CHAPTER VIII.

IN WHICH A LOCKET IS ACCEPTED AND A RING REFUSED.

Something over a week after the events narrated in the last chapter,

Banborough was lounging in the office of the Windsor Hotel at Montreal.

The course of events had run more smoothly for the party since the day

they arrived in the city, weary and travel-stained with their

adventurous trip. Montreal in general, and the manager of the Windsor in

particular, were accustomed to see travellers from the States appear in

all sorts of garbs and all kinds of conditions incident to a hasty

departure, so their coming occasioned little comment; and as Cecil never

did things by halves, they were soon rehabilitated and installed in the

best apartments the hotel could offer.

The various members of the party, after the first excitement was over,

had relapsed into a listless existence, which, however, was destined to

be rudely disturbed, for while the Englishman's thoughts were wandering

in anything but a practical direction, he was aroused from his reverie

by a well-known voice, and, turning, found himself face to face with

Marchmont.

"Well, who on earth would have thought of seeing you here?" exclaimed

the journalist. "Have you fled to Canada to escape being lionised?"

"No," said Banborough cautiously, "not exactly for that reason."

"We couldn't imagine what had become of you," continued his friend.

"You're the hero of the hour in New York, I can tell you, and 'The

Purple Kangaroo' is achieving the greatest success of the decade."

"Oh, confound 'The Purple Kangaroo--'!"

"That's right; run it down. Your modesty becomes you. But seriously, old

man, let me congratulate you. You must be making heaps out of it."

"Let's talk about something else," said Banborough wearily, for he was

heartily sick of his unfortunate novel. "You ask me why I'm here. I'll

return the compliment. Why are you?"

"Why," returned Marchmont, "you're partially to blame for it, you know.

I'm after those Spanish conspirators. Of course you've heard the story?"

"No," said Banborough. "I haven't been in town for a fortnight. What is

it?"

"Well, we arrested a lovely senorita on Fourteenth Street who was using

the title of your novel as a password. I can tell you confidentially

that there's no doubt that she's one of the cleverest and most

unscrupulous female spies in the Spanish secret service; and while they

were deciding where to take her, a stranger, who we're certain was one

of the Secretaries of their Legation, eloped with her, Black Maria and

all, with the recklessness of a true hidalgo. They were joined by a

band outside the city, where they overcame a Justice of the Peace who

arrested them, after a desperate resistance on his part. The story of

this unequal battle was one of the finest bits of bravery we've had for

years.

"After dining at a hotel at Yonkers they held up the waiter with

revolvers and escaped. Similar audacities were perpetrated at the

boundary-line between the United States and Canada, and in spite of the

most intelligent and valiant efforts on the part of the police, aided by

our own special corps of detectives, they've so far eluded us. Their

leader's said to be a perfect devil, who, as I tell you, is certainly a

Secretary of the Spanish Legation."

"How do you know that?" asked Banborough.

"Ah," said Marchmont, looking wise and shaking his head, "the _Daily

Leader_ has private sources of information. I wonder you've not heard

anything of this."

"Yes," acquiesced the Englishman, "it _is_ curious, isn't it?"

"But," continued his friend, "you haven't told me yet why you came to

Montreal."

"Well," said Cecil, laughing, "I can at least assure you that my trip

here has been much less eventful than the one you described."

"By the way," said the journalist, "have you seen the last editorial

about your book in the _Daily Leader_?"

The Englishman shook his head.

"No? Well, here goes." And Marchmont began to read forthwith:

"'English conservatism has recently received a shock from the scion of

Blanford, and the Bishop's son, in connection with 'The Purple

Kangaroo,' has caused the British lion to hump himself into the hotbed

of American politics--'"

"Oh, shut up!" said Cecil, with more force than politeness.

"Don't you like it?" exclaimed the journalist. "There's a column and a

half more. I blue-pencilled a copy and sent it over to your old man."

Banborough groaned.

"But," continued Marchmont, "this isn't anything to what we'll do when

we've hounded the Dons out of Canada."

"What?" cried the author.

"Yes," went on his friend. "We've complained to your Foreign Office, and

within a week every Spanish conspirator will receive notice to quit Her

Majesty's North American colonies on pain of instant arrest and

deportation."

Cecil waited to hear no more, but, pleading an imperative engagement,

rushed away to summon the members of his party to a hurried council of

war in their private sitting-room. All were present with the exception

of Miss Arminster, who had gone to spend the day at a convent in the

suburbs, where she had been brought up as a child.

After an hour of useless debating the council ended, as Banborough might

have foreseen from the first, in the party giving up any solution of the

problem as hopeless, and putting themselves unreservedly in his hands to

lead them out of their difficulties. Cecil, who felt himself ill

equipped for the role of a Moses, jammed his hat on his head, lit his

pipe, and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, said he was going out

where he could be quiet and think about it.

"Going to the Blue Nunnery, he means," said Smith, laughing, and nudging

Spotts.

The actor grunted. Apparently the author's attentions to the fascinating

Violet did not meet with his unqualified approval.

An hour later Banborough stood in the grey old garden of the nunnery,

the sister who was his guide silently pointing out to him the figure of

the little actress, whose bright garments were in striking contrast to

the severe simplicity of her surroundings. When the Englishman turned to

thank the nun, she had disappeared, and he and Miss Arminster had the

garden to themselves.

She stood with her back to him, bending over some roses, unconscious of

his presence, and for a few moments he remained silent, watching her

unobserved. The ten days which had passed had done much to alter his

position towards her, and he had come to fully realise that he was

honestly in love with this woman. Even the fact of her having been

married at Ste. Anne de Beau Pre, which information he had elicited from

her on the occasion of their pilgrimage to that shrine a few days

before, had not served to cool his ardour. Indeed, the fact that his

suit seemed hopeless made him all the more anxious to win her for his

wife.

After he had been watching her for some minutes, a subtle intuition

seemed to tell her of his presence, and he approached her as she raised

her face from the roses to greet him.

"I came to see you--" he began, and paused, hardly knowing how to

continue.

"Am I not then allowed even one holiday?" she asked.

"Is my presence so much of a burden?" he inquired, realising for the

first time the full force of what her statement implied, as a hurried

mental review of the past fortnight showed him that he had scarcely ever

been absent from her side. Indeed, it no longer seemed natural not to

be with her.

"Oh, I didn't mean to be rude," she said, "but I do like a day out of

the world occasionally. You know, when I come back here I forget for the

time that I've ever lived any other life than that which is associated

with this dear old place."

He thought grimly that a young lady who had been married four times

before she was twenty-five must have to undergo a considerable amount of

mental obliteration.

"I think you'd tire of it very soon if you had to live here always," he

said.

"I'm not sure," she replied. "I think--but of course you wouldn't

understand that--only, life on the stage isn't all bright and amusing,

and there are times when one simply longs for a quiet, old-world place

like this."

"I believe you'd like Blanford," he suggested.

"I should love it," she assured him. "But what would your father say to

me? I'd probably shock him out of his gaiters--if he wears them. Does

he?"

"I suppose so," said Cecil. The fact was that the raiment of the Bishop

of Blanford did not particularly interest him at that moment. He had

more important things to talk about, things that had no connection

whatsoever with the immediate future of the A. B. C. Company. Yet the

mention of his father caused him to stop and think, and thought, in this

case, proved fatal to sentiment. He thrust his hands into his pockets

and addressed himself to the more prosaic topics of life, saying:

"My excuse for intruding on you is that our troubles are by no means

over. The authorities, not content with driving us out of the United

States, are preparing to order us out of Canada as well, and the

question of where we are to go is decidedly perplexing."

"Oh, dear!" said the little woman, "I think I'll go into the convent

after all."

"That settles the difficulty as far as you're concerned. Do you think

they'd admit me?"

"Don't talk nonsense. What do the others say?"

"Oh, they say a good many things, but nothing practical, so I came to

you for advice."

"Well, to speak frankly," she replied, "if I were you, I'd drop us all

and run away home. It's much the easiest solution of the difficulty."

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm a gentleman, and besides--"

"Well, what?"

"Besides," he continued, thinking it better to be discreet, "I doubt if

I should be welcome. I've a letter from the governor in my pocket, which

I haven't yet had courage to open. I dare say it won't be pleasant

reading; besides which, it's been chasing me round the country for the

last five or six weeks, and must be rather ancient history."

"Look at it and see," she advised. "They may be ready to kill the fatted

calf for you, after all."

"I'm afraid they do regard me rather in the light of a prodigal," he

admitted. "However, here goes." And breaking the seal of the envelope,

he read the letter aloud:

"THE PALACE, BLANFORD.

"MY DEAR SON:

"Do you realise that it is nearly a year since your Aunt Matilda

and I have received news of you? This has been a source of great

grief and pain to both of us, but it has not moved me to anger. It

has rather caused me to devote such hours as I could spare from

the preparation of my series of sermons on the miracle of Jonah to

personal introspection, in the endeavour to discover, if possible,

whether the cause of our estrangement lay in any defect of my own.

"It may be that you achieve a certain degree of spiritual

enlightenment in producing a book entitled 'The Purple Kangaroo.'

I hope so, though I have not read it. Nor do I wholly agree with

your good aunt, who contends that the title savours too much of

the Apocrypha, and I say nothing of the undesirable popularity you

seem to have attained in the United States. I only ask you to come

home.

"As a proof of her reconciliation, your aunt included a copy of

your book in her last mission box to the Ojibway Indians. I shall

always be glad to receive and make welcome any of your friends at

the palace, no matter how different their tastes and principles

may be to my own well-defined course of action.

"In the hope of better things,

"YOUR AFFECTIONATE FATHER."

"Of course you'll go," Violet said softly.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he replied.

"I do," she returned. "It's your duty. What a dear old chap he must

be!--so thoroughly prosy and honest. I'm sure I should love him. I know

just the sort of man he is. A downright Nonconformist minister of the

midland counties, who was consecrated a Bishop by mistake."

Cecil paused a minute, thinking it over.

"How about the others?" he said.

"Ah, yes," she replied, "the others. But perhaps you don't class them as

your friends."

"Oh, it isn't that," he answered. "Only I was wondering--"

"What the Bishop would say?" she asked, looking at him with a roguish

smile. "Well, why not take him at his word and find out."

"By Jove!" he exclaimed. "I will! I believe you've hit on the very best

possible solution of our difficulty. The episcopal palace at Blanford is

absolutely the last place in the world where any one would think of

looking for a political conspirator, and, by some freak of fortune, the

police are entirely ignorant that I'm in any way connected with your

flight."

"Good! then it's settled!" she cried. "And we'll all accompany you."

"Ye-es, only the governor wouldn't go within a hundred yards of a

theatre, and my aunt calls actors children of--I forget whom--some one

in the Old Testament."

"Belial," suggested Miss Arminster.

"That's it. How did you know?"

"You forget," she said, "I was brought up in a convent."

"It'll never do," he continued, "for them to suspect who you really

are."

"Are we not actors?"

"Of course. We must have a dress rehearsal at once, and cast you for

your parts. But there's Friend Othniel--"

"Ah, yes," she said. "He's impossible."

"We must drop him somehow."

"That's easily managed," she replied. "Pay his hotel bill, and leave him

a note with a nice little cheque in it to be delivered after we've

gone."

"Then we must get away quickly, or he'll suspect."

"The sooner the better."

"I noticed that there was a ship sailing from Montreal for England this

afternoon."

"That'll just suit our purpose," she said. "Friend Othniel told me he

was going to walk up Mount Royal after lunch and wouldn't be back before

six."

"And you'll really come to Blanford?" he asked, taking her hand.

"Of course," she said. "Why should you doubt it?"

"Because," he replied, "it seems too good to be true. I was thinking,

hoping, that perhaps I might persuade you to come there for good, and

never go away."

"Ah," she interrupted him, "you're not going to say that?"

"Why not?" he asked.

"Because we've been such friends," she answered, "and it's quite

impossible."

"Are you sure?"

"Perfectly. And oh, I didn't want you to say it."

"But can't we be friends still?" he insisted.

"With all my heart, if you'll forget this mad dream. It would have been

impossible, even if I were free. Your people would never have accepted

me, and I would only have been a drag on you."

"No, no!" he denied vehemently.

"There," she said, "we won't talk about it. You've been one of the best

friends I ever had, and--what's in that locket you wear?"

"That?" he replied, touching a little blue-enamelled case that hung from

his watch-chain. "It has nothing more interesting in it at present than

a picture of myself. But I'd hoped--"

"Give it to me, will you," she asked, "in remembrance of to-day?"

He detached it silently from his chain, and, pressing it to his lips,

placed it in her hand.

"I'll always wear it," she said.

There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then, pulling himself

together, he remarked brusquely:

"I suppose we'd better be starting for town."

"I'll join you later," she replied. "I want to go to mid-day service in

the little church next to this convent. Such a pretty little church. I

was married there once."

"You were what? Are you really serious, Miss Arminster?"

"Perfectly," she answered, giving him a bewitching little smile as she

tripped out of the garden.

PART II.

_ENGLAND_.

CHAPTER I.

IN WHICH MRS. MACKINTOSH ADMIRES JONAH.

"I think, Matilda, that you must have neglected to put any sugar in my

tea," said the Bishop of Blanford, pushing his cup towards his sister,

after tasting the first mouthful.

"You're quite right, Josephus, I did," she replied.

"And," continued his Lordship, who, being near-sighted, was poking

about, after the manner of a mole, in the three-storied brass bird-cage

which held the more substantial portion of the repast, "there doesn't

seem to be any cake."

"You forget," said Miss Matilda sternly, "that it's an ember-day."

Her brother said nothing, and took a mouthful of the tea, which, like

the morality of the palace, was strong and bitter. But his ample chest

expanded with just the slightest sigh of regret, causing the massive

episcopal cross of gold filigree, set with a single sapphire, which

rested thereon, to rise and fall gently. Miss Matilda's hawklike eye saw

and noted this as the first slight sign of rebellion, and she hastened

to mete out justice swift and stern, saying:

"You remember, Josephus, that there's a special service at the mission

church at five, at which I consider you ought to be present."

His Lordship had not forgotten it, or the circumstance that the

afternoon was exceedingly hot, and that the mission church, which was

situated in an outlying slum, was made of corrugated tin. The palace

garden would have been infinitely preferable, and he knew that had he

accepted sugarless tea without a murmur, his chaplain would have

sweltered in his place. As it was, he submitted meekly, and his sister

gazed at him with a satisfied expression of triumph across her bright

green tea-cloth. If Miss Matilda had a weakness, it was for

ecclesiastical tea-cloths. White was reserved for Sundays and

feast-days; on ordinary occasions, at this time of the year, her ritual

prescribed green.

They were seated in the garden of the palace, a peaceful Arcadia which

it was difficult to realise was only separated from a dusty and concrete

world by a battlemented wall which formed the horizon. The sky overhead

was so blue and cloudless that it might have formed the background for

an Italian landscape, and framed against it was the massive tower of the

cathedral, its silver-greys darkening almost to black, as a buttress

here and there brought it in shadow. Among its pinnacles a few wise old

rooks flapped lazily in the still air, as much a part of their

surroundings as the stately swans that floated on the stream which

lapped the foot of the tower, while on all sides there stretched away a

great sweep of that perfect verdure which only England knows.

"It's nearly two months since I last wrote to Cecil," said the Bishop,

judging it wise to change the trend of the conversation, "and I've not

heard a word."

"I'm sure I should be surprised if you had," snapped Miss Matilda. "And

what your sainted Sarah would have felt, had she lived to see her son's

disgraceful career, makes me shudder."

The Bishop started to sigh again. Then, thinking better of it, stopped.

He had returned to Blanford from his rest-cure a week before, and

apparently the air of Scotland had not proved as beneficial as he had

expected.

"I believe that Cecil will come back to us," he said, ignoring his

sister's last remark. "I told him that his friends would be welcome here

in future, and I particularly mentioned that you'd put a copy of his

book in your last missionary box."

"I hope you didn't neglect to say that I tore out all the pictures. A

more scandalous collection--"

But she never finished her denunciation of the novel, for just at that

moment the Bishop sprang to his feet with a glad cry of "Cecil!"

The young man came running across the lawn to meet his father, seizing

him warmly by the hand, and having administered a dutiful peck to his

aunt, turned to introduce the little group of strangers who had

accompanied him.

"Father," he said, "these are my friends. On the strength of your letter

I've taken the liberty of asking them to be my guests as well."

"They're very welcome to the palace," said the Bishop.

Cecil turned, and leading the two ladies forward, presented them to his

father and his aunt. Miss Matilda swept them both with a comprehensive

glance, and addressing Mrs. Mackintosh, remarked:

"Your daughter, I presume," indicating Miss Arminster. Whereupon the

good lady coloured violently and denied the fact.

"Your niece?" insisted Miss Matilda, who was an excellent catechist, as

generations of unfortunate children could bear witness.

"A young lady whom I'm chaperoning in Europe," replied Mrs. Mackintosh

stiffly, in an effort to be truthful, and at the same time to furnish

Violet with a desirable status in the party.

The tragedian was now brought forward.

"Allow me," said Banborough, in pursuance of a prearranged scheme of

action--"allow me to introduce my friend Professor Tybalt Smith. You,

father, are of course acquainted with his scholarly work on monumental

brasses."

The Bishop naturally was not conversant with the book in question,

because it had never been written, but he was entirely too pedantic to

admit the fact; so he smiled, and congratulated the Professor most

affably on what he termed "his well-known attainments," assuring him

that he would find in the cathedral a rich field of research in his

particular line of work.

Spotts was now brought up, and introduced as a rising young architect of

ecclesiastical tendencies, which delighted his Lordship immensely as

there was nothing he liked better than to explain every detail of his

cathedral to an appreciative listener.

"I've a bit of old dog-tooth I shall want you to look at to-morrow,"

said his host, "and there's some Roman tiling in the north transept that

absolutely demands your attention."

Spotts smiled assent, but was evidently bewildered, and seizing the

first opportunity that offered, asked Cecil in a low voice if his father

took him for a dentist or a mason.

"For a dentist or a mason?" queried Banborough. "I don't understand."

"Well, anyway, he said something about looking after his old dog's teeth

and attending to his tiles."

Cecil exploded in a burst of laughter, saying:

"That's only the architectural jargon, man. You must play the game."

"Oh, I see," said the actor. "It's about his ramshackle old church.

Well, I'll do my best--" But his assurances were cut short by the flow

of his Lordship's conversation.

"As I was saying, Mr. Spotts," he continued, "I should be much

interested to hear your American views on the subject of a clerestory."

"Sure," replied the actor, plunging recklessly. "I always believe in

having four clear stories at least, and in New York and Chicago we run

'em up as high as--" But here a premonitory kick from Cecil brought his

speech to an abrupt termination.

"Most astonishing," commented his Lordship. "I've never heard of more

than one."

"Oh, our Western churches are chock-full of new wrinkles."

"Of new--what? I don't understand. Another cup' of tea for you, Mrs.

Mackintosh? Certainly. We must pursue this subject at leisure, Mr.

Spotts."

The party now turned their attention to the repast, and the Bishop

proceeded to devote himself to Mrs. Mackintosh.

"I'm afraid," he said, when he had seen her sufficiently fortified with

tea containing a due allowance of sugar, and supplemented by a plateful

of cake which he had ordered to be brought as a practical substitute for

the scriptural calf--"I'm afraid you will find our simple life at

Blanford very dull."

"Dear sakes, no!" said that lady, hitching her chair up closer to the

Bishop for a confidential chat--an action on her part which elicited a

flashing glance of disapproval from Miss Matilda.

"I've heard all about you," she went on, "from your son Cecil. You don't

mind if I call him Cecil, do you? for I'm almost old enough to be his

mother. Well, as I was saying, when he told me about the cathedral and

the beeches and the rooks and you, all being here, hundreds of years

old--"

"Excuse me, madam," said his Lordship, "I'm hardly as aged as that."

"Of course I didn't mean you, stupid! How literal you English are!"

It is highly probable that in all the sixty years of his well-ordered

existence the Bishop of Blanford had never been called "stupid" by

anybody. He gasped, and the episcopal cross, and even the heavy gold

chain by which it depended from his neck, were unduly agitated. Then he

decided that he liked it, and determined to continue the conversation.

"When I thought of all that," said Mrs. Mackintosh, "I said to your son:

'Cecil,' said I, 'your father's like that old board fence in my back

yard; he needs a coat of whitewash to freshen him up, and I'm going over

to put it on.'"

"Cromwell," remarked the Bishop, "applied enough whitewash to Blanford

to last it for several centuries. Indeed, we've not succeeded in

restoring all the frescoes yet."

"Nonsense, man," said Mrs. Mackintosh, "you don't see the point at all.

Now what do you take when your liver's out of order?"

"Really, madam," faltered the Bishop, thoroughly aghast at this new turn

in the conversation, "I--er--generally consult my medical adviser."

"Well, you shouldn't!" said Mrs. Mackintosh with determination. "You

should take what we call in my country a pick-me-up. Now I said to your

son: 'I'm going to be a mental and moral pick-me-up for your father.

What he needs is a new point of view. If you don't take care, he'll

fossilise, and you'll have to put him in the British Museum.'"

The Bishop's reflections during this conversation were many and varied.

What he was pleased to term his inner moral consciousness told him he

ought to be shocked at its flippancy; the rest of his mental make-up was

distinctly refreshed. Besides, a certain tension in the social

atmosphere suggested that Miss Matilda was about to go forth to battle,

so he smiled graciously, saying:

"It's certainly very considerate of you to undertake all this on my

account, but I should not like to be in any one's debt, and I hardly see

how I can repay my obligations."

"I'm just coming to that," said Mrs. Mackintosh. "I don't say that I

shouldn't be doing a Christian act by taking you in hand, but I'm free

to admit that I've a personal interest in the matter, for you're the

one man in England I most wanted to meet."

"But what can there possibly be about me--" began the Bishop.

"It isn't about you," replied his guest. "It's about Jonah."

"Josephus," broke in the harsh voice of his sister, "the bell of the

mission chapel has been ringing for some time."

The Bishop drew a long breath and formed a mighty resolve. At last he

had met a person who took an intelligent interest in Jonah, a Biblical

character to whose history he had devoted exhaustive research. It was a

golden opportunity not to be let slip. So, turning to his sister and

looking her squarely in the eyes, he replied boldly that he was quite

aware of the fact.

"If you do not go at once you'll be late," remarked that lady.

"I've not the slightest intention of going at all," said the Bishop.

"I'm talking to Mrs. Mackintosh, who is, it seems, much interested in

Jonah."

There came a sound as of spluttering from the upraised tea-cup of

Professor Tybalt Smith, and Miss Matilda gave a distinctly aggressive

sniff.

"If you're not going, Josephus," she retorted, "I must send word to one

of the chaplains, though after what you had said I naturally--" But

there she paused, arrested by the incredible fact that for the first

time in her experience her brother was not listening to what she was

saying. Her silence commanded his attention.

"Oh," he replied, looking up vacantly, "do what you think proper," and

turned again to Mrs. Mackintosh, who proceeded placidly with her theme.

"Of course," she said, "you hear a lot about seeing with the eye of

faith, but I like to see with the eye of understanding, too, and I never

yet sat under a preacher who was what I should call 'up to Jonah.' I

read your book when it came out. It was one of the prizes they offered

for selling on commission fifty packets of Tinker's Tannin Tea, and I've

been wild to meet you ever since. I have been a-whaling, so to speak,

for years, but I expect you to carry me safely into port."

"Madam," said the Bishop, "you overwhelm me." He was immensely flattered

by her appreciative, if outspoken, commendation. "I'm now," he

continued, "at work on a set of supplementary sermons on this very

subject; and if it wouldn't be imposing too much on your good nature to

let me read them to you, or parts of them--they embrace some six hundred

pages."

Mrs. Mackintosh looked at him regretfully.

"Isn't there any more than that?" she said. "I wanted three volumes at

least."

The Bishop beamed with gratification.

"I trust," he replied, "that they'll be worthy of your attention. But my

treatment of the subject is--er--slightly doctrinal, and perhaps you're

not a member of the Church of England."

"Well, no," said Mrs. Mackintosh. "I can't say as I am. I was baptised a

Methodist, brought up in a Roman Catholic convent, finished at a

Presbyterian boarding-school, and married before a Justice of the Peace

to a Unitarian, and since I've been a widow I've attended a Baptist

church regularly; but I don't believe I'd mind a few weeks of an

Episcopalian, specially seeing he's a Bishop, which I haven't

experienced before."

"I shall endeavour to do my best, madam," said his Lordship. "Perhaps I

may even lead you--in time--"

"Well, I shouldn't be surprised but what you might," replied Mrs.

Mackintosh, "but I mustn't take up all your time. I want you to know my

little friend Miss Arminster. She's one of the nicest girls that ever

was."

"I shall be delighted," said his Lordship. "Arminster," he continued

reflectively. "Does she come from the Arminsters of Shropshire?"

Mrs. Mackintosh laughed.

"I'm sure I don't know," she replied, "but from the way her friends

speak of her, you'd think she came from Noah's Ark."

"Dear me!" said the Bishop. "That's very curious."

"They call her the Leopard," she went on, "and I must say for my part

that I'm 'most as fond of the Leopard as I am of Jonah's whale." And she

rose and joined the group about the tea-table, for she did not wish to

try Miss Matilda's patience too far.

"I don't know what you'll think of our quiet life. I fear it'll seem

very strange to you," said his Lordship, addressing himself to Miss

Arminster.

"I think it'll be jolly," she replied promptly, looking up at him

playfully to see whether he would bear chaffing, "and," she added, after

due deliberation, "I think you're a dear, and your uniform is just

sweet. I always did love a uniform. I used to be awfully gone, as a

child, on a policeman at the corner of our block, but you're much more

nicely dressed than he was."

His Lordship started to say something crushing in regard to the sanctity

of ecclesiastical trappings, but another glance at the bewitching

little figure that confronted him caused him to remark instead that he

was glad she approved of him, and that he would try to take better care

of her than even a guardian of the law.

"Oh, I'm afraid I've said something shocking!" she exclaimed in a

delightfully naive manner, "and I did mean to be so good and decorous.

I'm sure I'll need a lot of teaching."

"I shall be delighted to undertake the task," he replied gallantly.

"Suppose we begin by going to evensong. Would you like to do so?"

"Rather," she returned; "but I'm afraid," looking at her

travelling-costume, "that I'm hardly dressed for the part--I mean the

occasion."

"Dear me!" said the Bishop, scrutinizing her keenly, "it seems to be a

very pretty gown."

"Oh, that's all right," she said. "Then we'll go at once."

"So we shall," he replied, "and you shall sit in the stalls."

"How jolly!" she exclaimed. "I almost always have to sit in the

balcony."

"Really?" said his Lordship. "You don't say so. But from what Mr. Spotts

says, I should judge that the architecture of American churches was

novel." And they walked across the lawn to the cathedral.

A few moments later, Miss Matilda, having dismissed her guests to their

rooms, found herself alone with her nephew.

"Well," she said, turning on him sharply, "perhaps at last you'll

condescend to tell me who these _friends_ of yours are?"

"They're a party of ladies and gentlemen with whom I've been travelling

in America," Cecil replied. "And as we'd agreed to join forces for the

rest of the summer, I'd no option but to invite them here as my guests.

The gentlemen I've already introduced to you--"

"Oh, the gentlemen!" snapped his aunt. "I've no concern about them.

It's the women I--"

"The ladies, Aunt Matilda."

"The ladies, then. Your father, in what he is pleased to call his

wisdom, has seen fit to allow you to introduce these persons into his

house. I'm sure I hope he won't regret it! But I must insist on knowing

something about the people whom I'm entertaining."

"As I've told you already," he replied very quietly, "they're ladies

whom I've met in America. I might also add that they've good manners and

are uniformly courteous."

Miss Matilda tilted her nose till its tip pointed straight at the spire

of the cathedral, and, without any reply, swept past him into the house.

Dinner, that night, in spite of his aunt's efforts to the contrary, was

an unqualified success. The Bishop hailed with joy any interruption in

the monotony of his daily life, and made himself most agreeable, while

his guests seconded him to the best of their ability.

The meal being over, his Lordship proposed a rubber of whist, a

relaxation of which he was very fond, but which, in the reduced state of

his family, he was seldom able to enjoy. Mrs. Mackintosh and Smith, as

the two best players of the party, expressed themselves as willing to

take a hand, and Miss Matilda made up the fourth.

"You'll excuse me," said his Lordship apologetically to Mrs. Mackintosh,

"if we play only for threepenny points. Were I a curate I could play for

sixpence, but in my position the stakes are necessarily limited."

"You don't ever mean to say," exclaimed the old lady, "that you're a

gambling Bishop!"

"My brother," interrupted Miss Matilda, "is a pattern of upright living

to his day and generation. But of course if you're incapable of

understanding the difference between a sinful wager of money and the few

pence necessary to keep up the interest of the game--"

"Gambling is gambling, to my mind," said Mrs. Mackintosh, "whether you

play for dollars or doughnuts!"

"The point seems well taken," remarked the Bishop meditatively. "It's

certainly never struck me in that light before; but if you think--"

"I think," said the old lady decidedly, "that it's lucky for you that

there are no whales in Blanford!"

Miss Matilda threw down her cards.

"If I'm to be called a gambler under my own brother's roof," she said,

"I shall refuse to play. Besides I've a headache." And she rose

majestically from the table.

"But, my dear," began the Bishop meekly, "if we cannot find a fourth

hand--"

"If Miss Banborough doesn't feel up to playing," came the sweet tones of

Violet's voice, "I'll be delighted to take her place." And a moment

later she was ensconced at the table.

The Bishop's sister retired to a corner with the largest and most

aggressive volume of sermons she could find, and sniffed loudly at

intervals all the evening. And when at ten o'clock, in response to the

summons of an impressive functionary clad in black and bearing a wand

surmounted by a silver cross, the little party filed out to evening

devotions in the chapel, Miss Matilda gathered her skirts around her as

if she feared contagion.

"I'm afraid of that old cat," Mrs. Mackintosh confided to Violet, when

they had reached the haven of their apartments. "I'm sure she suspects

us already; and if we're not careful, she'll find us out."

CHAPTER II.

IN WHICH THE ENEMY ARRIVES.

"I say, boss," remarked the tramp, as he paused for a moment in the

process of stuffing himself to repletion with cold game-pie, "this is a

rum 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, a

portion of a stately abbey, which in pre-Norman days had flourished at a

spot some half-dozen miles from the site of Blanford.

"Well," said the tramp, "if this ain't a wild-goose chase I dunno what

you 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-eaten

little village where there ain't nothin' fit to drink, all because I

happened 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 sufficient

remuneration."

"So I did," said the tramp; "but it was revenge, that's what it

was--revenge. I was deserted in a furrin land, with just my board-bill

paid, and not a penny to bless myself with."

"Ah," said Marchmont. "That's the reason, I suppose, why you came from

Montreal 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 was

looking 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 them

Spanish conspirators in mistake for a lady, which I in no-wise

resembles, an' the bloke as was the head of the gang was allus called

the 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 palace

at Blanford; and when the party give me the go-by, I gathered from the

porter as took their traps that they'd gone to England; and the

elevator-boy, he heard the Bishop say to the little actress as they'd be

as safe at the palace as they would anywhere. And then I come on to New

York and blew it into you."

"Yes," said Marchmont, "and I've given you a first-class passage to

England, paid your board and lodging, and kept you full for the best

part 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. "But

now things is goin' to hum. The Bishop and his whole gang's coming over

to 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 last

night at the 'Three Jolly Sailor-boys.'"

"Yes, and had to be carried home dead-drunk. Nice one you are to keep a

secret."

"Well, I was only a-doin' me duty," said the tramp in an aggrieved tone

of voice, "and if they don't know you're after 'em, and you should

happen to be inspectin' the ruins at the same time as they are, you

could get chummy with 'em without half tryin'."

"I'll attend to that," said the newspaper man. "I've just had a cable

from the _Daily Leader_ telling me to hustle if I want to get that

position, and I've got to do something, and do it quick. But it'll never

do for you to be seen. Once they know we're together, the game's up. I

can't have you larking round with the servants either. You'll spoil the

whole 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, and

it's where they'll try and get out of the country if they're hard

pressed. You just stay there and keep your eyes open till you hear from

me."

The tramp growled surlily, and reluctantly prepared to obey.

"Now, then," said Marchmont shortly, "get a move on. Yes, you can take

the provender with you. It'll help to keep your mouth shut."

As the tramp slouched round the corner and out of sight, his master

stretched himself comfortably on the ground, and supporting his head on

one arm, with his straw hat tilted over his eyes to protect them from

the sun, he proceeded to go peacefully to sleep.

Scarcely had the journalist composed himself to slumber, when the ruins

were invaded by the party from the palace. It was now about a month

since Cecil and his friends had arrived at Blanford, and though this

expedition to the old abbey had been often discussed, one thing and

another had intervened to prevent its being put into execution.

After her first burst of antagonism, Miss Matilda had settled down to a

formal hospitality which was, if anything, more disconcerting. Tybalt

Smith alone had achieved a favourable position in her eyes, and this

only as the result of a very considerable amount of flattery and

attention. At first his friends were at a loss to account for his

attitude, but as time went on it appeared that the tragedian had not

exerted himself for nothing. "The dear Professor" frequently had his

breakfast in bed when he was too lazy to get up, and Miss Matilda

considered the delicate state of his health required the daily stimulus

of a pint of champagne. He also had the exclusive use of her victoria in

the afternoon, and even if this did necessitate an occasional attendance

at missionary meetings and penny readings, it was after all but a fair

return for value received. On this occasion he had begged off going to

the picnic, and was spending a luxurious day at the palace, waited on by

the Bishop's sister.

The party, having arrived at the abbey, promptly separated to explore

the ruins, his Lordship gallantly offering to play the part of cicerone

to the ladies. Miss Violet, however, for reasons of her own, preferred

seclusion and a quiet chat with Spotts to any amount of architectural

antiquities, so her host was enabled to devote his entire time to Mrs.

Mackintosh.

"Does it strike you," remarked the Bishop, a few moments later, pausing

in his wanderings to inspect critically a fragment of Roman brick--"does

it strike you how absolutely peaceful this spot is?"

"Well," returned Mrs. Mackintosh, "I don't know as it does. I should

have said your palace was about as good a sample of all-round

peacefulness 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 with

your palace and Jonah you ought to be content."

The Bishop sighed.

"Dear lady," he said, "I admit my faults. The palace I indeed possess

temporarily, but Jonah--ah, what would Jonah be without you! If I have

left my work once in the past month to ask your advice, I have left it a

hundred times."

"You have," admitted Mrs. Mackintosh with decision.

"Then it is to you that Jonah owes his debt of gratitude, not to me. You

have 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 went

through, I don't remember as he had an unmarried sister."

There was silence for a moment, and then his Lordship abruptly changed

the subject.

"What a charming, bright, fresh young life is Miss Arminster's! She

dances through the world like--like--er--" And he paused for a simile.

"Like a grasshopper," suggested Mrs. Mackintosh, with marked disapproval

in her tones. The Bishop had a trivial, not to say frivolous, strain in

his nature which seemed to her hardly in accord with his exalted

position.

"No, dear lady," objected his Lordship, "not a grasshopper. Decidedly

not a grasshopper; say--like a ray of sunshine."

"Violet's a good girl," remarked his companion, "a very good girl, but

in most things she is still a child, and the serious side of life

doesn't appeal to her. I dare say she'd go to sleep if you read to her

about Jonah."

"She did," admitted the Bishop; "but then of course," he added, wishing

to palliate the offence, "it was a very hot day. I suppose, however, you

are right. Serious things do not interest her--and that is--I should

say--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 the

broiling 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 convenient

tombstone to while away the interval till luncheon was served.

"There are lots of things I want to talk to you about, Alvy," began the

little 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 going

here."

"At the palace, you mean?"

"Yes. We're not aboveboard. We're shamming all the while. Besides, we're

doing 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 old

cat 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, I

should 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 becoming

jealous."

"Not a bit of it," he said. "I'd trust you, little girl, through thick

and 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, and

slipped his arm round her waist.

"Oh, do be careful," she protested. "Just think, if any one should see

us! I'm sure I heard a footstep behind us."

They looked up, and saw Cecil above them, standing on the sill of an old

ruined window.

He had not heard their words, but he had seen Spotts's embrace, and

realised bitterly how little chance he stood against such a combination

of Apollo and Roscius.

The month which had intervened since his return to Blanford had not been

an altogether happy time for the Bishop's son. The pain of Miss

Arminster's refusal still rankled within him, and that young lady's

actions had not done much to soothe it. Had she comported herself with a

resigned melancholy, he could have borne his own sufferings with

fortitude. But, on the contrary, she had, he considered, flirted most

outrageously with Mr. Spotts. Indeed Cecil was already strongly of the

opinion that the actor was trying to succeed where he had failed--a

course of action which he thought quite justifiable on his,

Banborough's, part, but highly reprehensible on the part of any one

else. Matters had now culminated. Fate had brought the three together at

this inopportune moment, and as it was manifestly impossible not to say

something, Cecil laid himself out to be agreeable, and Miss Arminster,

who was naturally aware of the awkwardness of his position, did her best

to promote conversation, while Spotts almost immediately cut the Gordian

knot 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 that

Santiago's fallen, and Cervera's fleet's destroyed, Spain has no

alternative 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'm

not ungrateful. Blanford's just sweet, and your father's an old dear."

"Yes," he retorted, laughing. "I notice you're doing your best to usurp

Mrs. Mackintosh's place in his affections."

"That's not from pique, it's from charity," she replied. "I've been

trying 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'm

really 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 my

first visit here, you see. I was on a tour through these counties three

years 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 deal

alike. 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, "this

section of the country has other associations for me."

"I was waiting for that," he retorted. "In which of the neighbouring

towns were you married?"

"The one nearest here," she replied. "I think we can just see the spire

of the church over the trees. But how did you know?"

"I inferred it as a matter of course," he said banteringly, "but I'm

only 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 a

way, as I had asked you."

"Mr. Banborough," she replied stiffly, drawing herself up, "you forget

yourself."

"I beg your pardon," he returned humbly. "Only as American divorce laws

are so lax, I thought--"

"The divorce laws of my country are a disgrace, and nothing would ever

induce me to avail myself of them. Besides, marriage, to me, is a very

serious and solemn matter, and I can't permit you to speak about it

flippantly, even by way of a joke."

Cecil picked up a handful of pebbles and began throwing them

meditatively at the fragment of an adjacent arch. The more he saw of

Miss Arminster, the greater mystery she became. By her own admission,

she had been married at least half a dozen times, which, were he to

accept as real the high moral standard which she always assumed, must

imply a frightful mortality among her husbands. But then she neither

seemed flippant nor shallow, and her serious attitude towards the

sacrament of marriage appeared wholly incompatible with a matrimonial

experience which might have caused a Mormon to shudder. Anyway, she

wasn't going to marry him, and he turned to the discussion of more

fruitful 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 father

hasn't left a stone of his own cathedral unexplained, and I imagine

he'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. "I

won'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_ never

was allowed to put _my_ arm--"

"How dare you!" she cried, rising, really angry this time. "I--" Then

turning 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 better

manners. 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 Arminster

tried to take advantage of his dotage to forge another link in her

matrimonial chain, he, Banborough, would have a word to say on the

subject.

"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 for

the rest of the week. Lord Downton is to call for me in his yacht at

Dullhampton to-morrow, and has asked me to join his party and to bring

some 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 could

leave the palace just at this time."

"Perhaps," suggested his guest, "yachting doesn't agree with her. Has

she ever tried it before?"

"She has," replied the Bishop, with a certain asperity.

"Ah, poor thing!" said Miss Arminster. "It must have taken away from

your pleasure to feel that she was suffering such great discomfort on

your account."

"Lord Downton didn't specify my sister. He only said 'some lady'; and so

I thought if you--"

"Oh, that's just sweet of you!" exclaimed his companion. "I'm sure I

should 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 my

dilemma."

"Of course!" Violet responded promptly, understanding that he wished to

be helped out. "If your sister knew you were going, she'd feel it her

duty to accompany you, and the trip would be spoilt for you by her

sufferings. So, out of your affection for her, you think it would be

better if we were just quietly to slip off to-morrow and send her a wire

from Dullhampton."

The Bishop was delighted. Miss Matilda never accepted him at his own

valuation.

"So, just on your account," continued his companion demurely, "I won't

say 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 suddenly

rounding a corner he had planted his foot on the recumbent form of

Marchmont.

"Hullo!" said that gentleman, sitting up, and adding, as he rubbed his

eyes to get them wider open, "permit me to inform you that this part of

the ground is strictly preserved."

"Who are you, sir?" demanded the Bishop.

"Come," said the stranger cheerfully, "we'll make a bargain. I'll tell

you 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 and

I'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 sending

you my editorials on the subject for some weeks past."

"Are you the person who wrote those scandalous leaders which have been

forwarded to me from America?" demanded the Bishop.

"I thought you'd remember them," said the journalist. "They're

eye-openers, aren't they?"

His Lordship drew himself up and put on his most repressive manner, but

Marchmont 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 things

hum.' So, having a chance for a little vacation, I jumped on board a

steamer, crossed to Southampton, and biked up-country, doing these ruins

on the way. I meant to have presented myself at the palace this

afternoon in due form and a swallow-tailed coat, but I'm just as much

pleased 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 a

journalist, 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 'Pink

Pig,' or your 'Azure Griffin,' or whatever kind of nondescript-coloured

animal your local hostelry boasts, and study your charming cathedral.

But, in the first place, I think we'd better have some lunch. I'm as

hungry as a bear."

"I fear we've scarcely provided for an extra guest," returned Cecil

frigidly. The journalist was the very last person he wanted to see at

Blanford, and he did not take any pains to disguise the fact.

Marchmont, however, was not to be snubbed, and remarking cheerfully that

there was always enough for one more, calmly proceeded in the direction

of the hampers. Once there, he constituted himself chef and butler

forthwith, and moreover proved so efficient in both capacities that,

irritated as his friend was at his self-assurance, he could not but

express his appreciation.

Marchmont, having started the rest of the people on their lunch and made

all feel at their ease, turned on his journalistic tap for the benefit

of the Bishop, and plied the old gentleman with such a judicious mixture

of flattery and amusing anecdote that, by the time the repast was over,

his Lordship was solemnly assuring his son, much to that young

gentleman's disgust, that he was indeed fortunate in possessing such a

delightful friend, and that he might invite Mr. Marchmont to the palace

if 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 very

good, and perhaps, with so many guests, it would be asking too much of

your aunt."

"What does all this mean?" asked Spotts of Banborough when a convenient

opportunity offered.

The Bishop's son shrugged his shoulders, replying:

"It means mischief."

CHAPTER III.

IN WHICH PEACE IS PROPOSED AND WAR DECLARED.

Marchmont stood on the lawn before the palace, on the morning after his

arrival, critically inspecting that structure; his feet stretched wide

apart, his hands in his pockets, and his hat on the back of his head.

Cecil, emerging from breakfast, sighted his enemy and made haste to join

him.

"Jolly old rookery you've got," remarked the reporter.

"Yes," said Banborough. "It was a monastery originally. They turned it

into a bishop's palace about the reign of Henry VIII."

"I know that style," said the American. "Nice rambling ark, two stories

high, and no two rooms on the same level. Architect built right out into

the country till he got tired, and then turned round and came back.

Obliged to have a valet to show you to your room whether you're sober or

not."

"I didn't know," said Cecil drily, "that you possessed an extensive

acquaintance in ecclesiastical circles in this country."

"Oh, yes," said Marchmont, "I served as valet for six months to a bishop

while I was gathering materials for my articles on 'English Sees Seen

from the Inside.'"

"Was it a financial success?" queried Banborough.

"No," admitted the reporter regretfully, "it sold the paper splendidly,

but was stopped at the second article at the request of the American

ambassador."

"Did you favour us with a visit?"

"I hadn't that honour."

"If you had done so you would probably have slept in the rooms we give

to our American guests in the new part of the house."

"How old is that?" queried the journalist.

"About eight hundred years," replied Cecil, "and the walls are four feet

thick."

"I know," said the reporter, "It's appalling. That sort of thing always

upsets me. It seems so out of keeping with the _Daily Leader_."

"Look here, Marchmont, why have you come to Blanford?" demanded

Banborough, abruptly changing the conversation.

"To have the joy of your society," returned the journalist.

"If that were really the case I'd be delighted to see you," said the

Englishman. "But you're on the track of these unfortunate people who are

my guests; and if you make things disagreeable for them I shan't have

the slightest compunction in forbidding you the house."

The American, apparently ignoring the other's frankness, remarked:

"So you admit they're conspirators?"

"I admit nothing of the kind. They're perfectly innocent of the charge

you bring against them, and you've been making an awful ass of yourself,

if you only knew it."

"Ah, thank you. But if this is the case why didn't you mention the fact

to me in Montreal?"

"I had my reasons."

"And why are all these people received as honoured guests in your

father's palace?"

"That, if you'll permit me to say so, Marchmont, is a matter that

doesn't concern you."

"Everything concerns me. Not that I expect you to see that point of

view. But to put it another way. Considering all I've done to increase

the sale of your book, won't you do me a good turn and tell me what you

know about this affair?"

"I wish the confounded book had never sold a copy!" burst out

Banborough. "And I'll not say one word to the detriment of my friends!"

"Then it _is_ to be war?" queried the journalist, rolling a cigarette.

"Not so far as I'm concerned," replied his host. "Why don't you let

bygones be bygones? A truce between the United States and Spain may be

declared any day, and then--"

"Then my great scoop will be lost for ever. What would the public care

about conspirators if there were no war?"

"Exactly what I say," said Cecil. "So let's drop the whole matter."

"Not much!" cried the journalist. "It's my last chance. And if you won't

help me--why, I must help myself."

"What do you wish me to do?"

"Turn 'em out of Blanford."

"Impossible!"

"But your father?"

"How dare you mention my father's name in this connection? I won't have

him dragged into publicity to sell your dirty rag of a newspaper!" Cecil

exploded, thoroughly beside himself at the thought of such a dreadful

possibility.

The journalist nodded his head gravely. Banborough's fierce defence of

the Bishop he attributed to far other grounds than those on which it was

really based. It justified him to the tramp's suspicions that his

Lordship was actually connected with the plot.

"Well," he said, with a fair pretence of backing down, "there's no need

of getting so hot about it. Of course I don't want to make myself

disagreeable."

"Neither do I," replied his host. "Only we may as well understand each

other. You're quite welcome to come to the palace as long as you

remember to be a gentleman before you are a journalist. But if you

forget it, I'll be forced to treat you as you deserve," and turning on

his heel, he left Marchmont chewing the ends of his sandy moustache with

a grim avidity that boded ill for the peace of the Bishop and his

household.

The American told himself that he must work carefully. Banborough would

watch him and probably put the others on their guard. And moreover, he

would not hesitate to dismiss him from the palace, which, apart from the

unpleasantness of the operation, would be well-nigh fatal to the success

of the scheme the journalist was maturing. Decidedly the highest caution

was essential, but he must work quickly, for there was no time to be

lost. Marchmont therefore proceeded to pump the first member of the

company he came across. This happened to be Spotts, who was in rather a

bad humour, the result of a morning spent with the Bishop in the

cobwebby heights of a neighbouring church-tower.

"You're the very person I wanted to see," cried the reporter.

"I'm afraid I've hardly time to be interviewed just now," replied the

actor shortly.

"Oh, this isn't professional. I'm off duty sometimes. I'm only human."

"Oh, are you? I supposed newspaper men were neither the one nor the

other."

"Well, I wanted to talk to you for your own good."

"Is it as bad as all that?"

"Of course I know who you really are," pursued the journalist, ignoring

the interruption. "And I may say confidentially that you and Miss

Arminster are not the people of this party I'm after."

"Ah, that's very thoughtful of you."

"So, if I could help you two to slip off quietly--"

"Why include Miss Arminster?" queried Spotts with well-affected

surprise.

"Why? My dear fellow, you don't suppose I'm quite blind. Any one who

follows that lady about with his eyes as you do is naturally-- Well--you

understand--"

"I'm afraid your professional acumen is at fault this time," said the

actor, and added: "I hope I may never come any nearer being married than

I am now."

"Oh, I say," returned Marchmont; "don't you aspire to be her--sixteenth,

is it?"

"You're alluding to Miss Arminster's husbands?" asked Spotts drily.

"Oh, I'd a little bet up with a friend," said Marchmont, "that she'd

been married at least a baker's dozen times. Ought I to hedge?"

"I think you're well inside the number," replied the actor.

"Gad! she must be pretty well acquainted with the divorce courts!"

exclaimed the reporter.

"I'm quite sure she's never been divorced in her life," returned Spotts.

"So long. I'm after a drink." And he left him, thus terminating the

conversation.

"Ah," said the journalist to himself, "I bet you're the next in line,

just the same."

Baffled in his first attempt, Marchmont sought other means of

information, for there is always a weak spot in every defence, and a man

of far less keen perception than the reporter would have had little

difficulty in finding the most favourable point of attack. So it is not

surprising that after a little cogitation he went in search of Miss

Matilda, whom he had met the day before when he had returned with the

party from the abbey. He found that lady on the lawn knitting socks for

the heathen, and deserted for the nonce by the faithful Smith.

"Dear Miss Banborough," began the journalist, sitting down beside her,

"what a reproach it is to idle men like myself to see such industry!"

"It's very kind of you, I'm sure, to notice my humble labours," replied

the old lady, expanding at once under the first word of flattery. "My

brother tells me you're connected with a great newspaper. How ennobling

that must be! It gives you such a wide scope for doing good."

Marchmont, who had hardly adopted journalism for this purpose, and was

conscious of having done his fair share of mischief in the world, made a

desperate effort to look the part assigned to him, and murmuring

something about the inspiration, to toilers like himself, of such

self-sacrificing lives as hers, abruptly turned the conversation by

alluding to the pleasure which she must have felt at her nephew's

return.

"Of course we're very glad to have him back," acceded Miss Matilda. "But

then we see little or nothing of him."

"Naturally," said the journalist, "his days must be given up to his

friends. How you must be looking forward to the time when you can have

him quite to yourself!"

The gleam that came into the old lady's eye at this remark told him

that he had not been mistaken in fancying her hostile to the strangers,

and he hastened to continue such a fruitful theme, saying:

"I suppose that, as they've been here a month now, you'll be losing them

soon."

"I can't say," she snapped. "They seem to be staying for an indefinite

period."

"Really?" he replied. "I shouldn't have fancied that your nephew would

have found them very congenial. Indeed, if you'll pardon my frankness, I

was rather surprised to meet them here."

Miss Matilda at once gave him her undivided attention.

"You knew them in America?" she asked.

"Of course I knew about them. I was hardly acquainted personally."

It was his tone rather than his words that lent an unfavourable colour

to the remark, but the implication was not lost on the Bishop's sister.

Here at last was a man who could give her the information she was most

anxious to obtain.

"I should have supposed," she ventured, "that you'd have known such very

intimate friends of Cecil's as these appear to be."

"Oh, no," he returned. "New York's a big place. I dare say you know much

more about them than I do."

"I know nothing!" she burst out. "Strange as it may appear to you, my

nephew has never told me one word concerning his guests, though I'm

expected to receive them under my--his father's roof and introduce them

to my friends."

"I see," replied Marchmont cautiously. "Cecil should have trusted to

your excellent discrimination and judgment, unless--" and here he

paused.

The position required consideration. It was easy enough to tell her

about these people. Merely to say that they were an itinerant company of

actors and actresses would be sufficient to ensure them a speedy _conge_

from Blanford. But was it wise to do this? Did he want them to go? A

hasty action is often like a boomerang. It returns on the toes of the

person who thoughtlessly launches it in flight. No, on the whole they

had better remain, he told himself. The palace would form an excellent

background for the sensational exposure he hoped to make. If he could

only get the Bishop into a corner, he would be quite satisfied.

"Well, what?" she demanded sharply, impatient at his unfinished

sentence.

"Unless," he continued, hedging carefully--"unless your nephew felt that

it was quite sufficient to have explained things to his father.

Doubtless the Bishop knows all about his son's friends."

"The Bishop knows a great deal too much for a man in his position,"

snapped his sister.

"Quite so," thought the journalist, "and doesn't confide it to you."

Aloud he remarked:

"Of course there's nothing particular to be said against them, except

that they're hardly in Cecil's set."

"I didn't need you to tell me that. But what about the ladies?"

"Ah, yes, the ladies. Well, really, you've put me in an awkward

position, Miss Banborough. One can't be uncomplimentary to the fair sex,

you know."

"Humph! Well, Josephus sees more of both of them than is good for him.

But of course Mrs. Mackintosh has neither the youth nor the good looks

to cause me any anxiety."

"Mrs. Mackintosh is eminently respectable," said Marchmont, who always

spoke the truth when it did not conflict with business.

"But Miss Arminster?"

The journalist did not answer.

"Well," she cried, "why don't you speak?"

"Madam," he replied, "you place me in a most embarrassing situation. My

duty to you and the natural gallantry of my nature draw me in different

directions."

"I insist."

"I put myself in your hands. In saying what I do I'm laying myself open

to serious misconstruction."

"You may rely upon my silence."

"Any indiscretion on your part would be most unfortunate."

"I shall not forget the confidence you've reposed in me."

"I shall hold you to that," he said. "If I tell you what I have in mind,

will you promise not to use the information without my permission?"

"That I cannot say."

"Then I say nothing."

"But you've already implied--"

"But implications, my dear Miss Banborough, are not evidence."

"You leave me no other course but to accede to your request," she said.

"Ah, then you promise?"

"I promise."

"The word of a woman in your position and of your high moral standard I

know is sacred."

She nodded.

"Well, then," he continued, "please answer me this question. Where was

your brother the first week in May?"

"In Scotland."

"Why did he go?"

"For absolute rest. He was worried and run down."

"You heard from him frequently?"

"No, not once during the whole time. Sir Joseph Westmoreland, the great

London nerve specialist, who advised the change, even prohibited

correspondence."

"You're sure he was in Scotland?"

"Really, Mr. Marchmont, why do you ask?"

"Because I saw the Bishop of Blanford in the United States in the first

week of May on his way to Montreal, Canada."

"Impossible!"

"I'm certain of it."

"I cannot credit what you tell me!"

"What I tell you is quite true. You say he was absent for a month. Might

he not have gone to the States and returned in that time?"

His sister nodded. Then, as a sudden thought occurred to her, she

flushed red with anger, exclaiming:

"And this girl, this Miss Arminster! Was she in Montreal also?"

"She was," replied Marchmont. "I saw her."

"The hussy!" cried Miss Matilda, rising. "She shan't remain in my house

another hour!"

"Hold on!" he exclaimed. "You forget your promise!"

"But after what you've said!"

"I haven't said anything. Miss Arminster's being in Montreal might have

been merely a coincidence."

"But do you know something about her?"

"I've investigated her career," he replied, "and have found nothing

objectionable in it, beyond the fact that she's rather fond of getting

married."

"Getting married! But surely she calls herself _Miss_ Arminster?"

"Ah, yes; but that's very common on the--I mean, not unusual in such

cases."

"She has been married, then, more than once?"

"I know of a dozen different occasions on which she has had the service

performed."

"Infamous!"

"Oh, no. There's no evidence of her ever having been through the divorce

court. Indeed, she may never have been married to more than one man at

the same time."

"But how to account--"

"For the mortality in husbands? Well, fortunately, we're not required to

do that."

"I will not have my dear brother stricken down in his prime!" gasped

Miss Matilda.

"Oh, I don't suppose she's necessarily fatal. Still, as mistress of

Blanford--"

The Bishop's sister arose in her wrath. For the first time in her

existence she wanted to swear, but contented herself by remarking:

"That young woman leaves the palace to-day!"

"You forget your promise to me," he said.

"But is it possible, in the face of what you've told me, that you can

hold me to it?"

"Quite possible. In fact I mean to do so, and as soon as your righteous

indignation cools down a bit you'll realise that we've nothing

whatsoever to go on. What I've said could only be substantiated by

evidence requiring some time to obtain. If you accused her now, she'd

merely deny my statement, and her word's as good as mine, and probably

better, in his Lordship's estimation."

"But is there no proof near at hand?"

"Yes. She was married several years ago at a little church close by the

ruined abbey where I first met your party, and the fact is recorded in

the register."

"Then surely--"

"There's no crime in being married once," he objected.

"But what _can_ we do?" she asked.

"Keep quiet for a little while longer. Miss Arminster's certain to make

some slip, and then--"

"It seems very difficult to wait."

"Believe me," he replied, "it's the only way, and I shall rely on your

promise."

Saying which, he left her, partly because he had obtained all the

information he wished, and partly because he was certain that he espied

the well-known figure of the tramp hovering behind the bushes on the

opposite side of the lawn.

A few moments later he had his hand on that individual's collar, and was

demanding sternly what he meant by coming to Blanford against his

orders.

"'Cause I've somethin' of importance to tell yer," retorted that worthy.

"Well, out with it, quick!" said the journalist. "It's got to be pretty

important to excuse your disobedience."

"It is. The boss is going to bolt."

"Who? The Bishop?"

"That's it! Him and the lady."

"What lady?"

"The young 'un, I guess."

"What's all this stuff about?" demanded Marchmont.

"It ain't stuff, as you'll soon see," replied the tramp in an aggrieved

tone. "There was a yacht come into Dullhampton last night, a

nasty-lookin' boat and a quick steamer. The second mate and me, we got

to know each other up to the inn--he's a furriner, he is--a Don, more'n

likely. But he let on, havin' had some drink, as how he'd been sent

there with the yacht to wait for the Bishop o' Blanford and a lady as

was comin' down next day, and the Bishop was to give the sailin'

orders."

"Humph! What more?"

"This mornin' I seed 'em lookin' over a lot of flags on the deck of the

yacht, and one of 'em was Spanish."

"So you came all the way up here to tell me this cock-and-bull story!"

"Not till I'd squared the crew."

"Squared the crew?"

"I let on to 'em as how they'd been shipped under false orders to carry

two Spanish spies out of the country, an' how we was on to the fact, and

if they'd stay by us they'd not be held responsible; and I promised 'em

ten shillin's apiece and give 'em all the drink they wanted, and they're

ours to a man."

"And that's where you've wasted good money and good liquor. I tell you

what you say is impossible. If the Bishop had had any idea of a move

like that, I'd have got wind of it. Besides, his old cat of a sister

would never let him leave Blanford again without her."

"Hist!" said the tramp, pointing across the lawn. "Look there, what did

I say? My eyesight ain't what it was, from breakin' stones up to Sing

Sing, and I can't see no faces at this distance, but there's somethin'

sneakin' along there, in bishop's togs."

Marchmont followed the direction he indicated, and saw two figures

stealing round the corner of the palace, carrying hand-bags and showing

every sign of watchfulness and suspicion. Having ascertained that the

lawn was clear, they slipped rapidly across it, and, putting themselves

in the protecting shade of a clump of bushes, turned into the high-road

and disappeared. It had needed no second glance to identify them as his

Lordship and Miss Arminster.

"By Jove!" gasped the journalist. "It is true, then! This will be a

scoop of scoops! Come, we've got to run for it. We must take the same

train, and they mustn't see us."

Some one else had witnessed the departure, in spite of all the

precautions of the fugitives, and that person was Miss Matilda, who,

from the vantage of an upper window, caught a glimpse of them just as

they disappeared through the gate. Unwilling at first to believe her

senses, she rushed to her brother's room and then to Miss Arminster's.

Alas! in each apartment the traces of hasty packing and missing

hand-luggage gave damning evidence of the fact. She rushed downstairs,

bursting with her dreadful intelligence. In the hall she met Cecil,

delightedly waving a telegram in his hand.

"Hurrah! Aunt Matilda!" he shouted. "Such news! 'The Purple Kangaroo'

has reached its twentieth edition, and a truce is declared between the

United States and Spain! Where are the others? I must tell them that the

war is over."

"Bother your war!" exclaimed his aunt. "Do you know that your father and

that shameless minx, Miss Arminster, have just eloped?"

CHAPTER IV.

IN WHICH THE BISHOP IS ABDUCTED.

All the way from Blanford to Dullhampton the Bishop was in the best of

spirits, much on the principle of a naughty boy who, having played

truant, means to enjoy his holiday to the full, well knowing that he

will be caned when it is over. Indeed his Lordship became positively

skittish, and Miss Arminster was obliged to squelch him a little, as

that young lady, for excellent reasons of her own, had no more intention

of becoming the mistress of Blanford than she had of wedding the author

of "The Purple Kangaroo." On the other hand, she realised that it was

one of the old gentleman's very rare treats, and she wanted him to have

as good a time as possible; besides which, she had always longed to take

a cruise on a steam-yacht, and now her ambition was about to be

gratified.

The shock of disappointment was therefore all the greater when, on their

arrival at Dullhampton, they were met by the captain, who informed them

that Lord Downton had had a bad fall the day before and seriously

sprained his ankle, so that the party had been given up. He had sent the

yacht on, however, with the request that the Bishop would consider it at

his disposal for the remainder of the week.

"Now that's exceedingly awkward," said his Lordship. "I fear we can

hardly go yachting without a chaperon."

"Most certainly not," agreed Miss Arminster. "But let's take a little

sail this afternoon, and return to Blanford in time for dinner."

"That's very well thought of," said the Bishop, "and to-morrow we can

bring down some more of our party. It seems a pity we shouldn't use the

yacht, now we're here. Does that arrangement meet with your approval,

captain?"

"Well, your Lordship," replied the captain, "to be honest with you, I

hadn't expected as how you'd be able to get away to-day, so I'd

arranged to see my sister, who lives here, this afternoon, and the first

mate's gone up to town to order some stores. But if you are only to be

out for a few hours, as you say, my second mate's quite capable of

taking the boat for you. I wouldn't like to trust him on a long cruise,

for he's only joined a few weeks, and I know nothing about his

character. He is a first-class navigator, however, and for an afternoon

in the Solent he'll do you very well."

"I'm sure we would not want to interfere with your plans, captain," said

his Lordship, "so if Miss Arminster agrees--"

"Oh my, yes," acquiesced Violet. "I don't care who takes the yacht out,

so long as we go."

"Right you are," said the captain. "Steam's up, and I've ordered lunch

on board, as I thought you'd want that anyway. I'll tell Funk, the

second mate, to run out into the Solent, and then you can give your own

orders. What time will you be back?"

"Oh, not later than six," replied the Bishop, as they stepped on board

Lord Downton's beautiful craft, the "Homing Pigeon."

She was a large boat and thoroughly seaworthy. Indeed her owner had made

a voyage in her to the Mediterranean, but she was built for speed also,

and decidedly rakish in cut.

They were at once introduced to the second mate, and Miss Arminster

thought she had seldom seen a more unprepossessing individual. He was

surly and shifty-eyed, and she confided to the Bishop, when they were

alone, that she was glad they were not going far from land under that

man's charge, for he looked like a pirate.

After glancing round the deck, which seemed charmingly arranged, they at

once descended to the cabin for lunch, for their little journey had made

them hungry. Here the captain left them with a few courteous words of

excuse. A moment later, as he was leaving the ship, he met two strangers

coming on board, laden with hand-baggage. They were, though unknown to

him, the journalist and the tramp. On asking them sharply what their

business was, Marchmont replied very glibly that he was his Lordship's

valet, and that he had hired this man to bring down the luggage from the

station.

"I don't think your master'll need his traps, as he's only going out for

the afternoon," said the captain. "But you'd better take them down to

the cabin, and see the porter gets off before they start. I don't allow

strangers aboard."

The valet touched his hat respectfully, and went up the gangway,

followed by the obsequious porter. A moment later they reached the deck,

and no sooner had the captain disappeared round a corner than both men

approached the second mate, with whom they had a hurried and earnest

conversation, followed by an interchange of something which that officer

transferred to his trousers-pocket and jingled appreciatively.

The ropes were now cast off, and they got under way, while Marchmont

stole very quietly to the door of the hatchway which led down to the

saloon where the Bishop and the actress were unsuspectingly lunching,

and softly turned the key.

"Mayn't I cut you a slice of this cold ham, my dear?" asked the Bishop

in his most fatherly tones.

"Not while the pigeon-pie lasts," said his fair companion. "But you may

give me a glass of champagne, if you will. I see some going to waste in

an ice-cooler over there in the corner."

"I was hoping the steward would come," ventured his Lordship.

"Well, I hope he won't. Being tete-a-tete is much more fun, don't you

think? Give the bottle to me, and I'll show you how to open it and not

spill a drop. In some respects your education's been neglected."

"I'm afraid it has," admitted the Bishop, assisting her with his

pen-knife.

His Lordship felt recklessly jovial. To lunch alone with a young lady

who opened champagne with a dexterity that bespoke considerable

practice must be very wicked, he felt certain, and he was shocked to

realise that he didn't care if it was. His years of repression were

beginning to find their outlet in a natural reaction.