by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER II
THE BISHOP IS WANTED
The episcopalian residence, situate some distance from the city, was amediaeval building, enshrined in the remnant of a royal chase, and in itsperfect quiet and loneliness resembled the palace of the SleepingBeauty. Its composite architecture was of many centuries and manystyles, for bishop after bishop had pulled down portions and addedothers, had levelled a tower here and erected a wing there, until theresult was a jumble of divers designs, incongruous but picturesque. Timehad mellowed the various parts into one rich coloured whole of perfectbeauty, and elevated on a green rise, surrounded by broad stoneterraces, with towers and oriels and turrets and machicolatedbattlements; clothed with ivy, buried amid ancient trees, it looked likethe realisation of a poet's dream. Only long ages and many changingepochs; only home-loving prelates, ample monies, and architects ofgenius, could have created so beautiful and unique a fabric. It was theadmiration of transatlantic tourists with a twang; the desire ofmillionaires. Aladdin's industrious genii would have failed to buildsuch a masterpiece, unless their masters had arranged to inhabit it fivecenturies or so after construction. Time had created it, as Time woulddestroy it, but at present it was in perfect preservation, and figuredin steel-plate engravings as one of the stately homes of England. Nowonder the mitre of Beorminster was a coveted prize, when its gainercould dwell in so noble and matchless a mansion.
As the present prelate was an up-to-date bishop, abreast of his time andfond of his creature comforts, the interior of the palace was modernisedcompletely in accordance with the luxurious demands of nineteenthcentury civilisation. The stately reception-rooms--thrown open on thisnight to what the _Beorminster Weekly Chronicle_, strong in foreigntongues, tautologically called 'the _elite_ and _creme de la creme_ ofthe diocese'--were brilliantly illuminated by electric lamps andfurnished magnificently throughout, in keeping with their palatialappearance. The ceilings were painted in the Italian style, withdecently-clothed Olympian deities; the floors were of parquetry,polished so highly, and reflecting so truthfully, that the guests seemedto be walking, in some magical way, upon still water. Noble windows,extending from floor to roof, were draped with purple curtains, andstood open to the quiet moonlit world without; between these, tallmirrors flashed back gems and colours, moving figures and floods ofamber radiance, and enhanced by reduplicated reflections the size of therooms. Amid all this splendour of warmth and tints and light moved thenumerous guests of the bishop. Almost every invitation had beenaccepted, for the receptions at the palace were on a large and liberalscale, particularly as regards eating and drinking. Dr Pendle, inaddition to his official salary, possessed a handsome income, and spentit in the lavish style of a Cardinal Wolsey. He was wise enough to knowhow the outward and visible signs of prosperity and dignity affect thepopular imagination, and frequently invited the clergy and laity tofeast at the table of Mother Church, to show that she could dispenseloaves and fishes with the best, and vie with Court and Society in thesplendour and hospitality of her entertainments. As he approved of animposing ritual at the cathedral, so he affected a magnificent way ofliving at the palace. Mrs Pansey and many others declared that DrPendle's aims in that direction were Romish. Perhaps they were, but hecould scarcely have followed a better example, since the Church of Peterowes much of its power to a judicious employment of riches and ritual,and a dexterous gratification of the lust of the eye. The AnglicanChurch is more dignified now than she was in the days of the Georges,and very rightly, too, since God's ministers should not be the poorestor meanest of men.
Naturally, as the host was clerical and the building ecclesiastical, theclergy predominated at this entertainment. The bishop and the dean werethe only prelates of their rank present, but there were archdeacons,and canons and rectors, and a plentiful supply of curates, all, in theirown opinion, bishops in embryo. The shape and expression of the manyfaces were various--ascetic, worldly, pale, red, round, thin, fat, oval;each one revealed the character of its owner. Some lean, bent forms werethose of men filled with the fire of religion for its own sake; others,stout, jolly gentlemen in comfortable livings, loved the loaves andfishes of the Church as much as her precepts. The descendants of FriarTuck and the Vicar of Bray were here, as well as those who would havebeen Wycliffes and Latimers had the fires of Smithfield still beenalight. Obsequious curates bowed down to pompous prebendaries; bluffrectors chatted on cordial terms with suave archdeacons; and in the foldof the Church there were no black sheep on this great occasion. Theshepherds and pastors of the Beorminster flock were polite,entertaining, amusing, and not too masterful, so that the general airwas quite arcadian.
The laity also formed a strong force. There were lords magnificentlycondescending to commoners; M.P.s who talked politics, and M.P.s who hadhad enough of that sort of thing at St Stephen's and didn't; heartysquires from adjacent county seats; prim bankers, with whom the saidsquires were anxious to be on good terms, since they were the priests ofMammon; officers from near garrison towns, gay and lighthearted, whodevoted themselves to the fairer portion of the company; and asprinkling of barristers, literary men, hardy explorers, and such likeminnows among Tritons. Last, but not least, the Mayor of Beorminster waspresent and posed as a modern Whittington--half commercial wealth, halfmunicipal dignity. If some envious Anarchist had exploded a dynamitebomb in the vicinity of the palace on that night, the greatest, the mostintellectual, the richest people of the county would have come to anuntimely end, and then the realm of England, like the people themselves,would have gone to pieces. The _Beorminster Chronicle_ reporter--alsopresent with a flimsy book and a restless little pencil--worked up thisidea on the spot into a glowing paragraph.
Very ungallantly the ladies have been left to the last; but now the lastshall be first, although it is difficult to do the subject justice. Thematrons of surrounding parishes, the ladies of Beorminster society, thedamsels of town and country, were all present in their best attire,chattering and smiling, and becking and bowing, after the observant anddiplomatic ways of their sex. Such white shoulders! such pretty faces!such Parisian toilettes! such dresses of obviously home manufacturenever were seen in one company. The married ladies whispered scandalbehind their fans, and in a Christian spirit shot out the lip of scornat their social enemies; the young maidens sought for marriageable men,and lurked in darkish corners for the better ensnaring of impressionablemales. Cupid unseen mingled in the throng and shot his arrows right andleft, not always with the best result, as many post-nuptial experiencesshowed. There was talk of the gentle art of needlework, of the latestbazaar and the agreeable address delivered thereat by Mr Cargrim; theepicene pastime of lawn tennis was touched upon; and ardent youngpersons discussed how near they could go to Giant Pope's cave withoutgetting into the clutches of its occupant. The young men talked golfing,parish work, horses, church, male millinery, polo and shooting; theyoung ladies chatted about Paris fashions and provincial adaptationsthereof, the London season, the latest engagement, and the necessity ofreviving the flirtatious game of croquet. Black coats, coloured dresses,flashing jewels, many-hued flowers,--the restless crowd resembled a bedof gaudy tulips tossed by the wind. And all this chattering, laughing,clattering, glittering mass of well-bred, well-groomed humanity moved,and swayed, and gyrated under the white glare of the electric lamps.Urbs in Rus; Belgravia in the Provinces; Vanity Fair amid thecornfields; no wonder this entertainment of Bishop and Mrs Pendle wasthe event of the Beorminster year.
Like an agreeable Jupiter amid adoring mortals, the bishop, with hischaplain in attendance, moved through the rooms, bestowing a word here,a smile there, and a hearty welcome on all. A fine-looking man was theBishop of Beorminster; as stately in appearance as any prelate drawn byDu Maurier. He was over six feet, and carried himself in a soldierlyfashion, as became a leader of the Church Militant. His legs were allthat could be desired to fill out episcopalian gaiters; and his bland,clean-shaven face beamed with smiles and benignity. But Bishop Pendlewas not the mere figure-head Mrs Pansey's mali
ce declared him to be; hehad great administrative powers, great organising capabilities, andcontrolled his diocese in a way which did equal credit to his heart andhead. 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 exaltedpost. With a splendid position, a charming wife, a fine family, anobedient flock of clergy and laity, the bishop's lines were cast inpleasant places. There was not even the proverbial crumpled rose-leaf torender uncomfortable the bed he had made for himself. He was like anecclesiastical Jacob--blessed above all men.
'Well, bishop!' said Dr Graham, a meagre sceptic, who did not believe inthe 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 easyconscience; all is too smooth, too well with you. It can't last, yourlordship, it can't last,' and the doctor shook his bald head, as nodoubt Solon did at Croesus when he snubbed that too fortunate monarch.
'I am indeed blessed in the condition of life to which God has beenpleased to call me.'
'No doubt! No doubt! But remember Polycrates, bishop, and throw yourring into the sea.'
'My dear Dr Graham,' said the bishop, rather stiffly, 'I do not believein such paganism. God has blessed me beyond my deserts, no doubt, and Ithank Him in all reverence for His kindly care.'
'Hum! Hum!' muttered Graham, shaking his head. 'When men thank fortunefor 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 theywill do.'
'Gods or God, doctor?' demanded the bishop, with magnificentdispleasure.
'Whichever you like, my lord; whichever you like.'
The bishop was nettled and rather chilled by this pessimism. He feltthat it was his duty as a Churchman to administer a rebuke; but DrGraham's pagan views were well known, and a correction, howeverdexterously administered, would only lead to an argument. A controversywith Graham was no joke, as he was as subtle as Socrates in discoveringand attacking his adversary's weak points; so, not judging the present afitting occasion to risk a fall, the bishop smoothed away an incipientfrown, and blandly smiling, moved on, followed by his chaplain. Grahamlooked grimly after this modern Cardinal Wolsey.
'I have never,' soliloquised the sceptic, 'I have never known a manwithout his skeleton. I wonder if you have one, my lord. You lookcheerful, you seem thoroughly happy; but you are too fortunate. If youhave not a skeleton now, I feel convinced you will have to build acupboard for one shortly. You thank blind fortune under the alias ofGod? Well! well! we shall see the result of your thanks. Wolsey!Napoleon! Bismarck! they all fell when most prosperous. Hum! hum! hum!'
Dr Graham had no reason to make this speech, beyond his belief--foundedupon experience--that calms are always succeeded by storms. At presentthe bishop stood under a serene sky; and in no quarter could Grahamdescry the gathering of the tempest he prophesied. But for all that hehad 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 aHighland 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 hishead. He thought the bishop was too confident of continuous sunshine.
In the meantime, Dr Pendle, quite free from such forebodings,unfortunately came within speaking distance of Mrs Pansey, who, in herbell of St Paul's voice, was talking to a group of meek listeners. DaisyNorsham had long ago seized upon Gabriel Pendle, and was chatting withhim on the edge of the circle, quite heedless of her chaperon'smonologue. When Mrs Pansey saw the bishop she swooped down on himbefore he could get out of the way, which he would have done hadcourtesy permitted it. Mrs Pansey was the one person Dr Pendle dreaded,and if the late archdeacon had been alive he would have encouraged themissionary project with all his heart. 'To every man his own fear.' MrsPansey was the bishop's.
'Bishop!' cried the lady, in her most impressive archidiaconal manner,'about that public-house, The Derby Winner, it must be removed.'
Cargrim, who was deferentially smiling at his lordship's elbow, cast aswift glance at Gabriel when he heard Mrs Pansey's remark. He had abelief--founded upon spying--that Gabriel knew too much about thepublic-house mentioned, which was in his district; and this belief wasstrengthened when he saw the young man start at the sound of the name.Instinctively he kept his eyes on Gabriel's face, which looked disturbedand anxious; too much so for social requirements.
'It must be removed,' repeated the bishop, gently; 'and why, MrsPansey?'
'Why, bishop? You ask why? Because it is a hot-bed of vice and bettingand gambling; that's why!'
'But I really cannot see--I have not the power--'
'It's near the cathedral, too,' interrupted Mrs Pansey, whose mannersleft much to be desired. 'Scandalous!'
'When God erects a house of prayer, The devil builds a chapel there.
'Isn't it your duty to eradicate plague-spots, bishop?'
Before Dr Pendle could answer this rude question, a servant approachedand 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 themessage aloud. 'Who is he? What is his name?'
'I don't know, your lordship. He refused to give his name, but heinsists upon seeing your lordship at once.'
'I can't see him!' said the bishop, sharply; 'let him call to-morrow.'
'My lord, he says it is a matter of life and death.'
Dr Pendle frowned. 'Most unbecoming language!' he murmured. 'Perhaps itmay 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. Mostunusual,' said the bishop to himself. Then added aloud, 'Mrs Pansey, Iam called away for a moment; pray excuse me.'
'We must talk about The Derby Winner later on,' said Mrs Pansey,determinedly.
'Oh, yes!--that is--really--I'll see.'
'Shall I accompany your lordship?' murmured Cargrim, officiously.
'No, Mr Cargrim, it is not necessary. I must see this man as he speaksso strongly, but I daresay he is only some pertinacious person whothinks that a bishop should be at the complete disposal of thepublic--the exacting public!'
With this somewhat petulant speech Dr Pendle walked away, not sorry tofind 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 tenminutes to settle the question of The Derby Winner; or rather to hearhow she intended to settle it. Cargrim, pleased at being left behind,since it gave him a chance of watching Gabriel, urged Mrs Pansey tofurther discussion of the question, and had the satisfaction of seeingthat such discussion visibly disconcerted the curate.
And Dr Pendle? In all innocence he left the reception-rooms to speakwith 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 wasnot destined to see for many a long day. Dr Graham's premonition waslikely to prove true, for in the serene sky under which the bishop hadmoved for so long, a tempest was gathering fast. He should have takenthe 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 thegift and pursued their relentless aims. The bishop had no thoughts likethese. As yet he had no skeleton, but the man in the library was aboutto open a cupboard and let out its grisly tenant to haunt prosperousBishop Pendle. To him, as to all men, evil had come at the appointedhour.
