to spe-
cial privileges and confidences. The artful rascal's loud
praise of her mistress' beauty and goodness went
straight to Banks' heart. Mr. Voss was a man of dis-
cernment, and his devotion to his young mistress—ac-
cording to his own account—was chivalrous to a fault.
From the gallery over the hall Voss heard Ban-
nister's brag about the family jewels, and did not hesi-
tate to make capital out of it with Harriet. He had
never seen these jewels, he declared, but he had heard
wonderful stories about them. Harriet, not to be out-
done, refused to admit that anybody's gems could be
so fine as the hallowed heirlooms of the Cardews, which
her mistress wore on certain special occasions—mem-
orable days to Harriet, whose point of view had not
widened one little bit with the expansion of her mas-
ter's fortunes; she was still the impecunious vicar's
housekeeper of the old days, and she never ceased to
245


246 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
wonder at the beauty and gorgeousness of Lady Hes-
ter on festive occasions. She was proud of the fact that
she was often trusted with the key of the safe by her
mistress. At this Voss marvelled, yet shook his head
deprecatingly. He personally would never undertake
such a responsibility, and would refuse to touch the
key of his master's safe. He thought it argued great
courage on Harriet's part, and wonderful trust on the
side of Harriet's mistress.
He asked what precautions were taken to safeguard
the heirlooms, and gathered that there were none, be-
yond the fact that the safe was let into the wall of Lady
Hester's bedroom, and that she kept the key in the
same apartment. The house was well guarded below,
and Chubb, the Bishop's pet mastiff in the stable yard,
was always let loose in the night. She mentioned that
poor Chubb—he was jocularly called Chubb by the
Bishop because he was a safe dog—was ailing at the
present time from some unknown cause, and did not
seem at all himself. He was probably sickening for
mange, or what seemed more likely, had been kicked
in the stable, and was going about with all the life
knocked out of him.
At this information Voss smiled behind his hand and
stroked his chin, and when he passed had another peep
into Lady Hester's room—and ran into Mabel.
That evening, when the household was dressing for
dinner, there was a gentle knock at Lady Hester's door.
Mabel begged to come in. Her eyes were dilated with
excitement, and she was shaking with fright. She was
afraid to be alone. While her father and the Bishop
were chatting, and Lady Hester and Aunt Caroline
were upon the scene, things seemed real, and it was
hard to believe that a fateful crisis was approaching.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 24*
Yet it must be drawing nearer and nearer. The con-
viction that her father was a thief, and that Voss was
clearing the way for deliberate robbery, grew with ev-
ery hour. The man's movements, seen from behind
her bedroom door, were certainly mysterious; and on
several occasions she had surprised him examining
window fastenings and staircases where he had no
business to be.
So far there had been no opportunity of making
fuller confession to Lady Hester; and she was terrified
now by the Bishop's suggestion that his wife should
bring down the emeralds to-night for Mr. Bannister's
benefit.
Her unhappy mother was torn by worse fears; yet
she was glad to see her daughter. She opened her
arms and folded her to her heart, and took her face in
her hands and looked into the tear-stained eyes.
"My poor Mabel, you are making yourself ill."
"Oh, Lady Hester, I haven't been able to explain.
You are in danger. You won't wear the emeralds to-
night?"
"Of course not. I should never dream of such a
thing."
"You know what I mean? It is true—true, I'm sure
of it. That man is watching your room, and has been
gossiping with your maid about jewels. I heard them
laughing and talking; I heard them mention emeralds.
It is all my father has come down here for. He doesn't
think I'm married to Jack, and his brag about money
and jewelry is all lies—lies."
"I know it, my dear, I know it, to my cost."
"Do you understand, Lady Hester—do you realize
that the Bishop is treating him as an honored guest?


248 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
He must be told. I myself will tell him if you do not.
I can't bear it. It is wicked. Oh, I have ruined Jack."
"Hush, hush, child, silence is best. You mustn't
anger your father. We are both in his power. We are
helpless."
"I am, but you are not, Lady Hester. He is my
father; but you have met him before. You know what
he is, and can warn the Bishop. It is your duty. Don't
consider me—because I am Jack's wife. If Jack knew,
he wouldn't keep silence."
"My dear, your father knows that you are married
to Jack."
"Knows?" cried Mabel incredulously.
"So you see, Mabel, we are utterly at his mercy. He
can snap his fingers at us."
"At me, but not at you. You're not obliged to have
him in your house. Oh, send him away—send him
away! I'll go too, and Jack shall never see me again.
It's all my fault. If I had taken your advice we should
never have been married; and you would have been
spared the humiliation of having a girl brought into
the family whose relations decent people would shud-
der to meet. My father has come here to rob you, to
rob you of thousands, and he will do it."
"No, he will not," cried Lady Hester fiercely. "If il
is the emeralds he wants, they can be removed. I can
hide them. See here, the key of the safe is in this
drawer. I'll take them out now. They'll pack into
a very small space."
"No, no, surely they will be more secure in that iron
cupboard," exclaimed Mabel, as Lady Hester threw
open the door of the safe.
"No, my child. They must be put where he will
never dream of looking for them. Ah, I know him bet-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 249
ter than you do. If I could only tell you—no, no, I
must not. We are in the power of an unscrupulous
man who will not hesitate to ruin us all to gain his own
end—to sacrifice me, and you, and laugh at our suffer-
ings. But he shan't have the emeralds. If I must de-
ceive my husband I won't rob him as well. I am not
utterly helpless—oh no. I know things about him
that would send him to jail. But, alas! he knows things
about me—he can tell a secret—oh, my God! a secret—•
oh, give me strength to keep my brain steady and my
tongue still!"
She beat her forehead with her hands, and walked up
and down while Mabel stood by the open door of the
safe.
"Why should you be so afraid of my father, Lady
Hester? If he is a bad man he must be told that you
know it and be sent away. He mustn't be allowed to
deceive the Bishop. It is your duty as a wife to tell
your husband and take counsel with him. He can help
you. He is powerful. My father would not dare to
show his face here if the Bishop knew."
"Ah, if the Bishop knew—if he knew!" echoed Lady
Hester mechanically, wringing her hands and break-
ing down hopelessly before the girl. "Can't you see,
Mabel, can't you understand, that your father has met
me before? He holds a secret of mine. You remem-
ber that I told you I had secrets which I kept too well
when I married again?"
"You mean that you were married before, and did
not tell the Bishop?"
"Was that not bad enough?"
"Do you mean that my father knows that?"
"Yes, child, he knows it only too well, and he would
use it against me. Oh, my child—my child—my


250 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
daughter, my daughter!" cried the agonized woman,
flinging herself into Mabel's arms and sobbing pit-
eously. "Ruin stares us in the face. I have sinned
enough; I must sin no more. I can keep it to myself
no longer."
She seized the girl by the shoulders and held her at
arms' length.
"Mabel, look into my face—look into my eyes. Can
you not read my awful yet wonderful secret there?
Your father has done me one good turn. Have you
not noticed my strange emotion whenever I look upon
you?"
"You have been very sweet and kind to me. I
thought you were sorry for me."
"It is more than that. Look again, child, look again.
Does no instinct within you speak? Think—question
your soul. Am I not more to you than other women
are? Does not my voice ring in your ears with a fa-
miliar note, as yours does in mine—as it ever did from
the moment we met? Are we not alike—so alike that
people say you are the very image of what I was at
your age?"
Mabel still had no glimmering of the other's mean-
ing. She saw that something was coming, and waited
for more light.
"Mabel, when I told you the secret of those dark
days of my girlhood I little dreamed that you were
soon to be linked with me in the network of lies that
I had woven about myself. I told you of a man who
lured me away by plausible words and made me his
wife. I told you that he died. God knows, I thought
he did. But he lives—he lives."
"Ah, yes, and the man you told me of was a thief,
too, was he not?"


252 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
cret? You don't realize all yet. In that miserable year
of married life I had a child—a daughter, who was
taken from me—and they told me she was dead. My
little girl did not die."
"Who told you she was alive still—my father?"
"Yes."
There was a pause. Mabel's mind was quite incapa-
ble of grasping what the other intended to convey. The
fact that Lady Hester was her father's wife was more
than she could absorb at present. At last the chain of
ideas formed in her brain, and she murmured wonder-
ingly, "My father's wife? Then whose child am I?
Who was my mother?"
"Mabel, my darling—my daughter—think, think—
and understand—and forgive!"
Lady Hester flung herself sobbing into her daugh-
ter's arms, and her meaning was plain at last. Mabel
screamed, and pushed her away, staring like one de-
mented.
"Mabel, forgive! forgive!" cried the other, dropping
to her knees, and appealing passionately with out-
stretched arms. "I am your mother. Love me—come
to me—I did not know."
Mabel still held off, and looked at the appealing
woman with wonderment only in her eyes. For a few
moments she doubted the other's sanity. The things
she was asked to understand were too vast and amaz-
ing to be grasped within the space of a minute. Lady
Hester's supreme agitation left her quite unmoved, and
she regarded her with cold, hard eyes; but her brain
was working rapidly. She recalled all the things that
had been said, and tried to piece together the broken
mosaic of circumstance and relationship. Yet still the
only real thing to her was the fact that Lady Hester


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 253
and her father had met before, and had known one an-
other intimately. Then the truth gradually took shape
—the simple possible fact, fraught with unknown ter-
rors and suggestions of deadly sin, flashed out with
hideous distinctness. She was Lady Hester's child.
The wretched mother mistook the wild, questioning
gaze of the startled girl for loathing and condemna-
tion. She covered her face and wept, still kneeling, and
for a long time there was silence, broken at last by
Mabel.
"Explain to me—tell me again," she murmured.
"You mean that you are my mother?"
Lady Hester nodded, without uncovering her face.
"Then you were never married to my father?"
Lady Hester bowed her head still lower. "I was
married, indeed, yes—and I have never ceased to curse
the hour that linked me to him forever."
"I don't understand you yet," said the girl quietly,
nervously fingering the gold chain at her throat. "You
are married to—the Bishop. How could you be mar-
ried to my father? Besides, my mother died when I
was a child."
Lady Hester shook her head and made no further
sign. She had said enough—almost too much—and
she let it sink in. Mabel's eyes were drawn with pain,
her lips paled to bloodlessness, and she swayed with
faintness. She put out one hand and tottered help-
lessly to a chair.
Lady Hester rose wearily, almost afraid to look her
daughter in the eyes. She, too, dropped into a chair,
the one that was opposite her mirror, and, resting her
elbows upon the table, sobbed piteously.
After a pause, Mabel spoke again, this time in a
strained, unnatural voice. "Tell me again," she urged.
"What you have stated is so amazing, so impossible."


254 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"It is all very simple. I told you the story of my
early married life, of my secret marriage with a man
who turned out to be a rogue."
"But he died."
"He led me to believe so, in order to be rid of me,
or—as he swears now—to free me from the bonds I
regretted. I really believed that he was dead. But
there was a child which he had already taken from
me in order that our secret might be kept; and that
died, too, so he declared at the time. I heard of your
supposed death first; then of the death of my husband,
and I thought I was free to hide my sorrow and my
shame, and begin life afresh."
"But if the child died," murmured Mabel, "how was
it you knew nothing about it until he told you?"
"The child did not die. Can't you understand, Ma-
bel?—you are the child—he took you from me—he
robbed me of you. I am you mother, girl—don't look
at me like that. Oh, why are you not glad, Mabel?"
"But you are married to the Bishop—you are re-
spected, and admired by all—yet you say my father
was your husband. Were you divorced?"
"He was not so merciful as that. Have I not told
you that he led me to believe that he was dead?"
"Dead! Did you not make inquiries?"
"What inquiries could I make? A clergyman came
to me with a lie on his lips and declared that he was
with him in his last hours, and brought me dying mes-
sages. You were supposed to have died a little while
before, and I had mourned you deeply."
"Really, I am very stupid," murmured Mabel, pass-
ing her hand across her brow as if to clear away the
cobwebs of stupefaction; "but where was the child—
was I—at the time?"


256 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
who belonged to the tender period of infancy and child-
hood, a sympathetic guide who led tottering footsteps
in wise and gentle paths. But to her, mother was only
a name. She had never known such guidance; and now
that she had grown to womanhood, and her whole
heart was absorbed in the one great love of a husband,
she did not seem to want a mother.
Women rarely judge women justly. They are ever
ready to suspect a fault, to believe that there is worse
behind.
"I can't really believe or understand what you have
told me yet awhile," she murmured faintly, rising and
moving blindly towards the door. "I must think about
it."
"Mabel, don't go—don't go like that, without a
word of love for me, your mother. I am your mother.
Think—think—understand! Believe me. You don't
doubt the truth of what I have told you?"
"I don't doubt anything you say; but I—I seem to
have been deceived ever since I was born, to have been
in the way, and to have belonged to nobody. Now you
say that you are my mother. I can't tell you why I
am not pleased. I thought you were just my friend,
Lady Hester Cardew. I often wished that you were
my mother. Once or twice, while I was here, and you
were very kind to me, I wept, thinking that I had no
mother like you, but now I have no tears. We women
seem only to be the curse of men. Poor Jack knows
nothing of this. What will he do when he finds out?
What will he do?"
"He must never know—he must never know," cried
the wretched mother. "Oh, Mabel," again appealing
to her on her knees, "Mabel, don't drive me to kill my-
self. I'm a wretched sinful woman; but I have sinned


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 257
without real wickedness. My motives were never evil.
I've always done what I thought best, and I struggled
hard—oh, so hard—to atone for that foolishness of
marrying your father. I loved him well enough then;
but love dies when respect is gone. He has us both
at his mercy, Mabel. We must stand and fall together,
you and I—Mabel, don't leave me like that!"
But the girl had gone. She fled from her guilty
mother's presence, maddened by the piteous cries
which were beginning to find a dull echo in her heart.
She dared not stay. She wanted to be alone, to think
over the things that she had heard, and sort out the
evil from the good. This peaceful old house had be-
come a hot-bed of intrigue and infamy, in which every-
body seemed to be conspiring to deceive the one good
and noble person in it—the Bishop.
Lady Hester was disappointed to the verge of de-
spair. Her confession had cost much, and she had ex-
pected great things from it—a friend, a daughter, an
ally, a confidante. Instead, she was left alone in the
middle of an appeal, shunned, deserted, spurned.
Mabel had not intended to convey that impression.
She was simply overwhelmed, and fled for solitude;
but when she had gone, the unhappy mother collapsed,
and fell prone upon the floor, sobbing as though her
heart would break.
She was recalled to the urgent need of self-control
by the slamming of a door near by. The Bishop had
come up to dress for dinner. He had just parted from
Bannister in the corridor, where they had been laugh-
ing hugely over some joke.
There was no time to be lost; she struggled to her
feet, and moved rapidly to the mirror, where she saw
a white-faced, haggard woman; but the eyes were very


258 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
little tear-stained; they had grown accustomed to the
* salt flow of sorrow's balm, and showed scarce a trace
of weeping. She mastered herself with a great effort,
smoothed her disarranged hair and dabbed some eau
de cologne on her throbbing temples.
She was dressed in a plain black satin gown, a frock
chosen with feminine instinct, in the hope that it would
not inflame Dick Gordon's admiration. He had
praised her gown of the night before and talked of it
on their motor ride, showing an intimate knowledge
of its every detail. But the simple black gown, instead
of concealing the voluptuous lines of her generously-
moulded figure, only intensified them.
There were still fifteen minutes before dinner, fifteen
minutes in which to get herself in hand, and face her
two husbands at the dinner table—and Mabel. The
ordeal was more dreaded for Mabel's sake than her
own. She had been well schooled in suffering, and had
become accustomed to the hard usage of fate, as re-
vealed in the last few hours; but the girl was young
and tender, impressionable and bewildered. She began
to understand her daughter's brusque departure, when
she critically reviewed the situation, and grew calmer
herself.
The Bishop was tramping about heavily in the next
room humming as he dressed. She hoped that he
would not call her, or come in, as he often did, to chat
about the day's doings while he dressed. Her one idea
now was to avoid him until other people were present.
She was afraid to go down stairs for fear of encount-
ering Bannister—and afraid of going outside her room
for fear of meeting Aunt Caroline, and having to listen
to the old lady's tirades against the proposed mar-
riage. Besides, she was conscious that the Bishop's


262 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
of special plate; but upon an upper shelf was a large
leather case, two feet wide, which she took out and
laid upon a chair. On lifting the lid a glass case was
disclosed. This needed to be unlocked, and formed a
second lid. Underneath, spread out on a velvet
cushion, were the famous emeralds, a necklace, a tiara
of an old-fashioned type, heavy bracelets, heavy ear-
rings, and three clasp brooches, all full of immense
stones.
She looked at them with disgust—and yet again with
fright. Mabel had warned her that Bannister had
come down to steal these hideous jewels; but it was
outside the range of probability, in view of the fact that
Mabel was married to the Bishop's son. Besides, he
was obviously anxious to ingratiate himself with the
family, so was it likely that he had come to rob? Ma-
bel must have exaggerated what she had heard. Dick
Gordon was too astute for clumsy work of that kind;
besides, it would put him in her power, and this alone
was sufficient to secure the safety of the jewels.
No; it was not the emeralds which had brought him
here. He meant to use the Bishop as a surety of re-
spectability—a medium for the re-cloaking of his
frayed and threadbare social reputation. The doubters
—many of them discredited, being unable to produce
proof—who had suspected Richard Bannister of cheat-
ing at cards and sharp practice generally, and were
ready to give him the cold shoulder, would change
their minds when his daughter had married the Bishop
of Ripley's son. Besides, the Bishop's set would intro-
duce him to a newer, simpler, and more plunderable
clientele. Lady Hester felt a certain sense of security
concerning the gems when she arrived at this decision
relating to his presence at the Palace.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 263
She took the necklace from its bed of velvet and
clasped it round her throat, and it really did not look
so ugly against the lace as when she had tried it on
before. The real value of the stones was unknown to
her, and even if she had known it the gems would have
had no more interest for her, since a guinea jewel that
pleased her artistic sense was more precious than a ten
thousand pound necklace that lacked real beauty.
Whatever Bannister's intentions were, the necklace
was safest round her neck. The other jewels, which
contained the largest stones, she could not possibly
wear, and the safe seemed the wisest receptacle. A
moment's thought convinced her that this was not so.
The most likely place for storing them was also the
most likely place to be attacked if common robbery
were really contemplated. Any other hiding place was
better than a marked receptacle, the situation of which
was known to the whole household.
She gathered the jewels up roughly into a double
handful, and looked round for a suitable place. There
was nothing handier than her nightdress sachet in the
adjoining room. Under her pillow was the last place
a burglar would think of looking for valuables. The
bed was already turned down, and no one would be
likely to touch it.
She had just finished her task of concealment when
the door of the dressing room was shaken roughly.
The Bishop demanded admittance again.
"Hester, my darling, I'm not feeling at all up to the
tnark this evening; and Bannister keeps one on the
stretch so. I wish you would apply yourself to enter-
taining him, so that I can get a few minutes after din-
ner in the library. And, by the bye, see that Caroline
remains with you and doesn't follow me. I can see by


264 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
her face that she is preparing another long attack.
Ah, the emeralds! That's right, my dear, they look ex-
cellent. I'm sure you ought to wear them oftener.
What is there ugly about them?"
He examined them closely. "The stones are large,
aren't they? I suppose emeralds of immense size have
a fancy value?"
"Yes, I wish you'd keep them at the bank, John.
Nobody ever sees them; and nobody is interested in
family heirlooms but one's own people."
"Don't you think they're safe—not in there?" point-
ing to the huge iron door which swung out into the
room.
"That is really only a fireproof safe, John. That im-
mense thickness, I am told, is meant to resist flames,
not burglars."
"But we have never been troubled with burglars."
"All the more reason that we may be. Think of the
value of these stones, John, and what they might mean
to Jack some day. If the worst came to the worst, they
would save him from financial ruin—if they are of the
immense value that people say in the papers."
"Tut, tut, who listens to the gossip in the papers?"
"But even if they are worth a few thousands, they
represent an income."
"Nonsense, Jack will have plenty of income by and
by from Caroline."
"But he may not get it."
"He must, he must. You'll have to talk Caroline
round. But there, there, I can't be bothered with these
things now. I've got a meeting to-morrow and a
sermon, and my head is splitting and my heart thump-
ing, with excitement, or indigestion, or something. I
would really like to escape dinner to-night."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 265
"No, no, John. Caroline is making herself so abso-
lutely horrid to Mr. Bannister that I don't know what
would happen if you were away. Besides, I don't like
the man myself, and—I shouldn't know what to say to
him."
"You don't like Bannister, my dear? You surprise
me. He's just the sort of elegant dilettante that
women like, and racy, too—splendid story teller. Ah,
there, but my wife, I suppose, is more serious minded.
Well, well, we've only got to be civil to him for a little
while. We like the girl well enough; but we needn't
see more of the father than common courtesy demands
when Jack is married. In the meantime, the laws of
hospitality must be carefully observed, my dear—every
one of them."
"I wish you would fall ill, John—I mean, conveni-
ently ill—and do something to put an end to this visit.
It is boring me horribly."
"My dear, you would not have me practice deception
in order to avoid the fulfilment of a common civility, a
family duty. You're run down, Hester, or you
wouldn't talk like this. You're looking a little worn,
too. You must get into the fresh air. Let Bannister
take you about in his motor. I am sure it must be an
exhilarating pastime, though I can't bear fast riding
myself, it gives me palpitation."
"I would rather not got out in his motor. I would
much rather go out in our own carriage."
"Well, then, drive him round, if he'll go, and show
him the neighborhood. Has he been over the Cathe-
dral?"
"Not yet."
"Well, there's a mine of entertainment for you."
Lady Hester, if she had not been so wretched, could


266 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
have smiled at the idea of Dick Gordon finding a mine
of entertainment in a cathedral.
“I’ll tell him to take you about a bit, and wake you
up, Hester. You find life here rather dull. Yes, you
do, it’s no good protesting. Bannister in his motor
car can take your further afield and shake you up a lit-
tle. Yes, yes, he must. You must know him better,
and like him better. I wish it. There are the chimes.
Let us go down.”
He took his wife's arm, and led her to the landing.
They went out, leaving the door of the safe wide open.
The servants were all down stairs at this hour—ex-
cept Voss, and the maid whom Lady Hester had placed
at Mabel's disposal. These two were gossiping at the
end of the corridor; but Mabel had already gone down.
On seeing her mistress and the Bishop, the woman
slipped away to the back staircase, for she had duties
below. Voss was left alone on the upper floor. He,
too, disappeared, apparently into his master's room.
Lady Hester and the Bishop had reached the bottom
step of the winding stone staircase before the dazed
and agitated woman remembered the safe door.
“John, I’ve left the safe open.”
“Oh, that'll be all right.”
“No, I'd rather see to it. You are very careless in
these matters, John.”
“My servants have always been honest, thank God,
and I have an infinite faith in Providence and the force
of association. No one would think of stealing in my
house, I hope.”
“Never mind, I will go up.”
She ran upstairs quickly and silently, lifting her rust-
ling skirts high to allow a greater speed. She was at
the top of the staircase and in her bedroom in a mo-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 267
ment. The intervening door between the sleeping
apartment and the dressing room was closed. She
tried the handle; but it would not open. She groped
for the key, and it was not there. She remembered
locking the door and unlocking it but could not re-
member removing the key. While searching for it she
heard a scuffling sound.
There was another door into the dressing room lead-
ing from the corridor. By going from her bedroom
into the corridor she could get in that way if the door
was unlocked. It was generally fastened except when
the maid needed ingress and egress during the hours
of dressing in the morning and evening; but it might
be open.
She slipped round, and, as she left her bedroom, she
was just in time to see Voss glide out of the dressing
room into the corridor.
It was not possible to accuse him of having been in
the dressing room. He was stooping down to pick up
a pin, and looking quite unconcerned. She stood still,
rooted to the spot with fear.
He rose slowly to an upright position, examined the
pin in the light of the lamp above, and leisurely thrust
it into the end of his waistcoat. Then, as though he
saw her for the first time, he became conscious of her
ladyship's presence. He jumped, and drew aside sub-
missively and respectfully.
She found her voice. “What were you doing in my
room?”
“I in your room, my lady? I was standing here.”
She made no further comment, but passed in. The
door of the safe, which had been left wide open, was
almost closed. Voss had passed on. She shut the
door of the room, and carried the electric lamp as far


268 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
as the wire would allow to make an examination of the
interior of the safe. Everything was as she had left it.
The heirloom case on the top shelf, the books un-
touched, the small boxes containing ordinary trinkets
and personal treasures all in their places
"I was in time," she gasped, with her hand upon her
heart, breathing heavily. "That was his man. T
seemed to recognize his voice. Mabel is right."
Then, with a sudden burst of fury, she cried aloud,
"He shan't—he shan't!" and slammed the door of the
safe with a bang that shook the house. She turned
the key in the lock, and dropped it down her bosom.
She was at bay now. So long as it was a personal
matter between herself and Dick Gordon he had her
at a disadvantage; he was able to disarm her with a
cynical smile. But a common robbery—that was a
thing he must do by stealth, and she intended to be a
match for him.


CHAPTER XIX
DINNER at the Palace was never a very ceremonious
or solemn function. The Bishop was too genial, too
noisy and too talkative for that. He was usually full
of his day's doings, and overflowing with ideas and the-
ories which became actual and possible as he put them
into speech; for he was a born talker, and the mere
expression of words enabled him to set the most nebu-
lous thought into concrete and practical form. He had
a way of saying things in public which occasionally
brought him into trouble during the early days of his
career at the Palace; but experience had taught him
the wisdom of discretion. Whenever a grievance
pressed hard now he reserved its discussion until he
was at dinner with his wife, when he unburdened his
soul in forcible language. How the newspapers would
have gloried in the very human remarks of the Bishop
if they could have reported them! Lady Hester's im-
passionate judgment was, as it had always been, of im-
mense service to him. She never attempted to stop
the outpourings of his indignation, for he was stubborn
beyond belief, when thwarted or heckled, but gently
put forward the case for the other side, and counselled
reserve and discretion, since power was always his
when he wished to enforce it.
Whether other people were present or not mattered
little to the Bishop when he wanted to express his
views, or was particularly interested in his subject.
Everybody had to listen, and they did not mind this, as
he was a very good talker; but to-night he was not in
269


270 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
vein, and he looked tired. Caroline's grim, kill-joy at-
titude of watchful resentment annoyed him. She spoke
only when addressed, and then in monosyllables, and
her steady observation of Mr. Bannister was absolutely
ill-bred, for she watched him as a detective might
watch a marked criminal.
Depression had fallen on Mabel, too—depression
that she could neither fight nor disguise. During the
early part of the meal she kept her eyes fixed upon her
plate, scarcely daring to raise them to her mother's
face, in fear that they would reveal to all present the
truth, the truth that would bring ruin upon Jack's
father and her mother. Her distress was so evident to
Lady Hester that it made her nervous; she was even
clumsy, and twice during the meal overturned her
wine glass, and, to cover her confusion, blamed the ser-
vant at her elbow in an angry voice; a proceeding so
altogether unlike her that everybody stared in amaze-
ment, and silence fell like a pall on the guests, who
were vaguely conscious that there were under currents
at work in the family circle.
Lady Hester was quick to note the chilling silence,
and she began to talk rapidly, addressing remarks to
Aunt Caroline upon domestic affairs that could not be
of any interest to her guests, and only embarrassed the
old lady, who had never been allowed any real voice in
home affairs by her sister-in-law.
Bannister was apparently amused by the discomfort
of everybody; at any rate, he was quite unabashed. He
bowed his head when his host said grace and smiled
covertly. He alone was in good form, and, seeing how
powerless Lady Hester was to entertain her party, he
came to her aid; not out of good nature, but from sheer
vanity. He told some good stories, but nobody


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 271
laughed. He had already exhausted his stock of yarns
suitable for a clerical gathering, so he ventured upon
an amazing set of anecdotes of actors; and these quickly
secured him the attention of the table.
As he talked, his eyes roved continually, their rest-
lessness only checked for a moment when they fell
upon Lady Hester. He had seen Aunt Caroline flash a
glance of astonishment at Lady Hester's necklace; as-
tonishment that quickly gave place to indignation. It
was evident that Caroline was annoyed at the display.
But the annoyance was in reality caused by Lady Hes-
ter taking this opportunity to load herself with the
family jewels—which really belonged more to Caro-
line than Lady Hester—for the express purpose of at-
tracting the attention of the odious Bannister.
Aunt Caroline watched him like a lynx as she saw
his eyes go again and again to the jewels. It was evi-
dent that they excited him. He knew their value, and
his eyes glittered his appreciation, while his mind wan-
dered to them in the middle of a story. In the pauses
he found himself counting the number of the large
stones in the pendant, each of which was worth quite
three hundred pounds. In counting the stones of the
necklace from left to right he had reached the total of
four thousand pounds for the big stones alone. Then
he remembered that the necklace was only part of _a
complete set. If all the others were of this size and
quality, the papers were not far wrong in estimating
their original value at twenty thousand pounds—now
much increased by the rise in market price. He longed
to handle the necklace, to take it to the light. Any
idea he might have had for relinquishing his pursuit of
the emeralds died on the instant that he saw them. He
was a gambler by instinct, and to miss such a stroke


272 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
of luck as this was outside the range of his understand-
ing. Besides, money was, after all, more important
than anything else in the world, the one real and safe
thing. Never before had he happened upon so rich a
gold mine, or one so easy to work.
During his brief stay at the Palace he had almost
persuaded himself that he had done with the old life;
and now he knew that he was being drawn back to it;
that he would be powerless to resist; but he would
work upon a different plan.
The woman was his anyway. The jewels would have
to be given up as the price of silence. It was not a
case of stealing. Voss's vulgar but useful methods
would not apply here, and his assistance would not be
needed. Nothing could be easier than the transfer.
With her own fair hands she must bribe him to silence.
While the comedy of bluff and counter-bluff was
being carried on below, Voss upstairs was not idle. His
narrow escape from Lady Hester left him in reality
quite undismayed. It sent a cold chill down his back
for a few moments, but quiet consideration assured him
that her ladyship could have no suspicion of his real
object in visiting her dressing room, and, at worst,
would assume that he was in quest of one of the maids.
He had seen the emeralds on her neck when she
spoke to him, and his heart gave a great leap of
triumph. They were in the house, after all. Then he
thirsted for more knowledge. He actually looked into
their hiding place. He had seen the big leather case
on the top shelf.
It afforded him infinite satisfaction to know that they
were "available." Like his master, he was cautious,
and he had learned many lessons from his chief. There
were two ways of getting the plunder. Number one


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 273
was to seize it for himself when the opportunity oc-
curred, and fly, with all England at his heels—his mas-
ter included. Number two, to steal artistically with his
master's aid, to remain in the house, and be the first to
see a disappearing burglar go through a window.
In spite of his master's instruction to the contrary,
he had arranged everything in his own mind: how the
jewels were to be stolen, how the alarm was to be
given, how the windows were to be marked, where the
convenient rope was to be dropped down, and the num-
ber of cuts to be made on the window sash. He had
in his bag a coil of wire for stretching across the garden
path after dark, to give the impression that a gang had
been at work taking precautions against chase by wir-
ing the paths to trip-up pursuers. This "wheeze" had
answered before, long, long ago, when money had been
tight with Bannister and desperate means were neces-
sary to repair failing fortunes. It was the riskiest, and
at the same time the most profitable, business they
had pulled off together, and Voss could never under-
stand why his master had always refused to descend
again to such low methods.
Here was a house full of "mugs"—from Voss's point
of view—soft, soapy, old-fashioned servants who met
every day for prayers, and wept if they could not go to
church three times on Sunday. Harriet had already
tried to convert him with a tract when he hinted at
marriage. Everybody in the house was trusted. Sil-
ver plate was lying about day and night. Forks and
spoons were never counted, and the wine cellar was
never locked. It was the softest crib he had ever
struck, and yet his master preferred to philander with
the Bishop's lady, who, from all accounts, was circum-
spect and discreet beyond suspicion, idolized by the ser-
vants, and incapable of a mean, ungenerous act.


274 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
How did Bannister think he was going to extract a
fortune from her under such circumstances? Yet her
ladyship was wearing the emeralds to-night. Perhaps
that meant something.
His curiosity was roused to the highest pitch. Some
chance remark of Bannister's had set him wondering
whether the senior partner intended to work this busi-
ness "on his own," and leave his humble servant in the
lurch. Bannister had talked occasionally of late of
their coming separation, and of retirement from busi-
ness, which Voss looked upon as all "guff." It hurt his
feelings, and suggested a waning affection between
master and man.
Two could play at that game. Voss allowed him-
self occasional consideration of method number one,
which was to carry off the jewels hare and hounds fash-
ion. There were many difficulties in the way, yet he
considered the matter carefully and from various points
of view, as only natural in a conscientious, thorough-
going rascal. Expediency was his only guide in things
mundane, but the bolting method did not seem expedi-
ent just now, although Lady Hester was so careless as
to leave her safe door ajar while the family were at
dinner. Ten to one she would never miss the jewels
till a week after if they were cleverly abstracted from
the safe in the daytime.
He glowed all over at the prospect of a magnificent
run for his money, but shuddered when he thought of
Bannister's rage at being cheated, and he paused to
consider the possible revenge he was certain to take.
The cleverer villain had during the passing of years
hypnotized him into obedience until it seemed impos-
sible to work without the master mind.
These thoughts of treachery were only dreams—but


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 277
creasingly suspicious of her. He had been watching
her stealthily all day, and her movements were pe-
culiarly erratic.
He arrived in the corridor just as she was coming
away from locking Voss in. They met under a lamp
which showed a white glare on both their faces. The
girl's was transformed. Hatred and contempt blazed
from her eyes, and the man quailed for a moment be-
for speaking.
"What is it? What's the matter? What have you
been doing?"
"I have locked the other thief in your room. There
is the key," she whispered huskily, and he felt some-
thing cold thrust into his hand.
She swept past him and down the stairs without an-
other word. It took him a full minute to grasp the
significance of it all. He applied the key to his door
and Voss jumped up to attention.
"What's this—locked in?"
Voss laughed the uneasy chuckle of an irritated man.
"It's your blooming daughter. Told you you'd have
trouble with her. She's been nosing after me ever
since we've been here. Caught me in her ladyship's
dressing room, followed me here, and turned the key
on me. P'raps you'll tell me whether it was your orders
or not, 'cause I ain't going to be treated like a kid."
"You fool!" cried Bannister, striding across towards
him, and clenching his fist as though about to strike.
"She has found us out. By heaven, I'd like to throttle
you, you blundering idiot!"
Bannister was more upset than he cared to admit.
That look in his daughter's eyes had sent him cold from
head to foot. The word "thief" on her lips sounded
horrible.


278 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
For the first time in their long partnership anger got
the better of him against Voss. He lost all control of
himself.
"You"
His language was not choice. He rushed at the of-
fender and kicked him. The kicks were only two in
number, administered with a soft, patent shoe, and did
not hurt at all; but Voss went to the ground sprawling.
He was too staggered at the moment to feel anything
but utter consternation and grief—grief that his im-
maculate, imperturbable master should fall so low as to
be human and violent.
As he lay on the floor he felt that the world was a
very hollow place. Bannister was only a man—not a
god of deviltry—just a foolish, unreasoning man. The
idol was shattered. In that moment of anger, and with
the toe of his patent shoe, he had toppled over "Dick
Gordon" and Richard Bannister—not Voss. The in-
fallible, imperturbable mastermind hypnotized the ras-
cal no longer.


CHAPTER XX
THE Bishop had escaped alone to the library, and
could not find the news sheets, which generally arrived
before dinner. He was irritable and worried, and Grey
fled to fetch the papers from the servants' hall, where
they had a habit of being conveniently forgotten until
sent for. He wanted to see the result of the brewery
case, upon which so much depended for Jack; and when
they arrived he opened them with more agitation than
he would have cared to admit. Jack's income and mar-
riage would be affected by the result of the great dis-
pute about the quality of beer. Aunt Caroline's atti-
tude was only too clear; nothing was to be expected
for Jack from that quarter. Her antipathy to Mr. Ban-
nister was almost insulting and quite disheartening.
It would have mattered less if Mr. Bannister had im-
proved upon acquaintance—which he did not. The
Bishop liked him less and less. He resented the fellow's
curious, possessive, ogling way with Hester; and Mabel
did not seem to have much affection for him. He sus-
pected his guest of poking fun in his stories; and he
was sure that Hester's feelings toward him was not
cordial. Caroline's opposition to the match would
mean a possible loss of thousands to the boy, and he
could hardly hope to marry yet without an improve-
ment in his finances.
The evening papers reported the brewery case at
great length, and at the end of the report were the
irritating words, "Case proceeding." A glance at the
"Stop Press" column was more satisfactory. "Brewery
279


28o THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
Case. After speech for defence, verdict for defendants
without leaving box."
Jack had won. The Bishop laughed aloud with joy-
ous pride.
"Hester, my darling, Hester!" he cried, hurrying out
into the hall, "Jack has won. There are three columns
of it in the paper. He's won. There's something in
the boy, after all. It'll mean work for him for years,
and he will be made the company's legal expert. Caro-
line, Jack's fortunes are looking up. An excellent
start. Mabel, my dear, why don't you look more
pleased to hear of Jack's good fortune? He'll be
home to-morrow, perhaps to-night."
Mabel, who had just left her father after giving him
the key of Voss's prison, met the Bishop at the foot
of the stairs; but she was moving like a sleep walker,
with features turned to stone. He spoke to her again,
and she woke up with a start, and answered mechani-
cally. Her mother saved the situation by expressing
exaggerated joy, and seizing the paper boisterously.
She explained the case to Aunt Caroline, who only
sniffed her approval, and expressed nothing in words.
The Bishop drew his wife into the library, and shut
the door carefully.
"Hester, what is the matter with Mabel?"
"Oh, nothing; a little glum and depressed without
Jack, that is all."
"Then why isn't she glad to hear he is coming
home? What is going on in the house among you
women? There's something."
She fidgeted with the paper, and took refuge in a
lie.
"It is Caroline. She is upsetting everybody, and
making us all wretched."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 281
"Then I shall speak to Caroline. It must stop."
"No, no. It will pass. She has sense enough to see
that Jack doesn't care a fig for her money, and will be
quite independent of her soon. She will find her level
presently."
"She must find it now," cried the Bishop, as he strode
to the door excitedly. "Caroline, I shall be obliged if
you will step in here a moment."
His wife fled. She sought her daughter, who was
sitting in the drawing room with hands clenched on her
lap and a look on her face that was alarming. She
made no answer when spoken to, but stared like one in
a trance. She was almost at the end of her tether, and
having declared war on her father, felt that the time
had come to act. Something must be done; she could
not remain here.
Her mother gave one stealthy glance round to make
sure they were alone, then flung her arms about the
girl.
"Oh, my child, my child!" she cried, as Mabel thrust
her away coldly without the slightest response. But
the woman clung close, and, in thrusting her away, the
girl's hand touched the heavy necklace. She drew off
as if burned by the contact, and gazed at the gems in
horror.
"Why did you wear them; oh, why did you wear
them? You know what he is—you know what he is."
"Hush, hush, they are safe with me."
Meantime a lively scene was in progress in the li-
brary. Aunt Caroline had obeyed her brother's sum-
mons, and was listening, apparently unmoved, to his
halting complaint.
"Caroline, you are disturbing the peace of this
house."


282 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Oh!"
"Yes, you are upsetting Hester, Mabel, and Mr.
Bannister, and—and myself. Your unreasoning dislike
of our guest is too obvious—much too obvious. You
are aggressive, Caroline, and aggressiveness in a
woman is a—a very unpleasant thing."
"Oh!"
"You are interrupting the harmonious interchange
of family courtesies, and—and making conversation al-
most difficult. You spoiled my dinner."
"Oh!"
"Hester is placed at a considerable disadvantage, I
might say a most unfair disadvantage, and her efforts
to keep peace with everybody must be quite obvious to
her guests. It will embarrass them. The girl is al-
ready quite miserable, and your manner to Mr. Ban-
nister is—well, I should call it insulting."
"Oh!"
"Evidently the happiness of my household is no con-
cern of yours, Caroline, and you want to make my boy
unhappy."
"Humph!"
"Don't stand there muttering—I had almost said
grunting," cried the Bishop, losing all patience.
"I'll sit down. Have you anything more to say?"
"Anything more? I could say a great deal, but I
am desirous of sparing your feelings in a Christian
spirit and making allowances for your absurd disap-
proval of the girl of Jack's choice. It is cruel to the
poor child."
"I don't disapprove of the girl."
"Then why in heaven's name this display of antago-
nism?"
"1 have told you—her father is a rascal."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 283
"What have your absurd notions about Mr. Ban-
nister got to do with Jack, I should like to know?
Jack didn't choose his father-in-law."
"No, but you did for him."
"Caroline, you annoy me. You irritate me beyond
endurance. I won't have an amiable gentleman tra-
duced in this fashion."
"Oh, an amiable gentleman! He is a great deal too
amiable. Are you blind, John? Can you sit at the
table and see him devouring and ogling your wife be-
fore your very eyes? Can't you see the glances that
pass between them?"
"Caroline, Caroline! How dare you? This is sheer
wickedness, engendered by hatred—malicious, unrea-
soning hatred. How can you stay under this roof and
harbor such thoughts?"
"My stay under this roof is by no means pleasant.
But here I am, John, and here I remain until I have
unmasked that villain, and solved the mystery of his in-
fluence over Hester. She's afraid of him. She obeys
him. She fainted when she first saw him. Yet she is
willing to wreck your son's happiness by bringing this
smooth-voiced villain into the family."
"Have you no more vile insinuations?"
"Yes, plenty. What was the girl doing in Jack's
chambers unattended? What sort of bringing-up has
she had? Why is Hester in such a hurry to marry
them?"
"Caroline!"
"Oh, I don't mince matters."
"Do you dare impeach the girl's honor?"
"Oh, no, it isn't that. But I've been thinking. How
do you know that Jack isn't married already?"
"Caroline, you are mad."


284 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"If I am, then Jack must be a contemptible scamp
and the girl a fool, or—worse."
"I command you to be silent, you—you foolish,
wicked woman!" thundered the Bishop, shouting at
the top of his voice.
"That's right, abuse me and insult me, and refuse to
hear both sides of the case. That's your practical
Christian charity, I suppose. Perhaps you'll explain
to me why Jack was in the girl's room here at midnight
—and Hester too?"
"They are lovers. Hester was there, too, you say?
What was there wrong in that? Can't a man go to
his affianced wife's room in the company of his step-
mother?"
"But he didn't go in the company of his step-mother.
She went and fetched him out of the room because his
father wanted to talk to him. I heard her."
"At midnight?"
"Or thereabouts."
"Pshaw! These are the delusions of a jealous, sus-
picious—er—evil-minded—prying—spinster. I won't
have it, I say. It shall stop, or I shall ask you to leave
my house—do you hear?—leave the house."
The Bishop was white with passion, and spluttered
out his words.
"Can you find no worse reproach for me than 'spin-
ster?' Oh, I can tell you that I know what I am talk-
ing about. I've not lived the life of a cloistered nun,
and I've not gone through life with my eyes shut be-
cause I happened to be a woman. I am not such a fool
that I don't know that circumstances may arise, per-
fectly innocent ones, when such unconventional doings
are imperative; but the necessity is always extraordi-
nary; and there is something extraordinary going on
in this house now."


286 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
The doctor declared that complete rest was neces-
sary for his patient. All engagements must be can-
celled. Overwork, overmuch traveling, and excite-
ment were at the root of the mischief. Lady Hester
was able to forget herself and her own troubles; but
she burned with indignation against Caroline, whom
she regarded as the author of the mischief. High
words between the brother and sister were not uncom-
mon; but Caroline had been particularly trying of late.
How well the old lady's distrust of Bannister was jus-
tified she alone knew; but the interference was resented
none the less.
At midnight, when the Bishop was put to bed, the
doctor was going away. Miss Cardew intercepted him
at the front door and put a gentle hand upon his arm.
Her face was pale, her eyes sunken with weeping and
anxiety, and her hand trembled on his sleeve.
"Tell me—tell me the truth," she whispered.
"It is serious, madam. But we must hope for the
best. Rest is the only thing."
"Tell me, without reserve. I am his sister. It is
important."
The doctor looked at his boots and shuffled uneasily,
making nervous patterns on the mat.
"Tell me, was it a stroke?"
The doctor nodded and went out, leaving her alone
in the darkened hall.
She wrung her hands above her head and appealed
to heaven for forgiveness. She looked upon the visita-
tion as a punishment for her jealous and unchristian
prejudice. Then, as she turned to go upstairs and
passed the spot where, at the very moment of her
brother's physical agony, she had surprised Bannister
and Lady Hester, hand in hand, and whispering in the
shadow like lovers, her heart hardened again.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 287
"It is her fault—it is all her fault! If he had never
married her "Sobs stifled the rest.
She crept upstairs, bowed and broken. The night's
emotion had been too much. Like her brother, she
was no longer young. She comforted herself with the
thought that Jack would come home on the morrow,
and the Bannisters would surely be sent away now that
their host was ill.
The lights down stairs were all extinguished, except
in the smoking room, where Mr. Bannister was alone,
and having a final cigar before retiring to rest. He
was a late bird, and generally the last to retire in any
house he visited. She was half inclined to go in and
tell him bluntly that he must depart; but her courage
was not equal to it to-night. She had caused enough
havoc by her interference.
The lights were out in the upper corridor, too; but
the doors of Lady Hester's bed and dressing rooms
were both open. She saw her brother's wife come into
the dressing room from the Bishop's bedroom, and
close the door softly behind her, then walk on tiptoe to
the maid in the dressing room to tell her to move
softly, because the Bishop was asleep. Then she came
to the door of her bedroom, looking like a ghost, and
stepped out on to the darkened corridor just as Aunt
Caroline was passing. She gave a little cry of fright.
"Oh, how you startled me!"
"Is he any better?" asked the elder woman humbly.
"He is sleeping quite peacefully now. The doctor
says that is what is necessary."
"Shall I sit by him?"
"No, no; he is to be left quite alone. Your presence
is not likely to soothe him, I should think."
Hester retired into her room and shut the door with
more rudeness than she had ever shown before.


288 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
The old lady stood quite still in the darkness for a
few moments, then covered her face and wept quietly.
She was willing to forgive Hester or anybody else if
only they would allow her to go to her brother's side.
To be forbidden made her feel like a murderess. She
paced up and down the dark corridor, wringing her
hands and dropping hot tears, and occasionally stop-
ping and listening outside her brother's door to catch
the slightest sound.
She had been there some time, moving about in the
darkness like a shadow, when the door of Lady Hes-
ter's room opened, and the mistress of the house ap-
peared silhouetted against the light coming from with-
in. She had changed her dress for a loose gown—a
very becoming one—and looked strangely effective in
the beam streaming through the open door. After a
moment's hesitation, she descended the stairs into the
darkened house. This was Caroline's opportunity to
slip in and question the maid for further news of the
patient, but before she reached the door another
flicker of light in the hall below reminded her that Ban-
nister was still down stairs.
Lady Hester sped swiftly down, making for the
smoking room. The old lady craned her neck over
the gallery above, and caught a glimpse of Bannister in
an arm chair as the door opened, then it shut, and there
was darkness and silence. Jealousy, suspicion,
prompted all sorts of evil thoughts. This infamous
woman, who was flirting with her guest at the very
moment of her husband's seizure, was not to be de-
terred even now from keeping an assignation with the
rascal.
On the other hand a moment's thought told her that
it was only natural for Lady Hester to acquaint her


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 289
guest with the progress of affairs. But why go down
in that costume?
Two minutes—five—ten passed, and the door re-
mained closed. The house was wrapped in silence, and
the old lady, leaning over the banisters, grew impa-
tient. She had interfered enough for that day, but she
was convinced that evil was afoot. She could not tear
herself away. Twice she tried to go to her room and
close the door and pray to God for charity. But each
time an overwhelming feeling of responsibility took her
back again to the gallery.
The scene in the smoking room was rather different
to that conjured up in Aunt Caroline's brain.
The place was a small snuggery dignified by the
name of smoking room because it was used by Jack
and his father for the smoking of briar pipes, which
were forbidden elsewhere. In reality it was a winter
sitting room largely used for writing, and as a relief
for the Bishop when he desired to escape the rather
pompous surroundings of the official study. It con-
tained a couple of holland-covered grandfather chairs,
a large lounge, and a writing desk stowed away in a
corner. In winter a bright fire burned in the grate;
but at this time of the year flowers filled the hearth.
Bannister rose with alacrity as his wife entered, and
he flung away his cigar.
"Well, and how is he?"
"He is better. He is sleeping. Please let us dis-
cuss him no more. What have you to say to me? You
must know that I cannot stay long."
Her words came sharply; her eyes flashed. She was
in no mood for half measures.


290 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"It is good of you to come, Hester. Sit down.
Please look as though you were going to be amiable.
I want to be friends with you—not to quarrel."
"We finished friendship and we finished quarrelling
years ago."
"What is it to be now, then—fighting? My dear
Hester, you are not equal to it. You are agitated and
excited. Do sit down."
He drew an arm chair forward, but she chose a high
chair by the round table and sat bolt upright, watching
him.
He took up a position on the hearthrug with his back
to the grate, and lighted another cigar, as though he
were going to settle down to a long interview.
"We have no time to waste. What is it? Tell me
what you have to say."
His eyes missed nothing, and his attention was di-
verted to her gown. "A charming robe," he mur-
mured, nodding approvingly. "It reminds me of the
one you wore at the hotel in Marseilles—you remem-
ber, the big, ugly. white hotel—and the big room with
the hideous, red satin panels, where we had such fun;
when you mimicked the bellerina at the local opera
house—do you remember?"
"If you have brought me here to listen to reminis-
cences, the sooner I go upstairs the better."
She moved towards the door, but he was too quick
for her. He caught a flying ribbon of her robe and
drew her back. His touch seemed to mesmerize her,
for she collapsed into the chair again. He himself
dropped down on the arm of the lounge close by.
"Business, then, my dear wife."
"Hush!"
"This illness of your husband's—is it serious?"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 291
"I don't know. From what I can gather, he has
been quarrelling with his sister about Mabel and the
marriage."
"Well, his quarrelling won't alter the marriage. The
young people are tied up—as tightly as we are. Do
you expect me to go like a polite guest because my
host has fallen ill?"
"Yes, of course—the sooner the better."
"I am sorry, my dear Hester, but I am not so con-
ventional as to clear out. I am one of the family. My
concern for the dear Bishop's health compels me to re-
main. I could not rest at a distance. I should be con-
sumed with feverish anxiety."
"How dare you jest and sneer!"
"Do you think I love the old boy? You cannot ex-
pect me to share your affection. The pompous old
fool"
"How dare you!" she cried, clenching her hands,
and losing all dignity in her anger.
"There, there, I was only chaffing. I suppose it is
natural for you to feel that you owe him some special
consideration after having deceived him all these years.
But you are still young, Hester, and so am I—never
felt younger than when I looked upon your face the
other night and saw that there were no wrinkles in it,
that the eyes remained bright and beautiful, that the
hair kept its wonderful color without scientific aid, and
that the lissom waist was as supple as ever. Egad, Hes-
ter, it's good to live and stand opposite you—no, not
opposite, beside you. Keep still; be quiet. It's no
good your making a scene."
She stood petrified, and watched his approach as a
rabbit watches the oncoming of the boaconstrictor.
Her lips parted, and she fully intended to cry out; but


292 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
the house was painfully still; there was an invalid up-
stairs, and Aunt Caroline was not far away. A scene
would only make horrible complications. She shud-
dered and collapsed, and struck at him as his arm slid
round her waist and he drew her to him. She was limp
and swaying like one about to faint. But he put his
other arm about her, and her head fell back. The color
fled from her lips, her eyes closed, and for a few sec-
onds unconsciousness would have supervened; but he
pressed kisses on her lips, and she made a last choking
resistance.
He put one foot on the arm of the low chair to bet-
ter support the weight she had flung upon him, and
with his one disengaged hand softly caressed her hair.
"Ah, that's better, that's better. The old Hester
was never a fool, and always ready to take the gifts the
gods sent her without complaining. Hester, my lovely,
adorable Hester, do you hear what I say?"
She passed one hand across her eyes, and looked up
into his so close to hers. She seemed to realize and
struggled to be free; but he held her close in a fierce,
passionate embrace, till her bosom heaved with his and
their breaths mingled.
"Don't—no—I shall scream."
He let her go rather suddenly, and guided her to the
lounge chair. She dropped all in a heap and crumpled
up, with her elbows on her knees, and her face hidden
in her hands. Nothing seemed to matter now. Her
brain was turned to cotton wool, the ground below was
swimming, and hammers were beating on her temples.
He returned to his smoking and lighted a cigar with
a sigh of evident satisfaction. "Ah, I knew you would
be sensible," he murmured between the puffs, "I asked
you to come down and talk to me that we might come


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 293
to some pleasant arrangement. I've not the slightest
desire to wreck your eminently respectable life. I feel
to a certain extent responsible for the present situation,
and I want to assure you that there is no immediate
cause for anxiety, or hysterical consternation, or fran-
tic heroics. You've got over your surprise. You must
accustom yourself to look upon me as the father-in-
law of Jack, the Squire of Dingle Hall, and—your hus-
band's best friend."
She swayed from side to side, and seemed to be pay-
ing little attention.
"Do you hear what I say, Hester?—your husband's
best friend, with all privileges."
"I heard. You have said it or insinuated it before.
I am not so vile as you imagine."
"Yet you married the Bishop, so I understand, with-
out any whisper of a previous husband, dead or alive."
She moaned and sobbed monotonously.
"Ah! I see, we are not so immaculate. My scrupu-
lous Hester can swallow her scruples sometimes. Well,
if you could rise to such heights of—er—shall I say de-
ception in the days of youth and folly, in your more
mature worldliness, surely you can see the expediency
of not raising a frightful scandal in the diocese—
through all England, in fact."
"I know, I know."
"In short, you must bow your head to circumstances
—the circumstances being my sovereign will and pleas-
ure. For once in a way I find myself a husband with
absolute control of his wife."
He paused, and examined the lighted end of his
cigar, hugely enjoying his sneer.
"What are your terms?" she asked coldly, and with
rather disconcerting calmness. She dropped her hands


294 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
and clasped them before her and looked with unseeing
eyes into the screen of ferns in the grate.
"You put it crudely, Hester, as though I were a
mercenary person."
"You have not come here for me. You have an-
other object. You have worse designs."
"I am glad you admit that a man can do worse than
desire his own wife."
"Enough of that!" she cried, rising to her feet again,
and facing him with passionate disdain. "You have
come here to steal, to follow your profession to the
detriment of your daughter's future. You have come
here for my emeralds."
"And may I ask who is your informant?"
"Your own child—our child. Oh, Dick, for God's
sake, show a spark of manhood. Have you no moral
sense, no heart, no conscience? Must you ruin your
own child's happiness?"
He winced a little and stared at the ground, frown-
ing and biting his mustache savagely. His eyeglass
dropped from his eye, and he looked really villainous.
"So my daughter was your informant. That's a lie.
It was you who gave me away to the child. It was you
who betrayed me. That was what decided me to give
you no quarter when it came to fighting. I have kept
the girl's hands free, so far, and her mind, too. I don't
think she would lie to her husband, for instance, as
you lied to yours."
"I never lied!" she cried weakly and piteously, wring-
ing her hands in a manner that revealed the spot in her
armor through which he could pierce her to the very
soul.
"Why have you poisoned Mabel's mind against me?"
"I did nothing of the kind. She knows you for what


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 295
you are. She warned me that you had come down here
to steal my emeralds."
"Indeed! I beg to doubt your word."
"It is true. She overheard you discussing the mat-
ter with your man."
"With Voss? The fool!" Bannister cursed Voss
below his breath, and it was a few moments before he
could recover his composure. He shrugged his shoul-
ders cynically.
"Well, well, since you know why I am here, there is
no further need for warning on my part. I did come
down for your exquisite emeralds; but I almost
changed my mind when I found a jewel of my own in
the house that was more precious than a thousand
gems convertible in Amsterdam."
"What is the meaning of your elaborate fraud about
Dingle Hall, and your talk of allowing a thousand a
year to Mabel? It is all a hideous swindle, of which
you are making me and your child the victim. You are
a devil in human shape. You are not fit to live."
"Hush! No hysterics, please. I am merely contem-
plating an early retirement from business, like a
wealthy stock broker, or a fat Bishop, or any other
plunderer of the public. I told you years ago that I
should weary of my adventurous life. I have plundered
almost as successfully as—as a Bishop; but unfortu-
nately my income is not enough to allow me to live at
Dingle Hall and keep up a position sufficiently dignified
for the father-in-law of Jack Cardew. I cannot allow
my daughter a thousand a year without feeling the
pinch. I would willingly spare her that amount, if I
had it—but I haven't. You have, though, Hester."
"My own income is nothing," she cried. "What can
I do?"


296 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"No, but your jewels are worth a great deal, and
would supply the deficiency—if they were turned into
cash."
"What do you mean?" she exclaimed. "What are
you suggesting? I turn them into cash—for Mabel?"
"Not that you should pawn them—oh, dear no, that
would be too risky. But if they were stolen in the
night, say—well then "He looked uneasily to-
wards the door, and came and bent over her. "Such
things are best talked of in the open air."
He put out a hand to touch her, but she drew back
as from contamination, and gazed at him in horror.
"You expect me to do this!—to consent to rob my
husband?—I would die first. You can't mean it?"
The look of helpless terror on her face was pitiable.
He was a little sorry for her.
"No, Hester, I won't ask you to do it. I'll give the
whole thing up, if you like. I don't want the dirty
emeralds. I'd rather have you. You are worth more
than all the jewels in the world. You're in a hopeless
position—you must see it. You can't go on living
here. Fling it all up, and come away with me. I'll
give up the old game. I've got enough for both of us.
We can have an easy and comfortable time—a respect-
able one, too, if you wish it. Come—you are mine.
You are the old sweet darling."
He clasped her in his arms and held her to him in
an iron grip. She closed her eyes as if in pain, and her
breath came in gasps, but she neither resisted nor list-
ened.
He lost all control of himself.
"Hester, Hester, I let you go once because I loved
you. I'm going to take you back for the same reason."
"You will never take me back. I would rather die.


298 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
over her mouth and forced her roughly against the ta-
ble, thrusting her head back by the fierce pressure of
his hand till her white throat was strained to choking
point.
He seemed to be maddened by her beauty, for he
laughed wildly, and, flinging his arms about her,
pressed kisses on the alabaster throat till she shrank
away, in groaning, shuddering fright.
"Dick—Dick—for Mabel's sake—have mercy! You
are behaving foolishly. Think of our child—she has a
future"
She talked at random, and he mastered himself. He
drew her from the table towards the arm chair; but she
broke away and rushed for the door. He made a dash
to prevent her; but the door opened quickly in ghostly
fashion, and, out of the black hollow beyond, the gaunt
figure of Aunt Caroline appeared. He drew back at
the first sound, and stood as if turned to stone, but
when he saw who it was, he laughed contemptuously
and turned away with perfect composure.
Hester, wild-eyed and terror-stricken, wondered
how much the old lady had heard; but the instinct of
self-preservation came to her aid, and she pulled her-
self together with a great effort.
"How—how you startled us, Caroline," she mur-
mured.
The od lady held the door wide open, and, pointing
her long, lean finger to the darkness beyond, mur-
mured the simple command—
"To bed!"
That was all she said, and it was impossible to dis-
obey or argue. "I will settle with this man," she added,
as Hester crept out.
Evidently Caroline had heard a good deal. She paid


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 299
no further heed to Hester, but fixed Bannister with
her glittering eyes; her lips were tight drawn and blood-
less, and her face was grey in its cold pallor. The man
fidgeted a little; there was no timidity in this woman at
any rate.
Hester half way up the stairs stopped and listened in
an agony of apprehension; but the door closed behind
Aunt Caroline with a bang.
"Well, madam, and why am I favored by this mid-
night visit?" asked Bannister, walking to the fireplace
and examining a picture over the mantelpiece with af-
fected unconcern.
"For the same reason that Hester came here—be-
cause you are a villain and a rascal, and because some-
thing must be done before you work further mischief.
My brother's wife has forfeited her right to rule in this
establishment. From this hour I take command.
.Whilst my brother lies ill I stand in his place."
"Indeed!"
"And I request that you will pack up your things and
depart by the eight o'clock train to-morrow morning."
"How extremely hospitable! Is there not an earlier
train?"
"Yes there's one at six."
"At six. Oh, no. I fear I must trouble you for
breakfast. The eight o'clock is early enough. If the
mistress of the house desires me to go—well, I will
think about it Lady Hester did not give me to under-
stand that she had abdicated her position."
"You will leave this house to-morrow. And your
child will go with you."
"There again I fear you are in error, Miss Cardew;
Jack is coming home to-morrow, and he will expect
to find his affianced wife here."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 301
my nephew are all dear to me. But if peace has to be
bought, I am willing to pay—and pay handsomely. So
name your price to leave this house, to leave England
and take your daughter with you. Why don't you go
back to Vienna, Dick Gordon?"
Bannister did not reply. He only smiled, and, after
a long silence, took out his watch and looked at it lan-
guidly. Then he yawned and stared at the ceiling, the
walls, and the floor, as if patiently waiting for more.
The old lady stood on the same spot without moving a
muscle. Only her eyes seemed to be alive. At last
the man broke the silence.
"This conversation would be amusing if the hour
were not so late, Miss Cardew. I'm afraid I must go to
bed. You disturbed my tete-ci-tete with Lady Hester;
but your humorous sallies are not sufficiently amusing
to keep me awake."
He would have walked to the door, but she stood
in his path, grim and unrelenting.
"Oh, you don't deceive me, Mr. Dick Gordon.
What is it to be, the police or a cheque?"
He showed signs of irritation now. That uncom-
fortable word "police" was one which he usually dis-
dained and ignored; yet the mention of it never fails to
produce a slight uneasiness in a thief.
"Madam, I wish you would allow me to go to bed."
"You can make your price high. I shall not wince.
I know that when dealing with men of your type one
must pay through the nose. How much is it to be—
a thousand pounds?"
Even Dick Gordon was rather staggered at the mu-
nificence of the offer, and in a subconscious way he con-
sidered it, and came to the conclusion that a needy
man might do worse than blackmail a Bishop's sister.


302 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Madam, your money has no interest for me. I
much esteem your brother's wife, as you doubtless sus-
pect, and I am delighted to have your nephew as a son-
in-law. I put myself in her ladyship's hands entirely.
I abide by her decision, and she has decided that I
should become one of the family. The Bishop, I un-
derstand, much resents your interference in his affairs.
He is suffering now from the effects of it."
The old lady listened unmoved except to exclaim
sharply—
"Two thousand."
There was a pause.
"Men of your kind always have their price. Will
you go, or must I appeal to your daughter and offer her
the money? Is she a partner in the swindle? You
know that you have nothing, that you are nobody, that
your talk of buying Dingle Hall is empty boast, that
your promised settlements are a fraud. I am offering
you money in large sums. Don't be a fool. Take it, and
clear off with your child. Hester has suffered enough
in the concealment of her sin—how much, I never
guessed until to-night. What I overheard at the door
explains many things; at the same time the knowledge
makes me mistress here. I tell you my nephew shall
not marry a scamp's daughter."
"But suppose they are married already, my dear
Miss Cardew."
The old lady bit her lip and faltered. She had thought
of this, but the idea had been dismissed, and she would
not entertain it now.
"I am not dealing in suppositions."
"Then let me inform you, in strictest confidence,
Miss Cardew, that I have very grave suspicions that
my girl is Mrs. Jack Cardew."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 305
"My dear madam, if you offered me twenty thou-
sand pounds I could not do as you wish. You are talk-
ing in the clouds."
"Oh, so twenty thousand pounds is your price? It
is too much."
Mr. Bannister went hot and cold. It was obvious
that the old lady would consider any sum. It was a
great temptation. If he could only take the money—
and Hester, too!
He rammed his eyeglass in his eye, and caressed his
beard thoughtfully, scratching it irritably now and then
to stimulate his confused faculties. Why not take the
bribe, anyway? Hush money, once paid, was rarely or
never recovered, whether the services paid for were
rendered by the receiver or not. The mere accept-
ance of a bribe would not enable him to separate Mabel
and Jack; and he had no wish to do so; but if the worst
came to the worst, and the old lady exposed him, he
could do very nicely with that twenty thousand
pounds.
He would have closed there and then, but for his
lust for Hester. He could not give her up. She was
a prize worth more than the whole of Aunt Caroline's
fortune. The very thought rendered money of no
value. All worldly considerations were as naught; the
fever of the old love was burning in his veins, and the
blood raced through them as with the return of youth.
It was a case of money be hanged.
"Madam, you are insulting me by your offer. I beg
you will stand aside and allow me to go to bed."
"Very well," she replied calmly, "I know your terms.
I will consider them. Twenty thousand pounds."
"I have made no terms."
"Hester shall know what I have done; and she must


306 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
understand that it is for my brother's sake, not hers.
She has no wish to have anything further to do with
you, and if you are a man, and not a cur, you won't pur-
sue a helpless woman who would be glad to see you
dead rather than touch a hair of your head. As for
your daughter, I believe that she is not tainted with
your venom, though she may inherit some of her
mother's foolishness. I shall put the case to her; and,
if she has a spark of womanhood and any regard for the
man she has tricked into marriage, she will urge you to
accept my proposition and take her abroad at once."
"You seem to be arranging things very nicely, old
lady," snarled Bannister, losing his self-command. His
sneering attitude dropped away, and the angry ruffian
burst through. "You can talk as much as you please;
but I'll thank you to leave my daughter alone. Say a
word to her about me, or about her mother, or her hus-
band, and I go straight to the Bishop and inform him
of all the malicious, libellous, idiotic- delusions you
have got into your poor old head. And then, if he is
wise, he'll have you put away in an asylum. Good
night."
He strode out and left her, and she remained stand-
ing in the middle of the room, lost in thought.
"I've won," she murmured at last. "There's some
humanity in the rascal, after all. He is touchy about
his daughter—fond of her, no doubt. She doesn't
know what a blackguard he is—or he thinks she
doesn't. He'll consider it over. Oh, Hester, Hester,
you poor weak fool! If I had only known—if you had
only told me, what trouble it would have saved!"
When Bannister reached his room he expected to


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 307
find Voss waiting there as usual. In this he was disap-
pointed. Voss was sulking. Their quarrel had been
fiercer than ever before, and the master had gone too
far; he had overreached himself; he had grown arro-
gant with the near approach of his retirement from
business, and made a fatal mistake in "rounding" on his
partner for too much zeal.
The emeralds were still in the safe, and recent de-
velopments seemed to suggest that they might remain
there forever. All his nice professional calculations
were being upset by human nature in its most aggra-
vating form. Voss was greedy, and he himself had lost
his head over a woman—and that woman his own wife.
Now, Aunt Caroline had stepped on to the stage, and
the play was developing along unexpected lines.
He had hardly closed the door when a light tapping
attracted his attention. For the moment he half ex-
pected Hester.
No, it was Mabel. She had changed her dress for a
morning frock, and jacket and gloves; a hat completed
her costume, which was evidently intended for a jour-
ney.
She entered without apology, and did not deign to
answer her father's questioning glance. When he had
closed the door she turned and faced him eye to eye.
He could see then that, although she was outwardly
calm, a storm was raging within; her features were
hard set, and her eyes sparkled with mental fever.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked curtly.
"Why aren't you in bed?"
"Because I do not intend to sleep another night in
this house."
"Oho! So you, too, are on the warpath."
"I have come to give you my reasons for going."


308 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"And suppose I don't want to hear them?"
"You must hear—you shall hear!"
"Haven't I had enough of your insolence to-night
without being obliged to listen to more? A pretty
daughter!"
"And a pretty father, you! Yes, I've found you out.
I know all about you, and I don't thank you for rearing
me in ignorance of my true position. You have not
only ruined my life, but—another's."
"I'm your father, and I'll not be talked to like this,"
he blustered, feeling more ill at ease than before a
dozen Aunt Carolines.
"You are a fraud and a swindler, and you are here
under false pretences. You deceived me about my
mother"
"Your mother is dead."
"My mother is alive, and in this house."
He changed color and tried to speak, but his utter-
ance was choked by rage. At last he managed to blurt
out: "Oh, so she has told you, has she? And I sup-
pose you're going to desert your father, and take your
mother's side."
"I am going to desert both my father and my
mother. Which of you is the greatest sinner I cannot
tell at present. My reason seems almost unhinged. I
cannot think clearly. I can't realize everything yet;
but this I know, I have no right in this house, and I
must go."
"Oh!"
"And you will go too."
"It is kind of you to think of me, but I am old enough
to take care of myself, and you should have sense
enough to mind your own business. Go to bed."
"Not in this house—with that poor old man lying


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 309
ill, and all on my account. If he knew what we were
he would have us driven forth with whips."
"Look here, my girl, if you're going to talk this
kind of twaddle I shall take severe measures with you.
I'm not going to be dictated to by a child. You are my
daughter, and"
"And I am Jack Cardew's wife. God forgive me for
that, too!"
"Well, I knew that. It is no news," he replied, with
a laugh. "That's just the reason why you can't go if
you want to. Your mother has been blabbing secrets
to you in a fit of sentimentality, I suppose, and you
think you've got me in a corner. But you have made
a mistake."
"You have come down here to steal."
"And pray, how do you arrive at that amazing con-
clusion?"
"Deny it if you can. Tell me how you have lived
all these years, where the money came from to educate
me, feed and clothe me. Didn't I see you swindle poor
Mr. Blunt? I thought that was the worst. It was bad
enough, and made me want to kill myself for very
shame. But what I heard at the jeweler's, and in your
talks with Voss, when you thought I was in my room,
showed me that you were worse than a swindler—a
thief."
He clenched his fist and raised it as though about to
strike, but controlled himself with a supreme effort.
He recovered and shrugged his shoulders in the old
way.
"Sit down," he said quietly, motioning to an arm
chair, and drawing another forward into the wide space
in front of the dressing table where the lights were. "I
didn't expect to have to justify myself or explain my


'3io THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
affairs to a child, but now that you are married and
have stumbled upon things you were never meant to
hear, I suppose you are entitled to know all."
She sat down and surveyed him with her keen eyes
wonderingly. He had ceased to be her father; he was
an amazing monster. He took out a cigarette and
lighted it, for he found speech harder than he expected.
At last he commenced briskly.
"When I was your age I was at Oxford, and my
father was alive. His name was Bannister. That is my
right name, and yours. He was a moderately success-
ful physician, with a large income, which he spent
chiefly on himself, and he gave me to understand that
there was nothing for me after my university career
was finished. He died suddenly, and I was left penni-
less. I came down from Oxford full of enthusiasm and
Socialistic notions, but eager for work. I had a good
many friends—so had my father. They used to talk
of what they would do for me in the future. There
were snug berths to be had, and as I had not been
trained for any particular profession the necessity of
getting a berth of some kind was the only anxiety I
ever expected to have in life. Well, I came to London
penniless, to find myself friendless. My father's friends
fell away, and regretted they could do nothing for me.
My own friends knew of nothing that would suit me. If
they met me in the street they crossed the road or
looked the other way.
"I soon realized that I was unfitted for any kind of
work, and that a classical education does not help one
to get even a common clerkship at a pound a week. I
came down to my last shilling. I starved." He paused
and re-lighted his cigarette. Mabel waited patiently.
"I was reduced to such extremities that my only


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 311
means of getting food was to call upon my acquaint-
ances at an inconvenient hour and stay for the next
meal—which was not always offered me. Fortunately,
at Oxford, I had cultivated the wealthy and most care-
less set, so that the houses open to me were of the
richest and most luxurious—the most maddening
places for a poor devil who was pawning his clothes,
and would soon be too shabby to be admitted by a
mere footman without suspicious scrutiny. I had to
borrow, and people were beginning to give me the cold
shoulder. My old chums frequently denied themselves
to me when I knew they were at home. They feared
that I wanted something, and I did: I wanted to live, to
eat, to be warm, to have a roof over my head that
I could call my own. Things got worse. My pride
grew troublesome. I could ask for no more.
"One day I pocketed a gold cigar case belonging to
a millionaire, and I pawned it. That was after two days'
starvation. I could scarcely stand when I entered the
shop. I remember it now as though it were yester-
day, and if ever I need a stimulus to brace me for dan-
gerous work I think of that hungry day. I swore I
would never starve again.
"I was able to secure other precious trifles, and they
kept me going for a few weeks. But my self-respect
was falling, my rage against mankind increasing, and
I scorned to be a common pilferer. I intended to live,
and live well. Since I must prey upon mankind I would
do it seriously and artistically, as became a gentleman
of education. I was no common ruffian to snatch dia-
monds from a lady's throat. There are degrees in ev-
erything. There is a wide gap between the man who
breaks the glass in a jeweler's window and carries off
gems to the value of thousands and the humble sneak-


312 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
ing wretch who steals for bread. Both choose the
same road, but only the fool steals for bread. I was
no fool.
"In short, my dear daughter, I arrived early at the
conclusion that it was as easy to make a thousand
pounds as a thousand shillings. I had no good friends
on the Stock Exchange to help me rob the widow and
the orphan by finance, and I was no Robin Hood to
pilfer from the rich to feed the poor. Still, I had some
hankering after respectability, and I mapped out a line
of conduct which I have followed ever since. I have
lived as the rich live. I deny myself nothing. I take
my fill of life's pleasures. At first I wandered round
the world, moving among my old friends, who were
ready enough to receive me when I announced the
death of a wealthy relative who was supposed to have
left me a fortune. No one questioned how I lived, so
long as I could go their pace and not be poor. They
were willing to shower hospitality upon me, and put
me in the way of good speculations now—in short, all
that I needed when I was starving was available now
that I was rich. The whole game of life is a great swin-
dle, only some folks swindle and persuade themselves
that they are living honorably. They mistake respec-
tability for honesty."
"But my mother?" queried Mabel, to whom this
cynical story was full of horror.
"Ah, I am coming to that. I told you that I always
moved among the best. I met your mother at a dance.
I fell in love. I think it was the first human emotion
that I ever felt; and I got it badly. She knew nothing
of my life, and she had no suspicion. I was just a gay.
wealthy idler, whereas she was living in genteel pov-
erty, bored to death and aching for a taste of life. We
were married."


314 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
quite genuine. With all his vanity and cynical philoso-
phy, he was horribly deficient in moral sense. He was
quite persuaded that his experience of the difficulty of
living was uncommon, and that his early struggles
quite justified his present mode of life. To bare his
heart and explain the motives which dominated his su-
preme egotism, and be misunderstood, was very gall-
ing. Yet he saw that he was losing his child forever,
as he had lost his wife. The gulf between them was
widening every moment, and he was losing something
of which he was very fond. For, in his way, he was
devoted to his beautiful daughter. He had looked
upon her as his—all that he had, in fact, in the way of
kith or kin. His peculiar mode of life had kept him
at war with the whole world, but this one fair flower
had been always his, untainted, trusting, devoted, an
everlasting credit to his good taste and shrewd sense.
Well, he could spare her better now—now that he
had discovered Hester. But he would not have her in-
terfering with his plans and upsetting his last great
coup by disappearing from the Palace, and from her
husband. He had practically purchased Dingle Hall,
and had built up a picturesque and interesting future.
If she deserted him now there would be a crash in his
affairs. Voss was in open mutiny; Hester had fallen
under the dominion of Aunt Caroline; and now his
child was up in arms. It only needed Hester to have
an hysterical attack, and fling herself upon the Bishop's
mercy with a dramatic confession, to complete the con-
fusion of his plans.
He played his last card with his daughter. Speak-
ing with a voice apparently broken with emotion, he
put a gentle hand upon her arm.
"Mabel, my darling, your father has been an unfor-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 315
tunate man. He tried to do his best for you, even to
shutting his eyes to your follies—but you must not
leave your husband."
She drew away with a little sob, and tried in vain to
recover herself. He had touched the tenderest chord.
"You have married Jack Cardew. There is no put-
ting aside bonds of that kind. You must do your duty
by him. I'll have no child of mine wrecking a man's
life. He knows nothing of our secret. What right
have you to spoil his career at the very outset—just
when he has made his first success. He has won his
big case, and he may make five thousand a year at the
Bar some day. But if his wife plunges him into misery
and leaves him—as my wife left me—what will be the
result? Come, come, Mabel, don't cry like that. Pull
yourself together. There is no sense in ruining your
own happiness because your father is—well, a wrong
'un from your point of view. I am not going to be a
burden and a disgrace to you as many a man would
under the circumstances. I am a rich man, Mabel. I
can fulfil all my obligations and make the allowance I
promised when I settled matters with the Bishop. You
will have no reason to be ashamed of your father. As
the Squire of Dingle Hall I shall be a figure in the
county."
"Oh, what would Jack say if he knew?"
"You need not tell Jack anything. Henceforth my
extremely respectable existence will be a credit to
you."
"I don't believe you—I don't believe you," she cried.
"You came down here to steal. You came down here
for the emeralds."
"Ah, there you put your finger upon a flaw in my
case, and since you seem bent on being brutally frank,


316 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
we will be both quite frank. Then we shall know ex-
actly where we stand. I admit that, in making my cal-
culations for your future, I decided that you mother's
beautiful emeralds should be converted into cash solely
for your benefit. They will come to you some day,
when you will never want them. In the meantime I
prefer that their value should be added to our common
exchequer. Your mother, thank goodness, has learned
discretion, and has seen my point of view. Her mar-
riage with the Bishop cannot possibly be upset, and in
return for silence on my part she will hand over the
emeralds—a matter of twenty or thirty thousand
pounds."
"She will steal for you—steal—and continue to live
with the Bishop?"
"I am sure she will. If you think it out, my child,
you will see that she must do so. It is her duty to
atone for the wrong done the Bishop in marrying with-
out confessing that she had married before. She knows
now that she has a daughter. The dearest wish of her
life has apparently been gratified in this knowledge.
There will be no public exposure, no scandal. You
will be one of the family, her own daughter almost in
the sight of the world, because your marriage with the
Bishop's son ties you forever to the Cardew family—
and to that particularly shrewd and dangerous person,
Aunt Caroline, who knows nothing worse against me
than that I played cards for heavy stakes and quar-
relled over them in Vienna. She learned that from
Mr. Crick, the reformed inebriate. When I say noth-
ing worse, I mean on the moral side. She has, unfor-
tunately, discovered that you are Hester's child."
"Aunt Caroline has discovered that!" gasped Mabel,
clasping her hands on her bosom and gazing at him
with eyes starting out of her head.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 317
"Yes, she has been eavesdropping. Your mother,
with characteristic folly, betrayed herself by screaming
out the truth while the old lady was within hearing. So,
you see, you had better resign yourself to things as
they are. You can't right them by running away. It
may ruin us all, your mother included—and most cer-
tainly your husband."
"Oh, if I could only face Jack and explain," sobbed
Mabel, dropping back into her chair and covering her
face. She wept from sheer helplessness, and swayed
from side to side. Her father saw his advantage, and
pressed it home.
"You could not possibly explain. He would never
understand. You haven't done anything that you need
be ashamed of, and the less he knows the better."
"But his aunt knows," moans the girl.
"Have no fear of Aunt Caroline. She fears scandal
more than the devil. I shall be able to manage her. I
happen to know a good deal about the old lady. I had
a friend at Oxford, who was afterwards very useful—I
didn't know at the time how useful. He did dirty work
for me occasionally, and I lent him money. He mar-
ried a baker's daughter at Oxford while he was under-
grad, and deserted her. After that his specialty was
preying upon rich women. He was a parson, but a
gambler and a fool, and he did everything clumsily. He
made love to the sister of a vicar in the East End—a
woman old enough to know better—and he was going
to marry her. They got as far as Dover, but they were
never married. He was afraid of bigamy. I am mor-
ally certain that the lady was Miss Cardew. I heard
the whole business. I needn't go into details. The
facts are sufficiently commonplace to make it indis-
tinguishable from thousands of such cases—with one


CHAPTER XXI
Miss CARDEW was up betimes and wandering about
the house. She was as alert as ever, despite a night
with never a wink of sleep or a moment's rest. She
waited expectantly for Mr. Bannister, fully believing
that he would have come to the conclusion that it was
better to go by the early train and accept her offer.
But there was no sign of the guest stirring, and his
man was not to be seen. This was at seven o'clock.
She was both disappointed and astonished. That the
fellow should scorn her offer of thousands was incon-
ceivable. The only thing that could prevent him going
would be the obstinacy of his daughter, who might not
be prepared to abandon her husband at such short no-
tice. The old lady supposed that Mabel would be open
to bribery; but if the girl had a conscience, her father
might finally exercise paramount influence.
If Bannister himself held out she must, as a last re-
sort, appeal to Mabel. With this end in view she
knocked softly at the girl's bedroom door.
Some one was stirring within, but there was no an-
swer at first. She knocked more loudly.
"Who it is?" asked a husky voice.
"It, is I, Miss Cardew. I want to speak to you."
Mabel came to the door and turned the handle; but,
of course, it would not open; her father had the key.
"I can't let you in."
"Why not, my child?" asked the old lady, in as kindly
a tone as she could manage.
319


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 321
"Yes, I'm going away," replied Mabel sulkily. She
put on her hat very calmly. "The Bishop is ill. I can
do nothing, and guests are only in the way at such a
time."
The old lady felt sorry for the girl. Her bitter jeal-
ousy vanished now that she had Jack's wife utterly at
her mercy.
"I cannot help thinking that you are wise to go, my
dear. I presume your father had a talk with you after
my interview with him last night."
"What interview?"
"We had a little business conversation. I want him
to go away too.'"
Mabel flashed round a frightened glance; a piteous,
hunted look came into her eyes; but the old lady re-
assured her by placing a hand on her shoulder. "I am
very sorry for you, my child. I know your secret—
and your mother's."
Mabel drew away in shame.
"Your father cannot remain in this house; my
brother is ill, and you both have a very good excuse
for going."
"Oh, you needn't think I want driving away," cried
Mabel desperately. "I should have gone last night,
but I was prevented."
"There is one question I want to ask you, my child.
Was your marriage with Jack—ah, yes, you see I know
that you are married to Jack—purely a love affair be-
tween you two, or was it a planned conspiracy between
you and your father?"
"How dare you insult me by such a question?" cried
Mabel, white with anger.
"I don't wish to insult you, my child, but I must be
frank. The circumstances with which we are dealing


324 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"It is."
"Child, you cannot go there. You are of our faith,
and you must not imperil your immortal soul"
"Don't talk to me of your faith. I do not want such
a faith. You have no Christian charity, and you only
come here to torture me. You know what you are
trying to do—to drive me to kill myself so that Jack
will be rid of me and be free to marry Beatrice as you
intended."
"My poor child, you don't know what you are say-
ing. You are talking wildly, and you do me an injus-
tice—a terrible injustice."
"You've never been anything but rude and insulting
to me," cried the girl, standing with clenched hands
and flaming eyes before the gaunt old lady. "You're
a scheming, cruel, wicked woman. You don't care any-
thing for Jack's happiness so long as he does what you
want, and marries whom you wish. Do you think
Beatrice would be happy with him if she knew all about
me?"
"Tut-tut, girl, calm yourself and lower your voice."
"I have written my letter to Jack, and I am going
to London by the first train. If Jack should try to fol-
low me—as he is sure to do—he mustn't know any-
thing of my movements. So I shan't tell you or any-
body else. All I ask of you is that you will spare my
mother now that you know her secret, and not vent
your miserable spite by plotting her ruin. It's easy to
see how you hate her. You show it every time you
look at her."
Mabel could not bring herself to say more for fear
that she would reveal too much. Aunt Caroline knew
the secret of her birth, and she dreaded what would
happen if the old lady were to discover, or even sits-


326 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
Mabel paid no heed; and the old lady seemed to for-
get her existence; she was looking back over the years
of her own barren existence. The bright eyes grew
dim, the muscles of her face became strained, and the
hard lines of the mouth were tense and drawn. When
next Mabel looked up, a great tear was rolling down
Aunt Caroline's cheek. The thin, bony hands had
dropped to her sides, and the fingers worked convul-
sively. Her breath was labored, and the haughty car-
riage of the head had given place to a weary droop.
Her chin rested on her breast. The excitement and
anxiety of the night were telling upon her, and she
looked like fainting.
"You are not ill?"
The old lady beckoned for a chair, and, when the
girl brought it, sank down, limp and ashen. Mabel
put on her gloves slowly, wondering how soon she
could escape. This miserable interview had become
meaningless. It altered nothing; it only made the ob-
vious more inevitable. She looked at her watch. It
had stopped—it was symbolical of everything that be-
longed to the hitherto. With the winding of her watch
began a new life. The clicking of the cogs as her shak-
ing fingers turned the little gold knob seemed to arouse
Aunt Caroline.
"It's no good your thinking of going yet awhile.
The train doesn't leave till eight. You must have some
breakfast, child, and—and I think I had better see Lady
Hester first. Your mother surely has some right to
demand the information you refuse me. I'll not be re-
sponsible for driving you away in your present frame
of mind. I have no animosity against you; and you
must try and realize that. If you cannot be generous, at
least be just. I was prepared to dislike you in the be-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 327
ginning; but when I saw you I was only angry because
you were not what I expected, and I—I couldn't hate
you. You were too young, and fresh, and innocent.
Please understand that. I absolve you from all blame.
You are a child of sin, but you are not like your father.
I want to be friends with you."
She held out two trembling hands, but Mabel drew
back.
"Jack will hate you all his life for this. He will guess
that you were at the bottom of it. If it hadn't been for
you I could have faced him."
"No, don't say that, Mabel, don't say that," cried
the old woman piteously. "You shan't set him against
me."
"He'll never forgive you, and he'll search the world
until he finds me. I feel it, I know it. That's what
paralyzes me. I don't know where to go. He knows
all about my life and my friends. If I go to the con-
vent that is the first place he would think of. Oh, what
ami to do?'"
"Child, I'm afraid we may both be wrong. Jack will
certainly feel that he had a right to be consulted. He
mustn't imagine that I had any hand in ruining his
life."
"No, you want to stand well with him and injure me
at the same time. But you can't do it. I told him how
impossible it would be for us to declare our folly to the
world—how it would rob him of your fortune and
make bad blood between you and his father. I know
my own father is impossible. I am only a thief's daugh-
ter."
"Hush, my child. Not so bad as that, I hope. It is
an ugly term for a daughter to use."
"It is true, nevertheless," cried Mabel recklessly.


328 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"The clothes I wear don't belong to me. The jewelry
I am taking away to sell probably belongs to somebody
else. A nice wife for a lawyer! Why, some day my
own husband may be called upon to prosecute my
father in the felon's dock! What does it matter what
becomes of me—whether I die in the gutter, or in the
workhouse—or in the Thames?"
Mabel gave way to her passion, and frightened the
elder woman, who put a gentle hand on her shoulder;
but she flung her off, almost striking her.
"I am going. Don't touch me. You need not thrust
me out. I shan't make a scene. I shall be obliged if
you will order a servant to take those two bags to the
station. I shall walk down at once and wait for the
train."
"Surely it would be better if you waited for your
father. I fancy he will be going early this morning."
"My father!" cried the girl contemptuously. "He
will not stir till eleven. If you were to send in word
that I was leaving him forever, he would only turn
over and curse you for awakening him."
"I have offered him money to go away."
"Oh! perhaps you came here to offer me money, too!
Thank you. I understand your generous instincts.
Hush money they call it, don't they? Well, you need
not pay any money to keep me quiet. My father will
take all you want to give away, and I shall be as silent
as—the dead. And now there is nothing more we
want to say to each other except good-bye. And will
you please send my things to the station? If they don't
come, I shall go without them."
Mabel tugged at her glove, and finished the last but-
tons in a most determined fashion. She swept the
room with one comprehensive, despairing glance and


330 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"Mabel, my darling, what is it? Look" up! What
has happened to her?"
"She just fell down the steps, sir, I think. Going
down in a hurry, and tripped, and came down all of a
heap."
Jack was terrified for a few moments; but the girl's
heavy breathing reassured him. At least she was alive.
Aunt Caroline arrived at the door in time to see the
young man dismount, and hurried down the steps to
help him.
All efforts to restore the girl were unavailing. Jack
was alarmed; but his aunt assured him that it was only
a faint. But she spoke so falteringly and apologetically
that her nephew seemed to suspect that something was
wrong.
"Why was she going out at this hour—before break-
fast?" he asked.
"I—I suppose she expected you," faltered Aunt
Caroline, taking refuge in a lie, and feeling shockingly
guilty.
They carried Mabel indoors and applied the usual
restoratives, but without avail. She breathed more
easily, but her eyes would not open. Jack instinctively
guessed that she had sustained some serious injury,
and resolved to carry her upstairs to her room to await
the coming of the doctor. His aunt led the way, and
by the time she reached the top of the stairs remem-
bered Mabel's letter left for Jack. She hurried on in
advance, and entered the room just in time to snatch
up the missive and hide it. Never before had she been
afraid of Jack. If she had dealt Mabel a blow with her
own hand she could not have felt more guilty.
They had not long to wait before the arrival of the
doctor. A servant met him coming up to the Palace
to see the Bishop. He settled Mabel's fate in a few


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 331
moments, and located the trouble. She had struck the
sharp edge of the stone step, and there was slight con-
cussion, necessitating quiet and careful nursing for
days—perhaps weeks.
"Trouble comes not in single spies but in battalions,"
he muttered to Jack, as he took him by the arm and
led him out of the room. "I must now go and see your
father. I'll let you know what I think about him in
ten minutes. I hear he is almost himself again."
Jack walked up and down the corridor feeling very
sick at heart. It was a miserable home-coming after
his triumph of yesterday in the courts. He saw the
doctor enter his father's room, and in a few moments
the Bishop's hearty voice could be heard greeting him
cheerily.
"Not much the matter with me this morning, doc-
tor," he said; and the laugh that followed removed a
great load from Jack's heart. He returned to Mabel's
room, where his aunt was in attendance. She was
making up for past coldness by the most assiduous at-
tention to the sufferer.
At nine o'clock Voss appeared, and heard the news
of Mabel's accident from the other servants. He car-
ried the information to his master in bed. Bannister
turned over and cursed him for the disturbance; but
with the full return of waking consciousness he re-
called the scene over night, and the locked door. For
the moment he feared that she might have hurt herself
escaping from a window. But the narrative as re-
peated by Voss was concise. Mabel had been seen run-
ning down stairs with Miss Cardew calling her back;
she had gone out of the house, and fell down the flight
of stone steps. On being assured that she was receiv-
ing due attention, her loving father turned over and
went to sleep.


CHAPTER XXII
NEWS travels fast at Ripley. The Bishop's illness
was known all over the town, and the reports were
grossly exaggerated.
Beatrice Carew arrived at the Palace at half-past nine
to inquire after the Bishop's health, on behalf of her
father, and heard of the accident to Mabel. When she
was told that a nurse had been sent for, she volunteered
to act in that capacity herself. Her nursing capabilities
were well known, and the offer was not to be de-
spised, but Miss Cardew, much to her surprise, had
also volunteered for the post, and seemed so genuinely
concerned that Beatrice grew suspicious.
Lady Hester had not yet appeared upon the scene.
She made the Bishop's illness her excuse for keeping
to her own apartments. As a matter of fact, she was
afraid to face Caroline after last night's adventure. She
was expecting a coup de grace from the Bishop's sister.
It all depended upon how much she had heard of the
quarrel in the smoking room.
A hundred times the wretched woman had recalled
the conversation as far as she could remember it, and
devoutly hoped and believed that there was nothing
said which an eavesdropper could understand as reveal-
ing the one terrible secret of her relationship to the
swindler.
What had passed between the two after she left
could only be learned from Bannister himself.
The news of Mabel's accident drove her nearly
crazy; for her love for her child was stronger than her
332


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 333
love for the Bishop. It had come upon her with over-
whelming intensity, dwarfing for the moment every
other passion and interest in life. For Mabel's sake
she was prepared to go to any length—except facing
Caroline. So she remained in her room, and begged
almost piteously for news from the servants as they
passed to and fro.
The Bishop complicated matters by insisting on get-
ting up, and declaring that he was quite well enough
to attend to several matters that were overwhelmingly
urgent. The doctor spoke as plainly as he dared,
warning him of the danger he ran, and entreated him
to remain quiet.
Mr. Bannister joined Jack at the breakfast table.
His appearance there was a surprise. Such early rising
was amazing, but his appetite was poor, and he talked
platitudes about the Bishop's health. He spoke feel-
ingly about his daughter, but was not nearly so con-
cerned as Jack felt the circumstances demanded. Con-
sequently the young man was rather short with his
father-in-law, and ate what little he could choke down
in silence.
Mr. Bannister, with studied thoughtfulness, in-
structed Gray to take up breakfast to Miss Cardew,
with his compliments, and request that she would not
overtire herself in waiting on his daughter. He de-
sired her also to accept his most heartfelt gratitude for
her prompt and efficient assistance, and hoped that af-
ter breakfast he would be allowed to see his child.
The message arrived, with the tray, in Mabel's room,
but it had become rather garbled in transition. Beat-
rice, who was sitting on one side of the bed, opposite
the old lady, watched the play of her features with
some curiosity.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 335
he" presently. It was unfortunate that Mabel was hors
de combat.
Jack left his father-in-law walking on the terrace,
and crept up to his wife's room. Beatrice answered his
gentle knock, and came out onto the corridor.
"How is she, Beatrice?"
"She is better. She has been muttering. I don't
think it's so very bad, Jack. She opened her eyes just
now."
"Thank God for that!"
Then, laying her hand on his arm, Beatrice looked
Jack full in the eyes. "Jack, I know!"
"What, has she been wandering?"
"Yes, she has been going over the marriage service,
and talking to Tom Nestor."
"With Aunt Caroline there?"
"Yes; but she wasn't one little bit surprised, nor was
I—much."
"Phew!" Jack wiped the perspiration from his brow,
and walked up and down in some agitation. Not a
thought did he give to Beatrice, nor did he realize what
an effort it had cost to warn him. Any wild hope she
may have had of becoming Jack's wife was dashed for-
ever. She had been loyal in championing the girl of
his choice; and now she knew everything. Aunt Caro-
line's vigorous prophecies and threats that the mar-
riage would never come off had raised just one gleam
of hope; but it was all over now, and she was calm and
resigned. Her heart ached and throbbed with leaden
strokes.
"How did Aunt Caroline take it?"
"I told you. She didn't seem in the least surprised."
"Perhaps she didn't understand," whispered Jack
anxiously.


336 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"She understood right enough. She looked across
at me, and said, 'Do you hear?' and I nodded, and then
Mabel talked of something else."
Beatrice did not add that she bit her lip till the blood
came to stifle the sob that had risen in her throat. Nor
did she add that Aunt Caroline had put out a hand to
her across the bed, and clasped her fingers in a silent
embrace of sympathy.
The secret was out. Everybody knew it but the
Bishop, and the situation was trying in the extreme.
The doctor came again at eleven o'clock, and insisted
on the Bishop going back to bed. He brought a nurse
with him, ostensibly for Mabel, but in reality for the
Bishop, because his professional eye saw signs of strain
in Lady Hester, who was well nigh useless, and suffer-
ing sadly. She could hardly listen to three consecutive
sentences without her mind wandering, her lips mov-
ing, and her eyes roving restlessly, as if in imaginary
argument with some person not present.
"We shall have you ill next, Lady Hester," said the
doctor, taking her hand in professional fashion, and
feeling her pulse. "The best thing you can do is to
take a little exercise in the open air. Get out of doors
—get away from the sick room—and, above all, don't
worry."
"Don't worry!" she echoed, passing her white hand
across her aching brow. "It is easier said than done."
"It is easier accomplished out of doors. Come, now,
promise that you will go out. Go down stairs. Don't
remain up here."
The wretched woman was really afraid to go down.
She must face Bannister, but she did not mind that;
there was Aunt Caroline to be reckoned with, and she
had no means of knowing how much the old lady had
overheard.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 337
"I will take your advice, doctor, and go down."
"I saw a motor car in the stable yard. Can't you go
for a drive, now?"
"There is no immediate danger?"
"No danger at all. Miss Bannister is progressing
most favorably, and all your husband needs is quiet.
He will rest better when he cannot talk to you and
there is a comparative stranger attending upon him."
"I will try—I will try," murmured Lady Hester, and
she left the room, full of a new idea. It was necessary
to see Dick, to ask what had transpired between him
and Aunt Caroline. Until she knew that there was no
hope of peace.
She found the lower rooms empty, but met Beatrice
Carew at the foot of the stairs, coming up with a bag
of ice for her patient.
"Have you seen Mr. Bannister?" asked Lady Hes-
ter, without so much as a good morning, or a word of
surprise at finding her in the house.
"He was walking on the terrace just now, and I
heard Jack say he would take him round to look at the
hired car. You don't ask how Mabel is?"
"Ah, how is she?"—this eagerly.
"She is better—much."
"Thank God!" murmured the wretched mother fer-
vently, and Beatrice stared to see her friend's agitation.
"Is Miss Cardew with her?"
Beatrice nodded. At this moment Bannister en-
tered from the garden, smoking a cigar.
"Oh, Mr. Bannister, the doctor says I must get out
into the air, and recommends a drive in your motor
car."
"I should esteem it an honor, Lady Hester. My
own car is not here; but the one Jack came from town


338 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
in is a very respectable vehicle, and the chauffeur seems
intelligent. I will go and put on my things."
Voss passed along the gallery above. Bannister's
eyes shifted quickly, and he suffered a momentary anx-
iety. Voss's behavior had been abominable since their
quarrel, and he was afraid of what the fellow might do.
Beatrice was quick to notice everything. She saw
glances passing between Lady Hester and her guest,
and was rather disgusted at her ladyship's eagerness to
get away in the motor. But she was not by nature un-
charitable, and, taking into account her knowledge of
the real state of affairs between Jack and Mabel—
knowledge that was doubtless shared by her ladyship—
she tried to think that there was nothing very unusual
in the close friendship between Lady Hester and Jack's
father-in-law.
Bannister had run upstairs after her ladyship, and
whispered a few sentences that were inaudible to the
girl, passing on her way to the sick room. But she
caught the word "emeralds." It conveyed no mean-
ing, but it stuck in her memory, and she overheard
Bannister warning Lady Hester to beware of Voss.
*******
Mr. Richard Bannister and Lady Cardew took the
air in the hired motor car. They sat in the tonneau as
far away from the chauffeur as possible, and there was
a glass screen behind the man, which made it difficult
for him to overhear the conversation. They talked
rapidly.
"What happened last night after I left?"
"The old woman burst in on me and told me that she
had overheard."
"Overheard what! For God's sake, tell me! What
does she know?"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 339
"She knows that Mabel is our daughter, for one
thing."
The wretched mother groaned and hid her face in
her hands. What else?" she asked hoarsely.
"Nothing more of importance. She supposes our re-
lationship was of the usual order. She did not credit
you with so much virtue in your youth that you insisted
on being married before you ran away with me."
"Then she has no idea who you really are?"
"Not the slightest—except what she has learned
from Mr. Crick. But she has formed a shrewd esti-
mate on her own account, and has offered me a very
handsome sum of money to go away and take Mabel
with me."
"Offered you money to take Mabel away?"
"Of course. Could you expect so virtuous a spinster
to countenance the presence of a supposed child of sin
in her brother's palace?"
"What did you say?"
"I startled her with the news that Jack and Mabel
could not be so easily separated, because they were
married already; and she did not seem much surprised,
nor did she regard it as an unanswerable argument.
She thrust her offer of money upon me again, on the
assumption that Jack and Mabel must part, in any
case."
"Why?"
"Because of her parentage, first of all. Secondly,
because Aunt Caroline does not approve of Jack's
father-in-law. She's a queer old stick; but she's rich,
and I could get what I liked out of her."
"You won't Dick—oh, promise me you won't. She
is right in her way. She does it for the best. She
hates me like poison, and now she knows—oh, God
help me! What will happen?"


340 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"She won't tell the Bishop."
"How do you know?"
"Her first anxiety is to stifle scandal and keep all
worry from her brother's ears. To that end she offered
me twenty thousand pounds to go away."
"Twenty thousand pounds!" cried Hester incredu-
lously.
"Well, not exactly so much, but she would spring
that if I agreed to her terms. But it does not suit my
convenience. She wants me and Mabel to go away
abroad, and supposes that Jack would take the busi-
ness lying down."
"You won't take her money, Dick—you can't!"
"No, my darling. But money I must have—to make
me thoroughly respectable. You see, I have practi-
cally bought Dingle Hall, Jack and Mabel are married,
and—you and I are beginning to understand one an-
other."
He took her hand and held it.
"Don't—don't, Dick! You make me sick when you
say such things. Can't you see that I am nearly crazy
—that you terrify me?"
"Not so bad as that, surely," he laughed, and
changed his seat that he might come closer to her. She
tried to draw her fingers free, but he held her fast.
"I think you have realized, my dear wife, that you
must do as I say, that I hold the balance of power, and
can dictate my own terms. We can snap our fingers
at Aunt Caroline. She is crazy about Jack, and the boy
will give her a bad quarter of an hour if he gets an ink-
ling of what she's at. He will pulverize her and break
her silly old heart. No, it is purely a question of
money; and you will find my plan best, Hester. Leave
the window of your dressing room unfastened, and the


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 341
door of your safe unlocked. There will be a burglary,
and the emeralds will be stolen. I shall be fast asleep
in my room, and Voss will catch sight of a burglar dis-
appearing down the ivy outside the house. It is his
own plan, and a good one. You have no use for the
jewels, whereas I have great need of the money they
will fetch. It will be my last coup—the end of my Sa-
tanic career. Ever after I shall live happy and good,
and as content as Little Jack Homer."
"Is that all you want?" she asked sarcastically. But
he mistook her meaning, and looked earnestly into her
eyes. He gripped her fingers more fiercely.
"No, by heaven, no! You know that isn't all. I re-
gard the Bishop's emeralds as ransom and hush money.
He has had my wife too long. I want her now to come
back and be—friends with me."
"Do you think me so vile that I could live on in de-
ceit? You are mad."
"My dear Hester, you have no option. You are ut-
terly at my mercy. Don't drive me too far. Do you
want me to cry aloud your sin from the house tops, and
tell everybody that you hoodwinked the Bishop of Rip-
ley into marrying you by posing as a spinster when you
were a widow—and not even a widow?"
"Don't, don't!" she pleaded pitifully.
"Mabel and her husband will have to live on undis-
turbed, and Jack must be kept in complete ignorance
of her relationship to you."
"I shall tell my husband everything," cried the
woman recklessly, and wringing her hands in that weak,
hysterical fashion that had become common to her of
late.
"I am your husband, darling. Don't get misled.
You wouldn't like me to sue for divorce and make your
Bishop the co-respondent."


342 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
This was a new terror, which she had not contem-
plated. She stared at him in wild horror. He laughed
callously, because the idea was manifestly absurd on
the face of it.
"A Bishop in a divorce court! How do you like the
idea?"
"You are not a man—you are a fiend."
"I am very much a man, my darling. It is just that
which troubles me." He drew closer to her side, and
spoke so softly that his words were almost drowned
in the whirl of the motor. "If I were less of the man
and more of the monster I should insist on your hand-
ing over the emeralds at once, on pain of my going
straight to the Bishop and demanding hush money.
But I want more than money. I want you, my sweet
flower."
He glanced swiftly from left to right to see that they
were not observed. They were passing through flat,
open, deserted country. He put his arm about her
waist.
"Don't, don't!" she gasped, shrinking from him.
"We might be seen. Keep away. I can stand no more.
If you touch me I shall jump out of the car and kill
myself."
"No, my dear Hester, you are not of that sort. If
you were inclined to do harm to your beautiful person
you would have done it long ago. No, you make a
great fuss, you pose to yourself as a heroine, and then
you climb down and crawl round corners, and present
a fair face to the world. You must come round my
corner now. I love you, Hester. Upon my soul, I
do. I have never forgotten—but I can forgive."
"Take your arm away; for God's sake, leave me
alone! I'll do anything you like—only, don't touch
me, I beg."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 343
"You were not so shy once upon a time, my dear
Hester. You knew how to cling and to kiss. You
shall kiss me now."
He put his arm behind her. She instinctively raised
her hand to protect her face, but he grasped her wrist,
and drew her all the closer. She moaned like a thing
in pain as he crushed her back against the soft cushions
and pressed kisses on her lips. She tried to call out,
even to the driver, but the car roared on ahead, and
her cries were stifled in his beard.
"Ah, you are getting used to me again now. It is
quite like old times, is it not?"
"Yes," she hissed. "It is hell again."
He dropped her suddenly, but his hand closed upon
her wrist like an ever-tightening chain. The intensity
of his anger and his passion were expressed in that grip,
and a sense of powerlessness overcame her. She was
frightened. She knew that when he was angered and
hurt he could be cruel and brutal as the veriest ruffian.
He would be sorry for it afterwards, perhaps, for, per-
sonally, he regarded all ruffians as fools, and any out-
break of vigorous, natural feeling, was contrary to his
nature; but he was vindictive, and she prepared for the
worst.
He dropped her wrist, and rested back in his seat
with affected unconcern until the fit was passed and he
could master his speech.
"The ways of heaven are sometimes dull, my dear
Hester," he observed, after a pause, "and a taste of hell
will do you good after so much sanctity in the shadow
of a cathedral. According to your religious code, you
are running a great risk of going to that most unpleas-
ant place hereafter by breaking an important com-
mandment and living in sin with a church dignitary.
You are my wife. I claim. I'll have you back."


346 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
real tenderness for any woman except you. If you had
not deserted me perhaps I should have come to look
upon life more from your point of view. But you
soured me, and I quickly realized that great fundamen-
tal truth which was recently crystallized in a remark-
ably clever music hall song, 'What's the good of any-
think?—nothink.' That is my philosophy. I made
one reservation, however, to the universal rule. There
is one good thing that a man must have, and that is
comfort. Money is a means for that end. I once
thought there was one good woman in the world, but
it seems I was mistaken even there, so you cannot
blame me. But the woman, who was once good in
heart, is still beautiful to look upon, and delicious in
her sweet influence over the pulses of the heart, and is
still able to provoke madness in man. She also pro-
vides a possibility of sport of the rarest and most amus-
ing order—the Bishop's lady and the Squire of Dingle
Hall meeting by stealth, loving in secret, and conduct-
ing a liaison! when all the time it is make-believe, and
the lady's conscience is quite clear, because her lover
will be her own husband, and the Bishop the cuckold
left out in the cold! Your married life at the Palace
has ended, my dear Hester. You may remain there
if you like. I think it would be rather unkind to the
Bishop if you continued your present relationship—
now that you know your husband is alive. Indeed, it
would be wicked, and contrary to the command-
ments."
She had collapsed, and lay back, pale and still, listen-
ing to his cynical dissertation without the power of
feeling. She had reached the end of her tether. Mis-
ery held nothing worse for her than this cold, calculat-
ing villainy.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 347
He watched her with changing expression. First,
keen anger—for she had bitterly stung him—then
softening, and finally a troubled kind of admiration.
Her physical influence over him was more than he
could bear. All his cynicism and callous brutality
melted under the influence of that sweet personality.
He wanted to say that he was sorry, to take her hand
and kiss it, and beg for forgiveness, and pray for a lit-
tle kindness—a little of the old love—a flash of the old
gay, reckless Hester, who ran away with him and cried
"Go hang!" to the world.
She was quiet for such a long time that he feared
she had fainted. He put his hand upon her gently.
She drew away with a shudder, and looked at him as
at a monster.
His good resolutions died, strangled at their birth.
He laughed bitterly and lighted a cigar. She regarded
this as a signal that he had finished, and they were free
to return.
For one wild moment she thought of denouncing
him at the Palace as a swindler and a rascal. She could,
at least, deny any outrageous assertions he might make
concerning her past, and the police would take him
away if she gave them certain information—at least,
she supposed they would.
But, then, there was Mabel, a girl pure and innocent,
Jack's wife, who would go down in the ruin of her
father's reputation.
Only the miserable emeralds seemed to be standing
in the way—for she did not think his passion for her-
self would be greater than his cupidity, or that he
would press her far if she gave up the jewels and made
it a condition that he should never cross her path
again. Yet, of what use were conditions with such a


348 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
man! He would promise anything and break his word
at the first opportunity.
His caresses had produced a revulsion of feeling
amounting to positive hatred. She looked at him out
of the corners of her eyes, as he lolled there smoking,
and apparently enjoying the scenery, and wondered if
she could summon courage enough to kill him. The
blood lust was on her for a few moments. She could
have opened a door and thrust him out while the car
was going at top speed if she could have been certain
that it would kill him.
"Shall we return now?" he asked. "We have come
a good many miles. I am sure you must be anxious to
know how the dear Bishop is progressing."
She nodded acquiescence. He gave the order to the
chauffeur, and for a long time there was silence, broken
at last by the man.
"Have you decided?"
"About the emeralds?"
"Yes."
"You shall have them—if you must."
"Ah, I thought your rigid morality was more elastic
than you pretended. When shall they be—stolen?"
"Whenever you like. But I make my conditions."
"Indeed! I was not aware that you were in a posi-
tion to make terms."
"I make them, nevertheless. When the emeralds go,
you go too."
"That would be most impolitic, even suspicious. I
shall remain to advise you and the Bishop, and help in
the hue and cry."
"If I let you have the emeralds you must go abroad.
You must abandon Mabel to me, and you must never
set foot in England again."


CHAPTER XXIII
BANNISTER found Aunt Caroline waiting for him in
the library with the time table, as she had threatened.
She was amazed and scandalized to find that her lady-
ship had gone in the motor with her guest while her
husband lay ill upstairs. The fact that the doctor had
prescribed fresh air had no bearing upon the case, from
her point of view, knowing what she knew.
She sat in her high-backed chair by the library table,
gazing out of the window, seeing nothing, and mut-
tering to herself. 'Any wavering in her resolution was
over now. This shameless intimacy between her
brother's wife and the rascal Dick Gordon made it
more than ever imperative that he should be got out
of the way.
Bannister returned from the drive in good humor.
The report of Mabel's progress was a great relief to
him—greater than he would have cared to admit—and
contributed not a little to his pleasant frame of mind.
He was winning all along the line. Hester was yield-
ing. He could afford to snap his fingers at the Bishop's
sister.
The footman divested him of his coat—Voss did not
appear—and gave the information that Miss Cardew
awaited him in the library. He sauntered in with an
amused smile, and the old lady rose to greet him. She
held in her hand the ominous time table. He put up
his eyeglass and surveyed it with a quizzical smile.
"I said I should see that you went, and I am here."
35°


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 351
"And so am I, Miss Cardew. You surely do not
suppose that I am going away when my daughter lies
ill upstairs?"
"My brother lies ill as well."
"The coincidence is unfortunate, but my hostess ex-
pects me to stay; and, indeed, I believe the Bishop him-
self desires it. My son-in-law endorses their com-
mands. I could not possibly go away now."
"But I am willing to pay you."
"Miss Cardew, you insult me."
She laughed a harsh, bitter laugh, and sank down
into a seat by the table, motioning him to the lounge
in front of her. He dropped down into a comfortable
seat, still smiling that irritating smile of amused con-
tempt.
"You cannot deceive me. You are extortionate, and
this is your method of fencing with me. I mentioned
a figure last night which was not high enough for you.
How much do you want to go, and take your child
with you? I will undertake to explain matters to my
nephew."
"My dear Miss Cardew, I told you that if you of-
fered me twenty thousand pounds—an outrageous sum
—it would have no effect."
"I shall tell my brother everything."
"It will kill him if you do. I presume you have no
financial interest in his death."
She paled and faltered, but rage came to her assist-
ance. "You know where to stab. You are a coward,
but you can't deceive me. The money I offer you is
the greatest inducement. I have not offered enough.
You shall have ten thousand pounds; and I will provide
for your daughter's reception in some religious insti-
tution, where she can be quiet and secure for the pres-


352 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
ent, until she is ready to consider what is best for the
future."
Mr. Bannister burst out laughing, as though he were
hugely tickled. She watched him without moving a
muscle.
"It is very pretty play. You are a clever actor, Mr.
Gordon. I have here bonds to the extent of four thou-
sand pounds in this little bag." She patted a velvet
satchel that lay upon the table. "The rest will be sent
to your bank—if you have one."
His mirth died down; and seeing her advantage, she
took out the bonds and spread them on the table. The
first thought that flashed through his brain was a pro-
fessional one—"I wonder where she keeps them—in
her brother's safe?"
"It is very unwise of you, Miss Cardew, to keep so
much convertible money in the house."
"Yes, when men like you are under the same roof."
"Madam, you are insulting." He swung round and
glared at her angrily; then rose to his feet in virtuous
indignation excellently assumed. "I don't want your
money, and I think you would be well advised to leave
your nephew's and my affairs alone. The past cannot
be undone, and good people like you with a past of
your own should be very careful how you jeopardize
the future—especially when the future concerns young
people whose lives lie before them."
"I am thinking of my brother and my brother's wife,
and of the secret she carries in her heart, and of the
tyranny that you exercise over her."
"Are you sure, my dear Miss Cardew, that you are
not thinking of the secret that lies hidden in your own
heart?"
"What do you mean?"


354 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
lence—a difficult thing for the Bishop of Ripley—and
as he could not be pacified it was explained to him
that the doctor had ordered her to take the air.
He asked for his son, and Jack was sent for. The
old man grasped his hand and shook it silently. Then
tears came to his eyes—he was strangely weak.
"I'm so glad about the brewery, my boy—so glad,"
he murmured at last. "You've made a beginning."
"Yes, father. The brewery company are going to
retain me for all their work. They are tremendously
pleased."
"That will mean an income, won't it, my boy?"
"Yes, father."
"And you'll be able to get married at once?"
"Yes, father."
This seemed the moment for confession, but the doc-
tor had forbidden excitement; Jack cursed his ill-luck.
It was possible to speak now.
"I hear that Mabel has had a fall, but the doctor
thinks it won't be much—poor girl, poor girl!"
"Yes; but you mustn't worry about that, and I
mustn't stay with you long. The doctor's orders, you
know, father."
"Doctor's orders—nonsense! I am as well as any-
thing Your aunt angered me last night, and I was
saying something heated, and fainted. I've got lots to
do—lots to do. But if I must stay at home, I'll attend
to home affairs. When do you think you'll get mar-
ried? We'll have the ceremony in the cathedral, of
course. You'll have to set things straight with your
Aunt Caroline. She has a bee in her bonnet, and noth-
ing I can say will alter her. She has taken an absurd
prejudice to Mr. Bannister and a dislike to Mabel."
"No, father, I don't think she dislikes Mabel; she


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 355
couldn't. She has been sitting with her this morning—
nursing her, in fact."
"Oh, come, come!—that's better. Well, then, we
can consider everything as settled. You can write to
our lawyers and arrange with them to see Mr.. Ban-
nister about the settlements."
"It's rather an awkward thing for us to move in the
matter, isn't it? You see, he is making a settlement."
"Well, hurry on the wedding, anyway. I suppose
Hester will see to Mabel's frocks, and all that sort of
thing. The girl has no mother. I'll speak to her about
it. Let her come up to me directly she comes in."
"Very well; you'll settle details with her. I know
nothing about these things."
Thus Jack evaded the main issue and secured an ex-
cuse to escape from the sick room.
Lady Hester had returned from her motor ride. He
was surprised to see how pale and agitated she was.
He conveyed his father's message faithfully enough.
"You see, Mabel has no mother," he urged, in a
whisper, "and if we've got to be married publicly, of
course you will see to her trousseau, and all that, won't
you?"
"Yes, of course, but I can't bother with it now."
"No, of course not. But father is sure to broach the
subject."
"Well, he must be told that the doctor forbids dis-
cussions of any kind," she answered rather snappishly,
flinging off her coat.
"Hester, my dear," cried the Bishop, in the adjoin-
ing room, "I want you."
She responded to his call, sending Jack away impa-
tiently, and pulled herself together and straightened
her features into their usual placid mould, ere she ap-


356 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
preached the bedside softly and calmly. "I'm not al-
lowed to talk to you, John," she whispered, taking his
hand in her cold palm. "The doctor forbids it."
"Nonsense, nonsense! I'll change my doctor if he
is so stupid. That wooden-faced nurse worries me. I
shall be much more easy if you are here, dear."
"Yes, John, I should like to be with you." Her
voice faltered, and she bent down and kissed him on
the forehead. She was trembling badly, and he de-
tected her agitation at once.
"My darling, you must not worry yourself about me.
It is nothing—nothing. I assure you I feel quite well.
Sit down by my side. Ah! it is in moments like these,
when everybody else worries me, that I appreciate the
stately calm and placid repose of my beautiful Hester."
He held her hand and patted it approvingly. "I was
asleep just now, and dreaming troubled dreams. I fan-
cied I was losing you. You were receding further and
further, and you had things in your hand which you
were hiding from me. Strange—strange how the
thoughts of yesterday creep into one's dreams. I
couldn't see what you were hiding, but I fancied they
were the emeralds."
"How ridiculous!" she murmured, and leaned back
in the cane chair by the bedside to shade her face from
his gaze. Her hand remained limp and cold, and he
stroked it fondly. It was a trick of his when they were
discussing purely domestic affairs, and his restless
body was momentarily at ease.
"I have just been telling Jack that the marriage must
be hurried on. We shall soon be too busy to have an
affair of that kind hanging over us. I've been thinking
it out, and wondering whether we ought not to invite
a good many people here for the wedding."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 357
"Oh, no, no; let it be a quiet affair, John. Jack
wishes it, and so does Mabel."
The Bishop was silent for awhile, then he chuckled
to himself, as if some idea tickled him.
"Why are you laughing, dear?"
"I was thinking of Caroline. I was very angry last
night; but, really, it is too absurd. I was thinking of
her notion that Jack and the girl were already mar-
ried. What ideas she gets into her head. As if the
boy would be such a sneak and a fool as to deceive me
and defy my authority by underhand conduct of that
sort. Mabel is too proud and dignified a girl to lend
herself to such nonsense. And Caroline, if she were
not so blinded by prejudice, would see it—eh, darling?''
"Yes, John."
The Bishop retained her hand, and she lay back,
breathing heavily. He dozed a little. There was a
long pause, broken only by the old man's muttering
as he sank deeper into the slumbrous shadows. "Most
absurd! Most uncharitable! Most unkind!"
"Hush!" she whispered, disengaging her hand and
bending over him to gently smooth his pillow. "Go to
sleep, dear."
He was soon sleeping peacefully. When the nurse
came Lady Hester raised her finger warningly. The
woman frowned to find her there, and she stole away
on tiptoe, closing the bedroom door behind her. She
let the latch go into its socket very gently, but, on
turning round, uttered a short, startled cry. Voss was
standing in the middle of the dressing room.
"Oh, how you frightened me!"
"Pardon, my lady, but I thought you called."
"I called? Why should I call you?"
"I was passing along outside, my lady, and some-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
body called. I thought it was my name I heard. Sorry,
my lady."
He backed out of the room, and not until he closed
the door did she remember the safe! She ran to the
wall and examined the door. It was securely locked,
and the key was in her bosom. She shut herself in her
own room, and locked the door on the corridor. Then
she returned to the dressing room and turned the key
in the door leading to the passage also, but remem-
bered as she did it that it must be left open for the
nurse to come and go, to avoid the necessity of the
woman passing directly into the Bishop's bedroom
from the corridor and disturbing him. By leaving the
door of the dressing room ajar she was able to watch
if he were sleeping without entering.
The wretched wife returned to her bedroom. It was
her only place of refuge now. She was driven from
her husband's bedside, and she knew that she had no
right there. That right, which had been hers for so
many years, suddenly became very precious. The vig-
orous, kindly old man, who made her his confidant in
every thought and consulted her in every act, was a
tower of strength compared with the cynical, calculat-
ing rascal down stairs who claimed her as his lawful
wife. She wanted to drop down by the Bishop's bed-
side and implore his forgiveness and confess all. But
such an act was impossible in his present state of
health. The web of falsehood and deception which she
had weaved about herself was closing tighter and
tigher. She had no right to enter the holy man's pres-
ence. She was vile and unclean. As he lay sleeping in
the middle of the stately old bed, with his arms straight
down on the coverlet, he looked like a recumbent
saint; yet she, his well beloved and honored wife, had


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 367
"In the safe."
"Then you will get them for me?"
"No. I will die first!"
"That will be quite unnecessary, my dear Hester.
But if you don't give them to me I shall take the other
course, and demand you instead of the gems. You
are looking ravishly. Kiss me, my dear wife."
He came quite close, and looked into her eyes with
more tenderness than was to be expected from a dis-
appointed thief; but she drew away, and clasped her
hands appealing for mercy. She was terrified by the
light in his eyes.
He took one step forward and clasped her in his
arms. She breathed heavily, and groaned as though
he had struck her, but the next moment he clapped a
hand over her mouth to stifle her screams.
"Steady, my dear Hester, steady. I'm not trying to
throttle you. I only want to hold you in my arms for a
few moments. Thus does sentiment interfere with
business. Instead of hectoring, and being angry with
you, and threatening, I just hold you in my arms—so.
You'll have to be friends with me, and stifle that ten-
der conscience of yours. You'll find it pleasant
enough. The loss of the gems won't hurt anybody;
and, as for you, you will gain a new lease of life.
Things will hum once more. The dreary dullness of
this stupid place has deadened your spirits. You will
live again—in my arms."
"Let me go—let me go! For pity's sake—no, no!
Don't force me to scream and raise an alarm, and bring
the whole house here. There's a woman in the next
room"
"No, my dear, there is not. I looked in, and the
room was empty."


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 369
faltered apprehensively. "You will leave this room at
once. You will go straight out, and I shall lock the
door after you."
He shook his head and smiled.
"Then I shall call for assistance and seek the pro-
tection of my husband."
"But I am your husband, darling. You can't go to
the Bishop and give him a shock that might kill him.
You will alarm the nurse and agitate the old man."
"I shall scream."
"If you do he'll think you're being murdered,
whereas you're only being—loved."
He leapt at her and took her in his arms again. She
collapsed with a sob, and covered her face with her
hands. But he pressed kisses on her lips and fought
with her savagely; kissing her eyes when her lips were
behind her clenched hands—her cheeks, her soft white
neck, and last her hair, her beautiful hair, which had
only been loosely looped up and fell in fiery flames
about her head. He spread it over his palms and put
it to his lips, giving way to a frenzy of adoration, and
sweeping all before him with his passion, while she
gasped in fright, not knowing what to do, his move-
ments were so rapid.
Now her two hands were in his, and her fingers
pressed to his lips; now he dropped upon one knee,
and flung his arms about her waist. His movements,
though passionate and hasty, were gentle and reverent
when she was passive. His tenderness disarmed her
opposition, and only left her dazed and stupefied.
There was no brutal ferocity. It was the old Dick who
loved her, the old passion, the old wild admiration and
ecstasy provoked by her strange, luminous beauty,
which dazzled, bewildered, overpowered him, and ren-


370 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
dered him, for the moment, powerless and abject in his
adoration.
He was ripe at that moment for any folly that she
demanded of him. If she had beseeched, and used her
woman's weapons, or vouchsafed him a little tender-
ness, he would have abandoned everything—the emer-
alds, the persecution, the terrifying threats, and the
brutal caresses that her opposition provoked. This
was the nobler Dick Gordon, who had surrendered her
years ago when she was utterly in his power—because
he loved her. This was the Dick Gordon who was
always kind to women—who were beautiful. This
was the man with an infinite capacity for folly, whom
she could have twisted round her little finger if she
had descended to employ the ancient wiles and subtle
artifices of her sex.
But she was too terrified. The room swam round,
the lights on the table blinked, and there was only a
yellow haze between them, through which her hus-
band's melting eyes loomed bright and near. She was
horrified at her own powerlessness. His lavish car-
esses provoked no further rage. She wanted to -cry,
to sob, and fight no more. With a supreme effort she
mastered herself and closed her eyes, and clenching
both her fists, struck him full in the face. He retreated
a step or two, and recovered himself with an effort.
She was glaring like a wild cat, and ready to strike
again; the man was still as stone, pale as death, recover-
ing himself. He stood watching her contemplatively,
and she was frightened. She could read the thoughts
flying in his brain.
"What shall I do with her? How shall I punish
her? She shall have no mercy." His fingers clenched
and unclenched, as though they were coming at her


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 371
throat. His jaw moved as he positively ground his
teeth with suppressed fury.
"Dick—Dick—I didn't mean to do that. You went
too far—I told you that it was all finished. Dick—
Dick—leave me—go away; I can see what you're
thinking. Let me go!"
She tried to pass him, and rushed for the dressing
room door. But he seized one wrist and swung her
round. She was about to scream, but he covered her
mouth. She bit his hand as he pressed her head back
and slipped an arm about her waist, so that she was
bent double backward, choking. He held her thus in
a grip of steel till the screaming fit left her, and by the
signs she made with her hands he understood that she
promised to keep quiet.
"No sound, do you hear—do you understand?" he
whispered in her ear, and he released her by degrees,
until she fell into a chair, limp and exhausted. He
bent over her and thrust out his left hand. "The key
—the key of the safe! Give it to me!"
She recovered slowly, and clenched her hands ob-
stinately; but she dared not meet his gaze, and stared
at the floor. The neck of her dressing-gown had been
torn open, and the lace of her robe de nuit as well. The
ribbon round her neck showed distinctly over the edge
of the lace. His sharp eyes saw it, and he instantly
divined its purpose. Without a word he suddenly
slipped his fingers inside the ribbon. She shrank away,
ready to protest again that she must not be touched,
but the ribbon was snapped, and he whipped it out, key
and all, before she realized what had happened.
"Thank you; I have helped myself," he said coldly,
as he wound the ribbon round the key and put it in his
pocket. "To-morrow it will be used. And to-mor-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 373
recovered from his rebuff. He surveyed her callously
and cruelly, and with a leering, lustful admiration.
She read his thoughts. He was meditating the
worst of all brutalities. She flung up her hands as if
to ward him off, and dashed for the door of the dress-
ing room again before he could prevent her, turning
the key and standing ready to escape if he showed the
slightest sign of advancing. He shrugged his shoul-
ders and laughed sneeringly as he let himself out on
to the corridor, and bowed sarcastically to his trem-
bling wife. In his own room the lights were burning;
but he looked round in vain for Voss. The fellow had
put everything ready for the night, and had apparent-
ly gone to bed without permission, and contrary to the
usual custom.
The victorious rascal laughed at this also, mutter-
ing, "He'll get over it when it really comes to busi-
ness. I've got the key—but I've lost—bah! away with
sentiment! It has been the ruin of too many clever
men."
He secured his door, and took the key of the safe to
the light and examined it. "She'll want it back in the
morning. Its absence might excite comment," he
thought. Then he ransacked his portmanteau for a lit-
tle box of wax. This he softened in hot water, and
took a "squeeze" of the key.
He examined the pattern, and laughed contemptu-
ously. "Why, it is a common, ordinary key—not a
burglar-proof safe after all. Just a thing for holding
books. Voss will be able to match this with one of
his skeletons without going to the trouble of using a
file."
He dropped the key into his cigar-case, and pock-
eted it. Then he undressed, smoking several cigarettes


374 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
during the process, which was always a lengthy and
very deliberate one. Once or twice he sighed as he
thought of the scene in his wife's room, which had
ended rather tamely. He alternated between senti-
mental disappointment, wounded vanity, and rage.
The conviction was forced upon him that Hester
would never go back to the old love, the old subjec-
tion. She was stronger, more desperate, and cour-
ageous than the timid, horrified girl of years ago, who
flung herself upon his mercy, and exacted the great
sacrifice upon her knees.
The present, made Dingle Hall and the respectable
future seem a dull, unlovely, prosy prospect. He had
not even Mabel's love now. The girl regarded him
as a monster. That was his own fault for rearing her
in honesty and innocence.
All the good he had ever done in life seemed to have
recoiled upon him, to bring misery for his declining
years.
Voss, after seeing his master safely in his room,
wandered like an uneasy spirit about the corridors, lis-
tening at doors and looking out of windows. He
turned his attention to those doors which showed, by
the light through the crack underneath, that the occu-
pants were not yet asleep.
One by one the lights went out, until only the sick-
room, the dressing room, and Lady Hester's own
apartment showed signs of life within. Bannister's
own door was dark, and a full twenty minutes elapsed
before Voss paid any attention to that room. Then
he knelt upon the mat and put his ear to a panel in a
vain endeavor to listen to the sleeper's breathing. He
was dissatisfied with his want of success, and afraid to
enter. He stole down the corridor again to Lady


376 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
He crawled swiftly away now, but just as silently,
and at last stood upright in the corridor; closing the
door behind him, but first taking the precaution to re-
move the key and insert it outside.
To lock Mr. Bannister in was the next step, and it
was accomplished noiselessly. After that he turned his
attention to the other rooms. Locked doors were not
the rule in the Palace. The keys were big and old-
fashioned, and small bolts above the locks answered
all the needs of the occupants. Consequently, when,
earlier in the day, Voss had put the keys outside, no
one noticed the change. The locks worked smoothly,
thanks to a preliminary oiling, and Miss Cardew, Beat-
rice and Mabel, and lastly Jack, in his little room at
the other side of the house, were all locked in by the
cautious thief. Access to the Bishop's corridor from
the servants' quarters could only be had from the back
stairs through a green baize door, which was never
locked—indeed, it had no lock. He could not fasten
this, but he was equal to this emergency. He screwed
a stout gimlet through the woodwork into the frame,
and nothing short of a sledge hammer or a jimmy
would have opened it.
These preparations complete, he turned his attention
to his personal appearance. He was wearing a short
dust coat, and from a capacious inner pocket drew out
a large cricket cap, a size too big for him, and drew it
down over his eyes till the peak touched the tip of his
nose. It was as effective as a mask. Over his shoes
he drew a pair of thick woollen stockings. Thus at-
tired he was ready to tackle the dressing room and the
safe.
He listened outside Lady Hester's and the Bishop's
room as well, and stopped upon the mat of the dress-


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 377
ing room. He was shaking with tense excitement, and
his fingers played eagerly upon the key of the safe.
Ere he turned the handle he remembered a weapon of
defence in an inner pocket, and brought it to a con-
venient outer one. It was a knuckle duster. He also
carried a revolver, which he thrust into his waistcoat,
below his tie, after loosening the top button. It was
uncomfortable, but handy, and the little black stock
was ready to be gripped at a moment's notice.
The dressing room door opened easily enough. A
dim lamp burned within, and the room was empty. The
door of the Bishop's bedroom was closed—this was a
stroke of luck, for he had fully expected to have to
crawl past the open door on his stomach, and run the
risk of being seen by a wakeful invalid. His exultation
was so intense that he stepped into the room with a
bound, and his woollen covered boots slid on the pol-
ished parquet. The stockings, which were noiseless
and gave a steady foothold on carpet, slid away on the
polished wood and nearly sent him sprawling.
He recovered, breathless and palpitating, ready to
retreat at the first sound; but after a few moments of
anxious listening, with every nerve strained to such a
tension that his brain threatened to snap, while the
light of the lamp blinked in his eyes in a yellow haze
that blotted out his sight, he made a dash on tiptoe
for the door of the safe.
The key fitted easily, worked without complications,
and the contents were at his mercy. He could not re-
sist dragging open the door with a mighty pull, ready
to make a blind grab at the contents and defy all the
world, if necessary, now that the die was cast
The safe opened with a great sob, as such things do
when a vacuum is suddenly created by the moving bulk


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 379
She waited. The stillness within was so intense that,
for a moment, her fears died down, and she imagined
that she had been needlessly alarmed by the move-
ments of the nurse. She took one step within the room
and stood paralyzed with fear.
The door of the safe was open, and the contents of
the upper shelf were strewn about the floor. A
hunched-up figure was stooping, half in and half out of
the safe, and groping excitedly—so eagerly that he
forgot to muffle his heavy breathing, which made a
considerable noise.
This was not her husband. The squat figure in the
hideous cap suggested a ruffian at first. But he did
not look large or powerful, and she mastered her fear.
One cry would raise an alarm, and the nurse was at
hand. She drew back until the door hid her, and
peeped round.
In lightning fashion she reviewed the situation, and
in those watching moments found time to wonder
whether her husband would be driven to a frenzy of
revenge if she balked this rascal, who was doing his
dirty work, and what would happen to herself.
A sudden gasp of excitement from the crouching
figure.
He had alighted upon the treasure. The jewels
clicked as he gathered them in handfuls and slipped
them into the inside pockets of his coat.
This was more than flesh and blood could stand. She
raised her hand, and held it poised one moment—only
for one moment—then thrust the door open noisily
and entered
"What are you doing here? You are a thief! Help!"
She screamed the last word, and Voss, who was
down on one knee, almost fell over backwards in his


380 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
confusion and amazement. She rose white and tall in
front of him, like an apparition, with arms extended,
as if about to pounce upon him. Her eyes blazed in
the light of the lamp, and her wonderful hair streamed
about her colorless face, red as blood. She recognized
him when he stood up.
"Oh, it's you, you rascal!" she cried. "Help!"
His two hands went for her throat. She backed
away from him, alert and courageous, with despera-
tion; but in her retreat she struck the open door and
closed it behind her inadvertently. Thus she effectu-
ally barred his way of escape.
"Help!" she screamed again, and the nurse in the
Bishop's room began wrenching at the handle of the
carefully locked door. Voss leaped at the disturber
again, and seized her throat and flung her round, but
she clung to his coat in falling, and held on to him like
a wild cat, and he could not shake her off.
"Leave go!—do you hear?—or it'll be the worse
for you," he hissed, thrusting her away with his left
hand and groping in his pocket with the right for a
weapon.
She divined his intention and seized his wrist, and at
the same moment struggled to her feet again. He
made another dash at her, and caught her as she was
tottering. He swung her round and dashed her across
the room, so that she fell backwards on the sharp edge
of the latch of the open safe door with a horrible thud,
and went down like lead, sprawling her length upon
the polished floor. He stumbled and slipped as he re-
covered his balance, and cursed, and was about to raise
his weapon to strike her into silence, when his eyes
fell upon her white, upturned face, parted lips, and roll-
ing eyes. He stayed his hand. He was only half a


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 381
ruffian, and preferred quiet methods. She no longer
impeded his flight, and was incapable of rising. By her
side lay the magnificent necklace which had dropped
from his hand in the struggle. He grabbed at it, and
stuffed it inside his coat with the other gems and fled.
It was now that he reaped to the full the benefit of his
policy of locked doors.
The nurse could not get into the dressing room in
response to Lady Hester's appeal, and rattled help-
lessly at the lock. The thief was down the stairs and
out of a window, by a route previously prepared, be-
fore her cry found an echo in the house. The other oc-
cupied rooms were far away; so she resorted to the
window.
The Bishop had started up in bed, and sank back
helpless. In answer to his inquiries she explained in a
few words that something had happened to Lady Hes-
ter in the next room, and she had heard cries for help,
but could do nothing.
The locked door at once suggested treachery and a
burglary.
"The safe is in that room," gasped the Bishop, as
he struggled with the thumping of his heart. The
nurse screamed out of the window, and presently other
windows opened, and the men servants were alarmed.
Jack himself at the other side of the house was one of
the first to answer. He dashed for his door, but, find-
ing it locked, turned to the window and let himself
down that way on to the leads of the library below.
Yet nearly half an hour elapsed before any one could
get to the dressing room, So artfully had Voss laid his
plans. Bannister himself was the last to hear the com-
motion. He listened to the patter of feet and talk of
excited voices, and at first supposed that the Bishop


382 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
had had a relapse—or perhaps Mabel had succumbed.
For the first time for many years he went sick with
agonized suspense. His child was more to him than
he had ever imagined. He almost resented his woman-
ish weakness; his hands shook and his teeth chattered,
as he groped for a light. When he lit a candle he no-
ticed nothing unusual. His dressing gown was where
he had thrown it, and he slipped it on and tried to go
out onto the corridor. The locked door angered him,
but at first he supposed it to be an accident, and groped
for the key.
The sounds in the house grew louder. Men's voices
could be heard shouting from outside. From the win-
dow he saw lanterns waving. It was either a burglary
or a fire, but as there were no flames the idea of fire
was ruled out. It must be a burglary. For a few mo-
ments he stood ready to laugh at the amazing coinci-
dence of a real thief's attack upon the house just at the
time when he was planning a sham affair of the same
kind. When he remembered the stupid, insecure safe
he quaked for his emeralds. He gave one glance at the
dressing table, where the key rested safely in his purse
—and lo! the purse was gone. His watch and chain—
his money—everything of value—even the gold cigar
case.
Voss!—it was Voss!
He almost yelled with rage. He cursed and swore.
"The scoundrel—the traitor!" He made another fu-
tile attempt upon the locked door, and beat upon it
with his fists.
The servants on the corridor called out that they
•were unable to relieve him. All the doors were locked,
and the keys were missing. The gardener had gone
for a hammer to break them in.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 383
Jack was the first person to reach the Bishop's cor-
ridor. He gained entrance to the house by the very
window through which Voss had made his escape, and
came rushing upstairs just as the servants reached the
lower portion of the house by the back staircases and
the servants' wing. He ran to the dressing room, and
the sight that met his gaze made him gasp for a few
moments.
The safe stood open and its contents were strewn
about the floor. In front of it Lady Hester lay upon
her back, senseless and still as death. From her fore-
head a thin stream of blood had started, and the crim-
son stream had trickled to the floor.
"What has happened—what is it?" he asked of the
motionless form, and bent over it. Ere he touched her
limp and lifeless fingers an impatient demand from the
nurse at the door of his father's room drew him away.
He turned the key, which Voss had left in the lock,
and the woman came out, white and scared.
"What is it, sir—what has happened?"
"For God's sake, tell me what has happened, Jack?"
cried the Bishop piteously.
The nurse gave one glance down, and looked at the
young master in speechless horror. He raised one
finger warningly. "You mustn't tell him," and with
admirable promptness replied—
"Burglars, father. They've been at the safe."
"But your mother. I thought I heard a cry."
"Yes, she's fainted, father. The nurse is bringing
her round."
"No worse?" murmured the Bishop. "I feared it
might have been^—ah—thank God." He sank back on
his pillow.
Jack closed the door and shut him in, then ran out


384 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
onto the corridor and hushed the loud voices of the ex-
cited servants who were hurrying up the stairs.
"Remember my father is ill. Go quietly. Her lady-
ship is hurt. One of you go for the doctor, and let
some one fetch the police. Where's the chauffeur who
came down with me from town?"
"Here I am, sir," cried the man, who was among
those crowding in the darkness at the bottom of the
stairs.
"Get the car round. Bring me a big coat. I'll go
myself."
His attention was drawn away by a violent beating
on the panels of a door lower down the corridor, and
he thought of his wife. He dashed that way, only to
find Beatrice inside Mabel's room calling for release.
"Is all well with you?" he cried.
"Yes," she replied, "but we are locked in."
"But Mabel; is she all right?"
"Yes. Mabel, speak to him yourself."
A tremulous voice reassured him, but further sounds
were drowned by the banging on Bannister's door.
"Who's there?" cried Jack, not knowing exactly
where he was in the darkness.
"It is I, Bannister. Let me out, I'm locked in."
"Pull the handle, then, and I'll go for the door with
my shoulder."
In a few moments the old latch gave way, and Ban-
nister appeared. "What is it?" he asked eagerly.
"A burglary. And my mother—God knows what's
happened to her?"
"Fright?"
"No—worse. I'm afraid—attacked—and"
"Don't tell me he's hurt her," cried Bannister
hoarsely. "Where is she?"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 385
Bannister followed Jack into the dressing room and
saw Hester lying pale and still in the nurse's arms. On
her forehead was a thin red line, where the sharp cor-
ner of the safe latch, sharp as a knife, had struck her
temple.
The nurse released her burden and laid her gently
down, shaking her head ominously.
"Is it ?" Jack's question stuck in his throat.
The nurse did not answer.
"Hester, Hester!" cried her husband hoarsely, drop-
ping down beside her, and overcome for the first time
in his life by real, heart-stabbing sorrow. She looked
so white and young and calm, like the Hester of the
old days. The room swam round; he saw nothing but
the dull, fixed, sightless eyes.
When he recovered he found himself being sup-
ported by Jack, who gripped his arm.
"This is horrible, Bannister—the work of some mur-
derous thief. She evidently surprised him at the safe."
"Yes, yes."
"We must catch him. Keep the other door shut.
Don't let my father know—you understand, nurse?"
"I understand."
"You must tell him lies. If he were to receive such
a shock now, there's no knowing what might happen."
"I'll do all I can, sir, but "she shook her head.
"Let some one fetch the doctor."
The whole household by this time had assembled.
Everybody was there except Aunt Caroline, and no-
body thought of her. She, too, was locked in, in an-
other part of the house where the sounds of the alarm
had not penetrated, and was sleeping peacefully. Jack
took Bannister with him round the house when the
lamps were lighted, and the guest was forced to attend


386 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
to the young man's excited explanations and discov-
eries. It did not take long to see that the robbery
was the work of some one in the house.
"Let all the servants be assembled in the hall," cried
Jack. "Every single soul in the house must come be-
fore me. And lock every door."
Bannister followed dumbly, like a man in a dream.
His senses were gradually returning; and his wild rage
against Voss helped him to forget the still form up-
stairs.
Everybody came with alacrity to face the young mas-
ter.
"Are all here?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. All but the chauffeur, and he's coming
round with the car now."
"Where's my man, Voss?" exclaimed Bannister, con-
trolling himself with an effort.
"I've been to his room, sir," said the footman. "But
he's not there, and his bed hasn't been slept in. His
bags were sent away yesterday."
"Then he must be the thief," cried Jack, turn-
ing upon Bannister. "Was he honest?"
"Yes, twenty years' service to his record. But I'll
have him. I know where to run him to earth. I can
give a shrewd guess where he will go first. It's a ques-
tion of my getting there before him. Keep the car
for a few moments while I dress. You can go to the
police and to the doctor and back. I'll go on with the
car."
"Go on where?"
"To London. He is making across country to the
other railway and will arrive before you can set the
wires working. But the car may race the train, and
if I get there first—by God"


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 389
The heavy trees were left behind. The hedge rows
stood out clearly again, and the highway presented no
difficulties. The chauffeur sighed with relief, and
leaned back. His passenger, unable to keep still,
urged him to fresh effort.
"No, no, the water is steaming," protested the
driver. "We're doing pretty well now. We're going
at forty miles an hour. Can't you feel her leap?—
There! that bump was when we left the ground for a
yard."
In another second there was an awful crunching—
but the car continued its advance. The road was laid
with loose granite, and they rocked and rolled over it,
Bannister clinging to the back of his seat and the
chauffeur to the wheel.
On again. They saw a constable leap out of the road
for safety into the footway, and stare at them in amaze-
ment. Houses whizzed by, all blurred and dancing,
and the car leaped over the hollows in the macadam
worn by the market carts. Bannister leaned forward
and peered ahead—always ahead. He forced himself
to think of the journey and his errand, not to look back
and remember the lighted room at the Palace, the gap-
ing safe door, and the pale, still woman stretched out
upon the shining parquet. He remembered the color
of her gown and the curve of every gleaming tress, the
bare feet, and the limp hands lying palm upward. Lit-
tle more than an hour before he had held her in his
arms, sobbing, appealing, warm and pulsating, with
her fine eyes flashing anger, and her lips yielding pro-
testingly.
And Voss had perhaps killed her. Voss, the servile,
docile scoundrel, who for years had been his slave and
never disobeyed an order. The fellow had often pro-


390 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
tested, and even advised, but never rebelled before.
He certainly had never snatched a prize intended for
his master's hand. The emeralds seemed to have
turned his brain. The quarrel, the foolish outbreak of
temper and the contemptuous kick had undone the
work of years. The spell broken, the harness removed,
the natural ruffian emerged from behind the mask of
imperturbable serenity which he usually presented to
the world as Mr. Bannister's servant. With all the
recklessness of a greedy criminal he had grabbed at a
fortune, and was trusting to luck for a successful issue
to his venture. But Dame Fortune is a smug goddess,
and looks askance at criminals. She is niggardly in
dealing out her prizes—and always gives the honest
man ten chances to the villain's one.
The fugitive's path was beset with a hundred diffi-
culties. He had chosen to shut his eyes to half of them,
and was satisfied to get his hands upan the jewels. The
rest was in the lap of the future, and depended upon
that same fickle Luck by which all gamblers, prodigals
and thieves exist.
Voss had mapped out his line of escape as far as the
flat at Stratton Street, where his money was. Ban-
nister knew that he would not leave that; and the ser-
vant flattered himself that Bannister dared not com-
municate with the police and set them on his track.
Further, his master could not arrive at Stratton Street
first. Therefore, it was an easy race, with a long start
for himself.
But Voss had reckoned without Jack's hired motor
in the stable yard—an unforeseen element in the game.
If he thought about a motor at all, he probably con-
gratulated himself that Bannister's vehicle was not at
the Palace, and it would be a long time before the po-
lice could be set in motion.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 391
"We can't go through the town at this pace," said
the chauffeur, as the London street lamps appeared
ahead blinking in the summer dawn.
They stood on the wood pavement now, and though
the pace was as fast as ever, it seemed to be slower be-
cause it was so smooth.
"Now is your opportunity," urged Bannister. "There
are only a few market carts, with a level road all the
way. You must risk it. Let her go full tear."
"The first policeman'll stop me."
"Let him try. Ride him down."
"Yes, and get six months, or seven years."
"If you don't, I'll take the wheel myself. There's
an open stretch now. Let her go again—hurry, man—
hurry! We've been an age coming those last few
miles."
The chauffeur tried to please by indulging in terrific
spurts, then slowing whenever pedestrians or traffic ap-
peared. To his companion the car seemed to be creep-
ing horribly. The radiator was steaming, and some-
thing was leaking. But they trusted to Providence,
and hoped that the petrol would hold out as far as
Bond Street.
What interminable rows of houses! What miles on
miles of streets! London never seemed so huge before.
The dawn had broken, and Bannister was able to see
the time by his watch, although it was still black over-
head. A faint purple tinged the sky line above the
houses, and the number of market carts and early
workmen and electric trams increased. A dozen times
they were shouted at by startled wayfarers, who leaped
aside for their lives.
At last the trees of Kensington Gardens and the
open expanse of park loomed in the purple haze. The


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
street lamps were less bright and the roads were more
thronged than ever.
"I can't go any faster here."
"You must—you must risk it. Blow your horn.
Shout to that crawling cab to get out of the way, or
smash it up."
As the first motor omnibuses were overtaken, Ban-
nister was consumed with a new anxiety. He realized
the number of ways of getting into London that were
open to Voss besides the railway; but at last Piccadilly
was reached, and the car swung round into Stratton
Street. He seized the chauffeur's arm.
"Stop here—no further—don't go up to the house.
Back a little."
His latchkey was in his hand, and he entered the
flat noiselessly. All was dark and still. He stood in-
side the door and closed it, shooting the bolts, and
turning the key twice in the lock. If Voss was there
he could not get out now except by the window.
He made a rapid survey of the rooms. They were
exactly as when left for the visit to the Palace.
He had arrived first.
The car was still throbbing in the street below. If
Voss came, it might scare him off. He hurried down
stairs and went out hatless to the driver.
"Wait for me, out of sight, round the corner. Here's
part of the money I promised you," and he thrust a
bank note into the fellow's hand.
The car went creeping and groaning into Piccadilly,
and Bannister returned to the flat to wait.
He was only just in time; but he had a few moments
in which to think out his plan.
It would never do to leave lights burning. Voss
must come into the trap unsuspectingly. The latch


394 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
The old notion of Voss as docile and subservient
lingered still, in spite of this outbreak. It was so
strong that the idea of arming himself against the fel-
low never occurred to him. His itching fingers were
empty, and he fully believed that when he came face to
face with the traitor Voss would crumple up, and
cringe, and whine for mercy.
A step on the stone stair—a heavy breathing—and a
scratching of a key in the lock. Bannister shook with
eager rage, and choked for breath. His hands clenched
and unclenched, his teeth ground one upon the other,
his jaw locked ready for action, and he could scarcely
wait for the door to close behind the traitor.
Voss stopped and listened intently before switching
on the light. It all appeared to him as it did to Ban-
nister when he arrived, grim, dark, deserted, and with
that queer musty odor which greets the nostrils on en-
tering a place that has been shut up for some time.
As a precaution against sudden surprise from pursuit
he shot the bolts of the front door. Then he flung
down his cap and loosened his coat, and hurried to the
little room at the back, where his hoard was hidden.
Bannister remained in the dark sitting room, ready
to pounce; but his victim went by too quickly. He
heard cupboard doors being unlocked and furniture
moved, and a little cry of triumph as jingling coins
were shovelled into a capacious pocket.
Voss was not going to be satisfied easily. The
whole place was at his mercy. He made more noise
now, and banged into Bannister's bedroom, and began
flinging about jewel cases and breaking open drawers.
Bannister allowed him full rein, but there was not much
to take. Every time his hand closed upon a valuable
article it was too bulky or too heavy to carry away. He


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 395
picked things up and dropped them, and picked them
up again, then thought of a bag. He seized the first to
hand, and flung it on the floor.
He fancied he heard a sound, and the bag was kicked
aside. It was madness to stay to carry off things worth
a few ten pound notes when a fortune in jeopardy was
in his pockets. Perhaps there was something in the
other room which he could carry more easily. There
was one picture which he had heard his master say
would fetch seven thousand pounds in Munich, a little
thing that would go in a small bag and be no impedi-
ment to his flight.
He blundered into the dark sitting room, and for-
got the switch which was at the door; but on turning
back with outstretched arm to touch the familiar knob,
he felt a gust of wind. The door was closed by some
unseen agency; there was a step and a click, and he
jumped back with a hoarse cry. Bannister had flooded
the room with light, and stood with his back to the
door. They were face to face.
Voss backed away, and almost fell down in his as-
tonishment.
"I'm here first, you see," hissed Bannister, breath-
ing heavily.
"You'd better not get in my way," cried Voss,
clenching his fist and looking dangerous. "I've fin-
ished here. I've done enough of your dirty work, and
what did I ever get for it? Yes, I'm on my own now.
So stand aside, or you'll be sorry for it."
"You're a murderer!"
"Rats! You can't kid me."
"I tell you you have killed Lady Hester Cardew"
"Well, what if I have? She shouldn't have got in
my way
n


396 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
"She was my wife."
"Eh?"
"My wife, I say. You have killed her, and I'm going
to kill you. Empty your pockets, you dirty traitor."
"Empty my pockets, eh, and fill yours? Not if I
know it."
Bannister's eyes flashed lightning. His rage was
terrible. He leaped at the fellow, and his hand was on
the other's throat before Voss knew what was happen-
ing.
"Yes—kill you!"
Voss went down to the floor on his back. Ban-
nister's slim white hand closed tighter and tighter. "So
you'd rob me, would you—you miserable, crawling
worm! You dirty cunning dog!"
Bannister raised one hand to strike his prostrate vic-
tim in the face, and gave Voss his opportunity. He
wriggled, turned half over, and dragged his assailant
down. They came to grips lying side by side on the
floor in a fearful struggle. Voss's right hand was free,
and he thrust it into his pocket. Bannister clutched
him again, and embedded his thin fingers in his throat
with unerring precision. Voss struck out and swung
round his free arm, and—fired.
The shot seemed to have no effect. The flaming
eyes came closer to his; two hands closed upon his
throat tighter and tighter, and the room began to
swim round.
The revolver dropped; he began to choke, and
clawed at the wrists of his infuriated master; but grad-
ually the clutch of the long fingers relaxed; a heavy
weight bore down upon him, and Bannister rolled over
—quite still and dead.
Voss was terrified. He scrambled to his feet, and


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 399
The wildest rumors were afloat. First it was the
Bishop himself who had been killed, then the Bishop's
wife. Both these stories were pronounced to be incor-
rect. It was Lady Hester who had been attacked, and,
thanks to the perseverance of the doctor, she had re-
covered sufficiently to describe the villain and set the
police on his track.
The Bishop's emeralds were gone, but it was con-
fidently hoped that the thief would not long be at
large. Later, an ugly rumor gained ground that the
Bishop, whose condition was critical before the burg-
lary, had been much distressed by the attack upon his
wife, which occurred within his hearing while he lay
helpless listening to her screams, and showed signs of
collapse.
The doctor was besieged by reporters, but he refused
to say anything—in itself a sign that what there was to
say had better be left unsaid. From these indications
the people of Ripley drew their own conclusions, and
prepared for the worst. Things reached a climax
when, at afternoon service in the cathedral, prayers
were offered up for the Bishop's life. He was in ex-
tremis.
At the Palace a deathly calm prevailed. After Ban-
nister's departure for London, Jack felt that there was
nothing further to be done. He took the reins of man-
agement, and his first difficulty was with Aunt Caro-
line, who amazed him by a strange outburst of abuse
and accusation against Bannister himself, whom she
declared to be a villain and a swindler; it was he who
had stolen the gems; the man Voss was only his tool.
Jack was furiously indignant; but her concern for the
emeralds soon gave place to the deepest anxiety for
her brother. The Bishop, in a brief spell of conscious-


400 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
ness, had signified that he wished to see his sister. He
desired to make his peace. Some inkling of the real
troth about Bannister and the justice of his sister's op-
position must have come to him in those last fleeting
moments. He knew that Voss was the culprit, and
they had told him that Bannister was in pursuit of the
villain; but that did not satisfy him.
Caroline was summoned to the sufferer's bedside by
the doctor, who stood aside during the interview,
watch in hand. He gave her five minutes.
She fell upon her knees by her brother's side, weep-
ing bitterly, and he signed to her to come closer.
"Take care of—Hester—and Jack. If you were
right "There was a long pause, and she waited
with beating heart until his speech came again. "Be
kind to the child—Jack knows best."
The strong old man died hard. He wrestled with the
pain in his breast, which had been so frequent of late
and which was now closing about his heart, and the
doctor signed to her to come away. He drew her al-
most forcibly into the next room. In the open door
of Lady Hester's bedroom he was astonished to see
the pale, tottering figure of the Bishop's wife.
"I am better," she murmured, as she leaned upon the
lintel for support.
She waved the doctor on one side and walked un-
steadily into the Bishop's room. The doctor closed
the door behind her and left them alone.
He dispatched the nurse to fetch Jack, who was busy
downstairs with the detectives, unaware of the extreme
.seriousness of his father's position; but when he came
up he understood that the worst was to be feared. His
riunt, who had dropped into a chair near the safe in
the dressing room, sat rigid, as if turned to stone, and
read his thoughts. He gave her an appealing glance.


406 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
to a gentleman moving in the best circles to pilfer in
country houses. Former hosts of Mr. Bannister began
to remember strange things that had happened at their
houses at times when Voss was unobtrusively sheltered
beneath their roofs. Oh, yes, there was no doubt that
the murderer was a dangerous ruffian of more than or-
dinary ability, and, of course, the public hoped that he
would never be captured.
Jack drew his own conclusions, and gave no more
information than he could help. He returned to the
Palace with a heavy heart, dreading the ordeal of break-
ing the news of Bannister's death to Mabel and his
step-mother.
On his arrival home he found that the news had pre-
ceded him—Mabel already knew. The story of the
tragedy in the flat had been told to Lady Hester by
Aunt Caroline herself; but she appeared to be dead to
all feeling, and numbed by the shock of the Bishop's
death. Nothing seemed to matter, and she was shut
up in her own room with the nurse in attendance, sleep-
ing and weeping by turns, and occasionally lapsing into
long periods of quiet, when she was like one stunned.
The pursuit of Voss by the police was keen and
swift. A close scrutiny of his belongings at the flat
proved him to be an accomplished criminal of long
standing, whom Mr. Bannister had unconsciously har-
bored under his roof for years. The lesser rascal had
not been so cautious as his master. I
A search of the flat revealed nothing that would ob-
viously incriminate Mr. Bannister, except a drawer
full of cards, which very much puzzled the detective
inspector. They were in the sitting room, and at first
glance only suggested that Mr. Bannister might have
had a weakness for bridge; but a closer examination


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 407
suggested a weakness for cheating, which was surely
unworthy of a man in Mr. Bannister's position. They
also found a number of unmounted gems neatly ar-
ranged in leather cases. These provoked some specu-
lation, and it required all Jack's persuasive powers to
convince the inspector that Mr. Bannister was a well
known collector of gems. The young husband was
naturally eager to shield his wife's father and stifle
scandal wherever possible. He showed remarkable re-
source in this, and, guided by Mabel, who told him
all that she knew, he introduced the inspector to Mr.
Bowman, the Bond Street jeweler, who gladly testified
that Mr. Bannister was a collector of precious stones.
The inspector was convinced—cr at least he pre-
tended to be—and as Mr. Cardew's handsome reward
for the recovery of the emeralds secried likely to come
his way he was willing to suspect nothing. He under-
stood that Miss Bannister was rea'.iy Mrs. Cardew, and
gallantly worked on the lady's behalf. He was also
sharp enough to realize that the interest of the public
would soon subside if it became known that the murder
was only a case of one rascal killing another. The pub-
lic at large have a sneaking regard for a villain who
kills a villain; but a servant who murders his master
is a marked man, and everybody's hand is against him.
If they guessed the truth behind Mr. Bannister's death
their sporting instinct would be aroused, and Voss
was more likely to escape than be handed over to jus-
tice.
The police made one error in their calculations.
They reckoned upon Voss being without means, and
circulated elaborate descriptions of the emeralds, fully
believing that he would try to sell them sooner or
later. But Voss was not without money. Indeed, he


4o8 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
carried such a large sum upon his person that it was
difficult to conceal. The fugitive found that it was im-
possible to get out of the country, so he gravitated by
instinct to the nearest congregation of rascals in the
neighborhood, to wit, a race course. Here he mingled
with the throng until nightfall, and drank a good deal
of spirits. He managed to get rid of his master's cap
in a ditch, and under plea of having lost it in a scrim-
mage, bought another of a stable boy for a substantial
sum. He gave five shillings for the new cap, explaining
that he was in luck that day and could afford to be gen-
erous.
He took no pains to alter his appearance. It was
obvious that the police would not look for a man ex-
actly coinciding with the description given of Ban-
nister's servant: a hunted man generally makes himself
as unlike the police description as possible: but Voss
made no change. His clothes were of a nondescript
order, with an inclination towards the horsey, which
the new cap intensified.
He was fast recovering his mental balance, and the
tragedy of the early morning seemed a long way off by
nightfall. He was calm enough to remember many
conversations held with Bannister on the subject of
evading the police. Bannister used to follow all crimi-
nal cases with the keenest interest, and he had fre-
quently regaled Voss with his views thereon He had
a contempt for the absurd methods of the ordinary
criminal, who follows a stereotyped course and does
the very thing the police expect him to do.
"If you are ever compelled to hide in lodgings,"
Bannister had often said, "choose them as near Scot-
land Yard as possible. Don't rush up to Aberdeen or
try to get to Dover. If you want a really comfortable


'4io THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
but counted up the money in his pocket and declared
himself able to pay for his lodgings for a few days until
his luck changed.
For a week he pursued the vocation of a common
sharper, living apparently from hand to mouth upon
his earnings, and dodging the police by the aid of kind
friends of the same kidney. Business was slack and
the profits small, and he informed his friends that he
intended finding another "lay." They were astonished
at his audacity, but applauded his scheme, which was
to pose as a foreign count visiting racing towns and
swindling hotel keepers. They assisted him to make
the necessary alterations in his appearance, and one
wealthy ruffian actually offered to provide a portion of
the capital to start with. Voss accepted the gift with-
out turning a hair, and promised the donor a share in
the profits.
He duly appeared in a northern town with a foreign
accent, a loud, showy costume, and a good deal of bat-
tered luggage. He could only speak a few words of
English, but could understand anything said to him in
French. He made his wants known without much diffi-
culty, and was boarded and lodged at the very best es-
tablishments. The friends of the racing days, who had
helped him in adversity, were recompensed hand-
somely for their trouble; but they could not quite un-
derstand how the enterprising swindler made his
money. They acknowledged him as a master, and re-
spectfully and sadly left him soaring in'higher realms.
They supposed the French count to be cashing spuri-
.. ous cheques and flitting; but as a matter of fact Voss
was paying all his bills like an honest man, and making
a little money by betting. He won enough to pay a
portion of his expenses, and did not grudge the bal-
ance taken from his hoard of gold.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 411
He was able now to read the daily papers with
amusement, and laughed at the absurd clues that were
discovered every few days. Now he was seen at Ply-
mouth, now at Portsmouth, now at Dover, and at last
he was supposed to have reached Paris. The space given
to the Bannister murder in the papers grew less and
less. At last only an occasional paragraph appeared
to keep the ugly business green in the public mind.
But one morning, as the French count was lolling at
his ease in a dressing gown and smoking half crown
cigars after the fashion of his late master, he was
startled to see a short paragraph announcing the fact
that Voss's antecedents had been traced back by means
of a photograph, and he was strongly suspected of
being the same person as a criminal who once hood-
winked hotel keepers as a French count and never paid
his bills. Hotel keepers were warned to look out for
a person of this description.
Voss went cold all over, and when the door opened
he expected the police to rush in. He bitterly re-
gretted now that he had not used his disguse to reach
Dover, where he might have sailed by any boat as a
French subject.
He received another horrid shock an hour later
when the hotel keeper appeared, and, with many apolo-
gies and sidelong glances, presented his bill, explain-
ing that he always adopted this policy with foreigners,
because they were apt to get wrong ideas into their
heads and make a fuss when leaving. Obviously the
hotel keeper had seen the newspaper paragraph. Voss
thanked his lucky stars that he was not "on the crook"
at the present time. He paid the bill without a mur-
mur and flourished handfuls of gold before the re-
assured hotel keeper.


412 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
The danger was averted for the present. He had es-
tablished confidence here, but was afraid to stay. He
swaggered down into the public room to revive his
courage, but he was shaking terribly. The barmaids
watched him and whispered to the German waiters,
one of whom addressed him in French without getting
any reply.
Another notice about the French count appeared in
the papers next day. It was stated that such a per-
son had been seen at Chester. Then followed a de-
scription which fitted Voss at Chester, but did not quite
apply just now, for he had made many changes of cos-
tume. Instead of his side whiskers being shaved off,
as the police suggested, he had allowed them to join
up with a scrubby young beard.
Special emphasis was laid upon the fact that the re-
ward for the recovery of the emeralds had been dou-
bled. Voss bitterly regretted ever touching them.
They had dazzled him, and he had given little thought
to the question of turning them into cash. Bannister
always found that sort of thing easy, but with Voss it
was different. He had never tackled the gem business
before, and did not know how to begin. The emeralds
were concealed upon his person close to his skin, and
he grew to hate them. He longed to pluck them out
and throw them away. In his panic he regarded them
as the source of all his trouble and his sole danger. The
police would leave him alone fast enough if there were
no jewels to be recovered. His neck was in danger,
and he valued his life more than the emeralds. He
could live without them. His recent association with
sharpers and swindlers had shown him that he could
earn a very fair living "on the crook." Freed from
the hypnotic influence of Bannister he might do very


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 413
well "on his own" by imitating his master's methods
and taking all the profits; but the emeralds were worth
a fortune, and the very immensity of the fortune they
represented made them an added danger.
The interest of the hotel servants in the French
count grew and grew; but nobody sent for the police,
because the landlord was quite convinced that the gen-
tleman upstairs was the genuine thing. He threatened
to sack anybody who dared to drive him away; for he
had grossly overcharged the count, and hoped to con-
tinue to do so for some time to come.
A night of racking terror reduced Voss to a rag.
The emeralds burned like hot coals at his breast. He
meditated hiding them in the chimney, but that would
not stop the hue and cry after them, which was the
stumbling block at present. He began to weigh in
the balance the definite value of his neck and the pos-
sible value of the gems, and.came to the conclusion
that it would be better to send them back to the Palace
by post, and lift a great load from his heart, than be
chased all over Europe and be hanged at last. It was
a wrench, but it had to be done.
The French count presently sallied forth to the post
office with a small parcel addressed to Mr. Jack Car-
dew. The girl who received the parcel read the ad-
dress, and looked hard at the sender. He fled; but he
did not return to the hotel. He bought fresh clothes
in the town, and took train to Liverpool.
He was only just in time, for the German waiter at
the hotel, unable to withstand the temptation of a great
reward, and convinced that the count was not a for-
eigner at all, had taken French leave and gone to the
police station. An inspector of police returned with
him, and hid himself behind the bar to wait for the


414 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
French count's return. The landlord protested that
the waiter had made a shocking blunder; but the in-
spector explained that an arrest would not hurt a for-
eigner, and would at least show that the police were
arresting somebody.
It was a long wait, and the inspector grew weary.
His quarry was on the way to Liverpool before it oc-
curred to him that a search of the count's rooms was
advisable. When the search was over, and the count
had disappeared, he cursed his ill luck, and the Ger-
man waiter wept. The notorious Voss had slipped
through their fingers, and to-morrow the world would
be laughing at them.
A recrudescence of interest in the Bannister murder
now occurred throughout the country. The thief in
panic had returned the gems, and the clues provided
by the parcel and the hotel servants gave the detectives
a new starting point from which to begin the hunt.
They tracked the murderer to Liverpool, but there all
traces ended.
Nor did they ever catch him.
It is weary work playing a losing game, and the in-
ducement of the reward being no longer a factor in the
situation, the hue and cry subsided in a very short time.
Voss had calculated wisely and acted discreetly in re-
turning the emeralds. After all, their recovery was
more important than vengeance on the murderer of a
person of doubtful character


CHAPTER XXVI
IT was winter. February was drearier than usual,
and Caroline Cardew sat in her town house alone. It
was a gaunt, old fashioned place, severely furnished in
the early Victorian style, but with many articles of fur-
niture belonging to previous generations of respecta-
ble Georgian ancestors. The afternoon was bleak and
grey, and she sat knitting before the fire. Outside the
rain was drizzling and the sky was darkening.
She seemed to have aged very much in the last few
months, and her eye had lost its keenness. She had
sunk into insignificance in public affairs since the death
of her brother the Bishop, and in family affairs she had
chosen to hold.herself aloof. She missed the Palace
at Ripley, and the excitement of going to and fro, and
the occasional visits which her brother used to make
to her in town, where he used her house as his head-
quarters. She missed Jack most of all.
Her visitors were surprisingly few; but the house
was run as heretofore, and she sat in solitary state.
A visitor! She sighed with relief and put down her
knitting, expecting the maid to announce the new-
comer. Instead she heard the swish of silken skirts on
the stairs and some one running up, talking all the
time. Beatrice!
The girl entered unceremoniously, and greeted her
friend with her usual brusqueness.
"Afternoon, aunt. Didn't expect to see me, did you?
Was in town, so thought I'd come."
Beatrice was dressed in a costume which was half
415


416 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
country and half town, and carried a walking stick; her
jacket glistened with rain, and she looked rather drag'
gled.
"Why didn't you tell me you were coming to town,
child, then I could have sent the carriage?"
"Oh, just ran up on the spur of the moment—to see
Jack and Mabel." Aunt Caroline retired into her shell
and took up her knitting. "But before I went, thought
I'd come and see you. Mabel is living with Jack at his
chambers, you know, and they are still keeping the
marriage dark. Lady Hester came back yesterday, and
she's staying at a hotel close by, and making their place
her headquarters."
Grim silence from Aunt Caroline, and a pause.
"Fancy money's rather tight there." Beatrice took
off her gloves, and flung them on the table with her
stick. Then she thrust her hands into the side pockets
of her jacket and walked up and down, as she talked,
like a man.
"I think it was very mean of the Bishop to squander
everything and live beyond his income, so that when
he died there was nothing left for Jack and his wife
but debts."
"I object to your referring to my dear brother in
those terms."
"And you are mean, too," cried Beatrice, wheel-
ing round remorselessly. "You always said that your
father left his money to you, so that the Bishop
shouldn't spend it. The fact is, your money is as much
Jack's as anybody's."
"I don't allow you to dictate to me on questions of
finance."
"Finance—fiddlesticks!" cried Beatrice, with a laugh.
"You know you are only sulking. You're behaving


422 THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS
to have any explanations, or make any apologies, or
create any fuss. Just sit down and write a note for me
to take to Mabel and Lady Hester, and invite them all
up to dinner."
Aunt Caroline made no protest now. She sat and
stared meditatively into the fire, and considered Beat-
rice's plan. After a long silence she spoke.
"No—she can't touch her father's money. She's a
good girl. I never really objected to her—it was only
the way it was done—only"
"And now that it can't be helped, just invite them
to dinner, auntie." Beatrice walked across to a writ-
ing desk and took out note paper and envelopes, and
made everything ready. She led the old lady to the
writing table, and saw her settled. Then she sat by the
fire and dried her eyes, and set her teeth firmly. The
task before her was as hard as Aunt Caroline's—to
visit Mabel in her happiness and see Jack in his little
home with his wife.
*******
"Why, it's Beatrice!"
Jack opened the door of his chambers and shook the
visitor warmly by the hand. She trembled a little, but
returned his greeting cheerily, and walked into Mabel's
outstretched arms. The place was warm and cosy, and
utterly transformed by new furniture, flowers, and drap-
eries. The girls hugged one another silently for a few
moments, then Lady Hester came forward to give
greeting also. She was much changed, paler and thin-
ner, but very dignified in her widow's black; and there
was a new light in her face, a tenderness and gracious-
ness which was novel to Beatrice, who had always
found Lady Hester a little stiff and impatient of her
rough ways.


THE BISHOP'S EMERALDS 423
"Mother, Beatrice must take off her hat and stay."
"Of course, of course," cried Jack.
"No, no, I've only just called. I've got to catch a
train; and I've brought you a letter."
Mabel extended her hand wonderingly, but Beatrice
stuffed the letter in her muff. "No, no; not now. When
I go."
They drew her to the fire and made much of her, and
she melted and became almost tender. Perhaps Jack
understood her feelings, for he kept in the back-
ground, and left her to Mabel and Lady Hester. When
she talked of going he entreated her to stay longer.
"No, no; I'm busy. Been doing good Samaritan
work this afternoon. Got to get home to-night. Only
a spinster, and not allowed out alone after dark, you
know."
She thrust her hand into Jack's gauchely in her
worst manner; but Jack understood.
"Here's the letter, Mabel. Good-bye! Good-bye 1"
She was gone quickly, and Mabel opened the enve-
lope wonderingly.
"What can Beatrice have to write to us about?"
She read with a grave face, then passed the note to
Jack. He read it aloud.
"Miss Cardew presents her compliments, and would
be glad of the company of Mr. and Mrs. Cardew and
Lady Hester Cardew to dinner on Wednesday. Usual
time."
"Hooray!" cried Jack. Then he roared with laugh-
ter.
"This is Beatrice's doing," murmured Lady Hester,
after a pause. "She escaped so that we should not
thank her."
"It's just like her," murmured Mabel.