by W. W. Jacobs
CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH THE ENEMY ARRIVES.
"I say, boss," remarked the tramp, as he paused for a moment in theprocess of stuffing himself to repletion with cold game-pie, "this is arum trip, and no mistake."
"What's that got to do with you?" retorted Marchmont sharply,appropriating the remaining fragments of the pasty to his own use.
The two men were seated in the shady angle of a ruined buttress, aportion of a stately abbey, which in pre-Norman days had flourished at aspot some half-dozen miles from the site of Blanford.
"Well," said the tramp, "if this ain't a wild-goose chase I dunno whatyou calls it. Here you've gone an' took me away from my happy home, an'brought me across the ragin' Atlantic, an' dumped me in a moth-eatenlittle village where there ain't nothin' fit to drink, all because Ihappened to chum with a Bishop."
"You seem to forget," said Marchmont, "that it was you who came to me,offering to sell your friends and their secrets for a sufficientremuneration."
"So I did," said the tramp; "but it was revenge, that's what itwas--revenge. I was deserted in a furrin land, with just my board-billpaid, and not a penny to bless myself with."
"Ah," said Marchmont. "That's the reason, I suppose, why you came fromMontreal to New York in a parlour car."
The tramp sighed despondently, saying:
"Now whoever told you that, boss?"
"Nobody. I found the Pullman check in your coat-pocket when I waslooking for my diamond ring, which you'd absent-mindedly placed there."
"Humph!" replied the other. "There ain't no foolin' you!"
"I should be a pretty poor journalist if there were," said his employer."Now give me the story again, and see if you can get it straight."
"Well, there ain't nothin' much to tell, 'cept I was carried off by themSpanish conspirators in mistake for a lady, which I in no-wiseresembles, an' the bloke as was the head of the gang was allus calledthe Bishop, and a pretty rum Bishop he was."
"Never mind about his qualifications," interrupted Marchmont shortly;adding to himself, "That explains his son's presence in Montreal."
"Well, this Bishop," continued the tramp, "used to talk about his palaceat Blanford; and when the party give me the go-by, I gathered from theporter as took their traps that they'd gone to England; and theelevator-boy, he heard the Bishop say to the little actress as they'd beas safe at the palace as they would anywhere. And then I come on to NewYork and blew it into you."
"Yes," said Marchmont, "and I've given you a first-class passage toEngland, paid your board and lodging, and kept you full for the bestpart of three weeks; and what do I get out of it?"
"I admit as we haven't had much results as yet," said the tramp. "Butnow things is goin' to hum. The Bishop and his whole gang's coming overto these very ruins to-day."
"How did you find that out?" demanded the journalist.
"Footman up to the palace told me. I give him a little jamboree lastnight at the 'Three Jolly Sailor-boys.'"
"Yes, and had to be carried home dead-drunk. Nice one you are to keep asecret."
"Well, I was only a-doin' me duty," said the tramp in an aggrieved toneof voice, "and if they don't know you're after 'em, and you shouldhappen to be inspectin' the ruins at the same time as they are, youcould get chummy with 'em without half tryin'."
"I'll attend to that," said the newspaper man. "I've just had a cablefrom the _Daily Leader_ telling me to hustle if I want to get thatposition, and I've got to do something, and do it quick. But it'll neverdo for you to be seen. Once they know we're together, the game's up. Ican't have you larking round with the servants either. You'll spoil thewhole show. You've got to go back to Dullhampton this afternoon."
"What! that little one-horse fishing-town?"
"Yes, that's where you're wanted. It's the nearest port to Blanford, andit's where they'll try and get out of the country if they're hardpressed. You just stay there and keep your eyes open till you hear fromme."
The tramp growled surlily, and reluctantly prepared to obey.
"Now, then," said Marchmont shortly, "get a move on. Yes, you can takethe provender with you. It'll help to keep your mouth shut."
As the tramp slouched round the corner and out of sight, his masterstretched himself comfortably on the ground, and supporting his head onone arm, with his straw hat tilted over his eyes to protect them fromthe sun, he proceeded to go peacefully to sleep.
Scarcely had the journalist composed himself to slumber, when the ruinswere invaded by the party from the palace. It was now about a monthsince Cecil and his friends had arrived at Blanford, and though thisexpedition to the old abbey had been often discussed, one thing andanother had intervened to prevent its being put into execution.
After her first burst of antagonism, Miss Matilda had settled down to aformal hospitality which was, if anything, more disconcerting. TybaltSmith alone had achieved a favourable position in her eyes, and thisonly as the result of a very considerable amount of flattery andattention. At first his friends were at a loss to account for hisattitude, but as time went on it appeared that the tragedian had notexerted himself for nothing. "The dear Professor" frequently had hisbreakfast in bed when he was too lazy to get up, and Miss Matildaconsidered the delicate state of his health required the daily stimulusof a pint of champagne. He also had the exclusive use of her victoria inthe afternoon, and even if this did necessitate an occasional attendanceat missionary meetings and penny readings, it was after all but a fairreturn for value received. On this occasion he had begged off going tothe picnic, and was spending a luxurious day at the palace, waited on bythe Bishop's sister.
The party, having arrived at the abbey, promptly separated to explorethe ruins, his Lordship gallantly offering to play the part of ciceroneto the ladies. Miss Violet, however, for reasons of her own, preferredseclusion and a quiet chat with Spotts to any amount of architecturalantiquities, so her host was enabled to devote his entire time to Mrs.Mackintosh.
"Does it strike you," remarked the Bishop, a few moments later, pausingin his wanderings to inspect critically a fragment of Roman brick--"doesit strike you how absolutely peaceful this spot is?"
"Well," returned Mrs. Mackintosh, "I don't know as it does. I shouldhave said your palace was about as good a sample of all-roundpeacefulness as there is going."
"Ha," said his Lordship, "it hadn't occurred to me."
"That's just like you men. You never know when you're well off. Now withyour palace and Jonah you ought to be content."
The Bishop sighed.
"Dear lady," he said, "I admit my faults. The palace I indeed possesstemporarily, but Jonah--ah, what would Jonah be without you! If I haveleft my work once in the past month to ask your advice, I have left it ahundred times."
"You have," admitted Mrs. Mackintosh with decision.
"Then it is to you that Jonah owes his debt of gratitude, not to me. Youhave lightened my labour in more senses of the word than one."
"Well, I've had a very pleasant visit. Blanford's a little paradise."
The Bishop sighed again, and remarked:
"Paradise I have always regarded as being peaceful."
"Yes," acquiesced his companion reflectively, "with all that Jonah wentthrough, I don't remember as he had an unmarried sister."
There was silence for a moment, and then his Lordship abruptly changedthe subject.
"What a charming, bright, fresh young life is Miss Arminster's! Shedances through the world like--like--er--" And he paused for a simile.
"Like a grasshopper," suggested Mrs. Mackintosh, with marked disapprovalin her tones. The Bishop had a trivial, not to say frivolous, strain inhis nature which seemed to her hardly in accord with his exaltedposition.
"No, dear lady," objected his Lordship, "not a grasshopper. Decidedlynot a grasshopper; say--like a ray of sunshine."
"Violet's a good girl," remarked his companion, "a very good girl, butin most things she is still a child, and the serious side of lifedoesn't appeal to her. I dare
say she'd go to sleep if you read to herabout Jonah."
"She did," admitted the Bishop; "but then of course," he added, wishingto palliate the offence, "it was a very hot day. I suppose, however, youare right. Serious things do not interest her--and that is--I shouldsay--we are serious."
"I am," said Mrs. Mackintosh, "and at your time of life you ought to be;and if we stand here any longer looking at that chunk of brick in thebroiling sun, we'll both be as red as a couple of beets."
No amount of sentiment could be proof against a statement of this sort,and they moved on.
Violet and Spotts had meantime sat themselves down on a convenienttombstone to while away the interval till luncheon was served.
"There are lots of things I want to talk to you about, Alvy," began thelittle actress, "and I never get the chance."
"Well, fire away," he replied. "You've got it now."
"In the first place," she said, "I don't like the way things are goinghere."
"At the palace, you mean?"
"Yes. We're not aboveboard. We're shamming all the while. Besides, we'redoing nothing in our profession."
"It's better than doing time in prison."
"It isn't straightforward, and I don't like it," she went on.
"Neither do I," he returned; "but there are other things I like less."
"Such as?"
"Well, people falling in love with you, for instance."
"Oh, Cecil. He received his _conge_ before we left America."
"I said _people_."
"You don't mean the Bishop?"
Spotts nodded.
"But he's such a dear funny old thing!" she cried.
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Why, he might be my grandfather."
"He's as frisky as a two-year-old," remarked the actor.
"And finally," continued Violet, not noticing the interruption, "his oldcat of a sister wouldn't let him."
"Worms have turned, and straws have broken camels' backs before now,"persisted Spotts.
"Don't you call me names, sir! Worms and straws, indeed! What next, Ishould like to know!"
"If you don't take care, you'll be called his _Lordship's_ 'leopard.'"
She burst out laughing.
"Nonsense!" she cried. "Why, I actually believe you're becomingjealous."
"Not a bit of it," he said. "I'd trust you, little girl, through thickand thin."
"I know you would, Alvy, and I'd rather marry you--well, ten times,before I'd marry a lord or a bishop once."
"I know it, old girl, I know it!" cried Spotts ecstatically, andslipped his arm round her waist.
"Oh, do be careful," she protested. "Just think, if any one should seeus! I'm sure I heard a footstep behind us."
They looked up, and saw Cecil above them, standing on the sill of an oldruined window.
He had not heard their words, but he had seen Spotts's embrace, andrealised bitterly how little chance he stood against such a combinationof Apollo and Roscius.
The month which had intervened since his return to Blanford had not beenan altogether happy time for the Bishop's son. The pain of MissArminster's refusal still rankled within him, and that young lady'sactions had not done much to soothe it. Had she comported herself with aresigned melancholy, he could have borne his own sufferings withfortitude. But, on the contrary, she had, he considered, flirted mostoutrageously with Mr. Spotts. Indeed Cecil was already strongly of theopinion that the actor was trying to succeed where he had failed--acourse of action which he thought quite justifiable on his,Banborough's, part, but highly reprehensible on the part of any oneelse. Matters had now culminated. Fate had brought the three together atthis inopportune moment, and as it was manifestly impossible not to saysomething, Cecil laid himself out to be agreeable, and Miss Arminster,who was naturally aware of the awkwardness of his position, did her bestto promote conversation, while Spotts almost immediately cut the Gordianknot by excusing himself on the plea of looking after the lunch.
"Well," she said, "what's the latest news from Spain?"
"It seems to me that the war must be almost over," he replied. "Now thatSantiago's fallen, and Cervera's fleet's destroyed, Spain has noalternative but to yield."
"Ah," she murmured, "then we'll be free once more."
"Has your exile been so irksome to you?" he asked.
"Oh," she returned, "I didn't mean it that way, really. Believe me, I'mnot ungrateful. Blanford's just sweet, and your father's an old dear."
"Yes," he retorted, laughing. "I notice you're doing your best to usurpMrs. Mackintosh's place in his affections."
"That's not from pique, it's from charity," she replied. "I've beentrying to rescue her from Jonah."
"I'm afraid my governor must be an awful bore," he said.
"Oh, but he's so sweet and simple with it all," she objected. "I'mreally growing to be awfully fond of him."
"I think he's growing to be awfully fond of _you_," said his son.
Miss Arminster laughed merrily.
"Don't you fancy me as a step-mamma?" she queried. "But, joking apart,I'm afraid even Blanford would pall on me after a while. It isn't myfirst visit here, you see. I was on a tour through these counties threeyears ago."
"That's how you came to know about my father, I suppose."
"Yes," she said. "I had him pointed out to me, and you look a good dealalike. Besides, the name's not common."
"I'm glad you liked Blanford well enough to come back to it."
"Oh," she returned, looking up at him with a roguish smile, "thissection of the country has other associations for me."
"I was waiting for that," he retorted. "In which of the neighbouringtowns were you married?"
"The one nearest here," she replied. "I think we can just see the spireof the church over the trees. But how did you know?"
"I inferred it as a matter of course," he said banteringly, "but I'monly joking."
"But I'm not," she returned.
"Do you really mean that you were married over there?" he asked,pointing to the distant church.
"Yes," she replied. "The third of June, 1895."
"I say, you know," he said, "I think you might have married me once in away, as I had asked you."
"Mr. Banborough," she replied stiffly, drawing herself up, "you forgetyourself."
"I beg your pardon," he returned humbly. "Only as American divorce lawsare so lax, I thought--"
"The divorce laws of my country are a disgrace, and nothing would everinduce me to avail myself of them. Besides, marriage, to me, is a veryserious and solemn matter, and I can't permit you to speak about itflippantly, even by way of a joke."
Cecil picked up a handful of pebbles and began throwing themmeditatively at the fragment of an adjacent arch. The more he saw ofMiss Arminster, the greater mystery she became. By her own admission,she had been married at least half a dozen times, which, were he toaccept as real the high moral standard which she always assumed, mustimply a frightful mortality among her husbands. But then she neitherseemed flippant nor shallow, and her serious attitude towards thesacrament of marriage appeared wholly incompatible with a matrimonialexperience which might have caused a Mormon to shudder. Anyway, shewasn't going to marry him, and he turned to the discussion of morefruitful subjects.
"How's Spotts getting on with his studies in architecture?" he asked.
"I should think he'd learned a good deal," she replied. "Your fatherhasn't left a stone of his own cathedral unexplained, and I imaginehe'll put him through his paces over this abbey."
"Poor Spotts! I'm afraid he's had a hard row to hoe," said Cecil; "but,anyway, it'll keep him out of mischief."
"You must be very careful what you say about him to me," she replied. "Iwon't hear one word against him, for we're very old friends."
"So I should infer," he retorted, "from what I've just seen. _I_ neverwas allowed to put _my_ arm--"
"How dare you!" she cried, rising, really angry this time. "I--" Thenturning to the Bishop, who
arrived very opportunely, she exclaimed:
"Won't you rescue me, please? Your son's becoming awfully impertinent!"
"Then," said his Lordship gallantly, "my son must be taught bettermanners. If he cannot show himself worthy of such a charming companion,we'll punish him by leaving him entirely alone."
Certainly his father was coming on, thought Cecil. But if Miss Arminstertried to take advantage of his dotage to forge another link in hermatrimonial chain, he, Banborough, would have a word to say on thesubject.
"I wish to tell you, my dear," began his Lordship as they walked away,leaving Cecil disconsolate, "of a very nice invitation I've received forthe rest of the week. Lord Downton is to call for me in his yacht atDullhampton to-morrow, and has asked me to join his party and to bringsome lady with me to make the number even."
"Oh, how jolly that'll be--for Miss Matilda!" said the artful Violet.
"Humph!--ye-es," replied the Bishop. "I hardly think my sister couldleave the palace just at this time."
"Perhaps," suggested his guest, "yachting doesn't agree with her. Hasshe ever tried it before?"
"She has," replied the Bishop, with a certain asperity.
"Ah, poor thing!" said Miss Arminster. "It must have taken away fromyour pleasure to feel that she was suffering such great discomfort onyour account."
"Lord Downton didn't specify my sister. He only said 'some lady'; and soI thought if you--"
"Oh, that's just sweet of you!" exclaimed his companion. "I'm sure Ishould adore yachting. It's something I've always wanted to do."
"Then we'll consider it settled," said the Bishop.
"But Miss Matilda?"
"Ah, yes," admitted his Lordship. "That's just the trouble. You see mydilemma."
"Of course!" Violet responded promptly, understanding that he wished tobe helped out. "If your sister knew you were going, she'd feel it herduty to accompany you, and the trip would be spoilt for you by hersufferings. So, out of your affection for her, you think it would bebetter if we were just quietly to slip off to-morrow and send her a wirefrom Dullhampton."
The Bishop was delighted. Miss Matilda never accepted him at his ownvaluation.
"So, just on your account," continued his companion demurely, "I won'tsay a word, though I hate any form of concealment."
"H'm--naturally," said the Bishop.
"But since it's for your dear sister's sake--"
"We'll take the eleven-fifty train to-morrow," replied his Lordship.
And here his remarks were cut short from the fact that in suddenlyrounding a corner he had planted his foot on the recumbent form ofMarchmont.
"Hullo!" said that gentleman, sitting up, and adding, as he rubbed hiseyes to get them wider open, "permit me to inform you that this part ofthe ground is strictly preserved."
"Who are you, sir?" demanded the Bishop.
"Come," said the stranger cheerfully, "we'll make a bargain. I'll tellyou who you are, if you'll tell me who I am."
"I do not see how that is possible--" began his Lordship.
"Well, I'll begin," said Marchmont. "You're the Bishop of Blanford andI'm your son's greatest benefactor."
"Really, you surprise me. May I enquire how you've benefited him?"
"I made the fame of his book, 'The Purple Kangaroo.' I've been sendingyou my editorials on the subject for some weeks past."
"Are you the person who wrote those scandalous leaders which have beenforwarded to me from America?" demanded the Bishop.
"I thought you'd remember them," said the journalist. "They'reeye-openers, aren't they?"
His Lordship drew himself up and put on his most repressive manner, butMarchmont babbled on serenely.
"The last time I saw Cecil he said to me: 'Whenever you come to England,Marchmont, you just drop round to the palace, and we'll make thingshum.' So, having a chance for a little vacation, I jumped on board asteamer, crossed to Southampton, and biked up-country, doing these ruinson the way. I meant to have presented myself at the palace thisafternoon in due form and a swallow-tailed coat, but I'm just as muchpleased to see you as if I'd been regularly introduced."
"You're one of the most consummate liars I ever knew," remarked Cecil,who, hearing voices, had strolled over to see what it was all about.
"Put it more mildly, my dear fellow," replied the American. "Call me ajournalist, and spare your father's feelings."
"Well, now you're here, what do you intend to do?" demanded Banborough.
"Do?" said Marchmont. "Why, I'm going to put up for a week at your 'PinkPig,' or your 'Azure Griffin,' or whatever kind of nondescript-colouredanimal your local hostelry boasts, and study your charming cathedral.But, in the first place, I think we'd better have some lunch. I'm ashungry as a bear."
"I fear we've scarcely provided for an extra guest," returned Cecilfrigidly. The journalist was the very last person he wanted to see atBlanford, and he did not take any pains to disguise the fact.
Marchmont, however, was not to be snubbed, and remarking cheerfully thatthere was always enough for one more, calmly proceeded in the directionof the hampers. Once there, he constituted himself chef and butlerforthwith, and moreover proved so efficient in both capacities that,irritated as his friend was at his self-assurance, he could not butexpress his appreciation.
Marchmont, having started the rest of the people on their lunch and madeall feel at their ease, turned on his journalistic tap for the benefitof the Bishop, and plied the old gentleman with such a judicious mixtureof flattery and amusing anecdote that, by the time the repast was over,his Lordship was solemnly assuring his son, much to that younggentleman's disgust, that he was indeed fortunate in possessing such adelightful friend, and that he might invite Mr. Marchmont to the palaceif he liked.
"Quite so," said Cecil. "I suppose you remember his article in the_Daily Leader_, in which he alluded to you as a 'consecrated fossil'?"
"H'm!" said the Bishop. "Really, the accommodation at the inn is verygood, and perhaps, with so many guests, it would be asking too much ofyour aunt."
"What does all this mean?" asked Spotts of Banborough when a convenientopportunity offered.
The Bishop's son shrugged his shoulders, replying:
"It means mischief."
