The Bishop's Secret

  THE BISHOP'S SECRET

  by

  FERGUS HUME,

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

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

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

  PREFACE.

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

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

  Mr. Hume's treatment of the peculiar and exclusive ecclesiasticalsociety of a small English cathedral city is quite worthy of AnthonyTrollope, and his leading character, Bishop Pendle, is equal toTrollope's best bishop. The Reverend Mr. Cargrim, the Bishop's poor andmost unworthy protege, is a meaner Uriah Heep. Mrs. Pansey is theembodiment of all shrewishness, and yields unlimited amusement. TheGypsies are genuine--such as George Borrow, himself, would have picturedthem--not the ignorant caricatures so frequently drawn by writers toolazy to study their subject.

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

  All in all, this story is so rich in the essential elements of worthyfiction--in characterization, exciting adventure, suggestions of themarvelous, wit, humor, pathos, and just enough of tragedy--that it isoffered to the American public in all confidence that it will begenerally and heartily welcomed.

  THE PUBLISHERS.

  CHAPTER I

  'ENTER MRS PANSEY AS CHORUS'

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

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

  Mrs Pansey, with whom this elderly worshipper of Hymen had elected tostay during her visit, was a gruff woman, with a scowl, who 'looked allnose and eyebrows.' Few ecclesiastical matrons were so well known inthe diocese of Beorminster as was Mrs Pansey; not many, it must beconfessed, were so ardently hated, for there were few pies indeed inwhich this dear lady had not a finger; few keyholes through which hereye did not peer. Her memory and her tongue, severally and combined, hadruined half the reputations in the county. In short, she was a renownedsocial bully, and like most bullies she gained her ends by scaring thelives out of meeker and better-bred people than herself. These latterfeared her 'scenes' as she rejoiced in them, and as she knew the pastsof her friends from their cradle upwards, she usually contrived, by apitiless use of her famous memory, to put to rout anyone so ill-advisedas to attempt a stand against her domineering authority. When her tall,gaunt figure--invariably arrayed in the blackest of black silks--wassighted in a room, those present either scuttled out of the way orjudiciously held their peace, for everyone knew Mrs Pansey's talent fortwisting the simplest observation into some evil shape calculated to getits author into trouble. She excelled in this particular method ofmaking mischief. Possessed of ample means and ample leisure, both ofthese helped her materially to build up her reputation of aphilanthropic bully. She literally swooped down upon the poor, takingone and all in charge to be fed, physicked, worked and guided accordingto her own ideas. In return for benefits conferred, she demanded anunconditional surrender of free will. Nobody was to have an opinion butMrs Pansey; nobody knew what was good for them unless their ideascoincided with those of their patroness--which they never did. MrsPansey had never been a mother, yet, in her own opinion, there wasnothing about children she did not know. She had not studied medicine,therefore she dubbed the doctors a pack of fools, saying she could curewhere they failed. Be they tinkers, tailors, soldiers, sailors, MrsPansey invariably knew more about their vocations than they themselvesdid or were ever likely to do. In short, this celebrated lady--for herreputation was more than local--was what the American so succinctlyterms a 'she-boss'; and in a less enlightened age she would indubitablyhave been ducked in the Beorflete river as a meddlesome, scolding,clattering jade. Indeed, had anyone been so brave as to ignore theflight of time and thus suppress her, the righteousness of the act wouldmost 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 MrsPansey sheltered under the aegis of her terrible reputation, and woe tothe daring person who did not accept them as the most charming, thecleverest, and in every way the most desirable of their sex. But in thememory of man, no one had ever sustained battle against Mrs Pansey, andso this feminine Selkirk remained monarch of all she surveyed, and ruledover a community consisting mainly of canons, vicars and curates, withtheir respective wives and offsprings. There were times when hersubjects made use of language not precisely ecclesiastic, and notinfrequently Mrs Pansey's name was mentally included in the ComminationService.

  Thus it chanced that Daisy, the spinster, found herself in Mrs Pansey'scarriage on her way to the episcopalian reception, extremely wellpleased with herself, her dress, her position, and her social guardianangel. The elder lady was impressively gloomy in her usual black silk,fashioned after the early Victorian mode, when elegance invariably gaveplace to utility. Her headgear dated back to the later Georgian epoch.It consisted mainly of a gauze turban twinkling with jet ornaments. Herbosom was defended by a cuirass of cold-looking steel beads, finishedoff at the throat by a gigantic brooch, containing the portrait and hairof the late archdeacon. Her skirts were lengthy and voluminous, so thatthey swept the floor with a creepy rustle like the frou-frou of abrocaded spectre. She wore black silk mittens, and on either bony wrista band of black velvet clasped with a large cameo set hideously in palegold. Thus attired--a veritable caricature by Leech--this survival of aprehistoric age sat rigidly upright and mangled the reputations of alland sundry.

  Miss Norsham, in all but age, was very modern indeed. Her neck was lean;her arms were thin. She made u
p for lack of quality by display ofquantity. In her _decollete_ costume she appeared as if composed ofbones and diamonds. The diamonds represented the bulk of Miss Norsham'swealth, and she used them not only for the adornment of her uncomelyperson, but for the deception of any possible suitor into the beliefthat she was well dowered. She affected gauzy fabrics and flutteringbaby ribbons, so that her dress was as the fleecy flakes of snowclinging to a well-preserved ruin.

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

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

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

  'He's sweet enough as bishops go,' growled Mrs Pansey, in her deep-tonedvoice. 'He might be better, and he might be worse. There is too muchPopish superstition and worship of idols about him for my taste. If thedeparted can smell,' added the lady, with an illustrative sniff, 'thelate archdeacon must turn in his grave when those priests of Baal andDagon burn incense at the morning service. Still, Bishop Pendle has hisgood 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 ornamentalbishop with good legs for gaiters, and a portly figure for an apron, DrPendle's the man. But as a God-fearing priest' (with a groan), 'asimple worshipper' (groan) 'and a lowly, repentant sinner' (groan), 'heleaves much--much to be desired.'

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

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

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

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

  'Oh, really! a widow?'

  'Of course, of course. You don't suppose she's a bigamist even thoughhe's a fool, do you?' and the eyebrows went up and down in the mostalarming manner. 'The bishop--he was a London curate then--married hersome eight-and-twenty years ago, and I daresay he has repented of itever since. They have three children--George' (with a whisk of her fanat the mention of each name), 'who is a good-looking idiot in a lineregiment; Gabriel, a curate as white-faced as his mother, and no doubtafflicted as she is with heart trouble. He was in Whitechapel, but hisfather put him in a curacy here--it was sheer nepotism. Then there isLucy; she is the best of the bunch, which is not saying much. They'veengaged her to young Sir Harry Brace, and now they are giving thisreception to celebrate having inveigled him into the match.'

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

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

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

  'Ten thousand a year and a fine estate, my dear. Sir Harry is a niceyoung fellow, but a fool. An absentee landlord, too,' grumbled MrsPansey, resentfully. 'Always running over the world poking his nose intowhat doesn't concern him, like the Wandering Jew or the _FlyingDutchman_. Ah, my dear, husbands are not what they used to be. The latearchdeacon never left his fireside while I was there. I knew better thanto let him go to Paris or Pekin, or some of those sinks of iniquity.Cook and Gaze indeed!' snorted Mrs Pansey, indignantly; 'I would abolishthem by Act of Parliament. They turn men into so many Satans walking toand fro upon the earth. Oh, the immorality of these latter days! Nowonder the end of all things is predicted.'

  Miss Norsham paid little attention to the latter portion of thisdiatribe. As Sir Harry Brace was out of the matrimonial market itconveyed no information likely to be of use to her in the comingcampaign. She wished to be informed as to the number and the names ofeligible men, and forewarned with regard to possible rivals.

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

  'Mab Arden,' replied Mrs Pansey, promptly. 'There, now,' with anemphatic blow of her fan, 'she is pretty, if you like, though I daresaythere 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 MissWhichello a foreigner?'

  'Foreigner? Bah!' cried Mrs Pansey, like a stentorian ram, 'she belongsto a good old English family, and, in my opinion, she disgraces themthoroughly. A meddlesome old maid, who wants to foist her niece on toGeorge Pendle; and she's likely to succeed, too,' added the lady,rubbing her nose with a vexed air, 'for the young ass is in love withMab, although she is three years older than he is. Mr Cargrim also likesthe 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, withhis moping and mowing and sneaky ways. Butter wouldn't melt in hismouth; oh, dear no! I gave my opinion about him pretty plainly to DrGraham, I can tell you, and Graham's the only man with brains in thiscity of fools.'

  'Is Dr Graham young?' asked Miss Norsham, in the faint hope that MrsPansey'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--thoseare 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 toride on a baggage-waggon; silly young squires, whose ideal of womanhoodis a brazen barmaid; and simpering curates, put into the Church as thefools of their respective families. I don't know what men are comingto,' groaned Mrs Pansey. 'The late archdeacon was clever and pious; hehonoured and obeyed me as the marriage service says a man should do. Iwas the light of the dear man's eyes.'

  Had Mrs Pansey stated that she had been the terror of the latearchdeacon's life she would have been vastly nearer the truth, but sucha remark never occurred to her. Although she had bullied and badgeredthe wretched little man until he had seized the first opportunity offinding in the grave the peace denied him in life, she really and trulybelieved that she had been a model wife. The egotism of first personsingular was so firmly ingrained in the woman that she could notconceive what a scourge she was to mankind in general; what a trial shehad been to her poor departed husband in particular. If the lateArchdeacon Pansey had not died he would doubtless have become amissionary to some cannibal tribe in the South Seas in the hope thathis tough helpmate would be converted into 'long-pig.' But, unluckilyfor Beorminster, he was dead and his relict was a mourning widow,
whoconstantly referred to her victim as a perfect husband. And yet MrsPansey considered that Anthony Trollope's celebrated Mrs Proudie was anoverdrawn character.

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