by Fergus Hume
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE REBELLION OF MRS PENDLE
'Thank God!' said the bishop, when he heard from Gabriel's lips that thecriminal, who knew his secret, had promised to be silent, 'at last I canbreathe freely; but what a price to pay for our safety--what a price!'
'Do you mean my marriage to Bell?' asked Gabriel, steadily.
'Yes! If she was undesirable before, she is more so now. So far as Ihave seen her I do not think she is the wife for you; and as thedaughter of that blood-stained man--oh, Gabriel, my son! how can Iconsent that you should take her to your bosom?'
'Father,' replied the curate, quietly, 'you seem to forget that I loveBell dearly. It was not to close Mosk's mouth that I consented to marryher; in any case I should do so. She promised to become my wife in hertime of prosperity, and I should be the meanest of men did I leave hernow that she is in trouble. Bell was dear to me before; she is dearer tome 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 havebeen a good son to me. But reflect for one moment how public herfather's crime has been; everywhere his wickedness is known; and shouldyou marry this girl, your wife, however innocent, must bear the stigmaof being that man's daughter. How would you, a sensitive and refined manshrinking from public scandal, bear the shame of hearing your wifespoken about as a murderer's daughter?'
'I shall take steps to avert that danger. Yes, father, when Bell becomesmy wife we shall leave England for ever.'
'Gabriel! Gabriel!' cried the bishop, piteously, 'where would you go?'
'To the South Seas,' replied the curate, his thin face lighting up withexcitement; 'there, as Baltic tells us, missionaries are needed for theheathen. I shall become a missionary, father, and Bell will work by myside to expiate her father's sin by aiding me to bring light to thoselost in darkness.'
'My poor boy, you dream Utopia. From what I saw of that girl, she is notone to take up such a life. You will not find your Priscilla in her. Sheis of the world, worldly.'
'The affliction which has befallen her may turn her thoughts from theworld.'
'No!' said the bishop, with quiet authority. 'I am, as you know, a manwho 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 fairamount of common sense; but, if you will forgive my plain speaking ofone 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 sufficientlyto merge her life in yours, to condemn herself to exile amongst savagesfor your sake. Love and single companionship are not enough for such anone; she wants--and she will always want--society, flattery, amusementand excitement. My love for you, Gabriel, makes me anxious to think wellof her, but my fatherly care mistrusts her as a wife for a man of yournature.'
'But I love her,' faltered Gabriel; 'I wish to marry her.'
'Believe me, you will never marry her, my 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 missionary scheme, I am confident she willrefuse to become your wife. Ask her by all means; keep your word as agentleman 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 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 tooharshly, sir. Bell will become my wife, I am sure of that.'
'If she does,' replied the bishop, giving his hand to the young man, 'Ishall be the first to welcome her.'
'My dear, dear father!' cried Gabriel, with emotion, 'you are likeyourself; always kind, always generous. Thank you, father!' And thecurate, not trusting himself to speak further, lest he should break downaltogether, left the room hurriedly.
With a weary sigh Dr Pendle sank into his seat, and pressed his hand tohis aching head. He was greatly relieved to know that his secret wassafe with Mosk; but his troubles were not yet at an end. It wasimperative that he should reprove and dismiss Cargrim for his duplicity,and most necessary for the rearrangement of their lives that Mrs Pendleshould be informed of the untimely resurrection of her husband. Also,foreseeing the termination of Gabriel's unhappy romance, he wasprofoundly sorry for the young man, knowing well how disastrous would bethe effect on one so impressionable and highly strung. No wonder thebishop sighed; no wonder he felt depressed. His troubles had come afterthe manner of their kind, 'not in single spies, but in battalions,' andhe needed all his strength of character, all his courage, all his faithin God, to meet and baffle anxieties so overwhelming. In his afflictionhe cried aloud with bitter-mouthed Jeremiah, 'Thou hast removed my soulfar off from peace; I forget prosperity.'
In due time Mrs Pendle reappeared in Beorminster, wonderfully improvedin health and spirits. The astringent waters of Nauheim had strengthenedher heart, so that it now beat with regular throbs, where formerly ithad fluttered feebly; they had brought the blood to the surface of theskin, and had flushed her anaemic complexion with a roseate hue. Her eyeswere bright, her nerves steady, her step brisk; and she began to takesome interest in life, and in those around her. Lucy presented hermother to the bishop with an unconcealed pride, which was surelypardonable. 'There, papa,' she said proudly, while the bishop was lostin wonder at this marvellous transformation. 'What do you think of mypatient now?'
'My dear, it is wonderful! The Nauheim spring is the true fountain ofyouth.'
'A very prosaic fountain, I am afraid,' laughed Mrs Pendle; 'thetreatment is not poetical.'
'It is at least magical, my love. I must dip in these restorative watersmyself, lest I should be taken rather for your father than your--' HereDr Pendle, recollecting the falsity of the unspoken word, shut his mouthwith a qualm of deadly sickness--what the Scotch call a grue.
Mrs Pendle, however, observant rather of his looks than his words, didnot notice the unfinished sentence. 'You look as though you needed acourse,' she said anxiously; 'if I have grown younger, you have becomeolder. This is just what happens when I am away. You never can lookafter yourself, dear.'
Not feeling inclined to spoil the first joy of reunion, Dr Pendle turnedaside this speech with a laugh, and postponed his explanation until amore fitting moment. In the meantime, George and Gabriel and Harry werehovering round the returned travellers with attentions and questions andfrequent congratulations. Mr Cargrim, who had been sulking ever sincethe arrest of Mosk had overthrown his plans, was not present to spoilthis pleasant family party, and the bishop spent a golden hour or so ofunalloyed joy. But as the night wore on, this evanescent pleasure passedaway, and when alone with Mrs Pendle in her boudoir, he was so gloomyand depressed that she insisted upon learning the cause of hismelancholy.
'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, thecolour ebbing from her cheeks. 'What is it, George? Tell me at once. Ican bear anything but this suspense.'
'Amy!' The bishop sat down on the couch beside his wife, and took herhand in his warm, encouraging clasp. '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 inlow, rapid tones related all that had taken place since the night of thereception. He did not spare himself in the recital; he concealednothing, he added nothing, but calm
ly, coldly, mercilessly told ofKrant's return, of Krant's blackmail, of Krant's terrible end. Thence hepassed on to talk of Cargrim's suspicions, of Baltic's arrival, ofMosk's arrest, and of the latter's promise to keep the secret of whichhe had so wickedly become possessed. Having told the past, he discussedthe present, and made arrangements for the future. 'Only Gabriel andmyself and Graham know the truth now, dearest,' he concluded, 'for thisunhappy man Mosk may be already accounted as one dead. Next week you andI must take a journey to some distant parish in the west of England, andthere become man and wife for the second time. Gabriel will keep silent;George and Lucy need never know the truth; and so, my dearest, allthings--at least to the public eye--shall be as they were. You need notgrieve, Amy, or accuse yourself unjustly. If we have sinned, we havesinned 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 hislife. 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. Hewill strengthen us to bear the burden; through Him we shall dovaliantly. "For the Lord God is a sun and shield; the Lord will givegrace and glory; no good thing will He withhold from them that walkuprightly."'
How wonderful are women! For weeks Bishop Pendle had been dreading thisinterview with his delicate, nervous, sensitive wife. He had expectedtears, sighs, loud sorrow, bursts of hysterical weeping, the wringing ofhands, and all the undisciplined grief of the feminine nature. But theunexpected occurred, as it invariably does with the sex in question. Tothe bishop's unconcealed amazement, Mrs Pendle neither wept norfainted; she controlled her emotion with a power of will which he hadnever credited her with possessing, and her first thought was not forherself, but for her companion in misfortune. Placing her hands oneither side of the bishop's face, she kissed him fondly, tenderly,pityingly.
'My poor darling, how you must have suffered!' she said softly. 'Why didyou 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, overwhelmedby her extraordinary composure.
'You need not have been afraid, George. I am no fairweather wife.'
'Alas! alas!' sighed the bishop.
'I am your wife,' cried Mrs Pendle, answering his thought after themanner 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. Ibear your name, I am the mother of your children. Do you think thesethings won't outweigh the claims of that wretch, who ill-treated anddeserted me, who lied about his death, and extorted money for hisforgery? To satisfy your scruples I am willing to marry you again; butto my mind there is no need, even though that brute came back from thegrave 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 ammarried to you, and my children can hold up their heads with anyone. IfStephen Krant had come to me with his villainous tempting, I should havedefied him, scorned him, trod him under foot.' She rose in a tempest ofpassion 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 reporteddead; you saw his grave. I deny that the man came to life.'
'You cannot deny facts,' said the bishop, shaking his head.
'Can't I? I'd deny anything so far as that wretch is concerned. Hefascinated me when I was a weak, foolish girl, as a serpent fascinates abird. He married me for my money; and when it was gone his love wentwith it. He treated me like the low-minded brute he was; you know hedid, George, you know he did. When he was shot in Alsace, I thanked God.I did! I did! I did!'
'Hush, Amy, hush!' said Dr Pendle, trying to soothe her excitement, 'youwill make yourself ill!'
'No, I won't, George; I am as calm as you are; I can't help feelingexcited. I wished to forget that man and the unhappy life he led me. Idid forget him in your love and in the happiness of our children. It wasthe sight of that student with the scarred face that made me think ofhim. 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. Andmy 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, andswore its falsity on the Bible sooner than that one of my darlingsshould have known of it.'
'Amy! Amy! you are out of your mind to speak like this. I deny what istrue? 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; Ishould not have suffered. I don't suffer now; I am not going back thirtyyears to make my heart ache.' She paused and clenched her hands. 'Areyou 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--'takethis! I have no right to wear it. Neither maid, wife, nor widow, whatshould I do with a ring?' and she began to laugh.
'Stop that, Amy!' cried the bishop, sharply, for he saw that, after all,she was becoming hysterical. 'Put the ring again on your finger, untilsuch time as I can replace it by another. You are Krant's widow, and ashis widow I shall marry you next week.'
As a drop of cold water let fall into boiling coffee causes the bubblingto subside, so did these few stern words cool down Mrs Pendle'sexcitement. She overcame her emotion; she replaced the ring on herfinger, 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 sobitterly.'
'Well, darling, I won't speak bitterly again. Stephen is dead, so do notlet us think about him any more. Next week we shall marry again, and allour troubles will be at an end.'
'They will, please God,' said the bishop, solemnly; 'and oh, Amy,dearest, let us thank Him for His great mercy.'
'Do you think He has been merciful?' asked Mrs Pendle, doubtfully, forher religious emotion was not strong enough to blind her to the stubbornfact that their troubles had been undeserved, that they were innocentsinners.
'Most merciful,' murmured the bishop, bowing his head. 'Has He not shownus how to expiate our sin?'
'Our sin; no, George, I won't agree to that. We have not sinned. Wemarried in the fullest belief that Stephen was dead.'
'My dear, all that is past and done with. Let us look to the future, andthank the Almighty that He has delivered us out of our troubles.'
'Yes, I thank Him for that, George,' said Mrs Pendle, meekly enough.
'That is my own dear Amy,' answered the bishop; and producing his pocketBible, he opened it at random. His eye alighted on a verse of Jeremiah,which he read out with thankful emotion,--
'And I will deliver thee out of the hand of the wicked; and I willredeem thee out of the hand of the terrible.'
