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 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 GIFT
 
 THE BISHOP'S SECRET.
 
 THE BISHOP'S SECRET 
 
 BY 
 
 FERGUS HUME, 
 
 author of 
 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," " For the Defense,' 
 "The Harlequin Opal," "The Girl from 
 Malta," etc. 
 
 
 J^-^M^Sr^ 
 
 Chicago and New York: 
 
 RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY, 
 
 publishers.
 
 Copyright, 1900, by Rand, McNolly & Co 
 Copyright, 1906, by Rand, McNally & Co
 
 PR 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In his earlier works, notably in " The Mystery of a Hansom 
 Cab" and "The Silent House in Pimlico," Mr. Hume won a 
 reputation second to none for plot of the stirring, ingenious, 
 misleading, and finally surprising kind, and for working out 
 his plot in vigorous and picturesque English. 
 
 In "The Bishop's Secret," while there is no falling off in plot 
 and style, there is a welcome and marvelous broadening out as 
 to the cast of characters, representing an unusually wide range 
 of typical men and women. These are not laboriously 
 described by the author, but are made to reveal themselves in 
 action and speech in a way that has, for the reader, all the 
 charm of personal intercourse with living people. 
 
 Mr. Hume's treatment of the peculiar and exclusive ecclesi- 
 astical society of a small English cathedral city is quite 
 worthy of Anthony TroUope, and his leading character, Bishop 
 Pendle, is equal to TroUope's best bishop. The Reverend Mr. 
 Cargrim, the Bishop's poor and most unworthy protege, is a 
 meaner Uriah Heep. Mrs. Pansey is the embodiment of all 
 shrewishness, and yields unlimited amusement. The Gypsies 
 are genuine — such as George Borrow, himself, would have 
 pictured them — not the ignorant caricatures so frequently 
 drawn by writers too lazy to study their subject. 
 
 Besides these types, there are several which seem to have 
 had no exact prototypes in preceding fiction. Such are Doctor 
 Graham, " The Man with a Scar," the Mosk family — father, 
 mother, and daughter — Gabriel Pendle, Miss Winchello, and, 
 last but not least, Mr. Baltic — a detective so unique in char- 
 acter and methods as to make Conan Doyle turn green with 
 envy. 
 
 All in all, this story is so rich in the essential elements of 
 worthy fiction — in characterization, exciting adventure, sug- 
 gestions of the marvelous, wit, humor, pathos, and just enough 
 of tragedy — that it is offered to the American public in all 
 confidence that it will be generally and heartily welcomed. 
 
 THE PUBLISHERS. 
 
 0/5 p^^■f^:r^
 
 THE BISHOP'S SECRET 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 'enter MRS PANSEY AS CHORUS ' 
 
 Of late years an anonymous mathematician has declared 
 that in the British Isles the female population is seven 
 times greater than the male ; therefore, in these days is 
 fulfilled the scriptural prophecy that seven women shall lay 
 hold of one man and entreat to be called by his name. 
 Miss Daisy Norsham, a veteran Belgravian spinster, decided, 
 after some disappointing seasons, that this text was parti- 
 cularly applicable to London. Doubtful, therefore, of 
 securing a husband at the rate of one chance in seven, or 
 dissatisfied at the prospect of a seventh share in a man, she 
 resolved upon trying her matrimonial fortunes in the 
 country. She was plain, this lady, as she was poor ; nor 
 could she rightly be said to be in the first flush of maiden- 
 hood. In all matters other than that of man-catching she 
 was shallow past belief. Still, she did hope, by dir\t of 
 some brisk campaigning in the diocese of Beorminster, to 
 capture a whole man unto herself. 
 
 Her first step was to wheedle an invitation out of Mrs 
 Pansey, an archdeacon's widow — then on a philanthropic 
 visit to town — and she arrived, towards the end of July, in 
 the pleasant cathedral city of Beorminster, in time to attend 
 a reception at the bishop's palace. I'hus the autumn 
 manceuvres of Miss Norsham opened most auspiciously. 
 
 Mrs Pansey, with whom this elderly worshipper of 
 Hymen had elected to stay during her visit, was a gruff 
 w^oman, with a scowl, who 'looked all nose and eyebroA-:.'
 
 The Bts/iop's Secret 
 
 Few ecclesiastical matrons were so well known in the dioct.'se 
 of Kt.ortninstcr as was Mrs I'ansey ; not many, it must be 
 confessed, were so ardently hated, for there were few pies 
 mdecd in which this dear lady had not a finger ; few key- 
 holes ihruu^.h which her eye did not peer. Her memory 
 and her tongue, severally and combined, had ruined half 
 the reputations in the county. In short, she was a re- 
 nowned social bully, and like most bullies she gained her 
 ends by scaring the lives out of mt^eker and better-bred 
 people than herself. These latter feared her ' scenes ' as 
 she rejoiced in them, and as she knew the pasts of her 
 friends from their cradle upwards, she usually contrived, by 
 a p.tiless use of her famous memory, to put to rout anyone 
 so ill-advised as to attempt a stand against her domineering 
 authority. When her tall, gaunt figure — invariably arrayed 
 in the blackest of black silks — was sighted in a room, those 
 present either scuttled out of the way or judiciously held 
 their peace, for everyone knew Mrs Pansey's talent for 
 twisting the simplest observation into some evil shape 
 calculated to get its author into trouble. She excelled 
 in this particular method of making mischief. Possessed 
 of ample means and ample leisure, both of these helped 
 lier materially to build up her reputation of a philanthropic 
 bully. She literally swooped down upon the poor, taking 
 one and all in charge to be fed, physicked, worked 
 and guided according to, her own ideas. In return for 
 benefits conferred, she demanded an unconditional sur- 
 render of free will. NoVjody was to have an opinion 
 but ^^rs Pansey ; nobody knew what was good for them 
 unless their ideas coincided with those of their patroness — 
 which they never did. Mis Pansey hnd never been a 
 mother, yet, in her own opinion, there was nothing about 
 children she did not know. She had not studied medicine, 
 therefore she dubbed the doctors a pack of fools, saying 
 she could cure where they failed. Be they tinkers, tailors, 
 soldiers, sailors, Mrs Pansey invariably knew more about 
 their vocations than they themselves did or were ever likely 
 to do. In short, this celebrated lady — for her reputation 
 was more than local — was what the .American so succinctly 
 terms a ' she-boss' ; and in a less enlightened age she would 
 indubitably have been ducked in the Beorflete river as a
 
 * Enter Mrs Pansey as Chorus ' 
 
 meddlesome, scolding, clattering jade. Indeed, had any- 
 one been so brave as to ignore the flight of time and thus 
 suppress her, the righteousness of the act would most 
 assuredly have remained unquestioned. 
 
 Now, as Miss Norsham wanted, for her own purposes, to 
 •know the ropes,' she was fortunate to come within the 
 gloom of Mrs Pansey's silken robes. For Mrs Pansey 
 certainly knew everyone, if she did not know everything, 
 and whomsoever she chaperoned had to be received by 
 Beorminster society, whether Beorminster society liked it or 
 not. All protegees of Mrs Pansey sheltered under the 
 aegis of her terrible reputation, and woe to the daring person 
 who did not accept them as the most charming, the clever- 
 est, and in every way the most desirable of their sex. But 
 in the memory of man, no one had ever sustained battle 
 against Mrs Pansey, and so this feminine Selkirk remained 
 monarch of all she surveyed, and ruled over a community 
 consisting mainly of canons, vicars and curates, with their 
 respective wives and offsprings. There were times when 
 her subjects made use of language not precisely ecclesiastic, 
 and not infrequently Mrs Pansey's name was mentally 
 .ncluded in the Commination Service. 
 
 Thus it chanced that Daisy, the spinster, found herself in 
 Mrs Pansey's carriage on her way to the episcopalian re- 
 ception, extremely well pleased with herself, her dress, her 
 position, and her social guardian angel. The elder lady 
 was impressively gloomy in her usual black silk, fashioned 
 after the early Victorian mode, when elegance invariably 
 gave place to utility. Her headgear dated back to the later 
 Georgian epoch. It consisted mainly of a gauze turban 
 twinkling with jet ornaments. Her bosom was defended 
 by a cuirass of cold-looking steel beads, finished off at the 
 throat by a gigantic brooch, C'-ntaining the portrait and 
 hair of the late archdeacon. Her skirts were lengthy and 
 voluminous, so that they swept the floor with a creepy 
 rustle like the frou-frou of a brocade-l spectre. She wore 
 black silk mittens, and on either bony wrist a band of 
 black velvet clasped with a large cameo set hideously in 
 pale gold. Thus attired — a veritable caricature by Leech 
 — this survival of a prehistoric age sat rigidly upright and 
 mangled the reputations of all and sundry.
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 Mi<;s Norsham, in all but age, was very modern indeed. 
 Her neck was lean ; her arms were thin. She made up for 
 lack of quality by display of quantity. In her decoiUte 
 costume she appeared as if composed of bones and 
 diamonds. The diamonds represented the bulk of Miss 
 Norsham's wealth, and she used them not only for the 
 adornment of her uncomely person, but for the deception 
 of any possible suitor into the belief that she was well 
 dowered. She affected gauzy fabrics and fluttering baby 
 ribbons, so that her dress was as the fleecy flakes of snow 
 clinging to a well-preserved ruin. 
 
 P'or the rest she had really beautiful eyes, a somewhat 
 elastic mouth, and a straight iiose well powdered to gloss 
 over its chronic redness. Her teeth were genuine and she 
 cultivated w^hat society novelists term silvery peals of 
 laughter. In every way she accentuated or obliterated 
 nature in her efforts to render herself attractive. 
 
 Ichabod was writ large on her powdered brow, and it 
 needed no great foresight to foresee the speedy approach of 
 acidulated spinsterhood. But, to do her justice, this re- 
 gretable state of single blessedness was far from being her 
 own fault. If her good fortune had but equalled her 
 courage and energy she should have relinquished celibacy 
 years ago. 
 
 'Oh, dear — dear Mrs Pansey,* said the younger lady, 
 strong in adjectives and interjections and reduplication of 
 both, ' is the bi.shop very, very sweet ? ' 
 
 • He's sweet enough as bishops go,' growled Mrs Pansey, 
 in her deep-toned voice. ' He might be better, and he 
 might be worse. There is too much Popish superstition 
 and worship of idols about him for my taste. If the 
 departed can smell,' added the lady, with an illustrative 
 sniff, ' the late archdeacon must turn in his grave when 
 those priests of Baal and Dagon burn incense at the morn- 
 ins; service. Still, Bishop Pendle has his good points, 
 although he is a time server and a sycophant.' 
 
 * Is he one of the Lancashire Pendles, dear Mrs Pansey ? ' 
 •A twenty-fifth cousin or thereabouts. He says he is a 
 
 nearer relation, but I know much more about it than he 
 does. If you want an ornamental bishop with good legs 
 for gaiters, and a portly figure for an apron, Dr Pendles
 
 * Enter Mrs Pansey as Chorus ' 
 
 the man. But as a God-fearing priest ' (with a groan), ' a 
 simple worshipper' (groan) 'and a lowly, repentant sinner' 
 (groan), 'he leaves much — much to be desired.' 
 
 • Oh, Mrs Pansey, the dear bishop a sinner ? ' 
 
 • Why not ? ' cried Mrs Pansey, ferociously ; ' aren't we all 
 miserable sinners? Dr Pendle's a human worm, just as 
 you are — as I am. You may dress him in lawn sleeves and 
 a mitre, and make pagan genuflections before his throne, 
 but he is only a worm for all that.* 
 
 *What about his wife?' asked Daisy, to avert further 
 expansion of this text. 
 
 ' A poor thing, my dear, with a dilated heart and not as 
 much blood in her body as would fill a thimble. She 
 ought to be in a hospital, and would be, too, if I had my 
 way. Lolling all day long on a sofa, and taking glasses of 
 champagne between doses of iron and extract of beef; 
 then giving receptions and wearing herself out. How he 
 ever came to marry the white-faced doll I can't imagine. 
 She was a Mrs Creagth when she caught him.' 
 
 ' Oh, really ! a widow ? ' 
 
 *0f course, of course. You don't suppose she's a 
 bigamist even though he's a fool, do you?' and the eye- 
 brows went up and down in the most alarming manner. 
 •The bishop — he was a London curate then — married her 
 some eight - and - twenty years ago, and I daresay he has 
 repented of it ever since. They have three children — 
 George' (with a whisk of her fan at the mention of each 
 name), 'who is a good-looking idiot in a line regiment; 
 Gabriel, a curate as white-faced as his mother, and no 
 doubt afflicted as she is with heart trouble. He was in 
 Whitechapel, but his father put him in a curacy here — 
 it was sheer nepotism. Then there is Lucy; she is the 
 best of the bunch, which is not saying much. They've 
 engaged her to young Sir Harry Brace, and now they 
 are giving this reception to celebrate having inveigled 
 him into the match.' 
 
 • Engaged ? ' sighed the fair Daisy, enviously. * Oh, do tell 
 me if this girl is really, really pretty.' 
 
 'Humph,' said the eyebrows, 'a pale, washed-out rag of 
 a creature — but what can you expect from such a mother? 
 No brains, no style, no conversation; always a simpering,
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 weak-eyed rag baby. Oh, my dear, what fools men 
 are!' 
 
 •Ah, you may well say that, dear Mrs Pansey,' assented 
 the spinster, thinking wrathfuUy of this unknown girl who 
 had succeeded where she had failed. 'Is it a very, very 
 good match ? ' 
 
 'Ten thousand a year and a fine estate, my dear. Sir 
 Harry is a nice young fellow, but a fool. An absentee 
 landlord, too,' grumbled Mrs Pansey, resentfully. ' Always 
 running over the world poking his nose into what doesn't 
 concern him, like the Wandering Jew or the Flying Dutch- 
 man. Ah, my dear, husbands are not what they used to 
 be. The late archdeacon never left his fireside while I 
 was there. I knew better than to let him go to Paris or 
 Pekin, or some of those sinks of iniquity. Cook and Gaze 
 indeed I ' snorted Mrs Pansey, indignantly ; ' I would abolish 
 them by Act of Parliament. They turn men in'o so many 
 Satans walking to and fro upon the earth. Oh, the im- 
 morality of these latter days ! No wonder the end of all 
 things is predicted.' 
 
 Miss Norsham paid little attention to the latter portion 
 of this diatribe. As Sir Harry Brace was out of the matri- 
 monial market it conveyed no information likely to be of 
 use to her in the coming campaign. She wished to be in- 
 formed as to the number and the names of eligible men, 
 and forewarned with regard to possible rivals. 
 
 ' And who is really and truly the most beautiful girl in 
 Beorminster? ' she asked abruptly. 
 
 ' Mab Ardcn,' replied Mrs Pansey, promptly. 'There, 
 now,' with an emphatic blow of her fan, 'she is pretty, 
 if you like, though I daresay there is more art than 
 nature about her.' 
 
 'Who is Mab Arden, dear Mrs Pansey?' 
 
 •She is Miss Whichello's niece, that's who she is.' 
 
 •Whichello? Oh, good gracious me! what a very, very 
 funny name. Is Miss Whichello a foreigner?' 
 
 'Foreigner? Bah!' cried Mrs Pansey, like a stentorian 
 ram, 'she belongs to a good old English family, and, in 
 my opinion, she disgraces them thoroughly. A meddle- 
 some old maid, who wants to foist her niece on to (Je»<rge 
 Pendle ; and she's likely to succeed, too,' added the lady, 
 
 6
 
 * Enter Mrs Pansey as Chorus ' 
 
 rubbing her nose with a vexed air, 'for the young ass is 
 in love with Mab, although she is three years older than 
 he is. Mr Cargrim also likes the girl, though I daresay 
 it is money with him.' 
 
 * Really ! Mr Cargrim ? ' 
 
 •Yes, he is the bishop's chaplain; a Jesuit in disguise 
 I call him, with his moping and mowing and sneaky ways. 
 Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth ; oh, dear no ! I gave 
 my opinion about him pretty plainly to Dr Graham, I can 
 tell you, and Graham's the only man with brains in this 
 city of fools.' 
 
 ' Is Dr Graham young ? ' asked Miss Norsham, in the faint 
 hope that Mrs Pansey's list of inhabitants might include a 
 wealthy bachelor. 
 
 ' Young ? He's sixty, if you call that young, and in his 
 second childhood. An Atheist, too. Tom Payn, Colonel 
 Ingersoll, Viscount Amberly — those are his gods, the pagan ! 
 I'd burn him on a tar-barrel if I had my way. It's a pity we 
 don't stick to some customs of our ancestors.' 
 
 'Oh, dear me, are there no young men at all?' 
 . 'Plenty, and all idiots. Brainless officers, whose wives 
 would have to ride on a baggage-waggon ; silly youn^ 
 squires, whose ideal of womanhood is a brazen barmaid ; 
 and simpering curates, put into the Church as the fools of 
 their respective families. I don't know what men are 
 coming to,' groaned Mrs Pansey. 'The late archdeacon 
 was clever and pious; he honoured and obeyed me as 
 the marriage service says a man should do. I was the 
 light of the dear man's eyes.' 
 
 Had Mrs Pansey stated that she had been the terror of 
 the late archdeacon's life she would have been vastly 
 nearer the truth, but such a remark never occurred to her. 
 Although she had bullied and badgered the vvretched little 
 man until he had seized the first opportunity of finding in 
 the grave the peace denied him in life, she really and truly 
 believed that she had been a model wife. The egotism of 
 first person singular was so firmly ingrained in the woman 
 that she could not conceive what a scourge she was to man- 
 kind in general ; what a trial she had been to her poor de- 
 parted husband in particular. If the late Archdeacon Pansey 
 had not died he would doubtltss have become a missionary
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 to some cannibal tribe in the South Seas in the hope that 
 his tough helpmate would be converted into 'long-pig.' 
 But, unluckily for Beorminslcr, he was dead and his relict 
 was a mourning widow, who constantly referred to her 
 victim as a perfect husband. And yet Mrs Pansey con- 
 sidered that Anthony Trollope's celebrated Mrs Proudie 
 was an overdrawn character. 
 
 As to Miss Norsham, she was in the depths of despair, 
 for, if Mrs Pansey was to be believed, there was no eli,i.;ible 
 husband for her in Beorminster. It was with a heavy heart 
 that the spinster entered the palace, and it was with the 
 courage born of desperation that she perked up and smiled 
 on the gay crowd she found within.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE BISHOP IS WANTED 
 
 The episcopalian residence, situate some distance from 
 the city, was a mediaeval building, enshrined in the remnant 
 of a royal chase, and in its perfect quiet and loneliness 
 resembled the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. Its com- 
 posite architecture was of many centuries and many styles, 
 for bishop after bishop had pulled down portions and added 
 others, had levelled a tower here and erected a wing there, 
 until the result was a jumble of divers designs, incongruous 
 but picturesque. Time had mellowed the various parts 
 into one rich coloured whole of perfect beauty, and elevated 
 on a green rise, surrounded by broad stone terraces, with 
 towers and oriels and turrets and machicolated battlements ; 
 clothed with ivy, buried amid ancient trees, it looked like 
 the realisation of a poet's dream. Only long ages and many 
 changing epochs ; only home-loving prelates, ample monies, 
 and architects of genius, could have created so beautiful 
 and unique a fabric. It was the admiration of transatlantic 
 tourists with a twang ; the desire of millionaires. Aladdin's 
 industrious genii would have failed to build such a master- 
 piece, unless their masters had arranged to inhabit it five 
 centuries or so after construction. Time had created it, as 
 Time would destroy it, but at present it was in perfect 
 preservation, and figured in steel-plate engravings as one of 
 the stately homes of England. No wonder the mitre of 
 Beorminster was a coveted prize, when its gainer could 
 dwell in so noble and matchless a mansion. 
 
 As the present prelate was an up-to-date bishop, abreast 
 of his time and fond of his creature comforts, the interior 
 of the palace was modernised completely in accordance with 
 the luxurious demands of nineteenth century civilisation. 
 The stately reception-rooms — thrown open on this night
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 to what the Beorminster Weekly Chronicle^ strong in foreign 
 tongues, tautolo^ically called ' the elite znd crone de la crime 
 of the diocese ' — were brilliantly illuminated by electric 
 lamps and furnished magnificently throughout, in keeping 
 with their palatial appearance. The ceilings wore painted in 
 the Italian style, with dccently-clothed Olympian deities ; the 
 floors were of parquetry, polished so highly, and reflecting 
 so truthfully, that the gue>ts seemed to be walking, in some 
 magical way, up. n still water. Noble windows, extending 
 from floor to roof, were draped with purple curtains, and 
 stood open to the quiet moonlit world without; between 
 these, tall mirrors flashed back gems and colours, moving 
 figures and floods of amber radiance, and enhanced by re- 
 duplicated reflections the size of the rooms. Amid all this 
 splendour of warmth and tints and light moved the numerous 
 guests of the bishop. Almost every invitation had been 
 accepted, for the receptions at the palace were on a large 
 and liberal scale, particularly as regards eating and drinking. 
 Dr Pendle, in addition to his oflEicial salary, possessed a 
 handsome income, and spent it in the lavish style of a 
 Cardinal Wolsey. He was wise enough to know how the 
 outward and visible signs of prosperity and dignity afl^ect 
 the popular imagination, and frequently invited the clergy 
 and laity to feast at the table of Mother Church, to show 
 that she could dispense loaves and fishes with the best, and 
 vie with Court and Society in the splendour and hospitality 
 of her entertainments. As he approved of an imposing 
 ritual at the cathedral, so he affected a magnificent way 
 of living at the palace. Mrs Pansey and many others 
 declared that Dr Pendle's aims in that direction were 
 Romish. Perhaps they were, but he could scarcely have 
 followed a better example, since the Church of Peter 
 owes much of its power to a judicious employment of 
 riches and ritual, and a dexterous gratification of the lust 
 of the eye. The Anglican Church is more dignified now 
 t'nan she was in the days of the Georges, and very rightly, 
 too, since God's ministers should not be the poorest or 
 meanest of men. 
 
 Naturally, as the host was clerical and the building 
 ecclesiastical, the clergy predominated at this entertainment. 
 The bishop and the dean were the only prelates of their 
 
 lO
 
 The Bishop is Wanted 
 
 rank present, but there were archdeacons, and canons and 
 rectors, and a plentiful supply of curates, all, in their o-vn 
 opinion, bishops in embryo. The shape and expression of the 
 many faces were various — ascetic, worldly, pale, red, round, 
 thin, fat, oval ; each one revealed the character of its owner. 
 Some lean, bent forms were those of men tilled with the fire 
 of religion for its own sake ; others, stout, jolly gentlemen 
 in comfortable livings, loved the loaves and fishes of the 
 Church as much as her precepts. The descendants of 
 Friar Tuck and the Vicar of Bray were here, as v/ell as 
 those who would have been Wycliffes and Latimers had 
 the fires of Smithfield still been alight. Obsequious curates 
 bowed down to pompous prebendaries; bluff rectors 
 chatted on cordial terms with suave archdeacons ; and in the 
 fold of the Church there were no black sheep on this great 
 occasion. The shepherds and pastors of the Beorminster 
 flock were polite, entertaining, amusing, and not too 
 masterful, so that the general air was quite arcadian. 
 
 The laity also formed a strong force. There were lords 
 magnificently condescending to commoners; M.P.s who 
 talked politics, and M.P.s who had had enough of that 
 sort of thing at St Stephen's and didn't ; hearty squires from 
 adjacent county seats ; prim bankers, with whom the said 
 squires were anxious to be on good terms, since they were 
 the priests of Mammon ; officers from near garrison towns, 
 gay and lighthearted, who devoted themselves to the fairer 
 portion of the company; and a sprinkling of barristers, 
 literary men, hardy explorers, and such like minnows 
 among Tritons. Last, but not least, the Mayor of Beor- 
 minster was present and posed as a modern Whittington 
 — half commercial wealth, half municipal dignity. If some 
 envious Anarchist had exploded a dynamite bomb in the 
 vicinity of the palace on that night, the greatest, the most 
 intellectual, the richest people of the county would have 
 come to an untimely end, and then the realm of England, 
 like the people themselves, would have gone to pieces. 
 The Beorminster Chronicle reporter — also present with a 
 flimsy book and a restless little pencil — worked up this 
 idea on the spot into a glowing paragraph. 
 
 Very ungallantly the ladies have been left to the last ; 
 but now the last shall be first, although it is difficult to do 
 
 II
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 the subject justice. The matrons of surrounding paribhes, 
 the ladies of Beorminslcr society, the damsels of town and 
 country, were all present in their best attire, chattering and 
 smiling, and becking and bowing, after the observant and 
 diplomatic ways of their sex. Such white shoulders ! such 
 pretty faces 1 such Parisian toilettes ! such dresses of 
 obviously home manufacture never were seen in one com- 
 pany. The married ladies whispered scandal behind their 
 fans, and in a Christian spirit shot out the lip of scorn at 
 their social enemies ; the young maidens sought for 
 marriageable men, and lurked in darkish corners for the 
 better ensnaring of impressionable males. Cupid unseen 
 mingled in the throng and shot his arrows right and left, 
 not always with the best result, as many post-nuptial ex- 
 periences showed. There was talk of the gentle art of 
 needlework, of the latest bazaar and the agreeable address 
 delivered thereat by Mr Cargrim ; the epicene pastime of 
 lawn tenuis was touched upon ; and ardent young persons 
 discussed how near they could go to Giant Pope's cave 
 without getting into the clutches of its occupant. The 
 young men talked golfing, parish work, horses, church, 
 male millinery, polo and shooting ; the young ladies chatted 
 about Paris fashions and provincial adaptations thereof, 
 the London season, the latest engagement, and the necessity 
 of reviving the flirtatious game of croquet. Black coats, 
 coloured dresses, flashing jewels, many-hued flowers, — the 
 restless crowd resembled a bed of gaudy tulips tossed by 
 the wind. And all this chattering, laughing, clattering, 
 gUttering mass of well-bred, well-groomed humanity moved, 
 and swayed, and gyrated under the white glare of the 
 electric lamps. Urbs in Rus; Belgravia in the Provinces; 
 Vanity Fair amid the cornfields; no wonder this entertain- 
 ment of Bishop and Mrs Pendle was the event of the 
 Beorminster year. 
 
 Like an agreeable Jupiter amid adoring mortals, the 
 bishop, with his chaplain in attendance, moved through 
 the rooms, bestowing a word here, a smile there, and a 
 hearty welcome on all. A fine-looking man was the Bishop 
 of Beorminster ; as stately in appearance as any prelate 
 drawn by Du Maurier. He was over six feet, and carried 
 himself in a soldierly fashion, as became a leader of the 
 
 12
 
 The Bishop is Wanted 
 
 Church Militant. His legs were all that could be desired 
 to fill out episcopalian gaiters ; and his bland, clean-shaven 
 face beamed with smiles and benignity. But Bishop 
 Pendle was not the mere figure-head Mrs Pansey's 
 malice declared him to be; he had great administrative 
 powers, great organising capabilities, and controlled his 
 diocese in a way which did equal credit to his heart and 
 head. As he chatted with his guests and did the honours 
 of the palace, he seemed to be the happiest of men, and 
 well worthy of his exalted post. With a splendid position, 
 a charming wife, a fine family, an obedient flock of clergy 
 and laity, the bishop's lines were cast in pleasant places. 
 There was not even the proverbial crumpled rose-leaf to 
 render uncomfortable the bed he had made for himself. 
 He was like an ecclesiastical Jacob — blessed above all men. 
 
 * Well, bishop I ' said Dr Graham, a meagre sceptic, who 
 did not believe in the endurance of human felicity, 'I 
 congratulate you.' 
 
 * On my daughter's engagement ? * asked the prelate, 
 smiling pleasantly. 
 
 * On everything. Your position, your family, your health, 
 your easy conscience ; all is too smooth, too well with you. 
 It can't last, your lordship, it can't last,' and the doctor 
 shook his bald head, as no doubt Solon did at Crasus when 
 he snubbed that too fortunate monarch. 
 
 * I am indeed blessed in the condition of life to which 
 God has been pleased to call me.* 
 
 * No doubt ! No doubt ! But remember Polycrates, 
 bishop, and throw your ring into the sea.' 
 
 'My dear Dr Graham,' said the bishop, rather stiffly, *I 
 do not believe in such paganism. God has blessed me 
 beyond my deserts, no doubt, and I thank Him in all 
 reverence for His kindly care.' 
 
 ' Hum ! Hum ! ' muttered Graham, shaking his head. 
 •When men thank fortune for her gifts she usually turns 
 her back on them.* 
 
 * I am no believer in such superstitions, doctor.' 
 
 •Well, well, bishop, you have tempted the gods, let us 
 see what they will do.' 
 
 •Gods or God, doctor?' demanded the bishop, with 
 magnificent displeasure. 
 
 13
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 'Whichever you like, my lord ; whichever you like.' 
 
 The bishop was nettled and rather ciiillcd by this 
 pessimism. He felt that it was his duty as a dmrchman to 
 administer a rebuke ; but Dr Graham's pagan views were 
 well known, and a correction, however dexterously adii)in- 
 istered, would only lead to an argument. A controversy 
 with Graham was no joke, as he was as subtle as Socrates 
 in discovering and attacking his adversary's weak poitns ; 
 so, not judging the present a fitting occasion to risk a fail, 
 the bishop smoothed away an incipient frown, and blandly 
 smiling, moved on, followed by his chaj)lain. Graham looked 
 grimly after this modern Cardinal Wolsey. 
 
 * I have never,' soliloquised the sceptic, * I have never 
 known a man without his skeleton. I wonder if you have 
 one, my lord. You look cheerful, you seem thoroughly 
 happy ; but you are too fortunate. If you have not a 
 skeleton now, I feel convinced you will have to build a 
 cupboard for one shortly. You thank blind fortune under * 
 the alias of God ? Well ! well ! we shall see the result of 
 your thanks. Wolsey I Napoleon ! Bismarck 1 they all fell 
 when most prosperous. Hum ! hum ! hum 1 * 
 
 Dr Graham had no reason to make this speech, bej'ond 
 his belief — founded upon experience — that calms are always 
 succeeded by storms. At present the bishop stood under 
 a serene sky ; and in no quarter could Graham descry the 
 gathering of the tempest he prophesied. But for all that he 
 had a premonition that evil days were at hand ; and, 
 sceptic as he was, he could not shake off the uneasy feeling. 
 His mother had been a Highland woman, and the Celt is 
 said to be gifted with second sight. Perhaps Graham 
 inherited the maternal gift of forecasting the future, for 
 he glanced ominously at the stately form of his host, and 
 shook his head. He thought the bishop was too confident 
 of continuous sunshine. 
 
 In the meantime, Dr Pendle, quite free from such fore- 
 bodings, unfortunately came within speaking distance of 
 Mrs Pansey, who, in her bell of St Paul's voice, was talking 
 to a group of meek listeners. Daisy Norsham had long 
 ago seized upon Gabriel Pendle, and was chatting with 
 him on the edge of the circle, quite heedless of her 
 chaperon's monologue. When Mrs Pansey saw the bishop
 
 The Bishop is Wanted 
 
 she swooped down on him before he could get out of the 
 way, which he would have done had courtesy permitted it 
 Mrs Pansey was the one person Dr Pendle dreaded, and if 
 the late archdeacon had been alive he would have en- 
 couraged the missionary project with all his heart. 'To 
 every man his own fear.' Mrs Pansey was the bishop's. 
 
 * Bishop ! ' cried the lady, in her most impressive archi- 
 diaconal manner, 'about that public-house. The Derby 
 Winner, it must be removed.' 
 
 Cargrim, who was deferentially smiling at his lordship's 
 elbow, cast a swift glance at Gabriel when he heard Mrs 
 Pansey's remark. He had a belief — founded upon spying 
 — that Gabriel knew too much about the public-house 
 mentioned, which was in his district ; and this belief was 
 strengthened when he saw the young man start at the 
 sound of the name. Instinctively he kept his eyes on 
 Gabriel's face, which looked disturbed and anxious ; too 
 much so for social requirements. 
 
 ' It must be removed,' repeated the bishop, gently ; ' and 
 why, Mrs Pansey ? ' 
 
 ' Why, bishop ? You ask why ? Because it is a hot-bed 
 of vice and betting and gambling ; that's why ! ' 
 
 * But I really cannot see — I have not the power — ' 
 
 'It's near the cathedral, too,' interrupted Mrs Pansey, 
 whose manners left much to be desired. * Scandalous I ' 
 
 •When God erects a house of prayer, 
 The devil builds a chapel there. 
 
 * Isn't it your duty to eradicate plague-spots, bishop ? * 
 Before Dr Pendle could answer this rude question, a 
 
 servant approached and spoke in a whisper to his master. 
 
 The bishop looked surprised. 
 
 *A man to see me at this hour — at this time,' said he, 
 
 repeating the message aloud. * Who is he ? What is his 
 
 name ? ' 
 
 * I don't know, your lordship. He refused to give his 
 name, but he insists upon seeing your lordship at once.' 
 
 * I can't see him ! ' said the bishop, sharply ; ' let him call 
 to-morrow.* 
 
 ' My lord, he says it is a matter of life and death.' 
 
 Dr Pendle frowned. * Most unbecoming language I ' he 
 
 15
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 murmured. ' Perhaps it may be as well to humour him. 
 Where is he ? ' 
 
 * In the entrance hall, your lordship ! ' 
 
 'Take him into the library and say I will see him shortly. 
 Mobt unusual,* said the bishop to himself. Then added 
 aloud, ' Mrs Pansey, I am called away for a moment ; pray 
 excuse me.' 
 
 ' We must talk about The Derby Winner later on,' said 
 Mrs Pansey, determinedly. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! — that is— really — I'll see.' 
 
 • Shall I accompany your lordship ? ' murmured Cargrim, 
 officioubly. 
 
 'No, Mr Cargrim, it is not necessary. I must see this 
 man as he speaks so strongly, but I daresay he is only some 
 pertinacious person who thinks that a bibiiop should be at 
 the complete disposal of the public — the exacting public ! ' 
 
 With this somewhat petulant speech Dr Pendie walked 
 away, not sorry to find an opportunity of slipping out of a 
 noisy argument with Mrs Pansey. That lady's parting 
 words were that she should expect him back in ten minutes 
 to settle the question of The Derby Winner ; or rather 
 to hear how she intended to settle it. Cargrim, pleased 
 at being left behind, since it gave him a chance of watching 
 Gabriel, urged Mrs Pansey to further discussion of the 
 question, and had the satisfaction of seeing that such dis- 
 cussion visibly disconcerted the curate. 
 
 And Dr Pendie ? In all innocence he left the reception- 
 rooms to speak with his untoward visitor in the library ; but 
 although he knew it not, he was entering upon a dark and 
 tortuous path, the end of which he was not destined to see 
 for many a long day. Dr Graham's premonition was likely 
 to prove true, for in the serene sky under which the bishop 
 had moved for so long, a tempest was gathering fast He 
 should have taken the doctor's advice and have sacrificed 
 his ring like Polycrates, but, as in the case of that old pagan, 
 the gods might have tossed back the gift and pursued their 
 relentless aims. The bishop had no thoughts like these. 
 As yet he had no skeleton, but the man in the library was 
 about to open a cupboard and let out its grisly tenant to 
 haunt prosperous Bishop Pendie. To him, as to all men, 
 evil had come at the appointed hour. 
 
 i6
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE UNFORESEEN HAPPENS 
 
 * I FEAR,' said Cargrim, with a gentle sigh, * I fear you are 
 
 right about that public-house, Mrs Pansey.' 
 
 The chaplain made this remark to renew the discussion, 
 and if possible bring Gabriel into verbal conflict with the 
 lady. He had a great idea of managing people by getting 
 them under his thumb, and so far quite deserved Mrs 
 Pansey's epithet of a Jesuit. Of late — as Cargrim knew by 
 a steady use of his pale blue eyes — the curate had been 
 visiting The Derby Winner, ostensibly on parochial busi- 
 ness connected with the ill-health of Mrs Mosk, the land- 
 lord's wife. But there was a handsome daughter of the 
 invalid who acted as barmaid, and Gabriel was a young and 
 inflammable man ; so, putting this and that together, the 
 chaplain thought he discovered the germs of a scandal. 
 Hence his interest in Mrs Pansey's proposed reforms. 
 
 •Right!' echoed the archidiaconal widow, loudly, 'of 
 course I am right. The Derby Winner is a nest of hawks. 
 William Mosk would have disgraced heathen Rome in its 
 worst days ; as for his daughter — well ! ' Mrs Pansey threw 
 a world of horror into the ejaculation. 
 
 * Miss Mosk is a well-conducted young lady,' said Gabriel, 
 growing red and injudicious. 
 
 ' Lady ! ' bellowed Mrs Pansey, shaking her fan ; ' and 
 since when have brazen, painted barmaids become ladies, 
 Mr Pendle ? ' 
 
 • She is most attentive to her sick mother,' protested the 
 curate, wincing. 
 
 * No doubt, sir. I presume even Jezebel had some re- 
 deeming qualities. Rubbish ! humbug ! don't tell me 1 Can 
 good come out of Nazareth ? ' 
 
 • Good did come out of Nazareth, Mrs Pansey.' 
 
 B 17
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 •That is enough, Mr Pendle ; do not pollute young cars 
 with blasphemy. And you the b</n of a bishop — the curate 
 of a parish ! Remember what is to be the portion of 
 mockers, sir. What happened to the men who threw 
 stones at David ? ' 
 
 'Oh, but really, dear Mrs Pansey, you know Mr Pendle 
 is not throwing stones.' 
 
 ' People who live in glass houses dare not, my dear. I 
 doubt your interest in ihis young person, Mr Pi p.dle. She 
 is one who tires her head and paints her face, lying in 
 wait for comely youths that she may destroy tiiem. She — ' 
 
 ' Excuse me, Airs Pansey ! ' cried Gabriel, with an angry 
 look, 'you speak too freely and too ignoranily. The 
 Derby Winner is a well-conducted house, for Mrs Mosk 
 looks after it personally, and her daughter is an excellent 
 young woman. I do not defend the father, but I hope to 
 bring him to a sense of his errors in time. There is a 
 charity which thinketh no evil, Mrs Pansey,' and with great 
 heat Gabriel, forgetting his manners, walked off without 
 taking leave of eith^.r the lady or Miss Norshara. Mrs 
 Pansey tossed her turban and snorted, but seeing very 
 plainly that she had gone too far, held for once her 
 virulent tongue. Cargrim rubbed his hands and laughed 
 softly. 
 
 ' Our young friend talks warmly, Mrs Pansey. The 
 natural chivalry of youlh, my dear lady — nothing more.' 
 
 'I'll make it n)y business to assure myself that it is 
 nothing more,' said Mrs Pansey, in low tones. 'I fear very 
 much that the misguided young man has fallen into the 
 lures of this daughter of Heth. Do you know anything 
 about her, Mr Cargrim ? ' 
 
 Too wise to commit himself to speech, the chaplain cast 
 up his pale eyes and looked volumes. This was quite 
 enough for Mrs Pansey ; she scented evil like a social 
 vulture, and taking Cargrim's arm dragged him away to 
 find out all the bad she could about The Derby Winner 
 and its too attractive barmaid. 
 
 Left to herself, Miss Norsham seized upon Dean Alder, 
 to whom she had been lately introduced, and played with 
 the artillery of her eyes on that unattractive churchman. 
 Mr Dean was old and wizen, but he was unmarried and 
 
 I8
 
 The Ufi/orcsccn Happens 
 
 rich, so Miss Norsham tliought it might be worth her while 
 to play Vivien to this clerical Merlin. His weak point, 
 — speedily discovered, — was archaeology, and she was 
 soon listening to a dry description of his researches into 
 Beorminster municipal chronicles. But it was desperately 
 hard work to fix her attention. 
 
 'Be( rminster,' explained the pedantic dean, not un- 
 moved by his listener's artificial charms, ' is derived from 
 two Anglo-Saxon words — Beorh a hill, and mynster the 
 church of a monastery. Anciently, our city was called 
 Beorhmynster, "the church of the hill," for, as you can see, 
 my dear young lady, our cathedral is built on the top of a 
 considerable rise, and thence gained its name. The towns- 
 folk were formerly vassals, and even serfs, of the monastery 
 which was destroyed by Henry VHI. ; but the Reformation 
 brought about by that king put an end to the abbot's 
 power. The head of the Beorhmynster monastery was a 
 mitred abbot — ' 
 
 'And Bishop Pendle is a mitred bishop,' interposed the 
 fair Daisy, to show the quickness of her understanding, and 
 thereby displaying her ignorance. 
 
 'AH bishops are mitred,' said Dr Alder, testily ; 'a crozier 
 and a mitre are the symbols of their high office. But the 
 Romish abbots of Beorhmynster were not bishops although 
 they were mitred prelates.' 
 
 * Oh, how very, very amusing,' cried Daisy, suppressing a 
 yawn. ' And the name of the river, dear Mr Dean ? Does 
 Beorflete mean the church of the hill too ? ' 
 
 'Certainly not. Miss Norsham. "Flete," formerly "fleot," 
 is a Scandinavian word and signifies "a flood," "a stream," 
 " a channel." Beorhfleot, or — as we now erroneously call 
 it — Beorflete, means, in the vulgar tongue, the flood or 
 stream of the hill. Even in Normandy the word fleot has 
 been corrupted, for the town now called Harfleur was 
 formerly correctly designated "Havoflete." But I am 
 afraid you find this information dull. Miss Norsham •' 
 
 This last remark was occasioned by Daisy yawning. It 
 is true that she held a fan, and had politely hidden her 
 mouth when yawning ; unfortunately, the fan was of trans- 
 parent material, and Daisy quite forgot that Mr Dean could 
 flee the yawn, which he certainly did. In some contusion 
 
 19
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 she extricated herself from an awkward situation by protest- 
 ing that she was not tired but hungry, and suggested that 
 Dr Alder should continue his instructive conversation at 
 supper. Mollified by this dexterous evasion, which he saw 
 no reason to disbelieve, the dean politely escorted his com- 
 panion to the regions of champagne and chicken, both of 
 which aided the lady to sustain further doses of dry-as-dust 
 facts dug out of a monastic past by the persevering Dr 
 Alder. It was in this artful fashion that the town mouse 
 strove to ensnare the church mouse, and succeeded so well 
 that when Mr Dean went home to his lonely house he con- 
 cluded that it was just as well the monastic institution of 
 celibacy had been abolished. 
 
 On leaving Mrs Pansey in disgust, Gabriel proceeded with 
 considerable heat into the next room, where his mother held 
 her court as hostess. Mrs Pendle was a pale, slight, small- 
 framed woman with golden hair, languid eyes, and a languid 
 manner. Owing to her delicate health she could not stand 
 for any length of time, and therefore occupied a large and 
 comfortable arm-chair. Her daughter Lucy, who resembled 
 her closely in looks, but who had more colour in her face, 
 stood near at hand talking to her lover. Both ladies were 
 dressed in white silk, with few ornaments, and looked more 
 like sisters than mother and daughter. Certainly Mrs 
 Pendle appeared surprisingly young to be the parent of a 
 grown-up family, but her continuance of youth was not due 
 to art, as Mrs Pansey averred, but to the quiet and undis- 
 turbed life which her frail health compelled her to lead. 
 The bishop was tenderly attached to her, and even at this 
 late stage of their married life behaved towards her more 
 like a lover than a husband. He warded off all worries 
 and troubles from her; he surrounded her with pleasant 
 people, and made her life luxurious and peaceful by every 
 means obtainable in the way of money and injfluence. It 
 was no wonder that Mrs Pendle, treading the Primrose 
 Path with a devoted and congenial companion, appeared 
 still young. She looked as fair and fragile as a peri, and as 
 free from mortal cares. 
 
 ' Is that you, Gabriel ? ' she said in a low, soft voice, smil- 
 ing gently on her younger and favourite son. ' You look 
 disturbed, my dear boy ! ' 
 
 20
 
 The Unforeseen Happens 
 
 •Mrs Pansey!' said Gabriel, and considering that the 
 name furnished all necessary information, sat down near his 
 mother and took one of her delicate hands in his own to 
 smooth and fondle. 
 
 •Oh, indeed! Mrs Pansey!' echoed the bishop's wife, 
 smiling still more ; and with a slight shrug cast an amused 
 look at Lucy, who in her turn caught Sir Harry's merry eyes 
 and laughed outright 
 
 ' Old catamaran ! ' said Brace, loudly. 
 
 ' Oh, Harry ! Hush ! ' interposed Lucy, with an anxious 
 glance. * You shouldn't* 
 
 'Why not? But for the present company I would say 
 something much stronger.' 
 
 'I wish you would,' said Gabriel, easing his stiff collar 
 with one finger ] • my cloth forbids me to abuse Mrs Pansey 
 properly.' 
 
 ' What has she been doing now, Gabriel ? ' 
 
 'Ordering the bishop to have The Derby Winner re- 
 moved, mother.' 
 
 'The Derby Winner,' repeated Mrs Pendle, in puzzled 
 tones ; ' is that a horse ? ' 
 
 *A public-house, mother; it is in my district, and I have 
 been lately visiting the wife of the landlord, who is very ill. 
 Mrs_ Pansey wants the house closed and the woman turned 
 out into the streets, so far as I can make out ! ' 
 
 'The Derby Winner is my property,' said Sir Harry, 
 bluffly, ' and it sha'n't be shut up for a dozen Mrs Panseys.' 
 
 'Think of a dozen Mrs Panseys,' murmured Lucy, 
 pensively. 
 
 ' Think of Bedlam and Pandemonium, my dear ! Thank 
 goodness Mrs Pansey is the sole specimen of her kind. 
 Nature broke the mould when that clacking nuisance was 
 turned out. She — ' 
 
 ' Harry ! you really must not speak so loud. Mrs Pansey 
 might hear. Come with me, dear. I must look after our 
 guests, for I am sure mother is tired.' 
 
 'I am tired,' assented Mrs Pendle, with a faint sigh. 
 'Thank you, Lucy, I willingly make you my representative. 
 Gabriel will stay beside me.' 
 
 •Here is Miss Tancred,' observed Harry Brace, in an 
 undertone. 
 
 31
 
 TJie Bishop' s Secret 
 
 Oh, .'^he must not come near mother,' whispered Lucy, io 
 alarm. 'Take her to the supper-room, Harry.' 
 
 ' Uut she'll tell me the story of how she lost her purse 
 .'It the Army and Navy Stores, Lucy.' 
 
 ' You can bear hearing it better than mother can. Be- 
 sides, she'll not finish it ; she never does.' 
 
 Sir Harry groaned, but like an obedient lover intercepted 
 a withered old dame who was the greatest bore in the town. 
 She usually told a digressive story about a lost purse, 
 but hitherto had never succeeded in getting to the point, if 
 there was one. Accepting the suggestion of supper with 
 alacrity, she drifted away on Sir Harry's arm, and no doubt 
 mentioned the famous purse before he managed to fill 
 her mouth and stoj) her prosing. 
 
 Lucy, who had a quiet humour of her own in spite of her 
 demure looks, laughed at the dejection and martyrdom of 
 Sir Harry ; and taking the eagerly-proffered arm of a callow 
 lieutenant, ostentatiously and hopelessly in love with her, 
 went away to play her part of deputy hostess. She moved 
 from group to group, and everywhere received smiles and 
 congratulations, for she was a general favourite, and, with 
 the exception of Mrs Pansey, everyone approved of her 
 engagement. Behind a floral screen a band of musicians, 
 who called themselves the Yellow Hungarians, and individu- 
 ally possessed the most unpronounceable names, played 
 the last waltz, a smooth, swinging melody which made the 
 younger guests long for a dance. In fact, the callow lieu- 
 tenant boldly suggested that a waltz should be attempted, 
 with himself and Lucy to set the example; but his com- 
 panion snubbed him unmercifully for his boldness, and 
 afterwards restored his spirits by taking him to the supper- 
 room. Here they found Miss Tancred in the full flow of 
 her purse story; so Lucy, having pity on her lover, 
 bestowed her escort on the old lady as a listener, and en- 
 joyed supper at an isolated table with Sir Harry. The suck- 
 inr' Wellington could have murdered Brace with pleasure, 
 and very nearly did murder Miss Tancred, for he plied her 
 so constantly with delicacies that she got indigestion, and 
 was thereby unable to finish about the purse. 
 
 Gabriel and his mother were not long left alone, for 
 shortly there approached a brisk old lady, daintily dressed, 
 
 22
 
 The Unforeseen Happens 
 
 who looked like a fairy godmother. She had a keen face, 
 bright eyes like those of a squirrel, and in gesture and walk 
 and glance was as restless as that animal. This piece of 
 alacrity was Miss Whichello, who was the aunt of Mab 
 Arden, the beloved of George Pendle. Mab was with her, 
 and, gracious and tall, looked as majestic as any queen, as 
 she paced in her stately manner by the old lady's side. 
 Her beauty was that of Juno, for she was imperial and a 
 trifle haughty in her manner. With dark hair, dark eyes, 
 and dark complexion, she looked like an Oriental princess, 
 quite different in appearance to her apple-cheeked, silvery- 
 haired aunt. There was something Jewish about her rich, 
 eastern beauty, and she might have been painted in her 
 yellow dress as Esther or Rebecca, or even as Jael who 
 slew Sisera on the going down of the sun. 
 
 'Well, good folks,' said the brisk little lady in a brisk 
 little voice, 'and how are you both? Tired, Mrs Pendle? 
 Of course, what else can you expect with late hours and 
 your delicacies. I don't believe in these social gatherings.' 
 
 ' Your presence here contradicts that assertion,' said 
 Gabriel, giving up his chair. 
 
 * Oh, I am a martyr to duty. I came because Mab must 
 be amused ! ' 
 
 ' I only hope she is not disappointed,' said Mrs Pendle, 
 kindly, for she knew how things were between her eldest 
 son and the girl. ' I am sorry George is not here, my 
 dear.' 
 
 ' I did not expect him to be,' replied Mab, in her grave, 
 contralto voice, and with a blush ; ' he told me that he would 
 not be able to get leave from his colonel.' 
 
 * Ha ! his colonel knows what is good for young men,' 
 cried Miss Whichello ; ' work and diet both in moderate 
 quantities. My dear Mrs Pendle, if you only saw those 
 people in the supper-room ! — simply digging their graves with 
 their teeth. I pity the majority of them to-morrow morning.' 
 
 'Have you had supper, Miss Whichello?' asked Gabriel. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! a biscuit and a glass of weak whisky and water ; 
 quite enough, too. Mab here has been drinking champagne 
 recklessly.' 
 
 ' Only half a glass, aunt ; don't take away my character ! ' 
 
 * My dear, if you take half a glass, you may as well finish 
 
 23
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 the bottle for the harm it does you. Champagne is poison ; 
 much or little, it is rank poison.' 
 
 ' Come away, Miss Arden, and let us poisoD ourselves,' 
 suggested the curate. 
 
 ' It wouldn't do you any harm, Mrs Pendle,' cried the 
 little old lady. ' You are too pale, and champagne, in your 
 case, would pick you up. Iron and slight stimulants are 
 what you need. I am afraid you are not c^ueful what 
 you eat.* 
 
 ' I am not a dietition. Miss Whichello/ 
 
 ' I am, my dear ma'am ; and look at me — sixty-two, and aa 
 brisk as a bee. I don't know the meaning of the word ill- 
 ness. In a good hour be it spoken,* added Miss Whichello, 
 thinking she was tempting the gods. ' By the way, what is 
 this about his lordship being ill?' 
 
 * The bishop ill ! ' faltered Mrs Pendle, half rising. ' He 
 was perfectly well when I saw him last Oh, dear me, what 
 is this?' 
 
 * He's ill now, in the library, at all events.* 
 
 'Wait, mother,' said Gabriel, hastily. 'I will see my 
 father. Don't rise; don't worry yourself; pray be calm.' 
 
 Gabriel walked quickly to the library, rather astonished to 
 hear that his father was indisposed, for the bishop had 
 never had a day's illness in his life. He saw by the 
 demeanour of the guests that the indisposition of their host 
 was known, for already an uneasy feeling prevailed, and 
 several people were departing. The door of the library was 
 closed and locked. Cargrim was standing sentinel beside 
 it, evidently irate at being excluded. 
 
 'You can't go in, Pendle,' said the chaplain, quickly. 
 *Dr Graham is with his lordship.' 
 
 ' Is this sudden illness serious?* 
 
 * I don't know. His lordship refuses to see anyone but 
 the doctor. He won't even admit me,* said Cargrim, in an 
 injured tone 
 
 ' What has caused it ? ' asked Gabriel, in dismay. 
 
 ' I don't know ! ' replied Cargrim, a second time. * His 
 lord^h'p saw some stranger who departed ten minutes ago. 
 Then he sent for Dr Graham ! I presume this stranger is 
 responsible for the bishop's illness.*
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE CURIOSITY OF MR CARGRIM 
 
 Like that famous banquet, when Macbeth entertained 
 unawares the ghost of gracious Duncan, the bishop's 
 reception broke up in the most admired disorder. It was 
 not Dr Pendle's wish that the entertainment should be cut 
 short on his account, but the rumour — magnified greatly — 
 of his sudden illness so dispirited his guests that they made 
 haste to depart ; and within an hour the palace was emptied 
 of ail save its usual inhabitants, Dr Graham in attendance 
 on the bishop was the only stranger who remained, for 
 Lucy sent away even Sir Harry, although he begged hard 
 to stay in the hope of making himself useful. And the 
 most unpleasant part of the whole incident was, that no one 
 seemed to know the reason of Bishop Pendle's unexpected 
 indisposition. 
 
 * He was quite well when I saw him last,' repeated poor 
 Mrs Pendle over and over again. * And I never knew him 
 to be ill before. What does it all mean ? ' 
 
 * Perhaps papa's visitor brought him bad news,' suggested 
 Lucy, who was hovering round her mother with smelling- 
 salts and a fan. 
 
 Mrs Pendle shook her head in much distress. 'Your 
 father has no secrets from me,' she said decisively, 'and, 
 from all I know, it is impossible that any news can have 
 upset him so much.* 
 
 * Dr Graham may be able to explain,' said Gabriel. 
 
 * I don't want Dr Graham's explanation,' whimpered Mrs 
 Pendle, tearfully. ' I dislike of all things to hear from a 
 stranger what should be told to myself. As your father's 
 wife, he has no right to shut me out of his confidence — and 
 the library,' finished Mrs Pendle, with an aggrieved after- 
 thought. 
 
 8 25
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 Certainly the bishop's conduct was very strange, and 
 would have upset even a less nervous woman than ^lrs 
 Pendle. Neither of her children could comfort her in any 
 way, for, ignorant themselves of what had occurred, they 
 could make no suggestions. Fortunately, at this mc^m^^nt, 
 Dr Graham, with a reassuring smile on his face, made his 
 appearance, and proceeded to set their minds at ease. 
 
 ' Tut ! tut ! my dear lady ! ' he said briskly, advancing on 
 Mrs Pendle, 'what is all this?' 
 
 ' The bishop—' 
 
 'The bishop is suffering from a slight indisposition 
 brought on by too much exertion in entertaining. He will 
 be all right to-morrow.' 
 
 •This visitor has had nothing to do with papa's illness, 
 then ?' 
 
 ' No, Miss Lucy. The visitor was only a decayed clergy- 
 man in search of help.' 
 
 ' Cannot I see my husband ? ' was the anxious question 
 of the bishop's wife. 
 
 Graham shrugged his shoulders, and looked doubtfully 
 at the poor lady. ' Better not, Mrs Pendle,' he said 
 judiciously. * I have given him a soothing draught, and 
 now he is about to lie down. There is no occasion for you 
 to worry in the least. To-morrow morning you will be 
 laughing over this needless alarm. I suggest that you 
 should go to bed and take a stiff dose of valerian to sooth 
 those shaky nerves of yours. Miss Lucy will see to 
 that.' 
 
 ' I should like to see the bishop,' persisted Mrs Pendle, 
 whose instinct told her that the doctor was deceiving her. 
 
 ' Well ! well ! ' said he, good-humouredly, ' a wilful woman 
 will have her own way. I know you won't sleep a wink 
 unless your mind is set at rest, so you shall s&e. the bishop. 
 Take my arm, please.' 
 
 ' I can walk by myself, thank you ! ' replied Mrs Pendle, 
 testily ; and nerved to unusual exertion by anxiety, she 
 walked towards the library, followed by the bishop's family 
 and his chaplain, which latter watched this scene with 
 close attention. 
 
 ' She'll collapse after this,' said Dr Graham, in an under- 
 gone to Lucy ; ' you'll have a wakeful night, I fear.' 
 
 a6
 
 The Curiosity of Mr Cargrim 
 
 ' I don't mind that, doctor, so long as there is no real 
 cause for alarm.' 
 
 'I give you my word of honour, Miss Lucy, that this 
 is a case of much ado about nothing.' 
 
 'Let us hope that such is the case,' said Cargrim, the 
 Jesuit, in his softest tones, whereupon Graham looked at 
 him with a pronounced expression of dislike. 
 
 ' As a man, I don't tell lies ; as a doctor, I never make 
 false reports,' said he, coldly; 'there is no need for your 
 pious hopes, Mr Cargrim.' 
 
 The bishop was seated at his desk scribbling idly on his 
 blotting-pad, and rose to his feet with a look of alarm when 
 his wife and family entered. His usually ruddy colour had 
 disappeared, and he was white-faced and haggard in appear- 
 ance ; looking like a man who had received a severe shock, 
 and who had not yet recovered from it. On seeing his 
 wife, he smiled reassuringly, but with an obvious effort, 
 and hastened to conduct her to the chair he had vacated. 
 
 ' Now, my dear,' he said, when she was seated, ' this will 
 never do.* 
 
 ' I am so anxious, George ! ' 
 
 •There is no need to be anxious,' retorted the bishop, 
 in reproving tones. 'I have been doing too much work 
 of late, and unexpectedly I was seized with a faintness. 
 Graham's medicine and a night's rest will restore me to 
 my usual strength.' 
 
 * It's not your heart, I trust, George ? ' 
 
 ' His heart ! ' jested the doctor. * His lordship's heart is 
 as sound as his digestion.' 
 
 ' We thought you might have been upset by bad news, 
 papa.' 
 
 ' I have had no bad news, Lucy. I am only a trifle 
 overcome by late hours and fatigue. Take your mother 
 to bed ; and you, my dear,' added the bishop, kissing his 
 wife, ' don't worry yourself unnecessarily. Good-night, and 
 good sleep.' 
 
 ' Some valerian for your nerves, bishop — ' 
 
 •I have taken something for my nerves. Amy. Rest is 
 all I need just now.' 
 
 Thus reassured, Mrs Pendle submitted to be led from 
 the library by Lucy. She was followed by Gabriel, who
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 was now quite easy in his mind about his father. Cargrim 
 and Graham remained, but the bishop, taking no notice 
 of their presence, looked at the door through which his 
 wife and children had vanished, and uttered a sound some- 
 thing between a sigh and a groan. 
 
 Dr Graham looked anxiously at him, and the look was 
 intercepted by Cargrim, who at once made up his mind that 
 there was something seriously wrong, which both Graham 
 and the bishop desired to conceal. The doctor noted the 
 curious expression in the chaplain's eyes, and with bluff 
 good-humour — which was assumed, as he disliked the man 
 — proceeded to turn him out of the library. Cargrim — 
 bent on discovering the truth — protested, in his usual cat- 
 like way, against this sudden dismissal. 
 
 ' I should be happy to sit up all night with his lordship,' 
 he declared. 
 
 • Sit up with your grandmother ! ' cried Graham, gruffly. 
 • Go to bed, sir, and don't make mountains out of mole- 
 hills.' 
 
 'Good-night, my lord,' said Cargrim, softly. 'I trust you 
 will find yourself fully restored in the morning.' 
 •Thank you, Mr Cargrim ; good-night !' 
 When the chaplain sidled out of the room, Dr Graham 
 rubbed his hands and turned briskly towards his patient, 
 who was standing as still as any stone, staring in a 
 hypnotised sort of way at the reading lamp on the desk. 
 'Come, my lord,' said he, touching the bishop on the 
 shoulder, ' you must take your composing draught and get 
 to bed. You'll be all right in the morning.' 
 ' I trust so ! ' replied Pendle, with a groan. 
 ' Of course, bishop, if you won't tell me what U the 
 matter with you, I can't cure you.' 
 ' I am upset, doctor, that is all.' 
 
 'You have had a severe nervous shock,' said Graham, 
 sharply, 'and it will take some time for you to recover from 
 it This visitor brought you bad news, I suppose ? ' 
 ' No ! ' said the bishop, wincing, * he did not.' 
 • Well ! well ! keep your own secrets. I can do no more, 
 so I'll say good-night,' and he held out his hand. 
 
 Dr Pendle took it and retained it within his own for a 
 moment ' Your allusion to the ring of Polycrates, Graham ! ' 
 
 28
 
 The Curiosity of Mr Cargrim 
 
 •What of it?' 
 
 * I should throw my ring into the sea also. That is alL* 
 
 * Ha ! ha ! You'll have to travel a considerable distance 
 to reach the sea, bishop. Good-night; good-night,' and 
 Graham, smiUng in his dry way, took himself out of the 
 room. As he glanced back at the door he saw that the 
 bishop was again staring dully at the reading lamp. 
 Graham shook his head at the sight, and closed the door. 
 
 * It is mind, not matter,' he thought, as he put on hat 
 and coat in the hall ; ' the cupboard's open and the skele- 
 ton is out. My premonition was true — true, ^sculapius 
 forgive me that I should be so superstitious. The bishop 
 has had a shock. What is it? what is it? That visitor 
 brought bad news ! Hum ! Hum ! Better to throw physic 
 to the dogs in his case. Mind diseased : secret trouble : 
 my punishment is greater than I can bear. Put this and 
 that together ; there is something serious the matter. Well ! 
 well ! I'm no Paul Pry.' 
 
 ' Is his lordship better ? ' said the soft voice of Cargrim 
 at his elbow. 
 
 Graham wheeled round. ' Much better; good-night,' he 
 replied curtly, and was off in a moment. 
 
 Michael Cargrim, the chaplain, was a dani^crous man. 
 He was thin and pale, with light blue eyes and sleek fair 
 hair; and as weak physically as he was strong mentally. 
 In his neat clerical garb, with a slight stoop and meek 
 smile, he looked a harmless, commonplace young curate 
 of the tabby cat kind. No one could be more tactful and 
 ingratiating than Mr Cargrim, and he was greatly admired 
 by the old ladies and young girls of Beorminster ; but the 
 men, one and all — even his clerical brethren — disliked and 
 distrusted him, although there was no apparent reason for 
 their doing so. Perhaps his too deferential manners and 
 pronounced effeminacy, which made him shun manly sports, 
 had something to do with his masculine unpopularity ; but, 
 from the bishop downward, he was certainly no favourite, 
 and in every male breast he constantly inspired a desire to 
 kick him. The clergy of the diocese maintained towards 
 him a kind of 'Dr Fell ' attitude, and none of them had 
 more to do with him than they could help. With all the 
 will in the world, with all the desire to interpret brotherly 
 
 29
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 love in its most liberal sense, the Beorminster Levites found 
 it impossible to like Mr Cargrim. Hence he was a kind 
 of clerical Ishmael, and as dangerous within as he looked 
 harmless without 
 
 How such a viper came to warm itself on the bishop's 
 hearth no one could say. Mrs Pansey herself did not know 
 in what particular way Mr Cargrim had wriggled himself — 
 so she expressed it — into his present snug position. But, 
 to speak frankly, there was no wriggling in the matter, and 
 had the bishop felt himself called upon to explain his 
 business to anyone, he could have given a very reasonable 
 account of the election of Cargrim to tl.e post of chaplain. 
 The young man was the son of an old schoolfellow, to 
 whom Pendle had been much attached, and from whom, in 
 the earlier part of his career, he had received many kind- 
 nesses. This schoolfellow — he was a banker — had become 
 a bankrupt, a beggar, finally a suicide, through no fault of 
 his own, and when dying, had commended his wife and 
 son to the bishop's care. Cargrim was then fifteen years 
 of age, and being clever and calculating, even as a youth, 
 had determined to utilise the bishop's affection for his 
 father to its fullest extent. He was clever, as has been 
 stated ; he was also ambitious and unscrupulous ; therefore 
 he resolved to enter the profession in which Dr Pendle's 
 influence would be of most value. For this reason, and 
 not because he felt a call to the work, he entered holy 
 orders. The result of his wisdom was soon apparent, for 
 after a short career as a curate in London, he was appointed 
 chaplain to the Bishop of Beorminster. 
 
 So far, so good. The position, for a young man of 
 twenty-eight, was by no means a bad one ; the more so as 
 it gave him a capital opportunity of gaining a better one 
 bv watching for the vacancy of a rich perferment and get- 
 ting it from his patron by asking directly and immediately 
 for it. Cargrim had in his eye the rectorship of a wealthy, 
 easy-going parish, not far from Beorminster, which was in 
 the gift of the bishop. The present holder was aged and 
 infirm, and given so much to indulgence in ; ort wine, that 
 the chances were he might expire within a few months, and 
 then, as the chaplain hoped, the next rector would be the 
 Reverend Michael Cargrim. Once that firm position was 
 
 30
 
 The Curiosity of Mr Cargrim 
 
 obtained, he could bend his energies to developing into an 
 archdeacon, a dean, even into a bishop, should his craft 
 and fortune serve him as he intended they should. But in 
 all these ambitious dreams there was nothing of religion, or 
 of conscience, or of self-denial. If ever there was a square 
 peg which tried to adapt itself to a round hole, Michael 
 Cargrim, allegorically speaking, was that article. 
 
 With all his love for the father, Dr Pendle could never 
 bring himself to like the son, and determined in his own 
 mind to confer a benefice on him when possible, if only to 
 get rid of him ; but not the rich one of Heathcroft, which 
 was the delectable land of Cargrim's desire. The bishop 
 intended to bestow that on Gabriel ; and Cargrim, in his 
 sneaky way, had gained some inkling of this intention. 
 Afraid of losing his wished-for prize, he was bent upon 
 forcing Dr Pendle into presenting him with the living of 
 Pleathcroft ; and to accomplish this amiable purpose with 
 the more certainty he had conceived the plan of somehow 
 . getting the bishop into his power. Hitherto — so open and 
 stainless was Dr Pendle's life — he had not succeeded in his 
 aims ; but now matters looked more promising, for the bishop 
 appeared to possess a secret wh'ch he guarded even from 
 the knowledge of his wife. What this secret might be, 
 Cargrim could not guess, in spite of his anxiety to do so, but 
 he intended in one way or another to discover it and 
 utilise it for the furtherance and attainment of his own 
 selfish ends. By gammg such forbidden knowledge he 
 hoped to get Dr Pendle well under his thumb ; and once 
 there the prelate could be kept in that uncomfortable 
 position until he gratified Mr Cargrim's ambition. For a 
 humble chaplain to have the whip-hand of a powerful 
 ecclesiastic was a glorious and easy way for a meritorious 
 young man to succeed in his profession. Having come to 
 this conclusion, which did more credit to his head than 
 to his heart, Cargrim sought out the servant who had 
 summoned the bishop to see the stranger. A full acquaint- 
 ance with the circumstances of the visit was necessary to the 
 development of the Reverend Michael's ingenious little 
 plot. 
 
 ' This is a sad thing about his lordship's indisposition, 
 said he to the nsan in the most casual way, for it would not 
 
 31
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 do to let the servant know that he was being questioned 
 for a doubtful purpose. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' replied the man. ' 'Tis mos' extraordinary. I 
 never knowed his lordship took ill before. I suppose that 
 gentleman brought bad news, sir.' 
 
 'Possibly, John, possibly. ^V'as this gentleman a short 
 man with light hair? I fancy I saw him. 
 
 • Lor', no, Mr Cargrim. He was tali and lean as a rake ; 
 looked like a military gentleman, sir ; and I don't know as 
 I'd call him gentry either,' added John, half to himself. ' He 
 wasn't what he thought he was.' 
 
 •A decayed clergyman, John?' inquired Cargrim, re- 
 membering Graham's description. 
 
 •There was lots of decay but no clergy about him, 
 sir. I fancy I knows a parson when I sees one. Clergy- 
 men don't have scars on their cheekses as I knows of.' 
 
 'Oh, indeed!' said Cargrim, mentally noting that the 
 doctor had spoken falsely. ' So he had a scar? ' 
 
 •A red sc;ir, sir, on the right cheek, from his temple to 
 the corner of his mouth. He was as dark as pitch in looks, 
 with a military moustache, and two black eyes like gimblets. 
 His clothes was shabby, and his looks was horrid. Bad- 
 tempered too, sir, I should say, for when he was with his 
 lordship I 'card his voice quite angry like. It ain't no 
 clergy as 'ud speak like that to our bishop, Mr Cargrim.' 
 
 ' And his lordship was taken ill when this visitor departed, 
 John ? ' 
 
 •Right off, sir. When I got back to the library after 
 showing him out I found his lordship gas'ly pale.' 
 
 ' And his paleness was caused by the noisy conduct of 
 this man?' 
 
 • Couldn't have bin caused by anything else, sir.' 
 
 • Dear me ! dear me ! this is much to be deplored.' 
 sighed Cargrim, in his softest manner. ' And a clergyman 
 too.' 
 
 ' Beggin' your pardon, sir, he weren't no clergyman,' cried 
 John, who was an old servant and took liberties; 'he was 
 more like a tramp or a gipsy. I wouldn't have left him 
 near the plate, I know.' 
 
 'We must not judge too harshly, John. Perhaps this 
 poor man was in trouble.'
 
 The Curiosity of Mr Cargrim 
 
 ' He didn't look like it, Mr Cargrim. He went in and 
 came out quite cocky like. I wonder his lordship didn't 
 send for the police.' 
 
 * His lordship is too kind-hearted, John. This stranger 
 had a scar, you say ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, sir ; a red scar on the right cheek.* 
 
 * Dear me ! no doubt he has been in the wars. Good- 
 night, John. Let us hope that his lordship will be better 
 after a night's rest' 
 
 * Good-night, sir 1 * 
 
 The chaplain walked away with a satisfied smile on his 
 meek face. 
 
 *I must find the man with the scar,' he thought, 'and 
 then — who knows.* 
 
 n
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE DERBY WINNER 
 
 As its name denotes, Beorminster was built on a hill, or, 
 
 to speak more precisely, on an eminence elevated slightly 
 above tht; surrounding plain. In former times it had been 
 surrounded by aguish marshes which had rendered the town 
 unhealthy, but now that modern enterprise had drained the 
 fenlands, Beorminster was as saluorious a town as could be 
 found in England. The rich, black mud of the former bogs 
 now yielded luxuriant harvests, and in autumn the city, with 
 its mass of red-roofed houses climbing upward to the 
 Cathedral, was islanded in a golden ocean of wheat and 
 rye and bearded barley. For the purposes of defence, the 
 town had been built originally on the slopes of the hill, 
 under the very shadow of the minster, and round its base 
 the massive old walls yet remained, which had squeezed 
 the city into a huddled mass of uncomfortable dwellings 
 within its narrow girdle. But now oppidan life extended 
 beyond these walls ; and houses, streets, villas and gardens 
 spread into the plain on all sides. Broad, white roads ran 
 to Souihbcrry Ju.'^ction, ten miles away; to manufacturing 
 Irungrip, the smoke of whose furnaces could be seen on 
 the horizon ; and to many a tiny hamlet and sleepy town 
 buried amid the rich meadowlands and golden cornfields. 
 And high above all lorded the stately cathedral, with its trio 
 of mighty towers, whence, morning and evening, melodious 
 bells pealed through the peaceful lands. 
 
 Beyond the walls the modern town was made up of broad 
 streets and handsome shops. On its outskirts appeared 
 comfortable villas and stately manors, gardens and woody 
 parks, in which dwelt the aristocracy of Beorminster. But 
 the old town, with its tall houses and narrow lanes, was 
 
 34
 
 The Derby Winner 
 
 given over to the plebeians, save in the Cathedral Close, 
 where dwelt the canons, the dean, the archdeacon, and a 
 few old-fashioned folk who remained by preference in their 
 ancestral dwellings. From this close, which surrounded 
 the open space, wherein the cathedral was built, narrow 
 streets trickled down to the walls, and here was the Seven 
 Dials, the Whitechapel, the very worst corner of Beor- 
 minster. The Beorminster police declared that this net- 
 work of lanes and alleys and malodorous cul-de-sacs was as 
 dangerous a neighbourhood as any London slum, and they 
 were particularly emphatic in denouncing the public-house 
 known as The Derby Winner, and kept by a certain 
 William Mosk, who was a sporting scoundrel and a horsey 
 scamp. This ill-famed hostel was placed at the foot of the 
 hill, in what had once been the main street, and being near 
 the Eastgate, caught in its web most of the thirsty passers- 
 by who entered the city proper, either for sight-seeing or 
 business. It affected a kind of spurious respectability, 
 which was all on the outside, for within it was as iniquitous 
 a den as could well be conceived, and was usually filled 
 with horse-copers and sporting characters, who made bets, 
 and talked racing, and rode or drove fiery steeds, and who 
 lived on, and swindled through, the noblest of all animals. 
 Mr Mosk, a lean light-weight, who wore loud check suits, 
 tight in the legs and short in the waist, was the presiding 
 deity of this Inferno, and as the Ormuz to this Ahrimanes, 
 Gabriel Pendle was the curate of the district, charged with 
 the almost hopeless task of reforming his sporting parish- 
 ioners. And all this, with considerable irony, was placed 
 almost in the shadow of the cathedral towers. 
 
 Not a neighbourhood for Mr Cargrim to venture into, 
 since many sights therein must have displeased his exact 
 tastes ; yet two days after the reception at the palace the 
 chaplain might have been seen daintily picking his way over 
 the cobble-stone pavements. As he walked he thought, 
 and liis thoughts were busy with the circumstances which 
 had led him to venture his saintly person so near the 
 spider's web of The Derby Winner. The bishop, London, 
 curiosity, Gabriel, this unpleasant neighbourhood — so ran the 
 links of his chain of thought. 
 
 The day following his unexpected illness brought no relief 
 
 35
 
 The Bishop s Secret 
 
 to the bishop, at all events to outward seeming, for he was 
 paler and more haggard than ever in looks, and as dour as 
 a bear in manner. With Mrs Pendle he strove to be his 
 usual cheerful self, but with small success, as occasionally 
 he would steal an anxious look at her, and heave deep sighs 
 expressive of much inward trouble. All this was noted by 
 Cargrim, who carefully strove, by sympathetic looks and 
 dexterous remarks, to bring his superior to the much-desired 
 point of unburdening his mind. Gabriel had returned to 
 his lodgings near the Eastgate, and to his hopeless task of 
 civilising his degraded centaurs. Lucy, after the manner 
 of maids in love, was building air-castles with Sir Harry's 
 assistance, and Mrs Pendle kept her usual watch on her 
 weak heart and fluctuating pulse. The bishop thus escaped 
 their particular notice, and it was mainly Cargrim who saw 
 how distraught and anxious he was. As for Dr Graham, 
 he had departed after a second unsatisfactory visit, swearing 
 that he could do nothing with a man who refused to make 
 a confidant of his doctor. Bishop Pendle was therefore 
 wholly at the mercy of his suspicious chaplain, to be spied 
 upon, to be questioned, to be watched, and to be made a 
 prey of in his first weak moment. But the worried man, 
 filled with some unknown anxiety, was quite oblivious to 
 Cargrim 's manoeuvres. 
 
 For some time the chaplain, in spite of all his watchful- 
 ness, failed to come upon anything tangible likely to explain 
 what was in the bishop's mind. He walked about rest- 
 lessly, he brooded continuously, and instead of devoting 
 himself to his work in his usual regular way, occupied 
 himself for long hours in scribbling figures on his blotting- 
 paper, and muttering at times in anxious tones. Cargrim 
 examined the blotting-paper, and strained his ears to gather 
 the sense of the mutterings, but in neither case could he 
 gain any clue to the bishop's actual trouble. At length — 
 it was on the morning of the second day after the reception 
 — Dr Pendle abruptly announced that he was going up to 
 London that very afternoon, and would go alone. The 
 emphasis he laid on this last statement still further roused 
 Cargrim's curiosity. 
 
 ' Shall I not accompany your lordship ? ' he asked, as the 
 bishop restlessly paced the Hbrary. 
 
 36
 
 The Derby Winner 
 
 * No, Mr Cargrim, why should you ? ' said the bishop, 
 abruptly and testily. 
 
 ' Your lordship seems ill, and I thought — * 
 
 * There is no need for you to think, sir. I am not well, 
 and my visit to London is in connection with ray health.' 
 
 * Or with your secret ! ' thought the chaplain, deferentially 
 bowing. 
 
 * I have every confidence in Dr Graham,' continued 
 Pendle, ' but it is my intention to consult a specialist I need 
 not go into details, Mr Cargrim, as they will not interest you.' 
 
 •Oh, your lordship, your health is my constant thought.' 
 •Your anxiety is commendable, but needless,' responded 
 
 the bishop, dryly. * I am due at Southberry this Sunday, I 
 
 believe.' 
 
 * There is a confirmation at St Mark's, your lordship.' 
 
 * Very good ; you can make the necessary arrangements, 
 Mr Cargrim. To-day is Thursday. I shall return to- 
 morrow night, and shall rest on Saturday until the evening, 
 when I shall ride over to Southberry, attend at St Mark's, 
 and return on Sunday night' 
 
 •Does not your lordship desire my attendance?' asked 
 Cargrim, although he knew that he was the morning 
 preacher in the cathedral on Sunday. 
 
 ' No,' answered Dr Pendle, curtly, * I shall go and return 
 alone.' 
 
 The bishop looked at Cargrim, and Cargrim looked at 
 the bishop, each striving to read the other's thoughts, then 
 the latter turned away with a frown, and the former, much 
 exercised in his mind, advanced towards the door of the 
 library. Dr Pendle called him back. 
 
 ' Not a word about my health to Mrs Pendle,' he said 
 sharply. 
 
 •Certainly not, your lordship; you can rely upon my 
 discretion in every way,' replied the chaplain, with emphasis, 
 and glided away as soft-footed as any panther, and as 
 dangerous. 
 
 * I wovider what the fellow suspects,' thought the bishop 
 when alone. * I can see that he is filled with curiosity, 
 but he can never find out the truth, or even guess at it. I 
 am safe enough from him. All the same, I'll have a fool 
 for my next chaplain. Fools are easier to deal with.' 
 
 37
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 Cargrim would have given much to have overheard this 
 speech, but as the door and sevenl passages were between 
 him and the talker, he was ignorant of the incriininaling 
 remarks the bishop had let slip. Still baffled, but still 
 curious, he busied himself with attending to some business 
 of the See which did not require the personal sunervision 
 of Dr Pendle, and when that prelate took his departure 
 for London by the three o'clock train, Cargrim attended 
 him to the station, full of meckn-jss and irritating attentions. 
 It was with a feeling of relief that the bishop saw his 
 officious chaplain left behind on the platform. He had a 
 secret, and with the unensiness of a loaded conscience, 
 fancied that everyone saw that he had something to 
 conceal — particularly Cargrim. In the presence of that 
 good young man, this spiritual lord, high-placed and 
 p>owerfjl, felt that he resembled an insect under a micro- 
 scope, and that Cargrim had his eye to the instrument. 
 Conscience made a coward of the bishop, but in the case 
 of his chaplain his uneasy feelings were in some degree 
 justified. 
 
 Un leaving the railway station, which was on the outskirts 
 of the modern town, Cargrim took his way through the 
 brisk population which thronged the streets, and wondered 
 in what manner he could benefit by the absence of his 
 superior. As he could not learn the truth from Dr Pendle 
 himself, he thought that he might discover it from an 
 investigation of tlie bishop's desk. For this purpose he 
 returned to the palace forthwith, and on the plea of 
 business, shut himself up in the library. Dr Pendle was 
 a careless man, and never locked up any drawers, even 
 those which contained his private papers. Cargrim, who 
 was too much of a sneak to feel honourable scruples, went 
 through these carefully, but in spite of all his predisposition 
 to malignity was unable to find any grounds for suspecting 
 Dr Pendle to be in any serious trouble. At the end of an 
 hour he found himself as ignorant as ever, and made only 
 one discovery of any note, which was that the bishop had 
 taken his cheque-book with him to London. 
 
 To many people this would have seemed a natural 
 circumstance, as most men with banking accounts take 
 their cheque-books with them when going on a journey. 
 
 38
 
 The Derby Winner 
 
 But Cargrim knew that the bishop usually preferred to 
 fill his pockets with loose cash when absent for a short 
 time, and this deviation from his ordinary habits appeared 
 to be suspicious. 
 
 'Hum!' thought the chaplain, rubbing his chin, 'I 
 wonder if that so-called clergyman wanted money. If he 
 had wished for a small sum, the bishop could easily have 
 given it to him out of the cash-box. Going by this reason- 
 ing, he must have wanted a lot of money, which argues 
 blackmail. Hum ! Has he taken both cheque-books, or 
 only one ? ' 
 
 The reason of this last query was that Bishop Pendle 
 had accounts in two different banks. One in Beorminster, 
 as became the bishop of the See, the other in London, in 
 accordance with the dignity of a spiritual lord of Parlia- 
 ment. A further search showed Mr Cargrim that the 
 Beorminster cheque-book had been left behind. 
 
 ' Hum ! ' said the chaplain again, ' that man must have 
 gone back to London. Dr Pendle is going to meet him 
 there and draw money from his Town bank to pay what 
 he demands. I'll have a look at the butts of that cheque- 
 book when it comes back ; the amount of the cheque may 
 prove much. I may even find out the name of this 
 stranger.' 
 
 But all this, as Cargrim very well knew, was pure theory. 
 The bishop might have taken his cheque-book to London 
 for other reasons than paying blackmail to the stranger, 
 for it was not even certain that there was any such extortion 
 in the question. Dr Pendle was worried, it was true, and 
 after the departure of his strange visitor he had been taken 
 ill, but these facts proved nothing ; and after twisting and 
 turning them in every way, and connecting and disconnect- 
 ing them with the absence of the London cheque-book, 
 Mr Cargrim was forced to acknowledge that he was beaten 
 for the time being. Then he fancied he might extract 
 some information from Gabriel relative to his father's depart- 
 ure for London, for Mr Cargrim was too astute to believe 
 in the 'consulting a specialist' excuse. Still, this might 
 serve as a peg whereon to hang his inquiries and develop 
 further information, so the chaplain, after meditating over 
 his five-o'clock cup of tea, took his way to the Eastgate, in 
 
 39
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 order to put Gabriel unawares into the witness-box. Yet, 
 for all these doings and suspicions Cargrim had no very 
 good reason, save his own desire to get Dr Pendle under 
 his thumb. He was groping in the dark, he had not a 
 shred of evidence to suppose that the uneasiness of the 
 bishop was connected with anything criminal ; nevertheless, 
 the chaplain put himself so far out of his usual habits as to 
 venture into the unsavoury neighbourhood wherein stood 
 The Derby Winner. Truly this man's cobweb spinning 
 was of a very dangerous character when he took so much 
 trouble to weave the web. 
 
 As in Excelsior, the shades of night were falling fast, 
 when Cargrim found himself at the door of the curate's 
 lodging. Here he met with a check, for Gabriel's landlady 
 informed him that Mr Pendle was not at home, and she 
 did not know where he was or when he would be back. 
 Cargrim made the sweetest excuses for troubling the good 
 lady, left a message that he would call again, and returned 
 along Monk Street on his way back to the palace through 
 the new town. By going in this direction he passed 
 The Derby Winner — not without intention — for it was 
 this young man's belief that Gabriel might be haunting the 
 public-house to see Mrs Mosk or — as was more probable 
 to the malignant chaplain — her handsome daughter. 
 
 As he came abreast of The Derby Winner it was not 
 too dark but that he could see a tall man standing in the 
 doorway. Cargrim at first fancied that this might be 
 Gabriel, and paced slowly along so as to seize an 
 opportunity of addressing him. But when he came 
 almost within touching distance, he found himself face to 
 face with a dark-looking gipsy, fier>'-eyed and dangerous in 
 appearance. He had a lean, cruel face, a hawk's beak for 
 a nose, and black, black hair streaked with grey ; but what 
 mostly attracted Cargrim's attention was a red streak which 
 traversed the right cheek of the man from ear to mouth. 
 At once he recalled John's description — ' A military-looking 
 gentleman with a scar on the right cheek.' He thought, 
 * Hum 1 this, then, is the bishop's visitor.' 
 
 »fi
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 
 
 This engaging individual looked at Cargrim with a fierce 
 air. He was not sober, and had just reached the quarrel- 
 some stage of intoxication, which means objection to every- 
 one and everything. Consequently he cociced his hat 
 defiantly at the curate; and although he blocked up the 
 doorway, made no motion to stand aside. Cargrim was 
 not ill pleased at this obstinacy, as it gave him an opportunity 
 of entering into conversation with the so-called decayed 
 clergyman, who was as unlike a parson as a rabbit is like 
 a terrier. 
 
 ' Do you know if Mr Pendle is within, my friend ? ' 
 asked the chaplain, with bland politeness. 
 
 The stranger started at the mention of the name. His 
 face grew paler, his scar waxed redder, and with all his 
 Dutch courage there was a look of alarm visible in his cold 
 eyes. 
 
 * I don't know,' said he, insolently, yet with a certain re- 
 finement of speech. ' I shouldn't think it likely that a pot- 
 house like this would be patronised by a bishop.' 
 
 * Pardon me, sir, I speak of Mr Gabriel Pendle, the son 
 of his lordship.' 
 
 ' Then pardon me, sir,' mimicked the man, ' if I say that 
 I know nothing of the son of his lordship; and what's 
 more, I'm d d if I want to.' 
 
 ' I see ! You are more fortunate in knowing his lordship 
 himself,' said the chaplain, with great simpHcity. 
 
 The stranger plucked at his worn sleeve with a look of 
 irony. 'Do I look as though I were acquainted with 
 bishops ? ' said he, scoffingly. ' Is this the kind of coat 
 likely to be admitted into episcopalian palaces?' 
 
 4 41
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 'Yet it was admitted, sir. If I am not mistaken you 
 called at the palace two nights ago.' 
 
 ' Did you see mc?' 
 
 'Certainly I saw you,' replied Cargrim, salving his con- 
 science with the Jesuitic saying that the end justifies the 
 means. 'And I was informed that you were a decayed 
 clergyman seeking assistance.' 
 
 'I have been most things in my time,' observed the 
 stranger, gloomily, ' but not a parson. You are one, I 
 perceive.' 
 
 Cargrim bowed. 'I am the chaplain of Bisliop Pendle.' 
 
 * And the busybody of Beorminster, I should say, 'rejoined 
 the man with a sneer. 'See here, my friend,' and he rapped 
 Cargrim on the breast with a shapely hand, ' if you in- 
 terfere in what does not concern you, there will be trouble. 
 I saw Dr Pendle on private business, and as such it has 
 nothing to do with you. Hold your tongue, you black 
 crow, and keep away from me,' cried the stranger, with 
 sudden ferocity, 'or I'll knock your head oflf. Now you 
 know,' and with a fierce glance the man moved out of the 
 doorway and sauntered round the corner before Cargrim 
 could make up his mind how to resent this insolence. 
 
 ' Hum ! ' said he to himself, with a glance at the tall 
 retiring figure, ' that is a nice friend for a bishop to have. 
 He's a jail-bird if I mistake not ; and he is afraid of my 
 finding out his business with Pendle. Birds of a feather,' 
 sighed Mr Cargrim, entering the hotel. ' I fear, I sadly 
 fear that his lordship is but a whited sepulchre. A look 
 into the bishop's past might show me many things of 
 moment,' and the fat living of Heathcroft seemed almost 
 within Cargrim's grasp as he came to this conclusion. 
 
 ' Now then, sir,' interrupted a sharp but pleasant female 
 voice, ' and what may you want ? ' 
 
 Mr Cargrim wheeled round to answer this question, and 
 found himself face to face with a bar, glitiering with brass 
 and crystal and bright-hued liquors in fat glass barrels ; 
 also with an extremely handsome young woman, dressed 
 in an astonishing variety of colours. She was high-coloured 
 and frank-'iyed, with a great quantity of very black hair 
 twisted into many amazing shapes on the top of her head. 
 In manner she was as brisk as a bee and as restless as a
 
 The II Ian with the Scar 
 
 butterfly ; and being adorned with a vast quantity of 
 bracelets, and lockets, and brooches, all of gaudy patterns, 
 jingled at every movement. This young lady was Miss Bell 
 Mosk, whom the frequenters of The Derby Winner called 
 'a dashing beauty,' and Mrs Pansey 'a painted jade.' 
 With her glittering ornaments, her bright blue dress, her 
 high colour, and general air of vivacity, she glowed and 
 twinkled in the lamp-light like some gorgeous-plumaged 
 parrot; and her free speech and constant chatter might 
 have been ascribed to the same bird. 
 
 ' Miss Mosk, I believe,' said the poHte Cargrim, marvel- 
 ling that this gaudy female should be the refined Gabriel's 
 notion of feminine perfection. 
 
 ' I am Miss Mosk,' replied Bell, taking a comprehensive 
 view of the sleek, black-clothed parson. 'What can I do 
 for you?' 
 
 *I am Mr Cargrim. the bishop's chaplain. Miss Mosk, 
 and I wish to see Mr Pendle — Mr Gabriel Pendle.' 
 
 Bell flushed as red as the reddest cabbage rose, and with 
 downcast eyes wiped the counter briskly with a duster. 
 ' Wliy should you come here to ask for Mr Pendle ? ' said 
 she, in guarded tones. 
 
 ' I called at his lodgings, Miss Mosk, and I was informed 
 that he was visiting a sick person here.' 
 
 ' My mother ! ' replied Bell, not knowing what an amazing 
 lie the chaplain was teUing. ' Yes ! Mr Pendle comes 
 often to see — my mother.' 
 
 'Is he here now?' asked Cargrim, noticing the hesitancy 
 at the end of her sentence; 'because I wish to speak wiih 
 him on business.' 
 
 ' He is upstairs. I daresay he'll be down soon.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't disturb him for my sake, I beg. But if you 
 will permit me I shall go up and see Mrs Mosk.' 
 
 ' Here comes Mr Pendle now,' said Bell, abruptly, and 
 withdrew into the interior of the bar as Gabriel appeared 
 at the end of the passage. He started and seemed uneasy 
 when he recognised the chaplain. 
 
 'Cargrim!' he cried, hurrying forward. 'Why are you 
 here?' and he gave a nervous glance in the direction of 
 the bar; a glance which the chaplain saw and undersiood, 
 t>ut discreetly left unnoticed. 
 
 43
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 *I wish to see you,' he rei>Hed, with great simplicity; 
 'they told me at your lodgings that you might be here, 
 so—' 
 
 ' Why ! ' interrupted Gabriel, sharply, ' I left no message 
 to that efiect.' 
 
 Cargrim saw that he had made a mistake. 'I speak 
 generally, my dear friend — generally,' he said in some 
 haste. * Your worthy landlady mentioned several houses in 
 which you were in the habit of seeing sick people — amongst 
 others this hotel.' 
 
 ' Mrs Mosk is very ilL I have been seeing her,' said 
 Gabriel, shortly. 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! you have been seeing Mrs Mosk ! ' 
 
 Gabriel changed colour and cast another glance towards 
 the bar, for the significance of Cargrim's speech was not 
 lost on him. * Do you wish to speak with me ? ' he asked 
 coldly. 
 
 ' I should esteem it a favour if you would allow me a 
 few words,' said Cargrim, politely. ' I'll wait for you — out- 
 side,' and in his turn the chaplain looked towards the bar. 
 
 'Thank you, I can come with you now,' was Gabriel's 
 reply, made with a burning desire to knock Cargrim down. 
 • Miss Mosk, I am glad to find that your mother is easier 
 in her mind.' 
 
 ' It's all due to you, Mr Pendle,' said Bell, moving 
 forward with a toss of her head directed especially at Mr 
 Cargrim. 'Your visits do mother a great deal of good.' 
 
 ' I am sure they do,' said the chaplain, not able to 
 forego giving the girl a scratch of his claws. ' Mr Pendle's 
 visits here must be delightful to everybody.' 
 
 ♦ I daresay,' retorted Bell, with heightened colour, * other 
 people's visits would not be so welcome.' 
 
 • Perhaps not. Miss Mosk. Mr Pendle has many amiable 
 qualities to recommend him. He is a general and deserved 
 favourite.' 
 
 'Come, come, Cargrim,' interposed Gabriel, anxiously, 
 for the fair Bell's temper was rapidly getting the better of 
 her ; ' if you are ready we shall go. Good evening, 
 Miss Mosk.' 
 
 'Good evening, Mr Pendle,' said the barmaid, and 
 directed a spiteful look at Cargrim, for she saw plainly 
 
 44
 
 The Man with the Scar 
 
 that he had intentionally deprived her of a confidential 
 conversation with Gabriel. The chaplain received the 
 look — which he quite understood — with an amused smile 
 and a bland inclination of the head. As he walked out 
 arm-in-arm with the reluctant Pendle, Bell banged the 
 pewters and glasses about with considerable energy, for the 
 significant demeanour of Cargrim annoyed her so much 
 that she felt a great inclination to throw something at his 
 head. But then, Miss Mosk was a high-spirited girl and 
 believed in actions rather than speech, even though she 
 possessed a fair command of the latter. 
 
 * Well, Cargrim,' said Gabriel, when he found himself in 
 the street with his uncongenial companion, ' what is it ? ' 
 
 ' It's about the bishop.' 
 
 ' My father ! Is there anything the matter with him ? ' 
 
 * I fear so. He told me that he was going to London.' 
 •What of that? ' said Gabriel, impatiently. * He told me 
 
 the same thing yesterday. Has he gone ? ' 
 
 *He left by the afternoon train. Do you know the 
 object of his visit to London?' 
 
 * No. What is his object ? ' 
 
 * He goes to consult a specialist about his health.* 
 
 * What ! ' cried Gabriel, anxiously. * Is he ill ? ' 
 
 * I think so ; some nervous trouble brought on by worry.' 
 
 * By worry ! Has my father anything on his mind likely 
 to worry him to that extent ? ' 
 
 Cargrim coughed significantly. 'I think so,' said he 
 again. 'He has not been himself since the visit of that 
 stranger to the palace. I fancy the man must have 
 brought bad news.' 
 
 'Did the bishop tell you so?' 
 
 * No ; but I am observant, you know.* 
 
 Privately, Gabriel considered that Cargrim was a great 
 deal too observant, and also of a meddlesome nature, else 
 why had he come to spy out matters which did not concern 
 him. Needless to say, Gabriel was thinking of Bell at this 
 moment. However, he made no comment on the chap- 
 lain's speech, but merely remarked that doubtless the 
 bishop had his own reasons for keeping silent, and 
 advised Cargrim to wait until he was consulted in connec- 
 tion with the matter, before troubling himself unnecessarily 
 
 45
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 about it. ' My father knows his own business best,' finished 
 Gabnel, stiffly, ' if you will forgive my speaking so plainly.' 
 
 ' Certainly, certainly, Pcndle ; but I owe a great deal to 
 your father, and I would do much to save him from annoy- 
 ance. By the way,' with an abrupt chamze of subject, 'do 
 you know that I saw the stranuer who called at the palace 
 two nights ago during the reception ?' 
 
 • When ? Where ? ' 
 
 'At that hotel, this evening. He looks a dangerous 
 man.' 
 
 Gabriel shrugged his shoulders. ' It seems to me, 
 Cargrim, that you are making a mountain out of a mole 
 hill. A stranger sees my father, and afterwards you meet 
 him at a public-house ; there is notliing strange in that.' 
 
 ' You forget,' hinted Cargrim, sweetly, 'this man caused 
 your father's illness.' 
 
 " We can't be sure of that ; and in any case, my father is 
 quite clever enough to deal witli his own affairs. I see no 
 reason why you should have hunted me out to talk such 
 nonsense. Good-night, Cargrim,' and with a curt nod the 
 curate stalked away, considerably annoyed by the meddle- 
 some spirit manifested by the cha[)lain. He had never 
 liked the man, and, now that he was in this interfering 
 mood, liked him less than ever. It would be as well, 
 thought Gabriel, that Mr Cargrim should be dismissed 
 from his confidential office as soon as possible. Otherwi--e 
 he might cause trouble, and Gabriel mentally thought of 
 the high-coloured young lady in the bar. His conscience 
 was not at ease regarding his admiration for her; and he 
 dreaded lest the officious Cargrim should talk about her to 
 the bishop. Altogether the ch:iplain, like a hornet, had 
 annoyed both Dr Pendle and his son ; and the bishop in 
 London and Gabriel in Beorminster were anything but 
 well disposed towards this clerical busybody, who minded 
 everyone s business instead of his own. It is such people 
 who stir up muddy water and cause mischief. 
 
 Meanwhile, the busybody looked after the curate with an 
 evil smile ; and, gratified at having aroused such irritation 
 as the abrupt parting signified, turned back to 'Jhe Derby 
 Winner. He had seen Bell, he had spoken to Gabriel, he 
 had even secured an unsatisfactory conversation with the 
 
 46
 
 The Man with the Scar 
 
 unknown man. Now he wished to question Mrs Mosk and 
 acquaint himself with her nature and attitude. Also he 
 desired to question her concerning the miUtary straneer ; 
 and with this resolve presented himself again before Miss 
 Mosk, smiling and undaunted. 
 
 'What is it?' asked the young lady, who had been nurs- 
 ing her grievances. 
 
 ' A mere trifle, Miss Mosk ; I wish to see your mother.' 
 
 *Why?' was Bell's blunt demand. 
 
 'My reasons are for Mrs Mosk's ears alone.' 
 
 • Oh, are they ? Well, I'm afraid you can't see my mother. 
 In the first place, she's too ill to receive anyone ; and in the 
 second, my father does not like clergymen.' 
 
 • Dear ! dear ! not even Mr Pendle ? ' 
 
 •Mr Pendle is an exception,' retorted Bell, blushing, and 
 again fell to wiping the counter in a fury, so as to keep her 
 hands from Mr Cargrim's ears. 
 
 * I wish to see Mrs Mosk particularly,' reiterated Cargrim, 
 who was bent upon carrying his point. ' If not, your father 
 will do.' 
 
 *My father is absent in Southberry. Why do you wanJ 
 to see my mother?' 
 
 'I'll tell her that myself — with your permission,' said 
 Cargrim, suavely. 
 
 * You sha'n't, then,' cried Bell, and flung down her duster 
 with sparkling eyes. 
 
 'In that case I must go away,' rej^lied Cargrim, seeing he 
 was beaten, 'and I thank you, Miss Mosk, for your polite- 
 ness. By the way,' he add';d, as he half returned, 'will you 
 tell that gentleman with the scar on the cheek that I wish 
 to see him also?' 
 
 ' Seems to me you wish to see everybody about here,' said 
 Bell, scornfully. ' I'll tell Mr Jentham if you like. Now go 
 away; I'm busy.' 
 
 'Jentham!' repeated Cargrim, as he walked homeward. 
 ' Now, I wonder if I'll find that name in the bishop's cheque- 
 book.'
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 AN INTERESTING CONVERSATION 
 
 When Mr Cargrim took an idea into his head it was not 
 easy to get it out again, and to this resolute obstinacy he 
 owed no small part of his success. He was like the famous 
 drop of water and would wear away any human stone, how- 
 ever hard it might be. Again and again, when baffled, he 
 returned with gentle persistence to the object he had in 
 view, and however strong of will his adversary happened to 
 be, that will was bound, in the long run, to yield to the in- 
 cessant attacks of the chaplain. At the present moment 
 he desired to have an interview with Mrs Mosk, and he 
 was determined to obtain one in spite of Bell's refusal. 
 However, he had no time to waste on the persuasive method, 
 as he wished to see the invalid before the bishop returned. 
 To achieve this end he enlisted the services of Mrs I'ansey. 
 That good lady sometimes indulged in a species of per- 
 secution she termed district-visiting, which usually consisted 
 in her thru^lin|_^ herself at untoward times into poor people's 
 houses and asking them questions about their private affairs. 
 When she had learned all she wished to know, and had 
 given her advice in the tone of a command not to be dis- 
 obeyed, she would retire, leaving the evidence of her trail 
 behmd her in the shape of a nauseous little tract with an 
 abusive title. It was no use any poor creature refusing to 
 see Mrs Pansey, for she forced herself into the most private 
 chambers, and never would retire unless she thought fit to 
 do so of her own will. It was for this reason that Cargrim 
 suggested the good lady should call upon Mrs Mosk, 
 for he knew well that neither the father, nor the daughter, 
 nor the whole assembled domestics of the hotel, would be 
 able to stop her from making her way to the bedside of the 
 
 46
 
 An Interesting Conversation. 
 
 invalid ; and in the devastated rear of Mrs Pansey the chap- 
 lain intended to follow. 
 
 His principal object in seeing Mrs Mosk was to discover 
 what she knew about the man called Jentham. He was 
 lodging at The Derby Winner, as Cargrim ascertained by 
 later inquiry, and it was probable that the inmates of the 
 hotel knew something as to the reasons of his stay in Beor- 
 minster. Mr Mosk, being as obstinate as a mule, was not 
 iikely to tell Cargrim anything he desired to learn. Bell, 
 detesting the chaplain, as she took no pains to conceal, 
 would probably refuse to hold a conversation with him ; 
 but Mrs Mosk, being weak-minded and ill, might be led 
 by dexterous questioning to tell all she knew. And what 
 she did know might, in Cargrim's opinion, throw more light 
 on Jentham's connection with the bishop. Therefore, the 
 next morning, Cargrim called on the archdeacon's widow to 
 inveigle her into persecuting Mrs Mosk with a call. Mrs 
 Pansey, with all her acuteness, could not see that she was 
 being made use of — luckily for Cargrim. 
 
 ' I hear the poor woman is very ill,' sighed the chaplain, 
 after he had introduced the subject, 'and I fear that her 
 daughter does not give her ail the attention an invalid 
 should have.' 
 
 'The Jezebel! ' growled Mrs Pansey. 'What can you 
 expect from that flaunting hussy?* 
 
 ' She is a human being, Mrs Pansey, and I expect at least 
 human feelings ' 
 
 ' Can you get blood out of a stone, Mr Cargrim ? No, 
 you can't. Is that red-cheeked Dutch doll a pelican to 
 pluck her breast for the benefit of her mother? No, 
 indeed ! I daresay she passes her sinful hours drinking 
 with young men. I'd whip her at a cart's tail if I had my 
 way.* 
 
 * Gabriel Pendle is trying to bring the girl to a sense of 
 her errors.' 
 
 * Rubbish ! She's trying to bring him to the altar, more 
 like. I'll go with you, Mr Cargrim, and see the minx. I 
 have long thought that it is my duty to reprove her and 
 warn her mother of such goings-on. As for that weak- 
 minded young Pendle,' cried Mrs Pansey, shaking her head 
 furiously, * I pity his infatuation ; but what can you expect 
 
 D 49
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 from such a mother as his mother ? Can a fool produce 
 sense ? No ! ' 
 
 'I am afraid you will find the young woman difficult to 
 deal with.' 
 
 'That makes me all the more determined to see her, Mr 
 Cargrim. I'll tell her the truth for once in her life. Marry 
 young Pendle indeed ! ' snorted the good lady. * I'll let 
 her see.' 
 
 ' Speak to her mother first,' urged Cargrim, who wished 
 his visit to be less warlike, as more conducive to surcess. 
 
 ' I'll speak to both of them. I daresay one is as bad as 
 the other. I must have that public-house removed ; it's 
 an eye-sore to Beorminster — a curse to the place. It ought 
 to be pulled down and the site ploughed up and sown with 
 salt Come with me, Mr Cargrim, and you shall see how 
 I deal with iniquity. I hope I know what is due to 
 myself.' 
 
 'Where is Miss Norsham?' asked the chaplain, when 
 tliey fell into more general conversation on their way to 
 The Derby Winner. 
 
 'Husband -hunting. Dean Alder is showing her the 
 tombs in the cathedral. Tombs, indeed! It's the altar 
 siie's interested in.' 
 
 ' My dear lady, the dean is too old to marry ! ' 
 
 •He is not too old to be made a fool of, Mr Cargrim. 
 As for Daisy Norsham, she'd marry Methuselah to take 
 away the shame of being single. Not that the match with 
 Alder will be out of the way, for she's no chicken herself.' 
 
 ' I rather thought Mr Dean had an eye to Miss Whichello.' 
 
 'Stuff!' rejoined Mrs Pansey, with a snifT. 'She's far 
 too much taken up with dieting people to think of marry- 
 ing them. She actually weighs out the food on the table 
 when meals are on. No wonder that poor girl Mab is 
 thin. 
 
 ' But she isn't too thin for her height, Mrs Pansey. She 
 seems to me to be well covered.' 
 
 ' You didn't notice her at the palace, then,' snapped the 
 widow, avoiding a direct reply. 'She wore a low-necked 
 dress which made me blush. I don't know what girls are 
 coming ta They'd go about like so many Evea if they 
 could.* 
 
 50
 
 An Interesting Conversation 
 
 ' Oh, Mrs Pansey ! ' remonstrated the chaplain, in a shocked 
 tone. 
 
 'Well, it's in the Bible, isn't it, man? You aren't going 
 to say Holy Writ is indecent, are you ? ' 
 
 'Well, really, Mrs Pansey, clergyman as I am, I must 
 say that there are parts of the Bible unfit for the use of 
 schools.' 
 
 'To the pure all things are pure, Mr Cargrim ; you have 
 an impure mind, I fear. Remember the Thirty -Nine 
 Articles and speak becomingly of holy things. However, 
 let that pass,' added Mrs Pansey, in livelier tones. ' Here 
 we are, and there's that hussy hanging out from an upper 
 window like the Jezebel she is.' 
 
 This remark was directed against Bell, who, apparently 
 in her mother's room, was at the window amusing herself 
 by watching the passers-by. When she saw Mrs Pansey 
 and the chaplain stalking along in black garments, and 
 looking like two birds of prey, she hastily withdrew, and 
 by the time they arrived at the hotel was at the doorway to 
 receive them, with fixed bayonets. 
 
 •Young woman,' said Mrs Pansey, severely, *I have come 
 to see your mother,' and she cast a disapproving look on 
 Bell's gay pink dress. 
 
 ' She is not well enough to see either you or Mr Cargrim,' 
 said Bell, coolly. 
 
 ' All the more reason that Mr Cargrim, as a clergyman, 
 should look after her soul, my good girl.' 
 
 •Thank you, Mr Pendle is doing that.' 
 
 •Indeed! Mr Pendle, then, combines business with 
 pleasure.* 
 
 Bell quite understood the insinuation conveyed in this 
 last speech, and, firing up, would have come to high words 
 with the visitors but that her father made his appearance, 
 and, as she did not wish to draw forth remarks from Mrs 
 Pansey about Gabriel in his hearing, she discreetly held 
 her tongue. However, as Mrs Pansey swept by in triumph, 
 followed by Cargrim, she looked daggers at them both, and 
 bounced into the bar, where she drew beer for thirsty 
 customers in a flaming temper. She dearly desired a duel 
 of words with the formidable visitor. 
 
 Mosk was a lean, tall man with a pimpled face and a 
 
 5«
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 military moustache. He knew Mrs Pansey, and, like most 
 other people, detested her with all his heart ; but she was, 
 as he thought, a great friend of Sir Harry Brace, who was 
 his landlord, so for diplomatic reasons he greeted her with 
 all deference, hat in hand. 
 
 ' I have come with Mr Cargrim to see your wife, Mr 
 Mosk,' said the visitor. 
 
 ' Thank you, ma'am, I'm sure it's very kind of you/ replied 
 Mosk, who had a husky voice suggestive of beer. 'She'll be 
 honoured to see you, I'm sure. This way, ma'am.' 
 
 • Is she very ill?' demanded the chaplain, as they followed 
 Mosk to the back of the hotel and up a narrow staircase. 
 
 ' She ain't well, sir, but I can't say as she's dying. We 
 do all we can to make her easy.' 
 
 * Ho ! ' from Mrs Pansey. ' I hope your daughter acts 
 towards her mother like as a daughter should.' 
 
 ' I'd like to see the person as says she don't,* cried Mr 
 Mosk, with sudden anger. ' I'd knock his head off. Bell's 
 a good girl ; none better.' 
 
 'Let us hope your trust in her is justified,* sighed the 
 mischief-maker, and passed into the sickroom, leaving Mosk 
 with an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. If the 
 man had a tender spot in his heart it was for his handsome 
 daughter ; and it was with a vague fear that, after presenting 
 his wife to her visitors, he went downstairs to the bar. Mrs 
 Pansey had a genius for making mischief by a timely word. 
 
 ' Bell,' said he, gruffly, ' what's that old cat hinting at?' 
 
 'What about?' asked Bell, tossing her head till all her 
 ornaments jingled, and wiping the counter furiously. 
 
 'About you ! She don't think I should trust you.' 
 
 '^Vhat right has she to talk about me, I'd like to know!' 
 cried Bell, getting as red as a peony. ' I've never done any- 
 thing that anyone can say a word against me.' 
 
 'Who said you had?' snapped her fatiier; 'but that old 
 cat hints.' 
 
 ' Let her keep her hints to herself, then. Because I'm 
 young and good-looking she wants to take my character 
 away. Nasty old puss that she is ! ' 
 
 'That's just it, my gal. You're too young and good- 
 looking to escape folks' talking ; and I hear that young Mr 
 Pendle comes round when I'm away.* 
 
 52
 
 An Interesting Conversation 
 
 •Who says he doesn't, father? It's to see mother; he's a 
 parson, ain't he ? ' 
 
 * Yes ! and he's gentry too. I won't have him paying 
 attention to you.' 
 
 'You'd better wait till he does,' flashed out Bell. *I can 
 take care of myself, I hope.* 
 
 'If I catch him talking other than religion to you 111 
 choke him in his own collar,' cried Mr Mosk, with a scowl ; 
 ' so now you know.' 
 
 'I know as you're talking nonsense, father. Time enough 
 for you to interfere when there's cause. Now you clear out 
 and let me get on with my work.' 
 
 Reassured by the girl's manner, Mosk began to think 
 that Mrs Pansey's hints were all moonshine, and after 
 cooling himself with a glass of beer, went away to look into 
 his betting-book with some horsey pals. In the meantime, 
 Mrs Pansey was persecuting his wife, a meek, nervous little 
 woman, who was propped up with pillows in a large bed, 
 and seemed to be quite overwhelmed by the honour of Mrs 
 Pansey's call. 
 
 'So you are weak in the back, are you?' said the visitor, 
 in loud tones. ' If you are, what right have you to marry 
 and bring feeble children into the world ? ' 
 
 'Bell isn't feeble,' said Mrs Mosk, weakly. 'She's a fine 
 set-up gal.' 
 
 * Set-up and stuck-up,' retorted Mrs Pansey. 'I tell you 
 what, my good woman, you ought to be downstairs looking 
 after her.' 
 
 ' Lord ! mum, there ain't nothing wrong, I do devoutly 
 hope.' 
 
 ' Nothing as yet ; but you shouldn't have young gentle- 
 men about the place.' 
 
 ' I can't help it, mum,' said Mrs Mosk, beginning to cry. 
 
 'I'm sure we must earn our living somehow. This is an 
 
 'otel, isn't it ? and Mosk's a pop'lar character, ain't he ? I'm 
 
 sure it's hard enough to make ends meet as it is ; we owe 
 
 rent for half a year and can't pay — and won't pay,' wailed 
 
 Mrs Mosk, 'unless my 'usband comes 'ome on Skinflint.' 
 
 'Comes home on Skinflint, woman, what do you mean?' 
 
 'Skinflint's a 'orse, mum, as Mosk *ave put his shirt on.' 
 
 Mrs Pansey wagged her plumes and groaned. ' I'm sadly 
 
 53
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 afraid your husband is a son of perdition, Mrs Mosk. Put 
 his shirt on Skinflint, indeed ! ' 
 
 ' He's a good man to me, anyhow,' cried Mrs Mosk, 
 plucking up spirit. 
 
 ' Drink and betting,' continued Mrs Pansey, pretending 
 not to hear this feeble defiance. ' What can we expect from 
 a man who drinks and bets ? ' 
 
 'And associates with bad characters,' put in Cargrim, 
 seizing his chance. 
 
 ' That he don't, sir,' said Mrs Mosk, with energy. 'May 
 I beg of you to put a name to one of 'em ? ' 
 
 'Jentham,' said the chaplain, softly. 'Who is Jentham, 
 Mrs Mosk?' 
 
 ' I know no more nor a babe unborn, sir. He's bin 'ere 
 two weeks, and I did see him twice afore my back got so 
 bad as to force me to bed. But I don't see why you calls 
 him bad, sir. He pays his way.' 
 
 'Oh,' groaned Mrs Pansey, ' is it the chief end of man to 
 pay his way ? ' 
 
 'It is with us, mum,' retorted Mrs Mosk, meekly; 'there 
 ain't no denying of it. And Mr Jentham do pay proper 
 though he is a gipsy.' 
 
 ' He's a gipsy, is he ? ' said Cargrim, alertly. 
 
 ' So he says, sir ; and I knows as he goes sometimes to 
 that camp of gipsies on Southberry Heath.' 
 
 'Where does he get his money from?' 
 
 'Better not inquire into that, Mr Cargrim,' said Mrs 
 Pansey, with a sniff. 
 
 'Oh, Mr Jentham's honest, I'm sure, mum. He's bin at 
 the gold diggin's and 'ave made a trifle of money. Indeed, 
 I don't know where he ain't been, sir. The four pints of 
 the compass is all plain sailing to 'im ; and his 'airbreadth 
 escapes is too h'awfuL I shivers and shudders when I 
 'ears 'em.' 
 
 ' What is he doing here ? ' 
 
 ' He's on business ; but I don't know what kind. Oh, 
 he knows 'ow to 'old 'is tongue, does Jentham.' 
 
 ' He is a gipsy, he consorts with gipsies, he has money, 
 and no one knows where he comes from,' summed up 
 Cargrim. ' I think, Mrs Pansey, we may regard this man 
 as a dangerous character.' 
 
 54
 
 An Interesting Conversation 
 
 ' I shouldn't be surprised to hear he was an Anarchist,' 
 said Mrs Pansey, who knew nothing about the man. ' Well, 
 Mrs Mosk, I hope we've cheered you up. I'll go now. 
 Read this tract,' bestowing a grimy little pamphlet, 'and 
 don't see too much of Mr Pendle.' 
 
 ' But he comforts me,' said poor Mrs Mosk ; ' he reads 
 beautiful.' 
 
 Mrs Pansey grunted. Bold as she was she did not like 
 to speak quite plainly to the woman, as too free speech 
 might inculpate Gabriel and bring the bishop to the rescue. 
 Besides, Mrs Pansey had no evidence to bring forward lo 
 prove that Gabriel was in love with Bell Mosk. Therefore 
 she said nothing, but, like the mariner's parrot, thought the 
 more. Shaking out her dark slcirts she rose to go, with 
 another grunt full of unspoken sus[)icions. 
 
 'Good-day, Mrs Mosk,' said she, pausing at the door. 
 *When you are low-spirited send for me to cheer you up.' 
 
 Mrs Mosk attempted a curtsey in bed, which was a 
 failure owing to her sitting position ; but Mrs Pansey did 
 not see the attempt, as she was already half-way down the 
 stairs, followed by Cargrim. The chaplain had learned a 
 trifle more about the mysterious Jentham and was quite 
 satisfied with his visit ; but he was more puzzled than ever. 
 A tramp, a gipsy, an adventurer — what had such a creature 
 in common with Bishop Pendle? To Mr Cargrim's eye the 
 affair of the visit began to assume the proportions of a 
 criminal case. But all the information he had gathered 
 proved nothing, so it only remained to wait for the 
 bishop's return and see what discoveries he could make in 
 that direction. If Jentham's name was in the cheque-book 
 the chaplain would be satisfied that there was an under- 
 standing between the pair ; and then his next move wou'd 
 be to learn what the understanding was. When he dis- 
 covered that, he had no doubt but that he would have Dr 
 Pendle under his thumb, which would be a good thing for 
 Mr Cargrim and an unpleasant position for the bishop. 
 
 Mrs Pansey stalked down to the bar, and seeing BcU 
 therein, silently placed a little tract on the counter. No 
 sooner had she left the house than Bell snatched up 
 the tract, and rushing to the door flung it after the good 
 lady. 
 
 SS
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 'You need it more than I do,' she cried, and bouncerd 
 into the house again. 
 
 It was with a quiver of rage that Mrs Pansey turned to 
 the chaplain. She was almost past speech, but with some 
 difficulty and much choking managed to convey her feelings 
 in two words. 
 
 * The creature ! ' gasped Mrs Pansey, and shook her skirts 
 as if to rid herself of some taint contracted at The Derby 
 Winner.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 ON SATURDAY NIGHT 
 
 The bishop returned on Saturday morning instead of on 
 Friday night as arranged, and was much more cheerful than 
 when he left, a state of mind which irritated Cargrim in no 
 small degree, and also perplexed him not a little. If Dr 
 Pendle's connection with Jentham was dangerous he should 
 still be ill at ease and anxious, instead of which he was 
 almost his old genial self when he joined his wife and Lucy 
 at their afternoon tea. Sir Harry was not present, but Mr 
 Cargrim supplied his place, an exchange which was not at 
 all to Lucy's mind. The Pendles treated the chaplain 
 always with a certain reserve, and the only person who 
 really thought him the good young man he appeared to be, 
 was the bishop's wife. But kindly Mrs Pendle was the most 
 innocent of mortals, and all geese were swans to her. She 
 had not the necessary faculty of seeing through a brick wall 
 with which nature had gifted Mrs Pansey in so extra- 
 ordinary a degree. 
 
 As a rule, Mr Cargrim did not come to afternoon tea, but 
 on tliis occasion he presented himself; ostensibly to wel- 
 come back his patron, in reality to watch him. Also he 
 was determined, at the very first opportunity, to introduce 
 the name of Jentham and observe what effect it had on 
 the bishop. With these little plans in his mind the chap- 
 lain crept about the tea-table like a tame cat, and handed 
 round cake and bread with his most winning smile. His 
 fiale face was even more inexpressive than usual, and none 
 could have guessed, from outward appearance, his malicious 
 mtents — least of all the trio he was with. They were too 
 upright themselves to suspect evil in others. 
 
 ' 1 am so glad to see you are better, bishop,' said Mrs 
 
 5 57
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 Pendle, languidly trifling with a cup of tea. • Your journey 
 has done you good.' 
 
 'Change of air, change of air, my dear. A wonderful 
 restorative.' 
 
 'Your business was all right, I hope?' 
 
 *0h, yes! Indeed, I hardly went up on business, and 
 what I did do was a mere trifle,' replied the bishop, smooth- 
 ing his apron. ' Has Gabriel been here to-day ? ' he added, 
 obviously desirous of turning the conversation. 
 
 ' Twice ! ' said Lucy, who presided over the tea-table ; 'and 
 the second time he told mamma that he had received a 
 letter from George.' 
 
 'Ay, ay! a letter from George. Is he quite well, 
 Lucy?' 
 
 ' We shall see that for ourselves this evening, papa, 
 George is coming to Beorminster, and will be here about 
 ten o'clock to-night' 
 
 • How vexing ! * exclaimed Dr Pendle. * I intended 
 going over to Southberry this evening, but I can't miss 
 seeing George.' 
 
 'Ride over to-morrow morning, bishop,' suggested his 
 wife. 
 
 ' Sunday morning, my dear ! ' 
 
 •Well, papa!' said Lucy, smiling, *you are not a strict 
 Sabbatarian, you know.' 
 
 ' I am not so good as I ought to be, my dear,' said Dr 
 Pendle, playfully pinching her pretty ear. ' Well ! well ! I 
 must see George. I'll go to-morrow morning at eight 
 o'clock. You'll send a telegram to Mr Vasser to that 
 effect, if you please, Mr Cargrim. Say that 1 regret not 
 being able to come to-night' 
 
 'Certainly, my lord. In any case, I am going in to 
 Beorminster this evening.' 
 
 'You are usually more stay-at-home, Mr Cargrim. 
 Thank you, Lucy, I will take another cup of tea.' 
 
 * I do not care for going out at night as a rule, my lord, 
 observed the chaplain, in his most sanctimonious tone, ' but 
 duty calls me into Beorminster. I am desirous of comfort- 
 ing poor sick Mrs Mosk at The Derby Winner.' 
 
 ' Oh, that is Gabriel's pet invalid,' cried Lucy, peering 
 into the teapot ; • he says Mrs Mosk is a very good woman.' 
 
 58
 
 On Saturday Night 
 
 ' I^t us hope so,* observed the bishop, stirring his new 
 cup of tea. ' I do not wish to be uncharitable, my dear, 
 but if Mrs Pansey is to be believed, that public-house is 
 not conducted so carefully as it should be.* 
 
 ' But is Mrs Pansey to be beUeved, bishop ? ' asked his 
 wife, smiling. 
 
 ' I don't think she would tell a deliberate falsehood, my 
 love.* 
 
 'All the same, she might exaggerate little into much,' said 
 Lucy, with a pretty grimace. ' What is your opinion of this 
 hotel, Mr Cargrim ? ' 
 
 The chaplain saw his opportunity and seized it at once. 
 * My dear Miss Pendle,' he said, showing all his teeth, ' as 
 The Derby Winner is the property of Sir Harry Brace I 
 wish I could speak well of it, but candour compels me to 
 confess that it is a badly-conducted house.' 
 
 ' Tut ! tut ! ' said the bishop, * what is tliis ? You don't 
 say so.' 
 
 •Harry shall shut it up at once,' cried Lucy, the pretty 
 Puritan. 
 
 * It is a resort of bad characters, I fear,' sighed Cargrim, 
 •and Mrs Mosk, being an invalid, is not able to keep them 
 away.' 
 
 ' What about the landlord, Mr Cargrim } * 
 
 ' Aha ! ' replied the chaplain, turning towards Llrs Pendle, 
 who had asked this question, ' he is a man of lax morals. 
 His boon companion is a tramp called Jentbam !' 
 
 ' Jentham ! ' repeated Dr Pendle, in so complacent a tone 
 that Cargrim, with some vexation, saw that he did not 
 associate the name with his visitor ; ' and who is Jentham ? ' 
 
 •I hardly know,' said the chaplain, making another 
 attempt ; ' he is a tramp, as I have reason to believe, and 
 consorts with gipsies. I saw him myself the other day — a 
 tall, lean man with a scar.' 
 
 The bishop rose, and walking over to the tea-table placed 
 his cup carefully thereon. ' With a scar,' he repeated in 
 low tones. ' A man with a scar — ^Jentham — indeed 1 What 
 do you know of this person, Mr Cargrim ? ' 
 
 ' Absolutely nothing,* rejoined the chaplain, with a 
 satisfied glance at the uneasy face of his questioner. ' He 
 is a gipsy; he stays at The Derby Winner and pays 
 
 5 "
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 regularly for his lodgings ; and hia name is Jentham. I 
 know no more.* 
 
 ' I don't suppose there is more to know,' cried Lucy, 
 lightly. 
 
 * If there is, the police may find out, Miss Pendle.* 
 
 The bishop frowned. ' As the man, so far as we know, 
 has done nothing against the laws,' said he, quickly, ' I see 
 no reason why the police should be mentioned in connec- 
 tion with him. Evidently, from what Mr Cargrim says, he 
 is a rolling stone, and probably will not remain much 
 longer in Beorminster. Let us hope that he will take 
 himself and his bad influence away from our city. In the 
 meantime, it is hardly worth our while to discuss a person 
 of so little importance.' 
 
 In this skilful way the bishop put an end to the con- 
 versation, and Cargrim, fearful of rousing his suspicions, did 
 not dare to resume it. In a little while, after a few kind 
 words to his wife, Dr Pendle left the drawing-room for his 
 study. As he passed out, Cargrim noticed that the haggard 
 look had conie back to his face, and once or twice he 
 glanced anxiously at his w'ife. In his turn Cargrim 
 examined Mrs Pendle, but saw nothing in her manner 
 likely to indicate that she shared the uneasiness of her 
 husband, or knew the cause of his secret anxiety. She 
 looked calm and content, and there was a gentle smile in 
 her weary eyes. Evidently the bishop's mind Avas set at 
 rest by her placid looks, for it was with a sigh of relief that 
 he left the room. Cargrim noted the look and heard the 
 sigh, but was wholly in the dark regarding their meaning. 
 
 'Though I daresay they have to do with Jentham and 
 this secret,' he thought, when bowing himself out of the 
 drawing-room. * Whatever the matter may be, Dr Pendle 
 is evidently most anxious to keep his wife from knowing of 
 it. All the better.' He rubbed his hands together with a 
 satisfied smirk. * Such anxiety shows that the secret is 
 worth learning. Sooner or later I shall find it out, and 
 then I can insist upon being the rector of Heathcroft. I 
 have no time to lose, so I shall go to The Derby Winner 
 to-night and see if I can induce this mysterious Jentham 
 to speak out He looks a drunken dog, so a glass of wine 
 may unloosen his tongue.' 
 
 60
 
 On Saturday Alight 
 
 From this speech it can be seen that Mr Cargrim was 
 true to his Jesuitic instincts, and thought no action dis- 
 honourable so long as it aided him to gain his ends. He 
 was a methodical scoundrel, too, and arranged the details 
 of his scheme with the utmost circumspection. For 
 instance, prior to seeing the man with the scar, he thought 
 it advisable to find out if the bishop had drawn a large sum 
 of money while in London for the purpose of bribing the 
 creature to silence. Therefore, before leaving the palace, he 
 made several attempts to examine the cheque-book. But 
 Dr Pendle remained constantly at his desk in the library, 
 and although the plotter actually saw the cheque-book at the 
 elbow of his proposed victim, he was unable, without any 
 good reason, to pick it up and satisfy his curiosity. He was 
 therefore obliged to defer any attempt to obtain it until the 
 next day, as the bishop would probably leave it behind him 
 when he rode over to Southberry. This failure vexed the 
 chaplain, as he wished to be forearmed in his interview with 
 Jentham, but, as there was no help for it, he was obliged to 
 put the cart before the horse — in other words, to learn what 
 he could from the man first and settle the bribery question 
 by a peep into the cheque-book afterwards. The ingenious 
 Mr Cargrim was by no means pleased with this slip-slop 
 method of conducting business. There wa? method in his 
 villainy. 
 
 That evening, after despatching the telegram to South- 
 berry, the chaplain repaired to The Derby Winner and 
 found it largely patronised by a noisy and thirsty crowd. 
 The weather was tropical, the workmen of Beorminster had 
 received their wages, so they were converting the coin of 
 the realm into beer and whisky as speedily as possibly. 
 The night was calm and comparatively cool with the 
 spreading darkness, and the majority of the inhabitants 
 were seated outside their doors gossiping and taking the 
 air. Children were playing in the street, their shrill voices 
 at times interrupting the continuous chatter of the women ; 
 and The Derby Winner, flaring with gas, was stuffed as 
 full as it could hold with artizans, workmen, Irish harvesters 
 and stablemen, all more or less exhilarated with alcohoL 
 It was by no means a scene into which the fastidious 
 Cargrim would have ventured of his own free will, but his 
 
 6i
 
 The Bishop s Secret 
 
 desire to pump Jentham was greater than his sense of 
 di'^gust, and he walked briskly into tlie hotel, to where Mr 
 Mosk and Bell were dispensing drinks as fast as they were 
 able. The crowd, having an inherent respect for the 
 clergy, as became the inhabitants of a cathedral city, 
 opened out to let him pass, and there was much less swear- 
 ing and drinking when his black coat and clerical collar 
 came into view. Mosk saw that the appearance of the 
 chaplain was detrimental to business, and resenting his 
 presence gave him but a surly greeting. As to Bell, she 
 tossed her head, shot a withering glance of defiance at the 
 bland newcomer, and withdrew to the far end of the bar. 
 
 • My friend,' said Cargrim, in his softest tones, • I have 
 come to see your wife and inquire how she is.' 
 
 'She's well enough,' growled Mosk, pushing a foaming 
 tankard towards an exjjectant navvy, 'and what's more, sir, 
 she's asleep, sir, so you can't see her.' 
 
 'I should be sorry to disturb her, Mr Mosk, so I will 
 postpone my visit till a more fitted occasion. You seem to 
 be busy to-night.' 
 
 *So busy that I've got no time for talking, sir.' 
 
 ' Far be it from me to distract your attention, my worthy 
 friend,' was the chaplain's bland reply, 'but with your per- 
 mission I will remain in this corner and enjoy the humours 
 of the scene.' 
 
 Mosk inwardly cursed the visitor for making this modest 
 request, as he detested parsons on account of their aptitude 
 to make teetotalers of his customers. He was a brute in 
 his way, and a Radical to boot, so if he had dared he would 
 have driven forth Cargrim with a few choice oaths. But as 
 his visitor was the chaplain of the ecclesiastical sovereign 
 of Beorminster, and was acquainted with Sir Harry Brace, 
 the owner of the hotel, and further, as Mosk could not pay 
 his rent and was already in bad odour with his landlord, he 
 judged it wise to be diplomatic, lest a word from Cargrim 
 to the bishop and Sir Harry should make matters worse. 
 He therefore grudgingly gave the required permission. 
 
 'Though this ain't a sight fit for the likes of you, sir,' he 
 grumbled, waving his hand. 'This lot smells and they 
 swears, and they gets rowdy in their cups, so I won't 
 answer as they won't offend you.' 
 
 62
 
 On Saturday Night 
 
 *My duty has carried me into much more unsavoury 
 localities, my friend. The worse the place the more is 
 my presence, as a clergyman, necessary.' 
 
 * You ain't going to preach, sir? ' cried Mosk, in alarm. 
 
 * No ! that would indeed be casting pearls before swine, 
 replied Cargrim, in his cool tones. * But I will observe and 
 reflect.' 
 
 The landlord looked uneasy. ' I know as the place is 
 rough,' he said apologetically, * but 'tain't my fault. You 
 won't go talking to Sir Harry, I hope, sir, and take the 
 bread out of my mouth?' 
 
 'Make your mind easy, Mosk. It is not my place to 
 carry tales to your landlord ; and I am aware that the lower 
 orders cannot conduct themselves with decorum, especially 
 on Saturday night. I repine that such a scene should be 
 possible in a Christian land, but I don't blame you for its 
 existence.' 
 
 ' That's all right, sir,' said Mosk, with a sigh of relief. ' I'm 
 rough but honest, whatever lies may be told to the contrary. 
 If I can't pay my rent, that ain't my fault, I hope, as it ain't 
 to be expected as I can do miracles.' 
 
 ' The age of miracles is past, my worthy friend,' replied 
 Cargrim, in conciliatory tones. ' We must not expect the 
 impossible nowadays. By the way ' — with a sudden change 
 — ' have you a man called Jentham here ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I have,' growled Mosk, looking suspiciously at his 
 questioner. * What do you know of him, sir ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing ', but I take an interest in him as he seems to 
 be one who has know^n better days.' 
 
 * He don't know them now, at all events, Mr Cargrim. 
 He owes me money for this last week, he does. He paid 
 all right at fust, but he don't pay now.* 
 
 'Indeed,' said the chaplain, pricking up his ears, 'he 
 owes you money?* 
 
 'That he does; more nor two quid, sir. But he says 
 hell pay me soon.' 
 
 * Ah I he says he'll pay you soon,' repeated Cargrim ; ' he 
 expects to receive money, then ? ' 
 
 * I s'pose so, tho' Lord knows ! — I beg pardon, sir — tho' 
 goodness knows where it's coming from. He don't work 
 or get wages as I can see.' 
 
 63
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 ' I think I know,' thought Cargrim ; then added aloud, 
 •Is the man here?' 
 
 ' In the coffee room yonder, sir. Half drunk he is, and 
 lying Hke a good one. The yarns he reels off is wonderrul.' 
 
 'No do'ibt; a man like that mu-.t be interesting to listen 
 to. With your permission, Mr Mosk, I'll go into the coffee- 
 room.* 
 
 • Straight ahead, sir. Will you take something to drink, 
 if I may make so bold, Mr Cargrim ?' 
 
 *No, my friend, no; thank you all the same,' and with 
 a nod Cargrim pushed his way into the coffee-room to aeo 
 the man with the scar.
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 AN EXCITING ADVENTURE 
 
 Mr Cargrim found a considerable number of people in the 
 coffee-room, and these, with tankards and glasses before 
 them, were listening to the conversation of Jentham. 
 Tobacco smoke filled the apartment with a thick atmo- 
 sphere of fog, through which the gas-lights flared in a 
 nebulous fashion, and rendered the air so hot that it was 
 difficult to breathe in spite of the windows being open. At 
 the head of the long table sat Jentham, drinking brandy- 
 and-soda, and speaking in his cracked, refined voice with 
 considerable spirit, his rat-like, quick eyes glittering the 
 while with alcoholic lustre. He seemed to be considerably 
 under the influence of drink, and his voice ran up and 
 down from bass to treble as he became excited in narrating 
 his adventures. 
 
 Whether these were true or false Cargrim could not 
 determine ; for although the man trenched again and again 
 on the marvellous, he certainly seemed to be fully acquainted 
 with what he was talking about, and related the most won- 
 derful stories in a thoroughly dramatic fashion. Like 
 Ulysses, he knew men and cities, and appeared to have 
 travelled as much as that famous globe-trotter. In his 
 narration he passed from China to Chili, sailed north to the 
 Pole, steamed south to the Horn, described the paradise of 
 the South Seas, and discoursed about the wild wastes of 
 snowy Siberia. The capitals of Eu;ope appeared to be as 
 familiar to him as the chair he was seated in ; and the 
 steppes of Russia, the deserts of Africa, the sheep runs of 
 Australia were all mentioned in turn, as adventure after 
 adventure fell from his lips. And mixed up with these 
 geographical accounts were thrilling tales of treasure-hunt- 
 ing, of escapes from savages, of perilous deeds in the secret 
 E 6s
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 places of great cities ; and details of blood, and war, and 
 lust, and hate, all told in a fiercely dramatic fashion. The 
 man was a tramp, a gipsy, a ragged, penniless roUmg-stone ; 
 but in his own way he was a genius. Cargrim wondered, 
 with all his bravery, and endurance, and resource, that he 
 had not made his fortune. The eloquent scamp seemed to 
 wonder also. 
 
 • For,' said he, striking the table with his fist, ' I have 
 never been able to hold what I won. I've been a million- 
 aire twice over, but the gold wouldn't stay; it drifted away, 
 it was swept away, it vanished, like Macbeth's witches, into 
 thin air. Look at me, you country cabbages ! I've reigned 
 a king amongst savages. A poor sort of king, say you ; but 
 a king's a king, say I; and king I have been. Yet here I 
 am, sitting in a Beorminster gutter, but I don't stay in it. 
 
 By ,' he confirmed his purpose with an oath, ' not I. I've 
 
 got my plans laid, and they'll lift me up to the stars yet.' 
 
 ' Hev you the money, mister ? ' inquired a sceptical 
 listener. 
 
 'What's that to you?' cried Jentham, and finished his 
 drink. ' Yes, I have money ! ' He set down his empty glass 
 with a bang. * At least I know where to get it. Bah I you 
 fools, one can get blood out of a stone if one knows how to 
 go about it. I know ! I know 1 My Tom Tiddler's ground 
 isn't far from your holy township,' and he began to sing, — 
 
 •Southberry Heath's Tom Tiddler's ground, 
 Gold and silver are there to be found. 
 It's dropped by the priest, picked up by the knave. 
 For the one is a coward, the other is brave. 
 
 More brandy, waiter; make it stiff, sonny! stiff! stiff! 
 stiff!' 
 
 The man's wild speech and rude song were unintelligible 
 to his stupid, drink-bemused audience; but the keen brain 
 of the schemer lurking near the door picked up their sense 
 at once. Dr Pendle was the priest who was to drop the 
 money on Southberry Heath, and Jentham the knave who 
 was to pick it up. As certainly as though the man had 
 given chapter and verse, Cargrim understood his enigmatic 
 stave. His mind flashed back to the memory that Dr 
 Pendle intended to ride over to Southberry in the morning 
 
 66
 
 An Exciting Adventure 
 
 across the heath. Without doubt he had agreed to meet 
 there this man who boasted that he could get blood out 
 of a stone, and the object of the meeting was to bribe him 
 to silence. But however loosely Jentham alluded to his 
 intention of picking up gold, he was cunning enough, with 
 all his excitement, to hold his tongue as to how he could 
 work such a miracle. Undoubtedly there was a secret 
 between Dr Pendle and tnis scamp; but what it might be, 
 Cargrim could by no means guess. Was Jentham a dis- 
 reputable relation of the bishop's? Had Dr Pendle com- 
 mitted a crime in his youth for which he was now being 
 blackmailed? What could be the nature of the secret 
 which gave this unscrupulous blackguard a hold on a 
 dignitary of the Church? Cargrim's brain was quite 
 bewildered by his conjectures. 
 
 Hitherto Jentham had been in the blabbing stage of 
 intoxication, but after another glass of drink he relapsed 
 into a sullen, silent condition, and with his eyes on the 
 table pulled fiercely at his pipe, so that his wicked face 
 looked out like that of a devil from amid the rolling clouds 
 of smoke. His audience waited open-mouthed for more 
 stories, but as their entertainer seemed too moody to tell 
 them any more, they began to talk amongst themselves, 
 principally about horses and dogs. It was now growing 
 late, and the most respectable of the crowd were moving 
 homeward. Cargrim felt that to keep up the dignity of his 
 cloth he should depart also ; for several looks of surprise 
 were cast in his direction. But Jentham and his wild 
 speeches fascinated him, and he lurked in his corner, 
 watching the sullen face of the man until the two were left 
 the sole occupants of the room. Then Jentham looked up 
 to call the waiter to bring him a final drink, and his eyes 
 met those of Mr Cargrim. After a keen glance he 
 suddenly broke into a peal of discordant laughter, which 
 died away into a savage and menacing growl. 
 
 'Hallo!' he grumbled, 'here is the busybody of Beor- 
 minster. And what may you want, Mr Paul Pry?' 
 
 • A little civility in the first place, my worthy friend,' said 
 Cargrim, in silky tones, for he did not relish the insolent 
 tone of the satirical scamp. 
 
 * I am no friend to spies ! * 
 
 67
 
 Tlie Bishop's Secret 
 
 • How dare you speak to me like that, fellow ? ' 
 
 ' Vou call uie a fellow and I'll knock your head off,' cried 
 Jentham, rising with a savage look in his eyes. ' If you 
 aren't a spy why d'^ you come sneaking round here?' 
 
 ' I came to see Mrs Mosk,* explamed the chaplain, in a 
 mighty dignified manner, ' but slie is asleep, so I could not 
 see her. In passing the door of this room I heard you 
 relating your adventures, and I naturally stopped to listen.' 
 
 'To hear if I had anything to say about my visit to your 
 bishop, I suppose?' growled Jentham, unpleasantly. *I 
 have a great mind to tell him how you waich me, you 
 infernal devil-dodger ! ' 
 
 • Respect my cloth, sir.' 
 
 ' Bej^in by respecting it yourself, d you. What would 
 
 his lordship of Beorminster say if he knew you were here?' 
 
 ' His lordship does know.' 
 
 Jentham started. 'Perhaps he sent you?' he said, 
 looking doubtful. 
 
 'No, he did not,' contradicted Cargrim, who saw that 
 nothing was to be learned while the man was thus bemused 
 with drink. ' I have told you the reason of my presence 
 here. And as I am here, I warn you, as a clergyman, not to 
 drink any more. You have already had more than enough.' 
 
 Jeniham was staggered by the boldness of the chaplain, 
 and stared at him open-mouthed ; then recovering his 
 speech, he poured forth such a volley of vile words at 
 Cargrim that the chaplain stepped to the door and called 
 the landlord. He felt that it was time for him to assert 
 himself. 
 
 'Tills man is drunk, Mosk,* said he, sharply, 'and if you 
 keep such a creature on your premises you will get into 
 trouble.' 
 
 'Creature yourself!' cried Jentham, advancing towards 
 Cargrim. ' I'll wring your neck if you use such language 
 to me. I've killed fifty better men than you in my time. 
 Mosk !' he turned with a snarl on the landlord, 'get me a 
 drink of brandy.' 
 
 ' I think you've had enough, Mr Jentham,' said the landlord, 
 with a glance at Cargrim, ' and you know you owe me money.' 
 
 'Curse you, what of that?' raved Jentham, stamping. 
 'Do you tliink Til not pay you?' 
 
 68
 
 An Exciting Adventure 
 
 ' I've not seen the colour of your money lately.' 
 •You'll see it when I choose. I'll have hundreds of 
 pounds next week — hundreds ; ' and he broke out fiercely, 
 'get me more brandy; don't mind that devil-dodger.' 
 ' Go to bed,' said Mosk, retiring, ' go to bed.' 
 Jentham ran after him with an angry cry, so Cargrim, 
 feeling himself somewhat out of place in this pot-house row, 
 nodded to Mosk and left the hotel with as much dignity as 
 he could muster. As he went, the burden of Jentham's last 
 speech — ' hundreds of pounds ! hundreds of pounds ! ' — rang 
 in his ears ; and more than ever he desired to examine the 
 bishop's cheque-book, in order to ascertain the exact sum. 
 The secret, he thought, must indeed be a precious one 
 when the cost of its preservation ran into three figures. 
 
 When Cargrim emerged into the street it was still filled 
 with people, as ten o'clock was just chiming from the 
 cathedral tower. The gossipers had retired within, and 
 lights were gleamint? in the upper windows of the houses ; 
 but knots of neighbours still stood about here and there, 
 talking and laughing loudly. Cargrim strolled slowly down 
 the street towards the Eastgate, musing over his late 
 experience, and enjoying the coolness of the night air after 
 the sultry atmosphere of the coffee-room. The sky was 
 now brilliant with stars, and a silver moon rolled aloft in 
 the blue arch, shedding down floods of light on the to\Vn, 
 and investing its commonplace aspect with something of 
 romance. The streets were radiant with the cold, clear 
 lustre ; the shadows cast by the houses lay black as Indian 
 ink on the ground ; and the laughter and noise of the 
 passers-by seemed woefully out of place in this magical 
 white world. 
 
 Cargrim was alive to the beauty of the night, but was too 
 much taken up with his thoughts to pay much attention to 
 its mingled mystery of shadow and light. As he took his 
 musing way through the wide streets of the modern town, 
 he was suddenly brought to a standstill by hearing the 
 voice of Jentham some distance away. Evidently the man 
 had quarrelled with the landlord, and had been turned out 
 of the hotel, for he came rolling along in a lurching, 
 drunken manner, roaring out a wild and savage ditty, picked 
 up, no doubt, in some land at the back of beyond. 
 
 69
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 Oh, I liave treked the eight world climes. 
 
 And sailed the seven seas : 
 I've made my nil-.- a hundred times» 
 
 And chucked the lot on sprees. 
 
 But wlicn my ship comes home, my lads, 
 
 Wiiy, curse me, don't I know 
 The spot that's worth, the blooming earth. 
 
 The spot where I shall go. 
 
 They call it Callao 1 for oh, it's Callao. 
 
 For on no condition 
 
 Is extradition 
 Allowed in Callao.' 
 
 Jentham roared and ranted the fierce old chanty with as 
 much gusto and noise as though he were camping in the 
 waste hinds to which the song applied, instead of disturbing 
 the peace of a quiet English town. As his thin form came 
 swinging along in the silver light, men and women drew 
 bacic with looks of alarm to let him pass, and Cargrim, not 
 wishing to have trouble with the drunken bully, slipped 
 into the shadow of a house until he passed. As usual, 
 there was no policeman visible, and Jentham went bellow- 
 ing and storming through the quiet summer ni;4ht like the 
 dissolute ruffian he was. He was making for the country 
 in the direction of the palace, and wondering if he intended 
 to force his way into the house to threaten Dr Pendle, the 
 chaplain followed inmiediately behind. But he was careful 
 to keep out of sight, as Jentham was in just the excited 
 frame of mind to draw a knife : and Cargrim. knowing his 
 lawless nature, had little doubt but that he had one con- 
 cealed in his boot or trouser belt. The delicate coward 
 shivered at the idea of a rough-and-tumble encounter with 
 an armed buccaneer. 
 
 On went Jentham, swinging his arms with mad gestures, 
 and followed by the black shadow of the chaplain, until the 
 two were clear of the town. Then the gipsy turned down 
 a shadow7 lane, cut through a footpath, and when he 
 emerged again into the broad roadway, found himself 
 opposite the iron gates of the episcopalian park. Here 
 he stopped singing and shook his fist at them. 
 
 ' Come out, you devil-dodger ! * he bellowed savagely. 
 • Come out and give me money, or I'll shame you before 
 
 70
 
 An Exciting Adventure 
 
 the whole town, you clerical hypocrite.' Then he took a 
 pull at a pocket-flask. 
 
 Cargrim listened eagerly in the hope of hearing some- 
 thing definite, and Jentham gathered himself together for 
 further denunciation of the bishop, when round the comer 
 tripped two women, towards whom his drunken attention 
 was at once attracted With a hoarse chuckle he reeled 
 towards them. 
 
 •Come along m' beauty,' he hiccuped, stretching out 
 his arms, • here's your haven. Wine and women ! 1 love 
 them both.' 
 
 The women both shrieked, and rushed along the road, 
 pursued by the ruffian. Just as he laid rude hands on the 
 last one, a young man came racing along the footpath and 
 swung into the middle of the road. The next moment 
 Jentham lay sprawling on his back, and the lady assaulted 
 was clinging to the arm of her preserver. 
 
 ' Why, it's Mab ! ' said the young man, in surprise. 
 
 ' George ! ' cried Miss Arden, and burst into tears. • Oh, 
 George ! ' 
 
 • Curse you both ! ' growled Jentham, rising slowly. ' I'll 
 be even with you for that blow, my lad.' 
 
 • I'll kick you into the next field if you don't clear out,' 
 retorted George Pendle. ' Did he hurt you, Mab ? ' 
 
 ' No ! no ! but I was afraid. I was at Mrs Tears, and 
 was coming home with Ellen, when that man jumped on 
 to us. Oh ! oh ! oh ! ' 
 
 • The villain ! ' cried Captain Pendle ; * who is he ? ' 
 
 It was at this moment that, all danger being over, Cargrim 
 judged it judicious to emerge from his retreat. He came 
 forward hurriedly, as though he had just arrived on the 
 scene. 
 
 'What is the matter?' he exclaimed. *I heard a scream. 
 What, Captain Pendle! Miss Arden! This is indeed a 
 surprise.' 
 
 'Captain Pendle!' cried Jentham. *The son of the 
 bishop. Curse him ! ' 
 
 George whirled his stick and made a dash at the creature, 
 but was restrained by Mab, who implored him not to 
 provoke further quarrels. 
 
 George took her arm within his own, gave a curt nod 
 
 7'
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 to tlie chaplain, whom he suspected had seen more ot the 
 aiTray than he chose to admit, and flung a word to Jentham. 
 
 •Clear out, you dog !' he said, 'or I'll hand you over t) 
 the poliic. Come, Mab, yonder is Ellen waiting for you. 
 We'll join her, and I shall see you both home.' 
 
 Jentham stood looking after the three figures with a 
 scowl. ' You'll hand me over to the police, George Pendle, 
 will you ? ' he muttered, loud enough for Cargrim to overhear. 
 'Take care I don't do the same thing to your father,' and 
 like a noisome and dangerous animal he crept back in the 
 shadow of the hedge and disappeared. 
 
 * Aha ! ' chuckled Cargrim, us he walked towards the park 
 gates, *it has to do with the police, then, my lord bishop. 
 So much the better for me, so much the worse for you.'
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 MORNING SERVICE IN THE MINSTER 
 
 The cathedral is the glory of Beorminster, of the county, 
 and, indeed, of all England, since no churches surpass it 
 in size and splendour, save the minsters of York and 
 Canterbury. Founded and endowed by Henry II. in 1184 
 for the glory of God, it is dedicated to the blessed Saint 
 Wulf of Osserton, a holy hermit of Saxon times, who was 
 killed by the heathen JDanes. Bishop Gandolf designed 
 the building in the picturesque style of Anglo -Norman 
 architecture; and as the original plans have been closely 
 adhered to by successive prelates, the vast fabric is the 
 finest example extant of the Norman superiority in archi- 
 tectural science. It was begun by Gandolf in 1185, and 
 finished at the beginning of the present century; therefore, 
 as it took six hundred years in building, every portion of 
 it is executed in the most perfect manner. It is renowned 
 both for its beauty and sanctity, and forms one of the most 
 splendid memorials of architectural art and earnest faith 
 to be found even in England, that land of fine churches. 
 
 The great central tower rises to the height of two hundred 
 feet in square massiveness, and from this point springs a 
 slender and graceful spire to another hundred feet, so that 
 next to Salisbury, the great archetype of this special class 
 of ecclesiastical architecture, it is the tallest spire in England. 
 Two square towers, richly ornamented, embellish the western 
 front, and beneath the great window over the central 
 entrance is a series of canopied arches. The church is 
 cruciform in shape, and is built of Portland stone, the 
 whole being richly ornamented with pinnacles, buttresses, 
 crocketted spires and elaborate tracery. Statues of saints, 
 kings, queens and bishops are placed in niches along the 
 northern and southern fronts, and the western front it.self 
 
 6 rj
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 is sculptured with scenes from Holy Scripture in the quaint 
 grotesque style of media;val art. No ivy is permitted to 
 conceal the beauties of the building ; and elevated in the 
 clear air, far above the smoke of the town, it looks as fresh 
 and white and clean cut as though it had been erected only 
 within the last few years. S])ared by Henry VHI. and the 
 iconoclastic rage of the Puritans, Time alone has dealt 
 with it ; and Time has mellowed the whole to a pale amber 
 hue which adds greatly to the beauty of the mighty fane. 
 Beorminster Cathedral is a poem in stone. 
 
 Within, the nave and transepts are lofty and imposing, 
 with innumerable arches springing from massive marble 
 pillars. The rood screen is ornate, with figures of saints 
 and patriarchs ; the pavement is diversified with brasses 
 and carved niarV^le slabs, and several Crusaders' tombs 
 adorn the side chapels. The many windows are mostly 
 of stained glass, since these were not destroyed by 
 the Puritans; and when the sun shines on a summer's 
 day the twilight interior is dyed with rich hues and quaint 
 patterns. As the Bishop of Beorminster is a High Church- 
 man the altar is magnificently decorated, and during service, 
 what with the light and colour and brilliancy, the vast 
 building seems — unlike the dead aspect of many of its 
 kind — to be filled with life and movement and living faith. 
 A Romanist might well imagine that he was attending one 
 of the magnificent and imposing services of his own faith, 
 save that the uttered words are spoken in the mother 
 tongue. 
 
 As became a city whose whole existence depended upon 
 the central shrine, the services at the cathedral were in- 
 variably well attended. The preaching attracted some, the 
 fine music many, and the imposing ritual introduced by 
 Bishop Pendle went a great way towards bringing wor- 
 shippers to the altar. A cold, frigid, undecoraled service, 
 appealing more to the intellect than the senses, would not 
 have drawn together so vast and attentive a congregation ; 
 but the warmth and colour and musical fervour of the new 
 ritual lured the most careless within the walls of the sacred 
 building. Bishop Pendle was right in his estimate of 
 human nature ; for when the senses are enthralled by 
 colour and sound, and vast spaces, and symbolic decorations 
 
 74
 
 Morning Service in the Minster 
 
 the reverential feeling thus engendered prepares the mind 
 for the reception of the sublime truths of Christianity. A 
 pure faith and a gorgeous ritual are not so incompatible as 
 many people think. God should be worshipped with pomp 
 and splendour ; we should bring to His service all that we 
 can invent in the way of art and beauty. If God has pre- 
 pared for those who believe the splendid habitation of the 
 New Jerusalem with its gates of pearl and its streets of 
 gold, why should we, His creatures, stint our gifts in His 
 service, and debar the beautiful things, which He inspires 
 us to create with brain and hand, from use in His holy 
 temple ? • Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth 
 speaketh,' and out of the fulness of the hand the giver 
 should give. * Date et dabitur ! ' The great Luther was right 
 in applying this saying to the church. 
 
 One of the congregation at St Wulf s on this particular 
 morning was Captain George Pendle, and he came less for 
 the service than in the hope — after the manner of those in 
 love — of meeting with Mab Arden. During the reading of 
 the lessons his eyes were roving here and there in search of 
 that beloved face, but much to his dismay he could not see 
 it. Finally, on a chair near a pillar, he caught sight of Miss 
 Whichello in her poke bonnet and black silk cloak, but she 
 was alone, and there were no bright eyes beside her to 
 send a glance in the direction of George. Having ascer- 
 tained beyond all doubt that Mab was not in the church, 
 and believing that she was unwell after the shock of 
 Jentham's attack on the previous night, George withdrew 
 his attention from the congregation, and settled himself to 
 listen attentively to the anthem. It was worthy of the 
 cathedral, and higher praise cannot be given. 'I have 
 blotted out as a thick cloud,' sang the boy soloist in a clear 
 sweet treble, * I have blotted out thy transgressions, and as 
 a cloud thy sins.' Then came the triumphant cry of the 
 choir, borne on the rich waves of sound rolling from the 
 organ, ' Return unto me, for I have redeemed thee.' The 
 lofty roof reverberated with the melodious thunder, and 
 the silvery altoes pierced through the great volume of 
 sound like arrows of song. ' Return ! Return ! Return ! ' 
 called the choristers louder and higher and clearer, and 
 ended, with a magnificent burst of harmony, with the sub- 
 
 75
 
 Tlu Bishop's Secret 
 
 lime proclamation, 'The Lord hath redeemed Jacob, and 
 gkirificd himself in Israel ! ' When the white-robed singers 
 resumed their seats, the organ still continued to peal forth 
 triumphant notes, which died away in gentle murmurs. It 
 was like the passing by of a tempest ; the stilling of the 
 ocean after a storm. 
 
 Mr Cargrim preached the sermon, and, with a vivid 
 recollection of liis present enterprise, wax^d eloquent on the 
 ominous text, 'Be sure thy sin will find thee out.' His 
 belief that the bishop was guilty of some crime, for the con- 
 cealment of which he intended to bribe Jentham, had been 
 strengthened by an examination on that very morning of 
 the cheque-book. Dr Pendle Ind departed on horseback 
 tor Southbtrry after an early breakfast, and after hurriedly 
 despatching his own, Cargrim had hastened to the library. 
 Here, as he expected, he found the cheque-book carelessly 
 left in an unlocked drawer of the desk, and on looking 
 over it he found that one of the butts had been torn out 
 The previous butt bore a date immediately preceding that 
 of Dr Pendle's departure for London, so Cargrim had little 
 difficulty in concluding that the bishop had drawn the next 
 che [ue in London, and had torn out the butt to which it 
 had been attached. This showed, as the chaplain very 
 truly thought, that Dr Pendle was desirous of concealing 
 not only the amount of the cheque — since he had kept no 
 note of the sum on the butt — but of hiding the fact that the 
 cheque had been drawn at all. This conduct, coupled 
 with the fact of Jentham's allusion to Tom Tiddler's 
 ground, and his snatch of extempore song, confirmed 
 Cariirim in his suspicions that Pendle had visited London 
 for the purpose of drawing out a large sum of money, and 
 intended to pay the same over to Jentham that very night 
 on Southberry Heath. With this in his mind it was no 
 wonder that Cargrim preached a stirring sermon. He re- 
 peated his warning text over and over again ; he illustrated 
 it in the most brilliant fashion ; and his appeals to those 
 who had secret sins, to confess them at once, were quite 
 heartrending in their pathos. As most of his congrega- 
 tion had their own little peccadilloes to worry over, Mr 
 Cargrim's sermon made them quite uneasy, and created a 
 decided sensation, much to his own gratification. If 
 
 76
 
 Morning Service in the Minster 
 
 Bishop Pendle had only been seated on his throne to hear 
 that sermon, Cargrim would have been thoroughly satisfied. 
 But, alas ! the bishop — worthy man — was confirming inno- 
 cent sinners at Southberry, and thus lost any chance he 
 might have had of profiting by his chaplain's eloquence. 
 
 However, the congregation could not be supposed to 
 know the secret source of the chaplain's eloquence, and 
 his withering denunciations were supposed to arise from a 
 consciousness of his own pure and open heart. The female 
 admirers of Cargrim particularly dwelt in after-church 
 gossip on this presumed cause of the excellent sermon they 
 had heard, and when the preacher appeared he was con- 
 gratulated on all sides. Miss Tancred for once forgot her 
 purse story, and absolutely squeaked, in the highest of 
 keys, in her efforts to make the young man understand the 
 amount of pleasure he had given her. Even Mrs Pansey 
 was pleased to express her approval of so well chosen a text, 
 and looked significantly at several of her friends as she 
 remarked that she hoped they would take its warning to 
 heart. 
 
 George came upon his father's chaplain, grinning like a 
 heathen idol, in the midst of a tempestuous ocean of 
 petticoats, and the bland way in which he sniffed up the 
 incense of praise showed how grateful such homage was to 
 his vain nature. At that moment he saw himself a future 
 bishop, and that at no very great distance of time. In- 
 deed, had the election of such a prelate been in the hands 
 of his admirers, he would have been elevated that very 
 moment to the nearest vacant episcopalian throne. Captain 
 Pendle looked on contemptuously at this priest-worship. 
 
 'The sneaking cad ! ' he thought, sneering at the excellent 
 Cargrim. 'I dare say he thinks he is the greatest man in 
 Beorminster just now. He looks as though butter wouldn't 
 melt in his mouth.' 
 
 There was no love lost between the chaplain and the 
 captain, for on several occasions the latter had found 
 Cirgrim a slippery customer, and lax in his notions of 
 honour ; while the curate, knowing that he had not been 
 clever enough to hoodwink George, hated him with all the 
 fervour and mahce of his petty soul. However, he hoped 
 soon to have the power to wound Captain Pendle through 
 
 7?
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 his father, so he could afford to smile blandly in response 
 to the young soldier's contemptuous look. And he smiled 
 more than ever when brisk ^Iiss Whichello, with her small 
 face, ruddy as a winter apple, marched up and joined in the 
 congratulations. 
 
 ' In future I shall call you Boanerges, Mr Cargrim,' she 
 cried, her bright little eyes dancing. • You quite frightened 
 me. I looked into my mind to see what sins I had 
 committed.' 
 
 * And found none, I'm suie,' said the courtly chaplain. 
 *You would have found one if you had looked long 
 
 enough,' growled Mrs Pansey, who hated the old maid as 
 a rival practitioner amongst the poor, ' and that is, you did 
 not bring j'our niece to hear the sermon. I don't call such 
 carelessness Christianity.' 
 
 * Don't look at my sins through a microscope, Mrs Pansey. 
 I did not bring Mab because she is not well.' 
 
 * Oh, really, dear Miss Winchello,' chimed in Daisy Nors- 
 ham. * Why, I thought that your sweet niece looked the 
 very picture of health. All those strong, tall women do; 
 not like poor little me.' 
 
 * You need dieting,' retorted Miss Whichello, with a dis- 
 paraging glance. 'Your face is pale and pasty; if it isn't 
 powder, it's bad digestion.' 
 
 * Miss Whichello ! * cried the outraged spinster. 
 
 ' I'm an old woman, my dear, and you must allow me to 
 speak my mind. I'm sure Mrs Pansey always does.' 
 
 * You need not be so very unpleasant ! No, really ! ' 
 
 * The truth is always unpleasant,' snid Mrs Pansey, who 
 could not forbear a thrust even at her own guest, * but Miss 
 Whichello doesn't often hear it,' with a dig at her rival. 
 * Come away, Daisy. Mr Cargrim, next time you preach 
 take for your text, " The tongue is a two-edged sword." ' 
 
 ' Do, Mr Cargrim,' cried Miss Whichello, darting an 
 angry glance at Mrs Pansey, 'and illustrate it with the one 
 to whom it particularly applies.' 
 
 * Ladies ! ladies ! ' remonstrated Cargrim, while both 
 combatants ruffled their plumes like two fighting cocks, 
 and the more timid of the spectators scuttled out of the 
 way. How the situation would have ended it is impossible 
 to say, as the two ladies were equally matched, but George 
 
 78
 
 Morning Service in the Minster 
 
 saved it by advancing to greet Miss Whichello. When the 
 little woman saw him, she darted forward and shook his 
 hand with unfeigned warmth. 
 
 * My dear Captain Pendle,' she cried, ' I am so glad 
 to see you ; and thank you for your noble conduct of last 
 night.' 
 
 ' Why, Miss Whichello, it was nothing,' murmured the 
 modest hero. 
 
 ' Indeed, I must say it was very valiant,' said Cargrim, 
 graciously. ' Do you know, ladies, that Miss Arden was 
 attacked last night by a tramp and Captain Pendle knocked 
 him down ? ' 
 
 * Oh, really ! how very sweet ! ' cried Daisy, casting an 
 admiring look on George's handsome face, which appealed 
 to her appreciation of manly beauty. 
 
 * What was Miss Arden doing to place herself in the posi- 
 tion of being attacked by a tramp?' asked Mrs Pansey, in 
 a hard voice. ' Tins must be looked into.' 
 
 * Thank you, Mrs Pansey, I have looked into it myself,' 
 said Miss Whichello. ' Captain Pendle, come home with 
 me to luncheon and tell me all about it ; I^Ir Cargrim, you 
 come also.' 
 
 Both gentlemen bowed and accepted, the former because 
 he wished to see Mab, the latter because he knew that 
 Captain Pendle did not want him to come. As J^Iiss 
 Whichello moved off with her two guests, Mrs Pansey ex- 
 claimed in a loud voice, — 
 
 ' Poor young men ! Luncheon indeed ! They will be 
 starved. I know for a fact that she weighs out the food 
 in scales.' Then, having had the last word, she went home 
 in triumph. 
 
 79
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 MISS WHICHELLO'S LUNCHEON-PARTV 
 
 The liitle lady trotted briskly across the square, and guided 
 her guests to a quaint old house squeezed into one corner 
 of it. Here she had been born some sixty odd years before ; 
 here she had lived her life of spinsterhood, save for an occa- 
 sional visit to London ; and here she hoped to die, although 
 at present she kept Death at a safe distance by hygienic 
 means and dietary treatment. The house was a (jueer 
 survival of three centuries, with a pattern of black oak 
 beams let into a white-washed front. Its roof shot up into 
 a high gable at an acute angle, and was tiled with red clay 
 squares, mellowed by Time to the hue of rusty iron. A 
 long lattice with diamond panes, and geraniums in flower- 
 pots behind them, extended across the lower storey; two 
 little jutting windows, also of the criss-cross pattern, looked 
 like two eyes in the second storey; and high up in the 
 third, the casement of the attic peered out coyly from under 
 the eaves. At the top of a flight of immaculately white 
 steps there was a squat little door painted green and 
 adorned with a brass knocker burnished to the colour of 
 fine gold, ^rhe railings of iron round the area were also 
 coloured green, and the appearance of the whole exterior 
 was as spotless and neat as Miss Whichello herself. It 
 was an id'.al house for a dainty old spinster such as she 
 was, and rested in the very shadow of the Bishop Gandolfs 
 cathedral like the nest of a bright-eyed wren. 
 
 ' Mab, my dear ! ' cried the wren herself, as she led the 
 gentlemen into the drawing-room, ' I have brought Captain 
 Pendle and Mr Cargrim to luncheon.' 
 
 Mab arose out of a deep chair and laid aside the book 
 she was reading. 'I saw you crossing the square, Captain 
 
 80
 
 Miss WJiichellos Luncheon- Party 
 
 Pendle,' she said, shaking his hand. ' Mr Cargrim, I am 
 glad to see you.' 
 
 ' Are you not glad to see me ? ' whispered George, in 
 low tones. 
 
 • Do you need me to tell you so ? ' was Mab's reply, with 
 a smile, and that smile answered his question. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear, such a heavenly sermon ! ' cried Miss 
 Whichello, fluttering about the room ; * it went to my very 
 heart.' 
 
 ' It could not have gone to a better place,' replied the 
 chaplain, in the gentle voice which George particularly de- 
 tested. * I am sorry to hear you have suffered from your 
 alarm last night, Miss Arden.' 
 
 ' My nerves received rather a shock, Mr Cargrim, and I 
 had such a bad headache that I decided to remain at home. 
 I must receive your sermon second-hand from my aunt.' 
 
 •Why not first-hand from me?' said Cargrim, insinu- 
 atingly, whereupon Captain George pulled his moustache 
 and looked savage. 
 
 •Oh, I won't tax your good nature so far,' rejoined Mab, 
 laughing. •What is it, aunty?' for the wren was still 
 fluttering and restless. 
 
 ' My dear, you must content yourself with Captain Pendle 
 till luncheon, for I want Mr Cargrim to come into the 
 garden and see my fig tree ; real figs grow on it, Mr 
 Cargrim,' said Miss Whichello, solemnly, • the very first figs 
 that have ever ripened in Beorminster.' 
 
 •I am glad it is not a barren fig tree,' said Cargrim, 
 introducing a scriptural allusion in his most clerical manner. 
 
 • Barren indeed ! it has five figs on it. Really, sitting 
 under its shade one would fancy one was in Palestine. Do 
 come, Mr Cargrim,' and Miss Whichello fluttered through 
 the door like an escaping bird. 
 
 • With pleasure ; the more so, as I know we shall not be 
 missed.' 
 
 • Damn ! ' muttered Captain Pendle, when the door 
 closed on Cargrim's smile and insinuating looks. 
 
 • Captain Pendle ! * exclaimed Miss Arden, becomingly 
 shocked. 
 
 ' Captain Pendle indeed ! ' said the young man, shpping 
 his arm round Mab ; • and why not George ? ' 
 
 F 8,
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 ' I thought Mr Cargrim might hear.' 
 
 ' He ought to ; hke the ass, his ea:: are long enough.' 
 
 •Still, he is anything but an ass — George.' 
 
 ' If he isn't an ass he's a beast,' rejoined I'endle, promptly, 
 'and it comes to much the same thing.' 
 
 ' Well, you need not swear at him.' 
 
 ' If I didn't swear I'd kick him, Mab ; and think of the 
 scandal to the Church. Cargrim's a sneaking, time serving 
 sycophant. I wonder my father can endure him ; I can't I' 
 
 'I don't like him myself,' confessed Mab, as they seated 
 themselves in the window-seat. 
 
 ' I should — think — not ! ' cried Captain George, in so 
 deliberate and disgusted a tone that Mab laughed. Whereat 
 he kissed her and was reproved, so that both betook them- 
 selves to argument as to the righteousness or unrighteous- 
 ness of kissing on a Sunday. 
 
 George Pendle was a tall, slim, and very good-looking 
 young man in every sense of the word. He was as fair as 
 Mab was dark, with bright blue eyes and a bronzed skin, 
 against which his smartly-pointed moustache appeared by 
 contrast almost white. With his upright figure, his alert 
 military air, and merry smile, he looked an extremely hand- 
 some and desirable lover; and so Mab thought, although 
 she reproved him with orthodox modesty for snatching a 
 kiss unasked. But if men had to request favours of this 
 sort, there would not be much kissing in the world. More- 
 over, stolen kisses, like stolen fruit, have a piquant flavour 
 of their own. 
 
 The quaint old drawing-room, with its low ceiling and 
 twilight atmosphere, was certainly an ideal place for love- 
 making. It was furnished with chairs, and tables, and 
 couches, which had done duty in the days of Miss "Which- 
 ello's grand !>arents; and if the carpet was old, so much 
 the better, for its once brilliant tints had faded into soft 
 hues more restful to the eye. In one corner stood the 
 grandfather of all pianos, with a front of dravn green silk 
 fluted to a central l)utton ; beside it a prim canterbury, 
 filled with primly-bound books of yellow-pai;ed music, con- 
 taininp:, 'The Battle of the Prague,' 'The Maiden's Prayer,* 
 ' Cherry Ripe,' and 'The Canary Bird's Quadrilles.' Such 
 tinkling melodies had been the delight of Miss VVhichello's 
 
 83
 
 Miss Whichello s Luncheon- Party 
 
 youth, and — as she had a fine finger for the piano (her 
 own observation) — she sometimes tinkled them now on 
 the jingling old piano when old friends came to see her. 
 Also there were Chippendale cupboards with glass doors, 
 filled with a most wonderful collection of old china — 
 older even than their owner; Chinese jars heaped up with 
 dried rose leaves spreading around a perfume of dead 
 summers ; bright silken screens from far Japan ; foot-stools 
 and fender-stools worked in worsted which tripped up the 
 unwary ; and a number of oil-paintings valuable rather for 
 age than beauty. None of your modern flimsy drawing- 
 rooms was Miss Whichello's, but a dear, delightful, cosy 
 room full of faded splendours and relics of the dead and 
 gone so dearly beloved. From the yellow silk fire-screen 
 swinging on a rosewood pole, to the drowsy old canary 
 chirping feebly in his brass cage at the window, all was old- 
 world and marvellously proper and genteel. Withal, a 
 quiet, perfumed room, delightful to make love in, to the 
 most beautiful woman in the world, as Captain George 
 Pen die knew very well. 
 
 'Though it really isn't proper for you to kiss me,' ob- 
 served Mab, folding her slender hands on her white gown. 
 *You know we are not engaged.' 
 
 *I know nothing of the sort, my dearest prude. You are 
 the only woman I ever intend to marry. Have you any 
 objections? If so, I should like to hear them.' 
 
 * I am two years older than you, George.' 
 
 * A man is as old as he looks, a woman as she feels. I 
 am quite convinced, Miss Arden, that you feel nineteen 
 years of age, so the disparity rests rather on my shoulders 
 than on yours.' 
 
 ' You don't look old,' laughed Mab, letting her hand lie 
 in that of her lover's. 
 
 •But I feel old — old enough to marry you, my dear. 
 What is your next objection ? ' 
 
 'Your father does not know that you love me.* 
 
 * My mother does ; Lucy does ; and with two women to 
 persuade him, my dear, kind old father will gladly consent 
 to the match.' 
 
 * I have no money.' 
 
 *My dearest, neither have I. Two negatives make an 
 
 83
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 affiimative, and that affirmative is to be uttered by you 
 when 1 ask if I may tell the bishop that you are willing to 
 became a soldier's wife.' 
 
 • Oh, George ! * cried Mab, anxiously, * it is a very serious 
 matter. You know how paiticuhr your father is about 
 birth and family. My parents are dead ; I never knew 
 tliCm ; for my father died before I was born, and my mother 
 followed him to the grave when I was a year old. If my 
 dear mother's sister had not taken charge of me and brought 
 me up, I should very likely have gone on the parish ; for — 
 as aunty says — my parents were paupers.' 
 
 • My lovely pauper, what is all this to me? Here is your 
 answer to all the nonsense you have been talking,' and 
 George, with the proverbial boldness of a soldier, laid a 
 fond kiss on the charming face so near to his own. 
 
 • Oh, George ! ' began the scandalised Mab, for the fifth 
 time at least, and was about to reprove her audacious 
 lover again, when Miss Whichello bustled into the room, 
 followed by the black shadow of the parson. George and 
 Mab sprang apart with alacrity, and each wondered, while 
 admiring the cathedral opposite, if Miss Whichello or Car- 
 grim had heard the sound of that stolen kiss. App:irently 
 the dear, unsuspecting old Jenny Wren had not, for she 
 hopped up to the pair in her bird-like fashion, and took 
 George's arm. 
 
 'Come, good people,' she said briskly, • luncheon is 
 ready; and so are your a[petites, I've no doubt. Mr 
 Cargrim, take in my niece.' 
 
 In five minutes the quartette were seated round a small 
 table in Miss Whichello's small dining-room. The apart- 
 ment was filled with oak furniture black with age and 
 wondrously carved ; the curtains and carpet and cushions 
 were of faded crimson rep, and as the gaily-striped sun- 
 blinds were down, the whole was enwrapped in a sober brown 
 atmosphere restful to the eye and cool to the skin. The 
 oval table was covered with a snow-white cloth, on which 
 sparkled silver and crystal round a Nankin porcelain bowl 
 of blue and white filled with deep red roses. The dinner- 
 plates were of thin china, painted with sprawling dragons 
 in yellow and green ; the food, in spite of Mrs Pansey's report, 
 was plentiful and dainty, and the wines came Irom the 
 
 84
 
 Miss Whichelld s Luncheon- Party 
 
 stock laid down by the father of the hostess in the days 
 when dignitaries of the Church knew what good wine was. 
 It is true that a neat pair of brass scales was placed beside 
 Miss Whichello, but she used them to weigh out such 
 portions of food as she judged to be needful for herself, 
 and did not mar her hospitality by interfering with the 
 appetites of her guests. The repast was tempting, the 
 company congenial, and the two young men enjoyed them- 
 selves greatly. T.Iiss Whichello was an entertainer worth 
 knowing, if only for her cook. 
 
 'Mab, my dear,' cried the lively old lady, *I am ashamed 
 of your appetita Don't you feel better for your morning's 
 rest?' 
 
 •Much better, thank you, aunty, but it is too hot to eat.' 
 'Try some salad, my love; it is cool and green, and 
 excellent for the blood. If I had my way, people should 
 eat more green stuff than they do.' 
 
 • Like so many Nebachadnczzars,' suggested Cargrim, 
 always scriptural. 
 
 'Well, some kinds of grass are edible, you know, Mr 
 Cargrim ; although we need not go on all fours to eat them 
 as he did.' 
 
 ' So many people would need to revert to their natural 
 characters of animals if that custom came in,' said George, 
 smihng. 
 
 • A certain great poet remarked that everyone had a por- 
 tion of the nature of some animal,' observed Cargrim, 
 * especially women.* 
 
 ' Then Mrs Pansey is a magpie,' cried Mab, with an arch 
 \ook at her aunt. 
 
 • She is a magpie, and a fox, and a laughing hyaena, my 
 dear.' 
 
 • Oh, a'.mty, what a trinity ! ' 
 
 'I suppose, Cargrim, all you black-coated parsons are 
 rooks,' said George. 
 
 • No doubt, captain ; and you soldiers are lions.' 
 ' Aunty is a Jenny Wren ! ' 
 
 • And Mab is a white peacock,' said Miss Whichello, with 
 a nod. 
 
 • Captain Pendle, protect me,' laughed Miss Ardea. * I 
 decline to be called a peacock.* 
 
 «5
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 ' You are a golden bird of paradise, Miss Arden.* 
 
 'Ah, that IS a pretty compliment, Captain Pendle. 
 Thank you ! ' 
 
 While George laughed, Cargrim, rather tired of these 
 zoological comparisons, strove to change the subject by an 
 allusion to the adventure of the previous night. 'The man 
 who attacked you was certainly a wolf,* he said decisively. 
 
 •Who was the man?' asked Miss Whichello, carefully 
 weighing herself some cheese. 
 
 ' Some tramp who had been in the wars,' replied George, 
 carelessly; *a discharged soldier, I daresay. At least, he 
 had a long red scar on his villainous-looking face. I saw 
 it in the moonlight, marking him as with the brand of Cain.' 
 
 'A scar!' repeated Miss Whichello, in so altered a tone 
 that Cargrim stared at her, and hastened to explain further, 
 so as to learn, if possible, the meaning of her strange 
 look. 
 
 * A scar on the right cheek,' he said slowly, ' from the ear 
 to the mouth.' 
 
 • What kind of a looking man is he ? ' asked the old lady, 
 pushing away her plate with a nervous gesture. 
 
 ' Something like a gipsy — lean, tall and swarthy, with jet- 
 black eyes and an evil expre-jsion. He talks like an educated 
 person.' 
 
 ' You seem to know all about him, Cargrim,' said Captaun 
 Pendle, in some surprise, while Miss Whichello, her rosy 
 face pale and scared, sat silently staring at the tablecloth. 
 
 ' I have several times been to an hotel called The Derby 
 Winner,' explained the chaplain, * to see a sick wt.man ; 
 and there I came across this scamp several times. He 
 stays there, I believe ! ' 
 
 ' What is his name?' asked Miss Whichello, hoarsely. 
 
 'Jentham, I have been informed.' 
 
 ' Jentham ! I don't know the name.' 
 
 ' I don't suppose you know the man either, aunty?* 
 
 'No, my love,' replied Miss Whichello, in a low voice. 
 ' I don't suppose I know the man either. Is he still at 
 The Derby Winner, Mr Cargrim ? ' 
 
 *I believe so; he portions his time between that hotel 
 and a gipsy camp on Southberry Common.* 
 
 ' What is he doing here ? ' 
 
 86
 
 Aliss Whichellds Luncheon-Party 
 
 * Really, my dear lady, I do not know.' 
 
 ' Aunty, one would think you knew the man,' said Mab, 
 amazed at her aunt's emotion. 
 
 * No, Mab, I do not,' said Miss Whichello, vehemently ; 
 more so than the remark warranted. ' But if he attacks 
 people on the high road he should certainly be shut up. Well, 
 good people,' she added, with an attempt at her former 
 lively manner, 'if you are finished we will return to the 
 drawing-room.' 
 
 All attempts to restore the earlier harmony of the visit 
 failed, for the conversation languished and Miss Whichello 
 was silent and distraught. The young men shortly took 
 their leave, and the old lady seemed glad to be rid of 
 them. Outside, George and Cargrim separated, as neither 
 was anxious for the other's company. As the chaplain 
 walked to the palace he reflected on the strange conduct 
 of Miss Whichello. 
 
 * She knows something about Jentham,' he thought. ' I 
 wonder if she has a secret also.' 
 
 a?
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 BELL MOSK PAYS A VISIT 
 
 Although the palace was so near Beorminster, and the 
 sphere of Gabriel's labours lay in ihe vicinity of the cathe- 
 dral, Bishop Pendle did not judge it wise that his youngest 
 son should dwell beneath the paternal roof. To teach him 
 independence, to strengthen his will and character, and 
 because he considered that a clergyman should, to a certain 
 extent, share the lot of those amongst whom he laboured, 
 the bishop arranged that Gabriel should inhabit lodgings 
 in the old town, not far from The Derby Winner. It was 
 by reason of this contiguity that Gabriel became acquainted 
 with the handsome barmaid of the hotel, and as he was a 
 more weak-natured man than his father dreamed of, it soon 
 came about that he fell in love with the girl. Matters 
 between them had gone much further than even Cargrim 
 with all his suspicions guessed, for in the skilful hands of 
 Miss Mosk the curate was as clay, and for some time 
 he had been engaged to his charmer. No one knew this, 
 not even Mrs Mosk, for the fair Bell was quite capable of 
 keeping a secret ; but Gabriel was firmly bound to her by 
 honour, and Bell possessed a ring, which she kept in the 
 drawer of her looking-glass and wore in secret, as symbolic 
 of an engagement she did not dare to reveal. 
 
 On Sunday evening she arrayed herself in her best gar- 
 ments, and putting on this ring, told her mother that she 
 was going to church. At first Mrs Mosk feebly objected, 
 as her husband was away in Southberry and would not be 
 ba> k all night ; but as Bell declared that she wanted some 
 amusement after working hard at pulling beer all the week, 
 Mrs Mosk gave way. She did not approve of Bell's men 
 tion of evening service as amusement, hut she did approve 
 of her going to church, so when the young lady had ex- 
 
 9i
 
 Bell Mosk Pays a Visit 
 
 hibked herself to the invalid in all her finery, she went 
 away in the greatest good-humnar. As the evening was 
 hot, she had put on a dress of pale blue muslin adorned 
 with white ribbons, a straw hat with many flowers and 
 feathers, and to finish off her costume, her gloves and 
 shoes and sunshade were white. As these cool colours rather 
 toned down the extreme red of her healthy complexion, 
 she really looked very well ; and when Gabriel saw her 
 seated in a pew near the pulpit, behaving as demurely 
 as a cat that is after cream, he could not but think 
 how pretty and pious she was. It was probably the first 
 time that piety had ever been associated with Bell's char- 
 acter, although she was not a bad girl on the whole ; but 
 that Gabriel should gift her with such a quality showed how 
 green and innocent he was as regards the sex. 
 
 The church in which he preached was an ancient build- 
 ing at the foot of the hill, crowned by the cathedral. It 
 was built of rough, grey stone, in the Norman style of 
 architecture, and very little had been done to adorn it 
 either within or without, as the worshippers were few and 
 poor, and Low Church in their tendencies. Those who 
 liked pomp and colour and ritual could find all three in the 
 minster, so there was no necessity to hold elaborate ser- 
 vices in this grey, cold, little chapel. In her heart Bell 
 preferred the cathedral with its music and choir, its many 
 celebrants and fashionable congregation, but out of diplo- 
 macy she came to sit under Gabriel and follow him as her 
 spiritual guide. Nevertheless, she thought less of him in 
 this capacity, than as a future husband likely to raise her to 
 a position worthy of her beauty and merits, of both of which 
 she entertained a most excellent opinion. 
 
 As usual, the pews were half empty, but Gabriel, being a 
 devout parson, performed the service with much earnest- 
 ness. He read the lessons, lent his voice to the assistance 
 of the meagre choir, and preached a short but sensible 
 discourse which pleased everyone. Bell did not hear much 
 of it, for her mind was busy with hopes that Gabriel would 
 shortly induce his father to receive her as a daughter-in-law. 
 It is true that she saw difficulties in the way, but, to a clever 
 woman like herself, she did not think them unconquerable. 
 Having gone so far as to engage herself to the young man. 
 
 7 89
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 she was determined to go to the whole length and benefit 
 as much as possible for her sacrifice — as she tliought it — of 
 accepting the somewhat trying position of a curate's wife. 
 With her bold good looks and aggressive love of dress and 
 amusement, Bell was hardly the type likely to do credit lo 
 a parsonage. But any doubts on that score never entered 
 her vain mind. 
 
 When the service was over, and the sparse congregation 
 had dwindled away, she went round to the vestry and asked 
 Jarper, the cross old verger, if she could see Mr Pendle. 
 Jarper, who took a paternal ijiterest in the curate, and did 
 not like Miss Mosk over much, since she stinted him of 
 his full measure of beer when he patronised her father's 
 hotel, replied in surly tones that Mr Pendle was tired and 
 would see no one. 
 
 'But I must see him,' persisted Bell, who was as obstinate 
 as a mule. ' My mother is very ill.' 
 
 ' Then why don't ye stay t'ome and look arter her ? ' 
 
 'She sent me out to ask Mr Pendle to see her, and I want 
 none of your insolence, Jacob Jarper.' 
 
 ' Don't 'ee be bold, Miss Mosk. I hev bin verger here 
 these sbcty year, I hev, an' I don't want to be told ray duty 
 by sich as you.' 
 
 'Such as me indeed!' cried Bell, with a flash of the 
 paternal temper. * If I wasn't a lady I'd give you a piece of 
 my mind.' 
 
 ' He ! he ! ' chuckled Jarper, ' 'pears as yer all ladies by 
 your own way of showin'. Not that y'ain't 'andsome — far 
 be it from me to say as you ain't — but Muster Pendle — 
 well, that's a different matter.' 
 
 At this moment Gabriel put an end to what threatened to 
 develop into a quarrel by appearing at the vestry door. 
 On learning that Mrs Mosk wished to see him, he readily 
 consented to accompany Bell, but as he had some business 
 to attend to at the church before he went, he asked Bell to 
 wait for a few minutes. 
 
 'I'll be some little time, Jarper,' said he kindly to the 
 sour old verger, ' so if you give me the keys I'll lock up and 
 you can go home to your supper.' 
 
 'I am hungry. Muster Pendle,' confessed Jarper, 'an' it 
 ain't at my time of hfe as old folk shud starve. I've locked 
 
 90
 
 Bell Mosk Pays a Visit 
 
 up the hull church 'ceptin' the vestry door, an' 'eres th' key 
 oft. Be careful with the light an' put it out, Muster 
 Pendle, for if you burns down the church, what good is fine 
 sermons, I'd like to know ? ' 
 
 'It will be all right, Jarper. I'll give you the key to- 
 morrow. Good-night ! ' 
 
 ' Good-night, Jarper ! ' chimed in Bell, in her most stately 
 manner. 
 
 * Thankee, Muster Pendle, good-night, but I don't want 
 no beer fro' you this evening, Miss Bell Mosk,' growled the 
 old man, and chuckling over this exhibition of wit he 
 hobbled away to his supper. 
 
 ♦These common people are most insolent,' said Bell, with 
 an affectation of fine ladyism. ' Let us go into the vestry, 
 Gabriel, I wish to speak to you. Oh, ) ou needn't look so 
 scared ; there's nobody about, now that old Dot-and-carry- 
 one has gone ' — this last in allusion to Jarper's lameness. 
 
 'Bell, please, don't use such language,' remonstrated 
 Gabriel, as he conducted her into the vestry; 'someone 
 might hear.' 
 
 •I don't care if someone does,' retorted Miss Mosk, 
 taking a chair near the flaring, spluttering gas jet, ' but I tell 
 you there is no one about. I wouldn't be here alone with 
 you if there were. I'm as careful of my own reputation as 
 I am of yours, I can tell you.' 
 
 ' Is your mother ill again ? ' asked Gabriel, arranging some 
 sheets of paper on the table and changmg the conversation. 
 
 *0h, she's no better and no worse. But you'd better 
 come and see her, so that folks won't be talking of my 
 having spoken to you. A cat can't look at a jug in this 
 town without they think she's after the cream.' 
 
 ♦You wish to speak with me. Bell?' 
 
 ♦Yes, I do ; come and sit 'longside of me.' 
 
 Gabriel, being very much in love, obeyed with the greatest 
 wiUingness, and when he sat down under the gas jet would 
 have taken Bell in his arms, but that she evaded his clasp. 
 ♦ There's no time for anything of that sort, my dear,' said 
 she sharply; ♦we've got to talk business, you and I, we 
 have.' 
 
 ' Business ! About our engagement ? * 
 
 ♦You've hit it, Gabriel; that's the business I wish to 
 
 7 91
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 understand. How long u this sort of thing going 
 on?' 
 
 •What sort of thing?' 
 
 •Now, don't pretend to misunderstand me,* cried Bell, 
 with acerbity, 'or you and I sliall fall out of the cart. 
 What sort of thing indeed ! Why, my engagement to you 
 being kept secret ; your pretending to visit mother when 
 it's me you want ; my being obliged to hide the ring 
 you gave me from father's eyes; that's the sort of thmg, 
 Mr Gabriel Pendle.' 
 
 • I know it is a painful position, dearest, but — ' 
 
 ' Painful position ! ' echoed the girl, contemptuously. * Oh, 
 I don't care two straws about the painful position. It's the 
 danger I'm thinking about.' 
 
 ' Danger ! What do you mean ? Danger from whom ? ' 
 
 • From Mrs Pansey ; from Mr Cargrim. She guesses a lot 
 and he knows more than is good for either you or I. I 
 don't want to lose my character.' 
 
 ' Bell ! no one dare say a word against your character.' 
 
 ' I should think not,' retorted Miss Mosk, firing up. ' I'd 
 have the law on them if they did. I can look after myself, 
 I hope, and there's no man I know likely to get the better 
 of me. I don't say Fm an aristocrat, Gabriel, but I'm an 
 honest girl, and as good a lady as any of them. I'll make 
 you a first-class wife in spite of my bringing up.* 
 
 Gabriel kissed her. 'My darling Bell, you are the 
 sweetest and cleverest woman in the world. You know 
 how I adore you.' 
 
 Bell knew very well, for she was sharp enough to dis- 
 tinguish between genuine and spurious affection. Strange 
 as it may appear, the refined and educated young clergyman 
 was deeply in love with this handsome, bold woman of the 
 people. S(ime lovers of flowers prefer full blown-roses, ripe 
 and red, to the most exquisite buds. Gabriel's tastes were 
 the same, and he admired the florid beauty of Bell with all 
 the ardour of his young and impetuous heart. He was blind 
 to her likin.r for inconi^ruous colours in dress : he was deaf 
 to her bold expressions and defects in grammar. What 
 lured him was her ripe, rich, exuberant beauty ; what 
 charmed him was the flash of her white teeth and the 
 brilliancy of her eyes when she smiled; what dominated 
 
 9a
 
 Bell Mosk Pays a Visit 
 
 him was her strong will and practical way of looking on 
 worldly affairs. Opposite natures are often attracted to one 
 another by the very fact that they are so undeniably un- 
 like, and the very characteristics in Bell which pleased Gabriel 
 were those which he lacked himself. 
 
 Undoubtedly he loved her, but, it may be asked, did she 
 love him? and that is the more difficult question to answer. 
 Candidly speaking, Bell had an affection for Gabriel. She 
 liked his good looks, his refined voice, his very weakness of 
 character was not unpleasing to her. But she did not love 
 him sufficiently to marry him for himself alone. What she 
 wished to marry was the gentleman, the clergyman, the son 
 of the Bishop of Beorminster, and unless Gabriel could give 
 her all the pleasures and delights attendant on his worldly 
 position, she was not prepared to become Mrs Gabriel 
 Pendle. It was to make this clear to him, to clinch the 
 bargain, to show that she was willing to barter her milk- 
 maid beauty and strong common sense for his position and 
 possible money, that she had come to see him. Not being 
 bemused with love, Bell Mosk was thoroughly practical, and 
 so spoke very much to the point. Never was there so 
 prosaic an interview, 
 
 ' Well, it just coines to this,' she said determinedly, ' I'm 
 not going to be kept in the background serving out beer 
 any longer. If I am worth marrying I am worth ac- 
 knowledging, and that's just what you've got to do, 
 Gabriel.' 
 
 ' But my father ! ' faltered Gabriel, nervously, for he saw 
 in a flash the difficulties of his position. 
 
 ' What about your father? He can't eat me, can he ? ' 
 
 ' He can cut me off with a shilling, my dear. And that's 
 just what he will do if he knows I'm engaged to you. Surely, 
 Bell, with your strong common sense, you can see that for 
 yourself ! ' 
 
 ' Of course I see it,' retorted Bell, sharply, for the speech 
 was not flattering to her vanity j 'all the same, something 
 must be done.' 
 
 'We must wait.' 
 
 ' I'm sick of waiting.' 
 
 Gabriel rose to his feet and began to pace to and fro. 
 *You cannot desire our marriage more than I do,' he said 
 
 93
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 fondly. • I wish to make you my wife in as public a manner 
 as possible. But you know I have only a small income as 
 a curate, and you would not wish us to begin life on a 
 pittance.' 
 
 • I sliould think not. I've had enough of cutting and 
 contriving. But how do you intend to get enough for us 
 to marry on ? ' 
 
 ' My father has promised me the rectorship of Heathcroft. 
 The present incumbent is old and cannot possibly live long.' 
 
 ' I believe he'll live on just to spite us,' grumbled BelL 
 ' How much is the living worth ? ' 
 
 ' Six hundred a year ; there is also the rectory, you know.' 
 
 'Well, I daresay we can manage on that, Gabriel. Per- 
 haps, after all, it will be best to wait, but I don't like it.' 
 
 • Neither do I, my dear. If you like, 111 tell my father 
 and marry you to-morrow,' 
 
 •Then you would lose Heathcroft.' 
 
 •It's extremely probable I would,' replied Gabriel, dryly. 
 
 ' In that case we'll wait,' said Bell, springing up briskly. 
 ' I don't suppose that old man is immortal, and I'm willing 
 to stick to you for another twelve months.' 
 
 ' Bell ! I thought you loved me sufficiently to accept any 
 position.' 
 
 ' I do love you, Gabriel, but I'm not a fool, and I'm not 
 cut out for a poor man's wife. I've had quite enough of 
 being a poor man's daughter. When poverty comes in at 
 the door, love flies out of the window. That's as true ai 
 true. No ! we'll wait till the old rector dies, but if he lasts 
 longer than twelve months, I'll lose heart and have to look 
 about me for another husband in my own rank of life.' 
 
 ' Bell, ' said Gabriel, in a pained voice, ' you are cruel ! ' 
 
 ' Rubbish ! ' replied the practical barmaid, ' I'm sensible. 
 Now, come and see mother/
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 A STORMY NIGHT 
 
 Having given Gabriel plainly to understand the terms upon 
 which she was prepared to continue their secret engage- 
 ment, Bell kissed him once or twice to soften the rigour of 
 her speech. Then she intimated that she would return 
 alone to The Derby Winner, and that Gabriel could follow 
 after a reasonable interval of time had elapsed. She also 
 explained the meaning of these precautions. 
 
 ' If the old cats of the town saw you and I walking 
 along on Sunday night,' said she, at the door of the vestry, 
 ' they would screech out that we were keeping company, 
 and in any case would couple our names together. If they 
 did, father would make it so warm for me that I should 
 have to tell the truth, and then — well,' added Miss Mosk, 
 with a brilliant smile, 'you know his temper and my 
 temper.' 
 
 * You are sure it is quite safe for you to go home alone ? ' 
 said Gabriel, who was infected with the upper-class pre- 
 judice that every unmarried girl should be provided with a 
 chaperon. 
 
 ♦Safe! ' echoed the dauntless Bell, in a tone of supreme 
 contempt. ' My dear Gabriel, I'd be safe in the middle of 
 Timbuctoo ! ' 
 
 * There are many of these rough harvest labourers about 
 here, you know.' 
 
 * I'll slap their faces if they speak to me. I'd like to see 
 them try it, that's all. And now, good-bye for the present, 
 dear. I must get home as soon as possible, for there is a 
 storm coming, and I don't want to get my Sunday-go-to- 
 meeting clothes spoilt.' 
 
 When she slipped ofif like a white ghost into the gathering
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 darkness, C.abriel remained at the door and looked up to 
 the fast clouding sky. It was now about nine o'clock, 
 and the night was hot and thundery, and so airless that it 
 was ditncult to breathe. Overhead, masses of black cloud, 
 heavy with storm, hung low down over the town, and the 
 earth, panting and worn out with the heat, waited thirstily 
 for the cool drench of the rain. Evidently a witch-tempest 
 was brewing in the halls of heaven on no small scale, and 
 Gabriel wished that it would break at once to relieve the 
 strain from which nature seemed to suffer. Whether it was 
 the fatigue of his day's labour, or the late inter\'icw with 
 Bell which depressed him, he did not know, but he felt 
 singularly pessimistic and his mind was filled with pre- 
 monitions of ill. Like most people with highly-strung 
 natures, Gabriel was easily affected by atmospheric in- 
 fluence, so no doubt the palpable electricity in the dry, hot 
 air depressed his nerves but whether this was the cause of 
 his restlessness he could not say. He felt anxious and 
 melancholy, and was worried by a sense of coming ill, though 
 what such ill might be, or from what quarter it would 
 come, he knew not. While thus gloomily contemplative, 
 the great bell of the cathedral boomed out nine deep 
 strokes, and the hollow sound breaking in on his reflections 
 made him wake up, shake off his dismal thoughts, and sent 
 him inside to attend to his work. Yet the memory of those 
 forebodings occurred to him often in after days, and read 
 by the light of after events, he was unable to decide 
 whether the expectation of evil, so strongly forced upon 
 him then, wns due to natural or supernatural causes. At 
 present he ascribed his anxieties to the disturbed state of 
 the' atmosphere. 
 
 In the meantime. Bell, who was a healthy young woman, 
 with no nerves to be affected by the atmosphere, walked 
 swiftly homeward along the airless streets. There were 
 few people on their feet, for the night was too close for 
 exercise, and the majr)rity of the infiat>itants sat in chairs 
 before their doors, weary and out of temper. Nature and 
 her creatures were waiting for the windows of the firma- 
 ment to be opened, for the air to be cleansed, for life to be 
 renewed. Bel! met none of the harvesters and was nor 
 molested in any way. Had she been spoken to, or hustled. 
 
 96
 
 A Stor7ny Night 
 
 there is no douht she would have been as good as her word 
 and have slapped her assailant's face. Fortunately, there 
 was no need for her to proceed to such extremes. 
 
 At the door of The Derby Winner she was rather 
 surprised to find Miss Vv'iiichello wailing for her. The 
 little old lady wore her poke bonnet and old-fashioned 
 black silk cloak, and appeared anxious and nervous, and 
 altogether unlike her usual cheery self. Bell liked Miss 
 Whichello as much as she disliked Mrs Pansey, therefore 
 she greeted her with unfeigned pleasure, although she could 
 not help expressing her surprise that the visitor was in that 
 quarter of the town so late at night. Miss Whichello 
 produced a parcel from under her voluminous cloak and 
 offered it as an explanation of her presence. 
 
 'This is a pot of calfs-foot jelly for your mother, Miss 
 Mosk,' she said. ' Mr Cargrim came to luncheon at my 
 house to-day, and he told me how ill your mother is. I 
 was informed that she was asleep, so, not wishing to disturb 
 her, I waited until you returned.' 
 
 ' It is very kind of you to take so much trouble, Miss 
 Whichello,' said Bell, gratefully receiving the jelly. ' I 
 hope you have not been waiting long.' 
 
 ' Only ten minutes ; your servant told me that you would 
 return soon.* 
 
 * I have been to church and stopped after service to talk 
 to some friends, Miss Whichello. Won't you come in for 
 a few minutes ? I'll see if my mother is awake.* 
 
 ' Thank you, I'll come in for a time, but do not waken 
 your mother on my account. Sleep is always the best 
 medicine in case of sickness. I hope Mrs Mosk is careful 
 of her diet.* 
 
 • Well, she eats very little.* 
 
 'That is wise ; very little food, but that little nourishing 
 and frequently administered. Give her a cup of beef-tea 
 two or three times in the night, my dear, and you'll find it 
 will sustain the body wonderfully.' 
 
 ' I'll remember to do so,' replied Bell, gravely, although 
 she had no intention of remaining awake all night to heat 
 beef-tea and dose her mother with it, especially as the 
 invalid was not ill enough for such extreme measures. 
 But she was so touched by Miss Whichello's kindness that 
 
 G g?
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 she would not have offended her, by scouting her pre- 
 scription, for the world. 
 
 By this time Miss VVhichello was seated in a little private 
 parlour off the bar, illuminated by an oil-lamp. This Bell 
 turned up, and then she noticed that her visitor looked 
 anxious and ill at ease. Once or twice she attempted to 
 speak, but closed her mouth again. Bell wondered if Mrs 
 Pansey had been at work coupling her name with that of 
 Gabriel's, and whether Miss Whicheilo had come down 
 to relieve her conscience by warning her against seeing too 
 much of the curate. But, as she knew very well. Miss 
 Whicheilo was too nervous and too much of a lady to give 
 her opinion on questions unasked, and therefore, banishing 
 the defiant look which had begun to harden her face, she 
 waited to hear if it was any other reason than bestowing 
 tlie jelly which had brought the little old spinster to so 
 disreputable a quarter of the town at so untoward an hour. 
 Finally Miss Whichello's real reason for calling came out 
 by degrees, and in true feminine fashion she approached 
 the main point by side issues. 
 
 * Is your father in. Miss Mosk ? ' she asked, clasping and 
 unclasping her hands feverishly on her lap. 
 
 'No, Miss Whicheilo. He rode over this afternoon to 
 Southberry on business, and we do not expect him back 
 till to-morrow morning. Poor father I ' sighed Bell, * he went 
 away in anything but good spirits, for he is terribly worried 
 over money matters.' 
 
 ' The payment of his rent is troubling him, perhaps ! ' 
 
 'Yes, Miss Whicheilo. This is an expensive hotel, 
 and the rent is high. We fmd it so difficult to make 
 the place pay that we are behindhand with the rent. 
 Sir Harry Brace, our landlord, has been very kind in 
 waiting, but we can't expect him to stand out of his 
 money much longer. I'm afraid in the end we'll have 
 to give up The Derby Winner. But it is no good my 
 worrying you about our troubles,' concluded Bell, in a 
 more vivacious tone ; ' what do you wish to see father 
 about. Miss Whicheilo? Anything that I can do?' 
 
 ' Well, my dear, it's this way,' said the old lady, nervously, 
 ' You know that I have a much larger income than I need, 
 and that I am always ready to help the deserving.' 
 
 98
 
 A Stormy Night 
 
 * I know, Miss Whichello ! You give help where Mrs 
 Pansy only gives advice. I know who is most thought of ; 
 that I do ! ' 
 
 * Mrs Pansy has her own methods of dispensing charity, 
 Miss Mosk.' 
 
 'Tracts and interference,' muttered Bell, under her 
 breath ; ' meddlesome old tabby that she is.' 
 
 * Mr Cargrim was at my house to-day, as I told you,' 
 pursued Miss Whichello, not having heard this remark, 
 'and he mentioned a man called Jentham as a poor 
 creature in need of help.' 
 
 * He's a poor creature, I daresay,' said Miss Mosk, 
 tossing her head, 'for he owes father more money than 
 he can pay, although he does say that he'll settle his bill 
 next week. But he s a bad lot.' 
 
 ' A bad lot, Miss Mosk ? ' 
 
 * As bad as they make 'em, Miss 'Whichello. Don't you 
 give him a penny, for he'll only waste it on drink.' 
 
 * Does he drink to excess ? ' 
 
 ' I should think so ; he finishes a bottle of brandy 
 every day.' 
 
 *0h. Miss Mosk, how very dreadful!' cried IMiss 
 Whichello, quite in the style of Daisy Norsham. * Why is 
 he staying in Beorminster ? ' 
 
 * I don't know, but it's for no good, you may be sure. 
 If he isn't here he's hob-nobbing with those gipsy 
 wretches who have a camp on Southberry Common. 
 Mother Jael and he are always together,' 
 
 'Can you describe him?' asked Miss Whichello, 
 with some hesitation. 
 
 'He is tall and thin, with a dark, wicked-looking 
 face, and he has a nasty scar on the right cheek, slant- 
 ing across it to the mouth. But the funny thing is, 
 that with all his rags and drunkenness there is some- 
 thing of the gentleman about him. I don't like him, 
 yet I can't dislike him. He's attractive in his own way 
 from his very wickedness. But I'm sure,' finished Bell, 
 with a vigorous nod, 'that he's a black-hearted Nero. 
 He has done a deal of damage in his time both to men 
 and women ; I'm as sure of that as I sit here, though I 
 can give no reason for saying so.* 
 
 99
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 Miss Whichello listened to this graphic description in 
 silence. She was very pale, and held her handkerchief 
 to her mouth with one trembling hand; the other beat 
 nervously on her lap, and it was only by a strong effort 
 of will that she managed to conquer her emotion. 
 
 ' I daresay you are right,' she observed, in a tremulous 
 voice. • Indeed, I might have expected as much, for 
 last night he frig'ntened my niece and her maid on the 
 high road. I thought it would be bust to give him 
 money and send him away, so that so evil a man should 
 not remain here to be a source of dani^er to the town.' 
 
 'Give him money!* cried Miss Mosk. 'I'd give him 
 the cat-o-nine tails if I had my way. Don't you trouble 
 about him, Miss Whichello ; he's no good.' 
 
 ' But if I could see him I might soften his heart,' 
 pleaded the old lady, very much in earnest. 
 
 'Soften a brick-bat,' rejoined Bell; 'you'd have just 
 as much success with one as with the other. Besides, 
 you can't see him, Miss Whichello— at all events, not 
 to-night — for he's on the common with his nasty gipsies, 
 and — won't be back till the morning. I wish he'd stay 
 away altogether, I do.' 
 
 'in that case I shall not trouble about him,' said the 
 old lady, rising; 'on some future occasion I may see 
 him. But you need not say I was asking for him, 
 Miss Mosk.' 
 
 ' I won't say a word ; he'd only come worrying round 
 your Iiouse if he thought you wanted to give him 
 money.' 
 
 ' Oh, he mustn't do that ; he mustn't come there I ' cried 
 Miss Whichello, alavmed. 
 
 ' He won't, for I'll hold my tongue. You can rest 
 easy on that score, Miss Whichello. But my advice is, 
 don't pick him up out of the mire; he'll only fall back 
 into it again.' 
 
 ' You have a bad opinion of him. Miss Mosk.' 
 
 'The very worst,' replied Bell, conducting her guest 
 to the door ; ' he's a gaol-bird and a scallywag, and all that's 
 bad. Well, good-night, Miss Whicl.ello, and thank you 
 for the jelly.' 
 
 'There is no need for thanks, Miss Mosk. Good- 
 
 loo
 
 A Stormy Night 
 
 night ! ' and the old lady tripped up the street, keeping 
 in the middle of it, lest any robber should spring out oa 
 her from the shadow of the houses. 
 
 The storm was coming nearer, and soon would break 
 directly over the town, for flashes of lightning were 
 weaving fiery patterns against the black clouds, and 
 every now and then a hoarse growl of thunder went 
 grinding across the sky. Anxious to escape the coming 
 downfall, Miss Whichello climbed up the street towards 
 the cathedral as quickly and steadily as her old legs 
 could carry her. Just as she emerged into the close, a 
 shadow blacker than the blackness of the night glided 
 past her. A zig-zag of lightning cut the sky at the 
 moment and revealed the face of Mr Cargrim, who in his 
 turn recognised the old lady in the bluish glare. 
 
 *Miss Whichello!' he exclaimed; 'what a surprise!' 
 •You may well say that, Mr Cargrim,' replied the old 
 lady, with a nervous movement, for the sound of his 
 voice and the sudden view of his face startled her not a 
 little. ' It is not often I am out at this hour, but I have 
 been taking some jelly to Mrs Mosk.' 
 
 * You are a good Samaritan, Miss Whichello. I hope 
 she is better ? * 
 
 'I think so, but I did not see her, as she is asleep. 
 I spoke with her daughter, however.' 
 
 *I trust you were not molested by that ruffian Jen- 
 tham, who stays at The Derby Winner,' said Cargrim, 
 with hypocritical anxiety. 
 
 * Oh, no ! he is away on Southberry Heath with his 
 gipsy friends, I believe — at least, Miss Mosk told me so. 
 Good-night, Mr Cargrim,' she added, evidently not anxious 
 to prolong the conversation. ' I wish to get under shelter 
 before the storm breaks.' 
 
 * Let me see you to your door at least' 
 
 Miss Whichello rejected this officious ofTer by dryly 
 remarking that she had accomplished the worst part of her 
 journey, and bidding the chaplain 'Good-night,' tripped across 
 the square to her own Jenny Wren nest. Cargrim looked 
 after her with a doubtful look as she vanished into the 
 darkness, then, turning on his heel, walked swiftly down the 
 street towards Eastgate. He bad as much aversion to 
 
 lOI
 
 The Bishop s Secret 
 
 getting wet as a cat, and put his best foot foremost so as to 
 reach the palace before the rain came on. Besides, it was ten 
 o'clock — a late hour for a respectable parson to be abroad. 
 
 'She's been trying to see Jentham,' thought Mr Cargrim, 
 recalling Miss W'hichello's nervous hesitation. * I wonder 
 what she kiiows about him. The man is a mystery, and is 
 in Beorminster for no good purpose. Miss Whichello and 
 the bishop both know that purpose, I'm certain. Well ! 
 well ! two secrets are better than one, and if I gain a 
 knowledge of them both, I may inhabit Heathcroft Rectory 
 sooner than I expect.' 
 
 Cargrim's meditations were here cut short by the fall- 
 ing of heavy drops of rain, and he put ail his mind into 
 his muscles to travel the faster. Indeed, he almost ran 
 through the new town, and was soon out on the country 
 road which conducted to the palace. But, in spite of all 
 his speed, the rain caught him, for with an incessant play 
 of lightning and a constant roll of thunder came a regular 
 tropical downpour. The rain descended in one solid mass, 
 flooding the ground and beating flat the crops. Cargrim 
 was drenched to the skin, and by the time he slipped 
 through the small iron gate near the big ones, into 
 the episcopalian park, he looked like a lean water-rat. 
 Being in a bad temper from his shower bath, he was 
 almost as venomous as that animal, and raced up the 
 avenue in his sodden clothing, shivering and dripping. 
 Suddenly he heard the quick trot of a horse, and guessing 
 that the bishop was returning, he stood aside in the shadow 
 of the trees to let his superior pass by. Like the chaplain, 
 Dr Pendle was streaming with water, and his horse's hoofs 
 plashed up the sodden ground as though he were crossing 
 a marsh. By the livid glare of the lightnings which shot 
 streaks of blue fire through the descending deluge, Cargrim 
 caught a glimpse of the bishop's face. It was deathly 
 pale, and bore a look of mingled horror and terror. 
 Another moment and he had passed into the blackness 
 of the drenching rain, leaving Cargrim marvelling at 
 the torture of the mind which could produce so terrible 
 an expression. 
 
 'It is the face of Cain,' whispered Cargrim to himself. 
 ' "What can his secret be ? ' 
 
 loa
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 * RUMOUR FULL OF TONGUES* 
 
 It is almost impossible to learn the genesis of a rumour. 
 It may be started by a look, a word, a gesture, and it spreads 
 with such marvellous rapidity that by the time public 
 curiosity is fully aroused, no one can trace the original 
 source, so many and v/inding are the channels through 
 which it has flowed. Yet there are exceptions to this 
 general rule, especially in criminal cases, where, for the 
 safely of the public, it is absolutely necessary to get to the 
 bottom of the matter. Therefore, the rumour which per- 
 vaded Beorminster on Monday morning was soon traced 
 by the police to a carter from Soutliberry. This man 
 mentioned to a friend that, when crossing the Heath 
 during the early morning, he had come across the body 
 of a man. The rumour — weak in its genesis — stated first 
 that a man had been hurt, later on that he had been 
 wounded; by noon it was announced that he was dead, 
 and finally the actual truth came out that the man had 
 been murdered. The police authorities saw the carter and 
 were conducted by him to the corpse, which, after exam- 
 ination, they brought to the dead-house in Beorminster. 
 Then all doubt came to an end, and it was ofricially 
 declared during the afternoon that Jentham, the military 
 vagabond lately resident at The Derby Winner, had been 
 shot through the heart But even rumour, prolific as it 
 is in invention, could not suggest who had murdered the 
 aian. 
 
 So unusual an event in the quiet cathedral city caused 
 the greatest excitement, and the streets were filled with 
 people talking over the matter. Amateur detectives, swill- 
 ing beer in public-houses, gave their opinions about the 
 crime, and the more beer they drank, the wilder and
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 more impossible became their theories. Some suggested 
 that the gipsies oampod on Southbcrry Heatli, who were 
 continually fighting amongst themselves, had killed the 
 miserable creature; others, asserting that the scamp was 
 desperately poor, hinted at suicide induced by sheer 
 despair; but the most generally accepted opinion was that 
 Jentham had been killed in some drunken frolic by one or 
 more Irish harvesters. The Beorminster reporters visited 
 the police station and endeavoured to learn what Inspector 
 Tinkler thought He had seen the body, he had viewed the 
 spot where it had been fouml, he had examined the carter, 
 Giles Crake, so he was the man most likely to give satis- 
 factory answers to the questions as to who had killed the 
 man, and why he had been shot. But Inspector Tinkler 
 was the most wary of officials, and pending the inquest 
 and the verdict of twelve good men and true, he declined 
 to commit himself to an opinion. The result of this 
 reticence was that the reporters had to fall back on their 
 inventive faculties, and next morning published three 
 theories, side by side, concerning the murder, so that the 
 Beorminster Chronicle containing these suppositions proved 
 to be as interesting as a police novel, and quite as unre- 
 liable. But it amused its readers and sold largely, therefore 
 proprietor and editor were quite satisfied that fiction was 
 as good as fact to tickle the long ears of a credulous 
 public. 
 
 As the dead man had lodged at The Derby Winner, 
 and many people had known him there, quite a sensation 
 was caused by the report of his untimely end. From 
 morning till night the public-house was thronged with 
 customers, thirstmg both for news and beer. Nevertheless, 
 although business was so bri.-,k, Mosk was by no means 
 in a good temper. He had returned early that morning 
 from Southberry, and had been one of the first to hear 
 about the matter. When he heard who had been killed, he 
 rejrarded the committal of the crime quite in a personal 
 light, for the dead man owed him money, and his death 
 had discharged the debt in a way of which Mr Mosk did 
 not approve. He frequently referred to his loss during the 
 day, when congratulated by unthinking customers on the 
 i^xcellent trade the assassination had brought about. 
 
 104
 
 ^ Rumour fzdl of To7igues * 
 
 'For, as I allays ses,' remarked one wiseacre, 'it's an ill 
 wind as don't blow good to somebody.' 
 
 ' Yah ! ' growled Mosk, in his beery voice, ' it's about 
 as broad as it's long so far as I'm concerned. I've lost a 
 couple of quid through Jentham goin' and gettin' shot, and 
 it will take a good many tankards of bitter at thru'p'nce to 
 make that up.' 
 
 ♦Oo d'y think shot 'im, Mr Mosk?' 
 
 'Arsk me sum'thin' easier, carn't you? I don't know 
 nothin' about the cove, I don't ; he comes 'ere two, three weeks 
 ago, and leaves owin' me money. ^Vhe^e he comes from, or 
 who he is, or what he's bin doin' to get shot I know no 
 more nor you do. All I does know,' finished Mosk, em- 
 phatically, ' is as I've lost two bloomin' quid, an' that's a lot 
 to a poor man like me.' 
 
 ' Well, father, it's no good making a fuss over it,' cried 
 Bell, who overheard his grumbling. ' If Jentham hadn't 
 ha^n shot, we wouldn't be doing so well. For my part, 
 I'm sorry for the poor soul' 
 
 ' Poor blackguard, you mean ! ' 
 
 ' No, J don't. I don't call any corpse a blackguard. If 
 he was one, I daresay he's being punished enough now 
 without our calling him names. He wasn't the kind of 
 man 1 fancied, but there's no denying he was attractive in 
 his own wicked way.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said a dirty-looking man, who was more than 
 suspected of being a welcher, 'couldn't he tell slap-up 
 yarns about H'injins an' 'eathens as bows down to stocks 
 and stones. Oh, no ! not he — ' 
 
 • He could lie like a one-year-old, if that's what y' mean,' 
 said Mosk. 
 
 'Bloomin' fine lyin', any'ow,' retorted the critic. 'I'd 
 git orf the turf if I cud spit 'em out that style; mek m' 
 fortin', I would, on th' paipers.' 
 
 'Y've bin chucked orf the turf often enough as it is,' 
 replied the landlord, sourly, whereat, to give the conversation 
 a less personal application, the dirty weicher remarked that 
 he would drain another bitter. 
 
 ' I suppose you'll be as drunk as a pig by night,' said 
 Bell, taking the order. ' Jentham was bad, but he wasn't 
 a swine lik« you.' 
 
 s 10$
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 •Gam! 'e got drunk, didn't he? Oh, no! You bet 
 he didn't.' 
 
 ' He got drunk like a gentleman, at all events. None 
 of your sauce, Black, or I'll have you chucked. You know 
 me by this time, I hope.' 
 
 In fact, as several of the customers remarked, Miss Bell 
 was in a fine temper that morning, and her tongue raged 
 round like a prairie fire. This bad humour was ascribed 
 by the public to the extra work entailed on her by the 
 sensation caused by the murder, but the true cause lay 
 with Gabriel. He had promised faithfully, on the previous 
 night, to come round and see Mrs Mosk, but, to Bell's 
 anger, had failed to put in an appearance — the first time he 
 had done such a thing. As Miss Mosk's object was always 
 to have an ostensible reason for seeing Gabriel in order to 
 protect her character, she was not at all pleased that he had 
 not turned her excuse for calling on him into an actual fact. 
 It is true that Gabriel presented himself late in the afternoon 
 and requested to see the invalid, but instead of taking him 
 up to the sickroom, Bell whirled the curate into a small 
 back parlour and closed the door, in order, as she remarked, 
 'to have it out with him.' 
 
 ' Now, then,' said she, planting her back against the door, 
 'what do you mean by treating me like a bit of dirt?' 
 
 * You mean that I did not come round last night, 
 Bell?' 
 
 ' Yes, I do. I told mother you would visit her. I said to 
 Jacob Jarper as I'd come to ask you to see mother, and 
 you go and make me out a liar by not turning up. What 
 do you mean ? ' 
 
 * I was ill and couldn't keep my promise,' said Gabriel, 
 shortly. 
 
 * 111 ! ' said Bell, looking him up and down ; ' well, you 
 do look ill. You've been washed and wrung out till you're 
 limp as a rag. White in the face, black under the eyes 1 
 What have you been doing with yourself, I'd like to know. 
 You were all right when I left you last night.' 
 
 - 'The weather affected my nerves,' explained Gabriel, 
 with a weary sigh, passing his thin hand across his anxious 
 face. ' I felt that it was impossible for me to sit in a close 
 room and talk to a sick woman, so I went round to the 
 
 io6
 
 * Rumour full of Tongues ' 
 
 stables where I keep my horse, and took him out in order 
 to get a breath of fresh air.' 
 
 • What 1 You rode out at that late hour, in all that 
 storm ? ' 
 
 • The storm came on later. I went out almost immedi- 
 ately after you left, and got back at half-past ten. It wasn't 
 so very late.' 
 
 • Well, of all mad things!' said Bell, grimly. • It's easy seen, 
 Mr Gabriel Pendle, how badly you want a wife at your 
 elbow. Where did you go ? ' 
 
 • I rode out on to Southberry Heath,' replied Gabriel, with 
 some hesitation. 
 
 ' Lord ha' mercy ! Where Jentham's corpse was found ? ' 
 
 The curate shuddered. 'I didn't see any corpse,' he 
 
 said, painfully and slowly. ' Instead of keeping to the high 
 
 road, I struck out cross-country. It was only this morning 
 
 that I heard of the unfortunate man's untimely end.' 
 
 ' You didn't meet anyone likely to have laid him out ? ' 
 
 • No ! I met no one. I felt too ill to notice passers-by, 
 but the ride did me good, and I feel much better this 
 morning.' 
 
 • You don't look better,' said Bell, with another searching 
 glance. ' One would think you had killed the man your- 
 self!' 
 
 ' Bell ! ' protested Gabriel, almost in an hysterical tone, 
 for his nerves were not yet under control, and the crude 
 speeches of the girl made him wince. 
 
 ' Well ! well ! I'm only joking. I know you wouldn't 
 hurt a fly. But you do look ill, that's a fact. Let me get 
 you some brandy.' 
 
 • No, thank you, brandy would only make me worse. 
 Let me go up and see your mother.' 
 
 'Isha'n't! You're not fit to see anyone. Go home and 
 lie down till your nerves get right. You can see me after 
 five if you like, for I'm going to the dead-house to have 
 a look at jeniham's body.' 
 
 'What! to see the corpse of that unhappy man,' cried 
 Gabriel, shrinking away. 
 
 •Why not?' answered Bell, coolly, for she had that 
 peculiar love of looking on dead bodies characteristic of 
 the lower classes. 'I want to see how they killed him.' 
 
 107
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 ' Huw who killed him ? ' 
 
 'The peison as did it, silly. Though I don't know who 
 could have shot him unless it was that old cat of a Mr 
 Panscy. Well, I can't stay here talkin.;^ all duy, and father 
 will be wondering what I'm up to. Vuu go hon-.e and 
 lie down, Gabriel.' 
 
 ' Not just now. I must walk up to the palace.' 
 
 •Hum! The bishop will be in a fine way about this 
 murder. It's years since anyone got killed here. I hope 
 they'll catch the wretch as siiot Jeniham, though I can't 
 say I liked him myself.' 
 
 *I hope they will catch him,' replied r,al)riel, mechanic- 
 ally. ' Good-day, Miss Mosk I I shall call and see your 
 mother to-moiro\v.' 
 
 * Good-day, Mr Pendle, and thank you, oh, so much ! ' 
 
 This parti' ular form of farewell was inlcndrd for the ears 
 of Mr Mosk and the general public, but it failed in its 
 object so far as the especial person it was intended to 
 impress was concernc;!. When the black-clothed form of 
 Gabriel vanished, Mr Mosk handed over the busine.s of 
 the bar to an active pot-boy, and conducted his daughter 
 back to the little parlour. Bell saw from his lowering brow 
 that her father was suspicious of her lengthened interview 
 with the curate, and was bent upon causing trouble. 
 However, she was not the kind of girl to be daunted by 
 black looks, and, moreover, was conscious that her father 
 would be rather pleased than otherwise to hear that she 
 was honoural.ily engaged to the son of Tlishop Pendle, so 
 she sat down calmly enough at his gruff command, and 
 awaitcJ the coming storm. If driven into a corner, she 
 intended to tell the truth, therefore she faced her father 
 witli the greatest coolness. 
 
 ' What d'y mean by it ? ' cried Mosk, bursting into angry 
 words as soon as the door was closed \ ' what d'y mean, 
 you hussy ? ' 
 
 'Now, look here, father,' said Bell, quickly, 'you keep a 
 civil tongue in your head or I won't use mine. I'm not %. 
 hussy, and you have no right to call me one.' 
 
 •No right 1 Ain't I your lawfully begotten father?' 
 
 •Yes, you are, worse luck ! I'd have had a duke for my 
 father if I'd been asked what I wanted.' 
 
 108
 
 ^ Ru7nour full of Tongues * 
 
 ' Wouldn't a bishop content you ? ' sneered Mosk, with a 
 scowl on his pimply face. 
 
 * You're talking of Mr Pendle, are you ? ' said Bell 
 wilfully misunderstanding the insinuation. 
 
 * Yes, I am, you jade ! and I won't have it I tell you I 
 won't ! ' 
 
 •Won't have what, father? Give it a name.' 
 
 *Why, this carrying on with tliat parson chap. Not as 
 I've a word to say against Mr Pendle, because he's worth 
 a dozen of the Car- rim lot, but he's gentry and you're 
 not ! ' 
 
 'What's that got to do with it?' demanded Bell, with 
 supreme contempt. 
 
 •This much,' raved Moslc, clenching his fist, 'that I 
 won't have you running after him. D'y hear ? ' 
 
 * I hear ; there is no need for you to rage the house down, 
 father. I'm not running after Mr Pendle; he's running 
 after me.' 
 
 * That's just as bad. You'll lose your character.' 
 
 Bell fired up, and bounced to her feet. * Who dares to 
 say a word against my character ? ' she asked, panting and 
 red. 
 
 •Old Jarper, for one. He said you went to see Mr 
 Pendle last night.' 
 
 •So I did.' 
 
 •Oh, you did, did you? and here you've bin talking 
 ilone with him this morning for the last hour. What d'y 
 mean by disgracing me ? ' 
 
 * Disgracing you ! ' scoffed Bell. * Your character needs a 
 lot of disgracing, doesn't it? Now, be sensible, father,' she 
 added, advancing towards him, * and I'll tell you the truth. 
 I didn't intend to, but as you are so unreasonable I may 
 as well set your mind at rest' 
 
 * What are you driving at ? ' growled Mosk, struck by her 
 placid manner. 
 
 * Well, to put the thing into a nutshell, Mr Pendle is 
 going to marry me.' 
 
 * Marry you ! Get along ! * 
 
 * I don't see why you should doubt my word,' cried Bell, 
 with an angry flush. • I'm engaged to him as honourably 
 as any young lady could be. He has written me lots of 
 
 109
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 letters promising to make me his wife, he has given me a 
 ring, and we're only waiting till he's appointed to be rector 
 of Heathcroft to marry.' 
 
 ' Well, I'm d d,' observed Mr Mosk, slowly. * Is this 
 
 true ? ' 
 
 ' I'll show you the ring and letters if you like,' said Bell, 
 tartly, ' but I don't see why you should be so surprised. 
 I'm good enough for him, I hope?' 
 
 ' You're good-lookin', I dessay, Bell, but he's gentry.' 
 
 ' I'm going to be gentry too, and I'll hold my own with 
 the best of them. As Bishop Pendle's daughter-in-law, I'll 
 scratch the eyes out of any of 'em as doesn't give me my 
 place.' 
 
 Mosk drew a long breath. Bishop Pendle's daughter-in- 
 law,' he repeated, looking at his daugiiter with admiration. 
 * My stars ! you are a clever girl, Bell.' 
 
 ' I'm clever enough to get what I want, father, so long as 
 you don't put your foot into it. Hold your tongue until I 
 tell you when to speak. If the bishop knew of this now, 
 he'd cut Gabriel off with a shilling.' 
 
 ' Oh, he would, would he ? ' said Mosk, in so strange a 
 tone that Bell looked at him with some wonder. 
 
 ' Of course he would,' said she, quietly ; ' but when Gabriel 
 is rector of Heathcroft it won't matter. We'll then have 
 money enough to do without his consent.' 
 
 'Give me a kiss, my girl,* cried Mosk, clasping her to 
 his breast, 'You're a credit to me, that you are, Oli, 
 curse it ! Bell, think of old Mother Pansey ! ' 
 
 Father and daughter looked at one another and bur»t 
 out laughing.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 THE GIPSY RING 
 
 Almost at the very time Mosk was congratulating his 
 daughter on the conquest of the curate, Captain Pendle was 
 paying a visit to the Jenny Wren nest. He had only suc- 
 ceeded in obtaining a Saturday to Monday leave from his 
 colonel, who did not approve of young officers being too 
 long or too often absent from their duties, and was rejoin- 
 ing his regiment that very evening. As soon as he could 
 get away from the palace he had left his portmanteau at 
 the station and had come up to the Cathedral Close to see 
 Mab. Much to his gratification he found her alone in the 
 quaint old drawing-room, and blessed the Providence which 
 had sent him thither at so propitious an hour. 
 
 • Aunty is lying down,' explained Mab, who looked rather 
 worried and pale ; * she has been so upset over this horrid 
 murder.' 
 
 'Egad! it has upset everyone,' said George, throwing 
 himself into a chair. ' My father is so annoyed at such a 
 thing happening in his diocese that he has retreated to his 
 library and shut himself up. I could hardly get him to say 
 good-bye. Though, upon my word,' added George, waxing 
 warm, ' I don't see that the death of a wretched tramp is 
 of such moment ; yet it seems to have annoyed everyone.' 
 
 'Including yourself,' said Mab, remarking how worried 
 her lover looked, and how far from being his pleasant, 
 natural self. 
 
 *Yes, my dearest, including myself. When the bishop 
 is annoyed my mother fidgets over him until she makes 
 herself ill. Knowing this, he is usually careful not to let 
 her see him when he is out of sorts, but to-day he was not 
 so discreet, and the consequence is that my mother has an 
 attack of nerves, and is lying on her sofa bathed in tears, 
 
 III
 
 The BisJiofs Secret 
 
 with Lucy in attendance. Of course, all this has upset me 
 in mv turn.' 
 
 'Well, George, I suppose it is natural that the bishop 
 should be put out, for such a terrible crime has not been 
 committed here for years. Indeed, the Chronicle of last 
 week w.is remarking how free from crime this place was.' 
 
 'And naturally the gods gave them the lie by arraiiging 
 a first-class murder straight away,' said George, with a shrug. 
 ' But V. hy everybo.ly sl:ould be in such a state I can't see. 
 The palace is like an undertaker's establishment when busi- 
 ness is dull. The only person who seems at all cheerful is 
 that fellow Cargrim.' 
 
 • He ought to be annoyed for the lishop's sake.' 
 •Faith, then, he isn't, Mab. He's going about rubbing 
 
 his hands and grinning like a Cheshire cat I think the 
 sight of him irritated me more than the mourners. I'm 
 glad to go back to my work.' 
 
 • Are you glad to leave me ? ' 
 
 *No, you dear goose,' said he, taking her hand affection- 
 ately; 'that is the bitter drop in my cup. However, I 
 have brought you something to draw us closer together. 
 There ! ' 
 
 • Oh, George ! ' cried Mab, looking in ecstasy at the ring 
 he had slipped on her finger, 'what a lovely, lovely ring, 
 and what a queer one ! — three turquoise stones set in a 
 braid of silver. I never saw so unique a pattern.' 
 
 ' I daresay not. It's not the kind of ring youll come 
 across every day, and precious hard work I had to get it.' 
 
 'Did you buy it in Beorminster?' asked Miss Arden, 
 putting her head on one side to admire the peculiar setting 
 of the blue stones. 
 
 ' No ; I bought it from Mother Jael.' 
 
 • From Mother Jael ! — that old gipsy fortune-teller ? * 
 
 • Precisely ; from tliat very identical old Witch of Endor. 
 I saw it on her lean paw when I was last in Beorminster, 
 and she came hovering round to tell my fortune. The 
 queer look of it took my fancy, and I determined to secure 
 it foi our engagement ring. However, the old lady wasn't 
 to be bribed into parting with it, but last night I rode out 
 to the camp on Souihberry Common and succeeded in 
 getting it off her. She is a regular Jew at a bargain, and 
 
 112
 
 The Gipsy Ring 
 
 haggled for an hour before she would let me have it Ulti- 
 mately I gave her the price she asked, and there it is on 
 your pretty hand.' 
 
 ' How sweet of you, George, to take so much trouble ! I 
 shall value the ring greatly for your sake.' 
 
 ' And for your own too, I hope. It is a lucky ring, and 
 came from the East, Mother Jael said, in the old, old days. 
 It looks rather Egyptian, so perhaps Cleopatra wore it when 
 she went to meet Anthony ! ' 
 
 *Such nonsense! but it is a dear, lovely ring, and I'll 
 irear it always.* 
 
 ' I think I deserve a kiss from you for my troubie,' said 
 George, drawing her lovely, glowing face towards him. 
 * There, darling ; the next ring I place on your finger will 
 be a plain golden one, not from the East, but from an honest 
 Beorminster jeweller.' 
 
 'But, George' — Mab laid her head on his breast — 'I 
 am not sure if I ought to accept it, really. Your father does 
 not know of our engagement.' 
 
 • I intend to tell him when I next visit Beorminster, my 
 love. Indeed, but that he takes this wretched murder so 
 much to heart I would have told him to-day. Still, you 
 need not scruple to wear it, dearest, for your aunt and my 
 mother are both agreed that you will make me the sweetest 
 of wives.' 
 
 'Aunty is always urging me to ask you to tell your 
 father.' 
 
 'Then you can inform her that I'll do so next — why, 
 here is your aunt, my dear.' 
 
 •Aunty!' cried Mab, as Miss Whichello, like a little 
 white ghost, moved into the room. * I thought your head 
 was so bad.' 
 
 *It is better now, my dear,* replied the old lady, who 
 really looked very ill. 'How do you do. Captain Pendle?' 
 
 • Hadn't you better call me George, Miss Whichello ? ' 
 
 • No, I hadn't, my dear man ; at least, not until your en- 
 gagement with Mab is an accomplished fact.' 
 
 'But it is an accomplished fact now, aunty,' said Mab, 
 showing the ring. ' Here is the visible sign of our engage- 
 ment.' 
 
 •A strange ring, but very charming,' pronounced Miss 
 
 H 113
 
 The Bishop's Sec ret 
 
 Whichello, examining the jewel. 'But does the bishop 
 know?' 
 
 ' I intend to tell him when I come back next week,' said 
 George, promptly. ' At present he is too upset with this 
 murder to pay much attention to my love aflairs.' 
 
 ' Upset with this murder I ' cried the little lady, dropping 
 into a chair. ' I don't wonder at it I am quite ill with 
 the news.' 
 
 • I'm sure I don't see why, aunty. This Jentham tramp 
 wasn't a relative, you know.' 
 
 Miss Whichello shuddered, and, if possible, turned paler. 
 ' He was a human being, Mab,' she said, in a low voice, 
 'and it is terrible to think that the poor wretch, however 
 evil he may have been, should have come to so miserable 
 an end. Is it known who shot him. Captain Pendle?' 
 
 ' No ; there are all sorts of rumours, of course, but none 
 of them very reliable. It's a pity, too,' added George, re- 
 flectively, ' for if I had only been a little earlier in leaving 
 Mother jael I might have heard the shot and captured the 
 murderer.' 
 
 'What do you mean, Captain Pendle?' cried Miss 
 Whiciiello, with a start. 
 
 ' Why, didn't I tell you ? No, of course I didn't : it was 
 Mab I told.' 
 
 ' What did you tell her ? ' questioned the old lady, with 
 some impatience. 
 
 ' That I was on Southberry Heath last night.' 
 
 • What were you doing there ? ' 
 
 ' Seeing after that gipsy ring for Mab,' explained George, 
 pulling his moustache. 'I bought it of Mother Jael, and 
 had to ride out to the camp to make the bargain. As I am 
 going back into harness to-day, there wasn't much time to 
 lose, so I went off last night after dinner, between eight and 
 nine o'clock, and the old jade kept me so long fixing up the 
 business that I didn't reach home until eleven. By Jove ! I 
 got a jolly ducking ; looked like an insane river god drip- 
 ping with wet.' 
 
 'Did you see anything of the murder, Captain Pendle?' 
 
 • No ; didn't even hear the shot, though that wasn't to be 
 wondered at, considering the row made by rain and thunder.* 
 
 • Where was the body found ? ' 
 
 114
 
 The Gipsy Ring 
 
 ' Somewhere in a ditch near the high road, I believe. At 
 all events, it wasn't in the way, or my gee would have 
 tumbled across it.' 
 
 Miss Whichello reflected. 'The bishop was over at 
 Southberry yesterday, was he not?' she asked. 
 
 ' Yes, at a confirmation service. He rode back across the 
 common, and reached the palace just before I did — about 
 half an hour or so.' 
 
 • Did he hear or see anything ? ' 
 
 *Not to my knowledge; but the truth is, I haven't had 
 an opportunity of asking questions. He is so annoyed at 
 the disgrace to the diocese by the committal of this crime 
 that he's quite beside himself. I was just telling Mab about 
 it when you came in. Six o'clock ! ' cried Captain George, 
 starting up as the chimes rang out. ' I must be off. If I'm 
 late at barracks my colonel will parade me to-morrow, and 
 go down my throat, spurs, boots and all.' 
 
 • Wait a moment. Captain Pendle, and I'll come with you.' 
 
 • But your headache, aunty ? ' remonstrated Mab. 
 
 • My dear, a walk in the fresh air will do me good. I 
 shall go with Captain Pendle to the station. Make your 
 adleux, young people, while I put on my bonnet and cloak.' 
 
 When Miss Whichello left the room, Mab, who had been 
 admiring her ring during the foregoing conversation, was so 
 impressed with its quaint beauty that she again thanked 
 George for having given it to her. This piece of politeness 
 led to an exhibition of tenderness on the part of the depart- 
 ing lover, and during the dragon's absence this foohsh young 
 couple talked the charming nonsense which people in their 
 condition particularly affect. Realism is a very good tning 
 in its own way, but to set down an actual love conversation 
 would be carrying it to excess. Only the exaggerated exalta- 
 tion of mind attendant on love-making can enable lovers to 
 endure the transcendentalism with which they bore one 
 another. And then the look which makes an arrow of the 
 most trifling phrase, the caress which gives the merest glance 
 a most eloquent meaning — how can prosaic pen and ink 
 and paper report these fittingly? The sympathetic reader 
 must guess what George and Mab said to onfe another. He 
 must fancy how they said it, and he or she must see in his 
 or her mind's eye how young and beautiful and glowing they 
 
 115
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 looked when Miss Whichello, as the prose of their poelry, 
 walked into the room. The dear old laiiy smiled approv- 
 ingly when she saw their bright faces, for she too had lived 
 in Arcady, although the envious gods had turned her out of 
 it long since. 
 
 * Now, Captain Pendle, when you have done talking non- 
 sense with that child I'm ready.' 
 
 ' Do call me George, Miss Whichello,' entreated the 
 captain. 
 
 ' No, sir ; not until your father gives this engagement his 
 episcopalian blessing. No nonsense. Come along.' 
 
 But Miss Whichello's bark was worse than her bite, for 
 she discreetly left the room, so that the love-birds could 
 take a tender leave of each other, and Captain Pendle found 
 her standing on the steps outside with a broad smile on her 
 face. 
 
 ' You are sure you have not forgotten your gloves. Captain 
 Pendle?' she asked smilingly. 
 
 'No,* replied George, innocently, 'I have them with 
 me.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' exclaimed Miss Whichello, marching down the 
 steps like a toy soldier, 'in my youth young men in your 
 condition always forgot their gloves.' 
 
 'By Jove ! 1 have left something behind me, though.' 
 
 'Your heart, probably. Never miiid, it is in safe keeping. 
 None of your tricks, sir. Come, come ! ' and Miss Which- 
 ello marched the captain off with a twinkle in her bright 
 eyes. The little old lady was one of those loved by the 
 gods, for she would undoubtedly die young in heart. 
 
 Still, as she walked with Captain Pendle to the station 
 in the gathering darkness, she looked worried and white. 
 George could not see her face in the dusk, and moreover 
 was too much taken up with his late charming interview to 
 notice his companion's preoccupation. In spite of her 
 sympathy. Miss Whichello grew weary of a monologue on 
 the part of George, in which the name of ' Mab ' occurred 
 fifty times and more. She was glad when the train steamed 
 off with this too happy lover, and promised to deliver all 
 kinds of unnecessary' messages to the girl George had left 
 behind him. 
 
 ' But let them be happy while they can,' murmured Mist 
 
 ii6
 
 The Gipsy Ring 
 
 Whichello, as she tripped back through the town. * Poor 
 souls, if they only knew what I know.' 
 
 As Miss Whichello had the meaning of this enigmatic 
 speech in her mind, she did not think it was necessary to 
 put it into words, but, silent and pensive, walked along the 
 crowded pavement. Shortly she turned down a side street 
 which led to the police-station, and there paused in a quiet 
 corner to pin a veil round her head — a veil so thick that 
 her features could hardly be distinguished through it. The 
 poor lady adopted this as a kind of disguise, forgetting that 
 her old-fashioned poke bonnet and quaint silk cloak were 
 as well known to the inhabiinnts of Beorminster as the 
 cathedral itself. That early century garb was as familiar to 
 the rascality of the slums as to the richer citizens ; even 
 the police knew it well, for they had often seen its charit- 
 able wearer by the bedsides of dying paupers. It thus hap- 
 pened that, when Miss Whichello presented herself at the 
 police-station to Inspector Tinkler, he knew her at once, in 
 spite of her foolish little veil. Moreover, in greeting her he 
 pronounced her name. 
 
 ' Hush, hush, Mr Inspector,' whispered Miss Whichello, 
 with a mysterious glance around. ' I do not wish it to be 
 known that I called here.' 
 
 ' You can depend upon my discretion, Miss Whichello, 
 ma'am,' said the inspector, who was a blufif and tyrannical 
 cx-sergeant. ' And what can I do for you ? ' 
 
 Miss Whichello looked round again. 'I wish, Mr 
 Inspector,' said she, in a very small voice, *to be taken 
 by you to the dead-house.* 
 
 ' To the dead-house, Miss Whichello, ma'am ! ' said the 
 iron Tinkler, hardly able to conceal his astonishment, al- 
 though it was against his disciplinarian ideas to show emotion. 
 
 'There is a dead man in there, Mr Inspector, whom I 
 knew under very different circumstances more than twenty 
 years ago.' 
 
 ' Answers to the name of Jentham, perhaps ? * suggested 
 Mr Inspector. 
 
 *Yes, he called himself Jentham, I believe. I — I — I 
 wish to see his body ; ' and the little old lady looked 
 anxiously into Tinkler's purple face. 
 
 'Miss Whichello, ma'am,' said the ex-sergeant with an
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 official air, ' this request requires reflection- Do you know 
 the party in question ? ' 
 
 ' 1 knew him, as I told you, more than twenty years ago. 
 He was then a very talented violinist, and I heard him play 
 frequently in London.' 
 
 ' What was his name, Miss Whichello, ma'am?* 
 
 ' His name then, Mr Inspector, was Amaru 1 ' 
 
 •A stage name I take it to be, ma'am I ' 
 
 ' Yes ! a stage name.' 
 
 ♦What was his real name ? ' 
 
 • I can't say,' replied Miss Whichello, in a hesitating voice. 
 • I knew him only as Amaru.' 
 
 'Humph! here he called himself Jentham. Do you 
 know anything about this murder, Miss Whichello, ma'am?' 
 and the inspector fixed a blood-shot grey eye on the thick 
 
 veil. 
 
 • No ! no ! I know nothing about the murder ! ' cried 
 Miss Whichello in earnest tones. ' I heard that this man 
 Jentham looked like a gipsy and was marked with a scar on 
 the right cheek. From that description I thought that he 
 might be Amaru, and I wish to see his body to be certain 
 that I am right' 
 
 •Well, Miss \Vhichello, ma'am,* said the stern Tinkler, 
 after some deliberation, * your request is out of the usual 
 coiurse of things ; but knowing you as a good and charitable 
 lady, and thinking you may throw some light on this 
 mysterious crime— why, I'll show you the corpse with 
 pleasure.' 
 
 • One moment,' said the old lady, laying a detaining hand 
 on the inspector's blue cloth sleeve. ' I must tell you that 
 I can throw no light on the subject; if I could I would. I 
 simply desire to see the body of this man and to satisfy 
 myself that he is Amaru.' 
 
 ' Very good, Miss Whichello, ma'am ; you shall see it' 
 •And you'll not mention that I came here, Mr Inspector.* 
 
 • I give you my word, ma'am — the word of a soldier. This 
 way, Miss Whichello, this way.' 
 
 Following the rigid figure of the inspector, the little old 
 lady was conducted by him to a small building of galvanised 
 tin in the rear of the police-station. Several idlers were 
 hanging about, amongst them being Miss Bell Mosk, who 
 
 Ii8
 
 The Gipsy Ring 
 
 was trying to persuade a handsome young policeman to 
 gratify her morbid curiosity. Her eyes opened to their 
 widest width when she recognised Miss Whichello's silk 
 cloak and poke bonnet, and saw them vanish into the 
 dead-house. 
 
 * Well I never ! ' said Miss Mosk. ' I never thought 
 she'd be fond of corpses at her time of life, seeing as she'll 
 soon be one herself.' 
 
 The little old lady and the inspector remained within for 
 five or six minutes. When they came out the tears were 
 (ailing fast beneath Miss Whichello's veil. 
 
 * Is that the man ? ' asked Tinkler, in a low voice. 
 
 * Yes ! ' replied Miss Whichello ; * that is the man I knew 
 as Amaru.' 
 
 119
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THR ZliAL OF INSPECTOR TINKLER 
 
 The str.mge afiair of Jei.tham's murder continued to 
 <j» cupy the attention of the Beonninster pubhc through- 
 out the week ; and on the day when the inquest was held, 
 popular excitement rose to fever heat. Insi/ector Tinkler, 
 feeling that the County expected him to do great things 
 worthy of his reputation as a zealous officer, worked his 
 hardest to gather evidence likely to elucidate the mystery 
 of the death ; but in spite of the most strenuous exertions, 
 his efTorts resulted in total failure. The collected details 
 proved to be of the most meagre description, and wlien the 
 coroner sat on the body nothing transpired to reveal the 
 name, or even indicate the identity of the assassin who had 
 provided him with a body to sit on. It really seemed as 
 though the Southberry murder would end in being relegated 
 to the list of undiscovered crimes. 
 
 'For I can't work miracles,' explained the indignant 
 Tinkler, when reproached with this result, ' and somehow 
 the case has got out of hand. The motive for the shooting 
 can't be got at ; the pistol used ain't to be picked up, search 
 how you may; and as for the murdering villain who fired 
 it, if he ain't down below where he ought to be, I'll take my 
 oath as a soldier he ain't above ground. Take it how you 
 will, this4fase is a corker and no mistake.' 
 
 It hai^tertainly occurred to Tinkler's bothered mind that 
 Miss Whichello should be called as a witness, if only to 
 prove that at one time the dead man had occupied a better 
 position in the world, but after a short interview with her 
 he had abandoned this idea. Miss Whichello declared 
 that she could throw no liuht on the affair, and that she 
 had lost sight of the quondam violinist for over thirty years. 
 Iler recognition of him as Ama;u had been entirely due to 
 
 <ao
 
 The Zeal of Inspector Tinkler 
 
 the description of his gipsy looks and the noticeable cicatrice 
 on his face ; and she pointed out to Tinkler that she had 
 not seen the so-called Jentham till after his death ; more- 
 over, it was unlikely that events which had occurred thirty 
 years before could have resulted in the man's violent death 
 at the present time ; and Miss Whichello insisted that she 
 knew nothing of the creature's later circumstances or 
 acquaintances. Being thus ignorant, it was not to be 
 expected that her evidence would be of any value, so at 
 her earnest request Tinkler held his tongue, and forebore 
 to summon her as a witness. Miss Whichello was greatly 
 relieved in her own mind when the inspector came to this 
 conclusion, but she did not let Tinkler see her relief. 
 
 From Mosk, the officer had learned that the vagabond 
 whc called himself Jentham had appeared at The Derby 
 Winner some three weeks previous to the time of his 
 death. He bad given no information as to where he had 
 last rested, but, so far as Mosk knew, had dropped down 
 from the sky. Certainly his conversation when he was in- 
 toxicated showed that he had travelled a great deal, and 
 that his past was concerned with robbery, and bloodshed, 
 and lawlessness ; but the man had talked generally as any 
 traveller might, had refrained from mentioning names, and 
 altogether had spoken so loosely that nothing likely to lead 
 to a tangible result could be gathered from his rambling dis- 
 courses. He had paid his board and lodging for the first 
 week, but thereafter had lived on credit, and at the time of 
 his death had owed Mosk over two pounds, principally for 
 strong drink. Usually he slept at The Derby Winner and 
 loafed about the streets all day, but at times he went over 
 to the gipsy camp near Southberry and fraternised with the 
 Romany. This was the gist of Mosk's information, but he 
 added, as an afterthought, that Jentham had promised to 
 pay him when certain monies which he expected came into 
 his possession. 
 
 ' Who was going to pay him this money ? ' asked Tinkler, 
 pricking up his ears. 
 
 'Carn't y'arsk me somethin' easier?' growled Mosk; 
 'how s-nould I know? He said he was g'oin' to get the 
 dibs, but who from, or where from, I dunno', for he held 
 his tongue so far.' 
 
 9 131
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 •There was no money in the pockets of the clothes worn 
 by the body,' said Tinkler, musingly. 
 
 'I dessay not, Mr Inspector. I don't b'lieve the cove 
 was expecting any money, I don't. 'Twas all moonshine — 
 his talk, to make me trust him for bed and grub, and a 
 blam d fool I've bin doin' so,* grumbled Mosk. 
 
 ' The pockets were turned inside out, though.' 
 
 *0h, they was, was they, Mr Inspector? Well, that does 
 look queer. But if there was any light-fingered business to 
 be done, I dessay them gipsies hev somethin' to do with it.' 
 
 * Did the man go to tlie gipsy cnmp on Sunday night ? ' 
 
 * Bell ses he did,' replied Mr Mosk, 'but I went over to 
 Southberry in the arternoon about a little 'oss as I'm sweet 
 on, so I don't know what he did, save by 'earsay.' 
 
 Bell, on being questioned by the inspector, declared that 
 Jenlham had loitered about the hotel the greater part of 
 Sunday, but had taken his departure about five o'clock. 
 He did not say that he was going to the camp, but as he 
 often paid a visit to it, she presumed that he had gone there 
 during that evening. ' Especially as you found his corpse 
 on the common, Mr Tinkler,' said Bell, * no doubt the poor 
 wretch was coming back from them gipsies.' 
 
 •Humph! it's not a bad idea,' said Tinkler, scratching 
 his well-shaven chin. • Strikes me as I'll go and look up 
 Mother Jael.' 
 
 The result of an interview with that iniquitous old bel- 
 dame proved that Jentham had certainly been the guest of 
 the gipsies on Sunday evening but had returned to Beor- 
 minster shortly after nine o'clock. He had stated that he 
 was going back to The Derby Winner, and as it was his 
 custom to come and go when he pleased, the Romany had 
 not taken much notice of his departure. A vagrant like 
 Jentham was quite independent of time. 
 
 ' He was one of your lot, I suppose ?' said Mr Inspector, 
 taking a few notes in his pocket-book — a secretive little 
 article which shut with a patent clasp. 
 
 'Yes, dearie, yes! Lord bless 'ee,' mumbled Mother 
 Jael, blinking her cunning eyes, 'he was one of the gentle 
 -Romany sure enough.' 
 
 * Was he with you long, granny?' 
 
 'Three week, lovcy, jus' three week. He cum to Beor- 
 
 132
 
 The Zeal of Inspector Tinkler 
 
 minster and got weary like of you Gentiles, so he made 
 hisseif comforbal with us.' 
 
 'Blackguards to blackguards, and birds of a feather,' 
 murmured Tinkler ; then asked if Jentham had told Mother 
 Jael anything about himself. 
 
 ' He ! ' screeched the old hag, * he niver tol' me a word. 
 He cum an' he go'd ; but he kep his red rag to himself, he 
 did. Duvel ! he was a cunning one that Jentham.' 
 
 * Was his name Jentham, mother ; or was it something 
 else ? ' 
 
 ' He called hisseif so, dearie, but I niver knowed one of 
 that gentle Romany as had a Gentile name. We sticks to 
 our own mos'ly. Job ! I shud think so.' 
 
 * Are you sure he was a gipsy ? ' 
 
 •Course I am, my noble Gorgio ! He could patter the 
 calo jib with the best of 'um. He know'd lots wot the 
 Gentiles don' know, an' he had the eagle beak an' the 
 peaked eye. Oh, tiny Jesus was a Romany chal, or may 
 I die for it ! ' 
 
 * Do you know who killed him ? * asked Tinkler, abruptly, 
 •No, lovey. 'Tweren't one of us, tho' you puts allays 
 
 the wust on our backs. Job 1 dog do niver eat dog, as I 
 knows, dearie.* 
 
 * He left your camp at nine o'clock ? ' 
 
 * Thereabouts, my lamb ; jes' arter nine ! * 
 ' Was he sober or drunk ? ' 
 
 * Betwix' an' between, lovey ; he cud walk straight an' talk 
 straight, an' lopk arter his blessed Hfe.' 
 
 ' Humph ! seems as though he couldn't,' said Mr In- 
 spector, dryly, 
 
 ' Duvel ! that's a true sayin',' said Mother Jael, with a nod, 
 • but I don' know wot cum to him, dearie.' 
 
 At the inquest Mother Jael was called as a witness, and 
 told the jury much the same story as she had related to 
 Tinkler, with further details as to the movements of the 
 gipsies on that night. She declared that none of the tribe 
 had left the camp ; that Jentham had gone away alone, 
 comparatively sober ; and that she did not hear of his mur- 
 der until late the next day. In spite of examination and 
 cross-examination. Mother Jael could give no evidence as 
 to Jentham's real name, or about his past, or why he was 
 
 9 "3
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 lingering at Beorminster. 'He cuni'd an' he go'd,' said 
 Motficr Jael, with the air of an oracle, and that was the 
 extent of her information, delivered in a croaking, shufiling, 
 unconvincing manner. 
 
 The carter, Giles Crake, who had found the body, was 
 a stupid yokel whose knowledge was entirely limited to his 
 immediate surroundings. Perched on his cart, he had seen 
 the body 1) ing in a ditch half full of water, on the other 
 side of an earthen mound, which extended along the side 
 of the main road. The spot where he discovered it, was 
 near Beorminster, and about five miles from the gipsy camp. 
 The man had been shot through the heart ; iiis pockets had 
 been emptied and turned inside out; and evidently after 
 the murder the robber had dragged the body over the 
 mound into the ditch. Giles had not touched the corpse, 
 being fearful of getting into trouble, but had come on at 
 once to Beorminster to inform the police of his discovery. 
 
 It was Dr Graham who had examined the body when 
 first discovered, and according to his evidence the man had 
 been shot through the heart shortly before ten o'clock on 
 Sunday night. The pistol had been fired so close that the 
 clothing of the deceased over the heart was scorched and 
 blackened with the powder of the cartridge. 'And from 
 this fact,' added Graham, with one of his shrewd glances, 
 *I gather that the murderer must have been known to 
 Jeniham !' 
 
 • How is that, doctor? ' asked one of the jury. 
 
 ' Because he must have held him in talk while contem- 
 plating the crime, sir. The murderer and his victim must 
 almost have been breast to breast, and while the attention 
 of the latter was distracted in some way, the assassin must 
 have sliot him at close quarters.' 
 
 'This is all theory, Dr Graham,' said the coroner, who 
 was a rival practitioner. 
 
 ' It seems to me that the whole case rests on theory,' re- 
 torted Graham, and shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 Before the evidence concerning the matter closed, In- 
 sf)ector Tinkler explained how difficult it had been to collect 
 even the few details which the jury had heard. He stated 
 also that although the strictest search had been made in the 
 vicinity of the crime, the weapon with which it had been 
 
 124
 
 The Zeal of Inspector Tinkler 
 
 committed could not be found. As the shooting had been 
 done during a downfall of rain, the assassin's and his victim's 
 footmarks were visible in the soft clay of the roadway; 
 also there were the marks of horses' hoofs, so it was prob- 
 able that the murderer had been mounted. If this were so, 
 neither gipsies nor harvesters could have killed the wretched 
 man, as neither the one lot nor the other possessed horses 
 and—' 
 
 'The gipsies have horses to draw their caravans !' inter- 
 rupted a sharp-looking juryman. 
 
 ' To draw their caravans I admit,' said tliC undaunted 
 Tinkler, * but not to ride on. Besides, I would rc.-^iind you, 
 Mr Jobson, as Mother Jael declares, that none of her crowd 
 left the camp on that night.' 
 
 ' Oh, she'd declare anything,' muttered Jobson, who had 
 no great opinion of Tinkler's brains. 'Have the footmarks 
 in the road been measured ? * 
 
 ' No, they haven't, Mr Jobson ! ' 
 
 'Then they should have, Mr Inspector; you can tell a lot 
 from a footmark, as I've heard. It's what the French call 
 the Bertillon system of identification, that's what it is,' 
 
 ' I don't need to go to France to learn my business,' 
 said Tinkler, tartly, 'and if I did get the measurements of 
 them footmarks, how am I to know which is which — 
 Jentham's or his murderer's? and how can I go round the 
 whole of Beorminster to see whose feet fit 'em ? I ask you 
 that, Mr Jobson, sir.' 
 
 At this point, judging that the discussion had gone far 
 enough, the coroner intervened and said that Mr In- 
 spector had done his best to unravel a very difficult case. 
 That he had not succeeded was the fault of the case and 
 not of Mr Inspector, and for his part, he thought that the 
 thanks of the Beorminster citizens were due to the efforts 
 of so zealous and intelligent an officer as Tinkler. This 
 sapient speech reduced the recalcitrant Jobson to silence, 
 but he still held to his opinion that the over-confident 
 Tinkler had bungled the matter, and in this view he was 
 silently but heartily supported by shrewd Dr Graham, who 
 privately considered that Mr Inspector Tinkler was little 
 better than an ass. However, he did not give vent to this 
 oflfensive opinion. 
 
 W5
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 The summing-up of the coroner called for little remark. 
 He was a worthy country doctor, with as much brains as 
 would cover a sixpence, and the case was beyond him in 
 every way. His remarks to the jury — equally stupid, with 
 the exception of Jobson — were to the elTect that it was 
 evidently impossible to find out who had killed Jentham, 
 that the man was a quarrelsome vaj;abond who probably had 
 many enemies ; thnt no doubt while crossing the common in 
 a drunken liumo':' he had met with someone as bad as him 
 self, and had <\ime to high words with him ; and that the 
 unknown r'- in, being armed, had no doubt shot the deceased 
 in a fit o*" rage. ' He robbed the body, I daresay, gentlemen,' 
 concluded the coroner, 'and then threw it into the ditch 
 to conceal the evidence of his crime. As we don't know 
 the man, and are never likely to know him, I can only 
 suggest that you should find a verdict in accordance with 
 the evidence supplied to you by the zeal of Inspector 
 Tinkler. Man has done all he can to find out this Cain, 
 but his efforts have been vain, so we must leave the i)unish- 
 ment of the murderer to God ; and as Holy Scripture says 
 that "murder will out," I have no doubt that some day the 
 criminal will be brought to justire.' 
 
 After this wise speech it was not surprising that the jury 
 brought in a verdict, 'That the deceased Jentham met with 
 a violent death at the hands of some person or persons 
 unknown,' that being the kind of verdict which juries without 
 brains — as in the present instance — generally give. Having 
 thus settled the matter to their own bovine satisfaction, the 
 jury went away after having been thanked for their zeal by 
 the coroner. That gentleman was great on zeal. 
 
 •Hum! Hum! Hum!' said Dr Graham to himself, 
 'there's too much zeal altogether. I wonder what M. de 
 Talleyrand would have thought of these cabbages and their 
 zeal. Well, Mr Inspector,' he added aloud, * so you've 
 finished off the matter nicely.' 
 
 'We have done our best, Dr Graham, sir.' 
 
 'And you don't know who killed the man?' 
 
 ' No, sir, I don't ; and what's more, I don't believe any- 
 body ever will know.' 
 
 ' Humph, that's your opinion, is it? Do you read much, 
 Mr Inspector?' 
 
 126
 
 The Zeal of Inspector Tifikler 
 
 * A novel at times, sir. I'm fond of a good novel' 
 •Then let me recommend to your attention the works of 
 
 a French author, by name Gaboriau. There's a man in 
 them called Lecoq, who would have found out the truth, 
 Mr Inspector.' 
 
 • Fiction, Dr Graham, sir ! . Fiction.' 
 
 ' True enough, Mr Inspector, but most fiction is founded 
 on fact.' 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said Tinkler, with a superior wise smile, ' I 
 should like to see our case in the hands of your Mr 
 Lecoq.' 
 
 • So should I, Mr Inspector, or in the hands of Sherlock 
 Holmes. Bless me, Tinkler, they'd do almost as much as 
 you have done. It is a pity that you are not a character 
 in fiction, Tinkler.' 
 
 * Why, sir ? Why, may I ask ? ' 
 
 'Because your author might have touched you up in 
 weak parts, and have gifted you with some brains. Good- 
 day, Mr Inspector.' 
 
 While Graham walked away chuckling at his banter of 
 this red-tape official, the official himself stood gapping like 
 a fish out of the water, and trying to realise the insult levelled 
 at his dignity. Jobson — a small man — sidled round to the 
 front of him and made a comment on the situation. 
 
 ' It all comes of your not measuring them footmarks,' 
 said Jobson. ' In detective novels the clever fellows always 
 do that, but you'd never he put into a book, not you !' 
 
 'You'll be put into jail,' cried the outraged inspector. 
 
 'It's more than Jentham's murderer will if you've got the 
 catching of him,' said Jobson, and walked off. 
 
 ISf
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A CLERICAL DETECTIV* 
 
 All this time Mr Michael Cargrim had not been idle. On 
 hearing of the murder, his thoughts had immediately cenlred 
 themselves on the bishop. To say that the chaplain was 
 shocked is to express his feelings much too mildly ; he was 
 horrified ! thunderstruck ! terrified ! in fact, there was no 
 word in the EngUsh tongue strong enough to explain his 
 superlative state of mind. It was characteristic of the 
 man's malignant nature that he was fully prepared to believe 
 in Dr Pendle's guilt without hearing any evidence for or 
 against this opinion. He was aware that Jentharn had 
 been cognisant of some weighty secret concerning the 
 bishop's past, for the concealing of which he was to have 
 been bribed, and when the report of the murder reached 
 the chaplain's ears, he qv.' e believed that in place of paying 
 the sum agreed upon, Dr Pendle had settled accounts with 
 the blackmailer by shooting him. Cargrim took this ex- 
 treme view of the matter for two reasons ; firstly, because 
 he had gathered from the bishop's movements, and 
 Jentham's talk of Tom Tiddler's ground, that a meeting on 
 Southberry Heath had been arranged between the pair; 
 secondly, because no money was found on the dead body, 
 which would have been the case had the bribe been paid. 
 To the circumstantial evidence that the turned-out pockets 
 pointed to robbery, Mr Cargrim, at the moment, strangely 
 enough, paid no attention. 
 
 In considering the case, Cargrim's wish was very much 
 the father to the thought, for he desired to believe in the 
 bishop's guilt, as the knowledge of it would give him a 
 great deal of power over his ecclesiastical superior. If ho 
 could only collect sufficient evidence to convict Dr Pendle 
 of murdering Jentham, and could show him the links in tl.a 
 
 128
 
 A Clerical Detective 
 
 chain of circumstances by which he arrived at such a con- 
 clusion, he had little doubt but that the bishop, to induce 
 him to hide the crime, would become his abject slave. To 
 gain such an immense power, and use it for the furtherance 
 of his own interests, Cargrim was quite prepared to com- 
 pound a possible felony; so the last case of the bishop 
 would be worse than the first. Instead of being in Jentham's 
 power he would be in Cargrim's; and in place of taking the 
 form of money, the blackmail would assume that of influence- 
 So Mr Cargrim argued the case out ; and so he determined 
 to shape his plans : yet he had a certain hesitancy in taking 
 the first step. He had, as he firmly believed, a knowledge 
 that Dr Pendle was a murderer ; yet although the possession 
 of such a secret gave him unlimited power, he was afraid 
 to use it, for its mere exercise in the present lack of 
 material evidence to prove its truth was a ticklish job. 
 Cargrim felt like a man gripping a comet by its tail, 
 and doubtful whether to hold on or let go. However, 
 this uncertain state of things could be remedied by a strict 
 examination into the circumstances of the case; therefore 
 Cargrim set his mind to searching them out. He had been 
 present at the inquest, but none of the witnesses brought 
 forward by the bungling Tinkler had made any statement 
 likely to implicate the bishop. Evidently no suspicion con- 
 necting Dr Pendle with Jentham existed in the minds of 
 police or public. Cargrim could have set such a rumour 
 afloat by a mere hint that the dead man and the bishop's 
 strange visitor on the night of the reception had been one 
 and the same; but he did not think it judicious to do this. 
 He wanted the bishop's secret to be his alone, and the 
 more spotless was Dr Pendle's public character, the more 
 anxious he would be to retain it by becoming Cargrim's 
 slave in order that the chaplain might be silent regarding 
 his guilt. But to obtain such an advantage it was necessary 
 for Cargrim to acquaint himself with the way in which Dr 
 Pendle had committed the crime. And this, as he was 
 obliged to work by stealth, was no easy task. 
 
 After some cogitation the wily chaplain concluded that it 
 
 would be best to hear the general opinion of the Beor- 
 
 minster gossips in order to pick up any stray scraps of 
 
 information likely to be of use to him. Afterwards he 
 
 I 129
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 intended to call on Mr Inspector Tinkler and hear offici- 
 ally the more immediate details of tlie case. Ly what he 
 heard from the police and the social prattlers, Cargrim 
 hoped to be guided in constructing his case against Dr 
 Pcndle. Then there was the bishop's London journey ; the 
 bishop's cheque-book with its missing butt; the bishop's 
 journey to and from Southberry on the day and night when 
 the murder had been committed ; all these facts would go 
 far to implicate him in the matter. Also Cargrim desired 
 to find the missing pistol, and the papers which had 
 evidently been taken from the corpse. This last idea was 
 purely tlieoretical, as was Cargrim's fancy that Jentham's 
 power over Dr Pendle had to do with certain papers. He 
 argued from the fact that the pockets of the dead man's 
 clothes liad been turned inside out. Cargrim did not be- 
 lieve that the bishop had paid the blackmail, therefore the 
 pockets could not have been searched for the money ; the 
 more so, as no possible robber could have known that 
 Jeniham would be possessed of a sum worth committing 
 murder for on that night. On the other hand, if Jentham 
 had possessed papers which inculpated the bishop in any 
 crime, it was probable that, after shooting him, the assassin 
 had searched for, and had obtained, the papers to which he 
 attached so much value. It was the bishop who had turned 
 the pockets inside out, and, as Cargrim decided, for the above 
 reason. Certainly, from a commonscnse point of view, Car- 
 grim's theory, knowing what he did know, was feasible 
 enough. 
 
 Having thus arrived at a point where it was necessary to 
 transmute thought into action, Mr Cargrim assumed his 
 best clerical uniform, his tallest and whitest jam-pot collar, 
 and drew on a pair of delicate lavender gloves. Spotltss 
 and neat and eminently sanctimonious, the chaplain took 
 his demure way towards Mrs Pansey's residence, as he 
 judged very rightly that she would be the most likely person 
 to afford him possible infcjrination. I'he archdeacon's 
 widow lived on the outskirts of IJeorminster, in a gloomy 
 old barrack of a mansion,, surrounded by a large garden, 
 which in its turn was girdled by a high red brick wall with 
 broken glass bottles on the top, as though Mrs Pansey dwelt 
 in a gaol, and was on no account to be allowed out. Had
 
 A Clerical Detective 
 
 such a thing been possible, the whole of Beorminster 
 humanity, rich and poor, would willingly have subscribed 
 large sums to build the wall higher, and to add spikes to 
 the glass bottles. Anything to keep Mrs Pansey in her 
 gaol, and prevent her issuing forth as a social scourge. 
 
 Into the gaol Mr Cargrim was admitted with certain 
 solemnity by a sour-faced footman whose milk of human 
 kindness had turned acid in the thunderstorms of Mrs 
 Pansey's spite. This engaging Cerberus conducted the 
 chaplain into a large and sepulchral drawing-room in which 
 the good lady and Miss Norsham were partaking of after- 
 noon tea. Mrs Pansey wore her customary skirts of solemn 
 black, and looked more gloomy than ever ; but Daisy, the 
 elderly sylph, brightened the room with a dress of white 
 muslin adorned with many little bows of white ribbon, so 
 that — sartorially speaking — she was very young, and very 
 virginal, and quite angelical in looks. Both ladies were 
 pleased to see their visitor and received him warmly in their 
 several ways; that is, Mrs Pansey groaned and Daisy giggled. 
 
 • Oh, how very nice of you to call, dear Mr Cargrim,' said 
 the sylph. ' Mrs Pansey and I are positively dying to hear 
 all about this very dreadful inquest. Tea?' 
 
 ' Thank you ; no sugar. Ah ! ' sighed Mr Cargrim, taking 
 his cup, ' it IS a terrible thing to think that an inquest should 
 be held in Beorminster on the slaughtered body of a human 
 being. Bread and butter ! thank you ! ' 
 
 ' It's a judgment,' declared Mrs Pansey, and devoured a 
 buttery little square of toast with another groan louder than 
 the first. 
 
 •Oh, do tell me who killed the poor thing, Mr Cargrim,' 
 gushed Daisy, childishly. 
 
 • No one knows, Miss Norsham. The jury brought in a 
 verdict of wilful murder against some person or persons un- 
 known. You must excuse me if I speak too technically, but 
 those are the precise words of the verdict.' 
 
 • And very silly words they are ! ' pronounced the hostess, 
 ex cathedra; 'but what can you expect from a parcel of 
 trading fools ? ' 
 
 ' But, Mrs Pansey, no one knows who killed this man.' 
 
 'They should find out, Mr Cargrim.' 
 
 ' They have tried to do so and have failed ! '
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 * That shows that what I say is true. Police and jury are 
 fools,' said Mrs Pansey, with the triumphant air of one 
 clinching an argument 
 
 * Oh, dear, it is so very strange ! ' said the fair Daisy. * I 
 wonder really what could have been the motive for the 
 murder?' 
 
 * As the pockets were turned inside out,' said Mr Cargrim, 
 *it is believed that robbery was the motive.' 
 
 * Rubbish ! ' said Mrs Pansey, shaking her skirts ; 'there is 
 a deal more in this crime than meets the eye.' 
 
 * I believe general opinion is agreed upon that point,' said 
 the chaplain, dryly. 
 
 * What is Miss VVhichello's opinion ? ' demanded the arch- 
 deacon's widow. Cargrim could not suppress a start. It 
 was strange that Mrs Pansey should allude to Miss 
 Whichello, when he also had his suspicions regarding 
 her knowledge of the dead man. 
 
 ' I don't see what she has to do with it,' he said quietly, 
 with the intention of arriving at Mrs Pansey's meaning. 
 
 ' Ah ! no more can anyone else, Mr Cargrim. But I 
 know ! I know ! ' 
 
 ' Know what ? dear Mrs Pansey. Oh, really ! you are not 
 going to say that poor Miss Whichello fired that horrid 
 pistol.' 
 
 * I don't say anything, Daisy, as I don't want to figure 
 in a li!)el action ; but I should like to know why Aliss 
 Whichello went to the dead-house to see the body.' 
 
 'Did she go there? are you sure?' exclaimed the chap- 
 lain, much surprised. 
 
 ' I can believe my own eyes, can't I ! ' snapped Mrs Pansey. 
 •I saw her myself, for I was down near the police-station the 
 other evening on one of my visits to the poor. There, while 
 returning home by the dead-house, I saw that hussy of a Bell 
 Mosk making eyes at a policeman, and I recognised Miss 
 Whichello for all her veil.' 
 
 * Did she wear a veil ? ' 
 
 ' I should think so ; and a very thick one. But if she 
 wants to do underhand things she should change her 
 bonnet and cloak. I knew them ! don't tell me ! ' 
 
 Certainly, ivliss Whichello's actions seemed suspicious; 
 and, anxious to learn their meaning from the lady herself^ 
 
 133
 
 A Clerical Detective 
 
 Cargrim mentally determined to visit the Jenny Wren house 
 after leaving Mrs Pansey, instead of calling on Miss Tancred, 
 as he had intended However, he was in no hurry ; and, 
 asking Daisy for a second cup of tea to prolong his stay, 
 went on drawing out his hostess. 
 
 ' How very strange ! ' said he, in allusion to Miss Whichello. 
 * I wonder why she went to view so terrible a sight as that 
 man's body.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' replied Mrs Pansey, with a shake of her turban, 
 •we all want to know that. But I'll find her out; that 
 I will.' 
 
 'But, dear Mrs Pansey, you don't think sweet Miss 
 Whichello has anything to do with this very dreadful 
 murder ? ' 
 
 * I accuse no one, Daisy. I simply think ! ' 
 
 •What do you think?* questioned Cargrim, rather 
 sharply. 
 
 •I think — what I think,' was Mrs Pansey's enigmatic 
 response; and she shut her mouth hard. Honestly 
 speaking, the artful old lady was as puzzled by Miss 
 Whichello's visit to the dead-house as her hearers, and 
 she could bring no very tangible accusation against her, 
 but Mrs Pansey well knew the art of spreading scandal, 
 and was quite satisfied that her significant silence — about 
 nothing — would end in creating something against Miss 
 Whichello. When she saw Cargrim look at Daisy, and 
 Daisy look back to Cargrim, and remembered that their 
 tongues were only a degree less venomous than her own, 
 she was quite satisfied that a seed had been sown likely to 
 produce a very fertile crop of baseless talk. The prospect 
 cheered her greatly, for Mrs Pansey hated Miss Whichello 
 as much as a certain personage she quoted on occasions is 
 said to hate holy water. 
 
 * You are quite an Ear of Dionj'sius,' said the chaplain, 
 with a complimentary smirk ; * everything seems to come to 
 you.* 
 
 ' I make it my business to know what is going on, Mr 
 Cargrim,' replied the lady, much gratified, 'in order to stem 
 the torrent of infidelity, debauchery, lying and flattery which 
 rolls through this city.' 
 
 * Oh, dear me ! how strange it is that the dear bishop saw 
 
 »33
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 nothing of this frightful murder,' exclaimed Daisy, wlio had 
 been redeciing. ' He rode back from Southberry late on Sun- 
 day night, 1 hear.' 
 
 ' His lordship saw nothing, I am sure,' said Cargrim, 
 hastily, for it was not his design to incriminate Dr I'endle; 
 'if he had, he would have mentioned it to me. And )ou 
 know, Miss Norsham, there was quite a tempest on that 
 night, so even if his lordship had passed near the scene of 
 the murder, he could not have heard the shot of the assassin 
 or the cry of the victim. The rain and thunder would in all 
 human probability have drowned both.' 
 
 ' Besides which his lordship is neither sharp-eared nor 
 observant,' said Mrs Pansey, spitefully; 'a man less fitted 
 to be a bishop doesn't live.' 
 
 ' Oh, dear Mrs Pansey ! you are too hard on him.' 
 
 ' Rubbish ! don't tell me ! What about his sons, Mr 
 Cargrim? Did they hear anything?' 
 
 * 1 don't quite follow you, Mrs Pansey.* 
 
 ' Bless the man, I'm talking English, I hope. Both 
 George and Gabriel Pendle were on Southberry Heath 
 on Sunday night.' 
 
 'Are you sure !' cried the chaplain, doubtful if he heard 
 aright. 
 
 ' Of course I am sure,' snorted the lady. * Would I speak 
 so positively if I wasn't ? No, indeed. I got the news trom 
 my page-boy.' 
 
 ' Really ! from that sweet little Cyril ! ' 
 
 'Yes, from that worthless scamp Cyril! Cyril,* repeated 
 Mrs Pansey, with a snort, 'the idea of a pauper like Mrs 
 Jennings giving her brat such a fine name. Well, it was 
 Cyril's night out on Sunday, and he did not come home till 
 late, and then made his appearance very wet and dirty. He 
 told me that he had been on Southberry Heath and had 
 been almost knocked into a ditch by Mr Pendle galloping 
 past. I asked him which Mr Pendle had been out riding 
 on Sunday, and he declared that he had seen them both — 
 George about eight o'clock when he was on the Heaih, and 
 Gabriel shortly after nine, as he was coming home. I gave 
 the wretched boy a good scolding, no supper, and a psalm 
 to commit to memory ! ' 
 
 ' George and Gabriel Pendle riding on Southberry Heath 
 
 134
 
 A Clerical Detective 
 
 on that night,' said the chaplain, thoughtfully; 'it is very 
 strange.' 
 
 ' Strange ! * almost shouted Mrs Pansey, ' it's worse than 
 strange — it's Sabbath-breaking — and their father riding also. 
 No wonder the mystery of iniquity doth work, when those 
 high in the land break the fourth commandment; are 
 you going, Mr Cargrim?* 
 
 ' Yes ! I am sorry to leave such charming company, but 
 I have an engagement. Good-bye, Miss Norsham ; your tea 
 was worthy of the fair hands which made it. Good-bye, 
 Mrs Pansey. Let us hope that the authorities will discover 
 and punish this unknown Cain.' 
 
 ' Cain or Jezebel,' said Mrs Pansey, darkly, ' it's one or 
 the other of them.' 
 
 Whether the good lady meant to indicate Miss Whichello 
 by the second name, Mr Cargrim did not stay to inquire, as 
 he was in a hurry to see her himself and find out why she 
 had visited the dead-house. He therefore bowed and 
 smiled himself out of Mrs Pansey's gaol, and walked as 
 rapidly as he was able to the little house in the shadow of 
 the cathedral towers. Here lie found Miss Whichello all 
 alone, as Mab had gone 0;.t to tea with some friends. 
 The little lady welcomed him warmly, quite ignorant of 
 what a viper she was inviting to warm itself on her hearth, 
 and visitor and hostess were soon chattering amicably on 
 the most friendly of terms. 
 
 Gradually Cargrim brought round the conversation to 
 Mrs Pansey and mentioned that he had been paying her 
 a visit. 
 
 'I hope you enjoyed yourself, I'm sure, Mr Cargrim,' 
 said Miss Whichello, good-humouredly, 'but it gives me 
 no pleasure to visit Mrs Pansey.' 
 
 ' Well, do you know. Miss Whichello, I find her rather 
 amusing. She is a very observant lady, and converses 
 wittily about what she observes.' 
 
 ' She talks scandal, if that is what you mean.' 
 
 ' I am afraid that word is rather harsh. Miss Whichello.' 
 
 ' It may be, sir, but it is rather appropriate — to Mrs 
 Pansey! Well! and who was she talking about to-day?' 
 
 * About several people, my dear lady ; yourself amongst 
 the number.' 
 
 135
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 * Indeed I ' Miss VVhichello drew her little body up stiffly. 
 •And had she anythint^ unpleasant to say about me?' 
 
 ' Oh, not at all. She only remarked that she saw you 
 Tisiting the dead-house last week.' 
 
 Miss Whichello let fall her cup with a crash, and turned 
 pale. *How does she know that?' was her sharp question. 
 
 ' She saw you,' repeated the chaplain ; ' and in spite of 
 your veil she recognised you by your cloak and bonnet' 
 
 ' I am greatly obliged to Mrs Pansey for the interest slie 
 takes in my business,' said Miss Whichello, in her most 
 stately manner. ' I did visit the Beorminster dead-house. 
 There ! ' 
 
 I3if
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE CHAPLAIN ON THE WARPATH 
 
 Miss Whichello's frank admission that she had visited the 
 dead-house rather disconcerted Mr Cargrim. From the 
 circumstance of the veil, he had presumed that she wished 
 her errand there to be unknown, in which case her conduct 
 would have appeared highly suspicious, since she was sup- 
 posed to know nothing about Jentham or Jentham's murder. 
 But her ready acknowledgment of the fact apparently 
 showed that she had nothing to conceal. Cargrim, for all 
 his acuteness, did not guess that'of two evils Miss Whichello 
 had chosen the least. In truth, she did not wish her visit 
 to the dead-house to be known, but as Mrs Pansey was 
 cognisant of it, she judged it wiser to neutralise any possible 
 harm that that lady could do by admitting the original 
 statement to be a true one. This honesty would take the 
 wind out of Mrs Pansey's sails, and prevent her from distort- 
 ing an admitted fact into a fiction of hinted wickedness. 
 Furthermore, Miss Whichello was prepared to give Cargrim 
 a sufficient reason for her visit, so that he might not invent 
 one. Only by so open a course could she keep the secret 
 of her thirty-year-old acquaintance with the dead man. As 
 a rule, the little old lady hated subterfuge, but in this case 
 her only chance of safety lay in beating Pansey, Cargrim and 
 Company with their own weapons. And who can say that 
 she was acting wrongly ? 
 
 ' Yes, Mr Cargrim,' she repeated, looking him directly in 
 the face, • Mrs Pansey is right I was at the dead-house 
 and I went to see the corpse of the man Jentham. I sup- 
 pose you — and Mrs Pansey — wonder why I did so ? * 
 
 * Oh, my dear lady ! ' remonstrated the embarrassed 
 chaplain, 'by no means; such knowledge i£ none oS oar 
 business — that is, none of my business.' 
 
 10 *37
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 'You have made it ycur business, however!' observed 
 Miss Whichello, dryly, 'else you would scarcely have in- 
 formed me of Mrs Tansey's unwarrantable remarks on my 
 private afTairs. >Vell, Mr Cargriin, I sui)|nse you know 
 that this tramp attacked my niece on the high road.' 
 
 •Yes, Miss Whichello, I know that.' 
 
 'Very good ; as I considered that the man was a danger- 
 ous character I thought that he should be compelled to 
 leave Beorniinster; so I went to The Derby Winner on 
 the night that you met me, in order to — ' 
 
 'To see Mrs Mosk ! ' interrupted Cargrim, softly, hoping 
 to entrap her. 
 
 • In order to see Mrs Mosk, and in order to see Jentham. 
 I intended to tell him that if he did not leave Beorminster 
 at once that I should inform the police of his attack on 
 Miss Arden. Also, as I was willing to give him a chance 
 of reforming his conduct, I intended to supply him with a 
 small surri for his immediate departure. On that nignt, 
 however, I did not see him, as he had gone over to the 
 gipsy camp. When I heard that he was dead I could 
 scarcely believe it, so, to set my mind at rest, and to satisfy 
 myself that Mab would be in no further danger from his 
 insolence when she walked abroad, I visited the dead- 
 house and saw his body. That, Mr Cargrim, was the sole 
 reason for my visit ; and as it concerned myself alone, I 
 wore a veil so as not to provoke remark. It seems that I 
 was wrong, since Mrs Pansey has been discussing me. 
 However, I hope you will set her mind at rest by telling 
 her what I have told you.' 
 
 ' Really, my dear Miss Whichello, you are very severe ; I 
 assure you all this explanation is needless.' 
 
 • Not while Mrs Pansey has so venomous a tongue, Mr 
 Cargrim. She is quite capable of twisting my innocent 
 desire to assure myself that Mab was safe from this man 
 into some extraordinary statement without a word of truth 
 in it. I shouldn't be surprised if Mrs Pansey had hinted to 
 you that I had killed this creature.' 
 
 As this was precisely what the archdeacon's widow had 
 done, Cargrim ftlt horribly uncomfortable under the scorn 
 of Miss Whichello's justifiable indignation. Pie grew red, 
 and smiled feebly, and murmured weak apologies ; all of 
 
 138
 
 The Chaplain on the Wartath 
 
 which Miss Whichello saw and heard witH supreme con- 
 tempt. Mr Cargrim, by his late tittle-tattling conversation, 
 had fallen in her good opinion ; and she was not sjoing to 
 let him off without a sharp rebuke for his unfounded 
 chatter. Cutting short his murmurs, she proceeded to nip 
 in the bud any further reports he or Mrs Pansey might 
 spread in connection with the murder, by explaining much 
 more than was needful. 
 
 'And if Mrs Pansey should hear that Captain Pendle 
 was on Southberry Heath on Sunday night,' she con- 
 tinued, ' I trust that she will not accuse him of shooting the 
 man, although as I know, and you know also, Mr Cargrim, 
 she is quite capable of doing so.' 
 
 'Was Captain Pendle on Southberry Heath?' asked 
 Cargrim, who was already acquainted with this fact, although 
 he did not think it necessary to tell Miss Whichello so. 
 ' You don't say so ? ' 
 
 * Yes, he was ! He rode over to the gipsy camp to 
 purchase an engagement ring for Miss Arden from Mother 
 Jael. That ring is now on her finger.' 
 
 ' So Miss Arden is engaged to Captain Pendle,' cried 
 Cargrim, in a gushing manner. *! congratulate you, and 
 her, and him.' 
 
 'Thank you, Mr Cargrim,' said Miss Whichello, stiffly. 
 
 * I suppose Captain Pendle saw nothing of Jentham at 
 the gipsy camp ? ' 
 
 ' No ! he never saw the man at all that evening.' 
 
 * Did he hear the shot fired ? ' 
 
 ' Of course he did not ! ' cried Miss Whichello, wrathfully. 
 *How could he hear with the roise of the storm? 'You 
 might as well ask if the bishop did \ he was on Southberry 
 Heath on that night.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, but he heard nothing, dear lady ; he told me so.' 
 
 •You seem to be very interested in this murder, Mr 
 Cargrim,' said the little lady, with a keen look. 
 
 ' Naturally, everyone in Beorminster is interested in it. 
 I hope the criminal will be captured.' 
 
 * I hope so too ; do you know who he is ? ' 
 *I ? my dear lady, how should I know ?' 
 
 * I thought Mrs Pansey might have told you ! ' said Miss 
 Whichello, coolly. * She knows all that goes on, and a good 
 
 139
 
 T}ie Bishofs Secret 
 
 deal that doesn't But you can tell her that both I and 
 Captain Pendle are innocent, althoui,'!) I did visit the dead- 
 house, and although he was on Southberry Heath when the 
 crime was committed.' 
 
 ' You are very severe, dear lady !' said Cargrim, rising to 
 take his leave, for he was anxious to extricate himself from 
 his very uncomfortable and undignified position. 
 
 •Solomon was even more severe, Mr Cargrim. He said, 
 •* Burning lips and a wicked heart are like a potsherd covered 
 with silver dross." I fancy there were Mrs Panseys in those 
 days, Mr Cargrim.' 
 
 In the face of this choice proverb Mr Cargrim beat a 
 hasty retreat. Altogether Miss VVhichello was too much 
 for him ; and for once in his life he was at a loss how to 
 gloss over his defeat. Not until he was in Tinkler's office 
 did he recover his feeling of superiority. With a man — 
 especially with a social inferior — he felt that he could deal ; 
 but who can contend with a woman's tongue? It is her 
 sword and shield ; her mouth is her bow ; her words are 
 the arrows ; and the man who hopes to withstand such an 
 armoury of deadly weapons is a superfine idiot. Cargrim, 
 not being one, had run away ; but in his rage at being 
 compelled to take flight, he almost exceeded Mrs Pansey 
 in hating the cause of it. Miss Whichello had certainly 
 gained a victory, but she had also made an enemy. 
 
 'So the inquest is over, Mr Inspector,' said the ruffled 
 Cargrim, smoothing his plumes. 
 
 ' Over and done with, sir ; and the corpse is now six feet 
 under earth.' 
 
 'A sad end, Mr Inspector, and a sad life. To be a 
 wanderer on the face of the earth ; to be violently removed 
 when sinning: to be buried at the expense of an alien 
 parish ; what a fate for a baptised Christian.' 
 
 ' Don't you take on so, Mr Cargrim, sir ! ' said Tinkler, 
 grimly. 'There was precious little religion about Jentham, 
 and he was buried in a much better fashion than he de- 
 served, and not by the parish either.' 
 
 Cargrim looked up suddenly. 'Who paid for his funeral 
 then ? ' 
 
 ' A charitable la — person, sir, whose name I am not at 
 liberty to tell anyone, at her own request.' 
 
 140
 
 The Chaplain on the Warpath 
 
 ' At her own request,' said the chaplain, noting Tinkler's 
 slips and putting two and two together with wondrous 
 rapidity. * Ah, Miss Whichello is indeed a good lady.' 
 
 * Did you — do you know — are you aware that Miss 
 Whichello buried him, sir ? ' stammered the inspector, con- 
 siderably astonished. 
 
 *I have just come from her house,* replied Cargrim, 
 answering the question in the affirmative by implication. 
 
 * Well, she asked me not to tell anyone, sir ; but as she 
 told you, I s'pose I can say as she buried that corpse with a 
 good deal of expense.' 
 
 ' It is not to be wondered at, seeing that she took an in- 
 terest in the wretched creature,' said Cargrim, delicately 
 feeling his way. * I trust that the sight of his body in the 
 dead-house didn't shock her nerves.' 
 
 'Did she tell you she visited the dead-house?' asked 
 Tinkler, his eyes growing larger at the extent of the chap- 
 lain's information. 
 
 * Of course she did,* replied Cargrim, and this was truer 
 than most of his remarks. 
 
 Tinkler brought down a heavy fist with a bang on hia 
 desk. *Then I'm blest, Mr Cargrim, sir, if I can under- 
 stand what she meant by asking me to hold my tongue.* 
 
 ' Ah, Mr Inspector, the good lady is one of those rare 
 spirits who " do good by stealth and blush to find it fame." * 
 
 ' Seems a kind of silly to go on like that, sir 1 ' 
 
 *We are not all rare spirits. Tinkler.' 
 
 * I don't know what the world would be if we were, Mr 
 Cargrim, sir. But Miss Whichello seemed so anxious that 
 I should hold my tongue about the visit and the burial 
 that I can't make out why she talked about them to you or 
 to anybody.' 
 
 * I cannot myself fathom her reason for such unnecessary 
 secrecy, Mr Inspector; unless it is that she wishes the 
 murderer to be discovered.' 
 
 ♦Well, she can't spot him,* said Tinkler, emphatically, 
 *for all she knows about Jentham is thirty years old.' 
 
 Cargrim could scarcely suppress a start at this unexpected 
 information. So Miss Whichello did know something about 
 the dead man after all ; and doubtless her connection with 
 Jentham had to do with the secret of the bishop. Caigrim 
 
 141
 
 The Bishof s Secret 
 
 felt that he was on the eve of an imnort:int discovery ; for 
 Tinkler, thinking that Miss ^Vhichcllo liad made a confidant 
 of the chaplain, babbled on innocently, without guessing 
 that his attentive listener was making a base use of him. 
 'I'hc shrug of the shoulders witli which Cargrim commented 
 on his last remark made Tinkler talk Turlher. 
 
 ' Besides ! ' said he, expansively, 'what does Miss Which- 
 ello know ? Only that the man was a violinist thirty years 
 ago, and that he called himself Amaru. Those details don't 
 throw any light on the murder, Mr Cargrim, sir.' 
 
 The chaplam mentally noted the former name and 
 t'ormer profession of Jcnlham and shook his head. 'Such 
 information is utterly useless,' he said gravely, 'and the 
 people with whom Amaru alias Jcntham associated then 
 are doubtless all dead by this time.' 
 
 ' Well, Miss AVhichello didn't mention any of his friends, 
 sir, but I daresay it wouldn't be much use if she did. Be- 
 vond the man's former name and business as a fiddler she 
 told me nothing. I suppose, sir, she didn't tell you any- 
 thing likely to help us?' 
 
 ' No ! I don'i think the past can help the present, Mr 
 Tinkler. But what is your candid opinion about this case ?' 
 
 ' I think it is a mystery, Mr Cargrim, sir, and is likely to 
 remain one.' 
 
 'You don't anticipate that the murderer will be found?' 
 
 •No!' replied Mr Inspector, gruffly. 'I don't.' 
 
 •Cannot Mosk, with whom Jentham was lodging, en- 
 lighten you?' 
 
 Tinkler shook his head. ' Mosk said that Jentham owed 
 him money, and promised to pay him this week ; but that 
 I believe was all moonshine.' 
 
 • But Jentham might have expected to receive money, 
 Mr Inspector?' 
 
 'Not he, Mr Cargrim, sir. He knew no one here who 
 would lend or give him a farthing. He had no money on 
 him when his corpse was found ! ' 
 
 ' Yet the body had been robbed ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, the body was robbed sure enough, for we found 
 the pockets turned inside out. But the murderer only took 
 the rubbish a vagabond was likely to have on him.' 
 
 'Were any papers taken, do you think, Mr Inspector?' 
 
 142
 
 The Chaplain on the Wa^-path 
 
 'Papers !' echoed Tinkler, scratching his head. 'What 
 papers ? ' 
 
 ' Well ! ' said Cargrim, shirking a true explanation, ' papers 
 likely to reveal his real name and the reason of his haunt- 
 ing Beorminster.' 
 
 ' I don't think there could have been any papers. Air 
 Cargrim, sir. If there had been, we'd ha' found 'em. The 
 murderer wouldn't have taken rubbish like that.' 
 
 ' But why was the man killed ? ' persisted the chaplain. 
 
 ' He was killed in a row,' said Tinkler, decisively, ' that's 
 my theory. Mother Jael says that he was half seas over 
 when he left the camp, so I daresay he met some labourer 
 who quarrelled with him and used his pistol.' 
 
 ' But is it likely that a labourer would have a pistol ? ' 
 
 ' Why not ? Those harvesters don't trust one another, 
 and it's just as hkely as not that one of them would keep a 
 pistol to protect his property from the other.' 
 
 ' Was search made for the pistol ? * 
 
 •Yes, it was, and no pistol was found. I tell you what, 
 Mr Cargrim,' said Tinkler, rising in rigid military fashion, 
 • it's my opinion diat there is too much tall talk about this 
 case. Jentham was shot in a drunken row, and the 
 murderer has cleared out of the district. That is the 
 whole explanation of the matter.' 
 
 'I daresay you are xV(\\l, Mr Inspector,' sighed Cargrim^ 
 putting on his' hat. ' We are all apt to elevate the common- 
 place into the romantic' 
 
 'Or make a mountain out of a mole hill, which is plain 
 English,' said Tinkler. ' Good-day, Mr Caigrim.' 
 
 'Good-day, Tinkler, and many thanks for your lucid 
 statement of the case. I have no doubt that his lordship, 
 the bishop, will take your very sensible view of the matter.' 
 
 As it was now late, Mr Cargrim returned to the palace, 
 not ill pleased with his afternoon's work. He had learned 
 that Miss Whichello had visited the dead-house, that she 
 had known the dead man as a violinist under the name of 
 Amaru, and had buried him for old acquaintance sake at 
 her own expense. Also he had been informed that Captain 
 Pendle and his brother Gabriel had been on Southberry 
 Heath on the very night, and about the very time, when 
 the man had been shot ; so, with all these materials, Mr 
 
 143
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 Cargrim hoped sooner or later to build up a very pretty 
 case against the bishop. If Miss Whichello was mixed up 
 with the matter, so much the better. At this moment Mr 
 Cari^rim's meditation was broken in upon by the voice of 
 Dr Graham. 
 
 •You are the very man I want, Cargrim. The bishop 
 has written askina; me to call to-night and see him. Just 
 tell him that 1 am engaged this evening, but that I will 
 attend on him to-morrow morning at ten o'clock.' 
 
 *0h! ho!' soliloquised Cargrim, when the doctor, 
 evidently in a great hurry, went off, ' so his lordship wants 
 to see Dr Graham. I wonder what that is for?' 
 
 M4
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE bishop's request 
 
 Whatever Dr Pendle may have thought of the Southberry 
 murder, he kept his opinion very much to himself. It is 
 true that he expressed himself horrified at the occurrence 
 of so barbarous a crime in his diocese, that he spoke 
 pityingly of the wretched victim, that he was interested in 
 hearing the result of the inquest, but in each case he was 
 guarded in his remarks. At first, on hearing of the crime, 
 his face had betrayed — at all events, to Cargrim's jealous 
 scrutiny — an expression of relief, but shortly afterwards — 
 on second thoughts, as one might say — there came into his 
 eyes a look of apprehension. That look which seemed to 
 expect the drawing near of evil days never left them again, 
 and daily his face grew thinner and whiter, his manner 
 more restless and ill at ease. He seemed as uncomfortable 
 as was Damocles under the hair-suspended sword. 
 
 Other people besides the chaplain noticed the change, 
 but, unlike Cargrim, they did not ascribe it to a conscious- 
 ness of guilt, but to ill health. Mrs Pendle, who was ex- 
 tremely fond of her husband, and was well informed with 
 regard to the newest treatment and the latest fashionable 
 medicine, insisted that the bishop suffered from nerves 
 brought on by overwork, and plaintively suggested that he 
 should take the cure for them at some German Bad. But 
 the bishop, sturdy old Briton that he was, insisted that so 
 long as he could keep on his feet there was no necessity 
 for his women-folk to make a fuss over him, and declared 
 that it was merely the change in the weather which caused 
 him — as he phrased it — to feel a trifle out of sorts. 
 
 'It is hot one day and cold the next, my dear,' he said 
 In answer to his wife remonstrances, * as if the clerk of the 
 
 K 145
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 weather didn't know his own mind. How can you expect 
 the liver of a fat, lazy old man like mc not to rispond to 
 these sudden changes of temperature? ' 
 
 ' Fat, bishop ! ' cried Mrs Pendle, in vexed tones. ' V'ou are 
 not fat ; you have a fine figure for a man of your age. And 
 as to lazy, there is no one in the Chuich who works harder 
 than you do. No one can deny that.' ' 
 
 'You flatter me, my love ! ' 
 
 ' You under-rate yourself, my dear. But if it is li\er, why 
 not try Woodhall Spa? I believe the treatment there is 
 very drastic and beneficial. Why not go there, bishop? 
 I'm sure a holiday would do you no harm.' 
 
 'I haven't time for a holiday, Amy. My liver must get 
 well as best it can while I go about my daily duties — that is 
 if it is my liver.' 
 
 * I don't believe it is,' remarked Mrs Pendle ; ' it is nerves, 
 my dear, nothing else. You hardly eat anything, you start 
 at your own shadow, and at times you are too irritable for 
 words. Go to Droitwich for those unruly nerves of yours, 
 and try brine baths.' 
 
 ' I rather think you should go to Nauheim for that weak 
 heart of yours, Tiy love,' replied Dr Pendle, arranging his 
 wife's pillows ; ' in fact, I want you and Lucy to go there next 
 month.' 
 
 ' Indeed, bishop, I shall do no such thing ! You are not 
 fit to look after yourself.' 
 
 'Then Graham shall look after me.' 
 
 • Dr Graham ! ' echoed Mrs Pend'e, with contempt. * He is 
 old-fashioned, and quite ignorant of the new medicines. 
 No, bishop, yoLi must go to Droitwich.' 
 
 'And you, my dear, to Nauheim !' 
 
 At this point matters came to an issue between them, for 
 Mrs Pendle, who like most people possessed a fund of what 
 may be called nervous obstinacy, positively refused to leave 
 England. On his side, the bishop insisted more eagerly 
 than was his custom that Mrs Pendle should undergo the 
 Schott treatment at Nauheim. For some time the argu- 
 ment was maintained with equal determination on both 
 sides, until Mrs Pendle concluded it by bursting into tears 
 and protesting that her husband did not understand her 
 in the least. Whereupon, as the only way to soothe her, 
 
 146
 
 The Bishofs Request 
 
 the bishop admitted that he was in the wrong and 
 apologised. 
 
 All the same, he was determined that his wife should go 
 abroad, and thinking she might yield to professional per- 
 suasions, he sent for Dr Graham. By Cargrim a message 
 was brought that the doctor would be with the bishop next 
 morning, so Pendle, not to provoke further argument, said 
 nothing more on the subject to his wife. But here Lucy 
 came on the scene, and seemed equally as averse as her 
 mother to Continental travel. She immediately entered 
 her protest against the proposed journey. 
 
 'Mamma is better now than ever she was,' said Lucv, 
 'and if she goes to Nauheim the treatment will only 
 weaken her.' 
 
 ' It will strengthen her in the long run, Lucy. I hear 
 wonderful accounts of the Nauheim cures.' 
 
 'Oh, papa, every Bad says that it cures more patients 
 than any other, just as every Bad advertises that its v.aiers 
 have so much per cent, more salt or sodium or iodine, or 
 whatever they call it, than the rest. Besides, if you really 
 think mamma should try this cure she can have it at Bath 
 or in London. They say it is just as good in either place 
 as at Nauheim.* 
 
 'I think not, Lucy; and I wish you and your mother to 
 go abroad for a month or two. My mind is made up on 
 the subject.* 
 
 ' Why, papa,' cried Lucy, playfully, 'one would think you 
 wanted to get rid of us.' 
 
 The bishop winced and turned a shade paler. ' You 
 are talking at random, my dear,' he said gravely ; ' if it were 
 not for your mother's good I should not deprive myself 
 of your society. ' 
 
 'Poor mother!' sighed Lucy, and 'poor Harry,' she 
 added as an afterthought. 
 
 ' There need be no " poor Harry " about the matter,' said 
 Dr Pendle, rather sharply. ' If that is what is troubling you, 
 I daresay Harry will be glad to escort you and your mother 
 over to Germany.' 
 
 Lucy became a rosy red with pleasure. ' Do you really 
 hink Harry will like to come ? ' she asked in a fluttering 
 voice. 
 
 147
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 ' He is no true lover if he doesn't,' replied her father, 
 with a wan smile. ' Now, run away, my love, I am busy. 
 To-morrow wo shall settle the question of your going.' 
 
 When to-morrow came, Cargrim, all on fire with curiosity, 
 tried his hardest to stay in the library when Dr Graham 
 came ; but as the bishop wished his interview to be private, 
 he intimated the fact pretty plainly to his obsequious 
 chaplain. In fact, he spoke so sharply that Cargrim felt 
 distinctly aggrieved; and but for the trnined control he 
 kept of his temper, might have said sonicthing to show Dr 
 Pendle the suspicions he entertained. However, the time 
 was not yet ripe for him to place all his cards on the table, 
 for he had not yet conceived a plausible case against the 
 bishop, lie was on the point of pronouncing the name 
 ' Amaru ' to see if it would startle Dr Pendle, but re- 
 membering his former failures when he had introduced the 
 name of ' Jentham ' to the bishop's notice, he was wise 
 enough to hold his tongue. It would not do to arouse Dr 
 Pendle's susincions until he could accuse him plainly of 
 murdering the man, and could produce evidence to sub- 
 stantiate his accusation. The evidence Cargrim wished to 
 obtain was that of the cheque butt and the pistol, but as 
 yet he did not see his way how to become possessed of 
 either. Pending doing so, he hid himself in the grass like 
 the snake he was, ready to strike his unsuspecting bene- 
 factor when he could do so with safety and effect. 
 
 In accordance with his resolution on this point, Mr 
 Cargrim was meek and truckling while he was with the 
 bishop, and when Dr Graham was announced he sidled 
 out of the library with a bland smile. Dr Graham gave 
 him a curt nod in response to his gracious greeting, and 
 closed the door himself before he advanced to meet the 
 bishop. Nay, more, so violent was his dislike to good Mr 
 Cargrim, that he made a few remarks about that apostle 
 before coming to the object of his visit. 
 
 * If you were a student of I^vater, bishop,' said he, 
 rubbing his han<3s, 'you would not tolerate that Jesuitical 
 Rodin near you for one moment.' 
 
 • Jesuitical Rodin, d^^ctor ! I do not understand.' 
 
 'Ah, that comes of not reading French novels, my 
 lord « ' 
 
 148
 
 The Bishop's Request 
 
 * I do not approve of the moral tone of French fiction,' 
 said the bishop, stiffly. 
 
 * Few of our English Pharisees do,' replied Graham, dryly ; 
 * not that I rank you among the hypocrites, bishop, so do 
 not take ray remark in too literal a sense.' 
 
 * I am not so thin-skinned or self-conscious as to do so, 
 Graham. But your meaning of a Jesuitical Rodin ? ' 
 
 * It is explained in The Wandering Jew of Eugene Sue, 
 bishop. You should read that novel if only to arrive by 
 analogy at the true character of your chaplain. Rodin is 
 one of the personages in the book, and Rodin,' said the 
 doctor decisively, ' is Cargrim ! ' 
 
 * You are severe, doctor. Michael is an estimable young 
 man.' 
 
 * Michael and the Dragon ! ' said Graham, playing upon 
 the name. ' Humph ! he is more like the latter than the 
 former. Mr Michael Cargrim is the young serpent as 
 Satan is the old one.' 
 
 * I always understood that you considered Satan a myth, 
 doctor ! ' 
 
 ' So I do ; so he is ; a bogey of the Middle and Classical 
 Ages constructed out of Pluto and Pan. But he serves 
 excellently •well for an illustration of your pet parson.' 
 
 * Cargrim is not a pet of mine,' rejoined the bishop, 
 coldly, 'and I do not say that he is a perfect character. 
 Still, he is not bad enough to be compared to Satan. You 
 speak too hurriedly, doctor, and, if you will pardon my say- 
 ing so, too irreligiously.' 
 
 *I beg your pardon, I forgot that I was addressing a 
 bishop. But as to that young man, he is a bad and 
 dangerous character.' 
 
 * Doctor, doctor,' protested the bishop, raising a depre- 
 cating hand. 
 
 ' Yes, he is,' insisted Graham ; * his goodness and meek- 
 ness are all on the surface ! I am convinced that he is a 
 kind of human mole who works underground, and makes 
 mischief in secret ways. If you have a cupboard with a 
 skeleton, bishop, take care Mr Cargrim doesn't steal the 
 key.' 
 
 Graham spoke with some meaning, for since the illness 
 of Dr Pendle after Jentham's visit, he had suspected that 
 
 149
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 the bishop was worried in his mind, and that he possessed 
 a secret which was wearing him out. Had he known that 
 the strange visitor was one and the same with the mur- 
 dered man, he might have spoken still more to the point ; 
 but the doctor was ignorant of this and consequently con- 
 ceived the bishop's secret to be much more harmless than 
 it really was. However, his words touched his host nearly, 
 fur Dr Pendle started and grew nervous, and looked so 
 haggard and worried that Graham continued his speech 
 without giving him time to make a remark. 
 
 •However, I did not come heie to discuss Cargrim,' he 
 said cheerfully, * but because you sent for me. It is about 
 time,' said Graham, grimly, surveying the bishop's wasted face 
 and embarrassed manner. * You are looking about as ill as 
 a man can look. What is the matter with you ?' 
 
 ' Nothing is the matter with me. 1 am in my usual 
 health.' 
 
 ' You look it,' said the doctor, ironically. ' Good Lord, 
 man ! ' with sudden wrath, ' why in the name of the Thirty- 
 Nine Articles can't you tell me the truth ? ' 
 
 * The truth ? ' echoed the bishop, faintly. 
 
 * Yes, my lord, I said the truth, and I mean the truth. If 
 you are not wrong in body you are in mind. A man 
 doesn't lose flesh, and colour, and appetite, and self control 
 for nothing. You want me to cure you. Well, I can't, un- 
 less you show me the root of your trouble.' 
 
 * 1 am worried over a private affair,' confessed Pendle, 
 driven into a corner. 
 
 * Something wrong?' asked Graham, raising his eyebrowa* 
 •Yes, something is very wrong.' 
 
 * Can't it be put right ? ' 
 
 * I fear not,' said the bishop, in hopeless tones. 'It is one 
 of those things beyond the power of mortal man to put ri^^ht.' 
 
 ' Your trouble must be serious,' said Graham, with a 
 grave face. 
 
 ' It is very serious. You can't heh) me. I can't help 
 myseh''. I must endure my sorrow as best I may. After 
 all, God strengthens the back for the burden.* 
 
 ' Oh, Lord I ' groaned Graham to himself, ' that make-the- 
 best-of-it-view seems to be the gist of Christianity. What 
 the deuce is the good of la) ing a too weighty burden on 
 
 150
 
 The Bishop's Request 
 
 any back, when you've got to strengthen it to bear it ? Well, 
 bishop,' he added aloud, ' I have no right to ask for a 
 glimpse of your skeleton. But can I help you in any way?' 
 
 * Yes,' cried the bishop, eagerly. ' I sent for you to request 
 your aid. You can help me, Graham, and very materially.' 
 
 •I'm willing to do so. What shall I do?' 
 
 *Send my wife and daughter over to Nauheim on the 
 pretext that Mrs Pendle requires the baths, and keep theia 
 there for two months.' 
 
 Dr Graham looked puzzled, for he could by no means 
 conceive the meaning of so odd a request. In common 
 with other people, he was accustomed to consider Bishop 
 and Mrs Pendle a model couple, who would be as miser- 
 able as two separated love-birds if parted. Yet here was 
 the husband asking his aid to send away the wife on what 
 he admitted was a transparent pretext. For the moment 
 he was nonplussed. 
 
 ' Pardon me, bishop,' he said delicately, ' but have you 
 had w'ords with your wife ? ' 
 
 ' No ! no ! God forbid, Graham. She is as good and 
 tender as she always is: as dear to me as she ever was. 
 But I wish her to go away for a time, and I desire Lucy 
 to accompany her. Yesterday I suggested that they 
 should take a trip to Nauheim, but both of them seemed 
 unwilling to go. Yet they must go ! ' cried the bishop, 
 vehemently; 'and you must help me in my trouble by 
 insisting upon their immediate departure.' 
 
 Graham was more perplexed than ever. 'Has your 
 secret trouble anything to do with Mrs Pendle?' he 
 demanded, hardly knowing what to say. 
 
 ' It has everything to do with her ! * 
 
 * Does she know that it has ? ' 
 
 *No, she knows nothing — not even that I am keeping 
 a secret from her ; doctor,' said Pendle, rising, ' if I could 
 tell you my trouble I would, but I cannot ; I dare not ! 
 If you help me, you must do so with implicit confidence 
 in me, knowing that I am acting for the best* 
 
 * Well, bishop, you place me rather in a cleft stick,' said 
 the doctor, looking at the agitated face of the man with 
 his shrewd little eyes. * I don't like acting in the dark. 
 One should always look before he leaps, you know.' 
 
 151
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 'But, good heavens, man I I am not asking you to do 
 anything wrong. My request is a perfectly reasonable one. 
 I want my wife and daughter to leave England for a time, 
 and you can induce them to take the journey.' 
 
 * \\ ell,' said Graham, calmly, ' I shall do so.' 
 
 * Thank you, Graham. It is g'jod of you to accede to 
 my request.' 
 
 ' I wouldn't do it for everyone,' said Graham, sharply. 
 'And although I do not like being shut out from your con- 
 fidence, I know you well enough to trust you thoroughly. 
 A couple of months at Nauheim may do your wife good, 
 and — as you tell me — will relieve your mind.' 
 
 ' It will certainly relieve my mind,' said the bishop, very 
 emphatically. 
 
 ' Very good, my lord. I'll do my very best to persuade 
 Mrs Pendle and your daughter to undertake the journey.' 
 
 * Of course,' said Pendle, anxiously, ' you won't tell 
 them all I have told you I I do not wish to explain myself 
 too minutely to them.' 
 
 *I am not quite so indiscreet as you think, my lord,' 
 replied Graham, with some dryness. 'Your wife shall 
 leave Beorminster for Nauheim thinking that your desire 
 Tor her departure is entirely on account of her health.' 
 
 ' Thank you again, doctor 1 ' and the bishop held out 
 his hand. 
 
 'Come,' said Graham to himself as he took it, 'this 
 secret can't be anything very dreadful if he gives me his 
 hand. My lord ! ' he added aloud, ' I shall see Mrs 
 Pendle at once. But before closing this conversation I 
 would give you a warning.' 
 
 * A warning ! ' stammered the bishop, starting back. 
 
 •A very necessary warning,' said the doctor, solemnly. 
 ' If you have a secret, beware of Cargrim.' 
 
 I$«
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 MOTHER JAEL 
 
 Doctor Graham was not the man to fail in carrying 
 through successfully any scheme he undertook, and what he 
 had promised the bishop he duly fulfilled. After a rather 
 lengthy interview with Ivlrs Pendle and her daughter, he 
 succeeded in arousing their interest in Nauheim and its 
 baths : so much so, that before he left the palace they were 
 as eager to go as formerly they had been to stay. This 
 seeming miracle was accomplished mainly by a skilful 
 appeal to Mrs Pendle's love for experimenting with new 
 medical discoveries in connection with her health. She 
 had never tried the Schott treatment for herrt dilation, and 
 indeed had heard very little about it; but when fully in- 
 formed on the subject, her interest in it was soon awakened. 
 She soon came to look on the carbolic spring of Nauheim as 
 the true fountain of youth, and was sanguine that by 
 bathing for a few weeks in its life-giving waters she would 
 return to Beorminster hale and hearty, and full of vitality. 
 If ever Hope told a flattering lale, she did to Mrs Pendle 
 through the lips of cunning Dr Graham. 
 
 'I thought you knew nothing about new medicines 
 or treatments,' she observed graciously ; ' or, if you did, 
 that you were too conservative to prescribe them. I see 
 I was wrong,* 
 
 •You were decidedly wrong, Mrs Pendle. It is only a 
 fool who ceases to acquire knowledge and benefit by it. 
 I am not a cabbage although I do live in a vegetable 
 garden.' 
 
 Lucy's consent was gained through the glowing descrip- 
 tion of the benefit her mother would receive from tiie 
 Nauheim waters, and the opportune arrival of Sir Harry 
 Brace contributed to the wished-for result. The ardent 
 
 11 153
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 lover immediately declared his willingness to escort Lucy 
 to the world's end. Wherever Lucy was, the Garden of 
 Eden blossomed ; and wliile Mrs Pendle was being pickled 
 and massaged and put to bed for recuperative slumbers, 
 he hoped to have his future wife all to himself. In her 
 sweet company even the dull liltlc German watering- 
 place would prove a Paradise. Cupid is the sole miracle- 
 worker in these days of scepticism, 
 
 'It is all right, bishop!' said the victorious doctor. 
 'The ladies will be ofT, with Brace in attendance, as soon 
 as they can pack up a waggon load of feminine frippery.' 
 
 'I am sincerely glad to hear it,' said Dr Pendle, and 
 heaved a sigh of relief which made Graham wog his head 
 and put in a word of advice. 
 
 ' You must take a trip yourself, my lord,' he said 
 decisively ; ' notlung like change for mental worry. Go to 
 B.uh, or Putney, or Jericho, bishop \ travel is your anodyne.' 
 
 'I cannot leave Beorminster just now, Graham. When 
 I can I shall take your advice.' 
 
 The doctor shrugged his shoulders and walked towards 
 the door. There he j^aused and looked back at the un- 
 happy face of the bishop. A thought struck him and he 
 returned. 
 
 ' Pendle,' he said gently, * I am your oldest friend and 
 one who honours and respects you above all men. Why 
 not tell me your trouble and let me help you ? I shall keep 
 your secret, whatever it may be.' 
 
 'I have no fears on that score, Graham. If I could 
 trust anyone I should trust you ; but I cannot tell you 
 what is in my mind. No useful result would come of such 
 candour, for only the One above can help me out of my 
 difficulties.' 
 
 ' Is it money worries, bishop ?* 
 
 ' No, my worldly affairs are most prosperous/ 
 
 *It is not this murder that is troubling you, I suppose?' 
 
 The bishop became as pale as the paper on the desk 
 before him, and convulsively clutched the arms of his 
 chair. 'Tlie— the murder!' he stammered, 'the murder, 
 Graham. Why should that trouble me ?' 
 
 ' Cargrim told me that you were greatly upset that such 
 a thing should have occurred in your diocese.* 
 
 i54
 
 Mother J ael 
 
 ' I am annoyed about it,' replied Pendle, in a low voice, 
 ' but it is not the untimely death of that unhappy man which 
 worries me.' 
 
 *Then I give it up,' said the doclor, with another 
 shrug. 
 
 ' Graham ! ' ' 
 
 • Yes, what is it ? ' 
 
 ' Do you think that there is any chance of the murderer 
 of this man being discovered ? ' 
 
 ' If the case had been handled by a London detective 
 while the clues were fresh I daresay there might have been 
 a chance,' replied the doctor. ' But that mutton-headed 
 Tinkler has made such a muddle of the affair that I am 
 certain the murderer will never be captured.' 
 
 •Has anything new been discovered since the inquest?' 
 
 'Nothing. So far as I know. Tinkler is satisfied and the 
 matter is at an end. Whosoever killed Jentham has only 
 his own conscience to fear.' 
 
 ' And God ! ' said the bishop, softly. 
 
 ' I always understood that what you Churchmen call 
 conscience was the still small voice of the Deity,' replied 
 Graham, drily; 'there is no use in being tautological, bishop. 
 Well, good-day, my lord.' 
 
 'Good-day, doctor, and many, many thanks for your 
 kindly help.' 
 
 ' Not at all. I only wish that you would let me help you 
 to some purpose by treating me as your friend and 
 unburdening your mind. There is one great truth that 
 you should become a convert to, bishop.' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, what is that ? ' said Pendle, listlessly. 
 
 ' That medical men are the father-confessors of Protestant- 
 ism. Good-day ! ' 
 
 Outside the library Cargrim was idling about, in the hope 
 of picking up some crumbs of information, when Graham 
 took his departure. But the little doctor, who was not in 
 the best of tempers for another conversation, shot past 
 the chaplain like a bolt from the bow; and by the time 
 Cargrim recovered from such brusque treatment was half- 
 way down the avenue, fuming and fretting at his inability 
 to understand the attitude of Bishop Pendle. Dr Graham 
 loved a secret as a magpie does a piece of stolen money, 
 
 11 155
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 and he was simply frantic to find out what vexed his 
 friend ; the more so as he believed that he could help him 
 to bear his trouble by sympathy, and perhaps by advice 
 do away with it altogether. He could not even make a 
 guess at the bishop's hidden trouble, and ran over all 
 known crimes in his mind, from murder to arson, without 
 coming to any conclusion. Yet something extraordinary 
 must be the matter to move so easy-going, healthy a man 
 as Dr Pendle. 
 
 'I know more of his life than most people,' thought 
 Graham, as he trotted briskly along, *and there is nothing 
 in it that I cr.n see to upset him so. He hasn't forged, or 
 coined, or murdered, or sold himself to Pluto-Pan Satan 
 so far as I know ; and he is too clear-headed and sane to 
 have a monomania about a non-existent trouble. Dear, 
 dear,' the doctor shook his head sadly, 'I shall never 
 understand human nature; there is always an abyss below 
 an abyss, and the firmest seeming ground is usually quag- 
 mire when you come to step on it. George Pendle is a 
 riddle which would puzzle the Sphinx. Hum ! hum ! another 
 fabulous beast. Well, well, I can only wait and watch 
 until I discover the truth, and then — well, what then ? — why, 
 nothing ! ' And Graliam, having talked himself into a cul- 
 de-sac of thought, shook his head furiously and strove to 
 dismiss the matter from his too inquisitive mind. But not 
 all his philosophy and will could accomplish the im- 
 possible. ' We are a finite lot of fools,' said he, ' and when 
 we think we knonr most we know least. How that name- 
 less Unseen Power must smile at our attempts to scale 
 the stars,' by which remark it will be seen that Dr Graham 
 was not the atheist Beorminster believed him to be. 
 And here may end his speculations for the present 
 
 Shortly, Mrs Pendle and Lucy began to pack a vast 
 number of boxes with garments needful and oriumental, 
 and sufficient in quantity to last them for at least twelve 
 months. It is true that they intended to remain away only 
 eight weeks, but the preparations for departure were worthy 
 of the starting out of a crusade. They must take this; 
 they could certainly not leave that; warm dresses were 
 needed for possible cold weather; cool frocks were requi- 
 site for probable hot days ; they must have smart dresses 
 
 156
 
 Mother J ael 
 
 as they would no doubt go out a great deal ; and three or 
 four tea-gowns each, as they might stay indoors altogether. 
 In short, their stock of miUinery would have clothed at 
 least half-a-dozen women, although both ladies protested 
 plaintively that they had absolutely nothing to wear, and 
 that it would be necessary to go shopping in London for 
 a few days, if only to make themselves look presentable. 
 Harry Brace, the thoughtless bachelor, was struck dumb 
 when he saw the immense quantity of luggage which went 
 off in and on a bus to the railway station in the charge of 
 a nurse and a lady's-maid. 
 
 'Oh, Lord ! ' said he, aghast, 'are we starting out on an 
 African expedition, Lucy?' 
 
 'Well, I'm sure, Harry, mamma and I are only taking 
 what is absolutely necessary. Other women would take 
 twice as much.* 
 
 'Wait until you and Lucy leave for your honeymoon. 
 Brace,' said the bishop, with a smile at his prospective son-in- 
 law's long face. 'She will be one of the other women then.' 
 
 • In that case,' said Harry, a trifle grimly, ' Lucy will have 
 to decide if I am to go as a bridegroom or a luggage agent.' 
 
 Of course all Beorminster knew that Mrs Pendle was 
 going to Nauheim for the treatment; and of course all 
 Beorminster — that is, the feminine portion of it — came 
 to take tender farewells of the travellers. Every day up to 
 the moment of departure Mrs Pendle's drawing-room was 
 crowded with ladies all relating their experiences of English 
 and Continental travelling. Lucy took leave of at least a 
 dozen dear friends ; and from the way in which Mrs Pendip' 
 was lamented over, and blessed, and warned, and advised 
 by the wives of the inferior clergy, one would have thought 
 that her destination was the moon, and that she would 
 never get back again. Altogether the palace was no home 
 for a quiet prelate in those days. 
 
 At the last moment Mrs Pendle found that she would be 
 wretched if her bishop did not accompany her some way 
 on the journey ; so Dr Pendle went with the travellers to 
 London, and spent a pleasant day or so, being hurried about 
 from shop to shop. If he had not been the most angelic 
 bishop in England he would have revolted ; but as he was 
 anxious that his wife should have no cause of complaint, he 
 
 IS7
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 exhausted himself with the utmost amiability. But the 
 lonuest lane has a turning, and the day came when Mrs 
 Pendle and Lucy, attended by the dazed Harry, left for 
 Nauheim via Queenborough, Flushing and Cologne. Mrs 
 Pendle declared, as the traiq moved away, that she was 
 thoroughly exliausted, which statement the bishop quite 
 believed. His wonder was that she and Lucy were not 
 dead and buried. 
 
 On returning to the empty palace, Bishop Pendle settled 
 himself down for a long rest. Remembering Graham's hint, 
 he saw as little of Cargrim as was compatible with the re- 
 lationship of business. The chaplain noted that he was being 
 avoided, and guessing that someone had placed Dr Pendle on 
 his guard against him, became more secretive and watchful 
 than ever. But in spite of all his spying he met with litt'e 
 success, for although the bishop still continued weary-eyed 
 and worried-looking, he went about his work with more 
 zest than usual. Indeed, he attended so closely to the 
 duties of his position that Cargrim fancied he was trying 
 to forget his wickedness by distracting his mind. But, as 
 usual, the chaplain had no tangible reason for this belief. 
 
 And about this time, when most industrious, the bishop 
 began to be haunted, not by a ghost, which would have 
 been bearable as ghosts appear usually only in the night- 
 time, but by a queer little old woman in a red cloak, who 
 supported herself with a crutch and looked like a wicked 
 fairy. This, as the bishop ascertained by a casual question, 
 was Mother Jael, the gipsy friend of Jentham, and the 
 knowledge of her identity did not make him the easier in 
 his mind. He could not conceive what she meant by her 
 constant attendance on him ; and but that he believed in 
 the wisdom of letting sleeping dogs lie, he would have 
 resented her pertinacity. The sight of her became almost 
 insupportable. 
 
 Whether Mother Jael intended to terrify the bishop cr 
 not it is hard to say, but the way in which she followed 
 him tormented him beyond measure. When he left the 
 palace she was there on the road j when he preached in 
 the cathedral she lurked among the congregation ; when he 
 strolled about Beorminster she watched him round corners, 
 but she never approached him, she never spoke to him, ar:d 
 
 IS8
 
 Mother J ae I 
 
 frequently vanished as mysteriously and unexpectedly as she 
 appeared. Wherever he went, wherever he looked, that 
 crimson cloak was sure to meet liis eye. Mother Jael was 
 old and bent and witch-like, with elf locks of white hair 
 and a yellow, wrinkled face ; but her eyes burned like two 
 fiery stars under her frosted brows, and with these she stared 
 hard at Bishop Pendle, until he felt almost mesmerised by 
 the intensity of her gaze. She became a perfect nightmare 
 to the man, much the same as the little old woman of the 
 coffer was to Abudah, the merchant in the fantastic eastern 
 tale; but, unlike that pertinacious beldam, she apparently 
 had no message to deliver. She only stared and stared 
 with her glittering, evil eyes, until the bishop — his nerves 
 not being under control with this constant persecution — 
 almost fancied that the powers of darkness had leagued 
 themselves against him, and had sent this hell-hag to haunt 
 and torment him. 
 
 Several times he strove to speak to her, for he thought 
 that even the proverb of sleeping dogs might be acted 
 upon too literally; but Mother Jael always managed to 
 shuffle out of the way. She appeared to have the power 
 of disintegrating her body, for where she disappeared to 
 on these occasions the bishop never could find out. One 
 minute he would see her in her red cloak, leaning on her 
 crutch and staring at him steadily, but" let him take one 
 step in her direction and she would vanish like a ghost. 
 No wonder the bishop's nerves began to give way; the 
 constant sight of that silent figure with its menacing gaze 
 would have driven many a man out of his mind, but Dr 
 Pendle resisted the panic which seized him at times, and 
 strove to face the apparition — for Mother Jael's fliitings de- 
 served such a name — with control and calmness. But the 
 effort was beyond his strength at times. 
 
 As the weeks went by, Cargrim also began to notice the 
 persecution of Mother Jael, and conneciing her with Jentham 
 and Jentham with the bishop, he began to wonder if she 
 knew the truth about the murder. It was not improbable, 
 he thought, that she might be possessed of more important 
 knowledge than she had imparted to the police, and a 
 single word from her might bring home the crime to the 
 bishop. If he was innocent, why did she haunt him ? But 
 
 i59
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 again, if he was guilty, why did she avoid him ? To gain 
 an answer to this riddle, Cargrim attempted when possible 
 to Seize the elusive phantom of Mother Jael, but three or 
 four times she managed to vanish in her witch-like way. 
 At length one day when she was watching the bishop 
 talking to the dean at the northern door of the cathedral, 
 Cargrim came softly behind her and seized her arm. 
 Mother Jael turned with a scjueak like a trapped rabbit. 
 •Why do you watch the bishop?* asked Cargrim, sharply. 
 
 * Bless ye, lovey, I don't watch 'im,' whined Mother Jael, 
 cringing. 
 
 •Nonsense, I've seen you look at him several times.' 
 
 'There ain't no harm in that, my lamb. They do say as a 
 cat kin look at a queen ; and why not a pore gipsy at a 
 noble bishop ? I say, dearie,' she added, in a hoarse whisper, 
 'what's his first name?* 
 
 'The bishop's first name? George. Why do you want 
 to know ? ' 
 
 ' George ! * pondered Mother Jael, taking no notice of 
 the question, ' I allays though' the sojir was George 1 ' 
 
 ' He is George too, called after his father. Answer me ! 
 Wliy do you want to know the bishop's name ? and why do 
 you watch him?' 
 
 ' Ah, my noble Gorgio, that's tellings ! ' 
 
 * No doubt, so just tell it to me.' 
 
 ' Lord, lovey ! the likes of you don't want to know what 
 the likes of me thinks.' 
 
 Cargrim lost his temper at these evasions. ' You are a 
 bad character. Mother Jael. I shall warn the police about 
 you.' 
 
 * Oh, tiny Jesius, hear him ! I ain't done nothing wrong. 
 I'm a pore old gipsy ; strike me dead if I ain't.' 
 
 'If you tell me something,' said Cargrim, changing his 
 tactics, 'you shall have this,' and he produced a coin. 
 
 Mother Jael eyed the bright half-sovereign he held be- 
 tween finger and thumb, and her old eyes ghstened. 'Yes, 
 dearie, yes 1 What is it ? ' 
 
 'Tell me the truth about the murder,' whispered Cargrim, 
 with a glance in the direction of the bishop. 
 
 Mother Jael gave a shrill screech, grabbed the half- 
 tovereign, and shuffled away so rapidly that she was round 
 
 i6o
 
 Mother J ae I 
 
 the corner before Cargrim could recover from his surprise 
 At once he followed, but in spite of all his search he could 
 not find the old hag. Yet she had her eye on him. 
 
 * George ! and George ! ' said Mother Jael, who was watch- 
 ing him from an odd angle of the wall into which she had 
 squeezed herself, • I wonder which of 'em did it ? *
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 MRS PANSEY's festival 
 
 Once a year the archdeacon's widow discharrr d her social 
 obligations hy throwing open tlie gaol in which siie dwelt. 
 Her festival, to which all that Beorminster covild boast of 
 in the way of society was invited, usually took the form of 
 an out-of-door party, as Mrs Pansey found that she could 
 receive more people, and trouble herself less about their 
 entertainment, by filling her grounds than by crushing 
 them into the rather small reception-rooms of her house. 
 Besides, the gardens were really charming, and the wide- 
 spreading green of the lawns, surrounded by ample flower- 
 beds, now brilliant with rainbow blorsoms, looked most 
 picturesque when thronged with well-dressed, well-bred, 
 well-pleased guests. Nearly all the invitations had been 
 accepted; firstly, because Mrs Pansey made things un- 
 pleasant afterwards for such defiant spirits as stayed away ; 
 secondly, for the very attractive reason that the meat and 
 drink provided by the hostess were of the best. Thus 
 Mrs Pansey's entertainments were usually the most success- 
 ful of the Beorminster season. 
 
 On this auspicious occasion the clerk of the weather had 
 granted the hostess an especially fine day. Sunshine filled 
 the cloudless arch of the blue sky ; the air was warm, but 
 tempered by a softly-blowing breeze ; and the guests, 
 to do honour at once to Mrs Pansey and the delightful 
 weather, wore their most becoming and coolest costumes. 
 Pretty girls laughed in the sunshine; matrons gossiped 
 beneath the rustling trees ; and the sober black coats of 
 the clerical element subdued the too vivid tints of the 
 feminine frippery. The scene was animated and full of 
 colour and movement, so that even Mrs Pansey's grim 
 countenance expanded into an unusual smile when 
 
 163
 
 Mrs Panseys Festival 
 
 greeting fresh arrivals. At intervals a band played lively 
 dance music ; there was croquet and lawn-tennis for the 
 young; iced coffee and scandal for the old. Altogether, 
 the company, being mostly youthful and unthinking, was 
 enjoying itself immensely, as the chatter and laughter, and 
 smiling and bowing amply testified. 
 
 'Altogether, I may regard it as a distinct success,* 
 said Mrs Pansey, as, attired in her most Hamlet-like 
 weeds, she received her guests under the shade of a 
 many-coloured Japanese umbrella. 'And the gardens 
 really look nice.' 
 
 ' The gardens of Paradise ! ' observed the compliment- 
 ary Cargrim, who was smirking at the elbow of his 
 hostess. 
 
 'Don't distort Holy Writ, if — you — please!' snapped 
 Mrs Pansey, who still reserved the right of being dis- 
 agreeable even at her own entertainment ; * but if you do 
 call this the Garden of Eden, I daresay there are plenty 
 of serpents about.' 
 
 ' And many Adams and Eves ! ' said Dr Graham, sur- 
 veying the company with his usual cynicism ; ' but I don't 
 see Liiith, Mrs Pansey.' 
 
 * Liiith, doctor ! what an improper name ! * 
 
 • And what an improper person, my dear lady. Liiith 
 was the other wife of Father Adam.' 
 
 ' How dare you, Dr Graham ! the first man a bigamist ! 
 Ridiculous I Profane ! Only one rib was taken out of 
 Adam ! ' 
 
 ' Liiith wasn't manufactured out of a rib, Mrs Pansey. 
 The devil created her to deceive Adam. At least, so the 
 Rabbinists tell us ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, those Jewish creatures ! ' said the lady, with a sniff. 
 ' I don't think much of their opinion. What do Jews 
 know about the Bible ? ' 
 
 ' As much as authors generally know about their own 
 books, I suppose,' said Graham, drily. 
 
 'We are becoming theological,' observed Cargrim, 
 smoothly. 
 
 ' Not to say blasphemous,' growled Mrs Pansey ; ' at least, 
 the doctor is, like ail sceptics of his infidel profes^jion. 
 Remember Ananias and his lies, sir.* 
 
 163
 
 The Dishofs Secret 
 
 •I shall rather remember Eve and her curiosity,' laughed 
 Graham, 'and to follow so good an example let me inquire 
 what yonder very pretty tent contains, Mrs Pansey?' 
 
 'That is a piece of Daisy's foolishness, doctor. It con- 
 tains a gipsy, whom she induced me to hire for some 
 fortune-telling rubbish.' 
 
 ' Oh, how sweet I how jolly ! ' cried a mixed chorus of 
 young voices. • A real gipsy, Mrs Pansey ? ' and the good 
 lady was besieged with questions. 
 
 ' She is cunning and dirty enough to be genuine, my 
 dears. Some of you may know her. Mother Jael ! * 
 
 ' Aroint thee, witch ! ' cried Dr Graham, ' that old 
 beldam ; oh, she can "pen dukherin " to some purpose. I 
 have heard of her ; so have the poHce.' 
 
 *What language is that?' asked Miss Whichello, who 
 came up at this moment with a smile and a word for all ; 
 *it sounds like swearing.' 
 
 ' I'd like to see anyone swear here,' said Mrs Pansey, 
 gr'mly. 
 
 * Set your mind at rest, dear lady, I was speaking Rom- 
 any — the black language — the calo jib which the gipsies 
 brought from the East when they came to plunder the hen- 
 coops of Europe.' 
 
 * Do you mean to tell me that those creatures have a 
 language of their own?' asked Miss Whichello, dis- 
 believingly. 
 
 ' Why not ? I daresay their ancestors made bricks on the 
 plain of Shinar, and were lucky enough to gain a language 
 without the trouble of learning it' 
 
 ' You allude to the Tower of Babel, sir ! ' said Mrs 
 Pansey, with a scowl. 
 
 ' Rather to the Tower of Fable, dear lady, since the 
 whole story is a myth.* 
 
 Not caring to hear this duel of words, and rather surprised 
 to learn that Mother Jael was present, Cargrim slipped away 
 at the first opportunity to ponder over the information 
 and consider what use he could make of it. So the old 
 woman still followed the bishop ? — had followed him even 
 into society, and had made herself Mrs Pansey's profes- 
 sional fortune-teller so that she might still continue to 
 vex the eyes of her victim with the sight of her eternal 
 
 164
 
 Mrs Panseys Festival 
 
 red cloak. Dr Pendle was at that very moment walking 
 amongst the guests, with his youngest son by his side, and 
 appeared to be more cheerful and more like his former sell 
 than he had been for some time. Apparently he was as yet 
 ignorant that Mother Jael was in his immediate vicinity; but 
 Cargrim determined that he should be warned of her pres- 
 ence as speedily as possible, and be lured into having an 
 interview with her so that his scheming chaplain might see 
 what would come of the meeting. Also Cargrim resolved 
 to see the old gipsy himself and renew the conversation 
 which she had broken off when she had thieved his gold. 
 In one way or another he foresaw that it would be 
 absolutely necessary to force the woman into making some 
 definite statement either inculpating or exonerating the 
 bishop in respect of Jentham's death. Therefore, having 
 come to this conclusion, Cargrim strolled watchfully through 
 the merry crowd. It was his purpose to inform Dr Pendle 
 that Mother Jael was telling fortunes in the gaily-striped 
 tent, and his determination to bring — if possible — the 
 prelate into contact with the old hag. From such a meeting 
 artful Mr Cargrim hoped to gather some useful information 
 from the conversation and behaviour of the pair. 
 
 Unfortunately Cargrim was impeded in the execution of 
 this scheme from the fact of his remarkable popularity. He 
 could not take two steps without being addressed by one 
 or more of his lady admirers; and although he saw the 
 bishop no great distance away, he could not reach him by 
 reason of the detaining sirens. As gracefully as possible 
 he eluded their snares, but when confronted by Daisy 
 Norsham hanging on the arm of Dean Alder, he almost 
 gave up hope of reaching his goal. There was but little 
 chance of escape from Daisy and her small talk. Moreover, 
 she was rather bored by the instructive conversation of the 
 ancient parson, and wanted to attach herself to some 
 younger and more frivolous man. Cupid in cap and gown 
 and spectacles is a decidedly prosy divinity. 
 
 *0h, dear Mr Cargrim !' cried the gushing Daisy, * is it 
 really you ? Oh, how very sweet of you to come to-day ! 
 And what is the very latest news of poor, dear Mrs Pendle ? * 
 
 • I believe the Nauheim baths are doing her a great deal 
 ol good. Miss Norsham. If you will excuse — ' 
 
 165
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 ' Nauheim ! ' croaked the dean, with a dry cougli, ' is 
 unknown to mo save as a geographical expression, but the 
 town of Baden-Baden, formally called Aurelia Aquensis, 
 was much frequented by the Romans on account of its 
 salubrious and health-giving springs. I may also instance 
 Aachen, vulgarly termed Aix-la-Chapelle, but known to the 
 Latins as Aquisgranum or — ' 
 
 • How interesting ! ' interrupted Daisy, cutting short this 
 stream of information. 'You do seem to know everything, 
 Mr Dean. The only German watering-place I have been 
 to is Wiesbaden, where the doctors made me get up at 
 five o'clock to drink the waters. And fancy, Mr Cargrim, 
 a band played at the Kochbrunnen at seven in the morn- 
 ing. Did you ever hear anything so horrid?' 
 
 ' Music at so early an hour would be trying. Miss 
 Norsham ! ' 
 
 • Aqua Mattiacse was the Roman appellation of Wies- 
 baden,' murmured Dr Alder, twiddling his eye-glass. 'I 
 hear on good medical authority that the waters are most 
 beneficial to renovate health and arrest decay. I should 
 advise his lordship, the bishop, to visit the springs, for of 
 late I have noticed that he appears to be sadly out of sorts.' 
 
 • He is looking much better to-day,' ob?;erved the 
 chaplain, with a glance at the bishop, who was now con- 
 versing with Miss Whichello. 
 
 ' 01i, the poor, dear bishop should have his fortune told 
 by Mother Jael.* 
 
 'That would hardly be in keeping with his exalted 
 position. Miss Norsham.' 
 
 ' Oh, really, I don't see that it is so very dreadful,' cried 
 Daisy, with one of her silvery peals of artificial laughter, 
 •and it's only fun. Mother Jael might tell him if he was 
 going to be ill or not, you know, and he could take 
 medicine if he was. Besides, she does tell the truth ; oh, 
 really, it's too awful what she knew about me. But I'm 
 glad to say she prophesied a lovely future.* 
 
 ' Marriage and money, I presume.* 
 
 ' Well, you are clever, Mr Cargrim ; that is just the 
 fortune she told me. How did you guess ? I'm to meet 
 my future husband here ; he is to be rich and adore me, 
 and I'm to be very, very happy.' 
 
 i66
 
 Mrs Pansey s Festival 
 
 'I am sure so charming a young lady deserves to be,' 
 said Cargrim, bowing. 
 
 •Siderum regina bicornis audi, Luna puellas,' quoted Mr 
 Dean, with a side glance at the radiant Daisy ; and if that 
 confident lady had understood Latin, she would have judged 
 from this satirical quotation that Dr Alder was not so sub- 
 jugated by her charms as to contemplate matrimony. But 
 being ignorant, she was — in accordance with the proverb 
 — blissful, and babbled on with a never-failing stream of 
 small talk, which was at times momentarily obstructed by 
 the heavy masses of information cast into it by the dean. 
 
 Leaving this would-be May and wary old December to 
 their unequal flirtation, Cargrim again attempted to reach 
 the bishop, but was captured by Miss Tancred, irsuch 
 to^ his disgust. She entertained him with a long and 
 minute account of her rheumatic pains and the means by 
 which she hoped to cure them. Held thus as firmly as 
 the wedding guest was by the Ancient Mariner, Cargrim 
 lost the chance of hearing a very interesting conversation 
 between Miss Whichello and the bishop; but, from the 
 clouded brow of Dr Pendle, he saw that something was 
 wrong, and chafed at his enforced detention. Neverthe- 
 less, Miss Tancred kept him beside her until she ex- 
 hausted her trickle of small talk. It took all Cargrim's 
 tact and politeness and Christianity to endure patiently her 
 gabble. 
 
 'Yes, bishop,' Miss Whichello was saying, with some 
 annoyance, 'your son has admired my niece for some 
 considerable time. Lately they became engaged, but 
 I refused to give my consent until your sanction and 
 approval had been obtained.' 
 
 ' George has said nothing to me on the subject,' replied 
 Dr Pendle, in a vexed tone. ' Yet he should certainly have 
 done so before speaking to your niece.' 
 
 * No doubt ! but unfortunately young men's heads do not 
 always guide their hearts. Still, Captain Pendle promised 
 me to tell you all during his present visit to Beorminster. 
 And, of course, both Mrs Pendle and your daughter Lucy 
 know of his love for Mab.' 
 
 ' It would appear that I am the sole person ignorant of 
 the engagement. Miss Whichello.' 
 
 \(i7
 
 The Bishop's Sea-et 
 
 ' It was not with my consent that you were kept in 
 ignorance, bishop. But I really do noi see why you should 
 discourage the match. You can see for yourself that they 
 make a handsome pair.' 
 
 Dr Pendle cast an angry look towards the end of the 
 lawn, where George and Mab were talking earnestly 
 together. 
 
 ' I don't deny their physical suitabihty,' he said severely, 
 ' but more than good looks are needed to make a happy 
 marriage.' 
 
 * Am I to understand that you disapprove of my niece ? ' 
 cried the little old lady, drawing herself up. 
 
 ' By no means ; by no means ; how can you think me so 
 wanting in courtesy ? But I must confess that I desire my 
 son to make a good match.' 
 
 'You should rather wish him to get a good wife,' retorted 
 Miss Whichello, who was becoming annoyed. ' But if it is 
 fortune you desire, I can set your mind at rest on that 
 point. Mab will inherit my money when I die ; and should 
 she marry Captain Pendle during my lifetime, I shall allow 
 the young couple a thousand a year.' 
 
 ' A thousand a year, Miss Whichello ! ' 
 
 'Yes! and more if necessary. Let me tell you, bishop, 
 I am much better off than people think.' 
 
 The bishop, rather nonplussed, looked down at his neat 
 boots and very becoming gaiters. ' I am not so worldly- 
 minded as you infer, Miss Whichello,' said he, mildly ; 
 ' and did George desire to marry a poor girl, I have enough 
 money of my own to humour his whim. But if his heart 
 is set on making Miss Arden his wife, I should like — if you 
 will pardon my candour — to know more about the young 
 lady.' 
 
 ' Mab is the best and most charming girl in the world,' 
 said the little Jennie Wren, pale, and a trifle nervous. 
 
 ' I can see that for myself. You misunderstand me, 
 Miss Whichello, so I must speak more explicitly. Who 
 is Miss Arden ? ' 
 
 'She is my niece,' replied Miss Whichello, with trem- 
 bling dignity. ' The only child of my poor sister, who died 
 when Mab was an infant in arms.' 
 
 ' Quite so ! ' assented the bishop, with a nod. * I 
 
 »,6a
 
 Mrs Panseys Festival 
 
 have always understood such to be the case. But — er — 
 Mr Arden?' 
 
 • Mr Arden ! ' faltered the old lady, turning her face from 
 the company, that its pallor and anxiety might not be seen. 
 
 ' Her father ! is he alive ? ' 
 
 ' No ! ' cried Miss Whichello, shaking her head. ' He 
 died long, long ago.* 
 
 ' Who was he ? ' 
 
 ' A — a — a gentleman ! — a gentleman of independent 
 fortune.' 
 
 Dr Pendle bit his nether lip and looked embarrassed. 
 
 * Miss Whichello,' he said at length, in a hesitating tone, 
 
 • your niece is a charming young lady, and, so far as she 
 herself is concerned, is quite fit to become the wife of my 
 son George.' 
 
 * I should think so indeed 1 ' cried the little lady, with 
 buckram civility. 
 
 •But,' continued the bishop, with emphasis, * I have heard 
 rumours about her parentage which do not satisfy me. 
 Whether these are true or not is best known to yourself, 
 Miss Whichello ; but before consenting to the engagement 
 you speak of, I should like to be fully informed on the point' 
 
 'To what rumours does your lordship refer?' asked 
 Miss Whichello, very pale-faced, but very quiet. 
 
 ' This is neither the time nor place to inform you,' said 
 the bishop, hastily; 'I see Mr Cargrim advancing. On 
 another occasion, Miss Whichello, we shall talk about the 
 matter.' 
 
 As the chaplain, with three of four young ladies, including 
 Miss Norsham, was bearing down on the bishop. Miss 
 Whichello recognised the justice of his speech, and not 
 feeling equal to talk frivolity, she hastily retreated and ran 
 into the house to fight down her emotion. What the poor 
 little woman felt was known only to herself; but she fore- 
 saw that the course of true love, so far as it concerned 
 George and Mab, was not likely to run smooth. Still, she 
 put a brave face on it and hoped for the best. 
 
 In the meantime, Bishop Pendle was enveloped in a 
 
 whirl of petticoats, as Cargrim's Amazonian escort, prompted 
 
 by the chaplain, was insisting that he should have his 
 
 fortune told by Mother Jael. The bishop looked perturbed 
 
 12 i<59
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 on hearing that his red-cloaked pl.antom was so close at 
 hand, but he managed to keep his countenance, and laugh- 
 ingly refused to comply with the demand of the ladies. 
 
 'Think of what the newspapers would say,' he urged, 
 'if a bishop were to consult this W'itch of Endor.' 
 
 ' Oh, but really, it is only a joke ! ' 
 
 *A dignitary of the Ctiurch shouldn't joke, Miss 
 Norsham.' 
 
 'Why not, your lordship?' put in Cargrim, amiably. 
 ' I have heard that Richelieu played with a kitten.' 
 
 ' I am not Richelieu,' replied Dr Pendle, drily, ' nor is 
 Mother Jael a kitten.' 
 
 'It's for a charity, bishop,' said Daisy, imploringly. 'I 
 pay Mother Jael for the day, and give the rest to Mrs 
 Pansey's Home for servants out of work.' 
 
 'Oh, for a charity,' repeated Dr Pendle, smiling; 'that 
 puts quite a different complexion on the question. What 
 do you say, Mr Cargrim ? ' 
 
 ' I don't think that your lordship can refuse the prayer 
 of these charming young ladies,' replied the chaplain, 
 obsequiously. 
 
 Now, the bishop really wished to see Mother Jael in 
 order to learn why she haunted him so persistently ; and as 
 she had always vanished heretofore, he thought that the 
 present would be a very good time to catch her. He 
 therefore humoured the joke of fortune-telling for his own 
 satisfaction, and explained as much to the expectant 
 company. 
 
 ' Well, well, young ladies,' said he, good-naturedly, ' I 
 suppose I must consent to be victimised if only to further 
 the charitable purposes of Mrs Pansey. Where dwells the 
 sybil ? ' 
 
 * In this tent ! This way, your lordship I * 
 
 Dr Pendle advanced towards the gaily-striped tent, 
 smiling broadly, and with a playful shake of the head at 
 the laughing nymphs around, he invaded the privacy of 
 Mother Jael. With a sip;h of relief at hrving accomplished 
 his imrpose. Cargrim let fall the Hap which he had held up 
 for the bislioi)'s entry, and turned away, rubbing his hands. 
 His aim was attained. It now remained to be seen what 
 would come of the meeting between bishop and gii)sy. 
 
 1 70 
 
 1
 
 CHAPTER XXU 
 
 MR MOSK IS INDISCREET 
 
 While the bishop was conversing with Miss Whichelio 
 about the engagement of George and Mab, the young 
 people themselves were discussing the self-same subject 
 with much ardour. Captain Pendle had placed two chairs 
 near a quick-set hedge, beyond the hearing of other 
 guests, and on these he and Mab were seated as closely as 
 was possible without attracting the eyes of onlookers. 
 Their attitude and actions were guarded and indifferent for 
 the misleading of the company, but their conversation, not 
 being likely to be overheard, was confidential and lover-like 
 enough. No spectator from casual observation could have 
 guessed their secret. 
 
 *You must tell your father about our engagement at 
 once,' said Mab, with decision. * He should have known of 
 it before I consented to wear this ring.' 
 
 ' I'll tell him to-morrow, dearest, although I am sorry 
 that Lucy and the mater are not here to support me.' 
 
 ' But you don't think that he will object to me, George?* 
 
 *I — should — think — not!* replied Captain Pendle, 
 smiHng at the very idea; 'object to have the prettiest 
 daughter-in-law in the county. You don't know what an 
 eye for beauty the bishop has.* 
 
 ' If you are so sure of his consent I wonder you did not 
 tell him before,' pouted Mab. 'Aunty has been very angry 
 at my keeping our engagement secret.' 
 
 ' Darling, you know it isn't a secret. We told Cargrim, 
 and when he is aware of it the whole town is. I didn't 
 want to tell my father until I was sure you would marry 
 
 me,' 
 
 * You have been sure of that for a long time.' 
 
 • In a sort of way,' asserted Captain Pendle ; * but I was 
 
 171
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 not absolutely certain until I placed a ring on that pretty 
 hand. Now I'll toll my father, get his episcopalian bene- 
 diction, and wire the news to Lucy and iha mater. We 
 shall be married in spring. Miss Whichello will be the 
 bridesmaid, and all will be hay and sunshine.* 
 ' What nonsense you talk, George ! ' 
 
 • I'd do more than talk nonsense if the eyes of Europe 
 were not on us. Mother Jael is telling fortunes in that 
 tent, my fairy queen, so let us go in and question her about 
 the future. Besides,' added George, with an insinuating 
 smile, 'I don't suppose she would mind if I gave you one 
 kiss.' 
 
 Mab laughed and shook her head. 'You will have to 
 dispense with both kiss and fortune for the present,' said 
 she, 'for your father has this moment gone into the tent.' 
 
 ' What ! is Saul also among the prophets ? ' cried George, 
 with uplifted eyebrows. * Won't there be a shine in the tents 
 of Shem when it is published abroad that Bishop Pendle 
 has patronised the Witch of Endor. I wonder what he 
 wants to know. Surely the scroll of his fortune is made up.' 
 
 'George,' said Mab, gravely, 'your father has been 
 much worried lately.* 
 
 • About what ? By whom ? ' 
 
 • I don't know, but he looks worried.* 
 
 *0h, he is fidgeting because my mother is away; he 
 always fusses about her health like a hen with one chick.' 
 
 • Be more respectful, my dear,' corrected Mab, demurely. 
 
 • I'll be anything you like, sweet prude, if you'll only fly 
 with me far from this madding crowd. Hang it I here is 
 someone coming to disturb us.' 
 
 • It is your brother.' 
 
 *So it is. Hullo, Gabriel, why that solemn brow?* 
 
 • I have just heard bad news,' said Gabriel, pausing 
 before them. ' Old Mr Leigh is dying.' 
 
 • What ! the rector of Heathcroft ? I don't call that bad 
 news, old boy, seeing that his death gives you your step.' 
 
 • George ! ' cried Mab and Gabriel in a breath, ' how can 
 you?' 
 
 •Well, Leigh is old and ripe enough to die, isn't he?* 
 said the incorrigible George. ' Remember what the old 
 Scotch sexton said to the weeping mourners, " Wliat are ye 
 
 172
 
 Mr Mosk is Indiscreet 
 
 greeting aboot? If ye dinna bring them at eighty, when 
 wuU ye bring them?" My Scotch accent is bad,' added 
 Captain Pendle, 'but the story itself is a thing of beauty.' 
 
 ' I want to tell my father the news,' said Gabriel, indig- 
 nantly turning away from George's wink. ' Where is he ? ' 
 
 • With Moth — Oh, there he is,' cried Mab, as the bishop 
 issued from the sibyl's tent. ' Oh, George, how ill he looks ! ' 
 
 ' By Jove, yes ! He is as pale as a ghost. Come and sec 
 what is wrong, Gabriel. Excuse me a moment, Mab.' 
 
 The two brothers walked forward, but before they could 
 reach their father he was already taking his leave and shak- 
 ing hands with Mrs Pansey. His face was white, his eyes 
 were anxious, and it was only by sheer force of will that he 
 could excuse himself to his hostess in his ordinary voice. 
 
 • I am afraid the sun has been too much for me, Mrs 
 Pansey,' he said in his usual sauve tones, 'and the close 
 atmosphere of that tent is rather trying. I regret being 
 obliged to leave so charming a scene, but I feel sure you 
 will excuse me.' 
 
 ' Certainly, bishop,' said Mrs Pansey, graciously enough, 
 •but won't you have a glass of sherry or — ' 
 
 • Nothing, thank you ; nothing. Good-bye, Mrs Pansey ; 
 your fete has been most successful. Ah, Gabriel,' catching 
 sight of his youngest son, 'will you be so good as to come 
 with me?' 
 
 •Are you ill, sir? ' asked George, with solicitude. 
 
 'No, no ! a little out of sorts, perhaps. The sun, merely 
 the sun ; ' and waving his hand in a hurried manner, Dr 
 Pendle withdrew as quickly as his dignity permitted, lean- 
 ing on Gabriel's arm. The curate's face was as colourless 
 as that of his father, and he seemed equally as nervous in 
 manner. Captain Pendle returned to Mab in a state of 
 bewilderment, for which there was surely sufficient cause. 
 
 • I never saw the bishop so put out before,' said he with 
 a puzzled look. 'Old Mother Jael must have prophesied 
 blue ruin and murder.' 
 
 Murder ! The ominous word struck on the ears of Car- 
 grim, who was passing at the moment, and he smiled cruelly 
 as he heard the half-joking tone in which it was spoken. 
 Captain George Pendle little thought that the chaplain took 
 his jesting speech in earnest, and was more convinced than 
 
 *73
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 ever that the bishop had killed Jentham, and had just been 
 warned by Mother Jael that she knew the truth. T'.is 
 then, as Cargrim considered, was her reason for haunfng 
 the bishop in his incomings and outgoings. 
 
 Of course it was impossible that the bishop's agitation 
 could have escaped the attention of the assembled guests, 
 and many remarks were made as to its probable cause. His 
 sudden illness at his own reception was recalled, and, taken 
 in conjunction with this seizure, it was observed that I)r 
 Pendle was working too hard, that his constitution was 
 breaking up and that he sadly needed a rest The opinion 
 on this last point was unanimous. 
 
 'For I will say,' remarked Mrs Pansey, who was an adept 
 at damning with faint praise, 'that the bishop works as hard 
 as his capacity of brain will let him.' 
 
 'And that is a great deal,' said Dr Graham, tartly. 
 •Bishop Pendle is one of the cleverest men in England.' 
 
 'That is right, doctor,' replied the undaunted Mrs Pansey. 
 'Always speak well of your patients.' 
 
 Altogether, so high stood the bishop's reputation as a 
 transparently honest man that no one suspected anything 
 was wrong save Graham and Mr Cargrim. The former 
 remembered Dr Pendle's unacknowledged secret, and 
 wondered if the gipsy was in possession of it, while the 
 latter was satisfied that the bishop had been driven away 
 by the fears roused by Mother Jael's communication, what- 
 ever that might be. But the general opinion was that too 
 much work and too much sun had occasioned the bishop's 
 illness, and it was spoken of very lightly as a mere temporary 
 ailment soon to be set right by complete change and com- 
 plete rest. Thus Dr Pendle's reputation of the past stood 
 him in good stead, and saved his character thoroughly in 
 the present. 
 
 'Now,' said Cargrim to himself, 'I know for certain that 
 Mother Jael is aware of the truth, also that the truth im- 
 plicates the bishop in Jentham's death. I shall just go in 
 and question her at once. She can't escape from that tent 
 so easily as she vanished the other day.' 
 
 But Cargrim quite underrated Mother Jael's power of 
 making herself scarce, for when he entered the tent he 
 found It tenanted only by Daisy Norsham, who was looking 
 
 174
 
 Mr Mosk is Indiscreet 
 
 in some bewilderment at an empty chair. The cunning old 
 gipsy had once more melted into thin air. 
 
 'Where is she?' demanded Cargrim, regretting that his 
 clerical garb prevented him from using appropriate language, 
 
 ' Oh, really, dear Mr Cargrim, I don't know. After the 
 dear bishop came out so upset with the heat, we all ran to 
 look after him, so I suppose Mother Jael felt the heat also, 
 and left while our backs were turned. It is really very 
 vexing,' sighed Daisy, 'for lots of girls are simply dying to 
 have their fortunes told. And, oh ! ' making a sudden dis- 
 covery, ' how very, very dreadful ! ' 
 
 ♦ What is it ? ' asked the chaplain, staring at her tragic face. 
 
 * That wicked old woman has taken all the money. Oh, 
 poor Mrs Pansey's home ! ' 
 
 'She has no doubt run off with the money,' said Cargrim, 
 in what was for him a savage tone. ' I must question the 
 servants about her departure. Miss Norsham, I am afraid 
 that your beautiful nature has been imposed upon by this 
 deceitful vagrant.' 
 
 Whether this was so or not, one thing was clear that 
 Mother Jael had gone off with a considerable amount of 
 loose silver in her pocket. The servants knew nothing of 
 her departure, so there was no doubt that the old crone, 
 used to dodging and hiding, had slipped out of the garden 
 by some back way, while the guests had been commiserat- 
 ing the bishop's slight illness. As Cargrim wanted to see 
 the gipsy at once, and hoped to force her into confessing 
 the truth by threatening to have her arrested with the stolen 
 money in her pocket, he followed on her trail while it was 
 yet fresh. Certainly Mother Jael had left no particular 
 track by which she could be traced, but Cargrim, knowing 
 something of her habits, judged that she would either strike 
 across Southberry Heath to the tents of her tribe or 
 take refuge for the time being at The Derby Winner. It 
 was more probable that she would go to the hotel than run 
 the risk of being arrested in the gipsy camp, so Cargrim, 
 adopting this argument, took his way down to Eastgate. 
 He hoped to run Mother Jael to earth in the tap-room of 
 the hotel. 
 
 On arriving at The Derby Winner, he walked straight 
 into the bar, and found it presided over by a grinning pot- 
 
 175
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 boy. A noise of singing and shouting came from the little 
 parlour at the back, and when the chaplain asked for Mr 
 Mosk, he was informed by the smihng Ganymede that 'th' 
 yuv'nor was injiyin' of hisself, and goin' on like one o'clock.' 
 
 'Dear! dear!' said the scandalised chaplain, 'am I to 
 understand that your master has taken more than is good 
 for him ?' 
 
 ' Yuss; he's jist drunk up to jollyness, sir.* 
 
 'And Miss Mosk?' 
 
 'She's a-trj'in' to git 'im t' bed, is young missus, an' old 
 missus is cryin' upstairs.' 
 
 *I shall certainly speak about this to the authorities,' 
 said Cargrim, in an angry tone. ' You are sober enough 
 to answer my questions, I hope ? ' 
 
 'Yuss, sir; I'm strite,' growled the pot-boy, pulling his 
 forelock. 
 
 'Then tell me if that gipsy woman, Mother Jael, is here?' 
 
 'No, sir, sh' ain't. I ain't set eyes on 'er for I do'no 
 how long.' 
 
 The man spoke earnestly enough, and was evidently tell- 
 ing the truth. Much disappointed to find that the old 
 crone was not in the neighbourhood, the chaplain was 
 about to depart when he heard Mosk begin to sing in a 
 husky voice, and also became aware that Bell, as he judged 
 from the raised tones of her voice, was scolding her father 
 thoroughly. His sense of duty got the better of his anxiety 
 to find Mother Jael, and feeling that his presence was 
 required, he passed swiftly to the back of the house, and 
 threw open the door of the parlour with fine clerical 
 indignation. 
 
 'What is all this noise, Mosk?' he cried sharply. 'Do 
 you wish to lose your license ? ' 
 
 Mosk, who was seated in an arm-chair, smiling and sing- 
 ing, with a very red face, was struck dumb by the chaplain's 
 sudden entrance and sharp rebuke. Bell, flushed and 
 angered, was also astonished to see Mr Cargrim, but hailed 
 his arrival with joy as likely to have some moral influence 
 on her riotous father. Personally she detested Cargrim, but 
 she respected his cloth, and was glad to see him wield the 
 thunders of his clerical position. 
 
 ' That is right, Mr Cargrim ! ' she cried with flashing eyes. 
 
 176
 
 Mr Mosk is Indiscreet 
 
 • Tell him he ought to be ashamed of drinking and singing 
 with mother so ill upstairs.' 
 
 •I don't mean t' do any 'arm,' said Mosk, rising sheepishly, 
 for the shock of Cargrim's appearance sobered him a 
 good deal ' I wos jus' havin' a glass to celebrate a joyful 
 day.' 
 
 'Cannot you take your glass without becoming intoxi- 
 cated ? ' said Cargrim, in disgust. ' I tell you what, Mosk, 
 if you go on in this way, I shall make it my business to 
 warn Sir Harry Brace against you.' 
 
 'I told you how t'would be, father,' put in Bell, 
 reproachfully. 
 
 'You onnatural child, goin' agin your parent,' growled 
 Mr Mosk. ' Wasn't I drinking to your health, 'cause the 
 old 'un at Heathcroft wos passin' to his long 'ome ? Tell 
 me that ! ' 
 
 * What do you mean, Mosk ? * asked the chaplain, starting. 
 
 * Nothing, sir,' interposed Bell, hurriedly. ' Father don't 
 know what he is sayin'.* 
 
 *Yes, I do,' contradicted her father, sulkily. 'Old Mr 
 Leigh, th' pass'n of Heathcroft, is dying, and when he dies 
 you'll live at Heathcroft with — ' 
 
 ' Father ! father ! hold your tongue ! ' 
 
 * With my son-in-law Gabriel ! ' 
 
 *Your — son-in-law,' gasped Cargrim, recoiling. *Is — is 
 your daughter the wife of young Mr Pendle ? ' 
 
 ' No, I am not, Mr Cargrim,* cried Bell, nervously. * It's 
 father's nonsense.' 
 
 ' It's Bible truth, savin' your presence,' said l^.Iosk, strik- 
 ing the table. • Young Mr Pendle is engaged to marry you, 
 ain't he? and he's goin' to hev the livin' of Heathcroft, 
 ain't he? and old Leigh's a-dyin' fast, ain't he?' 
 
 ' Go on, father, you've done it now,' said Bell, resignedly, 
 and sat down. 
 
 Cargrim was almost too surprised to speak. The rector 
 of Heathcroft — dying; Gabriel engaged to marry this 
 common woman. He looked from one to the other in 
 amazement; at the triumphant Mosk, and the blushing 
 girl. 
 
 * Is this true. Miss Mosk? ' he asked doubtfully. 
 
 •Yes! I am engaged to marry Gabriel Pendle,' cried 
 
 M 177
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 Bell, wi'h a toss of her head. ' Vou can tell the whole 
 town so if you like. Neither he nor I will contradict you.' 
 
 'It's as true as true!' growled Mosk. 'My daughter's 
 going to be a lady.' 
 
 'I congratulate you both,' said Cargrim, gravely. 'This 
 will be a surprise to the bishop,' and feeling himself un- 
 equal to the situation, he made his escape. 
 
 ' Well, father,' said Bell, ' this is a pretty kettle of fish, 
 this is ! ' 
 
 t7»
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 IN THE LIBRARY 
 
 Certainly there was little enough to admire in Mr Car- 
 grim's character, still he was not altogether a bad man. In 
 common with his fellow-creatures he also had his good 
 qualities, but these were somewhat rusty for want of use. 
 As Mrs Rawdon Crawley, nee Sharp, remarked, most people 
 can be good on five thousand a year ; and if Cargrim had 
 been high-placed and wealthy he would no doubt have 
 developed his better instincts for lack of reasons to make 
 use of his worser. But being only a poor curate, he had a 
 long ladder to climb, which he thought could be ascended 
 more rapidly by kicking down all those who impeded his 
 progress, and by holding on to the skirts of those who were 
 a few rungs higher. Therefore he was not very nice in his 
 distinction between good and evil, and did not mind by 
 what means he succeeded, so long as he was successful. 
 He knew very well that he was not a favourite with the 
 bishop, and that Dr Pendle would not give him more of 
 the Levitical loaves and fishes than he could help ; but as 
 the holder of the Beorminster See was the sole dispenser of 
 these viands with whom Cargrim was acquainted, it be- 
 hoved him at all risks to compel the bestowal of gifts 
 which were not likely to be given of free-will. Therefore, 
 Cargrim plotted, and planned, and schemed to learn the 
 bishop's secret and set him under his thumb. 
 
 But with ail the will in the world this schemer was not 
 clever enough to deal with the evidence he had accumu- 
 lated. The bishop had had an understanding with Jentham ; 
 he had attempted to secure his silence, as was proved by the 
 torn-out butt of the cheque-book; he had — as Cargrim 
 suspected — killed the blackmailer to bury his secret in the 
 grave, and he had been warned by Mother Jael that she 
 
 179
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 knew of his wicked act This was the evidence, but 
 Cargrim did not know how to place it ship-shape, in order 
 to prove to Bishop Pendle that he had him in his power. 
 It needed a trained mind to grapple with these confused 
 facts, to follow out clues, to arrange details, and Cargrim 
 recognised that it was needful to hire a helper. With this 
 idea he resolved to visit London and there engage the 
 services of a private inquiry agent ; and as there was no 
 time to be lost, he decided to ask the bishop for leave of 
 absence on that very night. Tiiere is nottiing so excellent 
 as prompt attention to business, even when it consists of 
 the dirtiest kind. 
 
 Nevertheless, to allow his better nature some small 
 opportunity of exercise, Cargrim determined to afford the 
 bishop one chance of escape. The visit to The Derby 
 Winner had given him at once a weapon and a piece of 
 information. The rector of Heathcroft was dying, so in 
 the nature of thin{,'s it was probable that the living would 
 soon be vacant. From various hints, Cargrim was aware 
 that the bishop destined this snug post for his younger son. 
 But Gabriel Pendle was engaged to marry Bell Mosk, and 
 when the bishop was informed of that fact, Cargrim had 
 little doubt but that he would refuse to consecrate his son 
 to the living. Then, failing Gabriel, the chaplain hoped 
 that Dr Pendle might give it to him, and if he did so, Mr 
 Cargrim was quite willing to let bygones be bygones. He 
 would not search out the bishop's secret — at all events for 
 the present — although, if Dean Alder died, he might make 
 a later use of his knowledge to get himself elected to the 
 vacant post. However, the immediate business in hand 
 was to secure Heathcroft Rectory at the expense of Gabriel ; 
 so Mr Cargrim walked rapidly to the palace, with the inten- 
 tion of informing the bishop without delay of the young 
 man's disgraceful conduct. Only at the conclusion of the 
 interview could he determine his future course. If, angered 
 at Gabriel, the bishop gave him the living, he would let 
 the bishop settle his account with his conscience, but if 
 Dr Pendle refused, he would then go up to London and 
 hire a bloodhound to follow the trail of Dr Pendle's crime 
 even to his very doorstep. In thus giving his patron an 
 alternative, Cargrim thought himself a very virtuous pt:rson 
 
 i8o
 
 In the Library 
 
 indeed. Yet, so far as he knew, he might be compound- 
 ing a felony ; but that knowledge did not trouble him in 
 the least. 
 
 With this pretty little scheme in his head, the chaplain 
 entered the library in which Dr Pendle was usually to be 
 found, and sure enough the bishop was there, sitting all 
 alone and looking as wretched as a man could. His face 
 was grey and drawn — he had aged so markedly since Mrs 
 Pendle's garden-party that Mr Cargrim was quite shocked — 
 and he started nervously when his chaplain glided into the 
 room. A nerve-storm, consequent on his interview with 
 Mother Jael, had exhausted the bishop's vitality, and he 
 seemed hardly able to lift his head. The utter prostration 
 of the man would have appealed to anyone save Cargrim, 
 but that astute young parson had an end to gain and was 
 not to be turned from it by any display of mental misery. 
 He put his victim on the rack, and tortured him as deli- 
 cately and scientifically as any Inquisition of the good old 
 days when Mother Church, anticipating the saying of the 
 French Revolution, said to the backsliders of her flock, 
 * Be my child, lest I kill thee.' So Cargrim, like a modern 
 Torquemada, racked the soul instead of the body, and 
 devoted himself very earnestly to this congenial talk. 
 
 'I beg your pardon, my lord,' said he, making a 
 feint of retiring, ' I did not know that your lordship was 
 engaged.' 
 
 ' I am not engaged,* replied the bishop, seemingly glad 
 to escape from his own sad thoughts ; ' come in, come in. 
 You have left Mrs Pansey's/^/^ rather early.' 
 
 ' But not so early as you, sir,' said the chaplain, taking a 
 chair where he could command an uninterrupted view of 
 the bishop's face. ' I fear you are not well, my lord.' 
 
 ' No, Cargrim, I am not well. In spite of my desire to 
 continue my duties, I am afraid that I shall be forced to 
 take a holiday for my health's sake.' 
 
 ' Your lordship cannot do better than join IVLrs Pendle at 
 Nauheim.* 
 
 * I was thinking of doing so,' said the bishop, glancing at 
 t letter at his elbow, 'especially as Sir Harry Brace is 
 coming back on business to Beorminster. I do not wish 
 my wife to be alone in her present uncertain state of health. 
 
 i8i
 
 The Bishop s Secret 
 
 As to my own, I'm afraid no springs will cure it ; my disease 
 is of the mind, not of the body.' 
 
 'Ah!' sighed Cargrim, sagely, 'the very worst kind of 
 disease. May I ask what you are troubled about in your 
 mind?' 
 
 ' About many things, Cargrim, many things. Amongst 
 them the fact of this disgraceful murder. It is a reflec- 
 tion on the diocese that the criminal is not caught and 
 punished,* 
 
 ' Does your lordship wish the assassin to be captured?' 
 asked the chaplain, in his softest tone, and with much 
 apparent simplicity. 
 
 Dr Pendle raised his head and darted a keen look at his 
 questioner. 'Of course I do,' he answered sharply, 'and I 
 am much annoyed that our local police have not been 
 clever enough to hunt him down. Have you heard 
 whether any more evidence has been found?' 
 
 'None likely to indicate the assassin, my lord. But I 
 believe that the police have gathered some information 
 about the victim's past.' 
 
 The bishop's hand clenched itself so tightly that the 
 knuckles whitened. 'About Jenthaml'he muttered in a 
 low voice, and not looking at the chaplain ; 'ay, ay, what 
 about him?' 
 
 ' It seems, my lord,' said Cargrim, watchful of his com- 
 panion's face, ' that thirty years ago the man was a violinist 
 in London and his professional name was Amaru.' 
 
 'A violinist! Amaru!' repeated Dr Pendle, and looked 
 80 relieved that Cargrim saw he had not received the 
 answer he expected. * A professional name you say?' 
 
 'Yes, your lordship,' replied the chaplain, trying hard to 
 conceal his disappointment. 'No doubt the man's real 
 name was Jentham.' 
 
 'No doubt,' assented the bishop, indifferently, 'although 
 I daresay so notorious a vagrant must have possessed at 
 least half a dozen names.' 
 
 It was on the tip of Cargrim's tongue to ask by wliat 
 name Jentham had been known to his superior, but restrained 
 by the knowledge of his incapacity to follow up the question, 
 he was wise enough not to put it. Also, as he wishrd to 
 come to an understanding with the bishop on the subject 
 
 182
 
 In the Library 
 
 of the Heathcroft living, he turned the conversation in that 
 direciion by remarking that Mr Leigh was reported as 
 dying. 
 
 ' So Gabriel informed me,' said Dr Pendle, with a nod. 
 * I am truly sorry to hear it. Mr Leigh has been rector of 
 Heathcroft parish for many years.' 
 
 ' For twenty-five years, your lordship ; but latterly he has 
 been rather lax in his rule. What is needed in Heathcroft 
 is a young and earnest man with a capacity for organisation, 
 one who by words and deeds may be able to move the 
 sluggish souls of the parishioners, who can contrive and 
 direct and guide.' 
 
 'You describe an ideal rector, Cargrim,' remarked Dr 
 Pendle, rather dryly, 'a kind of bishop in embryo; but 
 where is such a paragon to be found ? ' 
 
 The chaplain coloured and looked conscious. ' I do not 
 describe myself as a paragon,' said he, in a low voice; 
 ' nevertheless, should your lordship think fit to present me 
 with the Heathcroft cure of souls, I should strive to 
 approach in some decree the ideal I have described.' 
 
 The bishop was no stranger to Cargrim's ambition, as it 
 was not the first time that the chaplain had hinted that he 
 would make a good rector of Heathcroft, therefore he did 
 not feel surprised at being approached so crudely on the 
 subject. With a testy gesture he pushed back his chair 
 and looked rather frowningly on the presumptuous parson. 
 But Cargrim was too sure of his ability to deal with the 
 bishop to be daunted by looks, and with his sleek head on 
 one side and a suave smile on his pale lips, he waited for 
 the thunders from the episcopalian throne. However, the 
 bishop was just as diplomatic as his chaplain, and too wise 
 to give way to the temper he felt at so downright a request, 
 approached the matter in an outwardly mild spirit. 
 
 ' Heathcroft is a large parish,' said his lordship, medita- 
 tively. 
 
 * And therefore needs a hard-working young rector, 
 replied Cargrim. . ' I am, of course, aware of my own de- 
 ficiencies, but these may be remedied by prayer and by a 
 humble spirit.' 
 
 *Mr Cargrim,' said the bishop, with a smile, 'do you 
 remember the rather heterodox story of the farmer's con>- 
 
 183
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 ment on prayer being offered up for rain? " What is the use 
 of praying for rain," said he, " when the wind is in this 
 quarter?" I am inclined,' added Dr Pendle, looking very 
 intently at Cargrim, ' to agree with the farmer.' 
 
 ' Does that mean that your lordship will not give me the 
 living ? ' 
 
 ' We will come to that later, Mr Cargrim. At present I 
 mean that no prayers will remedy our deficiencies unless the 
 desire to do so begins in our own breasts.' 
 
 ' Will your loruship indicate the particular deficiencies I 
 should remedy?' asked the chaplain, outwardly calm, but 
 inwardly raging. 
 
 'I think, Mr Cargrim,' said the bishop, gently, 'that your 
 ambition is apt to take precedence of your religious feelings, 
 else you would hardly adopt so extreme a course as to ask 
 me so bluntly for a living. If I deemed it advisable that 
 you should be rector of Heathcroft, I should bestow it on 
 you without the necessity of your asking me to give it to 
 you ; but to be plain with you, Mr Cargrim, I have other 
 designs when the living becomes vacant.' 
 
 ' In that case, we need say no more, your lordship.' 
 
 'Pardon me, you must permit me to say this much,' said 
 Dr Pendic, in his most stately manner, * that I desire you to 
 continue in your present position until you have more ex- 
 perience in diocesan work. It is not every young man, Mr 
 Cargrim, who has so excellent an opportunity of acquaint- 
 ing himself with the internal management of the Catholic 
 Church. Your father was a dear friend of mine,' con- 
 tir.jed the bishop, with emotion, 'and in my younger days I 
 owed him much. For his sake, and for your own, I wish to 
 help you as much as I can, but you must permit me to be 
 the best judge of when and how to advance your interests. 
 These ambitions of yours, Michael, which I have observed 
 on several occasions, are dangerous to your better qualities. 
 A clergyman of our Church is a man, and — being a priest 
 — something more than a man ; therefore it behoves him 
 to be humble and religious and intent upon his immediate 
 work for the glory of God Should he rise, it must be by 
 such qualities that he attains a higher post in the Church ; 
 but should he remain all his days in a humble position, he 
 can die content, knowing he has thought not of himself 
 
 184
 
 In ike Library 
 
 but of his God. Believe me, my dear young friend, I speak 
 from experience, and it is better for you to leave your 
 future in my hands.' 
 
 These sentiments, being the antithesis to those of Cargrim, 
 were of course extremely unpalatable to one of his nature. 
 He knew that he was more ambitious than religious; but 
 it was galling to think that Dr Pendle should have been 
 clever enough to .^auge his character so truly. His mask 
 of humility and deference had been torn off, and he was 
 better known to the bishop than was at all agreeable to 
 his cunning nature. He saw that so far as the Heathcroft 
 living was concerned he would never obtain it as a free 
 gift from Dr Pendle, therefore it only remained to adopt 
 the worser course, and force the prelate to accede to his 
 request. Having thus decided, Mr Cargrim, with great 
 self-control, smoothed his face to a meek smile, and even 
 displayed a little emotion m order to show the bishop how 
 touched he was by the kindly speech which had crushed 
 his ambition. 
 
 ' I am quite content to leave my future in your hands,' 
 he said, with all possible suavity, 'and indeed, my lord, I 
 know that you are my best — my only friend. The de- 
 ficiency to which you allude shall be conquered by me if 
 possible, and I trust that shortly I shall merit your lord- 
 ship's more unreserved approbation.' 
 
 ' Why,' said the bishop, shaking him heartily by the hand, 
 ' that is a very worthy speech, Michael, and I shall bear it 
 in inind. We are still friends, I trust, in spite of what I 
 consider it was my duty to say.' 
 
 • Certainly we are friends, sir ; I am honoured by the 
 interest you take in me. And now, my lord,' added 
 Cargrim, with a sweet smile, ' may I prefer a little request 
 which was in my mind when I came to see you?' 
 
 • Of course ! of course, Michael ; what is it ? * 
 
 • I have some business to transact in London, my lord ; 
 and I should like, with your permission, to be absent from 
 my duties for a few days.' 
 
 'With pleasure,' assented the bishop; *go when you like, 
 Oargrim. I am only too pleased that you should ask me 
 for a holiday.' 
 
 • Many thanks, your lordship,' said Cargrim, rising. ' Then 
 
 13 185
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 I shall leave the palace to-morrow morning, and will return 
 towards the end of the week. As there is nothing of 
 particular importance to attend to, I trust your lordship 
 will be able to dispense with my services during my few 
 days' absence without trouble to yourself.' 
 
 •Set your mind at rest, Cargrini ; you can take your 
 holiday.' 
 
 •I again thank your lordship. It only remains for me 
 to say that if — as I have heard — your lordship intends to 
 make Mr Gabriel rector of Heathcroft, I trust he will be 
 as earnest and devout there as he has been in Beorminster.' 
 
 ' I have not yet decided how to fill up the vacancy,' said 
 the bishop, coldly, 'and let me remind you, Mr Cargrim, that 
 as yet the present rector of Heathcroft still holds the living.' 
 
 ' I do but anticipate the inevitable, my lord,' said Car- 
 grim, preparing to drive his sting into the bishop, 'and 
 certainly, the sooner Mr Gabriel is advanced to the living 
 the better it will be for his matrimonial prospects.' 
 
 Dr Pendle stared. ' I don't understand you 1 ' he said 
 stiffly. 
 
 ' ^Vhat ! ' Mr Cargrim threw up his hands in astonish- 
 ment. ' Has not Mr Gabriel informed your lordship of his 
 engagement? ' 
 
 • Jingagement ! ' echoed the bishop, half rising, ' do you 
 mean to tell me that Gabriel is engaged, and without my 
 kno^vledge ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, your lordship ! — I thought you knew — most indis- 
 •crcet of me,' murmured Cargrim, in pretended confusion. 
 
 * To whom is my son engaged ? ' asked the bishop, 
 sharply. 
 
 •To — to — really, I feel most embarrassed,' said the 
 chaplain. *I should not have taken — ' 
 
 'Answer at once, sir,' cried Dr Pendle, irritably. 'To 
 whom is my son Gabriel engaged ? I insist upon knowing.' 
 
 ' In that case, I must tell your lordship that Mr Gabriel 
 is engaged to marry Miss Bell Mosk 1 ' 
 
 The bishop bounded out of his chair. ' Bell Mosk I the 
 daughter of the landlord of The Derby Winner?' 
 
 ' Yes, your lordship.' 
 
 ' The — the — the — barmaid 1 My son ! — oh, it is — it is 
 impossible 1 ' 
 
 i86
 
 In the Library 
 
 • I had it from the lips of the young lady herself,' said 
 Cargrim, delighted at the bishop's annoyance. 'Certainly 
 Miss Mosk is hardly fitted to be the wife of a future rector 
 — still, she is a handsome — * 
 
 ' Stop, sir ! ' cried the bishop, imperiously, ' don't dare 
 to couple my son's name with that of — of — of a barmaid. 
 I cannot — I will not — I dare not believe it 1 * 
 
 * Nevertheless, it is true ! ' 
 
 ' Impossible ! incredible ! the boy must be mad f ' 
 
 'He is in love, which is much the same thing,' said 
 Cargrim, with more boldness than he usually displayed 
 before Dr Pendle ; ' but to assure yourself of its truth, let 
 me suggest that your lordship should question Mr Gabriel 
 yourself. I believe he is in the palace.' 
 
 'Thank you, Mr Cargrim,' said the bishop, recovering 
 from his first surprise. ' I thank you for the information, 
 but I am afraid you have been misled. My son would never 
 choose a wife out of a bar.' 
 
 ' It is to be hoped he will see the folly of doing so, my 
 lord,' replied the chaplain, backing towards the door, ' and 
 now I shall take my leave, assuring your lordship that I 
 should never have spoken of Mr Gabriel's engagement had 
 I not believed that you were informed on the point' 
 
 The bishop made no reply, but sank into a chair, looking 
 the picture of misery. After a glance at him, Cargrim left 
 the room, rubbing his hands. * I think I have given you a 
 very good Roland for jour Oliver, my lord 1 ' be murmured. 
 
 13
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 THE BISHOP ASSERTS HIMSELF 
 
 On being left alone, the bishop sat motionless in his chair 
 for some considerable time. The information conveyed 
 by Cargrim struck at his pride, but in his heart he knew 
 well that he had as little right to be proud as to resent the 
 blow. Casting a look over the past, he saw that Dr Graham 
 had been right in his reference to the Ring of Polycrates, 
 for although he was outwardly still prosperous and high- 
 placed, shame had come upon him, and evil was about to 
 befall. From the moment of Jentham's secret visit a 
 blight had fallen on his fortunes, a curse had come upon 
 his house, and in a thousand hidden ways he had been 
 tortured, although for no fault of his own. There was his 
 secret which he did not dare even to think of; there was 
 the enforced absence of his wife and daughter, whom he 
 had been compelled to send away ; there was the hidden 
 enmity of Cargrim, which he did not know how to baffle ; 
 and now there was the shame of Gabriel's engagement to 
 a barmaid ; of George's choice of a wife, who, if rumour 
 could be believed, was the daughter of a scoundrel. With 
 these ills heaped upon his head, the bishop did not know 
 how he could ever raise it again. 
 
 Still, all these woes were locked up in his own breast, 
 and to the world he was yet the popular, pr(»sperous Bishop 
 of Beorriunster. This impression and position he was 
 resolved to maintain at all costs, therefore, to put an end 
 to his last trouble, he concluded to speak seriously to his 
 sons on the subject of unequal marriages. A pressure of 
 the eLctric button summoned the servant, who was in- 
 structed to request Captain Pendle and Mr Gabriel to sec 
 their father at once in the library. It would seem as 
 though they almost expected the message, for in a few 
 
 x88
 
 The Bishop Asserts Himself 
 
 minutes they were both in the room ; George, with his 
 usual jaunty, confident air, but Gabriel with an anxious 
 look. Yet neither of the young men guessed why the 
 bishop had sent for them ; least of all George, who never 
 dreamed for a moment that his father would oppose his 
 engagement with Mab Arden. 
 
 ' Sit down, both of you,' said Dr Pendle, in grave tones, 
 •I have something serious to say,' and the bishop took 
 up an imposing position on the hearthrug. The two sons 
 looked at one another. 
 
 • There is no bad news from Nauheim, I hope, sir ? * said 
 George, quite ignorant of the meaning of this exordium. 
 
 'No. Lucy's last letter about your mother was very 
 cheerful indeed. I wish to speak seriously to both of you. 
 As you are the elder, George, I shall begin with you ; 
 Gabriel, I shall reason with later.' 
 
 • Reason with me,' wondered the curate. * Have I been 
 doing anything which requires me to be reasoned with?' 
 and he gave a half smile, never thinking how soon his jest 
 would be turned into bitter earnest. 
 
 • I think a word in season will do you no harm,' answered 
 his father, austerely, * but I shall address myself to George 
 first.' 
 
 •I am all attention, sir,' said the captain, rather weary 
 of this solemnity. 'What have I done?' 
 
 • You have concealed from me the fact of your engage- 
 ment to Miss Arden.' 
 
 • Oh ! ' cried George, smiling, * so Miss Whichello has 
 been speaking ! ' 
 
 • Yes, she spoke to me to-day, and told me that you had 
 formally engaged yourself to her niece without my know- 
 ledge or sanction. May I inquire your reason for so 
 singular a course?' 
 
 'Is it singular, sir?' asked George, in a half-joking tone. 
 • I always understood that it was first necessary to obtain 
 the lady's consent before making the matter public. I 
 asked Mab to be my wife when I last visited Beorminster, 
 and I intended to tell you of it this time, but I find that 
 Miss Whichello has saved me the trouble. However, now 
 that you know the truth, sir,' said Captain Pendle, with his 
 sunny smile, * may I ask for your approval and blessing ? ' 
 
 189
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 •You may ask,' said the bishop, coldly, 'but you shall 
 have neither.' 
 
 ' Father ! ' The answer was so unexpected that George 
 jumped up from his chair with a cry of surprise, and even 
 Gabriel, who was in the secret of his brother's love for Mab, 
 looked astonished and pained. 
 
 ' I do not approve of the engagement,' went on the bishop, 
 imperturbably. 
 
 • You — do — not — approve — of — Mab ! ' said Captain 
 Pendle, slowly, and his face became pale with anger. 
 
 • I said nothing about the lady,' corrected the bishop, 
 haughtily ; ' you will be pleased, sir, to take my words as 
 I speak them. I do not approve of the engagement.' 
 
 • On what grounds ? ' asked George, quietly enough. 
 •I know nothing about Miss Arden's parents.' 
 'She is the daughter of Miss Whichello's sister.' 
 
 • I am aware of that, but what about her father ? ' 
 
 • Her father ! ' repeated George, rather perplexed. * I never 
 inquired about her father ; I do not know anything about 
 him.' 
 
 • Indeed ! ' said the bishop, *it is just as well that you do not .' 
 Captain Pendle looked disturbed. 'Is there anything 
 
 wrong with him?' he asked nervously. *I thought he 
 was dead and buried ages ago.' 
 
 • I believe he is dead ; but from all accounts he was a 
 scoundrel.' 
 
 ' From whose account, bishop ? ' 
 
 • Mrs Pansey's for one.' 
 
 • Father ! ' cried Gaiiriel, ' surely you know that Mrs Pansey's 
 gossip is most unreliable.' 
 
 'Not in this instance,' replied the bishop, promptly. 
 •Mrs Pansey told me some twenty-six years ago, when 
 Miss Whichello brought her niece to this city, that the 
 child's father was little better than a gaol-bird.' 
 
 'Did she know him?' asked George, sharply. 
 
 'That I cannot say, but she assured me that she spoke 
 the truth. I paid no attention to her talk, nor did I question 
 Miss Whichello on the subject. In those days it had no 
 interest for me, but now that I find my son desires to marry 
 the girl, I must refuse my consent until I learn all about her 
 birth and parentage.' 
 
 190
 
 The Bishop Asserts Himself 
 
 • Miss WhichcUo will tell us about that ! * said George, 
 hopefully. 
 
 ' Let us trust that Miss Whichello dare tell us.* 
 
 ' Dare, sir ! ' cried Captain Pendle, gnawing his moustache. 
 
 ' I used the word advisedly, George. If what Mrs Pansey 
 asserts is true, Miss Whichello will feel a natural reluctance 
 to confess the truth about Miss Arden's father.' 
 
 ' Admitting as much,' urged Gabriel, seeing that George 
 kept silent, ' surely you will not visit the sins of the father 
 on the innocent child ? ' 
 
 • It is scriptural law, my son.* 
 
 ' It is not the law of Christ,* replied the curate. 
 
 ' Law or no law ! * said Captain Pendle, determinedly, * I 
 shall not give Mab up. Her father may have been a Nero 
 for all I care. I marry his daughter all the same ; she is a 
 good, pure, sweet woman.' 
 
 ' I admit that she is all that,' said the bishop, ' and I do 
 not want you to give her up without due inquiry into the 
 matter of which I speak. But it is my desire that you 
 should return to your regiment until the siffair can be sifted.' 
 
 • Who should sift it but I ? * inquired George, hotly. 
 
 ' If you place it in my hands all will — I trust — be well, my 
 son. I shall see Miss Whichello and Mrs Pansey and learn 
 the truth.' 
 
 ' And if the truth be as cruel as you suspect ? * 
 
 ' In that case,' said the bishop, slowly, ' I shall consider the 
 matter ; you must not think that I wish you to break off your 
 engagement altogether, George, but I desire you to suspend 
 it, so to speak. For the reasons I have stated, I disapprove 
 of your marrying Miss Arden, but it may be that, should I 
 be informed fully about her father, I may change my mind. 
 In the meantime, I wish you to rejoin your regiment and 
 remain with it until I send for you.' 
 
 ' And if I refuse ? ' 
 
 ' In that case,' said the bishop, sternly, ' I shall refuse my 
 consent altogether. Should you refuse to ackownledge my 
 authority I shall treat you as a stranger. But I have been a 
 good father to you, George, and I trust that you will see fit 
 to obey me.* 
 
 ' I am not a child,' said Captain Pendle, sullenly. 
 
 •You are a man of the world,' replied his father, skilfully, 
 
 191
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 'and as snch must see that I am speaking for your own good. 
 I ask merely for delay, so that the truth may be known before 
 you engage yourself irrevocably to this young lady.' 
 
 * I look upon my engagement as irrevocable I I have 
 asked Mab to be my wife, I have given her a ring, I 
 have won her heart ; I should be a mean hound,' cried 
 George, lashing himself into a rage, ' if I gave her up for 
 the lying gossip of an old she-devil like Mrs Pansey.* 
 
 ' Vour language is not decorous, sir.' 
 
 •I — I beg your pardon, father, but don't be too hard 
 on me.' 
 
 ' Vour own good sense should tell you that I am not hard 
 on you.' 
 
 • Indeed,' put in Gabriel, • I think that my father has 
 reason on his side, George.' 
 
 •You are not in love,' growled the captain, unconvinced. 
 
 A pale smile flitted over Gabriel's lips, not unnoticed by 
 the bishop, but as he purposed speaking to him later, he 
 made no remark on it at the moment. 
 
 '\\'hat do you wish me to do, sir?' asked George, after a 
 pause. 
 
 ' I have told you,' rejoined the bishop, mildly. ' I desire 
 you to rejoin your regiment and not come back to Beor- 
 minster until I send for you.' 
 
 ' Do you object to my seeing Mab before I go?* 
 
 ' By no means ; see both Miss Arden and Miss Whichello 
 if you like, and tell them both that it is by my desire you 
 go away.' 
 
 ' Well, sir,' said Captain Pendle, slowly, ' I am willing to 
 obey you and return to my work, but I refuse to give up 
 Mab,' and not trusting himself to speak further, lest he 
 should lose his temper altogether, he abruptly left the room. 
 The bishop saw him retire with a sigh and shook his head. 
 Immediately afterwards he addressed himself to Gabriel, who, 
 with some apprehension, was waiting for him to speak. 
 
 'Gabriel,* said Dr Pendle, picking up a letter, * Harry has 
 written to me from Nauheim, saying that he is compelled to 
 return home on business. As I do not wish your mother and 
 Lucy to be alone, it is my desire that you should join them 
 — at once I ' 
 
 The curate was rather amazed at the peremptory tone id 
 
 192
 
 The Bishop Asserts Himself 
 
 this speech, but hastened to assure his father that he was 
 quite willing to go. The reason given for the journey 
 seemed to him a sufficient one, and he had no suspicion 
 that his father's real motive was to separate him from Bell. 
 The bishop saw that this was the case, and forthwith came 
 to the principal point of the interview. 
 
 * Do you know why I wish you to go abroad ? ' he asked 
 sharply. 
 
 • To join my mother and Lucy — you told me so.' 
 
 ' That is one reason, Gabriel ; but there is another and 
 more important one.' 
 
 A remembrance of his secret engagement turned the 
 curate's face crimson; but he faltered out that he did 
 Dot understand what his father meant. 
 
 • I think you understand well enough,' said Dr Pendle, 
 <iemly. ' I allude to your disgraceful conduct in connec- 
 tion with that woman at The Derby Winner.' 
 
 ♦ If you allude to my engagement to Miss Mosk, sir,' cried 
 Gabriel, with spirit, * there is no need to use the word dis- 
 graceful My conduct towards that young lady has been 
 honourable throughout' 
 
 *And what about your conduct towards your father?' 
 asked the bishop. 
 
 Gabriel hung his hpad. •! intended to tell you,* he 
 stammered, *when — ' 
 
 * When you could summon up courage to do so,' inter- 
 rupted Dr Pendle, in cutting tones. * Unfortunately, your 
 candour was not equal to your capability for deception, so 
 I was obliged to learn the truth from a stranger.' 
 
 * Cargrim ! ' cried Gabriel, his instinct telling him the 
 name of his betrayer. 
 
 *Yes, from Mr Cargrim. He heard the truth from the 
 lips of this girl herself. She informed him that she was 
 engaged to marry you — you, my son.' 
 
 'It is true!' said Gabriel, in a low voice. *I wish to 
 make her my wife.' 
 
 ' Make her your wife ! * cried Dr Pendle, angrily ; * this 
 common girl — this — this barmaid — this — ' 
 
 ♦ I shall not listen to Bell being called names even by 
 you, father,' said Gabriel, proudly. ' She is a good girl, a 
 respectable girl — a beautiful girl ! ' 
 
 N 193
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 f 
 
 And a barmaid,' said the bishop, dryly. 'I congratu- 
 late you on the daughter-in-law you have selected for your 
 mother ! ' 
 
 Gabriel winced. Much as he loved Bell, the idea of her 
 being in the society of his delicate, refined mother was not 
 a pleasant one. He could not conceal from himself that 
 although the jewel he wished to pick out of the gutter might 
 shine brilliantly there, it might not glitter so much when 
 translated to a higher sphere and placed beside more polished 
 gems. Therefore, he could find no answer to his father's 
 speech, and wisely kept silence. 
 
 'Certainly, my sons are a comfort to me!' continued the 
 bishop, sarcastically. ' I have brought them up in what I 
 judged to be a wise and judicious manner, but it seems 
 I am mistaken, since the first use they make of their 
 training is to deceive the father who has never deceived 
 them.' 
 
 ' I admit that I have behaved badly, father.' 
 
 ' No one can deny that, sir. The question is, do yon 
 intend to continue behaving badly?' 
 
 ' I love Bell dearly — very dearly ! ' 
 
 The bishop groaned and sat down helplessly in his chair. 
 ' It is incredible,' he said. ' How can you, with your refined 
 tastes and up-bringing, love this — this — ? Well, I shall not 
 call her names. No doubt Miss Mosk is well enough in 
 her way, but she is not a proper wife for my son.' 
 
 ' Our hearts are not always under control, father.* 
 
 ' They should be, Gabriel. The head should always guide 
 the heart ; that is only common sense. Besides, you are too 
 young to know your own mind. This girl is handsome and 
 scheming, and has infatuated you in your innocence. I 
 should be a bad father to you if I did not rescue you from 
 her wiles. To do so, it is my intention that you shall go 
 abroad for a time.' 
 
 *I am willing to go abroad, father, but I shall never, 
 never forget Bell ! ' 
 
 ' You speak with all the confidence of a young man in 
 love for the first time, Gabriel I am glad that you are still 
 suflficiently obedient to obey me. Of course, you know 
 that I cannot consent to your making this girl your wife.' 
 
 • I thought that you might be angry,' faltered Gabriel 
 
 104
 
 The Bishop Asserts Himself 
 
 ' I am more hurt than angry,' replied the bishop. • Have 
 you given this young woman a promise of marriage ? ' 
 
 * Yes, father ; I gave her an engagement ring.' 
 
 *I congratulate you, sir, on your methodical behaviour. 
 However, it is no use arguing with one so infatuated as you 
 are. All I can do is to test your affection by parting you 
 from Miss Mosk. When you return from Nauheim we 
 shall speak further on the subject* 
 
 'When do you wish me to go, father?' asked Gabriel, 
 rising submissively. 
 
 * To-morrow,' said the bishop, coldly. 'You can leave 
 me now.' 
 
 * I am sorry — * 
 
 * Sorry ! ' cried Dr Pendle, with a frown. ' What is the 
 use of words without deeds ? Both you and George have 
 given me a sore heart this day. I thought that I could 
 trust my sons ; I find that I cannot. If — But it is useless 
 to talk further. I shall see what absence can do in both 
 cases. Now leave me, if you please.' 
 
 The bishop turned to his desk and busied himself with 
 some papers, while Gabriel, after a moment's hesitation, 
 left the room with a deep sigh. Dr Pendle, finding him- 
 self alone, leaned back in his chair and groaned aloud. 
 
 * I have averted the danger for the time being,' he said 
 sadly, 'but the future — ah, mel what of the future?' 
 
 m
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 MR BALTIC, MISSIONART 
 
 About this time there appeared in Beorminster an elderly, 
 weather-beaten man, with a persuasive tongue and the quick, 
 alert eye of a fowl. He looked like a sailor, and as such 
 was an object of curiosity to inland folk ; but he cailed him- 
 self a missionary, saying that he had laboured these many 
 years in the Lord's vineyard of the South Seas, and had 
 returned to England for a sight of white faces and a smack 
 of civilisation. This hybrid individual was named Ben 
 Baltic, and had the hoarse voice of a mariner accustomed 
 to out-roar storms, but his conversation was free from nautical 
 oaths, and remarkably entertaining by reason of his adven- 
 turous life. He could not be said to be obtrusively religious, 
 yet he gave everyone the impression of being a good and 
 earnest worker, and one who practised what he preached, 
 for he neither smoked nor gambled nor drank strong waters. 
 Yet there was nothing Pharisaic about his speech or bearing. 
 In a pilot suit of rough blue cloth, with a red bandanna 
 handkerchief and a wide-brimmed hat of Panama straw, Mr 
 Baltic took up his residence at The Derby Winner, and, 
 rolling about Beorminster in the true style of Jack ashore, 
 speedily made friends with people high and low. The low 
 he became acquainted with on his own account, as a word 
 and a smile in his good-humoured way was sufficient to 
 establish at least a temporary friendship ; but he owed his 
 familiarity with the 'high' to the good offices of Mr 
 Cargrim. That gentleman returned from his holiday with 
 much apparent satisfaction, and declared himself greatly 
 benefited by the change. Shortly after his resumption of 
 his duties, he received a visit from Baltic the missionary, 
 who presented him with a letter of introduction from a 
 prominent London vicar. From this epistle the chaplain 
 
 196
 
 Mr Baltic^ Missionary 
 
 learned that Baltic was a rough diamond with a gift of un- 
 tutored eloquence, that he desired to rest for a week or two 
 in Beorminster, and that any little attention shown to him 
 would be grateful to the writer. It said much for Mr Car- 
 grim's goodwill and charity that, on learning all this, he at 
 once opened his arms and heart to the missionary-mariner. 
 He declared his willingness to make Baltic's stay as pleasant 
 as he could, but was shocked to learn that the new-comer 
 had taken up his abode at The Derby Winner. His feelings 
 extended even so far as remonstrance. 
 
 'For,' said Cargrim, shaking his head, 'I assure you, Mr 
 Baltic, that the place is anything but respectable.* 
 
 ' And for such reason I stay there, sir. If you want to do 
 good begin with the worst; that's my motto. The 
 Christian heathen can't be worse than the Pagan heathen, I 
 take it, Mr Cargrim.* 
 
 * I don't know so much about that,* sighed Cargrim. 
 •Refined vice is always the most terrible. Witness the 
 iniquities of Babylon and Rome.' 
 
 'There ain't much refinement about that blackguard 
 public,* answered the missionary, without the shadow of a 
 smile, ' and if I can stop all the swearing and drinking and 
 shuffling of the devil's picture-books which goes on there, 
 111 be busy at the Lord's work, I reckon.' 
 
 From this position Baltic refused to budge, so in the end 
 Cargrim left off trying to dissuade him, and the conversa- 
 tion became of a more confidential character Evidently 
 the man's qualities were not over-praised in the letter of 
 introduction, for, on meeting him once or twice and know- 
 ing him better, Cargrim found occasion to present him to 
 the bishop. Baltic's descriptions of his South Sea labours 
 fascinated Dr Pendle by their colour and wildness, and he 
 suggested that the missionary should deliver a discourse of 
 the same quality to the public. A hall was hired ; the 
 lecture was advertised as being under the patronage of the 
 bishop, and so many tickets were sold that the building was 
 crowded with the best Beorminster society, led by Mrs 
 Pansey. The missionary, after introducing himself as a 
 plain and unlettered man, launched out into a wonderfully 
 vigorous and picturesque description of those Islands of 
 Paradise which bloom like gardens amid the blue waters 
 
 197
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 of the Pacific Ocean. He described the fecundity and 
 luxuriance of Nature, drew word-portraits of the mild, 
 brown-skinned Polynesians, wept over their enthrahnent by 
 a debased system of idolatry, and painted the blessings 
 which would befall them when converted to the gentle 
 religion of Christ Baltic had the gift of enchaini.g his 
 hearers, and the audience hung upon his speech with 
 breathless attention. The natural genius of the man 
 poured forth in burning words and eloquent apostrophes. 
 The subject was picturesque, the language was insiiriting, 
 the man a born orator, and, when the audience dispersed, 
 everyone, from the bishop downward, agreed that Beor- 
 minster was entertaining an untutored Demosthenes. Dr 
 Pendle sighed as he thought of the many dull sermons he 
 had been compelled to endure, and wondered why the 
 majority of his educated clergy should fall so far behind the 
 untaught, unconsecrated, rough-mannered missionary. 
 
 From the time of that lecture, Ben Baltic, for all his 
 lowly birth and uncouth ways, became the lion of Beor- 
 minster. He was invited by Mrs Pansey to afternoon tea ; 
 he was in request at garden-parties ; he gave lectures in 
 surrounding parishes, and, on the whole, created an un- 
 deniable sensation in the sober cathedral city. Baltic 
 observed much and said little ; his eyes were alert, his 
 tongue was discreet, and, even when borne on the highest 
 tide of popularity, he lost none of his modesty and good- 
 humour. He still continued to dwell at The Derby 
 Winner, where his influence was salutary, for the customers 
 there drank less and swore less when he was known to be 
 present Certainly, such reformation did not please Mr 
 Mosk over-much, and he frequently grumbled that it was 
 hard a man should have his trade spoilt by a psalm-singing 
 missionary, but a wholesome fear of Cargrim's threat to 
 inform Sir Harry checked him from asking Baltic to leave. 
 Moreover, the man was greatly liked by Mrs Mosk on 
 account of his religious spirit, and approved of by Bell from 
 the order he kept in the hotel. Therefore Mosk, being in 
 the minority, could only stand on one side and grumble, 
 which he did with true English zeal. 
 
 It was while Baltic was thus exciting Beorminster that 
 Sir Harry Brace came back. Gabriel, in pursuance of his 
 
 198
 
 Mr Baltic, Missionary 
 
 father's wish, had gone over to Nauheim after a short inter- 
 view with Bell, in which he had told her of his father's 
 opposition to the match. Bell was cast down, but did not 
 despair, as she thought that the bishop might soften 
 towards Gabriel during his absence ; so she sent him 
 abroad with a promise that she would remain true to him 
 until he returned. When the curate joined Mrs Pendle 
 and Lucy, Sir Harry, with much regret, had to relinquish 
 his pre-nuptial honeymoon, and returned to Beorminster in 
 the lowest of spirits. The bishop did not tell him about 
 Gabriel's infatuation for Bell, nor did he explain that 
 George had engaged himself secretly to Mab Arden, so 
 Harry was quite in the dark as regards the domestic 
 dissensions, and, ascribing the bishop's gloom to the 
 absence of his family, visited him frequently in order to 
 cheer him up. But the dark hour was on Bishop Pendle, 
 and notwithstanding the harping of this David, the evil 
 spirit would not depart. 
 
 ' What is the matter with the bishop ? ' asked Harry one 
 evening of Cargrim. * He is as glum as an owl.' 
 
 ' I do not know what ails him,' replied the chaplain, who, 
 for reasons of his own, was resolved to hold his tongue, 
 * unless it is that he has been working too hard of late.' 
 
 ' It isn't that, Cargrim ; all the years I have known him 
 he has never been so down-in-the-mouth before. I fancy 
 he has something on his mind.' 
 
 • If you think so, Sir Harry, why not ask him ? ' 
 
 Brace shook his head. ' That would never do ! ' he 
 answered. ' The bishop doesn't like to be asked questions. 
 I wish I could see him livelier; is there nothing you can 
 suggest to cheer him up ? ' 
 
 ' Baltic might deliver another lecture on the South Seas ! ' 
 said Cargrim, blandly. * His lordship was pleased with the 
 last one.' 
 
 ' Baltic ! ' repeated Sir Harry, giving a meditative twist to 
 his black moustache, ' that missionary fellow. I was going 
 to ask you something about him ! ' 
 
 Cargrim looked surprised and sUghtly nervous. ' Beyond 
 that he is a missionary, and is down here for his health's 
 sake, I know nothing about him,' he said hastily. 
 
 *You introduced him to the bishop, didn't you?* 
 
 199
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 ' Yes. He brought a letter of introduction to me from the 
 Vicar of St Ann's in Kensington, but his biography was not 
 given me.' 
 
 ' He's been in the South Seas, hasn't he?' 
 
 ' I believe that his labours lay amongst the natives of the 
 islands ! ' 
 
 ' Well, I know him ! ' said Brace, with a nod. 
 
 •You know him ! ' repeated the chaplain, anxiously. 
 
 • Yes. Met him five years ayo in Samoa ; he was more of 
 a beach-comber than a missionary in those days. Ben 
 Baltic he calls himself, doesn't he ? I thought so 1 It's the 
 same man.' 
 
 ' He is a very worthy person, Sir Harry ! ' 
 
 'So you say. I suppose people improve when they get 
 older, but he wasn't a saint when I knew him. He 
 racketed about a good deal. Humph 1 perhaps he re- 
 pented when I saved his life.' 
 
 ' Did you save his life?' 
 
 'Well, yes. Baltic was raising Cain in some drunken 
 row along with a set of Kanakas, and one of 'em got him 
 under to slip a knife into him. I caught the nigger a clip 
 on the jaw and sent him flying. There wasn't much fight 
 in old Ben when I straightened him out after that. So he's 
 turned devil-dodger. I must have a look at him in his new 
 capacity.' 
 
 'Whatever he has been,' said Cargrim, who appeared 
 uneasy during the recital of this little story, ' I am sure that 
 he has repented of his past errors and is now quite sincere 
 in his rehgious convictions.' 
 
 'I'll judge of tliat for myself, if you don't mind,' drawled 
 the baronet, with a twinkle in his dark eyes, and nodding 
 to Cargrim, he strolled off, leaving that gentleman very un- 
 comfortable. Sir Harry saw that he was so, and wondered 
 why any story affecting Baltic should render the chaplain 
 uneasy. He received an explanation some days later 
 from the missionary himself. 
 
 Brace possessed a handsome family seat, embosomed in a 
 leafy park, some five miles from the city. At present it was 
 undergoing alterations and repairs, so that it might be a 
 more perfect residence when the future I^dy Brace crossed 
 its threshold as a bride. Consequently the greater part of 
 
 2CO
 
 Mr Baltic, Missionary 
 
 the house was in confusion, and given over to painters, 
 plasterers, and such-like upsetting people. Harry, however, 
 had decided to live in his own particular rooms, so that 
 he might see that everything was carried out in accord- 
 ance with Lucy's wish, and the wing he inhabited was in 
 fairly good order. Still, Sir Harry being a bachelor, and 
 extremely untidy, his den, as he called it, was in a state of 
 pleasing muddle, which oftentimes drew forth rebukes from 
 Lucy. She was resolved to train her Harry into better ways 
 when she had the wifely right to correct him, but, as she 
 frequently remarked, it would be the thirteenth labour of 
 Hercules to cleanse this modem Augean stable. 
 
 Harry himself, with male obstinacy, always asserted that 
 the room was tidy enough, and that he hated to live in a 
 prim apartment. He said that he could lay his hand on 
 anything he wanted, and that the seeming confusion was 
 perfect order to him. Lucy gave up arguing on these 
 grounds, but privately determined that when the honey- 
 moon was over she would have a grand 'clarin up' time 
 like Dinah in Uncle Tom's Cabin. In the meanwhile, 
 Harry continued to dwell amongst his confused household 
 gods, like Marius amid the ruins of Carthage. 
 
 And after all, the 'den,' if untidy, was a very pleasant 
 apartment, decorated extensively with evidences of Harry's 
 athletic tastes. There were boxing-gloves, fencing-foils, 
 dumb-bells, and other aids to muscular exertion ; silver 
 cups won at college sports were ranged on the mantelpiece ; 
 on one wall hung a selection of savage weapons which 
 Harry had brought from Africa and the South Seas; on 
 the other, a hunting trophy of whip, spurs, cap and fox's 
 brush was arranged ; and pictures of celebrated horses and 
 famous jockeys were placed here, there and everywhere. 
 The writing-table, pushed up close to the window, was 
 littered with papers, and letters and plans, and before this 
 Harry was seated one morning writing a letter to Lucy, 
 when the servant informed him that Mr Baltic was waiting 
 without. Harry gave orders for his instant admittance, as 
 he was curious to see again the sinner turned saint, and 
 anxious to learn what tide from the far South Seas had 
 stranded him in respectable, unromantic Beorminster. 
 
 When the visitor entered with his burly figure and bright, 
 
 14 20I
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 observant eyes, Harry gave him a friendly nod, but know- 
 ing more about Baltic than the rest of L'eorminster, did not 
 offer him his hand. From his heig'nt of six feet, he looked 
 down on the thick-set little missionary, and telling him to be 
 seated, made him welcome in a sufficiently genial fashion, 
 nevertheless with a certain reserve. He was not quite 
 certain if Baltic's conversion was genuine, and if he found 
 proof of hypocrisy, was prepared to fall foul of him forth- 
 with. Sir Harry was not particularly religious, but he was 
 honest, and hated cant with all his soul. 
 
 •Well, Ben!' said he, looking sharply at his visitor's 
 solemn red face, ' who would have thought of seeing you in 
 these latitudes?' 
 
 *We never know what is before us, sir,' replied Baltic, 
 in his deep, rough voice. 'It was no more in my mind 
 that I should meet you under your own fig-tree than it was 
 that I should receive a call through you ! ' 
 
 ' Receive a call, man ! What do you mean ? ' asked 
 Harry, negligently. ' By the way, will you have a cigar ? ' 
 
 *No thank you, sir. I don't smoke now.' 
 
 * A whisky and soda, then ? ' 
 
 * I have given up strong waters, sir.' 
 
 *Here is repentance indeed!' observed the baronet, 
 with some sarcasm. • You have changed since the Samoan 
 days, Baltic ! ' 
 
 'Thanks be to Christ, sir, I have,' said the man, rever- 
 ently, 'and my call was through you, sir. When you saved 
 my Ufe I resolved to lead a new one, and I sought out Mr 
 Eva, the missionary, who gave me hope of being a better 
 man. I listened to his preaching, Sir Harry, I read the 
 Gospels, I wrestled with my sinful self, and after a long 
 fight I was made strong. My doubts were set at rest, my 
 sins were washed in the Blood of the Lamb, and since He 
 took me into His holy keeping, I hiave striven to be 
 worthy of His great love.' 
 
 Baltic spoke so simply, and with such nobility, that 
 Brace could not but believe that he was in earnest. There 
 was no spurious affectation, no cant about the man ; his 
 words were grave, his manner was earnest, and his speech 
 came from the fulness of his heart. If there had been a 
 false note, a false look, Harry would have detected both, 
 
 203
 
 Mr Baltic, Missionary 
 
 and great would have been his disgust and wrath. But the 
 dignity of the speech, the simplicity of the description, 
 impressed him with a belief that Baltic was speaking truly. 
 The man was a rough sailor, and therefore not cunning 
 enough to feign an emotion he did not feel, so, almost 
 against his will, Brace was obliged to believe that he saw 
 before him a Saul converted into a Paul. The change of 
 Pagan Ben into Christian Baltic was little else than 
 miraculous. 
 
 'And are you now a missionary?' said Brace, after a 
 reflective pause. 
 
 'No, Sir Harry,' answered the man, calmly, and with 
 dignity, ♦ I am a private inquiry agent I '
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 TBK AMAZEMENT OF SIR HARRY BRACT 
 
 *A PRIVATE inquiry agent 1' Sir Harry jumped up from 
 his chair with an angry look, and a sharp ejaculation, neither 
 of which disturbed his visitor. With his red bandanna hand- 
 kerchief spread on his knees, and his straw hat resting on 
 the handkerchief, Baltic looked at his flushed host calmly 
 and solemnly without moving a muscle, or even winking an 
 eye. Brace did not know whether to treat the ex-sailor as 
 a madman or as an impudent impostor. The situation was 
 almost embarrassing. 
 
 * What do you mean, sir,' he asked angrily, ' by coming 
 to me with a cock-and-bull story about your conversion, 
 and then telling me that you are a private inquiry agent, 
 which is little less than a spy ? ' 
 
 * Is it impossible for such a one to be a Christian, Sir 
 Harry ? ' 
 
 ' I should think so. One who earns his living by sneaking 
 can scarcely act up to the ethics of the Gospels.' 
 
 ' I don't earn my living by sneaking,' replied Baltic, coolly. 
 • If I did, I shouldn't explain my business to you as I have 
 done — as I am doing. My work is honourable enough, sir, 
 for I am ranged against evil-doers, and it is my duty to 
 bring their works to naught. There is no need for me to 
 defend my profession to anyone but you. Sir Harry, as no 
 one but yourself, and perhaps two other people, know what 
 I really am.' 
 
 'They shall know it,' spoke Sir Harry, hastily. 'All 
 Beorminster shall know of it We don't care for wolves 
 in sheep's clothing here.' 
 
 * Better be sure that I am a wolf before you talk rashly,' 
 said Baltic, in no wise disturbed. ' I came here to speak 
 to you openly, because you saved my life, and that debt I 
 
 toA
 
 The Amazement of Sir Harry Brace 
 
 wish to square. And let me tell you, sir, that it isnt 
 Christianity, or even justice, to hear one side of the ques- 
 tion and not the other.' 
 
 Harry looked puzzled. *You are an enigma to me, 
 Baltic' 
 
 • I am here to explain myself, sir. As your hand dashed 
 aside the knife of that Kanaka you have a claim on my 
 confidence. You'll be a sad man and a glad man when 
 you hear my story, sir.' 
 
 Harry resumed his seat, shrugged his shoulders, and took 
 a leisurely look at his self-possessed visitor. ' Sad and glad 
 are contradictory terms, my friend,' said he, carelessly. * I 
 would rather you explained riddles than propounded them.' 
 
 ' Sir Harry I Sir Harry ! it is the riddle of man's life upon 
 this earth that I am trying to explain.* 
 
 * You have set yourself a hard task, Baltic, for so far as I 
 can see, there is no reading of that riddle.' 
 
 •Save by the light of the Gospel, sir, which makes all 
 things plain.' 
 
 • Baltic,' said Brace, bluntly, ' there is that about you 
 which would make me sorry to find you a Pharisee 
 or a hypocrite. Therefore, if you please, we will stop 
 religion and allegory, and come to plain matter-of-facL 
 When I knew you in Samoa, you were a sailor without a 
 ship.' 
 
 * Add a castaway and a child of the devil, sir, and you 
 will describe me as I was then,' burst out Baltic, in his 
 deep voice. * Hear me, Sir Harry, and gauge me as I 
 should be gauged. I was, as you know, a drunken, god- 
 less, swearing dog, in the grip of Satan as fuel for hell; 
 but when you saved my worthless life I saw that it behoved 
 me, as it does all men, to repent. I sought out a missionary, 
 who heard my story and set my feet in the right path. I 
 listened to his preaching, I read the Good Book, and so 
 learned how I could be saved. The missionary made me 
 his fellow-labourer in the islands, and I strove to bring the 
 poor heathen to the foot of the cross. For three years I 
 laboured there, until it was borne in upon me that I was 
 called upon by the Spirit to labour in the greater vineyard 
 of London. Therefore, I came to England and looked 
 round to see what task was fittest for my hand. On 
 
 205
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 every side I saw evil prosper. The wicked, as I noted, 
 flourished like a green bay tree ; so, to bring them to 
 repentance and punishment, I became a private inquiry 
 agent' 
 
 * Humph ! that is a novel kind of missionary enterprise, 
 Baltic' 
 
 ' It is a righteous one. Sir Harry. I search out iniquities ; 
 I snare the wicked man in his own nets ; I make void the 
 devices of his evil heart. If I cannot prevent crimes, I can 
 at least punish them by bringing their doers within the 
 grip of the law. Then when punished by man, they re- 
 pent and turn to God, and thereby are saved through their 
 own lusts.' 
 
 * Not in many cases, I am afraid. So you regard your- 
 self as a kind of scourge for the wicked ? ' 
 
 * Yes ! When I state that I am a missionary, I regard 
 myself as one who works in a new way.' 
 
 * A kind oi fin-de-sihU apostle, in fact,' said Brace, dryly. 
 'But isn't the term " missionary " rather a misnomer?' 
 
 * No I ' replied Baltic, earnestly. ' I do my work in a 
 different way, that is all. I baffle the wicked, and by 
 showing them the futility of sin, induce them to lead a 
 new life. I make them fall, only to aid them to rise ; for 
 when all is lost, their hearts soften.' 
 
 * You give them a kind of Hobson's choice, I see,' com- 
 mented Sir Harry, who was puzzled by the man's concep- 
 tion of his work, but saw that he spoke in all seriousness. 
 •Well, Baltic, it is a queer way of calling sinners to re- 
 pentance, and I can't understand it myself.' 
 
 ' My method of conversion is certainly open to mis- 
 construction, sir. That is why I term myself rather a 
 missionary than a private inquiry agent.' 
 
 ' I see ; you don't wish to scare your promising flock of 
 criminals. Does anyone here know that you are a private 
 inquiry agent ? ' 
 
 * Mr Cargrim does,' said the ex-sailor, calmly, 'and one 
 other.' 
 
 Harry leaned forward with an incredulous look. ' Car- 
 grim knows,' he said in utter amazement. * I should think 
 he would be the last man to approve of your ideas, with his 
 narrow views and clerical red-tapisra.' 
 
 206
 
 The Amazement of Sir Harry Brace 
 
 * Perhaps so, sir ; but in this case my views happen to fall 
 in with his own. I came to see you, Sir Harry, in order tn 
 ease my mind on that point.' 
 
 ' In order to ease your mind ! ' repeated Brace, with a 
 keen look. ' Go on.' 
 
 'Sir Harry, I speak to you in confidence about Mr 
 Cargrim. I do not like that man, sir.' 
 
 'You belong to the majority, then, Baltic. Few 
 people like Cargrim, or trust him. But what is he to 
 you ? ' 
 
 * My employer. Yes, sir, you may well look astonished, 
 Mr Cargrim asked me down to Beorminster for a certain 
 purpose.' 
 
 * Connected with his self-aggrandisement, no doubt.' 
 
 * That I cannot tell you, Sir Harry, as Mr Cargrim has 
 not told me his motive for engaging me in my business 
 capacity. All I know is that he wishes me to discover who 
 killed a man called Jentham.' 
 
 ' The deuce ! ' Harry jumped up with an excited look. 
 * Why is he taking the trouble to do that ? ' 
 
 ' I can't say, sir, unless it is that he dislikes Bishop 
 Pendle ! ' 
 
 ' Dislikes Bishop Pendle, man ! And what has all this to 
 do with the murder of Jentham ? ' 
 
 ' Sir,' said Baltic, with a cautious glance around, and 
 sinking his voice to a whisper, ' Mr Cargrim suspects Dr 
 Pendle of the crime.* 
 
 * What ! ! ! ' Sir Harry turned the colour of chalk, and 
 sprang back until he almost touched the wall. 'You 
 hound!' said he, speaking with unnatural calmness, 'do 
 you dare to sit there and tell me that you have come here 
 to watch the bishop ? ' 
 
 * Yes, Sir Harry,' was Baltic's stolid rejoinder, * and call- 
 ing me names won't do away with the fact,' 
 
 ' Does Cargrim believe that the bishop killed this 
 man?' 
 
 ' Yes, sir, he does, and wishes me to bring the crime home 
 to him.' 
 
 'Curse you ! ' roared Harry, striding across the room, and 
 towering over the unmoved Baltic, ' I'll wring your neck, 
 sir, if you dare to hint at such a thing.' 
 
 2C7
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 'I nm merely stating facts, Sir Harry — facts,' he added 
 pointedly, ' which I wish you to ivnovv.' 
 
 • For what purpose' 
 'That you may assist me.' 
 
 ' To hunt down the bishop, I suppose,' said Sir Harry, 
 quivering with rage. 
 
 ' No, sir, to save the bishop from Mr Cargrim.' 
 •Then you do not believe that the bishop is guilty.' 
 
 • Sir,' said Baltic, with dignity, ' in London and in Beer- 
 minster I have collected certain evidence which, on the 
 face of it, incriminates the bishop. But since knowing 
 Dr Pendle I have been observant of his looks and de- 
 meanour, and — after much thought — I have come to the 
 conclusion that he is innocent of this crime which Mr 
 Cargrim lays to his charge. It is because of this belief thai 
 I tell you my mind and seek your assistance. We must 
 work together, sir, and discover the real criminal so as to 
 baffle Mr Cargrim.* 
 
 •Cargrim, Cargrim,* repeated Brace, angrily, 'he is a bad lot.* 
 ' That is what I say. Sir Harry. He is one who spreads 
 a snare, and I wish him to be taken in it himself.* 
 
 • Yet Cargim is your employer, and pays you,' sneered 
 Sir Harry. 
 
 ' You are wrong,' replied Baltic, quietly. ' I do not taJce 
 payment for my work.' 
 
 ' How do you Hve then ? You were not independent 
 when I knew you.' 
 
 'That is true, Sir Harry, but when I arrived in England 
 I found that my father was dead, and had left me sufficicPit 
 to live upon. Therefore I take no fee for my work, but 
 labour to punish the wicked, for religion's sake.* 
 
 Brace muttered something about the heat, and wiped 
 his forehead as he resumed his seat. The peculiar views 
 held by Baltic perplexed him greatly, and he could not 
 reconcile the man's desire to capture criminals with his 
 belief in a religion, the keynote of which is, ' God is love.' 
 Evidently Baltic wished to convert sinners by playing on 
 their fears rather than by appealing to their religious feel- 
 ings, although it was certainly true that those rascals with 
 whom he had to deal probably had no elements of belief 
 whatsoever in their seared minds. 
 
 3o3
 
 The Amazemejit of Sir Harry Brace 
 
 But be this as it may, Baltic's mission was both novel 
 and strange, and might in some degree prove successful 
 from its very originality. Torqueniada burned bodies to 
 save souls, but this man exposed vices, so that those who 
 committed them, being banned by the law, and made out- 
 casts from civiUsation, should find no friend but the Deity. 
 Harry was not clever enough to understand the ethics of 
 this conception, therefore he abandoned any attempt to do 
 so, and treating Baltic purely as an ordinary detective, 
 addressed himself to the task of arriving at the evidence 
 which was said to inculpate Dr Pendle in the murder of 
 Jentham. The ex-sailor accepted the common ground of 
 argument, and in his turn abandoned theology for the 
 business of everyday life. Common sense was needed to 
 expose and abase and overturn those criminals whose 
 talents enabled them, to conceal their wickedness ; pro- 
 selytism could follow in due course. There was the germ 
 of a new sect in Baltic's conception of Christianity as a 
 terrorising religion. 
 
 •Let me hear your evidence against the bishop,' said 
 Sir Harry, calm and business-like. 
 
 Baltic complied with this request and gave the outlines 
 of the case in barren detail. ' Sir,' said he, gravely, ' some 
 weeks ago, while there was a reception at the palace, this 
 man Jentham called to see the bishop and evidently 
 attempted to blackmail him on account of some secret. 
 Afterwards Jentham, not being able to pay for his board and 
 lodging at The Derby Winner, promised Mosk, the land- 
 lord, that he would discharge his bill shortly, as he ex- 
 pected the next week to receive much money. From whom 
 he did not say, but while drunk he boasted that Soutliberry 
 Heath was Tom Tiddler's ground, on which he could pick 
 up gold and silver. In the meantime, Bishop Pendle went 
 up to London and drew out of the Ophir Bank a sum of 
 two hundred pounds, in twenty ten-pound notes. With 
 this money he returned to Beorminster and kept an ap- 
 pointment, on the common, with Jentham, when returning 
 on Sunday night from Southberry. Whether he paid him 
 the blackmail I cannot say ; whether he killed the man 
 no one can declare honestly ; but it is undoubtedly true 
 that, the next morning, Jentham, whom the bishop regarded 
 
 O 209
 
 The Bishof> s Secret 
 
 as his enemy, was found dead. Tlicse, sir, are the bare 
 facts of the case, and, as you can sc,-., tlicy ccrUmly apjioar 
 to inculpate Dr Pendle in the crime.' 
 
 This calm and pitiless statement chilled Sir Harry's 
 blood. Although he could not bring himself to believe 
 that the bishop was guilty, yet he saw plainly t.nough 
 that the evidence tended, almost beyond all doub», to in- 
 criminate the prelate. Yet there might be flaws even in so 
 complete an indictment, and Harry, seeking for them, bcgaa 
 eagerly to question Baltic. 
 
 •Who told you all this ?' he demanded with some appre- 
 hension. 
 
 ' Mr Cargrim told me some parts, and I found out 
 others for myself, sir.' 
 
 • Does Cargrim know the nature of Dr Pendle's secret?' 
 •Not that I know of, Sir Harry.' 
 
 • Is he certain that there is one ? ' 
 
 ' Quite certain,' replied Baltic, emphatically; 'if only on 
 account of Jentham's boast about being able to get money, 
 and the fact that Bishop Pendle went up to London to pro- 
 cure the blackmail.' 
 
 ' How does he know — how does aftyone know that the 
 bishop did so? ' 
 
 •Because a butt was torn out of Dr Pendle's London 
 cheque-book,' s,;id Baltic, ' and I made inquiries at the 
 Ophir Bank, which resulted in my discovery that achrque 
 for two hundred had been drawn on the day the bishop 
 was in town.' 
 
 •Come now, Baltic, it is not likely that any bank 
 would give you thnt information without a warrant ; but I 
 don't suppose you dared to procure one again-.t his lordship.' 
 
 •Sir,' Suid Baltic, rolling up his red handkerchief, ' 1 had 
 not sufficient evidence to procure a warrant, also I am not 
 in the service of the Government, nevertheless, I have my 
 own ways of procuring information, which I decline to 
 explain. These served me so well in this instance that I 
 know Bishop Pendle drew a cheque for two hundred 
 {)ounds, and moreover, I have the numbers ot the notes. 
 If the money was paid to Jentham, and afterwards was taken 
 from his dead body by the assa-^sin, I hope to trace these 
 notes ; in which case I may cay)ture the murderer.' 
 
 210
 
 The Amazement of Sir Harry Brace 
 
 « 
 
 • In your character of a private inquiry agent ? * 
 
 • No, Sir Harry, I cannot take that much upon myself. I 
 mentioned that one other person knew of my profession ; 
 that person is Inspector Tinkler.' 
 
 ' Man ! ' cried Brace, with a start, ' you have not dared to 
 accuse the bishop to Tinkler ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, no, sir ! ' rejoined the ex-sailor, composedly. ' All I 
 have done is to tell Tinkler that I wish to hunt down the 
 murderer of Jentham, and to induce him to obtain for me 
 a warrant of arrest against Mother Jael.' 
 
 •Mother Jael, the gipsy hag! You don't suspect her, 
 surely ! ' 
 
 • Not of the murder • but I suspect her of knowing the 
 truth. Tinkler got me a warrant on the ground of her 
 being concerned in the crime — say, as an accessory after 
 the fact. To-morrow, Sir Harry, I ride over to the gipsy 
 camp, and then with this warrant I intend to frighten 
 Mother Jael into confessing what she knows.' 
 
 Harry smiled grimly. 'If you get the truth out of her 
 you will be a clever man, Baltic Does the bishop know 
 that you suspect him?' 
 
 'I don't suspect him, sir,' replied Baltic, rising, 'and 
 the bishop knows nothing, as be believes that I am a 
 missionary.' 
 
 ' Well, you are, in your own peculiar way.' 
 
 • Thank you, Sir Harry. Only you and Mr Cargrim and 
 Mr Tinkler are aware of the truih, and I tell you all this, 
 sir, as I neither approve of, nor believe in, Mr Cargrim. 
 I am certain that Dr Pendle is innocent; Mr Cargrim is 
 equally certain that he is guilty; so I am working to prove 
 the truth, and that,' concluded the solemn Baltic, ' will not 
 be what Mr Cargrim desires.' 
 
 ' Good God ! the man must hate the bishop.' 
 'Bating your taking the name of God in vain, sir, I 
 believe he does.* 
 
 • Well, Ealtic, I am greatly obliged to you for your conS- 
 dence, andJeel thankful that you are on our side. You 
 can command my services in any way you like, but keep 
 me posted up in all you do.' 
 
 'Sir!' said Baltic, gravely, shaking hands with his host, 
 *you can look upon me as your friend and well-wisher.' 
 
 211
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 W H A r M O T H P: R J A E L KNEW 
 
 Now, when Baltic and his grizzled head had vanished, Sir 
 Harry must needs betake himself to Dr Graham for the 
 easing of his mind. The doctor had known the young man 
 since he was a little lad, and on more than one occasion 
 had given him that practical kind of advice which results 
 from experience ; therefore, when Harry was perplexed 
 over matters too deep for him — as he was now — he invari- 
 ably sought counsel of his old friend. In the present 
 instance — -for his own sake, for the sake of Lucy and Lucy's 
 father — he told Graham the whole story of Bishop Pendle's 
 presumed guilt ; of Baltic's mission to disprove it ; and of 
 Cargrim's underhanded doings. Graham listened to the 
 details in silence, and contented himself with a grim smile 
 or two when Cargrim's treachery was touched upon. 
 When in possession of the facts, he commented firstly on 
 the behaviour of the chaplain. 
 
 ' I always thought that the fellow was a cur ! ' said he, 
 contemptuously, 'and now I am certain of it.' 
 
 'Curs bite, sir,' said Brace, sententiously, 'and we must 
 muzzle this one else there will be the devil to pay.' 
 
 'No doubt, when Cargrim receives his wages. Well, lad, 
 and what do you propose doing?' 
 
 ' I came to ask your advice, doctor ! ' 
 
 ' Here it is, then. Hold your tongue and do nothing.* 
 
 ' What ! and leave that hound to plot against the bishop ? ' 
 
 *A cleverer head than yours is counter-plotting him, 
 Brace,' warned the doctor. 'While Cargrim, having faith in 
 Baltic, leaves the matter of the murder in his hands, there 
 can be no open scandal.* 
 
 Harry stared, and moodily tugged at his moustache. *I 
 never thought to hear you hint that the bishop was guil>:y,' 
 he grumbled. 
 
 213
 
 Wkat Mother Jae I knew 
 
 ' And I,' retorted Graham, ' never thought to hear a man 
 of your sense make so silly a speech. The bishop is 
 innocent; I'll stake my life on that. Nevertheless, 
 he has a secret, and if there is a scandal about this 
 murder, the secret — whatever it is — may become public 
 property,' 
 
 • Humph ! that is to be avoided certainly. But the 
 secret can be nothing harmful.' 
 
 *If it were not,' replied Graham, drily, 'Pendle would 
 not take such pains to conceal it. People don't pay two 
 hundred pounds for nothing harmful, my lad.' 
 
 • Do you believe that the money was paid ? ' 
 
 'Yes, on Southberry Heath, shortly before the murder. 
 And what is more,* added Grah;im, warmly, ' I believe that 
 the assassin knew that Jentham had received the money, 
 and shot him to obtain it.' 
 
 ' If that is so,' argued Harry, * the assassin would no 
 doubt wish to take the benefit of his crime and use the 
 money. If he did, the numbers of the notes being known, 
 they would be traced, whereas — ' 
 
 ' Whereas Baltic, who got the numbers from the bank, has 
 act yet had time to trace them. Wait, Brace, wait ! Time, 
 in this matter, may work wonders.' 
 
 •But, doctor, do you trust Baltic?' 
 
 •Yes, my friend, I always trust fanatics in their own 
 particular line of monomania. Besides, for all his religious 
 craze, Baltic appears to be n shrewd man ; also he is a 
 silent one, so if anyone can carry the matter through 
 judiciously, he is the person.' 
 
 • What about Cargrim ? ' 
 
 • Leave him alone, lad ; with sufficient rope he'll surely 
 hang liiuiself.' 
 
 VShouldn't the bishop be warned, doctor?' 
 
 'I think not. If we watch Cargrim and trust Baltic we 
 !5hall be able to protect Pendle from the consequences of 
 his folly.' 
 
 'Folly! What folly?' 
 
 'The folly of having a secret. Only women should have 
 secrets, for they alone know how to keep them.' 
 
 • Everyone is of the opposite opinion,' said Brace, with a 
 grin.
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 •And, as usual, everyone is wrong,' retorted Graham. 
 ' Do you think 1 have been a d )Ctor all these years and 
 don't know the sex? — that is, so far as a man may know 
 them. You lake my word for it, Brace, that a woman 
 knows how to hold her tongue. It is a popular fallacy to 
 suppose that she doesn't. You try and get a secret out of 
 a woman which she thinks is wortli keeping, and see how 
 you'll fare. She will laugh, and talk and lie, and tell you 
 everytliing — except what you want to know. What strength 
 is to a man, cunning is to a woman. Tiiey are thj potters, 
 we are the clay, and — and — and my discourse is as dis- 
 cursive as that of Praed's vicar,' finished the doctor, with a 
 dry chuckle. 
 
 ' It has led us a long way from the main point,' agreed 
 Harry, 'and that is— what is Dr Pendle's secret?' 
 
 Graham shook his head and shru.gcd his shoulders. 
 'You ask more than I can tell you,' he said sadly. 'What- 
 ever it is, Pendle intends to keep it to himself. All we can 
 do is to trust Baltic' 
 
 'Well, doctor,' said Harry, taking a reluctant leave, for 
 he wislied to thresh out the matter into absolute ciiaff, 
 ' you know best, so I shall follow your advice.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that,' was Graham's reply. ' My time is 
 too valuable to be wasted.' 
 
 While this conversation was taking place, Baltic was 
 walking briskly across the brown heath, in the full blaze of 
 the noonday. A merciless sun flamed like a furnace in 
 the cloudless sky ; and over the vast expanse of dry burnt 
 herbage lay a veil of misty, tremulous heat Every pool of 
 water flashed like a mirror in the sun-rays ; the drone of 
 myriad insects rose from the ground ; the lark's clear music 
 rained down from the sky ; and the ex-sailor, trudging along 
 the white and dusty highway, almost persuaded liimsclf that 
 he was back in some tropical land, less gorgeous, but quite 
 as sultry, as the one he had left The day was fitter for 
 mid June rather than late September. 
 
 Baltic made so much concession to the unusual weather 
 as to drape his red handkerchief over his head and place his 
 Panama hat on top of it ; but he still wore the thick pilot 
 suit, buttoned up tightly, and stepped out smartly, as though 
 he were a salamander impervious to heat. With his long 
 
 114
 
 What Mother J ael knew 
 
 arms swinging by his side, his steady, grey eyes observant 
 of all around him, he rolled on, in true nautical style, 
 towards the gipsy camp. This was not hard to discover, 
 for it lay only a mile or so from Southberry Junction, some 
 little distance off the main road. The missionary saw a 
 huddle of caravans, a few straying horses, a cluster of tawny, 
 half-clad children rioting in the sunshine ; and knowing that 
 this was his port of call, he stepped oflF the road on to the 
 grass, and made directly for the encampment. He had a 
 warrant for Mother Jael's arrest in his pocket, but save 
 himself there was no one to execute it, and it might be 
 difficult to take the old woman in charge when she was — 
 so to speak — safe in the heart of her kingdom. However, 
 Baltic regarded the warrant only as a means to an end, and 
 did not intend to use it, other than as a bogey to terrify 
 Mother Jael into confession. He trusted more to his 
 religiosity and persuasive capabilities than to the power 
 of the law. Nevertheless, beiiig practical as well as senti- 
 mental, he was glad to have the warrant in case of need ; 
 for it was possible that a heathenish witch like Mother 
 Jael might fear man more than God. Finally, Baltic had 
 some experience of casting religious pearls before pagan 
 swine, and therefore was discreet in his use of spiritual 
 remedies. 
 
 Dogs barked and children screeched when Baltic stepped 
 into the circle formed by caravans and tents ; and several 
 swart, sinewy, gipsy men darted threatening glances at him 
 as an intrusive stranger. There burned a fire near one of 
 the caravans, over which was slung a kettle, swinging from 
 a tripod of iron, and this was filled with some savoury stew, 
 which sent forth appetising odours. A dark, handsome 
 girl, with golden earrings, and a yellow handkerchief 
 twisted picturesquely round her black hair, was the cook, 
 and she turned to face Baltic with a scowl when he inquired 
 for Mother Jael. Evidently the Gentiles were no tavourites 
 in tiie camp of these outcasts, for the men lounging about 
 murmured, the women tittered and sneered, and the very 
 children spat out evil words in the Romany language. But 
 Baltic, used to black skins and black looks, was not daunted 
 by this inhospitable reception, and in grave tones repeated 
 his inquiry for the sibyl.
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 'Who are you, juggel-mush ? ' * asked a sinister-looking 
 Hercules. 
 
 • I am one who wishes to see Mother Jael,' replied 
 Baltic, iu his deep voice. 
 
 'Arromalil't sneered the Cleopatra-like cook. *She 
 has more to do than to see every cheating, choring 
 Gentile.* 
 
 'Give me money, my royal master,* croaked a frightful 
 cripple. ' My own little purse is empty.* 
 
 ' Oh, what a handsome Gorgio ! ' whined a hag, inter- 
 spersing her speech with curses. '(May evil befall him!) 
 Good luck for gold, dearie. (I spit on vour corpse. Gentile ! ) 
 Charity I Charity ! ' 
 
 A girl seated on the steps of a caravan cracked her 
 fingers, and spitting three times for the evil eye, burst into 
 
 a song 
 
 'With my kissings and caressings 
 I can gain gold from the Gentiles } 
 But to evil change my blessings.' 
 
 All this clatter and clamour of harsh voices, mouthing 
 the wild gipsies' jargon, had no effect on Baltic. Seeing 
 that he could gain nothing from the mocking crowd, he 
 pushed back one or two, who seemed disposed to be 
 affectionate with a view to rubbing his pockets, and shouted 
 loudly, ' Mother Jael 1 Mother Jael 1 ' till the place rang 
 with his roaring. 
 
 Before the gipsies could recover from their astonishment 
 at this sudden change of front, a dishevelled grey head was 
 poked out from one of the black tents, and a thin high 
 voice piped, * Dearie ! lovey I Mother Jael be here ! ' 
 
 ' I thought I would bring you out of your burrow,' said 
 Baltic, grimly, as he strode towards her ; ' in with you again, 
 old Witch of Endor, and let me follow.' 
 
 ' Hindity-Mush i'l growled one or two, but the appear- 
 ance of Mother Jael, and a few words from her, sent the 
 whole gang back to their idling and working; while iuiltic, 
 quite undisturbed, dropped on all fours and crawled into 
 
 • Juggel-mush : a dogmaa, 
 
 + Arromali : truly. 
 
 \ Hindity-Mush : a dirty creature 
 
 216
 
 What Mother J ael knew 
 
 the black tent, at the tail of the hag. She croaked out a 
 welcome to her visitor, and squatting on a tumbled mattress, 
 leered at him like a foul old toad. Baltic sat down near 
 the opening of the tent, so as to get as much fresh air as 
 possible, and also to watch Mother Jael's face by the 
 glimmer of light which crept in. Spreading his handsome 
 handkerchief on his knee, according to custom, and placing 
 his hat thereon, he looked straightly at the old hag, and 
 spoke slowly. 
 
 * Do you know why I am here, old woman ? ' he demanded. 
 
 * Yes, dearie, yes ! Ain't it yer forting as y' wan's tole ? 
 Oh, my pretty one, you asks ole mother for a fair future ! 
 I knows ! I knows ! ' 
 
 * You know wrong then ! ' retorted Baltic, coolly. * I am 
 one who has no dealings with witches and familiar spirits. 
 I ask you to tell me, not my fortune — which lies in the 
 hand of the Almighty — but the name of the man who 
 murdered the creature Jentham.' 
 
 Mother Jael made an odd whistling sound, and her 
 cunning old face became as expressionless as a mask. 
 In a second, save for her wicked black eyes, which 
 smouldered like two sparks of fire under her drooping lids, 
 she became a picture of stupidity and seniHty. * Bless 'ee, 
 my pretty master, I knows nought ; all I knows I told the 
 Gentiles yonder,' and the hag pointed a crooked finger in 
 the direction of Beorminster. 
 
 ' Mother of the witches, you lie ! ' cried Baltic, in very 
 good Romany. 
 
 The eyes of Mother Jael blazed up like torches at the 
 sound of the familiar tongue, and she eyed the weather- 
 beaten face of Baltic with an amazement too genuine to be 
 feigned. * Duvel ! ' said she, in a high key of astonishment, 
 ' who is this Gorgio who patters with the gab of a gentle 
 Romany ? ' 
 
 ' I am a brother of the tribe, my sister.* 
 
 *No gipsy, though,' said the hag, in the black language. 
 •You have not the glossy eye of the true Roman.' 
 
 ' No Roman am I, my sister, save by adoption. As a lad 
 I left the Gentiles' roof for the merry tent of Egypt, and for 
 many years I called Lovels and Stanleys my blood-brothers.' 
 
 * Then why come you with a double face, little child ? ' 
 
 15 217
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 CToalced the beldam, who knew that Baltic was speaking 
 the truth from his knowledge of the gipsy tongue. ' As a 
 Gentile I would speak no word, but my brother you are, 
 and as my brother you shall know.' 
 
 • Know who killed Jentham ! ' said Baltic, hastily. 
 
 ' Of a truth, brother. But call him not Jentham, for he 
 was of Pharaoh's blood.' 
 
 'A gipsy, mother, or only a Romany rye?' 
 
 •Of the old blood, of the true blood, of our religion 
 verily, my brother. One of the Lovels he was, who left 
 our merry life to eat with Gorgios and fiddle gold out of 
 their pockets.' 
 
 *He called himself Amaru then, did he not?' said Baltic, 
 who had heard this much from Cargrim, to whom it had 
 filtered from Miss Whichello through Tinkler. 
 
 • It is so, brother. Amaru he called himself, and Jentham 
 and Creagth, and a dozen other names when cheating and 
 choriiig the Gentiles. But a Bosvile he was bom, and a 
 Bosvile he died.' 
 
 ' That is just it ! ' said Baltic, in English, for he grew 
 weary of using the gipsy language, in which, from disuse, he 
 was no great proficient. ' How did he die ? ' 
 
 ' He was shot, lovey,' replied Mother Jael, relapsing also in- 
 to the vulgar tongue; ' shot, dearie, on this blessed common.' 
 
 ♦Who shot him?' 
 
 •Job ! my noble rye, I can't say. Jentham, he come 'ere 
 to patter the calo jib and drink with us. He said as he 
 had to see some Gentile on that night ! La ! la 1 la 1 ' 
 she piped thinly, ' an evil night for him ! ' 
 
 'On Sunday night — the night he was killed?' 
 
 • Yes, pretty one. The Gorgio was to give him money 
 for soraeihin' he knowed.' 
 
 ' Who was the Gorgio ? ' 
 
 « I don' know, lovey ! I don' know ! ' 
 
 *What was the secret, then?' asked Baltic, casting round 
 for information. 
 
 ' Bless 'ee, my tiny 1 Jentham nivir tole me. An' I was 
 curls to know, my dove, so when he walks away half-seas 
 over I goes too. I follows, lovey, I follow, but I nivir did 
 cotch him up, fur rain and storm comed mos' dreful.' 
 
 ' Did you not see him on that night, then?' 
 
 2l8
 
 What Mother J ae I knew 
 
 • Sight of my eyes, I sawr' im dead. I 'eard a shot, and 
 I run, and run, dearie, fur I know'd as 'e 'ad no pistol ; but 
 I los' m'way, my royal rye, and it was ony when th' storm 
 rolled off as I foun' 'im. He was lyin' in a ditch. Such was 
 his grave,' continued Mother Jael, speaking in her own 
 tongue, ' water and grass and storm-clouds above, brother. 
 I was afraid to touch him, afraid to wait, as these Gentiles 
 might think I had slain the man. I got back into the road, 
 I did, and there I picked up this, which I brought to the 
 camp with me. But I never showed it to the police, 
 brother, for I feared the Gentile jails.' 
 
 This proved to be a neat little silver-mounted pistol 
 which Mother Jael fished out from the interior of the 
 mattress. Baltic balanced it in his hand, and believing, as 
 was surely natural, that Jenthara had been killed with this 
 weapon, he examined it carefully. 
 
 • G. P.,' said he, reading the initials graven on the silver 
 shield of the butt 
 
 • Ah ! ' chuckled Mother Jael, hugging herself. * George 
 Pendle that is, lovey. But which of 'em, my tender dove — 
 the father or the son ?* 
 
 ' Humph ! ' remarked Baltic, meditatively, ' they are both 
 called George.* 
 
 'But they ain't both called murderer, my brother. 
 George Pendle shot that Bosvile sure enough, an' ef y'arsk 
 me, dearie, it was the son — the captain — the sodger. Ah, 
 that it was 1 ' 
 
 15 M»
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 THE RETURN OF GABRIEL 
 
 ' Mv dear Daisy, I am sorry you are going away, as it has 
 been a great pleasure for ine to have you in my house. I 
 hope you will visit me again next year, and then you may be 
 more fortunate.' 
 
 Mrs Pansey made this amiable little speech — which never- 
 theless, like a scorpion, had a sting in its tail — to Miss Nor- 
 sham on the platform of the Beorminster railway station. 
 After a stay of two months, the town mouse was departing 
 as she had come — a single young woman ; and Mrs Pansey's 
 last word was meant to remind her of failure. Daisy was 
 quick enough to guess this, but, displeased at the taunt, 
 chose to understand it in another and more gracious sense, 
 so as to disconcert her spiteful friend. 
 
 ' Fortunate ! Oh, dear Mrs Pansey, I have been very 
 fortunate this time. Really, you have been most kind ; you 
 have given me everything I wanted.' 
 
 'Excepting a husband, my dear,' rejoined the arch- 
 deacon's widow, determined that there should be no mis- 
 understanding this time. 
 
 *Ah! it was out of your power to give me a husband,' 
 murmured Daisy, wincing. 
 
 ' Quite true, my dear ; just as it was out of your power 
 to gain one for yourself. Still, I am sorry that Dr Alder 
 did not propose.' 
 
 'Indeed!' Daisy tossed her head. *I should certainly 
 have refused him had he done so. A woman may not 
 marry her grandfather.' 
 
 'A woman may not, but a woman would, rather than 
 remain single,' snapped Mrs Pansey, with considerable 
 spite. 
 
 Miss Norsham carefully inserted a corner of a foolish 
 
 220
 
 The Return of Gabriel 
 
 little handkerchief into one eye. ' Oh, dear, I do call it 
 nasty of you to speak to me so,' said she, tearfully. * You 
 needn't think, like all men do, that every woman wants to 
 be married. I'm sure I don't.' 
 
 The old lady smiled grimly at this appalling lie, but 
 thinking that she had been a little hard on her departing 
 guest, hastened to apologise. 'I'm sure you don't, dear, 
 and very sensible it is of you to say so. Judging from my 
 own experience with the archdeacon, I should certainly 
 advise no one to marry.' 
 
 ' You are wise after the event,' muttered Daisy, with 
 some anger, 'but here is my train, Mrs Pansey, thank 
 you ! ' and she slipped into a first-class carriage, looking 
 decidedly cross and very defiant. To fail in husband- 
 hunting was bad enough, but to be taunted with the failure 
 was unbearable. Daisy no longer wondered that Mrs 
 Pansey was hated in Beorminster ; her own feelings at the 
 moment urged her to thrust the good lady under the wheels 
 of the engine. 
 
 'Well, dear, I'll say good-bye,* said Mrs Pansey, screw- 
 ing her grim face into an amiable ^smile. * Be sure you give 
 my love to your mother, dear,' and the two kissed with that 
 show of affection to be seen existing between ladies who do 
 not love one another over much. 
 
 • Horrid old cat ! ' said Daisy to herself, as she waved her 
 handkerchief from the now moving train. 
 
 ' Dear me ! how I dislike that girl,' soliloquised Mrs 
 Pansey, shaking her reticule at the departing Daisy. ' Well ! 
 well I no one can say that I have not done my duty by 
 her,' and much pleased with herself, the good lady stalked 
 majestically out of the station, on the lookout to seize upon 
 and worry any of her friends who might be in the vicinity. 
 For his sins Providence sent Gabriel into her clutches, 
 and Mrs Pansey was transfixed with astonishment at the 
 sight of him issuing from the station. 
 
 ' Mr Pendle ! ' she said, placing herself directly in his 
 way, 'I thought you were at Nauheim. What is wrong? 
 Is your mother ill ? Is she coming back ? Are you 
 in trouble?' 
 
 Gabriel could not answer all, or even one of these 
 questions on the instant, for the sudden appearance and 
 
 221
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 speech of the Beorminster busybody had taken him by 
 surprise. He looked haggard and white, and there were 
 dark circles under his eyes, as though he suffered from 
 want of sleep. Still, the journey from Nauheim might 
 account for his weary looks, and would have done so to 
 anyone less suspicious than Mrs Pansey ; but that good 
 lady scented a mystery, and wanted an explanation. This, 
 Gabriel, with less than his usual courtesy, declined to 
 furnish. However, to give her some food for her mind, 
 he answered her questions categorically. 
 
 ' I have just returned from Nauheim, Mrs Pansey,' he 
 said hurriedly. ' There is nothing wrong, so far as I am 
 aware. My mother is much better, and is benefiting 
 greatly by the baths. She is coming back within the 
 month, and I am not in trouble. Is there anything else 
 you wish to know?' 
 
 *Yes, Mr Pendle, there is,' said Mrs Pansey, in no 
 wise abashed. ' Why do you look so ill ? * 
 
 'I am not ill, but I have had a long sea-passage, a 
 weary railway journey, and I feel hot, and dirty, and worn 
 out. Naturally, under the circumstances, I don't look the 
 picture of health.* 
 
 •Humph ! trips abroad don't ^o you much good.' 
 
 Gabriel bowed, and turned away to direct the porter to 
 place his portmanteau in a fly. Offended by his silence, 
 Mrs Pansey shook out her skirts and tossed her sable 
 plumes. 'You have not brought back French politeness, 
 young man,' said Mrs Pansey, acridly. 
 
 ' I have been in Germany,' retorted Gabriel, as though 
 that fact accounted for his lack of courtesy. 'Good-bye 
 for the present, Mrs Pansey; I'll apologise for my short- 
 comings when I recover from my journey.' 
 
 ' Oh, you will, will you?* growled the archdeacon's widow, 
 as Gabriel lifted his hat and drove off; 'you'll do more 
 than apologise, young man, you'll explain. Hoity-toity I 
 here's brazen assurance,' and Mrs Pansey, with her Roman 
 beak in the air, marched off, wondering in her own curious 
 m'nd what could be the reason of Gabriel's sudden return. 
 
 Her curiosity would have been gratified had she been 
 present in Dr Graham's consulting-room an hour later ; 
 for after Gabriel had bathed and brushed up at his lodgings,
 
 The Return of Gabriel 
 
 he paid an immediate visit to the little doctor. Graham 
 happened to be at home, as he had not yet set out on his 
 round of professional visits, and he was as much astonished 
 as Mrs Pansey when the curate made his appearance. 
 Also, like Mrs Pansey, he was struck by the young man's 
 worn looks. 
 
 'What! Gabriel,' he cried, when the curate entered, 
 'this is an unexpected pleasure. You look ill, lad ! ' 
 
 'I am ill,' replied Gabriel, dropping into a chair with an 
 air of fatigue. * I feel very much worried, and I have 
 come to ask for your advice.' 
 
 'Very pleased to give it to you, my boy, but why not 
 consult the bishop ? ' 
 
 ' My father is the last man in the world I would consult, 
 doctor.' 
 
 * That is a strange speech, Gabriel,' said Graham, with a 
 keen look. 
 
 ' It is the prelude to a stranger story ! I have come to 
 confide in you because you have known me all my life, 
 doctor, and because you are the most intimate friend my 
 father has.' 
 
 ' Have you been getting into trouble ? ' 
 
 ' No. My story concerns my father more than it does 
 me.' 
 
 ' Concerns your father ! ' repeated the doctor, with a 
 sudden recollection of the bishop's secret. ' Are you sure 
 that I am the proper person to consult ? ' 
 
 * I am certain of it. I know — I know — well, what I do 
 know is something I have not the courage to speak to my 
 father about. For God's sake, doctor, let me tell you 
 my suspicions and hear your advice.' 
 
 • Your suspicions ! ' said Graham, starting from his chair, 
 with a chill in his blood. 'About — about— that — that 
 murder ? ' 
 
 ' God forbid, doctor. No ! not about the murder, but 
 about the man who was murdered.' 
 
 • Jentham ? ' 
 
 ♦Yes, about the man who called himself Jentham. 
 Are you sure we are quite private here, doctor ? ' 
 
 Graham nodded, and walking to the door turned the 
 key. Then he came back to his seat and fixed his eye.s 
 
 «33
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 on the perturbed face of the young man. ' Does your 
 father know that you are back ? ' he asked 
 
 * No one knows that I am here save Mrs Pansey.' 
 'Then it won't be a secret long,' said Graham, drily; 
 
 'that old magpie is as good as the town-crier. You left 
 your mother well ? ' 
 
 ' Quite well ; and Lucy also. I made an excuse to 
 come back.* 
 
 'Then your mother and sister do not know what you 
 are about to tell me ?' 
 
 Gabriel made a gesture of horror. 'God forbid!' said 
 he again, then clasped his hands over his white face and 
 burst into half hysterical speech. 'Oh, the horror of it, 
 the horror of it ! ' he wailed. ' If what I know is true, then 
 all our lives are ruined.' 
 
 ' Is it so very terrible, my boy?' 
 
 • So terrible that I dare not question my father ! I 
 must tell you, for only you can advise and help us all. 
 Doctor ! doctor ! the very thought drives me mad — indeed, 
 I feel half mad already.' 
 
 ' You are worn out, Gabriel. Wait one moment.' 
 The doctor saw that his visitor's nerves were overstrained, 
 and that, unless the tension were relaxed, he would pro- 
 bably end in having a fit of hysteria. The poor young 
 fellow, born of a weakly mother, was neurotic in the extreme, 
 and had in him a feminine strain, which made him unequal 
 to facing trouble or anxiety. Even as he sat there, shaking 
 and white-faced, the nerve-storm came on, and racked and 
 knotted and tortured every fibre of his being, until a burst of 
 tears came to his relief, and almost in a swoon he lay back 
 limply in his chair. Graham mixed him a strong dose of 
 valerian, felt his pulse, and made him lie down on the sofa. 
 Also, he darkened tlie room, and placed a wet handkerchief 
 on the curate's forehead. Gabriel closed his eyes, and lay 
 on the couch as still as any corpse, while the doctor, who 
 knew what he sufTered, watched him with infinite pity. 
 
 'Poor lad !' he murmured, holding Gabriel's hand in his 
 firm, warm clasp. ' Nature is indeed .n harsh stepmother 
 to you. With your nerves, the pin-prickles of life are so 
 many dagger-thrusts. Do you feel better now ? ' he asked, 
 as Gabriel opened his eyes with a languid sigh. 
 
 224
 
 The Return of Gabriel 
 
 •Much better and more composed,' replied the wan 
 curate, sitting un. 'You have given me a magical drug.' 
 
 * You may well call it that. This particular preparation 
 of valerian is nepenthe for the nerves. But you are not 
 quite recovered yet ; the swell remains after the storm, you 
 know. Why not postpone your sto: v ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot ! I dare not ! ' said Gabriel, earnestly. ' I 
 must ease my mind by telling it to you. Doctor, do you 
 know that the visitor who made my father ill on the night 
 of the reception was Jentham ? ' 
 
 * No, my boy, I did not know that. Who told you ? ' 
 *Tohn, our old servant, who admitted him. He told 
 
 me about Jentham just before I went to Nauheim.' 
 
 * Did Jentham give his name ? * 
 
 * No, but John, like many other people, saw the body in 
 the dead-house. He there recognised Jentham by his 
 gipsy looks and the scar on his face. Well, doctor, I 
 wondered what the man could have said to so upset the 
 bishop, but of course I did not dare to ask him. By the 
 time I got to Germany the episode passed out of my mind.' 
 
 * And what recalled it ? ' 
 
 * Something my mother said. We were in the Kurgarten 
 listening to the band when a Hiedelberg student, with his 
 face all seamed and slashed, walked past us.' 
 
 •I know; students in Germany are proud of those duel- 
 ling scars. Well, Gabriel, and what then ? ' 
 
 The curate quivered all over, and instead of replying 
 directly, asked what seemed to be an irrelevant question. 
 •Did you know that my mother was a widow when my 
 father married her ? ' he demanded in low tone.?. 
 
 •Of course I did,' replied Graham, cheerily. 'I was 
 practising in Marylebone then, and your father was vicar 
 of St Benedict's. Why, I was at his wedding, Gabriel, and 
 very pretty your mother looked. She was a Mrs Krant, 
 whose husband had been killed while serving as a volunteer 
 in the Franco-Prussian War ! ' 
 
 * Did yon ever see her husband ? * 
 
 ' No ; she did not come to Marylebone until he had left 
 her. The rascal deserted the poor young thing and went 
 abroad to fight. But why do you ask all these questions? 
 They cannot but be painful.' 
 
 P 225
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 • Becnuse the sight of that student's face rcrallcd her first 
 husband to my mother. She said that Krant had a long 
 scar on the right cheek. I immediately thought of 
 Jentham.' 
 
 'Good God!* cried Graham, pushing back his chair. 
 •What do you mean, lad ? ' 
 
 'Wait! wait!' said Gabriel, feverishly. 'I asked my 
 mother to describe the features of her first husband. Not 
 suspecting my reason for asking, she did so. Krant, she 
 said, was tall, lean, swart and black-eyed, with a scar on the 
 right cheek running from the ear to the mouth. Doctor ! ' 
 cried Gabriel, clutching Graham's hand, 'that is the very 
 portrait of the man Jentham.' 
 
 • Gabriel ! ' whispered the little doctor, hoarsely, ' do you 
 mean to say — ' 
 
 ' I mean to say that Krant did not die, that Jentham was 
 Krant, and that when he called on my father he appeared 
 as one from the dead. He is dead now, but he was alive 
 when my mother became my father's wife.' 
 
 ' Impossible ! Impossible ! ' repeated Graham, who was 
 ashy pale, and shaken out of his ordinary self. ' Krant 
 died — died at Sedan. Your father went over and saw his 
 grave ! ' 
 
 ' He did not see the corpse, though. I tell you I am 
 right, doctor. Krant did not die. My mother is not my 
 father's wife, and we — we — George, Lucy and myself are in 
 the eyes of the law — nobody's children.' The curate uttered 
 these last words almost in a shriek, and fell back on the 
 couch, covering his face with two trembling hands. 
 
 Graham sat staring straight before him with an expres- 
 sion of absolute horror on his withered brown face. He 
 recalled Pendle's sudden illness after Jentham iiad paid 
 that fatal visit ; his refusal to confess the real cause of his 
 attack ; his admission that he had a secret which he did not 
 dare to reveal even to his oldest friend, and his strange act 
 in sending away his wife and daughter to Nauheim. All 
 these things gave colour to Gabriel's supposition that 
 Jentham was Krant returned from the dead; but after all 
 it was a supposition merely, and quite unsupported I-y fact 
 
 • There is no proof of it^' said Graham, hoarsely ; ' no 
 proof.' 
 
 226
 
 The Return of Gabriel 
 
 *Ask my father for the proof,' murmured Gabriel. *I 
 dare not ! ' 
 
 The doctor could understand that speech very well, and 
 now sarw the reason why Gabriel had chosen to speak to 
 him rather than to the bishop. It might be true, after all, 
 this frightful fact, he thought, and as in a flash he saw ruin, 
 disaster, shame, terror following in the train of its becom- 
 ing known. This, then, was the bishop's secret, and 
 Graham in his quick way decided that at all costs it must be 
 preserved, if only for the sake of Mrs Pendle and her 
 children. The first step towards attaining this end was to 
 see the bishop and hear confirmation or denial from his 
 own lips. Once Graham knew all the facts he fancied 
 that he might in some way — at present he knew not how — 
 help his wretched friend. With characteristic promptitude 
 he decided on the spot how to act 
 
 ' Gabriel,' he said, bending over the unhappy young 
 man, ' I shall see your father about this at once. I cannot, 
 I dare not believe it to be true, unless with his own lips he 
 confirms the identity of Krant with Jenthara. You wait 
 here until I return, and sleep if you can.' 
 
 ' Sleep ! ' groaned Gabriel. ' Oh, God I shall I ever sleep 
 again ? ' 
 
 ' My friend,' said the little doctor, solemnly, * you have 
 no right to doubt your father's honour until you hear what 
 he has to say. Jentham may not be Krant as you suspect. 
 It may be a chance likeness — a — ' 
 
 Gabriel shook his head. * You can't argue away what I 
 know to be true,' he muttered, looking at the floor with 
 dry, wild eyes. ' See my father and tell him what I have 
 told you. He will not be able to deny his shame and the 
 disgrace of his children.' 
 
 * That we shall see,' said Graham, with a cheerfulness he 
 was far froni feeling. ' I shall see him at once. Gabriel, my 
 boy, hops for the best ! ' 
 
 Again the curate shook his head, and with a groan flung 
 himself down on the couch with his face to the wall. 
 Seeing that words were vain, the doctor threw one glance of 
 pity on his prostrate form, and with a sigh passed out of 
 the room. 
 
 227
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 THE CONFESSION OF BISHOP PF.NDLE 
 
 Mr Cargrim was very much out of temper, and Baltic was 
 the cause of his unchristian state of mind. As the triiployer 
 of the so-called missionary and actual inquiry ageni, the 
 chaplain expected to be informed of every fresh discovery, 
 but with this view Baltic did not concur. In his solemn 
 way he informed Cargrim that he preferred keeping his 
 information and methods and suspicions to himself until 
 he was sure of capturing the actual criminal. When the 
 man was lodged in Ceorminster Jail — when his complicity in 
 the crime was proved beyond all doubt — then Baltic promised 
 to write out, for the edification of his employer, a detailed 
 account of the steps taken to bring about so satisfactory a 
 result. And from this stern determination all Cargrim's 
 arguments failed to move him. 
 
 This state of things was the more vexatious as Cargrim 
 knew that the ex-sailor had seen Mother Jael, and shrewdly 
 suspected that he had obtained from the beldam valuable 
 information likely to incriminate the bishop. Whether his 
 newly-found evidence did so or not, Baltic gravely declined 
 to say, and Cargrim was furious at being left in ignorance. 
 He was particularly anxious that Dr Pendle's guilt should 
 be proved without loss of time, as Mr Leigh of Heathcroft 
 was sinking rapidly, and on any day a new rector might be 
 needed for that very desirable parish. Certainly Cargrim, 
 as he fondly imagined, had thwarted Gabriel's candidature 
 by revealing the young man's love for Bell Mosk to the 
 bishop. Still, even if Gabriel were not nominated, Dr 
 Pendle had plainly mformed Cargrim that he need not 
 expect the appointment, so the chaplain foresaw that unless 
 he obtained power over the bishop before Leigh's death, 
 the benefice would be given to some stranger. It was no 
 
 228
 
 The Confession of Bishop Pendle 
 
 wonder, then, that he resented the silence of Baltic and felt 
 enraged at his own impotence. He almost regretted having 
 sought the assistance of a man who appeared more likely to 
 be a hindrance than a help. For once, Cargrim's scheming 
 brain could devise no remedy. 
 
 Lurking about the library as usual, Mr Cargrim was much 
 astonished to receive a visit from Dr Graham. Of course, 
 the visit was to the bishop, but Cargrim, being alone in the 
 library, came forward in his silky, obsequious way to receive 
 the new-comer, and politely asked what he could do for 
 him. 
 
 * You can inform the bishop that I wish to see him, if 
 you please,' s.tid Graham, with a perfectly expressionless 
 face. 
 
 * His lordship is at present taking a short rest,* replied 
 Cargrim, blandly, ' but anything I cun do — ' 
 
 ' You can do nothing, Mr Cargrim. I wish for a private 
 interview with Dr Pendle.' 
 
 *Your business must be important.' 
 
 •It is,' retorted Graham, abruptly; 'so important that I 
 must see the bishop at once.' 
 
 * Oh, certainly, doctor. I am sorry to see that you do 
 not look well.' 
 
 'Thank you ; I am as well as can be expected.' 
 ' Really ! considering what, Dr Graham ? ' 
 
 * Considering the way I am kept waiting here, Mr Cargrim,' 
 after which pointed speech there was nothing left for the 
 defeated chaplain but to retreat as gracefully as he could. 
 Yet Cargrim might have known, from past experience, that 
 a duel of words with sharp-tongued Dr Graham could only 
 end in his discomfiture. But in spite of all his cunning he 
 usually burnt his fingers at a twice-touched flame. 
 
 Extremely curious to know the reason of Graham's un- 
 expected visit and haggard looks, Cargrim, having informed 
 the bishop that the doctor was waiting for him, attempted 
 to make a third in the interview by gliding in behind his 
 superior, Graham, however, was too sharp for him, and 
 after a few words with the bishop, intimated to the chaplain 
 that his presence was not necessary. So Cargrim, like the 
 Peri at the Gates of Paradise, was forced to lurk as near the 
 library door as he dared, and he strained his ears in vain to 
 
 229
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 overhear what the pair were talking about. Had he known 
 that the revelation of Bishop Pendle's secret formed the 
 gist of the interview, he would have been even more en- 
 raged than he was. But, for the time being, P'ate was 
 against the wily chaplain, am', in the end, he was compelled 
 to betake himself to a solitary and sulky walk, during which 
 his reflections concerning Graham and Baltic were the 
 reverse of amiable. As a defeated sneak, Mr Cargrim was 
 not a credit to his cloth. 
 
 Dr Pendle had the bewildered air of a man suddenly 
 roused from sleep, and was inclined to be peevish with 
 Graham for calling at so untoward a time. Yet it was five 
 o'clock in the afternoon, which was scarcely a suitable hour 
 for slumber, as the doctor bluntly remarked. 
 
 * I was not asleep,' said the bishop, settling himself at his 
 writing-table. ' I simply lay down for half-an-hour or so.' 
 
 'Worn out with worry, I suppose?' 
 
 •Yes.'Dr Pendle sigiied; 'my burden is almost greater 
 than I can bear.' 
 
 'I quite agree with you,' replied Graham, 'therefore I 
 have come to help you to l^ear it' 
 
 •That is impossible. To do so, you must know the 
 truth, and — God help me ! — I dare not tell it even to you.' 
 
 ' There is no need for you to do so, Pendle. I know 
 your secret.' 
 
 The bishop twisted his chair round with a rapid move- 
 ment and stared at the sympathetic face of Graham with an 
 expression of blended terror and amazement. Hardly could 
 his tongue frame itself to speech. 
 
 ' You — know — my — secret 1 ' stuttered Pendle, with pale 
 lips. 
 
 'Yes, I know that Krant did not die at Sedan as we 
 supposed. I know that he returned to life — to Beorrainster 
 — to you, under the name of Jentham ! Hold up, man ! 
 don't give way,' for the bishop, with a heavy sigh, had fallen 
 forward on his desk, and, with his grey head buried in his 
 arms, lay there silent and broken down in an agony of 
 doubt, and fear and shame. 
 
 'Play the man, George Pendle,' said Graham, who knew 
 that the father was more virile than the son, and therefore 
 needed the tonic of words rather than the soothing anodyne 
 
 2 ■JO
 
 The Confession of Bishop Pendle 
 
 of medicine. * If you believe in what you preach, if you are 
 a true servant of your God, call upon religion, upon your 
 Deity, for help to bear your troubles. Stand up manfully, 
 my friend, and face the worst ! * 
 
 •Alas! alas! many waters have gone over me, Graham.' 
 
 • Can you expect anything else if you permit yourself to 
 sink witliout an effort?' said the doctor, rather cyi.ically; 
 ' but if you cannot gain strength from Christianity, then be a 
 Stoic, and independent of supernatural aid.' 
 
 The bishop lifted his head and suddenly rose to his full 
 height, until he towered above the little doctor. His pale 
 face took upon itself a calmer expression, and stretching out 
 his arm, he rolled forth a text from the Psalms in his deepest 
 voice, in his most stately manner : ' In God is my salvation 
 and my glory, the rock of my strength, and my refuge is in 
 God.' 
 
 • Good I * said Graham, with a satisfied nod ; ♦ that is the 
 proper spirit in which to meet trouble. And now, Pendle, 
 with your leave, we will approach the subject with more 
 particularity.' 
 
 ♦It will be as well,' replied the bishop, and he spoke 
 collectedly and gravely, with no trace of his late excite- 
 ment. When he most needed it, strength had come to him 
 from above ; and he was able to discuss the sore matter of 
 his domestic troubles with courage and v,'ith judgment. 
 
 • How did you learn my secret, Graham ? ' he asked, after 
 a pause. 
 
 ' Indirectly from Gabriel.* 
 
 • Gabriel,' said the bishop, trembling, 'is at Nauheim !' 
 
 • You are mistaken, Pendle. He returned to Beorminster 
 this morning, and as he was afraid to speak to you on the 
 subject of Jentham, he came to ask my advice. The poor 
 lad is broken down and ill, and is now lying in my consult- 
 ing-room until I return.* 
 
 • How did Gabriel learn the truth ? ' asked Pendle, with a 
 look of pain. 
 
 • From something his mother said.' 
 
 The bishop, in spite of his enforced calmness, groaned 
 aloud. ' Does she know of it ? ' he murmured, while drops 
 of perspiration beaded his forehead and betrayed his inward 
 agony. ' Could not that shame be spared me ? '
 
 The Biihop's Secret 
 
 ' Do not be hasty, Pendle, your wife knows nothing.' 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' said the bi>hop, fervently ; then added, 
 almost immediately, ' You say my wife. Alas .' alas ! that I 
 dare not call her so.' 
 
 ' It is true, then ?' asked Graham, becoming very pale. 
 
 ' Perfectly true. Krant was not killed. Krant returned 
 here under the name of Jentham. My wife is not my wife ! 
 My children are illegitimate; they have no name; outcasts 
 they are. Oh, the shame I Oh, the disgrace ! ' and Di 
 Pendle groaned aloud. 
 
 Graham sympathised with the man's distress, which was 
 surely natural under the terrible calamity which had be- 
 falkn him and his. George Pendle was a priest, a prelate, 
 but he was also a son of Adam, and liable, like all mortals, 
 the strongest as the weakest, to moments of doubt, of fear, 
 of trembling, of utter dismay. Had the evil come upon 
 him alone, he might have borne it with more patience, but 
 when it parted him from his dearly-loved wife, wlien it 
 made outcasts of the children he was so proud of, who can 
 wonder that he should feel inclined to cry with Job, ' Is it 
 good unto Thee that Thou should'st oppress ! ' Neverthe- 
 less, like Job, the bishop held fast his integrity. 
 
 Yet that he might have some comfort in his affliction. 
 that one pang might be spared to him, Graham assured 
 him that .Mrs Pendle was ignorant of the truth, and re- 
 lated in full the story of how Gabriel had come to connect 
 Jentham with Krant. Pendle listened in silence, and 
 inwardly thanked God that at least so much mercy haii 
 been vouchsafed him. Then in his turn he made a con- 
 fidant of his old friend, recalled the early days of his 
 courtship and marriage, spoke of the long interval of 
 peace and quiet happiness which he and his wife had 
 enjoyed, and ended with a detailed account of the dis- 
 guised Krant's visit and threats, and the anguish his reap- 
 pearance had caused. 
 
 'You remember, Graham!' he said, with wonderful self- 
 control, 'how almost thirty years ago I was the Vicar of 
 St Benedict's in Marylebone, and how you, my old college 
 friend, practi«;ed medicine in the same parish.* 
 
 ' I remember, Pendle ; there is no need for you to make 
 your heart ache by recalling the past' 
 
 * 732
 
 The Confession of Bishop Pendle 
 
 'I must, my friend,' said the bishop, firmly, 'in order 
 that you may fully understand my position. As you know, 
 my dear wife — for I still must call her so — came to reside 
 there under her married name of Mrs Krant. She was poor 
 atid unhappy, and when I called upon her, as the vicar of 
 the parish, she told me her miserable story. How she had 
 left her home and family for the sake of that wretch who 
 had attracted her weak, girlish affections by his physical 
 beauty and fascinating manners ; how he treated her ill, 
 spent the most of her money, and finally left her, within a 
 year of the marriage, with just enough remaining out of 
 her fortune to save her from starvation. She told me that 
 Krant had gone to Paris, and was serving as a volunteer 
 in the French army, while she, broken down and unhappy, 
 had come to my parish to give herself to God and labour 
 amongst the poor.' 
 
 * She was a charming woman ! She is so now ! ' said 
 Graham, with a sigh. ' I do not wonder that you loved her.' 
 
 ' Loved, sir 1 Why speak in the past tense ? I love her still. 
 I shall always love that sweet companion of these many 
 happy years. From the time I saw her in those poor 
 London lodgings I loved her with all the strength of my 
 manhood. But you know that, being already married, she 
 could not be my wife. Then, shortly after the surrender of 
 Sedan, that letter came to tell her that her husband was 
 dead, and dying, had asked her pardon for his wicked 
 ways. Alas ! alas ! that letter was false ! ' 
 
 • We both of us believed it to be genuine at the time, 
 Pendle, and you went over to France after the war to see 
 the man's grave.' 
 
 ' I did, and I saw the grave — saw it with its tombstone, 
 in a little Alsace graveyard, with the name Stephen Krant 
 painted thereon in black German letters. I never doubted 
 but that he lay below, and I looked far and wide for the 
 man, Leon Durand, who had written that letter at the 
 request of his dying comrade. I ask you, Graham, who 
 would have disbelieved the evidence of letter and tomb- 
 stone ? ' 
 
 ' No one, certainly ! ' replied Graham, gravely ; ' but it was 
 a pity that you could not find Leon Durand, so as to put 
 the matter beyond all doubt* 
 
 16 233
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 • Find him I * echoed the bishop, passionately. ' No one on 
 earth could have found the man. He did not exist.' 
 
 • Then who wrote the letter ? * 
 
 ' Krant himself, as he told me in this very room, the 
 wicked plotter ! * 
 
 • But his handwriting ; would not his Nvife have — * 
 
 ' No ! ' cried PenJle, rising and pacing too and fro, greatly 
 agitated, 'the man dis-uised his hand so that his wife should 
 not recognise it. He did not wish to be bound to her, but 
 to wander far and wide, and live his own sinful life. That 
 was why he sent the forged letter to make Amy believe that 
 he was dead. And she did beheve, the more especially 
 after I returned to tell how I had seen his giave. I thought 
 also that he was dead. So did you, Graham.' 
 
 'Certainly,' assented Graham, 'there was no reason to 
 doubt the fact. Who would have believed that Krant was 
 such a scoundrel ? ' 
 
 ' I called him that when he came to see me here,* said 
 Dr Pendle, with a passionate gesture. 'Old man and priest 
 as I am, I could have killed him as he sat in yonder chair, 
 smiling at my misery, and taunting me with my position.' 
 
 • How did he find out that you had married Mrs Krant ? ' 
 *By going back to the Marylel)one parish. He had been 
 
 wanderiirg all over the face of the earth, like the Cain he 
 was ; but meeting with no good fortune, he came back to 
 England to find out Amy, and, I suppose, rob her of the 
 little money he had permitted her to keep. He knew of 
 her address in Marjlebone, as she had told him where 
 she was going before he deserted her.' 
 
 'But how did he learn about the marriage?' asked 
 Graham, again. 
 
 • I cannot tell ; but he knew that his wife, after his deser- 
 tion, devoted herself to good works, so no doubt he went to 
 the church and asked about her. The old verger who saw 
 us married is still alive, so I suppose he told Krant that 
 Amy was my wife, and that I was the Bishop of Beor- 
 minster. But, however he learned the truth, he found 
 his way here, and when I came into this room during the 
 reception I found him waiting for me.' 
 
 ' How did you recognise a man you had not seen?* 
 
 ' By a portrait Amy had shown me, and by the descrip* 
 
 234
 
 The Confession of Bishop Pendle 
 
 tion she gave me of his gipsy looks and the scar on his 
 cheek. He had not altered at all, and I beheld before me 
 the same wicked face I had seen in the portrait. I was 
 confused at first, as I knew the face but not the name. 
 When he told me that he was Stephen Krant, that my 
 wife was really his wife, that my children had no name, 
 I — I — oh, God ! ' cried Pendle, covering his face with his 
 hands, ' it was terrible ! terrible ! * 
 
 ' My poor friend ! ' 
 
 The bishop threw himself into a chair. * After close on 
 thirty years,* he moaned, 'think of it, Graham — the shame, 
 the horror ! Oh, God ! ' 
 
 »35
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 BLACKMAIL 
 
 For some moments Graham did not speak, but loolced with 
 pity on the grief-shaken frame and bowed shoulders of his 
 sorely-tried friend. Indeed, the j csition oi the man was 
 such that he did not see wl)at conifoi t he could administer, 
 and so, very wisely, held his peace. However, when the 
 bishc p, growing more composed, remaine'l still silent, he 
 could not forbear ofTerin.! him a irille of consolation. 
 
 ' Don't grieve so, Pei^.dle ! ' he said, laying his hand on 
 the other's slioulder ; ' it is not your fault that you are in 
 this position.' 
 
 The bishop sighed, and murmured with a shake of his 
 head, * Ouuiis qui facit peccatum, servus est peccati ! ' 
 
 'But you have not done sin !' cried Graham, dissenting 
 from the text. 'You ! your wife ! myself! everyone thought 
 that Krant was dead and buried. The man (led, and lied, 
 and forged, to gain his freedom — to shake off the marriage 
 bonds which galled him. He was the sinner, not you, my 
 poor innocent friend ! ' 
 
 ' True enough, doctor, but I am the suflTerer. Had God 
 in His mercy not sustained me in my hour of trial, I do not 
 know how 1 siiould have borne my misery, weak, erring 
 mortal that I am.' 
 
 'That sptr- ch is one befitting your age and office,' said 
 the doctor, gravely, 'and I quite approve of it. All the 
 same, there is another religious saying — I don't know if it 
 can be c^Ted a text — "God helps those who help them- 
 selves." You will do well, Pendle, to lay that to heart.' 
 
 'How can I hel[> myself?' said the bishop, hoi'elessly. 
 'The man is dead now, without doubt; but he was alive 
 when I married his supposed widow, therefoie the ceremony 
 is null and void. There is no getting behind that fact.' 
 
 2^6
 
 Blackmail 
 
 'Have you consulted a lawyer on your position?' 
 
 'No. The law cannot sanction a union — at least in my 
 eyes — which I know to be against the tenets of the Church. 
 So far as I know, if a husband deserts his wife, and is not 
 heard of for seven years, she can marry again after that 
 period without being liable to prosecution as a bigamist, 
 but in any case the second ceremony is not legal.' 
 
 ' Mrs Krant became your wife before the expiration of 
 seven years, I know,' said Graham, wrinkling his brow. 
 
 ' Certainly. And therefore she is — in the ej es of the law 
 — a bigamist' — the bishop shuddered — 'although, God 
 knows, she fully believed her husband to be dead. But the 
 religious point of view is the one I take, doctor; as a 
 Churchman, I cannot live with a woman whom I know is 
 not my wife. It was for that reason that I sent her away ! ' 
 
 ' But you cannot keep her away for ever, bishop ! — at all 
 events, unless you explain the position to her.' 
 
 ' I dare not do that m her present state of health ; the 
 shock would kill her. No, Graham, I see that sooner or 
 later she must know, but I wished for her absence that I 
 might gain time to consider my terrible position. I have 
 considered it in every way — but, God help me ! I can see no 
 hope — no escape. Alas ! alas ! I am sorely, sorely tried.' 
 
 Graham reflected. * Are you perfectly certain that Jentham 
 and Krant are one and the same man?' he asked doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 ' I am certain of it,' replied Pendle, decisively. ' I could 
 not be deceived m the dark gipsy face, in the peculiar 
 cicatrice on the right cheek. And he knew all about my 
 wife, Graham — about her family, her maiden name, the 
 amount of her fortune, her taking up parish work in 
 Marylebone. Above all, he showed me the certificate of 
 his marriage, and a number of letters written to him by 
 Amy, reproaching him with his cruel desertion. Oh, there 
 can be no doubt that this Jentham is — or rather was — 
 Stephen Krant.' 
 
 ' It would seem so !' sighed Graham, heavily. ' Evidently 
 there is no hope of proving him to be an impostor in the 
 face of such evidence.' 
 
 'He came to extort money. I suppose?' 
 
 * Need you ask 1 ' said the bishop, bitterly. 'Yes, his sole 
 
 "Ml
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 object was blackmail ; he was content to let things remain 
 as they are, provided his silence was purchased at his own 
 price. He told me that if I paid him two hundred pounds 
 he would hand over certificate and letters and disappear, 
 never to trouble me again.' 
 
 'I doubt if such a blackguard would keep his word, 
 Pendle. Moreover, aUhough novelists and dramatists attach 
 such a value to marriai;e certificates, they are really not 
 worth the paper they are written on — save, perhaps, as 
 immediate evidence. The re2;ister of the church in which 
 the ceremony took place is the important document, and 
 that can neither be handed over nor destroyed. Krant 
 was giving you withered leaves for your good gold, Pendle. 
 Still, Needs must when Sir Urian drives, so 1 suppose 
 you agreed to the bribe.' 
 
 The bishop's grey head drooped on his breast, his eyes 
 sougi.t the carpet, and he looked like a man overwhelmed 
 wit'a shame. 'Yes,' he replied, in low tones of pain, 'I 
 had not the courage to face the consequences. Indeed, 
 what else could I do ? I could not have the man denounce 
 my marriage as a false one, force himself into the presence 
 of my delicate wife, and tell my children that they are 
 nameless. The shock would have killed Amy; it would 
 have broken my children's hearts; it would have sham.d 
 me in my high position before the eyes of all England. I 
 was innocent ; I am innocent. Yes, but the fact remained, 
 as it remains now, that I am not married to Amy, that rr.y 
 children are not entitled to bear my name. I ask you, 
 Graham — I ask you, what else could I do than pay the 
 money in the face of such shame and disgrace?' 
 
 'There is no need to excuse yourself to me, Pendle. I 
 do not blame you in the least.' 
 
 'But I blame myself — in part,' replied the bishop, sadly. 
 'As an honest man I knew that my marriage was illegal; as 
 a priest I was bound to put away the woman who was not 
 — who is not my wife. But think of the shame to her, of 
 the disgrace to my innocent children. I could not do it, 
 Graham, I could not do it. Satan came to me in such a 
 guise that I yielded to his tempting without a struggle. I 
 agreed to buy Jentham's silence at his own price; and as I 
 did not wish him to come here again, lest Amy should see 

 
 Blackmail 
 
 him, I made an appointment to meet him on Southberry 
 Heath on Sunday night, and there pay him his two 
 hundred pounds blackmail.' 
 
 • Did you speak with him on the spot where his corpse 
 was afterwards found ? ' asked Graham, in a low voice, not 
 daring to look at his friend. 
 
 ' No,' answered the bishop, simply, not suspecting that 
 the doctor hinted at the murder ; ' I met him at the Cross- 
 Roads.' 
 
 ' You had the money with you, I suppose?' 
 
 • I had the money in notes of tens. As I was unwilling 
 to draw so large a sum from the Beorminster Bank, lest my 
 doing so should provoke comment, I made a special 
 journey to London and obtained the money there.* 
 
 • I think you were over-careful, bishop.' 
 
 •Graham, I tell you I was overcome with fear, not so 
 much for myself as for those dear to me. You know how 
 the most secret things become known in this city ; and I 
 dreaded lest my action should become public property, and 
 should be connected in some way with Jentham. Why, I 
 even tore the butt of the cheque I drew out of the book, 
 lest any record should remain likely to excite suspicion. I 
 took the most elaborate precautions to guard against 
 discoveries.' 
 
 • And rather unnecessary ones,' rejoined Graham, dryly. 
 •Well, and you met the scamp?' 
 
 • I did, on Sunday night — that Sunday I was at South- 
 berry holding a confirmation service, and as I rode back, 
 shortly after eight in the evening, I met Jentham, by 
 appointment, at the Cross-Roads. It was a stormy and wet 
 night, Graham, and I half thought that he would not come 
 to the rendezvous, but he was there, sure enough, and in 
 no very good temper at his wetting, I did not get off my 
 horse, but handed down the packet of notes, and asked him 
 for the certificate and letters.' 
 
 ' Which, no doubt, he declined to part with at the last 
 moment.' 
 
 • You are right,' said the bishop, mournfully ; ' he declared 
 that he would keep the certificate until he received another 
 hundred pounds.' 
 
 • The scoundrel ! What did you say ? ' 
 
 239
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 'What could I say but "Yes"? I was in the man's 
 power. At any cost, if I wanted to save myself and those 
 dear to me, I had to secure the written evidence he 
 possessed. I told him that I had not the extra money with 
 me, but tliat if he met me in the same place a week later 
 he should liave it. I then rode away downcast and 
 wretched. The next day,' concluded the bishop, quietly, 
 ' I heard that my enemy was dead.' 
 
 'Murdered,* said Graham, explicitly. 
 
 'Murdered, as you say,' rejoined Pendle, tremulously; 
 ' and oh, my friend, I fear that the Cain who slew him now 
 has the certificate in his possession, and holds my seem'. 
 What I have suffered with that knowledge, God alone 
 knows. Every day, every hour, I have been expecting a 
 call from the assassin.' 
 
 'The deuce you have!* said the doctor, surprised into 
 unbecoming language. 
 
 * Yes ; he may come and blackmail me also, Graham ! * 
 
 'Not when he runs the risk of being hanged, my 
 friend.' 
 
 ' But you forget,' said the bishop, with a sigh. ' He may 
 trust to his knowledge of my secret to force me to conceal 
 his sin.' 
 
 ' Would you be coerced in that way ? * 
 
 Dr Pendle threw back his noble head, and, looking 
 intently at his friend, replied in a firm and unfaltering tone. 
 ' No,' said he, gravely. ' Even at the co.^t of my secret 
 becoming known, I should have the man arrested.* 
 
 ' Well,' said Graham, with a shrug, * you are more of a 
 hero than I am, bishop. The cost of exposing the wretch 
 seems too great.' 
 
 ' Graham ! Graham ! I must do what is right at all 
 hazards.' 
 
 'Fiat justitia ruat coelum!' muttered the doctor, 'there 
 is a morsel of dictionary l^atin for you. The heavens above 
 your family will certainly fp.ll if you speak out.' 
 
 The bishop winced an.' whitened. ' It is a heavy burden, 
 Graham, a heavy, heavy burden, but God will give me 
 strength to bear it He will save me according to His 
 mercy.' 
 
 The little doctor looked meditatively at his boots. Ht 
 
 240
 
 Blackmail 
 
 wished to tell Pendle that the chaplain suspected him of 
 the murder, and that Baltic, the missionary, had been 
 brought to Beorminster to prove such suspicions, but at 
 the present moment he did not see how he could con- 
 veniently introduce the information. Moreover, the bishop 
 seemed to be so utterly unconscious that anyone could 
 accuse him of the crime, that Graham shrank from being/ 
 the busybody to enlighten him. Yet it was necessary that 
 he should be informed, if only that he might be placed on 
 his guard against the machinations of Cargrim. Of course, 
 the doctor never for one moment thought of his respected 
 friend as the author of a deed of violence, and quite 
 believed his account of the meeting with Jentham. The 
 bishop's simple way of relating the episode would have 
 convinced any liberal-minded man of his innocence and 
 rectitude. His accents, and looks, and candour, all carried 
 conviction. 
 
 Finally Graham hit upon a methi^d of leading up to the 
 subject of Cargrim's treachery, by referring to the old gipsy 
 and her fortune-telling at Mrs Pansey's ga '•den-party. 
 'What does Mother Jael know of your secret?' he asked 
 with some hesitation. 
 
 • Nothing ! ' replied the bishop, promptly ; * it is impossible 
 that she can know anything, unless ' — here he paused — 
 * unless she is aware of who killed Jentham, and has seen 
 the certificate and letters ! ' 
 
 * Do you think she knows who murdered the man ? ' 
 
 'I — cannot — say. At that garden-party I went into the 
 tent to humour some ladies who wished me to have my 
 fortune told.* 
 
 ' I saw you go in, bishop ; and you came out looking 
 disturbed.' 
 
 *No wonder, Graham; for Mother Jael, under the 
 pretence of reading my hand, hinted at my secret. I 
 fancied, from what she said, that she knew what it was ; and 
 I accused her of having gained the information from 
 Jentham's assassin. However, she would not speak plainly, 
 but warned me of coming trouble, and talked about blood 
 and the grave, until I really believe she fancied I had 
 killed the man. I could make nothing of her, so I left 
 the tent considerably discomposed, as you may guess. I 
 
 Q 241
 
 The Bis/iop's Secret 
 
 intended to see her on another occasion, but as yet I have 
 not done so.' 
 
 ' Is it your belief that the woman knows your secret ? ' 
 asked Graham. 
 
 ' No. On consideration, I concluded that she knew a 
 little, but not much — at all events, not sufficient to hurt me 
 in any way. Krant — that is Jentham — was of gipsy blood, 
 and I fancied that he had seen Mother Jael, and perhaps, 
 in his boastful way, had hinted at his power over me. Still, 
 I am quite certain that, for his own sake, he did not reveal 
 my secret. And after all, Graham, the allusions of Mother 
 Jael were vague and unsatisfactory, although they disturbed 
 me sufficiently to make me anxious for the moment.* 
 
 'Well, bishop, I agree with you. Mother Jael cannot 
 know much or she would have spoken plainer. So far as 
 she is concerned, I fancy your secret is pretty safe ; but,' 
 added Graham, with a glance at the door, ' what about 
 Cargrim ? ' 
 
 * He knows nothing, Graham.' 
 
 * Perhaps not, but he suspects much.' 
 
 ' Suspects ! ' echoed the bishop, in scared tones. • WTiat 
 can he suspect ? ' 
 
 ' That you killed Jentham,' said Graham, quietly. 
 
 Dr Pendle looked incredulously at his friend. ' I — I — 
 murder — I kill — what — Cargrim — says,' he stammered ; 
 then asked him with a sharp rush of speech, ' Is the man 
 mad?' 
 
 ' No ; but he is a scoundrel, as I told you. Listen, 
 bishop,' and in his rapid way Graham reported to Dr 
 Pendle all that Harry Brace had told him regarding 
 Cargrim and his schemes. 
 
 The bishop listened in incredulous silence ; but, almost 
 against his will, he was obliged to believe in Graham's 
 story. That a man whom he trusted, whom he had treated 
 with such kindness, should have dug this pit for him to fall 
 into, was almost beyond belief ; and when the truth of the 
 accusation was forced upon him, he hardly knew what to 
 say about so great a traitor. But he made up his mind 
 to one thing. 'I shall dismiss him at once!' he said 
 determinedly. 
 
 *No, bishop. It is unwise to drive a rat into a comer i 
 
 242
 
 Blackmail 
 
 and Cargrim may prove himself dangerous if sharply 
 treated. Better tolerate his presence until Baltic discovers 
 the real criminal.* 
 
 * I don't like the position,' said the bishop, frowning. 
 
 * No man would. However, it is better to temporise than 
 to risk all and lose all. Better let him remain, Pendle.' 
 
 'Very well, Graham, I shall take your advice.' 
 
 * Good ! ' Graham rose to depart. * And Gabriel ? ' he 
 asked, with his hand on the door. 
 
 * Send him to me, doctor. I must speak to him.* 
 •You won't scold him for seeing me first, I hope.' 
 •Scold him,' said the bishop, with a melancholy smile. 
 
 • Alas, my friend, the situation is too serious for scolding ! ' 
 
 «43
 
 CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 UR BALTIC ON THE TRAIL 
 
 What took place at the interview between Gabriel and his 
 father, Dr Graham never knew ; and indeed never sought 
 to knuw. He was a discreet man even for a doctor, and 
 meddled with no one's business, unless — as in the present 
 instance — forced to do so. But even then his discretion 
 showed itself; for after advising the bishop to tolerate the 
 presence of Cargrim until Baltic had solved the riddle he 
 was set to guesy, and aftt-r sending (iabriel to the palace, 
 he abstained from further inquiries and discussions in con- 
 nection wit'n murder and secret. He had every faith ia 
 Baltic, an'i quite believed that in time the missionary would 
 lay his hand on the actual murderer. When this was 
 accomplished, and Cargrim's attempt to gain illegal power 
 over Pendle was thwarted ; then — all chance of a public 
 scandal being at an end — would be the moment to con- 
 sider how the bishop should act in reference to his false 
 marriage. Certainly there was the possible danger that the 
 criminal nn'ght learn the secret from the certificate and 
 papers, and might reveal it when captured ; but Graham 
 thought it best to ignore this difficulty until it should 
 actually arise. Fur, after all, such a C(>»ntingency might 
 not occur. 
 
 'The certificate of marriage between Krant and his wife 
 will reveal nothing to a man unacquainted with Mrs Pendle's 
 previous name ; and without such kn;)wledge he cannot 
 know that she married the bishop while her first husband 
 was alive. Certainly she might have mentioned Pendle's 
 name in the letters, but she would not write of him as a 
 lover or as a possible husband; therefore, unless the 
 assassin knows something of the story, which is improb- 
 able, and unless he can connect the name of Mrs Krant 
 
 244
 
 Mr Bailie on the Trail 
 
 with Mrs Pendle — which on the face of it is impossible—' 
 I do not see how he is to learn the truth. He may guess, 
 or he may know for certain, that Jentham received the two 
 hundred pounds from the bishop, but he cannot guess 
 that the price was paid for certificate and letters, especially 
 as he found them on the body, and knows that they were 
 not handed over for the money. No ; on the whole, I think 
 Pendle is mistaken ; in my opinion there is no danger to be 
 feared from the assassin, whomsoever he may be.' 
 
 In this way Graham argued with himself, and shortly 
 came to the comfortable conclusion that Dr Pendle's secret 
 would never become a public scandal. Now that Jentham, 
 alias Krant, was dead, the secret was known to three people 
 only — namely, to the bisliop, to himself, and to Gabriel. If 
 none of the three betrayed it — and they had the strongest 
 reason for silence — no one else would, or could. The 
 question of the murder was the immediate matter for con- 
 sideration ; and once Dr Pendle's innocence was proved by 
 the capture of the real assassin, Cargrim could be dismissed 
 in well-merited disgrace. With all the will in the world he 
 could not then harm the bishop, seeing that he was ignorant 
 of the dead man's relation to Mrs Pendle. Other danger 
 there was none; of that the little doctor was absolutely 
 assured. 
 
 Perhaps the bishop argued in this way also ; or it may be 
 he found a certain amount of relief in sharing his troubles 
 with Gabriel and Graham ; but he certainly appeared more 
 cheerful and less worried than formerly, and even tolerated 
 the society of Cargrim with equanimity, although he de- 
 tested playing a part so foreign to his frank and honourable 
 nature. However, he saw the necessity of masking Lis 
 dislike until the sting of th's domestic viper could be 
 rendered innocuous, and was sufficiently gracious on such 
 occasions as he came into contact with him. Gabriel was 
 less called upon to be courteous to the schemer, as, having 
 come to a complete understanding with his father, he rarely 
 visited the palace ; but when he did so his demeanour 
 towards Mr Cargrim was much the same as of yore. For 
 the good of their domestic peace, both father and son con- 
 cealed their real feelings, and succeeded as creditably as 
 was possible with men of their honourable natures. But 
 
 245
 
 T}ie Bishops Secret 
 
 they were not cunning enough — or perhaps sufficiently 
 guarded — to deceive the artful chaplain. Evil himself, he 
 was always on the alert to see evil in others. 
 
 'I wonder wliat all this means,' he ruminated one day 
 after vainly attempting to learn wiiy Gabriel had returned 
 so unexpectedly to Beorminster. *The bishop seems un- 
 necessarily polite, and young Pendle appears to be careful 
 how he speaks. They surely can't suspect me of knowing 
 about the murder. Perhaps Baltic has been talking; I'll 
 just give him a word of warning.' 
 
 This he did, and was promptly told by the ex-sailor not 
 to advise on points of which he was ignorant. * I know my 
 business, sir, none better,' observed Baltic, in his solemn 
 way, '.ind there are few men who are more aware of the 
 value of a silent tongue.' 
 
 'You may be an admirable detective, as you say,' retorted 
 Cargrim, nettled by the rebuke, ' but I have only your word 
 for it; and you will permit me to observe that 1 have not 
 yet seen a proof of your capabilities.' 
 
 'All in good time, Mr Cargrim. More haste less speed, 
 sir. I fancy I am on the right track at last.' 
 
 'Can you guess who killed the man?' asked the chaplain, 
 eagerly waiting for the bishop's name to be pronounced. 
 
 ' I never guess, sir. I theorise from external evidence, 
 and then try, with such brains as God has given me, to 
 prove my theories.' 
 
 'You have gained some evidence, then?' 
 
 ' If I have, Mr Cargrim, you'll hear it when I place the 
 murderer in the dock. It is foolish to show half-finished 
 work.* 
 
 'But if the mur — ' 
 
 ' Hold hard, sir ! ' interrupted Baltic, raising his head. 
 ' I'll so far depart from my rule as to tell you one thing — 
 whosoever killed Jentham, it was not Bishop Pendle.' 
 
 Cargrim grew red and angry. ' I tell you it was ! ' he 
 almost shouted, although this conversation took place in a 
 quiet corner near the cathedral, and thereby required 
 prudent speech and demeanour. 'Didn't Dr Pendle meet 
 Jentham on the common?' 
 
 ' We presume so, sir, but as yet we have no proof of the 
 meeting.' 
 
 246
 
 Mr Baltic on the Trail 
 
 * At least you know that he paid Jentham two hundred 
 pounds.' 
 
 'Perhaps he did; maybe he didn't,' returned Baltic, 
 quietly. 'He certainly drew out that amount from the 
 Ophir Bank, but, not having traced the notes, I can't say 
 if he paid it to the man.' 
 
 * But I am sure he did,' insisted Cargrim, still angry. 
 
 ' In that case, sir, why ask me for my opinion ? ' replied 
 the imperturbable Baltic. 
 
 If Mr Cargrim had not been a clergyman, he would have 
 sworn at the complacent demeanour of the agent, and even 
 as it was he felt inclined to risk a relieving oath or two. 
 But knowing Baltic's religious temperament, he was wise 
 enough not to lay himself open to further rebuke ; so he 
 turned the matter ofiF with a laugh, and observed that no 
 doubt Mr Baltic knew his own business best. 
 
 ' I think I can safely say so, sir,' rejoined Baltic, gravely. 
 • By the way, did you not tell me that Captain George Pendle 
 was on the common when the murder took place ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, George was there, and so was Gabriel. Mrs Pansey's 
 page saw them both.' 
 
 'And where is Captain Pendle now, sir?' 
 
 *At Wincaster with his regiment; but the bishop has 
 sent for him to come to Beorminster, so I expect he will 
 be here within the week.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that, Mr Cargrim, as I wish to ask Captain 
 Pendle a few questions.' 
 
 ' Do you suspect him ? ' 
 
 ' I can't rightly say, sir,' answered Baltic, wiping his face 
 with the red bandanna, ' Later on I may form an opinion. 
 Mr Gabriel Pendle comes to The Derby Winner sometimes, 
 I see.' 
 
 ' Yes ; he is in love with the barmaid there.' 
 
 Baltic looked up sharply. 'Mosk's daughter, sir?' 
 
 ' The same. He wants to marry Bell Mosk.' 
 
 'Does — he — indeed?' drawled the agent, flicking his 
 thumb nail against his teeth. 'Well, Mr Cargrim, he 
 might do worse. There is a lot of good in that young 
 woman, sir. Mr Gabriel Pendle has lately returned from 
 abroad, I hear.' 
 
 ' Yes, from Nauheira.' 
 
 247
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 ' That is in Germany, I take it, sir. Did he travel on a 
 Cook's ticket, do you know?' 
 
 ' I believe he did.' 
 
 'Oh! humph! I'll say good-bye, then, Mr Cargrim, 
 for the present I shall see you when I return trom 
 London.' 
 
 'Are you going to ask about Gal)riers ticket at Cook's?' 
 
 •There's no telling, sir. I may look in. 
 
 * Do you think that Gab — ' 
 
 *I think nothing as yet, Mr Cargrim; when I do, 111 
 tell you my thoughts. Good-day, sir ! God bless you ! ' 
 And Baltic, with a satisfied expression on his face, rolled 
 away in a nautical manner. 
 
 ' God bless me indeed ! ' muttered Cargrim, in much dis- 
 pleasure, for neither the speech nor the manner of the man 
 pleased him. ' Ugh ! I wish Baltic would stick to either 
 religion or business. At present he is a kind of moral 
 hermaphrodite, good for neither one thing nor another. 
 I wonder if he suspects the bishop or his two sons ? I 
 don't believe Dr Pendle is innocent ; but if he is, either 
 George or Gabriel is guilty. Well, if that is so, I'll still be 
 able to make the bishop give me Heathcroft. He will 
 rather do that than see one of his sons hanged and the 
 name disgraced. Still, I hope Baltic will bring home the 
 crime to his lordship.' 
 
 With this amiable wish, Mr Cargrim quickened his pace 
 to catch up with Miss Whichello, whom he saw tripping 
 across the square towards the Jenny Wren house. Tlie 
 little old lady looked rosy and complacent, at peace with 
 herself and the whole of Beorminster. Nevertheless, her 
 expression ch.mgcd when she saw Mr Cargrim sliding grace- 
 fully towards her, and she received him with marked cold- 
 ness. As yet she had not forgiven him for his unauthorised 
 interference on behalf of Mrs Pansey. Cargrim was quick 
 to observe her l.uckram civility, but diplomatically took no 
 notice of its frigidity. On the contrary, he was more gush- 
 ing and more expansive than ever. 
 
 'A happy meeting, my dear lady,' he said, with a beaming 
 glance. * Had I not met you, I should have called to see 
 you as the bearer of good news.' 
 
 'Really!' replied Miss Whichello, drily. 'That will be 
 
 24S
 
 Mr Baltic on the Trail 
 
 a relief from hearing bad news, Mr Cargrim. I have had 
 sufificient trouble of late.' 
 
 * Ah ! ' sighed the chaplain, falling into his professional 
 drawl, ' how true is the saying of Job, " Man is born — " ' 
 
 ' I don't want to hear about Job,' interrupted Miss 
 Whichello, crossly. 'He is the greatest bore of all the 
 patriarchs.' 
 
 ' Job, dear lady, was not a patriarch.* 
 
 • Nevertheless, he is a bore, Mr Cargrim. What is your 
 good news ? ' 
 
 'Captain Pendle is coming to Beorminster this week, 
 Miss Whichello.' 
 
 'Oh,' said the little old lady, with a satirical smile, 'you 
 are a day after the fair, Mr Cargrim. I heard that news 
 this morning.' 
 
 ' Indeed 1 But the bishop only sent for Captain Pendle 
 yesterday.* 
 
 •Quite so; and Miss Arden received a telegram from 
 Captain Pendle this morning.' 
 
 * Ah ! Miss Whichello, young love ! young love!' 
 
 The little lady could have shaken Cargrim for the smirk 
 with which he made this remark. However, she restrained 
 her very natural impulse, and merely remarked — rather 
 irrelevantly, it must be confessed — that if two young and 
 handsome people in love with one another were not happy 
 in their first blush of passion they never would be. 
 
 ' No doubt, dear lady. I only trust that such happiness 
 may last. But there is no sky without a cloud.* 
 
 ' And there is no bee without a sting, and no rose with- 
 out a thorn. I know all those consoling proverbs, Mr 
 Cargrim, but they don't apply to my turtle-doves.* 
 
 Cargrim rubbed his hands softly together. 'Long may 
 you continue to think so, my dear lady,' said he, with a sad 
 look. 
 
 ' ^Vhat do you mean, sir ? * asked Miss Whichello, sharply. 
 
 • I mean that it is as well to be prepared for the worst,' 
 said Cargrim, in his blandest manner. ' The course of true 
 love — but you are weary of such trite sayings. Good-day, 
 Miss Whichello ! * He raised his hat and turned away. 
 'One last proverb — Joy in the morning means grief at 
 night' 
 
 17 249
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 When Mr Cargrim walked away briskly after delivering 
 this Parthian shaft, Miss Whichello stood looking after him 
 with an expression of nervous worry on her rosy face. She 
 had her own reasons to apprehend trouble in connection 
 with the engagement, and although these were unknown to 
 the chaplain, his chance arrow had hit the mark. The 
 thoughts of the little old lady at once reverted to the con- 
 versation with the bishop at the garden-party. 
 
 'Mrs Pansey again,' thought Miss Whichello, resuming 
 her walk at a slower pace. ' I shall have to call on her, 
 and appeal either to her fears or her charity, otherwise she 
 may cause trouble.' 
 
 In the meantime, Mr Baltic, proceeding in his grave way 
 towards Eastgate, had fallen in with Gabriel coming from 
 The Derby Winner. As yet the two had never met, and 
 save the name, young Pendle knew nothing about the ex- 
 sailor. Nevertheless, when face to face with him, he re- 
 cognised the man at once as a private inquiry agent whom 
 he had once spoken to in Whitechapel. The knowledge of 
 his father's secret, of Jentham's murder and of this stranger's 
 profession mingled confusedly in Gabriel's head, and his 
 heart knocked at his ribs for very fear. 
 
 ' I met you in London some years ago,' he said nervously. 
 
 'Yes, Mr Pendle; but then I did not know your name, 
 nor did you know mine.* 
 
 ' How did you recognise me ? ' asked Gabriel. 
 
 ' I have a good memory for faces, sir,' returned Baltic, 
 ' but, as a matter of fact, Sir Harry Brace pointed you out 
 to me.' 
 
 ' Sir Har — oh, then you are Baltic ! ' 
 
 ' At your service, Mr Pendle. I am down here on 
 business.' 
 
 'I know all about it,' replied Gabriel, recovering his 
 nerve with the knowledge of the man's name and inclina- 
 tion to side with the bishop. 
 
 ' Indeed, sir ! And who told you about it ? ' 
 
 * Sir Harry told I)r Graham, who informed my father, 
 •who spoke to me.' 
 
 'Oh !' Baltic looked seriously at the curate's pale face. 
 ' Then the bishop knows that I am an inquiry agent.' 
 
 ' He does, Mr Baltic. And, to tell you the truth, he U 
 
 250
 
 Mr Baltic on the Trail 
 
 not at all pleased that you presented yourself in our city 
 as a missionary.' 
 
 'I am a missionary,* answered the ex-sailor, quietly. ' I 
 explained as much to Sir Hairy, but it would seem that he 
 has told the worst and kept back the best.' 
 
 ' I don't understand,' said the curate, much bewildered. 
 
 'Sir, it would take too long for me to explain why I call 
 myself a missionary, but you can rest assured that I am not 
 sailing under false colours. As it is, you know me as an 
 agent ; and you know also my purpose in coming here.' 
 
 ' Yes ! I know that you are investigating the mur — ' 
 
 'We are in the street, sir,' interrupted Baltic, with a glance 
 at passers-by ; ' it is as well to be discreet. One moment.' 
 He led Gabriel into a quiet alley, comparatively free from 
 listeners. 'This is a rather rough sort of neighbourhood, 
 sir.' 
 
 * Rough certainly, but not dangerous,' replied Gabriel, 
 puzzled by the remark. 
 
 ' Don't you carry a pistol, Mr Pendle ? ' 
 
 ' No ! Why should I ? ' 
 
 ' Why indeed ? If the Gospel is not a protection enough, no 
 earthly arms will prevail Your name is Gabriel, I think, 
 sir.' 
 
 ' Yes ! Gabriel Pendle ; but I don't see — ' 
 
 • I'm coming to an explanation, sir. G. P.' mused Baltic 
 — ' same initials as those of your father and brother, eh, Mr 
 Pendle ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly. Both the bishop and my brother are named 
 George.' 
 
 ' G. P. all three,' said Baltic, with a nod, ' Do you travel 
 abroad with a Cook's ticket, sir ? * 
 
 ' Usually I Why do you — ' 
 
 'A through ticket to — say Nauheim — is about three 
 pounds, I believe?' 
 
 ' I paid that for mine, Mr Baltic. May I ask why you 
 question me in this manner ? ' demanded Gabriel, irritably. 
 
 Baltic tapped Gabriel's chest three times with his fore- 
 finger. 'For your own safety, Mr Pendle. Good-day, 
 sirl' 
 
 17 »5»
 
 CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 THE INITIALS 
 
 As has before been stated, Dr Graham had another conversa- 
 tion with his persecuted friend, in which he advised him to 
 tolerate the presence of Cargrim until Baltic captured the 
 actual criminal. It was also at this second interview that 
 the bishop asked Graham if he should tell George the truth. 
 This question the little doctor answered promptly in the 
 negative. 
 
 'For what is the use of telling him?' said he, argu- 
 mentatively ; * doing so will make you uncomfortable and 
 George very unhappy.' 
 
 ' But George must learn the truth sooner or later.* 
 
 ' I don't see that it is necessary to inform him of it at all,' 
 retorted Graham, obstinately, 'and at all events you need 
 not explain until forced to do so. One thing at a time, 
 bishop. At present your task is to baffle Cargrim and 
 kick the scoundrel out of the house when the murderer is 
 found. Then we can discuss the matter of the marriage 
 with Mrs Pendle.' 
 
 ' Graham ! ' — the bishop's utterance of the name was like 
 a cry of pain — ' I cannot — I dare not tell Amy ! * 
 
 ' You m St, Pendle, since she is the principal person con- 
 cerned in the matter. You know how Gabriel learned the 
 truth from her casual description of her first husband. 
 Well, when Mrs Pendle returns to Beorminster, she may — I 
 don't say that she will, mind you — but she may speak of 
 Krant again, since, so far as she is concerned, there is no 
 need for her to keep the fact of her first marriage secret.' 
 
 'Except that she may not wish to recall unhappy days,' 
 put in the bishop, softly. * Indeed, I wonder that Amy 
 could bring herself to speak of Krant to her son and 
 mine.' 
 
 25a
 
 The Initials 
 
 'Women, my friend, do and say things at which 
 they wonder themselves,' said the misogynist, cynically; 
 ' probably Mrs Pendle acted on the impulse of the moment 
 and regretted it immediately the words were out of her 
 mouth. Still, she may describe Krant again when she comes 
 back, and her listener may be as clever as Gabriel was in 
 putting two and two together, and connecting your wife's 
 first husband with Krant. Should such a thing occur — and 
 it might occur — your secret would become the common 
 property of this scandalmongering place, and your last condi- 
 tion would be worse than your first. Also,' continued Graham, 
 with the air of a person clinching an argument, 'if you and 
 Mrs Pendle are to part, my poor friend, she must be told 
 the reason for such separation.' 
 
 * Part ! ' echoed the bishop, indignantly. ' My dear Amy 
 and I shall never part, doctor. I wonder that you can 
 suggest such a thing. Now that Krant is dead beyond all 
 doubt, I shall marry his widow at once,' 
 
 ' Quite so, and quite right,' assented Graham, emphatic- 
 ally; 'but in that case, as you can see for yourself, you 
 nmst tell her that the first marriage is null and void, so 
 as to account for the necessity of the second ceremony.' 
 The doctor paused and reflected. ' Old scatterbrain that 
 I am,' said he, with a shrug, ' I quite forgot that way out 
 of the difficulty. A second marriage ! Of course ! and 
 there is your riddle solved.' 
 
 ' No doubt, so far as Amy and I are concerned,' said 
 Pendle, gloomily, ' but so late a ceremony will not make 
 my children legitimate. In England, marriage is not a 
 retrospective act.' 
 
 'They manage these things better in France,' opined 
 Graham, in the manner of Sterne ; * there a man can 
 legitimise his children born out of wedlock if he so chooses. 
 There was a talk of modifying the English Act in the same 
 way ; but, of course, the very nice people with nasty ideas 
 shrieked out in their usual pig-headed style about legalised 
 immorality. However,' pursued the doctor, in a more 
 cheerful tone, ' I do not see that you need worry yourself 
 on that point, bishop. You can depend upon Gabriel and 
 me holding our tongues ; you need not tell Lucy or George, 
 and when you marry your wife for the second time, all 
 
 253
 
 The Bishofs Secret 
 
 things can go on as before. "What the eye does not see, 
 the heart does not grieve at," you know.' 
 
 ' 15 ut my eye sees, and my heart grieves,' groaned the 
 bishop. 
 
 ' Pish ! don't make an inquisition of your conscience, 
 Pendle. You have done no wrong; Hke greatness, evil 
 has been thrust upon you.' 
 
 ' I am certainly an innocent sinner, Graham.' 
 
 ' Of course yovi are ; but now that we have found the 
 remedy, that is all over and done with. Wait till Jentham's 
 murderer is found, then turn Cargrim out of doors, marry 
 Mrs Kn.at in some out-of-the way parish, and make a 
 fresh will in favour of your children. There you are, 
 bishop ! Don't worry any more about the matter.' 
 
 'You don't think that I should tell Brace that—?' 
 
 •I certainly don't think that you should disgrace your 
 daughter in the eyes of her future husband,' retorted the 
 doctor, hotly; 'marry your wife and hold your tongue. 
 Even the Recording Angel can take no note of so obviously 
 just a course.' 
 
 *I think you are right, Graham,' said the bishop, shaking 
 his friend's hand with an expression of relief. ' In justice to 
 my children, I must be silent. I shall act as you suggest.' 
 
 ' Then that being so, you are a man again,' said Graham, 
 jocularly, 'and now you can send for George to pay you 
 a visit.' 
 
 ' Do you think there is any necessity, Graham ? The 
 sight of him — ' 
 
 'Will do you good, Pendle. Don't martyrise yourself 
 and look on your children as so many visible evidences 
 of sin. Bosh ! I tell you, bosh ! ' cried the doctor, vigorously 
 if ungallantly. 'Send for George, send for Mrs Pendle 
 and Lucy, and throw all these morbid ideas to the wind. 
 If you do not,' added Graham, raising a threatening finger, 
 'I shall write out a certificate for the transfer of the 
 cleverest bishop in England to a lunatic asylum.' 
 
 ' Well, well, I won't risk that,' said the bishop, smiling. 
 'George shall come back at once.' 
 
 'And all will be gas and gaiters, to quote the immortal 
 Boz. Good-day, bishop I I have prescribed your medicine ; 
 see that you take it.' 
 
 254
 
 The Initials 
 
 ' You are a tonic in yourself, Graham.' 
 
 * All men of sense are, Pendle. They are the salt of the 
 earth, the oxygen in the moral atmosphere. If it wasn't 
 for my common sense, bisliop,' said the doctor, with a 
 twinkle, ' I believe I should be weak enough to come and 
 hear you preach.' 
 
 Dr Pendle laughed. 'I am afraid the age of miracles 
 is past, my friend. As a bishop, I should reprove you, 
 but—' 
 
 ' But, as a good, sensible fellow, you'll take my advice. 
 Well, well, bishop, I have had more obstinate patients than 
 my college chum. Good-day, good-day,' and the little 
 doctor skipped out of the library with a gay look and a 
 merry nod, leaving the bishop relieved and smiling, and 
 devoudy thankful for the solution of his life's riddle. At 
 that moment the noble verse of the Psalmist was in his 
 mind and upon his lips—' God is our refuge and our 
 strength : a very present help in trouble.' Bishop Pendle 
 was proving the truth of that text. 
 
 So the exiled lover was permitted to return to Beormin- 
 ster, and very pleased he was to find himself once more 
 in the vicinity of his beloved. After congratuladng the 
 bishop on his recovered cheerfulness and placidity, George 
 brought forward the name of Mab, and was pleased to find 
 that his father was by no means so opposed to the match 
 as formerly. Dr Pendle admitted again that Mab was a 
 singularly charming young lady, and that his son might 
 do worse than marry her. I^ate events had humbled the 
 bishop's pride considerably ; and the knowledge that George 
 was nameless, induced him to consider Miss Arden more 
 favourably as a wife for the young man. She was at least 
 a lady, and not a barmaid like Bell Mosk ; so the painful 
 fact of Gabriel setting his heart so low made George's 
 superior choice quite a brilliant match in comparison. On 
 these grounds, the bishop intimated to Captain Pendle 
 that, on consideration, he was disposed to overlook the 
 rumours about Miss Arden's disreputable father and accept 
 her as a daughter-in-law. It was with this joyful news that 
 George, glowing and eager, as a lover should be, made his 
 appearance the next morning at the Jenny Wren house. 
 
 •Thank God the bishop is reasonable,' cried Miss 
 
 2S5
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 Whichello, when George explained the new position. • I 
 knew that Mab would Ljain his heart in the end.' 
 
 'She gained mine in the beginning;,' said Captain George, 
 fondly, 'and that, after all, is the principal thing.' 
 
 ' What ! your own heait, egotist I Does mine then count 
 for nothing ? ' 
 
 'Oh!' said George, slipping his arm r'')und her waist, 
 •if we begin on that subject, my litany will be as long as 
 the Athanasian Creed, and quite as devout.' 
 
 'Captain Pendle !' exclaimed Miss VViiichcllo, scandalised 
 both by embrace and speech — both rather trying to a 
 religious spinster. 
 
 •Miss Whichello,' mimicked the gay lover, *am I not 
 to be received into the family under the name of George ? ' 
 
 •That depends on your behaviour. Captain Pendle. But 
 I am both pleased and relieved that the bishop consents 
 to the marriage.' 
 
 •Aunty!' cried Mab, reddening a trifle, 'don't talk ai 
 though it were a favour. I do not look upon myself as 
 worthless, by any means.' 
 
 ' Worthless ! ' echoed George, gaily ; ' then is gold mere 
 dross, and diamonds but pebbles. You are the beauty r.f 
 the universe, ray darling, and I your lowest slave.' He 
 threw himself at her feet. ' Set your pretty foot on my neck, 
 my queen ! ' 
 
 ' Captain Pendle,' said Miss Whichello, striving to stifle 
 a laugh, 'if you don't get up and behave properly I shall 
 leave the room.' 
 
 ' If you do, aunty, he will get worse,' smiled Mnb, ruffling 
 what the barber had left of her lover's hair. 'Get up at 
 once, you — you mad Romeo.' 
 
 George rose obediently, and dusted his knees. • Juliet, 
 I obey,' said he, tragically ; ' but no, you are not Juliet of 
 the garden; you are Cleopatra! Semiramis I the most im- 
 perious and queenly of women. Where did you get your 
 rich eastern beauty from, Mab? What are you, an Arabian 
 princess, doing in our cold grey West? You are like some 
 dark-browed queen I A daughter of Bohemia I A Romany 
 sorceress ! ' 
 
 Mab laughed, but Miss Whichello heaved a quick, im- 
 patient sigh, as though these eastern comparisons annoyed 
 
 356
 
 The Initials 
 
 her. George was unconsciously making remarks which cut 
 her to the heart ; and almost unable to control her feelings, 
 she muttered some excuse and glided hastily from the 
 room. With the inherent selfishness of love, neither George 
 nor Mab paid any attention to her emotion or departure, 
 but whispered and smiled and caressed one another, well 
 pleased at their sweet solitude. George spent one golden 
 hour in paradise, then unwillingly tore himself away. Only 
 Shakespeare could have done justice to the passion of their 
 parting. Kisses and sighs, last looks, final handclasps, and 
 then George in the sunshine of the square, with Mab waving 
 her handkerchief from the open casement. But, alas ! work- 
 aday prose always succeeds Arcadian rhyme, and with the 
 sinking sun dies the glory of the day. 
 
 With his mind hanging betwixt a mental heaven and 
 earth, after the similitude of Mahomet's cofifin, George 
 walked slowly down the street, until he was brought like 
 a shot eagle to the ground by a touch on the shoulder. 
 Now, as there is nothing more annoying than such a bailiffs 
 salute, George wheeled round with some vigorous language 
 on the tip of his tongue, but did not use it when he found 
 himself facing Sir Harry Brace. 
 
 *Oh, it's you!' said Captain Pendle, lamely. 'Well, 
 with your experience, you should know better than to pull 
 up a fellow unawares.' 
 
 *You talk in riddles, my good George,' said Harry, star- 
 ing, as well he might, at this not very coherent speech. 
 
 'I have just left Miss Arden,' explained George, quite 
 unabashed, for he did not care if the whole world knew of 
 his love. 
 
 • Oh, I beg your pardon, I understand,* replied Brace, 
 with a broad smile ; ' but you must excuse me, old chap. 
 I am — I am out of practice lately, you see. " My love 
 she is in Germanee," as the old song says. I wish to speak 
 with you.' 
 
 ' All right Where shall we go ? ' 
 
 * To the club. I must see you privately.* 
 
 The Beorminster Club was just a short distance down 
 
 the street, so George followed Harry into its hospitable 
 
 portals and finally accepted a comfortable chair in the 
 
 smoking-room, which, luckily for the purpose of Brace, 
 
 R 257
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 was empty at that hour. The two young men each 
 ordered a cool hock-and-soda and lighted two very 
 excellent cigarettes which came out of the pocket of 
 extravagant Cieorge. Then they began to talk, and 
 Harry opened the conversation with a question. 
 
 'George,' he said, with a serious look on his usually 
 merry face, 'were you on Southberry Heath on the night 
 that poor devil was murdered?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' replied Captain Pendle, with some wonder at 
 the question. ' I rode over to the gipsy camp to buy a 
 particular ring from Mother Jael.' 
 
 ' For Miss Arden, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; I wished for a necromantic symbol of our en- 
 gagement.' 
 
 ' Did you hear or see anything of the murder ? ' 
 
 'Good Lord, no 1' cried the stariled George, sitting up 
 straight. ' I should have been at the inquest had 1 seen 
 the act, or even heard the shot,' 
 
 ' Did you carry a pistol with you on that night?* 
 
 'As I wasn't riding through Central Africa, I did not 
 What is the meaning of these mysterious questions?' 
 
 Brace answered this query by slipping his hand into his 
 breast-pocket and producing therefrom a neat little pistol, 
 toy-like, but deadly enough in the hand of a good marks- 
 man. ' Is this yours?' he asked, holding it out for Captain 
 Pendle's inspection. 
 
 ' Certainly it is,' said George, handling the weapon ; 'here 
 are my initials on the butt. Where did you get this?' 
 
 ' It was found by Mother Jael near the spot where 
 Jentham was murdered.' 
 
 Captain Pendle clapped down the pistol on the table with 
 an ejaculation of amazement. * Was he shot with this, 
 Harry ? ' 
 
 'Without doubt!' replied Brace, gravely. 'Therefore, 
 as it is your property, I wish to know how it came to be 
 used for that purpose.' 
 
 'Great Scott, Brace! you don't think that I killed the 
 blackguard ? ' 
 
 ' I think nothing so ridiculous,' protested Sir Harry, 
 testily. 
 
 ♦You talk as if you did, though,' retorted George, smartly. 
 
 258
 
 The Initials 
 
 ' I thrashed that Jentham beast for insulting Mab, but I 
 didn't shoot him.' 
 
 ' But the pistol is yours.' 
 
 * I admit that, but — Good Lord ! ' cried Captain Pendle, 
 starting to his feet. 
 
 ' What now ? ' asked Brace, turning pale and cold on the 
 instant 
 
 ' Gabriel ! Gabriel ! I — I gave this pistol to him.' 
 ' You gave this pistol to Gabriel ? When ? Where ? ' 
 
 * In London,' explained George, rapidly. ' When he was 
 in Whitechapel I knew that he went among a lot of roughs 
 and thieves, so I insisted that he should carry this pistol for 
 his protection. He was unwilling to do so at first, but in 
 the end I persuaded him to slip it into his pocket. I have 
 not seen it from that day to this.' 
 
 'And it was found near Jentham's corpse,' said Brace, 
 with a groan. 
 
 The two young men looked at one another in horrified 
 silence, the same thoughts in the mind of each. The pistol 
 had been in the possession of Gabriel ; and Gabriel on the 
 night of the murder had been in the vicinity of the crime. 
 
 * It — it is impossible,' whispered George, almost inaudibly, 
 ' Gabriel can explain.' 
 
 ' Gabriel must explain,' said Brace, firmly ; ' it is a matter 
 of life and death ! ' 
 
 259
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 MR BALTIC EXPLAINS HIMSELF 
 
 It was Miss Whichello, who, on the statement of Mrs 
 Pansey as reported by Mr Cargrim, had told George of his 
 brother's presence on Southberry Heath at the time of 
 Jentham's murder. She had casually mentioned the fact 
 during an idle conversation ; but never for one moment 
 had she dreamed of connecting Gabriel with so atrocious a 
 crime. Nor indeed did Captain Pendle, until the fact was 
 rudely and unexpecteuly brought home to him by the 
 production of the pistol. Nevertheless, despite this material 
 evidence, he vehemently refused to credit that so gentle a 
 being as Gabriel had slain a fellow-creature deliberately 
 and in cold blood, particularly as on the face of it no 
 reason could be assigned for so hazardous an act. The 
 curate, in his loyal brother's opinion, was neither a vindictive 
 fool nor an aimless murderer. 
 
 With this latter opinion Sir Harry very heartily agreed. 
 He had the highest respect for Gabriel as a man and a 
 priest, and could not believe that he had wantonly com- 
 mitted a brutal crime, so repulsive to his benign nature, so 
 contrary to the purity and teachings of his life. He was 
 quite satisfied that the young man both could, and would, 
 explain how the pistol had passed out of his possession ; 
 but he did not seek the explanation himself. Baltic, 
 previous to his departure for London, had made Brace 
 promise to question Captain Pendle about the pistol, and 
 report to him the result of such conversation. Now that 
 the pistol was proved to have been in the keeping of 
 Gabriel, the baronet knew very well that Baltic would 
 prefer to question so important a witness himself. Tliere- 
 fore, while waiting for the agent's return, he not only himself 
 
 260
 
 Mr Baltic Explains Himself 
 
 refrained from seeing Gabriel, but persuaded George not 
 to do so. 
 
 ' Your questions will only do more harm than good ! ' 
 expostulated Brace, *as you have neither the trained 
 capacity nor the experience to examine into the matter. 
 Baltic returns to-morrow, and as I have every faith in his 
 judgment and discretion, it will be much better to let him 
 handle it.' 
 
 * Who is this Baltic you talk of so much ? ' asked the 
 captain, impatiently. 
 
 'He is a private inquiry agent who is trying to discover 
 the man who killed Jentham.' 
 
 ' On behalf of Tinkler, I suppose ? * 
 
 'He is working with Tinkler in the matter,' replied 
 Brace, evasively, for he did not want to inform George, the 
 rash and fiery, of his father's peril and Cargrim's treachery. 
 
 * Baltic is a London detective, no doubt ? ' 
 
 *Yes, his brains are more equal than Tinkler's to the 
 task of solving the riddle.' 
 
 ' He won't arrest Gabriel, I hope,' said George, anxiously. 
 
 •Not unless he is absolutely certain that Gabriel com- 
 mitted the crime; and I am satisfied that he will never 
 arrive at that certainty.' 
 
 * I — should — think — not,' cried Captain Pendle, with 
 disdain. ' Gabriel, poor boy, would not kill a fly, let alone 
 a man. Still, these legal bloodhounds are coarse and 
 unscruDulous.' 
 
 'Baltic is not, George. He is quite a new type of 
 detective, and works rather from a religious than a judicial 
 point of view.' 
 
 ' I never heard of a religious detective before,' remarked 
 George, scornfully. 
 
 ' Nor I ; it is a new departure, and I am not sure but 
 that it is a good one, incongruous as it may seem.' 
 
 ' Is the man a hypocrite ? ' 
 
 ' By no means. He is thoroughly in earnest. Here, in 
 public, he calls himself a missionary.' 
 
 ' Oh ! oh ! the wolf in the skin of a sheep ! ' 
 
 * Not at all. The man is — well, it is no use my explain- 
 ing, as you will see him shortly, and then can judge for 
 yourself. But if you will take my advice, George, you will 
 
 261
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 let Baltic figure the matter out on his own slate, us the 
 Americans say. Don't mention his name or actual business 
 to anyone. Believe me, I know what I am talking about.' 
 
 'Very well,' grumbled George, convinced by Harry's 
 earnestness, but by no means pleased to be condemned to 
 an interval of ignorance and inactivity. ' I shall hold my 
 tongue and close my eyes. But you agree with me thac 
 Gabriel did not kill the brute?' 
 
 ' Of course ! From the lirst I never had any doubts on 
 that score.' 
 
 Here for the time being the conversation ended, and 
 George went his way to play the part of a careless on- 
 looker. But for his promise, he would have warned 
 Gabriel of the danger which threatened him, and probably 
 have complicated matters by premature anger. Luckily for 
 all things, his faith in Brace's good sense was strong enough 
 to deter him from so rash and headlong a course ; therefore, 
 at home and abroad, he assumed a gaiety he did not feel. 
 So here in the episcopalian palace of Beorminster were 
 three people, each one masking his real feelings in inter- 
 course with the others. The bishop, his son and his 
 scheming chaplain were actors in a comedy of life which 
 — in the opinion of the last — might easily end up as a 
 tragedy. No wonder their behaviour was constrained, no 
 wonder they avoided one another. They were as men 
 living over a powder magazine which the Itast spark would 
 explode with thunderous noise and damaging effect. 
 
 Baltic was the deus ex machina to strike the spark for 
 ignition, but he seemed in no hurry to do so. Punctual to 
 his promise he returned to Beorminster, and heard Sir 
 Harry's report about the pistol with grave attention. 
 Without venturing an opinion for or against the curate, he 
 asked Sir Harry to preserve a strict silence until such time 
 as he gave him leave to speak, and afterwards took his way 
 to Gabriel's lodgings in the lower part of the town. There 
 he was fortunate enough to find young Pendle within doors, 
 and after a lengthy interview with him on matlers con- 
 nected with the crime, he again sought the baronet. A 
 detailed explanation to that gentleman resulted in a visit 
 of both to Sir Harry's bank, and an interesting conversation 
 with its manager. When Brace and Baltic finally lound 
 
 262
 
 Mr Baltic Explains Himself 
 
 themselves on the pavement, the face of the first wore an 
 expression of exultation, while the latter, in his reticent way, 
 looked soberly satisfied. Both had every reason for these 
 signs of triumph, for they had touched the highest pinnacle 
 of success. 
 
 ' I suppose there can be no doubt about it, Baltic?' 
 
 • None whatever, Sir Harry. Every link in the chain of 
 evidence is complete.' 
 
 ' You are a wonderful man, Baltic ; you have scored oflF 
 that fool of a Tinkler in a very neat way.' 
 
 'The inspector is no fool in his own sphere, sir,' reproved 
 the serious ex-sailor, ' but this case happened to be beyond 
 it' 
 
 'And beyond him also,' chuckled the baronet. 
 
 'There is no denying that. Sir Harry. However, the 
 man is useful in his own place, and having done my part, 
 I shall now ask him to do his.' 
 
 ' What is his task, eh ? ' 
 
 ' To procure a warrant on my evidence. The man must 
 be arrested this afternoon.' 
 
 * And then, Baltic ? ' 
 
 'Then, sir,' said the man, solemnly, *I shall be no 
 longer an agent, but a missionary; and in my own poor 
 way I shall strive to bring him to repentance.' 
 
 ' After bringing him to the gallows. A queer way of 
 inducing good, Baltic' 
 
 ' Wiioso loseth all gaineth all,' quoted Baltic, in all ear- 
 nestness ; ' my mission is not to destroy souls but to save 
 them.' 
 
 ' Humph ! you destroy the material part for the salvation 
 of the spiritual. A man called Torquemada conducted his 
 religious crusade in the same way some hundreds of years 
 ago, and has been cursed for his system by humanity ever 
 since. Your morality — or rather I should say your re- 
 ligiosity — is beyond me, Baltic' 
 
 ^ Magnas Veritas et praevakbii f ' misquoted Baltic, 
 solemnly, and, touching his hat roughly, turned away to 
 finish the work he felt himself called upon by his religious 
 convictions to execute. 
 
 Harry looked after him with a satirical smile. ' You 
 filched that morsel of dog Latin out of the end of the 
 
 263
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 English dictionary, my friend,' he tliought, ' and your un- 
 Uitored miiui does not apply it wiili paiticular relevancy 
 But I see that, like all fanatics, you distort texts and sayings 
 into fitting your own peculiar views. Well, well, the ends 
 you aim at are right enough, no doubt, but your method of 
 reaching them is as queer a one as ever came under my 
 notice. Go your ways, Torquemada Baltic, there are the 
 germs of a mighty intolerant sect in your kind of teaching, 
 I fear,' and in his turn Sir Harry went about his own affairs. 
 
 Inspector Tinkler, more purple-faced and important than 
 ever, sat in his private office, twirling his thumbs and nod- 
 ding his head for lack of business on which to employ his 
 mighty mind. The afternoon, by some freak of the sun 
 which had to do with his solar majesty's unusual spotty 
 complexion, was exceptionally hot for a late September 
 day, and the heat made Mr Inspector drowsy and indolent. 
 He might have fallen into the condition of an official sleep- 
 ing beauty, but that a sharp knock at the door roused him 
 sufficiently to bid the knocker enter, whereupon a well-fed 
 policeman presented himself with the information — dehvered 
 in a sleepy, beefy voice — that Mr Baltic wished to see Mr 
 Tinkler. The name acted like a douche of iced water on 
 the inspector, and he sharply ordered the visitor to be 
 admitted at once. In another minute Baltic was in the 
 office, saluting the head of the Beorminster police in his 
 usual grave style. 
 
 ' Ha, Mr Baltic, sir ! ' rasped out Tinkler, in his parade 
 voice, ' I am glad to see you. There is a seat, and here 
 am I ; both at your service.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr Inspector,' said Baltic, and, taking a 
 seat, carefully covered his knees with the red bandanna, 
 and adjusted his straw hat on top of it according to 
 custom. 
 
 •Well, sir, well,' grunted Mr Inspector, pompously, 'and 
 how does your little afiair get on ? ' 
 
 ' It has got on so far, sir, that I have come to ask you for 
 a warrant of arrest.' 
 
 ' By George ! eh ! what 1 Have you found him ? ' roared 
 Tinkler, starting back with an incredulous look. 
 
 ' I have discovered the man who murdered Jentham ! 
 Yes.' 
 
 264
 
 Mr Baltic Explains Himself 
 
 • Good ! ' snapped Tinkler, trying to conceal his amazement 
 by a reversion to his abrupt military manner. ' His name ? ' 
 
 ' I'll tell you that when' I have related my evidence in- 
 criminating him. It is as well to be orderly, Mr Inspector.' 
 
 * Certainly, Mr Baltic, sir. Order is at the base of all 
 discipline.' 
 
 ' I should rather say that discipline is the basis of order,' 
 returned Baltic, with a dry smile ; 'however, we can discuss 
 that question later. At present I shall detail my evidence 
 against' — Mr Inspector leaned eagerly forward — 'against 
 the man who killed Jentham.' Mr Inspector threw him- 
 self back with a disappointed snort. 
 
 ' 'Tention ! ' threw out Tinkler, and arranged pen and ink 
 and paper to take notes. ' Now, Mr Baltic, sir ! ' 
 
 ' My knowledge of the man Jentham,' droned Baltic, in 
 his monotonous voice, ' begins at the moment I was in- 
 formed by Mr Cargrim that he called at the palace to see 
 Bishop Pendle a few days before he met with his violent 
 end. It would appear — although of this I am not abso- 
 lutely certain — that the bishop knew Jentham when he 
 occupied a more respectable position and answered to 
 another name ! ' 
 
 ' Memorandum,' wrote doA-n Tinkler, • to inquire if his 
 lordship can supply information regarding the past of the 
 so-called Jentham.' 
 
 ' The bishop,' continued the narrator, with a covert smile 
 at Tinkler's unnecessary scribbling, 'was apparently sorry 
 to see an old friend in a homeless and penniless condition, 
 for to help him on in the world he gave him the sum of 
 two hundred pounds.' 
 
 'That,' declared Tinkler, throwing down his pen, 'is 
 charity gone mad — if — he emphasised the word — *if, mark 
 me, it is true.' 
 
 ' If it were not true I should not state it,' rejoined Baltic, 
 gravely. 'As a Christian I have a great regard for the 
 truth. Bishop Pendle drew that sum out of his London 
 account in twenty ten-pound notes. I have the numbers 
 of those notes, and I traced several to the possession of the 
 assassin, who must have taken them from the corpse. On 
 these grounds, Mr Inspector, I assert that Dr Pendle gave 
 Jentham two hundred pounds.' 
 18 265
 
 The BisJwp's Secret 
 
 Tinkler again took up his pen. • Memo,' he set down, 
 ' to ask his lordship if ho helped the so-called Jentham with 
 money. If so, liow much ?' 
 
 'As you know,' resumed Baltic, with deliberation, 'Jen- 
 tham was shot through the heart, but the pistol could not 
 be found. It is now in my possession, and I obtained it 
 from Mother Jael ! * 
 
 ' What ! did she kill the poor devil?' 
 ' I have already said that the murderer is a man, Mr 
 Inspector. Mother Jael knows nothing about the crime, 
 save that she heard the shot and afterwards picked up the 
 pistol near the corpse. I obtained it from her with con- 
 siderable ease ! ' 
 
 ' By threatening her with the warrant I gave you, no 
 doubt.' 
 
 Baltic shook his head. ' I made no mention of the 
 warrant, nor did I produce it,' he replied, ' but I happen 
 to know something of the Romany tongue, and be what 
 the Spaniards call " afeciado " to the gipsies. When Mr)ther 
 Jael was convinced that I was a brother of tent and road, 
 she gave me the pistol without ado. It is best to woik by 
 kindness, Mr Inspector.' 
 
 ' We can't all be gipsies, Mr Baltic, sir. Proceed ! What 
 about the pistol ? ' 
 
 ' The pistol,' continued Baltic, passing over the envious 
 sneer, ' had a silver plate on the butt, in.^cribed with the 
 letters " G.P." I did not know if the weapon belonged to 
 Bishop George Pendle, Captain George Pendle, or to Mr 
 Gabriel Pendle.' 
 
 Inspector Tinkler looked up aghast. ' By Jupiter ! sir, 
 you don't mean to tell me that you suspected the bishop ? 
 Damme, Mr Baltic, how dare you?' 
 
 Now the missionary was not going to confide in this 
 official thick-head regarding Cargrim's suspicions of the 
 bishop, which had led him to connect the pistol with the 
 prelate; so he evaded the difficulty by explaining that as 
 the lent money was a link between the bishop and Jen- 
 tham, and the initials on the pistol were those of his 
 lordship, he naturally fancied that the weapon belonged 
 to Dr Pendle, ' although I will not go so far as to say that 
 I suspected him,' finished Baltic, smoothly. 
 
 266
 
 Mr Baltic Explains Himself 
 
 ' I should think not ! ' growled Tinkler, wrathfully. 
 • Bishops don't murder tramps in England, whatever 
 they may do in the South Seas ! ' and he made a 
 third note, 'Memo. — To ask his lordship if he lost a 
 pistol.' 
 
 * As Captain George Pendle is a soldier, Mr Inspector, I 
 fancied — on the testimony of the initials — that the pistol 
 might belong to him. On putting the question to him, it 
 appeared that the weapon was his property — ' 
 
 ' The devil ! ' 
 
 * But that he had leant it to Mr Gabriel Pendle to pro- 
 tect himself from roughs when that young gentleman was a 
 curate in Whitechapel, London.* 
 
 ' Well, I'm — d — blessed ! ' ejaculated Tinkler, with staring 
 eyes ; * so Mr Gabriel killed Jentham ! ' 
 
 ' Don't jump to conclusions, Mr Inspector. Gabriel 
 Pendle is innocent. I never thought that he was guilty, 
 but I fancied that he might supply links in the chain of 
 evidence to trace the real murderer. Of course, you know 
 that Mr Gabriel lately went to Germany ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I know that.' 
 
 * Very good ! As the initials " G. P." also stood for 
 Gabriel Pendle, I was not at all sure but what the pistol 
 might be his. For the moment I assumed that it was, that 
 he had shot Jentham, and that the stolen money had been 
 used by him.' 
 
 ' But you hadn't the shadow of a proof, Mr Baltic' 
 
 * I had the pistol with the initials,' retorted the 
 missionary, • but, as I said, I never suspected Mr Gabriel. 
 I only assumed his guilt for the moment to enable me to 
 trace the actual criminal. To make a long story short, Mr 
 Inspector, I went up to London and called at Cook's office. 
 There I discovered that Mr Gabriel had paid for his ticket 
 with a ten-pound note. That note,' added Baltic, im- 
 pressively, ' was one of those given by the bishop to Jen- 
 tham and stolen by the assassin from the body of his 
 victim. I knew it by the number.' 
 
 Tinkler thumped the desk with his hand in a state of 
 uncontrolled excitement. ' Then Mr Gabriel must be 
 guilty,' he declared in his most stentorian voice. 
 
 ' Hush, if you please,' said Baltic, with a glance at the 
 
 267
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 door. ' There is no need to let your subordinates know 
 what is not true.' 
 
 'What is not true, sir?' 
 
 ' Precisely. I questioned Mr Gabriel on my return, and 
 learned that he had changed a twenty-pound note at The 
 Derby Winner prior to his departure for Germany. Mosk, 
 the landlord, gave hiin the ten I traced to Cook's and two 
 fives. Hush, please ! Mr Gabriel also told me that he 
 had lent the pistol to Mosk to protect himself from tramps 
 when riding to and from Soutbberry, so — ' 
 
 ' I see ! I see ! ' roared Tinkler, purple with excitement. 
 ' Mosk is the guilty man ! ' 
 
 ' Quite so,' rejoined Baltic, unmoved. ' You have hit 
 upon the right man at last.' 
 
 ' So Bill Mosk shot Jentham. Oh, Lord ! Damme ! 
 Why?' 
 
 ' Don't swear, Mr Inspector, and I'll tell you. Mosk 
 committed the murder to get the two hundred pounds. I 
 suspected Mosk almost from the beginning. The man was 
 almost always drunk and frequently in tears. I found out 
 while at The Derby Winner that he could not pay his 
 rent shortly before Jentham's murder. After the crime I 
 learned from Sir Harry Brace, the landlord, that Mosk had 
 paid his rent. When Mr Gabriel told me about the lend- 
 ing of the pistol and the changing of the note, I went to Sir 
 Harry's bank, and there, Mr Ins[)ector, I discovered that 
 the bank-notes with which he paid his rent were those 
 given by the bishop to Jentham. On that evidence, on the 
 evidence of the pistol, on the evidence that Mosk was 
 absent at Southberry on the night of the murder, I ask you 
 to obtain a warrant and arrest the man this afternoon.' 
 
 ' I shall see a magistrate about it at once,' fussed Tinkler, 
 tearing up his now useless memoranda. ' Bill Mosk I 
 Damme ! Bill Mosk ! I never should have thoui'ht a 
 
 o 
 
 drunken hound like him would have the pluck to do it 
 Hang me if I did ! ' 
 
 * I don't call it pluck to shoot an unarmed man, Mr 
 Inspector. It is rather the act of a coward.' 
 
 * Coward or not, he must swing for it,' growled Tinkler. 
 * Mr Baltic, sir, I am proud of you. You have done what I 
 could not do myself. Take my hand and my thanks, sir, 
 
 268
 
 Mr Baltic Explains Himself 
 
 Become a detective, sir, and learn our trade. When you 
 know our business you will do wonders, sir, wonders ! ' 
 
 In the same patronising way a rush-light might have con- 
 gratulated the sun on his illuminating powers and have 
 advised him to become — a penny candle. 
 
 969
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 THE WAGES OF Sllf 
 
 While the wickedness and fate of Mosk were being dis- 
 cussed and settled in Inspector Tinkler's office, Bishop 
 Pendle was meditating on a very important subject, im- 
 portant both to his domesiic circle and to the wider claims 
 of his exalted position. This was none other than a 
 consideration of Gabriel's engagement to the hotelkeeper's 
 daughter, and an argument with himself as to whether or 
 no he should consent to so obvious a mesalliance. The 
 bishop was essentially a fair dealer, and not the man to do 
 things by halves, therefore it occurred to him that, as he 
 had consented to George's marriage with Mab, he was 
 bound in all honour to deliberate on the position of his 
 youngest son with regard to Miss Mosk. To use a homely 
 but forcible proverb, it was scarcely just to make beef of 
 one and mutton of the other, the more especially as Gabriel 
 had behaved extremely well in relation to his knowledge of 
 his parents' painful position and his own nameless con- 
 dition. Some sons so placed would have regarded tiiem- 
 selves as absolved from all filial ties, but Gabriel, with true 
 honour and true affection, never dreamed of acting in so 
 heartless a manner ; on the contrary, he clung the closer 
 to his unhappy father, and gave him, as formerly, both 
 obedience and filial love. Such honourable conduct, sucii 
 tender kindness, deserved to be rewarded, and, as the 
 bishop determined, rewarded it should be in the only way 
 left to him. 
 
 Having arrived at this liberal conclusion, Dr Pendle 
 decided to make himself personally known to Bell and see 
 with his own eyes the reported beauty which had captivated 
 Gabriel. Also, he wished to judge for himself as to the 
 girl's clever mind and modesty and common sense, all of 
 
 270
 
 The Wages of Sin 
 
 which natural gifts Gabriel had represented her as possess- 
 ing in no ordinary degree. Therefore, on the very after- 
 noon when trouble was brewing against Mosk in the 
 Beorminster Police Office, the bishop of the See took his 
 way to The Derby Winner. The sit;ht of Dr Pendle in 
 the narrow streets of the old town fluttered the slatternly 
 dwellers therein not a little, and the majority of the women 
 whisked indoors in mortal terror, lest they should be 
 reproved ex cathedra for their untidy looks and unswept 
 doorsteps. It was like the descent of an Olympian god, 
 and awestruck mortals fled swift-footed from the glory of his 
 presence. To use a vigorous American phrase, they made 
 themselves scarce. 
 
 The good bishop was amused and rather amazed by this 
 universal scattering, for it was his wish to be loved rather than 
 feared. He was in a decidedly benign frame of mind, as 
 on that very morning he had received a letter from his wife 
 stating that she was coming home within a few days, much 
 benefited by the Nauheim "baths. This latter piece of in- 
 telligence particularly pleased the bishop, as he judged 
 thereby that his wife would be better able to endure the 
 news of her first husband's untimely re-appearance. Dr 
 Pendle was anxious that she should know all at once, so 
 that he could marry her again as speedily as possible, and 
 thereby put an end to an uncomfortable and dangerous 
 state of things. Thus reflecting and thus deciding, the 
 bishop descended the stony street in his usual stately 
 manner, and even patted the heads of one or two stray 
 urchins, who smiled in his face with all the confidence of 
 childhood. Afterwards, the mothers of those especial 
 children were oflfensively proud at this episcopal blessing, 
 and had 'words' with less fortunate mothers in conse- 
 quence. Out of such slight events can dissensions arise. 
 
 As Dr Pendle neared The Derby Winner he was un- 
 lucky enough to encounter Mrs Pansey, who was that 
 afternoon harassing the neighbourhood with one of her 
 parochial visitations. She carried a black bag stuffed with 
 bundles of badly-printed, badly-written tracts, and was 
 distributing this dry fodder as food for Christian souls, 
 along with a quantity of advice and reproof. The men 
 swore, the women wept, the children scrambled out of the
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 way when Mrs Pansey swooped down like a black vulture ; 
 and when the bishop chanced upon her he looked round as 
 though he wished to follow the grateful example of the 
 vanishing population. But Mrs Pansey gave him no chance. 
 She blocked the way, spread out her hands to signify 
 jileasure, and, without greeting the bishop, bellowed out in 
 pretty loud tones, ' At last ! at last I and not before you are 
 needed, Dr Pendle.' 
 
 'Am I needed?' asked the mystified bishop, mildly. 
 
 ' The 1 )erby Winner ! ' was all that Mrs Pansey vouch- 
 safed in the way of an explanation, and cast a glance over her 
 shoulder at the public-house. 
 
 'The Derby Winner,' repeated Dr Pendle, reddcninjr, 
 as he wondered if this busy-body guessed his errand. ' I 
 am now on my way there.' 
 
 ' I am glad to henr it, bishop ! ' said Mrs Pansey, with 
 a toss of her plumed bonnet. ' How often have I asked 
 you to personally examine into the drinking and gambling 
 and loose pleasures which make it a Jericho of sin ? ' 
 
 'Yes, yes, I remember you said something about it 
 when you were at the palace.' 
 
 * Said something about it, my lord ; I said everything 
 about it, but now that you will see it for yourself, I trust 
 you will ask Sir Harry Brace to shut it up.' 
 
 ' Dear, dear ! ' said the bishop, nervously, ' that is an 
 extreme measure.* 
 
 ' An extreme necessity, rather,' retorted Mrs Pansey, wag- 
 ging an admonitory finger; 'do not compound with shame- 
 less sin, bishop. The house is a regular upas tree. It 
 makes the men drunkards ' — Mrs Pansey raised her voice 
 so that the whole neighbourhood might hear — 'the women 
 sluts ' — there was an angry murmur from the houses at 
 this term — 'and the children — the children — ' Mrs Pansey 
 seized a passing brat. 'I^ook at this — this ima.^e of the 
 Creator,' and she offered the now weeping child as an 
 illustration. 
 
 Before Dr Pendle could say a word, the door of a near 
 house was flung violently open, and a blowzy, red-faced 
 young woman pounced out, all on fire for a fight She 
 tore the small sinner from the grasp of Mrs Pansey, and 
 began to scold vigorously. ' Ho indeed, mum I ho indeed I 
 
 372
 
 The Wages of Sin 
 
 and would you be i)leased to repeat what you're a-talkin' of 
 behind ladies' backs.' 
 
 ' Mrs Trumbly ! the bishop, woman ! * 
 
 ' No more a woman than yourself, mum ; and beggin' 
 his lordship's parding, I 'opes as he'll tell widders as ain't 
 bin mothers not to poke their stuck-up noses into what 
 they knows nothing of.' 
 
 By this time a crowd was collecting, and evinced lively 
 signs of pleasure at the prospect of seeing the Bishop of 
 Beorminster as umpire in a street row. But the bishop 
 had heard quite enough of the afTray, and without mincing 
 matters fled as quickly as his dignity would permit towards 
 the friendly shelter of The Derby Winner, leaving Mesdames 
 Pansey and Trumbly in the thick of a wordy war. The first- 
 named lady held her own for some considerable time, until 
 routed by her antagonist's superior knowledge of Billings- 
 gate. Then it appeared very plainly that for once she had 
 met with her match, and she hastily abandoned the field, 
 pursued by a storm of highly-coloured abuse from the 
 irate Mrs Trumbly. It was many a long day before Mrs 
 Pansey ventured into that neighbourhood again ; and she 
 ever afterwards referred to it in terms which a rigid Calvinist 
 usually applies to Papal Rome. As for Mrs Trumbly her- 
 self, the archdeacon's widow said the whole Commination 
 Service over her with heartfelt and prayerful earnestness. 
 
 Bell flushed and whitened, and stammered and trembled, 
 when she beheld the imposing figure of the bishop standing 
 in the dark, narrow passage. To her he was a far-removed 
 deity throned upon inaccessible heights, awesome and 
 powerful, to be propitiated with humbleness and prayer ; 
 and the mere sight of him in her immediate neighbourhood 
 brought her heart into her mouth. For once she lost her 
 nonchalant demeanour, her free and easy speech, and stood 
 nervously silent before him with hanging head and reddened 
 cheeks. Fortunately for her she was dressed that day in 
 a quiet and well-fitting frock of blue serge, and wore less 
 than her usual number of jingling brassy ornaments. The 
 bishop, who had an eye for a comely figure and a pretty 
 face, approved of her looks ; but he was clever enough to 
 see that, however painted and shaped, she was made of 
 very common clay, and would never be able to take her 
 
 S 273
 
 The. Bishop's Scrrst 
 
 place amongst the porcelain maidens to whom Gabriel wns 
 accustomed. Still she seemed moccct and shy as a maid 
 should be, and Dr Pendle looked on her kindly and en- 
 couragingly. 
 
 * You are Miss Mosk, are you not ?' he asked, raising his hat. 
 
 * Yes, my — my lord,' faltered Bell, n-^'t d.iring to raise her 
 eyes above the bishop's g.iiters. 'I am Bell Mosk.' 
 
 ' In that case I should like some conversation with you. 
 Can you take me to a more private place ? ' 
 
 'The little parlour, my lord ; this way, please,' and Bell, 
 reassured by her visitor's kin(ily manner, conducted him 
 into her father's private snuggery at the back of the bar. 
 Here she placed a c'mir for the bishop, and waited anxiously 
 to hear if he came to scold or praise. Dr Pendle came to 
 the point at once. 
 
 ' 1 presume you know who I am, Miss Mosk ? ' he said 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, sir; the Bisl^.op of Beorminster.' 
 
 •Quite so; but I am here less as the bishop than as 
 Gabriel's father.' 
 
 'Yes,' whispered Bell, and stole a frightened look at the 
 speaker's face. 
 
 ' There is no need to be alarmed,' said Dr Pendle, eo- 
 couragingly. ' I do not come here to scold you.' 
 
 'I hope not, my lord !' said Miss Mosk, recovering her- 
 self a trifle, 'as I have done nothing to be scolded for. If 
 I am in love with Gabri?!, and he with me, 'tis only human 
 nature, and as such can't be run down.' 
 
 'That entirely depends upon the point of view which is 
 taken,' observed the bishop, mildly. 'For instance, I have 
 a right to be annoyed that my son should engage himself to 
 you without consulting me.' 
 
 Bell produced a foolish little lace handkerchief. *Of 
 course, I know I ain't a lady, sir,' said she, tearfully. ' But 
 I do love Gabriel, and I'm sure I'll do my best to make 
 him hai)i>y.' 
 
 ' I do not doubt that. Miss Mosk ; but are you sure that 
 you are wise in marrying out of your sphere ? ' 
 
 ' King Cophetua loved a beggar maid, my lord ; and the 
 Lord of Burlei;,'h married a village girl,' said Bell, who 
 knew her Tennyson, ' and I'm sure I'm as good as both lots.' 
 
 274
 
 T^ie Wages of Sin 
 
 'Certainly,' assented the bishop, dryly; 'but if I re- 
 member rightly, the Lord of Burleigh's bride sank under 
 her burden of honours.' 
 
 Bell tossed her head in spite of the bishop's presence. 
 *0h, she had no backbone, not a bit. I've got heaps more 
 sense than she had. But you mustn't think I want to run 
 after gentlemen, sir. I have had plenty of offers ; and I 
 can get more if I want to. Gabriel has only to say the 
 word and the engagement is off.' 
 
 ' Indeed, I think that would be the wiser course,' replied 
 the bishop, who wondered more and more what Gabriel 
 could see in this commonplace beauty attractive to his 
 refined nature, ' but I know that my son loves you dearly, 
 and I wish to see him happy.' 
 
 • I hope you don't think I want to make him miserable, 
 sir,' cried Bell, her colour and temper rising. 
 
 ' No ! no ! Miss Mosk. But a matter like this requires 
 reflection and consideration.' 
 
 ' We have reflected, my lord. Gabriel and me's going to 
 marry.' 
 
 • Indeed ! will you not ask my consent ? ' 
 
 ' I ask it now, sir ! I'm sure,' said Bell, again becoming 
 tearful, ' this ain't my idea of love-making, to be badgered 
 into saying I'm not good enough for him. If he's a man 
 let him marry me, if he's a worm he needn't I've no call 
 to go begging. No, indeed ! ' 
 
 The bishop began to feel somewhat embarrassed, for Miss 
 Mosk applied every word to herself in so personal a way, 
 that whatever he said constituted a ground of offence, and 
 he scarcely knew upon what lines to conduct so delicate a 
 conversation. Also the girl was crying, and her tears made 
 Dr Pendle fear that he was exercising his superiority in a 
 brutal manner. Fortunately the conversation was brought 
 abruptly to an end, for while the bishop was casting about 
 how to resume it, the door opened softly and Mr Mosk 
 presented himself. 
 
 ' Father ! ' cried Bell, in anything but pleased tones. 
 
 ' My gal ! ' replied Mosk, with husky tenderness ' — ' and in 
 tears. What 'ave you bin sayin' to her, sir?' he added, 
 with a ferocious glance at Pendle. 
 
 • Hush, father ! 'tis his lordship, the bishop.*
 
 The Bishop s Secret 
 
 •I know'd the bishop's looks afore you was born, my 
 gal,' said Mosk, playfully, 'and it's proud I am to sec 'im 
 \iader m' umble roof. Lor' ! 'ere's a 'appy family meeting.' 
 
 • I think,' said the bishop, with a glance at Mosk to 
 assure himself that the man was sober — * I think, Miss 
 Mosk, that it is advisable your father and myself should 
 have a few words in private.' 
 
 • I don't want father to interfere — ' began Bell, when her 
 1 arent gripped her arm, and cutting her short with a scowl 
 conducted her to the door. 
 
 ' Don't you git m' back up,' he whispered savagely, * or 
 \ ou'U be cussedly sorry for yerself an' everyone else. Go 
 () yer mother.* 
 
 • But, father, I—' 
 
 ' Go to yer mother, I tell y',' growled the man, where- 
 upon Bell, seeing that her father was in a soberly brutal 
 state, which was much more dangerous than his usual 
 drunken condition, hastily left the room, and closed the 
 door after her. 'An' now, m' lord,' continued Mosk, re- 
 turning to the bishop, 'jus' look at me.' 
 
 Dr Pendle did so, but it was not a pretty object he 
 contemplated, for the man was untidy, unwashed and 
 frowsy in looks. He was red-eyed and white-faced, but 
 perfectly sober, although there was every appearance about 
 him of having only lately recovered from a prolonged 
 debauch. Consequently his temper was morose and un- 
 certain, and the bishop, having a respect for the dignity of 
 his position and cloth, felt uneasy at the prospect of a 
 quarrel with this degraded creature. But Dr Pendle's 
 spirit was not one to fail him in such an emergency, and he 
 surveyed Mr Caliban in a cool and leisurely manner. 
 
 * I'm a father, I am ! ' continued Mosk, defiantly, *an' as 
 good a father as you. ■^I^• gal's goin' to marry your son. 
 Now, m' lord, what have y<m to say to that ?' 
 
 * Moderate your tone, my man,' said the bishoj), imperi- 
 ously ; ' a conversation conducted in this manner can hardly 
 be productive of good result* either tc yourself or to your 
 daughter.' 
 
 ' i don' mean any 'arm ! * replied Mosk, ntbei cowed, 
 ' but I mean to 'ave m' rights, I do.' 
 
 * Your rights ? What do you mean ?* 
 
 376
 
 The Wages of Sin 
 
 ' M' rights as a father,' explained the man, sulkily. ' Your 
 son's bin runnin' arter m' gal, and lowerin' of her good 
 name.' 
 
 'Hold your tongue, sir. Mr Pendle's intentions with 
 regard to Miss Mosk are most honourable.' 
 
 'They'd better be,' threatened the other, 'or I'll know 
 how to make 'em so. Ah, that I shall.' 
 
 •You talk idly, man,' said the bishop, coldly. 
 
 * I talk wot'U do, m' lord. Who's yer son, anyhow ? My 
 gal's as good as he, an' a sight better. She's born on the 
 right side of the blanket, she is. There now ! ' 
 
 A qualm as of deadly sickness seized Dr Pendle, and he 
 started from his chair with a pale face and a startled eye. 
 * What do you — } ou — you mean, man ? ' he asked again. 
 
 Mosk laughed scornfully, and lugging a packet of papers 
 out of his pocket flung it on the table. ' That's what I 
 mean,' said he ; ' certifcate ! letters ! story ! Yer wife ain't 
 yer wife ; Gabriel's only Gabriel an' not Pendle at all ! ' 
 
 ' Certificate ! letters ! ' gasped the bishop, snatching 
 them up. 'You got these from Jentham.' 
 
 ' That I did \ he left them with me afore he went out to 
 meet you.' 
 
 ' You — you murderer ! ' 
 
 * Murderer 1 Halloa!* cried Mosk, recoiling, pale and 
 •tattled. 
 
 'Murderer!* repeated Dr Pendle. * Jentham showed 
 these to me on the common ; you must have taken them 
 from his dead body. You are the man who shot him.' 
 
 'It's a lie,' whispered Mosk, with pale lips, shrinking 
 back, • an' if I did, you daren't tell. I know your secret.' 
 
 * Secret or not, you shall suffer for your crime,' cried the 
 bishop, with a stride towards ihe door. 
 
 'Stand back ! It's a lie ! I'm dessjerate. I didn't kill — 
 Hark!' 
 
 There was a noise outside v;hich terrified the guilty con- 
 science of the murderer. He did not know that the officers 
 of justice were at the door, not did the bishop, but the 
 unexpected sound turned their blood to water, and made 
 their hearts, the innocent and the guilty, knock at their 
 nbs. A sharp knock came at the door. 
 
 'Help!' cried the bishop. 'The murderer!* and \"^ 
 
 277
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 sprang forward to throw himself on the shaking, shambling 
 wretch. Mosk eluded him, but uttered a squeaking cry 
 like the shriek of a hunted hare in the jaws of the grey- 
 hound. The next instant the room seemed to swarm with 
 men, and the bishop as in a dream heard the merciless 
 formula of the law pronounced by Tinkler, — 
 
 • In the nnme of the Queen I arrest you, William Mosk, 
 on a charge of murder.' 
 
 •?•
 
 CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE HONOUR OF GABRIEL 
 
 Great as had been the popular excitement over Jentharn's 
 death, it was almost mild compared with that which swept 
 through Eeorminster when his murderer was discovered 
 and arrested. No one had ever thought of connecting 
 Mosk with the crime ; and even on his seizure by warrant 
 many declined to believe in his guilt. Nevertheless, when 
 the man was brought before tlie magistrates, the evidence 
 adduced against him by Baltic was so strong and clear and 
 irrefutable that, without a dissenting word from the Bench, 
 the prisoner was committed to stand his trial at the ensuing 
 assizes. Mosk made no defence ; he did not even offer a 
 remark ; but, accepting his fate with sullen apathy, sunk 
 into a lethargic, unobservant state, out of which nothing and 
 no person could arouse him. His brain appeared to have 
 been stunned by the suddenness of his calamity. 
 
 Many people expressed surprise that Bishop Pendle 
 should have been present when the man was arrested, and 
 some blamed him for having even gone to The Derby Winner. 
 A disreputable pot-house, they whispered, was not the 
 neighbourhood in which a spiritual lord should be found. 
 But Mrs Pansey, for once on the side of right, soon put a 
 stop to such talk by mforming one and all that the bishop 
 had visited the hotel at her request in order to satisfy 
 himself that the reports and scandals about it were true. 
 That Mosk should have been arrested while Dr Pendle was 
 making his inquiries was a pure coincidence, and it was 
 greatly to the bishop's credit that he had helped to secure 
 the murderer. In fact, Mrs Pansey was not very sure but 
 what he had taken the wretch in charge with his own 
 august hands. 
 
 And the bishop himself? Ke was glad that Mrs Pansey, 
 
 379
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 to foster her own vanity, had put this complexion on his 
 visit to the hold, as it did away with any need of a triie 
 but uncomfortable explanation. Also he had carried liome 
 with him the packet tossed on the table by Mosk, therefore, 
 so far as actual proof was concerned, his secret was still 
 his own. But the murderer knew it, for not only were the 
 certificate and letters in the bundle, but there was also a 
 sheet of memoranda set down by Krant, alias Jentham, 
 which proved clearly that the so-called Mrs Pendle was 
 really his wife. 
 
 'If I destroy chese papers,' thought the bishop, *all 
 immediate evidence likely to reveal the truth will be done 
 away with. But Mosk knows that Amy is not my wife ; that 
 my marriage is illegal, that my children are nameless ; out 
 of revenge for my share in his arrest, he may tell someone 
 the story and reveal the name of the church wherein Amy 
 was married to Krant. Then the register there will disclose 
 my secret to anyone curious enough to search the books. 
 What shall I do ? V\'hat can I do ? I dare not visit Mosk. 
 I dare not ask Graham to see him. There is nothing to be 
 done but to hope for the best. If this miserable man 
 speaks out, I shall be ruined.' 
 
 Dr Pendle quite expected ruin, for he had no hope that a 
 coarse and cruel criminal would be honourable enough to 
 hold his tongue. But this belief, although natural enough, 
 showed how the bishop misjudged the man. From the 
 Tioment of his arrest, Mosk spoke no ill of Dr Pendle ; he 
 flinted at no secret, and to all appearances was quite 
 determined to carry it with him to the scaffold. On the 
 third day of his arrest, however, hi' roused himself from his 
 sullen silence, and asked that young Mr Pendle might 
 be sent for. The governor of the prison, anticipating a 
 confession to be made in due form to a priest, hastily sent 
 for Gabriel. The young man obeyed the summons at once, 
 for, his father having informed him of Mosk's acquaintance 
 with the secret, he was most anxious to learn from the 
 man himself whether he intended to talk or keep silent. 
 It was with a beating heart that Gabriel was ushered into 
 the prison cell. 
 
 By special permission the interview was allowed to be 
 private, for Mosk positively refused to speak in the presence 
 
 280
 
 The Honour of Gabriel 
 
 of a third person. He was sitting on his bed when the 
 parson entered, but looked up with a gleam of joy in his 
 blood-shot eyes when he was left alone with the young 
 man. 
 
 "Tis good of you to come and see a poor devil, Mr 
 Pendle,' he said in a grateful voice. 'Y'U be no loser by 
 yer kin'ness, I can tell y'.' 
 
 * To whom should a priest come, save to those who need 
 him?' 
 
 ' Oh, stow that ! ' growled Mosk, in a tone of disgust ; ' if I 
 want religion I can get more than enough from that Baltic 
 cove. He's never done preachin' and prayin' as if I were 
 a bloomin' 'eathen. No, Mr Pendle, it ain't as a priest as 
 I asked y' t' see me, but as a man — as a gentleman ! ' His 
 voice broke. ' It's about my poor gal,' he whispered. 
 
 'About Bell,' faltered Gabriel, nervously clasping his 
 hands together. 
 
 * Yes ! I s'pose, sir, you won't think of marry in' her now ? ' 
 
 * Mosk ! Mosk ! who am I that I should visit your sins 
 on her innocent head .? ' 
 
 * Hold 'ard ! * cried Mosk, his face lighting up ; ' does that 
 Bible speech mean as y' are goin' to behave honourable ? ' 
 
 * How else did you expect me to behave ? Mosk ! ' said 
 Gabriel, laying a slim hand on the man's knee, 'after your 
 arrest I went to The Derby Winner. It is shut up, and I 
 was unable to enter, as Bell refused to see me. The shock 
 of your evil deed has made your wife so ill that her life is 
 despaired of. Bell is by her bedside night and day, so 
 this is no time for me to talk of marriage. But I give 
 you my word of honour, that in spite of the disgrace 
 you have brought upon her. Bell shall be my wife.' 
 
 Mosk burst out crying like a child. ' God bless you, Mr 
 Pendle ! ' he sobbed, catching at Gabriel's hand. ' You have 
 lifted a weight off my heart. I don't care if I do swing 
 now ; I daresay I deserve to swing, but as long as she's 
 all right ! — my poor gal ! It's a sore disgrace to her. 
 And Susan, too. Susan's dyin', y' say ! Well, it's my fault ; 
 but if I've sinned I've got to pay a long price for it.' 
 
 ' Alas ! alas ! the wages of sin is death.' 
 
 *I don't want religion, I tell 'ee,' said Mosk, drying his 
 eyes ; ' I've lived bad and I'll die bad.' 
 
 19 281
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 ' Mosk ! Mosk ! even at the eleventh hour — ' 
 
 'That's all right, Mr Pendle ; I know all about th' 
 leventh hour, and repentance and the rest of th' rot. Stow 
 it, sir, and listen. You'll keep true to my gal?' 
 
 'On the honour of a gentleman. I love her; she is as 
 dear to nit; now as she ever was.' 
 
 ' That's wot I expected y' to say, sir. Y' allays wos a 
 gentleman. Now you 'ark, Mr Pendle ; I knows all about 
 fnat mar — ' 
 
 ' Don't speak of it ! ' interrupted Gabriel, with a shudder. 
 
 ' I ain't goin' to, sir. His lor'ship 'ave the papers I took 
 from him as I did for ; so no one but yerself an' yer father 
 knows about 'em. I sha'n't breathe a word about that 
 Krant marriage to a single, solitary soul, and when I dies 
 the secret will die with me. You're actin' square by my 
 poor gal, sir, so I'm agoin' to act square by you. It ain't 
 for me to cover with shame the name as you're goin' to give 
 my Bell.' 
 
 ' Thank you ! ' gasped Gabriel, whose emotion at this 
 promise was so great that he could hardly speak, ' thank 
 you !' 
 
 ' I don' need no thanks, sir ; you're square, an' I'm 
 square. So now as I've got that orf m' mind you'd better 
 go. I ain't fit company for the likes of you.' 
 
 ' Let me say a prayer, Mosk ? ' 
 
 *No, sir; it's too late to pray for me.' 
 
 Gabriel raised his hand solemnly. ' As Christ liveth, it is 
 not too late. Though your sins be as — ' 
 
 'Goo'bye,' interrupted Mosk, and throwing himself on 
 his bed, he turned his face to the wall. Not another word 
 of confession or repentance could Gabriel get him to speak. 
 Nevertheless, the clergyman knelt down on the chill stones 
 and implored God's pardon for this stubborn sinner, whose 
 heart was hardened against the divine grace. Mosk gave 
 no sign of hearing the supplication ; but when Gabriel was 
 passing out of the cell, he suddenly rushed forward and 
 kissed his hand. ' God, in His mercy, pity and pardon you, 
 Mosk,' said Gabriel, and left the wretched man with his 
 frozen heart shivering under the black, black shadow of 
 the gallows. 
 
 It was with a sense of relief that the curate found himself 
 
 282
 
 The Honour of Gabriel 
 
 once more in the sunshine. As he walked swiftly along 
 towards the palace, to carry the good news to his father, he 
 thanked God in his heart that the shadow of impending 
 disaster had passed away. The incriminating papers were 
 in the right hands ; their secret was known only to himself, 
 to Graham, and to the bishop. When the truth was told to 
 his mother, and her position had been rectified by a second 
 marriage, Gabriel felt that all would be safe. Cargrim knew 
 nothing of the truth, and therefore could do nothing. 
 With the discovery of the actual criminal all his wicked 
 plans had come to naught ; and it only remained for the 
 man he had wronged so deeply to take from him the 
 position of trust which he had so dishonourably abused. 
 As for Gabriel himself, he determined to marry Bell Mosk, 
 as he had promised her miserable father, and to sail with 
 his wife for the mission fields of the South Seas. There 
 they could begin a new life, and, happy in one another's 
 love, would forget the past in assiduous labours amongst 
 the heathen. Baltic knew the South Seas; Baltic 
 could advise and direct how they should begin to labour 
 in that vineyard of the Lord ; and Baltic could start 
 them on a new career for the glory of God and the sowing 
 of the good seed. With thoughts like these, Gabriel walked 
 along, wrapped in almost apocalyptic visions, and saw with 
 inspired gaze the past sorrows of himself and Bell fade 
 and vanish in the glory of a God-guided, God-provided 
 future. It was not the career he had shadowed forth for 
 himself; but he resigned his ambitions for Bell's sake, and 
 aided by love overcame his preference for civilised ease. 
 Vincit, qui se vincit. 
 
 While Gabriel was thus battling, and thus overcoming, 
 Baltic was seated beside Mosk, striving to bring him to a 
 due sense of his wickedness and weakness, and need of 
 God's forgiveness. He had prayed, and reproved, and 
 persuaded, and besought, many times before; but had 
 hitherto been baffled by the cynicism and stubborn nature 
 of the man. One less enthusiastic than Baltic would have 
 been discouraged, but, braced by fanaticism, the man was 
 resolved to conquer this adversary of Christ and win back 
 an erring soul from the ranks of Satan's evil host With 
 his well-worn Bible on his knee, he expounded text after 
 
 19 ^^3
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 text, amplified the message of redemption and pardon, 
 and, with all the eloquence religion had taught his tongue, 
 urged Mosk to plead for mercy from the God he had so 
 deeply offended. But all in vain. 
 
 'Wot's th' use of livin' bad all these years, and then 
 turnin' good for five minutes?' growled Mosk« con- 
 temptuously. ' There ain't no sense in it.' 
 
 'Think of the jienitent thief, my brother. He was in 
 the same position as you now are, yet he was promised 
 paradise by God's own Son!' 
 
 Mosk shrucrged his shoulders. * It's easy enough 
 promisin', I daresay ; but 'ow do 1 know, or do you know 
 as the promise 'uU be kept?' 
 
 ' Believe and you shall be saved.' 
 
 •I can't believe what you say.' 
 
 • Not what I say, poor sinner, but what Christ says.* 
 There was no possible answer to this last remark, so 
 
 Mosk launched out on another topic. * I like yer cheek, I 
 do,' he growled ; ' it's you that have got me into this mess, 
 and now you wants me to take up with your preaching.' 
 ' I want to save your soul, man 1 ' 
 
 * You'd much better have saved my life. If you'd left me 
 alone I wouldn't have bin caught.' 
 
 'Then you would have gone on living in a state of sin. 
 So long as you were safe from tlie punishment of man you 
 would not have turned to God. Now you must He is 
 your only friend.' 
 
 ' It's more nor you are. I don't call it friendship to 
 bring a man to the gallows!' 
 
 ' I do — when he has rommitted a crime,' said Baltic, 
 gravely. * You must suffer and repent, or God will not 
 forgive you. You are Cain, for you have slain your 
 brother.' 
 
 ' You've got to prove that,' growled Mosk, cunningly ; 
 'look, Mr Baltic, jus' drop religion for a bit, and tell me 
 'ow you know as I killed that cove.' 
 
 Baltic closed his Bible, and looked mildly at the prisoner. 
 'The evidence as^ainst you is perfectly clear, Mosk,' said he, 
 deliberately. ' I traced the notes stolen from the dead man 
 to your possession. You paid your rent to Sir Harry Brace 
 with the fruits of your sin.' 
 
 284
 
 The Honour of Gabriel 
 
 • Yes, I did ! ' said Mosk, sullenly. • I know it ain't no 
 good sayin' as I didn't kill Jentham, for you're one too 
 many for me. But wot business had he to go talkin' of 
 hundreds of pounds to a poor chap like me as 'adn't one 
 copper to rub agin the other ? If he'd held his tongue I'd 
 'ave known nothin', and he'd 'ave bin alive now for you to 
 try your 'and on in the religious way. Jentham was a bad 
 'un, if you like.' 
 
 • We are all sinners, Mosk.* 
 
 • Some of us are wuss than others. With the 'ception of 
 murderin' Jentham and priggin' his cash, I ain't done nothin' 
 to no one as I knows of. Look here, Mr Baltic, I've done 
 one bit of business to-day with the parson, and now I'm 
 goin' to do another bit with you. 'Ave you pen and 
 paper?' 
 
 'Yes!' Baltic produced his pocket-book and a stylo- 
 graphic pen. 'Are you going to confess?' 
 
 *I 'spose I may as well,' said Mosk, scowling. 'You'll 
 be blaming young Mr Pendle, or the bishop, if I don't ; an' 
 as the fust of 'em's goin' to marry my Bell, I don't want 
 trouble there.* 
 
 ' Won't you confess from a sense of your sin ? * 
 
 *No, I won't. It's my gal and not repentance as makes 
 me tell the truth. I want to put her an' young Mr Pendle 
 fair and square.' 
 
 •Well,' said Baltic, getting ready to write, 'confession is 
 a sign that your heart is softening.' 
 
 ' It ain't your religion as is doing it, then,' sneered Mosk, 
 • Now then, fire away, old cove,' 
 
 The man then went on to state that he was desperately 
 hard up when Jentham came to stay at The Derby Winner, 
 and, as he was unable to pay his rent, he feared lest Sir 
 Harry should turn him and his sick wife and much-loved 
 daughter into the streets. Jentham, in his cups, several 
 times boasted that he was about to receive a large sum of 
 money from an unknown friend on Southberry Heath, and 
 on one occasion went so far as to inform Mosk of the time 
 and place when he would receive it. He was thus con- 
 fidential when very drunk, on Mosk reproaching him with 
 not paying for his board and lodging. As the landlord 
 was in much need of money, his avarice was roused by 
 
 a«5
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 the largeness of the sum hinted at by Jentham ; and think- 
 ing that the man was a tramp, who would not be missed, 
 he determined to murder and rob him. Gabriel Pendle 
 had given — or rather, had lent — Mosk a pistol to protect 
 himself from gipsies, and vagrants, and harvesters on his 
 frequent night journeys across the lonely heath between 
 Beorminster and Southberry. On the Sunday when the 
 money was to be paid at the Cross-Roads, Mosk rode over 
 to Southberry; and late at night, about the time of the 
 appointment, he went on horseback to the Cross Roads. 
 A storm came on and detained him, so it was after 
 the bishop had given the money to Jentham that Mosk 
 arrived. He saw the bishop departing, and recognised his 
 face in the searching glare of the lightning flashes. When 
 Dr Pendle had disappeared, Mosk rode up to Jentham, 
 who, with the money in his hand, stood in the drenching 
 rain under the sign-post. He looked up as the horse 
 approached, but did not run away, being rendered pot- 
 valiant by the liquor he had drunk earlier in the evening. 
 Before the man could recognise him, Mosk had jumped off 
 his horse; and, at close quarters, had shot Jentham through 
 the heart. * He fell in the mud like a 'eap of clothes,' said 
 Mosk, 'so I jus' tied up the 'oss to the sign-post, an' went 
 through his pockets. I got the cash — a bundle of notes, 
 they wos — and some other papers as I found. Then I 
 dragged his corp into a ditch by the road, and galloped 
 orf on m' oss as quick as I cud go back to Southberry. 
 There I stayed all night, sayin' as I'd bin turned back by 
 the storm from riding over to Beorminster. Nex' day I 
 come back to m' hotel, and a week arter I paid m' rent to 
 Sir 'Arry with the notes I'd stole. I guv a ten of 'em to 
 young Mr Pendle, and two fives of m' own, as he wanted to 
 change a twenty. If I'd know'd as it was dangerous I'd 
 hev gone up to London and got other notes ; but I never 
 thought I'd be found out by the numbers. No one thought 
 as I did it; but I did. 'Ow did you think 'twas me, 
 guv'nor ?' 
 
 'You were always drunk,' answered Baltic, who had 
 written all this down, 'and I sometimes heard you talking 
 to yourself. Then Sir Harry said that you had paid your 
 rent, and he did not know where you got the money from. 
 
 2.S6
 
 The Honour of Gabriel 
 
 Afterw;irds I found out about the pistol and the notes you 
 had paid Sir Harry. I had no proof of your guilt, although 
 I suspected you for a long tinae ; but it was the pistol which 
 Mother Jael picked up that put me on the right track.' 
 
 ' Ah, wos it now ? ' said Mosk, with regret. ' Th' 'oss 
 knocked that out of m' 'and when I wos tyin' him up, and 
 I 'adn't no time to look for it in the mud an' dark. Y' 
 wouldn't hev caught me, I s'pose, if it hadn't bin for that 
 bloomin' pistol?' 
 
 'Oh, yes, I would,' rejoined Baltic, coolly; 'the notes 
 would have hanged you in any case, and I would have got 
 at them somehow. I suspected you all along.' 
 
 ' Wish y' 'adn't come to m' house,' muttered Mosk, dis- 
 contentedly. 
 
 ' I was guided there by God to punish your sin.' 
 
 'Yah ! Stuff! Gimme that confession and I'll sign it* 
 
 But Baltic, wary old fellow as he was, would not permit 
 this without due formality. He had the governor of the 
 gaol brought to the cell, and Mosk with a laugh signed the 
 confession which condemned him in the presence of two 
 witnesses. The governor took it away with him, and again 
 left Baltic and the murderer alone. They eyed one 
 another. 
 
 ' Now that I know all — ' began Baltic. 
 
 'Y' don't know all,' interrupted Mosk, with a taunting 
 laugh ; * there's sumthin' I ain't told y', an' I ain't agoin' to 
 tell' 
 
 'You have confessed your sin, that is enough for me. 
 God is softening your hard heart, Grace is coming to your 
 soul. My brother ! my brother ! let us pray.' 
 
 ' Sha'n't ! Leave me alone, can't y' ? ' 
 
 Baltic fell on his knees. 'Oh, merciful God, have pity 
 upon this most unhappy man sunk in the pit of sin. Let 
 the Redeemer, Thy only begotten Son, stretch out His 
 saving — ' 
 
 Mosk began to sing a comic song in a harsh voice. 
 
 * His saving hand, oh God, to drag this poor soul from 
 perdition. Let him call upon Thy most Holy Name out of 
 the low dungeon. Cut him not off in the — ' 
 
 • Stop ! stop ! ' shrieked the unhappy man, with his fingers 
 in his ears, ' oh, stop ! ' 
 
 aS7
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 ' His sins are as scarlet, but the precious blood of the 
 Lamb will bleach them whiter than fine wool. Have mercy, 
 Heavenly Father — ' 
 
 Mosk, overwrought and worn out, began to sob hysteric- 
 ally. At the sound of that grief Baltic sprang to his feet 
 and laid a heavy hand on the shoulder of the sinner. 
 
 ' On your knees ! on your knees, my brother,' he cried in 
 trumpet tones, with flashing eyes, 'implore mercy before 
 the Great White Throne. Now is the time for repentance. 
 God pity you ! Christ save you I Satan loose you ! ' And 
 he forced the man on to his knees, 'Down in Christ's 
 name.' 
 
 A choking, strangled cry escaped from the murderer, 
 and his body pitched forward heavily on the cold stone*. 
 Baltic continued to pray. 
 
 3M
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 THE REBELLION OF MRS PENDLE 
 
 • Thank God ! ' said the bishop, when he heard from 
 Gabriel's Ups that the criminal, who knew his secret, had 
 promised to be silent, • at last I can breathe freely ; but 
 what a price to pay for our safety — what a price ! ' 
 
 ' Do you mean my marriage to Bell ? ' asked Gabrielj 
 steadily. 
 
 ' Yes ! If she was undesirable before, she is more so 
 now. So far as I have seen her I do not think she is the 
 wife for you ; and as the daughter of that blood-stained 
 man — oh, Gabriel, my son ! how can I consent that you 
 should take her to your bosom ? ' 
 
 ' Father,' replied the curate, quietly, 'you seem to forget 
 that I love Bell dearly. It was not to close Mosk's mouth 
 that I consented to marry her ; in any case I should do sa 
 She promised to become my wife in her time of prosperity, 
 and I should be the meanest of men did I leave her now 
 that she is in trouble. Bell was dear to me before ; si^e 
 is dearer to me now ; and I am proud to become her 
 husband.' 
 
 ' But her father is a murderer, Gabriel ! ' 
 
 'Would you make her responsible for his sins? That is 
 not like you, father.' 
 
 The bishop groaned. 'God knows I do not wish to 
 thwart you, for you have been a good son to me. But 
 reflect for one moment how public her father's crime has 
 been ; everywhere his wickedness is known ; and should 
 you marry this girl, your wife, however innocent, must 
 bear the stigma of being that man's daughter. How would 
 you, a sensitive and refined man shrinking from public 
 scandal, bear the shame of hearing your wife spoken about 
 as a murderer's daughter ? ' 
 
 ' I shall take steps to avert that danger. Yes, father, when 
 Bell becomes my wife we shall leave England for ever.* 
 T 289
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 •Gabriel! Gabriel I* cried the bishop, piteously, 'where 
 would you go ?' 
 
 'To the South Seas,' replied the curate, his thin face 
 lighting up with excitement; 'there, as Baltic tells us, 
 missionaries are needed for the heathen. I shall become 
 a missionary, father, and Bell will work by my side to 
 expiate her father's sin by aiding me to bring light to 
 those lost in darkness.' 
 
 ' My poor boy, you dream Utopia. From what I saw of 
 that girl, she is not one to take up such a life. You 
 will not find your Priscilla in her. She is of the world, 
 worldly.' 
 
 'The affliction which has befallen her may turn her 
 thoughts from the world.' 
 
 ' No ! ' said the bishop, with quiet authority. ' I am, as 
 you know, a man who does not speak idly or without 
 experience, and I tell you, Gabriel, that the girl is not the 
 stuff out of which you can mould an ideal wife. She is 
 handsome, I grant you ; and she seems to be gifted with a 
 fair amount of common sense; but, if you will forgive my 
 plain speaking of one dear to you, she is vain of her looks, 
 fond of dress and admiration, and is not possessed of a 
 refined nature. She says that she loves you ; that may be ; 
 but you will find that she does not love you sufficiently to 
 merge her life in yours, to condemn herself to exile amongst 
 savages for your sake. Love and single companionship are 
 not enough for such an one : she wants — and she will always 
 want — society, flattery, amusement and excitement. My 
 love for you, Gabriel, makes me anxious to think well of 
 her, hut my fatherly care mistrusts her as a wife for a man 
 of your nature.' 
 
 'But I love her,' faltered Gabriel ; ' I wish to marry her.' 
 
 ' Believe me, you will never marry her, ray poor lad.' 
 
 Gabriel's face flushed. ' Father, would you forbid — ? * 
 
 •No,' interrupted Dr Pendle. 'I shall not forbid; but 
 she will decline. If you tell her about your mis.->ionary 
 scheme, I am confident she will refuse to become your 
 wife. Ask her by all means ; keep your word as a gentle- 
 man should ; but prepare yourself for a disappointment.' 
 
 *Ah, father, you do not know my Bell.' 
 
 'It is on that point we disagree, Gabriel. I do know 
 
 290
 
 The Rebellion of Mrs Pendle 
 
 her; you do not. My experience tells me that your 
 faith is misplaced.' 
 
 ' We shall see,' said Gabriel, standing up very erect ; * you 
 judge her too harshly, sir. Bell will become my wife, I am 
 sure of that* 
 
 * If she does,' replied the bishop, giving his hand to the 
 young man, ' I shall be the first to welcome her.' 
 
 * My dear, dear father ! ' cried Gabriel, with emotion, ' you 
 are like yourself; always kind, always generous. Thank 
 you, father ! ' And the curate, not trusting himself to speak 
 further, lest he should break down altogether, left the room 
 hurriedly. 
 
 With a weary sigh Dr Pendle sank into his seat, and 
 pressed his hand to his aching head. He was greatly re- 
 lieved to know that his secret was safe with Mosk ; but his 
 troubles were not yet at an end. It was imperative that he 
 should reprove and dismiss Cargrim for his duplicity, and 
 most necessary for the rearrangement of their lives that Mrs 
 Pendle should be informed of the untimely resurrection of 
 her husband. Also, foreseeing the termination of Gabriel's 
 unhappy romance, he was profoundly sorry for the young 
 man, knowing well how disastrous would be the effect on 
 one so impressionable and highly strung. No wonder the 
 bishop sighed ; no wonder he felt depressed. His troubles 
 had come after the manner of their kind, ' not in single spies, 
 but in battalions,' and he needed all his strength of character, 
 all his courage, all his faith in God, to meet and baffle 
 anxieties so overwhelming. In his affliction he cried 
 aloud wdth bitter-mouthed Jeremiah, ' Thou hast removed 
 my soul far off from peace ; I forget prosperity.' 
 
 In due time Mrs Pendle reappeared in Beorminster, 
 wonderfully improved in health and spirits. The astringent 
 waters of Nauheim had strengthened her heart, so that it 
 now beat with regular throbs, where formerly it had 
 fluttered feebly; they had brought the blood to the sur- 
 face of the skin, and had flushed her anaemic complexion 
 with a roseate hue. Her eyes were bright, her nerves 
 steady, her step brisk ; and she began to take some 
 interest in life, and in those around her. Lucy pre- 
 sented her mother to the bishop with an unconcealed 
 pride, which was surely pardonable. 
 
 291
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 •There, papa,' she said proudh-, while the bishop was lost 
 in wonder at this marvell<jus tran.sfonuation. ' What do you 
 think of my patient now?' 
 
 • My dear, it is wonderful ! The Nauheim spring is the 
 true fountain of youth.' 
 
 'A very prosaic fountain, I am afraid,' laughed Mrs 
 Pendle; 'the treatment is not poetical.' 
 
 ' It is at least ma;^ical, my love. I must dip in these 
 restorative waters myself, lest I should be taken rather 
 for your father than your — ' Here Dr Pendle, rectjllect- 
 ing the falsity of the unspoken word, shut his mouth with a 
 qualm of deadly sickness — what the Scotch call a grue. 
 
 Mrs Pendle, however, observant rather of his I(<oks than 
 his words, did not notice the unfinished sentence. 'You 
 look as though you needed a course,' she said anxiously ; 
 ' if I have grown younger, you have become older. This is 
 just what happens when I am away. You never can look 
 after yourself, dear.* 
 
 Not feeling inclined to spoil the first joy of reunion, Dr 
 Pendle turned aside this speech with a laugh, and postponed 
 his explanation until a more fitting moment. In the mean- 
 time, George and Gabriel and Harry were hovering round 
 the returned travellers with attentions and questions and 
 frequent con^rntulations. Mr Ciirgrim, who had been sulk- 
 ing ever since the arrest of Mosk had overthrown his plans, 
 was not present to spoil this pleasant family party, and the 
 bishop spent a golden hour or so of unalloyed joy. But as 
 the night wore on, this evanescent pleasure passed away, and 
 when alone with Mrs Pendle in her boudoir, he was so 
 gloomy and depressed that she insisted upon learning the 
 cause of his melancholy. 
 
 ' There must be something seriously wrong, George,' she 
 said earnestly ; ' if there is, you need not hesitate to tell me.* 
 
 'Can you bear to hear the truth. Amy? Are you strong 
 enough ? ' 
 
 'There is something serious the matter, then?' cried Mrs 
 Pendle, the colour ebbing from her che'^ks. ' What is it, 
 George ? Tell me at once. I can bear anything but this 
 suspense.' 
 
 'Amy!' The bishop sat down on the couch beside his 
 wife, and took her hand in his warm, encouraging clasp. 
 
 292
 
 The Rebellion of Mrs Pendle 
 
 • You shall know all, my dearest ; and may God strengthen 
 you to bear the knowledge.' 
 
 • George ! I — I am calm ; I am strong ; tell me what you 
 mean.' 
 
 The bishop clasped her in his arms, held her head to his 
 breast, and in low, rapid tones related all that had taken 
 place since the night of the reception. He did not spare 
 himself in the recital ; he concealed nothing, he added no- 
 thing, but calmly, coldly, mercilessly told of Krant's return, 
 of Krant's blackmail, of Krant's terrible end. Thence he 
 passed on to talk of Cargrim's suspicions, of Baltic's arrival, 
 of Mosk's arrest, and of the latter's promise to keep the 
 secret of which he had so wickedly become possessed. 
 Having told the past, he discussed the present, and made 
 arrangements for the future. * Only Gabriel and myself and 
 Graham know the truth now, dearest,' he concluded, 'for this 
 unhappy man Mosk may be already accounted as one dead. 
 Next week you and I must take a journey to some distant 
 parish in the west of England, and there become man and 
 wife for the second time. Gabriel will keep silent ; George 
 and Lucy need never know the truth ; and so, my dearest, 
 all things — at least to the public eye — shall be as they were. 
 You need not grieve, Amy, or accuse yourself unjustly. If 
 we have sinned, we have sinned innocently, and the burden 
 of evil cannot be laid on you or me. Stephen Krant is to 
 blame ; and he has paid for his wickedness with his life. So 
 far as we may — so far as we are able — we must right the 
 wrong. God has afflicted us, my dearest ; but God has 
 also protected us ; therefore let us thank Him with humble 
 hearts for His many mercies. He will strengthen us to bear 
 the burden ; through Him we shall do valiantly. " For the 
 Lord God is a sun and shield ; the Lord will give grace and 
 glory ; no good thing will He withhold from them that walk 
 uprightly."' 
 
 How wonderful are women ! For weeks Bishop Pendle 
 had been dreading this interview with his delicate, nervous, 
 sensitive wife. He had expected tears, sighs, loud sorrow, 
 bursts of hysterical weeping, the wringing of hands, and all 
 the undisciplined grief of the feminine nature. But the un- 
 expected occurred, as it invariably does with the sex in 
 question. To the bishop's imconcealed amazement, Mrs 
 
 293
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 Pendle neither wept nor fainted ; she controlled her 
 emoiion with a power of will which he had never credited 
 her with possessing, and her first thought was not for her- 
 self, but for her companion in misfortune. Placing her 
 hands on either side of the bishop's face, she kissed him 
 fondly, tenderly, pityingly. 
 
 ' My poor darling, how you must have suffered ! ' she said 
 softly. ' Why did you not tell me of this long ago, so that 
 I might share your sorrow?' 
 
 ' I was afraid — afraid to — to speak. Amy,' gasped the 
 bishop, overwhelmed by her extraordinary composure. 
 
 ' You need not have been afraid, George. I am no fair- 
 weather wife.' 
 
 'Alas! alas!' sighed the bishop.' 
 
 'I am your wife,' cried Mrs Pendle, answering his thought 
 after the manner of women ; ' that wicked, cruel man died to 
 me thirty years ago.' 
 
 ' In the eyes of the law, my — ' 
 
 • In the eyes of God I am your wife,' interrupted Mrs 
 Pendle, vehemently; 'for over twenty-five years we have 
 been all in all to one another. I bear your name, I am 
 the mother of your children. Do you think these things 
 won't outweigh the claims of that wretch, who ill-treated 
 and deserted me, who lied about his death, and extorted 
 money for his forgery ? To satisfy your scruples I am will- 
 ing to marry you again ; but to my mind there is no need, 
 even though that brute came back from the grave to create 
 it. He—' 
 
 'Amy ! Amy ! the man is dead ! ' 
 
 ' I know he is ; he died thirty years ago. Don't tell me 
 otherwise. I am married to you, and my children can hold 
 up their heads with anyone. If Stephen Krant had come 
 to me with his villainous tempting, I should have defied 
 him, scorned him, trod him under foot.' She rose in a 
 tempest of passion and stamped on the carpet. 
 
 ' He would have told ; he would have disgraced us.' 
 
 ' There can be no disgrace in innocence,' flashed out 
 Mrs Pendle, fierily. 'We married, you and I, in all good 
 faith. He was reported dead ; you saw his grave. I deny 
 that the man came to life.' 
 
 • You cannot deny facts,' said the bishop, shaking his head. 
 
 294
 
 The Rebellion of Mrs Penuie 
 
 * Can't I ? I'd deny anything so far as that wretch is con- 
 cerned. He fascinated me when I was a weak, foolish girl, 
 as a serpent fascinates a bird. He married me for my 
 money ; and when it was gone his love went with it. He 
 treated me like the low-minded brute he was ; you know 
 he did, George, you know he did. When he was shot in 
 Alsace, 1 thanked God. I did ! I did ! I did ! ' 
 
 ' Hush, Amy, hush ! ' said Dr Pendle, trying to soothe her 
 excitement, 'you will make yourself ill ! ' 
 
 ' No, I won't, George ; I am as calm as you are ; I can't 
 help feeling excited. I wished to forget that man and the 
 unhappy life he led me. I did forget him in your love and 
 in the happiness of our children. It was the sight of that 
 student with the scarred face that made me think of him. 
 Why, oh, why did I speak about him to Lucy and Gabriel? 
 Why? Why?' 
 
 ' You were thoughtless, my dear.* 
 
 * I was mad, George, mad ; I should have held my tongue, 
 but I didn't. And my poor boy knows the truth. You 
 should have denied it.' 
 
 * I could not deny it* 
 
 * Ah ! you have not a mother's heart. I would have 
 denied, and lied, and swore its falsity on the Bible sooner 
 than that one of my darlings should have known of it.' 
 
 ' Amy ! Amy ! you are out of your mind to speak like 
 this. I deny what is true ? I, a priest ? — a — ' 
 
 ' You are a man before everything — a man and a father.' 
 
 * And a servant of the Most High,' rebuked the bishop, 
 sternly. 
 
 ' Well, you look on it in a different light to what I do. 
 You suffered ; I should not have suffered. I don't suffer 
 now ; I am not going back thirty years to make my heart 
 ache.' She paused and clenched her hands. 'Are you sure 
 that he is dead ? ' she asked harshly. 
 
 * Quite sure ; dead and buried. There can be no doubt 
 about it this time ! ' 
 
 'Is it necessary that we should marry again?* 
 'Absolutely necessary,' said the bishop, decisively. 
 
 * Then the sooner we get it over the better,' replied Mrs 
 Pendle, petulantly. ' Here ' — she wrenched the wedding 
 ring off her finger — ' take this ! I have no right to wear 
 
 995
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 it. Neither maid, wife, nor widow, what should I do with 
 a ring ? ' and she began to laugh. 
 
 • Stop that, Amy 1 ' cried the bishop, sharply, for he saw 
 that, after all, she was becoming hysterical. ' Put the ring 
 again on your finger, until such time as I can replace it by 
 another. You are Krant's widow, and as his widow I shall 
 marry you next week.' 
 
 As a drop of cold water let fall into boiling coffee causes 
 the bubbling to subside, so did these few stern words cool 
 down Mrs Pendle's excitement. She overcame her emotion ; 
 she replaced the ring on her finger, and again resumed her 
 seat by the bishop. 'My poor dear George,' said she, 
 smoothing his white hair, ' you are not angry with me?' 
 
 * Not angry, Amy ; but I am rather vexed that you should 
 speak so bitterly.' 
 
 ' Well, darling, I won't speak bitterly again. Stephen is 
 dead, so do not let us think about him any more. Next 
 week we shall marry again, and all our troubles will be at an 
 end.' 
 
 'They will, please God,' said the bishop, solemnly ; 'and 
 oh, Amy, dearest, let us thnnk Him for His great mercy.' 
 
 ' Do you think He has been merciful?* asked Mrs I'endle, 
 doubtfully, for her religious emotion was not strong enough 
 to blind her to the stubborn fact that their troubles had 
 been undeserved, that they were innocent sinners. 
 
 ' Most merciful,' murmured the bishop, bowing his head. 
 *Has He not shown us how to expiate our sin?' 
 
 'Our sin; no, George, I won't agree to that. We have 
 not sinned. We married in the fullest belief that Stephen 
 was dead.' 
 
 ' My dear, all that is past and done with. I^et us look to 
 the future, and thank the Almighty that He has delivered 
 us out of our troubles.' 
 
 'Yes, I thank Him for that, George,' said Mrs }*endle, 
 meekly enough. 
 
 'That is my own dear Amy,' answered the bishop; and 
 producing his porket Bible, he opened it at random. His 
 eye alighted on a verse of Jeremiah, which he read out with 
 thankful emotion, — 
 
 ' And I will deliver tliee out of the hand of the wicked; 
 and I will redeem thee out of the hand of the terrible.' 
 
 ■296
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 DEA EX MACHInA 
 
 As may be guessed, Captain Pendle, now that the course 
 of true love ran smoother, was an assiduous visitor to the 
 Jenny Wren house. He and Mab were all in all to one 
 another, and in the egotism of their love did not trouble 
 themselves about the doings of their neighbours. It is true 
 that George was relieved and pleased to hear of Mosk's 
 arrest and confession, because Gabriel was thereby 
 exonerated from all suspicion of having committed a vile 
 crime; but when reassured on this point, he ceased to 
 interest himself in the matter. He was ignorant that his 
 brother loved Bell Mosk, as neither Baltic nor the bishop 
 had so far enlightened him, else he might not have been 
 quite so indifferent to the impending trial of the wretched 
 criminal. As it was, the hot excitement prevalent in Beor- 
 minster left him cold, and both he and Mab might have 
 been dwellers in the moon for all the interest they dis- 
 played in the topic of the day. They lived, according to 
 the selfish custom of lovers, in an Arcadia of their own 
 creation, and were oblivious to the doings beyond its 
 borders. Which disregard was natural enough in their then 
 state of mind. 
 
 However, George, being in the world and of the world, 
 occasionally brought to Mab such scraps of news as he 
 thought might interest her. He told her of his mother's 
 return, of her renewed health, of her pleasure in hearing 
 that the engagement had been sanctioned by the bishop, 
 and delivered a message to the effect that she wished to 
 see and embrace her f^uture daughter-in-law — all of which 
 information gave Mab wondrous pleasure and Miss 
 Whichello a considerable amount of satisfaction, since she 
 20 297
 
 The Bishops Secret 
 
 saw that there would be no further question of her niece's 
 unsuitahility for George. 
 
 ' You deserve some reward for your good news,' said 
 Mab, and produced a silk knitted necktie of martial red, 
 ' so here it is ! " 
 
 'Dearest,' cried Captain Pendle, kissing the scirf, 'I 
 shall wear it next to my heart ; ' th.n, thinking the ki-s 
 wasted on irresponsive silk, he transferred it to the cheek 
 of his lady-love. 
 
 'Nonsense!' said Miss Whichello, smiling broadly; 
 'wear it round your neck like a sensible lover.' 
 
 'Are lovers ever sensible?' inquired the captain, with a 
 twinkle. 
 
 ' I know one who isn't,' cried Mab, playfully. 'No, sir,' 
 removing an eager arm, ' you will shock aunty.' 
 
 ' Aunty has become hardened to such shocks,' smiled 
 Miss Whichello. 
 
 'Aunty has been as melancholy as an owl of late,' 
 retorted Mab, caressing the old lady ; 'ever since the arrest 
 of that man Mosk sb.e has been quite wretched.' 
 
 ' Don't speak of him, Mab.' 
 
 'Halloo ! said George, with sudden recollection, 'I knew 
 there was something else to tell you. Mosk is dead.' 
 
 Miss Whichello gave a faint shriek, and tightly clasped 
 the hand of her niece. ' Dead ! ' she gasped, pale-cheeked 
 and low-toned. ' Mosk dead ! ' 
 
 ' As a door nail,' rejoined George, admiring his present; 
 •he hanged himself last night with his braces, so the 
 gallows have lost a victim and Beorminster society a 
 sensation trial of — ' 
 
 ' George !' cried Mab, in alarm, 'don't talk so; you will 
 make aunty faint.' 
 
 And indeed the little old lady looked as though she 
 were on the point of swooning. Her face was white, her 
 skin was cold, and leaning back her head she had closed 
 her eyes. Captain Pendle's item of news had produced 
 so unexpected a result that he and Mab stared at one 
 another in sur])risc. 
 
 ' You shouldn't tell these horrors, George.' 
 
 • My love, how was 1 to know your aunt took an interest 
 In the man ? ' 
 
 208
 
 Dea ex Alachind 
 
 ' I don't take an interest in him,' protested Miss 
 Whichello, faintly ; 'but he killed Jentham, and now he kills 
 himself; it's horrible.' 
 
 'Horrible, but necessary,' assented George, cheerfully; 
 ' a man who murders another can't expect to get orT scot- 
 free. Mosk has only done for himself what the law would 
 have done for him. I'm sorry for Baltic, however.' 
 
 * The missionary ! Why, George ?' 
 
 • Because this suicide will be such a disappointment to 
 him. He has been trying to make the poor devil — beg 
 pardon — poor wretch repent ; but it would seem that he 
 has not been successful.' 
 
 ' Did he not confess to Mr Baltic ? ' asked Miss 
 Whichello, anxiously. 
 
 ' I believe so ; he repented that far.' 
 
 • Do you know what he told him ? ' 
 
 •That he had killed Jentham, and had stolen his money.' 
 
 • Did he say if he had found any papers on Jentham's 
 body?' 
 
 * Not that I know of,' replied George, staring. ' Why ! 
 had Jentham any particular papers in his possession ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know ; I really can't say,' answered Miss 
 Whichello, confusedly, and rose unsteadily to her feet. 
 • Mab, my dear, you will excuse me, I am not very w^ell ; I 
 shall go to my bedroom.' 
 
 ' Let me come too, aunty.' 
 
 ' No ! no ! ' Miss Whichello waved her niece back. * I 
 wish to be alone,' and she left the room abruptly, without a 
 look at either of the young people. They could not under- 
 stand this strange behaviour. Mab, woman-like, turned on 
 Captain Pendle. 
 
 ' It is all your fault, George, talking of murders and 
 suicides.' 
 
 'I'm awfly sorry,' said the captain, penitently, 'but I 
 thought you would like to hear the news.' 
 
 'Not the police news, thank you,' said Mab, with dignity. 
 
 * Why not ? Something to talk about, you know.' 
 ' You have me to talk about. Captain Pendle.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' George sprang forward. ' Let us discuss that 
 subject at once. You deserve some punishment for calling 
 me out of my name. There, wicked one ! ' 
 
 299
 
 The Bishop s Secret 
 
 'George,' very faintly, 'I — I shall not allow it! You — 
 you should ask permission.' 
 
 'Waste of time,' said the practical George, and slipped 
 his arm round her waist. 
 
 'Oh, indeed!' — indignantly — 'well, I — ' Here Captain 
 Pendle punished her again, after which Mab said that he 
 was like all men, that he ought to be ashamed of himself, 
 etc., etc., etc. Then she frowned, then she smiled, and 
 finally became a meek and patient Grissel to the unfeigned 
 delight of the superior mind. So the pair forgot Mosk and 
 his wretched death, forgot Miss Whichello and her strange 
 conduct, and retreated from the world into their Arcadia — 
 Paradise — Elysium, in which it is best that all sensible 
 people should leave this pair of foolish lovers. 
 
 Miss W^hichello had other things to think of than this 
 billing and cooing. She went to her bedroom, and lay 
 down for ten minutes or so; then she got up again and 
 began pacing restlessly to and fro. Her thoughts were 
 busy with Mosk, with his victim, with Baltic ; she wondered 
 if Jentham had been in possession of certain papers, if 
 these had been stolen by Mosk, if they were now in the 
 pocket of Baltic. This last idea made her blood turn cold 
 and her heart drum a loud tattoo. She covered her face 
 with her hands ; she sat down, she rose up, and in 
 a nervous fever of apprehension leaned against the walL 
 Then, after the manner of those over-wrought, she began to 
 talk aloud. 
 
 ' I must tell someone ; I must have advice,' she muttered, 
 clenching her hands. ' It is of no use seeing Mr Baltic ; he 
 is a stranger ; he may refuse to help me. Dr Graham ? 
 No! he is too cynical. The bishop?' She paused and 
 striick her hands lightly together. ' The bishop ! I shall 
 see him and tell him alL For his son's sake, he will help 
 my poor darling.' 
 
 Having made up her mind to this course, Miss \\Tiichello 
 put on her old-fashioned silk cloak and poke bonnet. Then 
 she fished a bundle o! papers, yellow with age, out of a tin 
 box, and slipped them into her capacious pocket. Biting 
 her lips and rubbing her cheeks to bring back the colour, 
 she glided downstairs, stole past the drawing-room door 
 like a guilty creature, and in another minute was in the 
 
 300
 
 Dea ex Mac kind 
 
 square. Here she took a passing fly, and ordered the man 
 to drive her to the palace as speedily as possible. 
 
 ' I trust I am acting for the best,' murmured the little 
 old lady, with a sigh. ' I think I am ; for if Bishop Pendle 
 cannot help me, no one else can. After thirty years, oh 
 God ! my poor, poor darling ! ' 
 
 In the Greek drama, when the affairs of the dramatis 
 persona became so entangled by circumstance, or fate, or 
 sheer folly as to be beyond their capability of reducing 
 them to order, those involved in such disorder were ac- 
 customed to summon a deity to accomplish what was 
 impossible for mortals to achieve. Then stepped the god 
 out of a machine to redress the wrong and reward the right, 
 to separate the sheep from the goats and to deliver a 
 moral speech to the audience, commanding them to note 
 how impossible it was for man to dispense with the guidance 
 and judgment and powerful aid of the Olympian Hierarchy. 
 Miss Whichello's mission was something similar; and 
 although both she and Bishop Pendle were ignorant that 
 she represented the ' goddess out of a machine ' who was 
 to settle all things in a way conducive to the happiness of 
 all persons, yet such was the case. Impelled by Fate, she 
 sought out the very man to whom her mission was most 
 acceptable ; and seated face to face with Bishop Pendle 
 in that library which had been the scene of so many 
 famous interviews, she unconsciously gave him a piece 
 of information which put an end to all his troubles. 
 She had certainly arrived at the eleventh hour, and 
 might just as well have presented herself earlier ; but 
 Destiny, the playwright of the Universe, always decrees 
 that her dramas should play their appointed time and never 
 permits her arbitrator to appear until immediately before 
 the fall of the green curtain. So far as the Beorminster 
 drama was concerned, the crucial moment was at hand, 
 the actor — or rather actress — who was to remedy all things 
 was on the scene, and shortly the curtain would fall on a 
 situation of the rough made smooth. Then red fire, mar- 
 riage bells, triumphant virtue and cowering guilt, with a 
 rhyming tag, delivered by the prettiest actress, of 'All's 
 well that ends well ! ' 
 
 •I come to consult you confidentially,* said Misa
 
 Tlie Bishop's Secret 
 
 Whichello, when she and the bishop were alone in the 
 library. ' I wish to ask for your advice.' 
 
 ' My advice and my friendship are both at your service, 
 my dear lady,' replied the courteous bishop. 
 
 * It is about Mab's parents,* blurted out the little old lady. 
 *0h!' The bishop looked grave. 'You are abou: to 
 
 tell me the truth of those rumours which were prevalent in 
 Beorminster when you brought Miss Arden home to your 
 house?' 
 
 ' Yes. I daresay Mrs Pansey said all sorts of wicked 
 things about me, bishop?' 
 
 ' Well, no ! ' — Dr Pendle wriggled uneasily — ' she spoke 
 rather of your sister than of you. I do nut wish to repeat 
 scandal, Miss Whichello, so let us say no more about the 
 matter. Your niece shall marry my son ; be assured of 
 that. It is foolish to rake up the past,' added the bishop, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 ' I must rake up the past ; I must tell you the truth,' 
 said Miss Whichello, in firm tones, ' if only to put a stop to 
 Mrs Pansey's evil tongue. What did she say, bishop ? ' 
 
 * Really, really, my dear lady, I — * 
 
 ' Bishop, tell me what she said about my sister. I will 
 know.' 
 
 Reluctantly the bishop spoke out at this direct request 
 •She said that your sister had eloped in London with a man 
 who afterwards refused to marry her, that she had a child, 
 and that such child is your niece. Miss Arden, whom you 
 brought to Beorminster after the death of your unhappy 
 sister.' 
 
 * A fine mixture of truth and fiction indeed,' said the old 
 lady, in a haughty voice. ' I am obliged to Mrs Pansey 
 for tlie way in which she has distorted facts.' 
 
 •I fear, indeed, that Mrs Pansey exaggerates,' said Dr 
 Pendle, shaking his head. 
 
 •With all due respect, bishop, she is a wicked old 
 Sapphira!' cried Miss Whichello, and forthwith produced 
 a bundle of papers out of her pocket. ' My unfortunate 
 sister Annie did run away, but she was married to her 
 lover on the very day she left our house in London, and 
 my darling Mab is as legitimate as your son George, Dr 
 Pendle.' 
 
 302
 
 Dea ex Machmd 
 
 The bishop winced at this unlucky illustration. 'Have 
 you a proof of this marriage, Miss Whichello ? ' he asked, 
 with a glance at the papers. 
 
 ' Of course I have,' she replied, untying the red tape with 
 trembling fingers. ' Here is the certificate of marriage 
 which my poor Annie gave me on her dying bed. I would 
 have shown it before to all Beorminster had I known of Mrs 
 Pansey's false reports. Look at it, bishop.' She thrust it 
 into his hand. 'Ann Whichello, spinster; Pharaoh Bosvile, 
 bachelor. They were married in St Chad's Church, Hamp- 
 stead, in the month of December 1869. Here is Mab's 
 certificate of birth ; she was christened in the same church, 
 'and born in 1870, the year of the Franco-German war, so 
 as this is ninety-seven, she is now twenty-seven years of 
 age, just two years older than your son, Captain Pendle.' 
 
 With much interest the bishop examined the two certifi- 
 cates of birth and marriage which Miss Whichello placed 
 before him. They were both legally perfect, and he saw 
 plainly that however badly Bosvile might have behaved 
 afterwards to Ann Bosvile she was undoubtedly his wife. 
 
 'Not that he would have married her if he could have 
 helped it,' went on Miss Whichello, while the bishop looked 
 at the documents, ' but Annie had a little money — not much 
 — which she was to receive on her wedding day, so the 
 wretch married her and wrote to my dear father for the 
 money, which, of course, under grandfather's will, had to 
 be paid. Father never would see Annie again, but when 
 the poor darling wrote to me a year afterwards that she was 
 dying with a little child by her side, what could I do but 
 go and comfort her ? Ah, poor darling Annie ! ' sobbed the 
 little old lady, 'she was sadly changed from the bright, 
 beautiful girl I remembered. Her husband turned out 
 a brute and a ruffian and a s[;endthrift. He wasted all her 
 money, and left her within six months of the marriage — the 
 wretch ! Annie tried to support herself by needlework, but 
 she took cold in her starving condition and broke down. 
 Then Mab was born, and she wrote to me. I went at once, 
 bishop, but arrived just in time to get those papers and 
 close my dear Annie's eyes. Afterwards I brought Mab 
 back with me to Beorminster, but I kept her for some time 
 in London on account of my father. When I did bring her 
 
 303
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 here, and I showed him the marriage certificate, he got 
 quite fond of the little pet. So all these years Mab has 
 lived with uie fjuite like my own sweet child, and your son is 
 a lucky man to win her love,' added the old maid, rather 
 incoherently. *It is not everyone that I would give my 
 dear Annie's child tt), I can tell you, bishop. So that's the 
 whole story, and a sadly corrimon one it is.' 
 
 'It does you great credit, Miss VVliichello,' said Dr 
 Pendle, patting her hand; 'and I have the highest respect 
 both for you and your niece. I am proud, my dear lady, 
 that she should become my daughter. But tell me how 
 your unhappy sister became acquainted with this man ? ' 
 
 'He was a violinist,' replied Miss Wbichello, 'a public 
 violinist, and played most beautifully. Annie heard him 
 and saw him, and lost her head over his looks and genius. 
 He called himself Amaru, but his real name was Pharaoh 
 Bos vile.' 
 
 *A strange name, Miss Whichello.' 
 
 • It is a gipsy name, bishop. Bosvile was a gipsy. He 
 learned the violin in Hungary or Spain, I don't know which, 
 and played wonderfully. Afterwards he had an accident 
 which hurt his hand, and he could not play; that was the 
 reason he married Annie — just for her money, the wretch ! ' 
 
 •A gipsy,' murmured the bishop, who had turned pale. 
 
 *Yes; an English gipsy, but like all those people he 
 wandered far and near. The accident which hurt his hand 
 also marked his cheek with a scar.' 
 
 'The right cheek?' gasped Dr Pendle, leaning forward. 
 
 *Why, yes,' said Miss Whichello, rather astonished at the 
 bishop's emotion ; ' that was how I recognised him here 
 when he called himself Jentham. He — ' 
 
 With a cry the bishop sprang to his feet in a state of 
 uncontrollable agitation, shaking and white. * W — was 
 Jentham — Bos — Bosvile?' he stammered. 'Are — are you 
 •ure ? ' 
 
 •I am certain,' replied Miss Whichello, with a scared 
 look. • I have seen him dozens of times. Bishop ! ' Her 
 voice rose in a scream, for Dr Pendle had fallen forward on 
 his desk. 
 
 •Oh, my Godl' cried the bishop^ *0h, God most 
 merciful ! ' 
 
 304
 
 Dea ex Machmd 
 
 The little old lady was trembling violently. She thought 
 that the bishop had suddenly gone out of his mind. Nor 
 was she reassured when he stood up and looked at her with 
 a face, down which the tears were streaming. Never had 
 Miss Whichello seen a man weeping before, and the sight 
 terrified her much more than an outburst of anger would 
 have done. She looked at the bishop, he looked at her, 
 and they were both ashy white, both overcome with nervous 
 emotion. 
 
 After a moment the bishop opened a drawer and took 
 out a bundle of papers. Out of these he selected the mar- 
 riage certificate of his wife and Krant, and compared it with 
 the certificate of Pharaoh Bosvile and Ann Whichello. 
 
 'Thank God!' he said again, in a tremulous voice. 
 'This man as Bosvile married your sister in 1869, as Krant 
 he married Mrs Pendle in 1870.' 
 
 * Married Mrs Pendle ! ' shrieked Miss Whichello, darting 
 forward. 
 
 ' Yes. She was a Mrs Krant when I married her, and as 
 her husband was reported dead, I believed her to be his 
 widow.' 
 
 * But she was not his widow ! ' 
 
 ' No, for Krant was Jentham, and Jentham was alive after 
 my marriage.' 
 
 ' I don't mean that,' cried Miss Whichello, laying a finger 
 on her sister's certificate, ' but Jentham as Bosvile married 
 Annie in 1869.' 
 
 ' He married my wife in October 1870,' said the bishop, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 'Then his second marriage was a false one,' said Miss 
 Whichello, 'for in that year, in that month, my sister was 
 still alive. Mrs Pendle was never his wife.' 
 
 ' No, thank God ! ' said the bishop, clasping his hands, 
 * she is my own true wife after alL' 
 
 y>5
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 EXIT MR CARGRIM 
 
 On'CE informed of the welcome truth, Dr Pendle lost no 
 time in having it verified by documents and extraneous 
 evidence. This was not the affair of hours, but of days, 
 since it entailed a visit to St Chad's Church at Hampstead, 
 and a rigorous examination of the original marriage and 
 death certificates. Also, as Bosvile, alias Krant, alias 
 Jentham was said to be a gipsy on the authority of Miss 
 Whichello, and as the information that Baltic was in the 
 confidence of Mother Jael had trickled through Brace 
 and Graham to the bishop, the last named considered it 
 advisable that the ex-sailor should be informed of the 
 actual truth. Now that Dr Pendle was personally satisfied 
 of the legality of his marriage, he had no hesitation in 
 acquainting Baltic with his life-history, particularly as the 
 man could obtain from Mother Jael an assurance, in writ- 
 ing if necessary, that Bosvile and Jentham were one and the 
 same. For the satisfaction of all parties concerned, it was 
 indispensable that proof positive should be procured, and 
 the matter settled beyond all doubt. The position, as 
 affecting both the private feelings and social status of 
 Bishop and Mrs Pendle, was too serious a one to be dealt 
 with otherwise than in the most circumspect manner. 
 
 After Miss Whichello's vis.it and revelation, Dr Pendle 
 immediately sought out his wife to explain that after all 
 doubts and difificulties, and lies and forgeries, they were 
 as legally bound to one another as any couple in the three 
 Kingdoms ; that their children were legitimate and could 
 bear their father's name, and that the evil which had survived 
 the death of its author was now but shadow and wind — in 
 a word, non-existent. Mrs Pendle, who had borne the shock 
 of her pseudo husband's resurrection so bravely, was quite 
 
 306
 
 Exit Mr Carj^rim 
 
 overwhelmed by the good news of her re-estabUshed posi- 
 tion, and fainted outright when her husband broke it to 
 her. But for Lucy's sake — as the bishop did not wish Lucy 
 to know, or even suspect anything — she afterwards con- 
 trolled her feelings better, and, relieved from the appre- 
 hension of coming danger, speedily recovered her health 
 and spirits. She was thus, at a week's end, enabled to attend 
 in the library a council of six people summoned by her 
 husband to adjust the situation. The good bishop was 
 nothing if not methodical and thorough; and he was 
 determined that the matter of the false and true marriages 
 should be threshed out to the last grain. Therefore, the 
 council was held ex aequo et bono. 
 
 On this momentous occasion there were present the 
 bishop himself and Mrs Pendle, who sat close beside his 
 chair; also Miss Whichello, fluttered and anxious, in juxta- 
 position with Dr Graham ; and Gabriel, who had placed 
 himself near Baltic the sedate and solemn-faced. When all 
 were assembled, the bishop lost no time in speaking of the 
 business which had brought them together. He related 
 in detail the imposture of Jentham, the murder by Mosk, 
 who since had taken his own life, and the revelation of 
 Miss Whichello, ending with the production of the docu- 
 ments proving the several marriages, and a short statement 
 explaining the same. 
 
 'Here,' said Dr Pendle, 'is the certificate of marriage 
 between Pharaoh Bosvile and Ann Whichello, dated 
 December 1869. They lived together as man and wife for 
 six months up to May 1S70, after which Bosvile deserted 
 the unhappy lady.' 
 
 •After spending all her money, the wretch!' put in 
 Miss Whichello, angrily. 
 
 'Bosvile!' continued the bishop, 'had previously made 
 the acquaintance of my wife, then Amy Lancaster, under 
 the false name of Stephen Krant ; and so far won her love 
 that, thinking him a single man, she consented to marry 
 him.' 
 
 ' No, bishop,' contradicted Mrs Pendle, very positively, 
 •he did not win my love; he fascinated me with his good 
 looks and charming manners, for in spite of the scar on his 
 cheek Stephen was very handsome. Some friend intro- 
 
 307
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 duced him to my father as a Hungarian exile hiding under 
 the name of Krant from Austrian vengeance; and my 
 father, enthusiastic on the subject of patriotism, admitted 
 him to our house. I was then a weak, fooHsh girl, and his 
 wicked brilliancy drew me towards him. When he learned 
 that I had money of my own he proposed to marry me. 
 My father objected, but I was infatuated by Stephen's arts, 
 and became his wife in October 1870.' 
 
 ' Quite so, my love,' assented her husband, mildly ; ' as 
 an inexperienced girl you were at the mercy of that Belial. 
 You were married as you say in October 1870; here, to 
 prove that statement, is the certificate,' and the bishop 
 passed it to Baltic. ' But at the time of such marriage Mrs 
 Bosvile was still alive. Miss Whichello can vouch for this 
 important fact ! ' 
 
 'Ah ! that I can,* sighed the little old lady, shaking her 
 head. ' My poor darling sister did not die until January 
 187 1, and I was present to close her weary — weary eyes. 
 Is not that the certificate of her death you are holding?' 
 
 'Yes,' answered the bisliop, simply, and gave the paper 
 into her outstretched hand. 'You can now understand, 
 my friends,' he continued, addressing the company generally, 
 'thnt as Mrs Bosvile was alive in October 1870, the 
 marriage which her husband then contracted with Miss 
 Lancaster was a false one.' 
 
 'That is clear enough,' murmured the attentive Baltic, 
 nodding. 
 
 'It thus appears,' resumed the bishop, concisely, 'that 
 when I married — as I thought — Amy Krant, a widow, in 
 September 187 1, I really and truly wedded Amy 
 Lancaster, a spinster. Therefore this lady' — and here 
 the bishop clasped tenderly the hand of Mrs Pendle — ' is 
 my true, dear wife, and has been legally so these many 
 years, notwithstanding Bosvile's infamous assertion to the 
 contrary.' 
 
 ' Thank God I thank God ! ' cried Mrs Pendle, with 
 joyful tears. ' Gabriel, my darling boy!' and she stretched 
 out her disengaged hand to caress her son. Gabriel kissed 
 it with unconcealed emotion. 
 
 In the meantime, Dr Graham was examining the bishop's 
 marriage certificate with sharp attention, as he thought he 
 
 308
 
 Exit Mr Cargrim 
 
 espied a flaw. 'Pardon me, my dear Pendle,* said he, 
 in his crisp voice, 'but I see that Mrs Pendle became 
 your wife under a name which we now know was not then 
 her own. Does that false name vitiate the marriage ? ' 
 
 'By no means,' replied the bishop, promptly. *I took 
 counsel's opinion on that point when I was in London. It 
 is as follows' — and Dr Pendle read an extract from a 
 legal-looking document. ' " A marriage which is made in 
 ignorance in a false name is perfectly good. The law on 
 the subject appears to be this — If a person, to conceal his 
 or her identity, assumes either a wrong name or description, 
 so as to practically obtain a secret marriage, the marriage 
 is void ; but if the wrong name or description is adopted 
 by accident or innocently, the marriage is good." There- 
 fore,' added Dr Pendle, placing the paper on one side, 
 • Mrs Pendle was not Bosvile's wife on two distinct 
 grounds. Firstly, because his true wife was alive when he 
 married her. Secondly, because he fraudulently made her 
 his wife by giving a false name and description. Regard- 
 ing my own marriage, it is a good one in law, because Mrs 
 Pendle's false name of Krant was adopted in all innocence. 
 There is no court in the realm of Great Britain,' concluded 
 the bishop, with conviction, 'that would not uphold my 
 marriage as true and lawful, and God be thanked that 
 such is the case ! ' 
 
 • God be thanked ! * said Gabriel, in his turn, and said 
 it with heartfelt earnestness. Graham, bubbling over with 
 pleasure, jumped up in his restless way, and gave a friendly 
 hand in turn to Dr Pendle and his wife. ' I congratulate 
 you both, my dear friends,' said he, not without emotion. 
 ' You have won through your troubles at last, and can now 
 live in much-deserved peace for the rest of your lives. Deus 
 nobis haec oiia fecit ! Hey, bishop, you know the Mantuan. 
 Well, well, you have paid forfeit to the gods, Pendle, and they 
 will no longer envy your good fortune, or seek to destroy it* 
 
 ' Graham, Graham,' said the bishop, with kindly toler- 
 ance, 'always these Pagan sentiments.' 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! I am a Pagan suckled in a creed outworn,' 
 quoted the doctor, rubbing his hands. 'Well, we cannot 
 all be bishops.' 
 
 •We can all be Christians,' said Baltic, gravely. 
 
 309
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 ' Ah ! ' retorted Graham. ' What we should be, and what 
 wc arc, Mr Baltic, are points cap;ible of infinite discussion. 
 At present we should be smiling and tliankful, which,' 
 added he, breaking off, ' Miss Whichello is not, I regret to 
 see.' 
 
 • I am thinking of my poor sister,' sobbed the old lady. 
 ' How do I know but that the villain did not deceive her 
 also by making her his wife under a false name? ' 
 
 ' No, madam ! ' interposed Baltic, eagerly. ' Bosvile was 
 the man's true name, therefore he was legally your sister's 
 husband. I wrote down a statement by Mother Jael that 
 Jentham was really Pharaoh Bosvile, and, at my request, 
 she signed the same. Here it is, signed by her and 
 witnessed by me. I shall give it to you, my lord, that you 
 may lock it up safely with tb.ose certificates.' 
 
 'Thank you, Mr Baltic,' said the bishop, taking the slip 
 of paper tendered by the missionary, 'but I trust that — 
 er — that this woman knows little of the truth.' 
 
 'She knows nothing, my lord, save that Bosvile, for his 
 own purposes, took the names of Amaru and Jentham at 
 different times. The ro,t;ue was cunning enough to keep 
 his own counsel of his life amongst the Gentiles ; of his 
 marriages, false and true, ^Tolher Jael is ignorant. Set )Our 
 mind at rest, sir, she will never trouble you in any way.' 
 
 ' Good ! ' said Dr Pendle, drawing a long breath of 
 relief. 'Then, as such is the case, my friends, I think it 
 advisable that we should keep our knowledge of Bosvile's 
 iniquities to ourselves. I do not wish my son George or 
 my daughter Lucy to learn the s:id story of the past. Such 
 knowledge would only vex them unnecessarily.' 
 
 ' And I'm sure I don't want Mab to know what a villain 
 her father was,' broke in Miss Whichello. 'Thank God 
 she is unlike him in every way, save that she takes after 
 him in looks. When Captain Pendle talks of Mab's rich 
 Eastern beauty, I shiver all over ; he little knows that he 
 speaks the truth, and that Mab has Arab blood in her 
 veins.* 
 
 'Not Arab blood, my dear lady,' cried Graham, alertly; 
 ' the gipsies do not come from Arabia, but, as is believed, 
 from the north of India. They appeared in Europe about 
 the fifteenth century, calling themselves, falsely enough, 
 
 310
 
 Exit Air Car grim 
 
 Egyptians. But both Borrow and Leland are agreed 
 that—' 
 
 ' I don't want to hear about the gipsies,' interrupted 
 Miss Whichello, cutting short the doctor's disquisition ; 
 * all I know is, that if Bosvile or Jentham, or whatever he 
 called himself, is a sample of them, they are a wicked lot 
 of Moabites. I wonder the bishop lets his son marry the 
 child of one, I do indeed ! ' 
 
 ' Dear Miss Whichello,' said Mrs Pendle, putting her 
 arm round the poor lady's neck, 'both tiie bishop and 
 myself are proud that Mab should become our daughter 
 and George's wife. And after all,' she added naively, 
 ' neither of them will ever know the truth ! * 
 
 'I hope not, I'm sure,' wept Miss Whichello. 'I buried 
 that miserable man at my own expense, as he was Mab's 
 father. And I have had a stone put up to him, with his 
 last name, "Jentham," inscribed on it, so that no one might 
 ask questions, which would have been asked had I written 
 his real name.' 
 
 ' No one will ask questions,' said the bishop, soothingly, 
 ' and if they do, no answers will be forthcoming ; we are all 
 agreed on that point.' 
 
 'Quite agreed,' answered Baltic, as spokesman for the 
 rest ; ' we shall let the dead past bury its dead, and God 
 bless the future.' 
 
 ' Amen ! ' said Dr Pendle, and bowed his grey head in a 
 silence more eloquent than words. 
 
 So far the rougii was made smooth, with as much skill as 
 could be exercised by mortal brains \ but after Dr Pendle 
 had dismissed his friends there yet remained to him an 
 unpleasant task, the performance of which, in justice to 
 himself, could not longer be postponed. This was the 
 punishment and dismissal of Michael Cargrim, who in- 
 deed merited little leniency at the hands of the man whose 
 confidence he had so shamefully abused. Serpents should 
 be crushed, traitors should be punished, however un- 
 pleasant may be the exercise of the judicial fumtion \ for to 
 periiiit evil men to continue in their evil-doing is to en- 
 courage vicious habits detrimental to the well-being of 
 humanity. The more just the judge, the more severe 
 «houId he be towards such calculating sinners, lest, in- 
 
 3"
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 fected by example, mankind should become even more 
 corrupt than it is. Bishop Pendle was a kindly man, who 
 wished to think the best of his fellow-creatures, and usually 
 did so; but he could not blind himself to the base and 
 plotting nature of Cargrim ; and, for the sake of his family, 
 tor the well-being of the Church, for the benefit of the 
 schemer himself, he summoned him to receive rebuke and 
 punishment. He was not now the patron, the benefactor ; 
 but the judge, the ecclesiastical superior, severe and im- 
 pariial. 
 
 Cargrim obeyed the summons unwillingly enough, as he 
 knew very well that he was about to receive the righteous 
 reward of his deeds. A day or so before, when lamenting 
 to Baltic that Dr Pendle had proved innocent, the man 
 had rebuked him for his baseness, and had given him to 
 understand that the bishop was fully aware of the con- 
 temptible part which he had acted. Deserted by his 
 former ally, ignorant of Dr Pendle's secret, convinced of 
 Mosk's guilt, the chaplain was in anything but a pleasant 
 position. He was reaping what he had so industriously 
 sown; he was caught in his own snare, and saw no way 
 of defending his conduct. In a word, he was ruined, and 
 now stood before his injured superior with pale face and 
 hanging head, ready to be blamed and sentenced without 
 uttering one word on his own behalf. Nor, had he 
 possessed the insolence to do so, could he have thought 
 of that one necessary word. 
 
 'Michael,' said the bishop, mildly, 'I have been in- 
 formed by Mr Baltic that you accused me of a terrible 
 crime. May I ask on what grounds you did so ? ' 
 
 Cargrim made no reply, but, flushing and paling alter- 
 nately, looked shamefaced at the carpet. 
 
 'I must answer myself, I see,' continued Dr Pendle, 
 after a short silence; 'you thought that because I met 
 Jentham on the heath to pay him some money I murdered 
 him in the viciousness of my heart. Why should you think 
 so ill of me, my poor boy ? Have I not stood in the place 
 of your father ? Have I not treated you as my own son ? 
 You know that I have. And my reward is, that these many 
 weeks you have been secretly tiying to ruin me. Even had 
 I been guilty,' cried the bishop, raising his voice, 'it was 
 
 312
 
 Exit Mr Cargrim 
 
 not your place to proclaim the shame of one who has 
 cherished you. If you had such wicked thoughts in your 
 heart, why did you not come boldly before me and accuse 
 me to my face ? I should then have known how to answer 
 you. I can forgive malice — yes, even malice — but not 
 deceit Did you never think of my delicate wife, of my 
 innocent family, when plotting and scheming my ruin with 
 a smiling face ? Alas ! alas ! Michael, how could you act in 
 a way so unworthy of a Christian, of a gentleman ? ' 
 
 ' What is the use of crying over spilt milk ? ' said Cargrim, 
 doggedly. * You have the advantage now and can do what 
 you will.' 
 
 ' What do you mean by talking like that ? ' said the bishop, 
 sternly. * Have the advantage now indeed ; I never lost the 
 advantage, sir, so far as you are concerned. I did not 
 murder that wretched man, for you know that Mosk con- 
 fessed how he shot him for the sake of the money I gave 
 him. I knew of Jentham in other days, under another 
 name, and when he asked me for money I gave it to him. 
 My reason for doing so I do not choose to tell you, Mr 
 Cargrim. It is not your right to question my actions. I 
 am not only your elder, but your ecclesiastic superior, to 
 whom, as a priest, you are bound to yield obedience. That 
 obedience I now exact. You must suffer for your sins.* 
 
 * You can't hurt me,' returned Cargrim, with defiance. 
 
 *I have no wish to hurt you,* answered the bishop, 
 mildly ; * but for your own good you must be punished ; 
 and punish you I will so far as lies in my power.' 
 
 ' I am ready to be punished, my lord ; you have the whip 
 hand, so I must submit.' 
 
 ' Michael, Michael, harden not your heart ! Repent of 
 your wickedness if it is in you to do so. I cannot spare 
 you if I would. Bonis nocet quis quis pepercerit malts ; 
 that is a true saying which, as a priest, I should obey, and 
 which I intend to obey if only for your own benefit. After 
 punishment comes repentance and amendment.' 
 
 Cargrim scowled. ' It is no use talking further, my lord,' 
 he said roughly. ' As I have acted like a fool, I must take 
 a fool's wages.' 
 
 'You are indeed a fool,' rejoined the bishop, coldly, 
 'and an ungrateful fool to boot, or you would not thus 
 
 21 313
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 answer one who has your interest at heart. But as you 
 take up such a position, I shall be brief. You must leave 
 my house at once, and, for very shame, I should advise 
 you to leave the Church.' 
 
 ' Leave the Church ?* echoed Cargrim, in dismay. 
 
 ' I have said it. As a bishop, I cannot entrust to a guilty 
 man the care of immortal souls.' 
 
 ' Guilty ? I am guiliy of nuihing.' 
 
 * Do you call malice, falsehood, dissimulation nothing?' 
 
 ' You cannot unfrock me for wliat I have done,' said 
 Cargrim, evading a direct reply. ' Vou may have the will, 
 but you have not the power.' 
 
 Dr Pendle looked at him in amazement. ' Yours is 
 indeed an evil heart, when you can use such language to 
 me,' he said sorrowfully. • I see that it is useless to argue 
 with you in your present fallen condition.' 
 
 ' Fallen condition, my lord ? ' 
 
 * Yes, poor lad ! fallen not only as a priest, but as a man. 
 However, I shall plead no more. Go where you will, do 
 what you will, although I advise you once more not to 
 insult an offended God by offering prayers for others which 
 you need for yourself. Yet, as I am unwilling that you 
 should starve, I shall instruct my banker in London to pay 
 you a monthly sum of money until you are beyond want. 
 Now go, Michael. I am bitterly disappointed in you ; and 
 by your own acts you have put it out of my power to keep 
 you by my side. Go ! Repent — and pray.' 
 
 The chaplain, with a look of malice on his face, walked, 
 or rather slunk, towards the door. ' You magnify my paltry 
 sins,' he flung back. ' What of your own great ones ? ' 
 
 ' Dare you, wretched man, to speak against your spiritual 
 head ! ' thundered the bishop, starting to his feet, vested 
 with the imperious authority of the Church. ' Go 1 Quit 
 my sight, lest I cast you out from amongst us ! Go ! ' 
 
 Before the blaze of that righteous wrath, Cargrim, livid 
 and trembling, crept away like a beaten hound. 
 
 S>4
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX 
 all's well that ends well 
 
 * Bell ! Bell ! do not give me up.' 
 
 ' I must, Gabriel ; it is my duty.' 
 
 ' It is your cruelty ! Ah, you never loved me as I love 
 you.' 
 
 ' That is truer than you think, my poor boy. I thought 
 that I loved you, but I was wrong. It was your position 
 which made me anxious to marry you ; it was your weak 
 nature which made me pity you. But I do not love you ; 
 I never did love you ; and it is better that you should know 
 the truth before we part.' 
 
 'Part? Oh, Bell! Bell!' 
 
 ' Part,' repeated Bell, firmly, 'and for ever.' 
 
 Gabriel's head drooped on his breast, and he sighed as 
 one, long past tears, who hears the clods falling on the coffin 
 in which his beloved lies. He and Bell Mosk were seated 
 in the little parlour at the back of the bar, and they were 
 alone in the house, save for one upstairs, in the room of 
 Mrs Mosk, who watched beside the dead. On hearing of 
 her husband's rash act, the poor wife, miserable as she had 
 been with the man, yet felt her earlier love for him so far 
 revive as to declare that her heart was broken. She moaned 
 and wept and refused all comfort, until one night she closed 
 her eyes on the world which had been so harsh and bitter. 
 So Bell was an orphan, bereft of father and mother, and 
 crushed to the earth by sorrow and shame. In her own 
 way she had loved her father, and his evil deed and evil 
 end had struck her to the heart. She was even glad when 
 her mother died, for she well knew that the sensitive 
 woman would never have held up her head again, after the 
 disgrace which had befallen her. And Bell, with a white 
 face and dry eyes, long past weeping, sat in the dingy par- 
 
 21 315
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 lour, refusing the only comfort which the world could give 
 her weary heart. Poor Bell ! poor, pretty Bell ! 
 
 'Think, Gabriel,' she continued, in a hard, tearless voice, 
 * think what shame I would bring upon you were I weak 
 enough to consent to become your wife. I had not much 
 to give you before ; I have less than nothing now. I never 
 pretended to be a lady ; but I thought that, as your wife, I 
 should never disgrace you. That's all past and done with 
 now. I always knew you were a true gentleman — honour- 
 able and kind. No one but a gentleman like you would 
 have kept his word with the daughter of a murderer. But 
 you have done so, dear, and I thank and bless you for 
 your kindness. The only way in which I can show how 
 grateful I am is to give you back your ring. Take it, 
 Gabriel, and God be good to you for your upright 
 kindness.' 
 
 There was that in her tone which made Gabriel feel that 
 her decision was irrevocable. He mechanically took the 
 ring she returned to him and slipped it on his finger. 
 Never again was it removed from where he placed it at 
 that moment ; and in after days it often reminded him of 
 the one love of his life. With a second sigh, hopeless and 
 resigned, he rose to his feet, and looked at the dark figure 
 in the twilight of the room. 
 
 ' What are your plans. Bell ? ' he asked in an unemotional 
 voice, which he hardly recognised as his own. 
 
 ' I am going away from Beorminster next week,' answered 
 the girl, listlessly. ' Sir Harry has arranged all about this 
 hotel, and has been most kind in every way. I have a little 
 money, as Sir Harry paid me for the furniture and the stock- 
 in-trade. Of course I had to pay f — father's debts ' — she 
 •could hardly speak the words — 'so there is not much left. 
 Still, I have sufficient to take me to London and keep me 
 until I can get a situation.' 
 
 • As — as a barmaid ? ' asked Gabriel, in a low voice. 
 •As a barmaid,' she replied coldly. 'What else am I 
 
 fit for?' 
 
 ' Can I not help you ? ' 
 
 • No ; you have given me all the help you could, by 
 showing me how much you respect me.' 
 
 • I do more than respect you. Bell \ I love you.' 
 
 316
 
 All's Well that Ends Well 
 
 • I am glad of that,' replied Bell, softly ; ' it is a great 
 thing for a miserable girl like me to be loved.' 
 
 ' Bell ! Bell ! no one can cast a stone at you.' 
 
 • I am the daughter of a murderer, Gabriel ; and I know- 
 better than you what the world's charity is. Do you think 
 I would stay in this place, where cruel people would remind 
 me daily and hourly of my father's sin ? Ah, my dear, I 
 know what would be said, and I don't wish to hear it. I 
 shall bury my poor mother, and go away, never to return.' 
 
 ' My poor Bell ! God has indeed laid a heavy burden 
 upon you.' 
 
 • Don't ! ' Her voice broke and the long-absent tears 
 came into her eyes. ' Don't speak kindly to me, Gabriel ; I 
 can't bear kindness. I have made up my mind to bear the 
 worst. Go away; your goodness only makes things the 
 harder for me. After all, I am only a woman, and as a 
 woman I must w-e-e-p.' She broke down, and her tears 
 flowed quickly. 
 
 ' I shall go,' said Gabriel, feeling helpless, for indeed he 
 could do nothing. * Good-bye, Bell ! ' he faltered. 
 
 • Good-bye ! ' she sobbed. ' God bless you ! ' 
 
 Gabriel, with a sick heart, moved slowly towards the door. 
 Just as he reached it. Bell rose swiftly, and crossing the 
 room threw her arms round his neck, weeping as though 
 her overcharged heart would break. *I shall never kiss 
 you again,' she wailed, * never, never again ! ' 
 
 • God bless and keep you, my poor darling ! ' faltered 
 Gabriel. 
 
 • And God bless you ! for a good man you have been to 
 me,' she sobbed, and then they parted, never to meet 
 again in this world. 
 
 And that was the end of Gabriel Pendle's romance. At 
 first he thought of going to the South Seas as a missionary, 
 but his father's entreaties that he should avoid so extreme 
 a course prevailed, and in the end he went no further 
 from Beorminster than Heathcroft Vicarage. Mr Leigh 
 died a few days after Bell vanished from the little county 
 town: and Gabriel was presented with the living by the 
 bishop. He is a conscientious worker, an earnest priest, 
 a popular vicar, but his heart is still sore lor Bell, who so 
 nobly gave him up to bear her own innocent disgrace 
 
 317
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 alone. Where Bell is now he does not know ; nobody in 
 Beorminster knows — not even Mrs Pansey — for she has 
 disappeared like a drop of water in the wild waste ocean of 
 London town. And Gabriel works on amid the poor and 
 needy with a cheerful face but a sore heart ; for it is early 
 days yet, and his heart-wounds are recent. No one save 
 the bishop knows how he loved and lost poor Bell; but 
 Mrs Pendle, with the double instinct of woman and mother, 
 guesses that her favourite son has his own pitiful romance, 
 and would fain know of it, that she might comfort him in 
 his sorrow. But Gabriel has never told her ; he will never 
 tell her, but go silent and unmarried through life, true to 
 the memory of the rough, commonplace woman who proved 
 herself so noble and honourable in adversity. And so no 
 more of these poor souls. 
 
 It is more pleasant to talk of the Whichello-Pansey war. 
 * Bella matronis detestata^ saith the Latin poet, who knew 
 little of the sex to make such a remark. To be sure, he 
 was talking of public wars, and not of domestic or social 
 battles ; but he should have been more explicit. Women 
 are born fighters — with their tongues; and an illustration 
 of this truth was given in Beorminster when Miss Whichello 
 threw down the gage to Mrs Pansey. The little old lady 
 knew well enough that when George and Mab were married, 
 the archdeacon's widow would use her famous memory to 
 recall the scandals she had set afloat nearly thirty years 
 before. Therefore, to defeat Mrs Pansey once and for all, 
 she called on that good lady and dared her to say that there 
 was any disgrace attached to Mab's parentage. Mrs Pansey, 
 anticipating an easy victory, shook out her skirts, and was 
 up in arms at once. 
 
 ' I know for a fact that your sister Ann did not marry the 
 man she eloped with,' cried Mrs Pansey, shaking her head 
 viciously. 
 
 * Who told you this fact ? * demanded Miss Whichello, 
 indignantly. 
 
 ' I — I can't remember at present, but that's no matter 
 — it's true.' 
 
 *It is not true, and you know it is an invention of 
 your own spiteful mind, >irs Pansey. My sister was married 
 on the day she left home, and I have her marriage cer- 
 
 318
 
 All's Well that Ends Wel l 
 
 tificate to prove it. I showed it to Bishop Pendle, because 
 you poisoned his mind with your malicious lies, and he is 
 quite satisfied.' 
 
 'Oh, any story would satisfy the bishop,' sneered Mrs 
 Pansey ; ' we all know what he is ! ' 
 
 ' We do — an honourable Christian gentleman ; and we all 
 know what you are a — scandalmongering, spiteful, soured 
 cat.' 
 
 ' Hoity-toity ! fine language this.' 
 
 ' It is the kind of language you deserve, ma'am. All your 
 life you have been making mischief with your vile tongue ! ' 
 
 ' Woman,' roared Mrs Pansey, white with wrath, ' no one 
 ever dared to speak like this to me.' 
 
 ' It's a pity they didn't, then,' retorted the undaunted 
 Miss Whichello ; ' it would have been the better for you, and 
 for Beorminster also.' 
 
 ' Would it indeed, ma'am ? ' gasped her adversary, begin- 
 ning to feel nervous ; ' oh, really ! ' with a hysterical titter, 
 *you and your certificate — I don't believe you have it' 
 
 'Ask the bishop if I have not. He is satisfied, and that 
 is all that is necessary, you wicked old woman.' 
 ' You — you leave my house.' 
 
 'I shall do no such thing. Here I am, and here I'll 
 stay until I speak my mind,' and Miss Whichello thumped 
 the floor with her umbrella, while she gathered breath to 
 continue. ' I haven't the certificate of my sister's marriage 
 — haven't I? I'll show it to you in a court of law, Mrs 
 Pansey, when you are in the dock — the dock, ma'am ! ' 
 
 ' Me in the dock ? ' screeched Mrs Pansey, shaking all 
 over, but more from fear than wrath. ' How — how — dare 
 you?' 
 
 ' I dare anything to stop your wicked tongue. Every- 
 body hates you ; some people are fools enough to fear you, 
 but I don't,' cried Miss Whichello, erecting her crest; 'no, 
 not a bit. One word against me, or against Mab, and I'll 
 have you up for defamation of character, as sure as my name's 
 Selina Whichello.' 
 
 'I — I — I don't want to say a word,' mumbled Mrs 
 Pansey, beginning to give way, after the manner of bullies 
 when bravely faced. 
 
 'You had better not. I have the bishop and all 
 
 319
 
 Tlic Bishop's Secret 
 
 Beonninster on my side, and you'll be turned out of the 
 town if you don't mind your own business. Oh, I know 
 what I'm talking about,' and Miss Whichello gave a crow 
 of triumph, like a victorious bantam. 
 
 ' I am not accustomed to this — this violence,' sniffed Mrs 
 Pansey, producing her handkerchief; 'if you — if you don't 
 go, I'll call my servants.'* 
 
 ' Do, and I'll tell them what I think of you. I'm going 
 now.' Miss Whichello rose briskly. * I've had my say 
 out, and you know what I intend to do if you meddle with 
 my affairs. Good-day, Mrs Pansey, and good-bye, for it's 
 a long time before I'll ever cross words with you again, 
 ma'am,' and the little old lady marched out of the room 
 with all the honours of war. 
 
 Mrs Pansey was completely crushed. She knew quite well 
 that Miss Whichello was speaking the truth about the 
 marriage, and that none of her own inventions could stand 
 against the production of the certificate. Moreover, she 
 could not battle against the Bishop of Beorminster, or 
 risk a realisation of Miss Whichello's threat to have her 
 into court. On the whole, the archdeacon's widow con- 
 cluded that it would be best for her to accept her defeat 
 quietly and hold her tongue. This she did, and never after- 
 wards spoke anything but good about young Mrs Pendle 
 and her aunt. She even sent a wedding present, which 
 was accepted by the victor as the spoils of war, and was 
 so lenient in her speeches regarding the young couple that 
 all Beorminster was amazed, and wished to know if Mrs 
 Pansey was getting ready to join the late archdeacon. 
 Hitherto the old lady had stormed and bullied her way 
 through a meek and terrified world ; but now she had been 
 met and conquered and utterly overthrown. Her nerve 
 was gone, and with it went her influence. Never again did 
 she exercise her venomous tongue. To use a vulgar but 
 expressive phrase, Mrs Pansey was 'wiped out.' 
 
 Shortly before the marriage of George and Mab, the tribe 
 of gipsies over which Mother Jael ruled vanished into the 
 nowhere. Whither they went nobody knew, and nobody 
 inquired, but their disappearance was a relief both to Miss 
 Whichello and the bishop. The latter had decided that, 
 to run no risks, it was necessary Mab should be married 
 
 320
 
 All's Well that Ends Well 
 
 under her true name of Bosvile ; and as Mother Jael knew 
 that such was Jentham's real name, Miss WhicheUo fancied 
 she might come to hear that Mab was called so, and make 
 inquiries likely to lead to unpleasantness. But Mother Jael 
 went away in a happy moment, so Miss WhicheUo explained 
 to her niece and George that the name of the former was 
 not ' Arden ' but ' Bosvile.' ' It is necessary that I should 
 tell you this, dear, on account of the marriage,' said the 
 little old lady ; * your parents, my dearest Mab, are dead and 
 gone; but your father was alive when I took you to live 
 with me, and I called you by another name so that he 
 might not claim you. He was not a good man, my 
 love.' 
 
 ♦ Never mind, aunty,' cried Mab, embracing the old lady. 
 • I don't want to hear about him. You are both my father 
 and my mother, and I know that what you say is right. I 
 suppose,' she added, turning shyly to George, 'that Captain 
 Pendle loves Miss Bosvile as much as he did Miss Arden I ' 
 
 • A rose by any other name, and all the rest of it,' replied 
 George, smiling. • What does it matter, my darling ? You 
 will be Mab Pendle soon, so that will settle everything, 
 even your meek husband.' 
 
 'George,' said Miss Bosvile, solemnly, 'if there is one 
 word in the English language which does not describe you, 
 it is " meek." ' 
 
 • Really ! and if there is one name in the same tongue 
 which fits you like a glove, it is — guess!' 
 
 * Angel ! ' cried Mab, promptly. 
 
 George laughed. 'Near it,' said he, *but not quite 
 what I mean. The missing word will be told when we are 
 on our honeymoon.* 
 
 In this way the matter was arranged, and Mab, as Miss 
 Bosvile, was married to Captain Pendle on the self-same 
 day, at the self-same hour, that Lucy became Lady Brace. 
 If some remarks were made on the name inscribed in the 
 register of the cathedral, few people paid any attention to 
 them, and those who did received from Miss WhicheUo the 
 same skilful explanation as she had given the young couple. 
 Moreover, as Mother Jael was not present to make inquiries, 
 and as Mrs Pansey had not the courage to hint at scandal, 
 the matter died a natural death. But when the honeymoon 
 
 X 321
 
 The Bishop' s Secret 
 
 was waning, Mab reminded George of his promise to supply 
 the missing word. 
 
 ' Is it goose?' she asked playfully. 
 
 •No, my sweetest, although it ought to be!' reph'ed 
 George, pinching his wife's pretty ear. ' It is Mab Pendle ! ' 
 and he kissed her. 
 
 Brisk Dr Graham was at the double wedding, in his most 
 amiable and least cynical mood. He congratulated the 
 bishop and Mrs Pendle, shook hands warmly with the 
 bridegroom, and just as warmly — on the basis of a life-long 
 friendship — kissed the brides. Also, after the wedding 
 breakfast — at which he made the best speech — he had an 
 argument with Baltic about his penal conception of 
 Christianity. The ex-sailor had been very mournful after 
 the suicide of Mark, as the rash act had proved how shallow 
 had been the man's repentance. 
 
 ' Bi'.t what can you e.xpect ? ' said Graham, to him. * It is 
 impofsible to terrify people into a legitimate belief in 
 'eligion.' 
 
 ' I don't want to do that, sir,' replied Baltic, soberly. • I 
 wish to lead them to the Throne with love and tenderness.' 
 
 •I can hardly call your method by such names, my friend. 
 You simply ruin people in this life to fit them, in their own 
 despite, for their next existence.' 
 
 • When all is lost, doctor, men seek God.' 
 
 • Perhaps : but that's a shabby way of seeking Him. If I 
 could not t>e converted of my own free will, I certainly 
 shouldn't ore about being driven to take such a course. 
 Your svs*e(r>, my friend, is ingenious, but impossible.' 
 
 • I have vet to prove that it is impossible, doctor.' 
 'Humph! I daresay you'll succeed in gaining disciples,* 
 
 said Gr?h.am, with a shrug. 'There is no belief strange 
 enough, for some men to doubt. After Mormonism and 
 Joseph Soiith's deification, I am prepared to believe that 
 humanity will go to any length in its search after the un- 
 seen. No doubt you'll form a sect in time, Mr Baltic. If 
 so, call your disciples Hobsonites.' 
 
 • Why, Dr Graham ? ' 
 
 • Because the gist of your preaching, so far as I can 
 understand, is a Hobson's choice,' retorted the doctor. 
 * When your flock of criminals lose everything through your 
 
 322
 
 Airs Well that Ends Well 
 
 exposure of their crimes, they have nothing left but 
 religion.' 
 
 ' Nothing left but God, you mean, sir ; and God is every- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' No doubt. I agree with the latter part of your epigram, 
 Baltic, although your God is not my God.' 
 
 'There is only one God, doctor.' 
 
 'True, my friend ; but you and I see Him under diflferent 
 forms, and seek Him in different ways.' 
 
 • Our goal is the same ! ' 
 
 ' Precisely ; and that undeniable fact does away with the 
 necessity of further argument. Good-bye, Mr Baltic. I am 
 glad to have met you ; original people always attract me,' 
 and with a handshake and a kindly nod the little doctor 
 bustled off. 
 
 So, in his turn, Baltic departed from BeorCTnster, and 
 lost himself in the roaring tides of London, ii is yet too 
 early to measure the result of his vork; to prognosticate 
 if his peculiar views will meet with a reception likely to 
 encourage their development into a distinct sect. But 
 there can be no doubt that his truth and earnestness will, 
 some day — and perhaps at no very distant date — meet 
 with their reward. Every prophet convinced of the 
 absolute truth of his mission succeeds in finding those to 
 whom his particular view of the hereafter is acceptable 
 beyond all others. So, after all, Baltic, the untutored 
 sailor, may become the founder of a sect. What his par- 
 ticular 'ism' will be called it is impossible to say; but 
 taking into consideration the man's extraordinary concep- 
 tion of Christianity as a punishing religion, the motto of 
 his new faith should certainly be ' Cernit omnia Deus vindex ! ' 
 And Baltic can find the remark cut and dried for his quota- 
 tion in the last pages of the English dictionary. 
 
 So the story is told, the drama is played, and Bishop 
 Pendle was well pleased that it should be so. He had no 
 taste for excitement or for dramatic surprises, and was con- 
 tent that the moving incidents of the last few weeks should 
 thus end. He had been tortured sufnciently in mind and 
 body ; he had, in Dr Graham's phrase, paid his forfeit to 
 the gods in expiation of a too-happy fortune, therefore he 
 might now hope to pass hia remaining days in peace and 
 
 323
 
 The Bishop's Secret 
 
 quiet. George and Lucy were happily married ; Gabriel 
 was close at hand to be a staff upon which he could lean 
 in his old age ; and his beloved wife, the companion of so 
 many peaceful years, was still his wife, nearer and dearer 
 than ever. 
 
 When the brides had departed with their several grooms, 
 when the wedding guests had scattered to the four winds of 
 heaven, Bishop Pendle took his wife's hand within his own, 
 and led her into the library. Here he sat him down by 
 her side, and opened the Book of all books with reverential 
 thankfulness of soul. 
 
 *I called upon thy name, O Lord, out of the low 
 dungeon.' 
 
 ' Thou drewest near in the day that I called upon thee : 
 thou saidst, Fear not ! ' 
 
 And the words, to these so sorely-tried of late, were as 
 the dew to the thirsty herb. 
 
 THE END 
 
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