shortcomings," she said.
"That's very nice," he replied, just tasting it.
"Nonsense!" she cried. "No heel-taps. I'm no end thirsty."
"So am I," replied his Lordship, draining his glass contentedly, and
watching her fill it up again.
"What are you so pensive about?" she demanded. "There's another bottle."
He had been thinking that his sister always confined him to two glasses,
but he didn't say so, and under her skilful lead he was soon describing
to her a Cowes regatta he had once seen, in which she professed to be
amazingly interested.
"I tell you what it is," she remarked a little later on. "If I had a
gorgeous palace like yours I'd have no end of a good time."
"Ah," said the Bishop, who was helping her to unfasten the second bottle
of champagne, "I never thought of it in that light."
"No," returned his fair companion, "I suppose not. But you're losing
lots of fun in life, and it does seem a shame, when you would so enjoy
it."
"It does," said the Bishop, sampling the fresh bottle. "But then, you
see, there's my sister, Miss Matilda--"
"Rats!"
"Excuse me, I didn't catch your meaning."
"Never mind my meaning. We're talking about your sister. She's a most
estimable woman, my dear Bish-- Oh, pshaw! I can't always call you by
your title."
"Call me Josephus," he said.
"No, I couldn't call you that, either. It's too dreadful. I'll call you
Joe."
The Bishop beamed with joy.
"And I," he faltered, "may I call you Violet?"
"No," she said, "I don't think it's proper in a man of your position."
"But if you call me--Joe--"
"Well!" she cried, laughing, "we'll make a compromise. Suppose you call
me 'the Leopard'?"
"To be sure," he said. "Mrs. Mackintosh spoke of you as
that--er--quadruped. But what does it mean?"
"You want to know a great deal too much for a man of your age. It's an
animal that is more than once mentioned in Scripture, and that ought to
be sufficient for your purposes. So we'll have it understood that his
Lordship's Leopard is quite at his Lordship's service, if his Lordship
doesn't mind."
"Mind!" he cried ecstatically, eyeing the other side of the table. But
Miss Violet intended to have the board between them.
"Take another glass of champagne, and keep quiet," she said sternly.
"We're talking about your estimable but impossible sister. My dear Joe,
you'll never have any sport till you've got rid of her."
"But how shall I get rid of her?" he asked despondently. Even champagne
was not proof against the depression induced by such an appalling
thought.
"Oh, send her to a course of mud-baths or a water-cure!"
"I might try it--if--if you'd help me--if you'd take her place at the
palace. I mean--"
"Josephus!" she called, in such an exact imitation of his sister's tone
that it made him sit right up. "Josephus! don't say another word! I know
what you mean--and you're an old dear--and I'm not going to let you make
a fool of yourself. You're aged enough to be my father, and if your son
had had his way you would have been my father-in-law. I want to have a
good time, and I want you to have a good time; but that isn't the proper
manner in which to set about it. No, you send the old lady packing, for
the good of her health, and Mrs. Mackintosh and I'll help you and Cecil
entertain, and we'll have a dance, and a marquee, and lots of punch. I
dare say you've never been to a dance in your life," she rattled on,
not giving him a chance to blunder out excuses.
"I'm not such an old fogey as you think me," he began. "But I want to
say--er--Miss--Leopard--"
"Oh, no, you don't," she interrupted. "You want to forget what you've
said, and so do I. We must talk about something else. What were you
saying about a dance?"
"No, no, not a dance," he replied, resigning himself to his fate. "But
once," lowering his voice, "not long ago either, when I was in town,
I--I'm sure you won't believe it-- I went to a theatre." This last
triumphantly.
"Oh, you sad dog!" she cried. "You didn't!"
He nodded his head affirmatively.
"And what was the piece?"
"'The Sign of the Cross.'"
"What, that gruesome show, where every one's slaughtered or chewed up by
lions! You ought to have gone to the Empire."
"It wasn't far from Leicester Square," he said deprecatingly.
"Not near enough to be very wicked," she retorted. "But, say, I'll tell
you something if you'll promise never, never to reveal it."
"The word of a bishop--" he began.
"Oh, nonsense! You're not a bishop at present, you're just Joe. Well,
here it is: I'm an actress!"
"You--are--an--actress!"
"Fact! I'm quite harmless. If you keep six feet from me there's not the
slightest danger of contamination."
Then, seeing his look of astonished bewilderment, she burst into a peal
of ringing laughter, crying:
"Why, to look at you, one would think I'd told you that I was a Gorgon!"
"No, no," he said, stammering. "I--I'm delighted. I always really wanted
to meet an actress--but--er--I hardly know what to say--"
"Don't say anything. Just be your dear unsophisticated self, or you'll
be a bore. Cecil didn't dare tell you who I was, for fear you'd be
shocked. Come on, let's go up on deck. It's close down here."
"It is," admitted his Lordship, whose temperature had risen with his
consumption of champagne, and added:
"We should be well out by this time, for we seem to have been going at
great speed."
"Isn't it glorious!" she cried. "I wonder what they're doing at
Blanford. I guess your telegram was an eye-opener."
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the Bishop, fishing a form out of his pocket.
"I forgot to send it."
"What, do you mean to say they don't know what's become of us?"
"I never said a word."
"My hat!" she cried. "Won't you get a wigging to-night?"
Then, seeing his evident discomfiture, she added:
"Never mind, I'll take it with you; and if she turns nasty we'll put a
flea in her ear about those mud-baths. Come, let's have our fun,
anyway." And she put her hand on the cabin door.
"Why, it's stuck!" she exclaimed. "I can't open it."
The Bishop grasped the handle.
"It isn't stuck!" he cried, shaking it. "It's locked!"
* * * * *
While events had been progressing in the cabin, others of no less
importance were taking place on deck. Once they were well off the land,
Funk lost no time in calling a meeting of the crew of the yacht, who
formed a circle around him.
"Now, my hearties," he said, introducing Marchmont, "this gentleman's
got a word to say to you which it's worth your while to hear." And he
put him in the centre of the ring.
"Mates," began the journalist, fitting his speech to the audience he was
addressing, "I'm a plain man of few words, and I've come to you about a
plain matter. Mr. Funk will tell you I'm speaking the truth; and you
know this gentleman," indicating the tramp.
The crowd growled gutturally. They appreciated the tramp's generous
offers of liquor, but not his society.
"Well," continued Marchmont, ignoring the unfavourable tone, "I suppose
you'd all like to see the Yankees lick the Dons."
"Ay, ay, you're right there," muttered a burly tar.
"Good for you! We're all of the same family, and blood's thicker than
water. Of course you want the boys in blue to win; and that being the
case, I rely on you to help me, like true British tars, the nation's
bulwarks--!"
"Hear, hear!" growled the crowd appreciatively.
"Now do you know whom you've aboard to-day?" demanded the American.
"The Bishop o' Blanford, and a laidy," came the tones of a voice whose
owner evidently hailed from London.
"No, you haven't," cried the journalist excitedly. "No, you haven't!
You've got two low-down Spanish spies!"
"What d'ye say, mate?" demanded the first speaker among the crew.
"I'm telling you the truth," vociferated Marchmont, lying boldly; for he
feared that the Bishop's conspiracies would go for nothing if they
suspected he was really a churchman.
"I'm telling you the truth," he repeated. "And these two gentlemen,"
referring to the mate and the tramp, "will back me up. That man's no
more the Bishop of Blanford than you are! And the _lady_--well, she's on
the stage when she isn't in the pay of the Spanish Government. I've
tracked them from the States to Canada, where I saw them both a month
ago, and then to England. I don't say how they got hold of this yacht,
but I ask you, where's the captain and the first mate?"
A growl of suspicion rewarded his efforts.
"They took pretty good care to get out of the way, and leave Mr. Funk
and you to bear the brunt of any breach of neutrality that these
conspirators might let you in for."
The sailors began to whisper to one another, and were evidently uneasy.
"Then look at the captain's parting words!" cried the journalist. "'Go
out into the Solent,' says he, 'and the _Bishop_ will give you your
sailing orders,' Sailing orders, indeed! What would a parson know about
sailing a vessel of this sort?"
One of the men nudged another at this, and he of the gruff voice gave it
as his opinion that "there was summat in it."
"I'll tell you what the sailing orders will be," shouted Marchmont.
"They'll take you round the Needles, and alongside of a Spanish cruiser.
And when you get ashore, you'll all be clapped into prison for helping
the Dons."
"Let's take 'em back now," came a chorus of voices.
"And let 'em go scot-free?" demanded Marchmont.
"Well, what would _you_ do?" asked the spokesman.
"I?" said the journalist. "I'd hand 'em over to the first American ship
we sight, and send 'em to New York. That takes the burden off _your_
shoulders. My man has promised you ten shillings apiece. Put 'em on
board a Yankee ship, and I'll make it a pound." And he brought up a
handful of gold from his pocket, and jingled it in their faces.
It has been said that money talks, and it undoubtedly did so in this
case. Marchmont's specious arguments sounded plausible enough, and the
mate, who was a thoroughly bad lot and had plenty of the journalist's
money in his pocket, backed him up in every particular. So the crew,
after a little discussion, accepted the proposition to a man, and the
fact that the Bishop chose this unfortunate time to make an attack on
the cabin door probably helped to decide them.
"You see," cried the journalist, as it rattled on its hinges, "they're
trying to break out now, and are probably armed to the teeth."
"We're with you, mates. The Yankees shall have 'em!" shouted the crowd.
"Good!" he replied. "I'll see if I can induce them to surrender
quietly." And going to the cabin door, he unlocked it and entered,
closing it behind him.
"Who has dared to lock us in in this unwarrantable manner?" spluttered
the Bishop, as the door opened. Then, seeing who it was, he fell back a
step, exclaiming:
"Why, Mr. Marchmont, how did you come on board?"
"Never mind about that," said the journalist shortly. "I'm here, and I
locked you in; and when I tell you that I'm thoroughly on to the whole
show, you'll understand that this high-and-mighty business doesn't go
down. Got any champagne left? I'm as dry as a bone."
The Bishop was rapidly turning purple with suppressed indignation, but
Miss Arminster scornfully indicated the location of the wine-cooler.
"Ah, thanks," said the intruder, tossing off a glass. "That's better."
And he threw himself comfortably down on a divan, saying, as he did so:
"If you two have any weapons, you might as well put them on the table.
Resistance is quite useless. I've plenty of men awaiting my signal on
deck."
Violet, who in the light of this last remark suddenly understood the
position, burst into peals of laughter.
"You'll find it's no laughing matter," cried the journalist angrily.
"I insist upon your instantly explaining your outrageous conduct," said
the Bishop.
"I can do that in a very few words," replied Marchmont. "As an American
representative, and authorised agent of the _Daily Leader_, the people's
bulwark of defence, I arrest you both as Spanish spies."
"He must be mad!" ejaculated his Lordship.
"Oh, no, he isn't. He actually believes it!" cried Violet between her
paroxysms of merriment. But her companion would not be convinced.
"My dear man," he said blandly, "you must be suffering under some
grievous delusion. I am, as you should know, having been my guest, the
Bishop of Blanford, and it is quite impossible that either I or this
lady should have any connection with a political crime. I must insist
that you release us at once, and go away quietly, or I shall be forced
to use harsher measures."
"You do it very well, very well indeed," commented the journalist. "But
you can't fool me, and so you'd better give up trying."
"I say," remarked Miss Arminster to Marchmont, "you're making an awful
fool of yourself."
The representative of the _Daily Leader_ shrugged his shoulders.
"Won't you consent to let us go, without threshing the whole thing out?"
she asked.
"What do you take me for?"
"Well, as you please," she said resignedly. "Put your questions; we'll
answer them."
"Is it best to humour him?" enquired his Lordship in a low voice.
"It's the only way," she replied. "Give him string enough, and see the
cat's-cradle he'll weave out of it."
"Now," said the journalist cheerfully to the Bishop, "perhaps you'll
deny that you spent a month or six weeks in the United States this
spring?"
"A month," acquiesced his Lordship.
"Just so. And during that time you were supposed to be in Scotland
taking a rest-cure?"
"I admit that such is the case. But how you obtained your information--"
"I got it from your sister--about the rest-cure, I mean."
"Did you tell her--er--that I was--er--in the United States?"
"Yes," replied the journalist.
His Lordship heaved a deep sigh. The future, he thought, held worse
things for him than arrest and deportation.
"How did you know that I was in the United States and Canada?" he
demanded.
"I saw you."
"Where?"
"At a little station on the borders of the two countries. You spent the
night wrapped up in a blanket, and slept under the bar."
"You never--!" broke in Miss Arminster.
The Bishop nodded mournfully. So far the facts were against him, and his
interlocutor's face shone with a gleam of triumph.
"But in that case--" exclaimed Violet.
"Excuse me, I'll tell the story," said Marchmont, and continued the
narration.
"You were roused about five in the morning by a man breaking into the
room."
"So I was," admitted the Bishop. "How did you know?"
"I was asleep in the room overhead, and gave the alarm."
"That's perfectly correct," acquiesced his Lordship. "I remember the
tones of your voice. It's most astounding."
"And the man who broke into the bar," continued Violet, "was your son."
It was now Marchmont's turn to be astonished.
"What!" he cried, while the Bishop ejaculated:
"Impossible!"
"But it was," she insisted. "He went to get the coffee for me."
"Were you in the station, too?" demanded his Lordship.
"No, I was out in a potato-patch."
"You a member of that party of political criminals who jumped off the
train!" cried the Bishop. "I heard all about it the next morning, but I
can't believe--"
"It's quite true," she assured him.
"But it's too remarkable," he went on. "I'd gone to America on purpose
to find my son, of whom I'd heard nothing for a year. And you say he was
there, and--er--touched me?"
"Why, didn't you see him in Montreal?" asked Marchmont.
"I sailed next day for England. I was on my way to the steamer when the
accident occurred which detained me overnight."
"Why then did you conceal the purpose of your trip?" demanded his
tormentor.
"My sister was much opposed to my seeking my son," said his Lordship,
colouring furiously. "And--I--in short, I had reasons."
The journalist laughed.
"The story's clever," he said. "But I can tell a more interesting tale."
And he proceeded to relate the adventures of Cecil in the person of "the
Bishop," to which his Lordship listened with open-mouthed astonishment.
"There!" concluded his captor triumphantly. "Have you anything to say to
that?"
"I have," chimed in Miss Arminster, and she gave the true version of the
affair from the time Banborough had first engaged them at the Grand
Central Station.
"It's a very plausible story," said Marchmont, when she had finished,
"and does credit to your invention. But fortunately I'm in a condition
to completely disprove it."
"Really?" she asked. "How so?"
"I can produce a witness of the whole transaction."
"Who?"
"Friend Othniel."
"What! here, on board the yacht?"
"Yes," said Marchmont, "on board this yacht. And he can prove that what
I say is true."
"What? About the Bishop?" she cried, her voice quivering with suppressed
merriment.
"Certainly," replied the journalist. "After his release from the Black
Maria he tells substantially your story, but gives the Bishop the part
you have carefully assigned to his innocent son."
At this she once more broke into peals of laughter, but at last,
recovering her speech, managed to gasp out:
"Bring him here, and see what he says."
"I will," said Marchmont, hurriedly leaving the cabin, for her
marvellous self-possession was beginning to arouse unpleasant suspicions
even in his mind.
"But what does it all mean?" queried the Bishop helplessly, after the
journalist's departure. "How dare he say such things about me! I drive a
prison-van, indeed!"
"I'll tell you," she replied, striving to control her voice. "It's the
greatest practical joke that ever was. We called your son 'the Bishop,'
just as a nickname, you see, and of course the tramp heard us, and,
after we dropped him in Montreal, must have blown the whole thing to
Marchmont out of spite, and, not knowing any better, he thought your son
really _was_ the Bishop."
Here his Lordship became speechless, as the truth dawned upon him; and
at that moment Marchmont entered the cabin, with Friend Othniel in tow.
"There!" he said, pointing to the ecclesiastic. "Is that the Bishop of
Blanford?"
"Naw," replied the tramp. "He's old enough to be his father, he is. The
Bishop I means is a young 'un."
"Like this!" cried Violet, opening the locket which Cecil had given her
in Montreal, and handing it to the tramp.
"That's him to a T," said Friend Othniel. "I'd know him among a
thousand."
For a moment Marchmont said nothing as he encountered the full force of
the cruel disillusion, and then with painstaking precision he turned and
kicked the tramp up the entire flight of cabin stairs.
"Now," remarked the Bishop, "perhaps you'll allow us to go free."
"No!" cried the journalist, slamming the door. "I've wasted heaps of
cash and no end of time over this wild-goose-chase, but the _Daily
Leader_ shall have its scoop yet! If you aren't conspirators, I'll make
you so, in spite of yourselves! You _shall_ be Spanish spies!"
CHAPTER V.
IN WHICH THE BISHOP EATS JAM TART, AND MISS MATILDA HUMBLE-PIE.
"Now," remarked the Bishop to Miss Arminster, as Marchmont quitted the
cabin after this last astounding remark, "Now I'm certain he's mad."
"Oh, no," replied the lady, "it's merely journalistic enterprise. I
don't blame him for being disappointed. It must be hard to find that
we're not conspirators, after all."
"But why should he wish to make us so?"
"You dear stupid old Joe!" she exclaimed. "You haven't the remotest
inkling of what American journalism means. It's sensation first, last,
and altogether. Think of a bishop, and an English bishop at that, posing
as an agent of the Spanish secret service, and eloping with an actress
on somebody else's yacht. Why, I can shut my eyes and see the
headlines. They're almost certain to print them in red ink. There's fame
for you!"
"But why should he wish to print it if it's not the truth?"
"Truth! My dear Bishop, who said anything about truth? We were speaking
of news, and--journalistic enterprise."
At this moment the door again burst open, and Marchmont flung into the
cabin.
"There!" he said, with a tone of triumph, "we've sighted an American
steamer down channel, and have hoisted the Spanish flag. We're pursuing
her, and very presently we shall be captured, and you'll be
surrendered."
"I suppose," began the Bishop, "that, to a man so devoid of moral
consciousness as you appear to be, no arguments of mine--"
"Don't waste your breath," broke in Miss Arminster. "They wouldn't."
"Why, I'm sorry to cause you any inconvenience," said the journalist
amiably, "but you see, my paper's simply panting for sensation, and when
they hear about this little racket they'll sell extras till they can't
see straight."
"And what, may I ask, will happen when the truth comes out?" demanded
his Lordship severely.
"Oh, the war'll probably be over by the time you reach New York, and
you'll cease to be interesting," replied Marchmont. "Besides, we'll have
had our scoop, and most likely, when the _Daily Leader_ finds there's no
case against you they'll give you a return ticket. The management's
generally pretty liberal."
"Well, I must say," spluttered the Bishop, "that of all the
brazen--unconscionable--!"
"Why did you raise the Spanish flag?" interrupted Miss Arminster.
"That was my idea," said the journalist, "and I'm rather proud of it.
You see, we could hardly reverse the Union Jack as a sign of distress,
and then go full speed ahead, but I don't think an American ship would
resist taking a Spanish prize; and as soon as they get within firing
range we'll run up a flag of truce. By the way," he continued, becoming
quite courteous, now that he felt he had them in his power, "why do you
remain in this stuffy cabin? I shall be very glad to have you up on
deck, provided you'll give me your parole."
"What, not to escape?" asked Violet. "Did you think we were going to
jump overboard and swim ashore?"
"No. I mean that you should give your parole not to be anything but
Spaniards."
"I am afraid we couldn't manage that," she replied. "The Bishop doesn't
look nearly ferocious enough."
"I absolutely refuse to become a party to this deception!" said his
Lordship.
"Oh, I don't ask you to do that," returned Marchmont, "only to promise
that you'll not try and enlist the sympathies of the crew in your
behalf."
"I shall not promise anything," said the Bishop, "nor shall I allow this
lady to do so. I'm a man of peace, but if ever I get hold of you on dry
land I'll horsewhip you, if it costs me my see; and if you don't leave
this cabin at once I'll treat you as you treated your friend. You are a
thorough blackguard, and not fit to associate with gentlemen!"
The journalist started to say something, but, remembering that his
accuser was muscular, thought better of it, shrugged his shoulders, and
went out silently, locking the door behind him.
"There!" said his Lordship, "I can breathe more freely now."
Miss Arminster made no reply, for the excellent reason that her head was
out of a port-hole, and she could not hear clearly what was said.
Presently she pulled it in again, crying, as she did so:
"Oh, do look! This is great sport! The American ship is running away
from us!"
Such was indeed the case. The vessel they were overhauling was a small
tramp steamer, which had evidently found courage, through the general
incapacity of the Spanish navy and the fancied security of neutral
waters, to flaunt the Stars and Stripes. It was therefore most
disconcerting to find herself suddenly pursued in the English Channel by
a craft which had every appearance of being a Spanish gunboat. No sooner
had she caught a glimpse of the red and yellow flag of her enemy than
she crowded on to her yards every stitch of canvass she possessed, in
the hope of obtaining some advantage from the light breeze that was
blowing, while the black clouds of smoke which belched from her single
funnel showed that her engines were being driven to their utmost
capacity. She having a long lead and the combined assistance of wind and
steam, the distance between the pursuer and the pursued decreased
slowly, and it soon became evident that it was to be a stern chase,
which is proverbially a long chase. The yacht, therefore, turned about
in search of some fresh enemy to whom she might surrender, and in this
fortune favored her, for down the Channel came a great liner, whose
name, albeit she flew temporarily the flag of another nation, proclaimed
her to be an American ship, with an American captain and crew.
Those on board the "Homing Pigeon" now adopted different tactics, and an
inverted British ensign replaced the banner of the Dons.
As the yacht stood directly in the path of the oncoming ocean greyhound,
and flew signals of distress which she could not disregard, the great
ship was forced to heave to. Marchmont hastened to convey the news to
his prisoners in the cabin, saying that he considered them very
fortunate, as they had every prospect of a speedy and pleasant voyage,
and cautioning them at the same time, as he led the way up the cabin
stairs, that resistance was futile, and that any remarks of theirs to
the crew would only be so much waste of breath. To all of which neither
deigned to answer a word, realising that in their present precarious
position silence was not only the most dignified but also the safest
course.
As they reached the deck the great liner was almost abreast of them, and
gradually came to a standstill with clouds of pent-up steam pouring from
her safety-valves.
"What do you want?" bawled her chief officer through a megaphone, his
voice sounding very large and clear from the great height above them.
"We've two prisoners of war, Spanish spies, and we wish to hand them
over!" shouted the mate in return.
"This isn't an American ship," came the reply.
"Yes, it is," howled Marchmont; "we know better! You belong to the 'Pink
Star' line."
The chief officer conferred with the captain.
"It's Mason and Slidell the other way round," he said. "I wouldn't
touch 'em with a ten-foot pole. Besides--" and here he seized the
megaphone from his subordinate and yelled through it:
"You infernal idiots! don't you know the war with Spain is over? We've
declared a truce!"
"I don't believe it," cried Marchmont, shaking his fist at the great
steamship in a paroxysm of disappointed rage. "It's only an excuse to
shirk your duty! We've brought them out to you, and you've got to take
them! I'll report you to the government! I'll--!"
The sharp ring of the engine-room bell from the liner's bridge was the
only reply vouchsafed him, and a moment later the big ship forged ahead,
her captain very red in the face and swearing like a trooper: for the
most precious thing on board a racer of that class is time, and the
"Homing Pigeon" had been wasting it.
The Bishop, noting the sheepish faces of the mate and his two fellow
conspirators, and the lowering glances of the crew, turned to Miss
Arminster, saying:
"We'd better return to the cabin, my dear. I think there's going to be
trouble."
The little actress followed his Lordship's gaze, and descended without a
word of protest. She thought so, too.
They had hardly entered the saloon, when there came a respectful knock
at the door, and an elderly seaman entered, ducking his head.
"Well, my good man," said his Lordship, "what can I do for you?"
"Meanin' no disrespect, sir, be you really the Bishop of Blanford?"
"Certainly I am," that gentleman replied. "You see my dress, and," as a
happy thought struck him, "here's one of my cards to prove my identity."
And he handed the sailor a bit of pasteboard with his title engraved
thereon.
"And the lady?" asked the seaman.
"The lady is no more connected with this absurd charge than I am,"
pursued the Bishop. "You've been grievously misled by your mate and
these two strangers. But if you'll take us safe to the nearest port,
I'll speak a word in your favour to your master, Lord Downton, who's an
intimate friend of mine. Can you read?"
"Yes, your honour."
"Then here's a letter from his Lordship, which I fortunately have by me,
requesting me to join his yacht. Read it yourself, and show it to your
fellows as a proof of who I am." And he handed him the missive.
The sailor took it, ducked again, and retired silently, and there was
presently a great shuffling of feet on the deck above.
"What do you think they're doing?" asked Violet.
"I trust they're coming to their senses--and if--" But his remarks were
interrupted by a most terrific row overhead, shouts, blows, and curses.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the Bishop. "What can be the matter?"
"They're squaring accounts with Marchmont, Friend Othniel, and the mate,
I guess," she replied, "and I hope they'll half kill them."
"Fie, fie! my dear Leopard--most unchristian. I must certainly go and--"
"No, you mustn't do anything of the sort! Stay right where you are.
We're in hot enough water already." And suiting the action to the word,
she pushed him back on to the divan.
"Well, really--!" remarked the Bishop, and collapsed amiably.
Presently the sounds of commotion ceased, and gave way to laughter, but
laughter with a certain grim note in it that boded ill for those laughed
at. After a little, there came another knock at the cabin door, and this
time quite a deputation entered the saloon, the sailor who had first
visited them being the spokesman.
"Having disposed of those gents as you suggested--" he began.
"No, no!" the Bishop hastened to disclaim, "I suggested nothing."
"Well," said the seaman, "we've fixed 'em, anyway. And now we're heading
for the nearest port, which the same's Weymouth, and we hopes you'll
overlook what's gone before, and come on deck and take command of this
yacht."
"I will certainly come on deck," replied the Bishop. "But as to assuming
command of the ship, I hardly feel qualified. Is there not some one
among you--?"
"I'm bo'sn, please your honour," volunteered the speaker.
"Ah," said the Bishop blandly, "then I appoint you." And as the men fell
back, he escorted Miss Arminster upstairs.
As they appeared on deck, a striking scene met their eyes. Three
wretched figures were triced up to the mainmast. They had only such
remnants of clothes remaining on their persons as decency demanded, and
they had all evidently made a recent acquaintance with the ship's
tar-barrel and slush-bucket.
As his Lordship and Miss Arminster appeared, the crew approached,
expecting a speech.
"I hardly know what to say," began the Bishop to Violet.
"Let me speak to them, will you?" she asked, her eyes sparkling. "I
understand human nature pretty well. I have to, in my profession."
His Lordship nodded assent, and a moment later she had sprung on to the
cabin hatch, a most entrancing little figure, and instantly commanded
the attention and admiration of her audience.
"Mates!" she cried, in her clear ringing voice, "mates, I want a word
with you."
"Speak up, and welcome!" called some one in the crowd, while the
boatswain, nudging a comrade in the ribs, remarked under his breath:
"My eye, but she's a stunner!"
Silence having been obtained, she continued:
"I've only this to say. We've all been made fools of. Those gentlemen
tied up to the mast made fools of you, and you've certainly made fools
of them."
A loud laugh greeted this sally.
"And," she resumed, "if it ever gets out that his Lordship the Bishop of
Blanford and myself were carried off as Spanish spies, we'll never hear
the last of it. Now let's all keep silence for the sake of the others.
Put us ashore at Weymouth, and we'll say to Lord Downton that it was our
wish to be landed there. He won't know about the occurrences of this
day, unless some of you tell him. You might leave the journalist and the
tramp at Weymouth, too. I guess they'll have had enough of the sea to
last them for some time. And oh, by the way, I suppose Mr. Marchmont
intended to pay you for this. Perhaps you'll see that the division is
properly carried out."
"Ay, ay!" came from twenty throats, followed by a rousing cheer.
And so it happened that they reached _terra firma_ about six in the
afternoon. But Weymouth, while it is geographically not far distant from
Blanford, is miles away by the railroad and its connections, and they
did not reach the palace till nearly midnight.
Everything was dark and still, and as they stood shivering in the porch,
the Bishop remarked, producing his latch-key:
"Do you know I--I'm really afraid to open the door."
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and they entered softly.
"Is there anything I can get for the Leopard, before she retires?" he
asked apologetically, as they crossed the stone-paved floor of the
palace by the aid of a single bedroom candle, which only served to
accentuate the surrounding darkness.
"No, thank you, I'm all right," she faltered, putting her foot on the
first step of the stairs. And then, without the slightest warning, she
burst into tears.
His Lordship, completely bewildered at this unexpected turn of affairs,
patted her on the head, saying: "Dear, dear!" much as he would have done
to obstreperous babies suspicious of baptism. But the fair Violet wept
on.
"What is it?" said the Bishop. "What have I done?"
"You haven't done anything," she replied between her sobs, "but I--I'm
so dreadfully hungry."
"Dear me!" exclaimed his Lordship, "I forgot all about dinner."
It was quite true that, in his anxiety to catch trains and make a series
of bewildering connections, the question of food had entirely escaped
his memory, and, now he came to think of it, he was ravenously hungry
himself.
"I'm so sorry," he said helplessly. "We must see what we can find."
It was years since he had dared to investigate his own pantries; but
under the spur of Miss Arminster's necessities he achieved prodigies of
valour, even breaking into that holy of holies, his sister's jam-closet.
The little actress aided and abetted him, creating havoc among jars of
sardines, olives, and caviare. And then, while they were in the midst of
their midnight orgy, a figure appeared before them--a figure clad in an
indescribable dressing-gown and carrying a bedroom candle.
"Josephus," said the apparition, "is that you?"
"Yes, my dear," replied the Bishop, with his mouth full of jam tart, "it
is."
"I wonder you've the face to enter the house!" said his sister.
"His own house! That's good," commented Miss Arminster from the midst of
sardines.
"I admit that the circumstances are unusual," remarked the Bishop,
cutting himself another large slice of the pastry, "but the train
service is most irregular, and, as you can see, it was necessary to
bring the Leopard home to-night, and so--"
"Josephus!" broke in his sister, "there are no leopards in this country,
and I _can_ see that to the other sins you have undoubtedly committed
you have added the vice of--"
But she got no further, for the Bishop, casting a glance at each of the
two women, decided that now or never was salvation at hand, and said
brusquely:
"Matilda, go to bed at once!"
It was the first time he had ever spoken to her in tones of authority,
and his sister, not believing her ears, returned to the charge.
"And as for that shameless minx--" she continued; but his Lordship again
interrupted, remarking severely:
"Matilda, go to bed instantly!"
But the spinster was not yet defeated.
"Josephus!" she began, in her most approved style.
"Go to bed!" repeated the Bishop sharply.
For one moment she wavered. Then, realising that under the present
conditions resistance was worse than useless, she turned slowly upon her
heel, and marched upstairs with the air of a martyr going to the stake.
"You were right," said his Lordship moodily, as he disposed of the last
piece of pie-crust.
"Right about what?" asked Violet.
"Mud-baths," returned the Bishop.
CHAPTER VI.
IN WHICH MISS ARMINSTER PROPOSES TO MARRY AGAIN.
Cecil and Miss Matilda breakfasted alone the next morning. This was not
by intention, but by fate. Violet and the Bishop, for obvious reasons,
kept their respective rooms. Mrs. Mackintosh had felt it her duty to
breakfast with, and comfort, her friend in distress, likewise to receive
an early account of the doings of the day before; while Smith and
Spotts, hearing that the fugitives had returned, took an early breakfast
and adjourned to the neighboring golf-links. Cecil, however, who slept
well, came down at the usual hour, quite unconscious of what was
impending, and calmly walked into the trap.
After the ancient butler had passed the tea and toast, and then
withdrawn, as was his wont, leaving them to carve out their own
salvation, Miss Matilda lost no time in opening up the contest. She had
been at swords' points with her nephew ever since the evening before, as
a result of his stoutly maintaining his father's innocence, and the
manner in which she reported her midnight meeting would have made even
Marchmont envious.
"And now of course he'll have to marry her," she wound up her recital.
"Good heavens! I hope not!" ejaculated Cecil.
"I'm glad," remarked his aunt stiffly, "that we've at least one point of
agreement."
"Oh, we are quite agreed on that," he returned. "It would never do at
all; in fact it's quite impossible."
"You know, then?" she demanded.
"Know what?" he asked cautiously.
"That she's been married dozens of times already."
"I don't think I can subscribe to more than half a dozen. But Miss
Arminster certainly does seem to have a fondness for that sort of
thing."
"And in the face of such scandalous proceedings do you consider her a
fit person to marry your poor misguided father?"
"I've told you I don't approve," he said, and added: "How did you come
to know about Miss Arminster's marriages?"
"Mr. Marchmont told me."
"Confound him!"
"Cecil! Mr. Marchmont's a gentleman."
"He's a mischief-maker of the first water."
"Do not let us waste time in discussing his character. The important
question is, what are we to do about your father's marriage?"
"Stop it."
"But how?" she asked. "Shall I speak?"
"No, no; leave it to me," he said. "I'll undertake to settle the matter.
If you saw the Bishop, you'd only irritate him."
"He told me to go to bed, last night, after that woman had insulted me."
"Insulted you? I thought you told me she'd nothing to say for herself."
"Her presence was an insult, and one of us leaves this house to-day,"
replied his aunt, and swept out of the room.
Cecil gulped down his tea, and, ringing the bell, sent an urgent message
to Miss Arminster, requesting a meeting in his aunt's boudoir, which,
considering the purpose of the interview, he was sure Miss Matilda would
not object to put at her disposal.
Violet received him in about twenty minutes, apologising for her
charming tea-gown, on the ground of being somewhat seedy.
"Our supper last night was rather extraordinary, you know," she said.
"I've only heard one version," he replied.
"Miss Matilda's?" she asked, laughing.
He nodded.
"I fancy it was lurid enough," she went on; "but your good father's out
of leading-strings this time, and no mistake."
"Tell me all about it," he said. "I'm most anxious to know."
"Of course you are," she returned. "So here goes."
Banborough enjoyed the recital immensely, and laughed immoderately at
certain passages.
"So the governor knows all about our adventures?" he said, when she had
finished. "Did he seem much upset?"
"Only about not recognising you when you blacked his eye under the bar."
"What a good old chap he is! Just think of his coming all that way to
hunt me up! I wish he could have some fun out of life."
"We must try and help him to do so," she said.
"Yes," he replied, suddenly recollecting the object of his mission.
"It's just that that I've come about. You see he's awfully
conscientious, and when he's thought things over a bit, helped by my
aunt's amiable suggestions, he'll come to the conclusion that he ought
to marry you, you know--and so--well, he'll try to do it," he ended
lamely, hoping she would see the point without further elucidation on
his part.
She was quick to take him up.
"And you don't think that's just the best way for him to have a good
time? Sour grapes--eh, my son?"
"No, no; only he's certain to propose to you."
"Supposing he has done so?"
"Well--did you accept him?"
"What do you think?" she asked.
"I don't quite see how you could--under the circumstances."
"Oh, he'd only had two bottles of champagne," she said, purposely
misunderstanding him from pure joy of seeing him flounder.
"I didn't mean that," he went on. "But, anyway, his conscience
will reassert itself, and he'll probably propose again this
morning--ponderously."
"And you're afraid I might accept?"
"I'm sure you'd make a most charming step-mamma," he replied, "only--"
"Only what?"
"Only the--the others might object, mightn't they?"
"The others?"
"All the men you've married," he blurted out, "if you will have it."
"I see," she said meditatively. "And you don't want to run the 'dear
Bishop' in for another scandal."
"Of course, if you choose to put it that way--"
"It's the way you'd put it if you only had the pluck," she retorted.
"Are you awfully angry with me?" he asked, looking at her.
"Not a bit," she replied. "From your point of view it's quite
justifiable, I suppose, and I'm only considering the best way out of the
dilemma."
"Are there several?"
"There's only one that I care to choose."
"And that is?"
"I shall marry again."
"Good heavens! not--!"
"Not your father, no; some one else."
"But surely--!"
"You see," she continued calmly, ignoring his interruption, "if I marry
some one at once your father can't have any feeling of--shall we say
responsibility? And it'll not be necessary for me to go into what Miss
Matilda would call 'my shameful past.'"
"But I really couldn't allow--"
"Oh, I'm not going to marry you either, so you needn't be alarmed. Can't
you make some suggestions to help me out?"
"I am afraid you must excuse me," he said, fast becoming scandalised at
her matter-of-fact way of approaching the subject.
"Well, of course," she went on thoughtfully, "there are all your
father's chaplains, but they're young, and prone to take things
seriously. No, I don't think they'd do. And there's the butler. No, he
wouldn't answer, either."
"Perhaps Miss Matilda would lend you Professor Smith."
"No," she said, "I don't think I'd have the heart to deprive her of him.
On the whole, I think I'll marry Mr. Spotts. He's nice--and handy."
"But mightn't he have something to say?" began Banborough.
"Probably," admitted Violet; "but he generally does what he's told, and
as he isn't married to any one else, I dare say he'll prove amenable
when he understands the position. I'll try and see him this morning,
and," as a brilliant idea struck her, "your father shall perform the
ceremony. I never was married by a Bishop before. Won't it be jolly!"
"You surely can't seriously intend--" began Cecil.
"Yes, I do. Now don't be stupid, but run along and let me finish my
toilet." And she ran out of the room.
Banborough walked away in a maze. He had thought to straighten matters
out, and he had only got them into a far worse tangle. That Miss
Arminster had no conscientious scruples about adding another husband to
her quota was bad enough, but that his innocent, unsuspecting father
should be allowed to disgrace his cloth by solemnising such a marriage
was really more than he could stand. In his righteous wrath he
determined that the Bishop should know the whole truth, soothing his
conscience by the thought that if he did not tell him, Miss Matilda
would.
In the hall of the palace, however, he ran across Spotts, laden with the
implements of golf, and all unconscious of his impending fate.
"Look here, old man," said Cecil, "I want to have five minutes' chat
with you."
"I am quite at your service," replied his friend. "In fact I was just
coming to look you up myself. Now that the war's over, I must really be
thinking of going away, as I've imposed long enough already on your
hospitality."
"Oh, it isn't about that I want to see you," said Banborough. "It's
about your getting married."
"My getting married?" queried Spotts.
"Yes. It seems there's a lady who has matrimonial designs on you. I
thought it was only the part of a friend to warn you in due season."
"If it's your aunt," returned the actor, "I'm very much obliged. I think
I could manage to get packed up and leave by the afternoon train."
"No, no; it isn't so bad as that," said his host. "Or, rather, it's
worse. Miss Arminster has you under consideration."
"As a husband?"
"Yes. I think she means to marry you to-morrow or next day, and have my
father perform the ceremony."
"Oh, I see. And you've some feeling about it."
"Well, yes," admitted Cecil, "I'm afraid I have."
"I suppose you'd like to take my place?"
"No, it isn't that either. Yon don't seem to see the point. Miss
Arminster wants to marry _you_."
"Well, isn't that a question between Miss Arminster and myself?"
"Naturally. But then she's married pretty frequently, hasn't she? Of
course, if all her husbands are dead--"
"Oh, no," said Spotts. "I don't think she's ever lost a husband."
"But you surely can't contemplate--" began Cecil.
"Well, you see," contended the actor, "this is the first time she's ever
asked me to marry her, and one can't be so ungallant as to refuse a
lady."
"And you'll really add yourself to her list?"
Spotts shrugged his shoulders.
"My dear fellow," he said, "I don't want to appear rude, but this
interference in my prospective matrimonial affairs seems to me
ill-timed. Miss Arminster hasn't as yet proposed to me, and if she does,
I'll probably consent to oblige her. Anyway, it's doing you a favour, as
I suppose your father would wish to marry her if I didn't." And turning
on his heel, he walked away.
As he ascended the stairs, he met Violet coming down. They were standing
on the broad landing, and for the moment were quite alone and out of
earshot.
"I say!" burst out the actor. "Do you know I have just been warned
against you by your friend Banborough. A joke's a joke, but this is
going too far."
"I know, Alvy," she said, "I know, and I'm awfully sorry. But it's
almost over."
"I hope it is," he replied. "I have held an equivocal position for
months, and it isn't pleasant. Why, I've practically seen nothing of
you."
"It hasn't been pleasant for me either, old man. But, to speak frankly,
you know as well as I do that it's been largely a sentimental interest
which has caused Cecil to get us all out of this scrape. However, if he
doesn't tell his father to-day--and I tried hard enough to force him to
do so this morning--I shall."
"Good! Then his Lordship's Leopard will be free," said Spotts. And
pressing her hand, he proceeded on his way upstairs.
In the face of his two interviews, Cecil felt he had no option but to
refer the whole matter to the Bishop, whom he found in his study. He
received a somewhat grim reception from the old gentleman, to whom a
sleepless night had afforded ample opportunity for reflecting on the
vagaries of his son, to which he, not altogether unjustly, attributed
his adventures of the preceding day.
After formal salutations had been exchanged, the younger man, feeling
that a disagreeable business was the better over, lost no time in coming
to the point.
"I don't know that there's anything to be said about the past, father,"
he began.
"I should think there was a great deal to be said," returned his
Lordship brusquely. "But this is perhaps not the best time to say it.
I've been told a very astonishing story by Miss Arminster."
"About the Black Maria and--the Spanish plot?"
"About your wretched novel, sir!"
"Ah, yes. Well, I corroborate it all, word for word. Miss Arminster told
me about it this morning."
"You've seen her, then?"
"Yes. We had a chat concerning a number of things. But, as you suggest,
we might reserve the discussion of our joint American experiences till
another occasion, so I won't mention them beyond apologising to you for
having blacked your eye under the bar; though of course I could hardly
have supposed that your ecclesiastical duties would have placed you in
just that position."
"Say, rather, the search for an unregenerate son," suggested the Bishop,
with a twinkle in his eye which showed him to be in better humour.
"Well, anyway, you gave as good as you got," said Cecil. "My ribs were
sore for a week afterwards."
"Ah," replied his Lordship. "I thought I must have landed you one. I
haven't quite forgotten the athletics of my college days."
"Then we're quits," returned Cecil. "But it was more than good of you to
come out there and look for me. A father who could do all that deserves
a somewhat better son than I've been in the past; and in the future--"
"Don't say it, Cecil. I know it." And the Bishop gripped his hand in a
way that caused the mental and moral atmosphere to clear instantly.
"And now," said his son, "I want to talk about Miss Arminster."
"It's the subject nearest my heart," replied his father.
"I asked her to marry me at Montreal," Cecil remarked simply.
"So I inferred from what she said on the yacht," said his Lordship.
"And you proposed to her yesterday."
"Did she tell you?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Well, the fact is she doesn't want to marry either of us."
The Bishop nodded his head despondently.
"But," continued the younger man, "she contemplates marrying some one
else."
"Ah," said his Lordship, "I'm heartily glad she proposes to
_marry_--after yesterday."
"Quite so, and she means to ask you to perform the ceremony."
"Isn't that rather--"
"Rubbing it in?" suggested Cecil. "So it seemed to me."
"Who is the--er--prospective bride-groom?"
"Spotts."
"He seems a good fellow."
"Yes, but--will you forgive me if I speak frankly? There can't be any
feeling of jealousy between us; we've both been worsted."
"What do you wish to say?"
"That I'm afraid this marriage must not be permitted. You see, Miss
Arminster isn't quite what she seems."
"If you're going to say anything against that young lady--!" began his
Lordship angrily.
"You forget," said his son, "I wanted to marry her."
His father remembered; and remembering, said:
"Proceed."
"Well, I found out, for myself I mean, that Miss Arminster had been
married a number of times."
"A number of times!"
"Half a dozen at least. Perhaps more."
"Impossible!"
"She admitted as much to me."
"But surely--!"
"As far as I know, none of her husbands has died."
"In America," began the Bishop, "the divorce laws are lax, and
perhaps--"
"Oh, no, I'm sure she hasn't been divorced. I don't think she'd approve
of it."
"But then--it means--"
"Yes, that's just the point. And so another marriage with this Mr.
Spotts--"
"Must be stopped at all costs!" cried his Lordship, growing very red in
the face with agitation.
"I thought you'd feel so," said his son. "And that's why I ventured--"
At this moment Miss Matilda entered the room.
"What are you talking about, Josephus?" she demanded, assuming a
domination of which she felt by no means sure. "Did I hear you mention
that hussy's name?"
"I was speaking," said the Bishop, "of _Miss Arminster_. Cecil tells me
she's to marry Mr. Spotts."
"That's impossible," snapped Miss Matilda.
"What do you mean?" asked her brother.
"I mean what I say. While you were shamelessly gallivanting down the
Channel, I went over to the little church near the ruined abbey which
you visited the day you met Mr. Marchmont, and there I found a record of
the marriage, in 1895, of this _person_ who calls herself _Miss_
Arminster, and I say she can't marry Mr. Spotts."
"Why not?"
"Because she's married to him already!"
CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH MISS ARMINSTER VERIFIES THE PROVERB.
The Bishop was pacing his garden. He was far from happy. It is true he
had not been worsted in his encounter with his sister. There had been a
drawn battle, and he had retired with dignity, conceding nothing but
that he would ask Miss Arminster to come to his study at noon and
explain her position. He could not believe the charges against the
charming Violet, but nevertheless he felt decidedly uncomfortable: for
even if she cleared herself, she was still married, and the palace
lacked a mistress.
It was easy to say that Miss Matilda should be deposed, but who should
take her place? Not another man's wife, certainly. For the first time
in all these years, his Lordship realised how lonely he had been. He
should have remarried long before, and indeed even so unworldly a person
as he knew that more than one young lady in Blanford would have viewed
with complacency the prospect of becoming Mrs. Bishop.
A young wife, however, even as attractive as the fair Violet, was not,
he told himself, exactly what he wanted. He had tried a period of double
rule in which his sister was the power behind the throne, and it was
infinitely worse than the present regime. No; if he took another
helpmate, she must be a person of strong will, some one who could hold
her own against all comers, some one who should have an inexhaustible
fund of sympathy for his work, some one whose appreciation of the
exalted position of the Bishop of Blanford should be so great as to
blind her, occasionally at least, to those minor faults to which,
Scripture tells us, all flesh is heir.
It was at just this point in his meditations that his Lordship, turning
sharply round the corner of a large gooseberry-bush, came suddenly upon
Mrs. Mackintosh. Their surprise was mutual, for the good lady had
evidently been gardening, and was suffering from the rigour of the game.
"That head man of yours is a duffer," she said sharply, pointing a very
earthy trowel at the unconscious figure of the gardener, who was busy in
the middle distance digging potatoes. "A man," she continued, "who calls
a plain, every-day squash a vegetable marrow isn't fit to run a
well-ordered truck-patch; though it's no more than might be expected in
a country where they sell bread by the yard, and flour by the gallon.
And what, I should like to know, is a 'punnet'?"
"I'm afraid, madam, I must confess my ignorance," replied the Bishop.
"I thought as much," she retorted. "And yet they put you in command of a
diocese. Your gardener said to me this morning: 'I'll pick a "punnet" of
strawberries to-day.' 'You'll do nothing of the kind,' I told him.
'Pick them in a Christian basket, or not at all.'"
His Lordship laughed.
"It's some sort of measure, I imagine," he remarked.
"I shouldn't wonder. And your cook's just as bad. She asked me yesterday
if I liked jugged hare. 'Let me see your jug,' said I, 'and then I'll
tell you.' And as sure's I'm a sinner, she told me she never used one
for that dish!"
"Now you speak of it," said his Lordship, "I don't think I ever saw one
myself. But what are you doing this morning?"
"Straightening the peas."
"Straightening the peas?" he asked, thoroughly mystified.
"Yes, they're all waggly. When I plant my garden I take a string and two
pegs and plant the seed along a line; but these just seem to be put in
anyhow."
"Is it good for the peas?" asked the Bishop suspiciously, as he saw them
being rooted up and reset.
"I can't say," she returned sharply. "But things ought to be straight at
an episcopal palace, if they are anywhere."
"So they should," he admitted mournfully, "but it's far from being the
case. That's why I came out to consult you."
"Go ahead, then. You talk, and I'll dig."
And while the plants were being arranged to an ecclesiastical standard,
he retailed to her the charges against Violet.
"Do you believe them?" she asked, jamming her trowel up to its hilt in
the soft earth.
"Of course I do not."
"Right you are," she said. "I know the whole story, and it's nothing to
be ashamed of, I give you my word."
"You relieve me immensely."
"It's merely American enterprise," continued the old lady. "That's why
they call her the Leopard."
"The Leopard-- I don't understand. She asked me to call her that."
"Well, I won't steal her thunder. She'll tell you herself."
"But she is married?"
"Oh, yes."
The Bishop sighed.
"That disappoints you?" said Mrs. Mackintosh thoughtfully, balancing a
pea-plant in her hand.
"Yes; at least I'd hoped--"
"I know. She told me. We haven't any secrets from each other."
"You see," continued his Lordship, "if my sister leaves me, I must have
some one to take her place; otherwise--"
"She won't go."
"Yes," said the Bishop; "that's just the point."
"You ought to marry at once."
"I feel that myself; but then, you see, there's no one who would care to
marry me--no one at least who--"
"You don't want a young chit."
"No," said his Lordship. "Somebody more like you."
Mrs. Mackintosh paused in her gardening.
"Look here," she said. "Are you going to propose to me next?"
"I--was--thinking of it," admitted the Bishop.
"As a last resource?"
"My dear Mrs. Mackintosh!"
"I don't know as I ever could be a bishopess," replied that lady,
inadvertently resetting a pea-plant upside down.
"There's Jonah," said the Bishop, resorting to diplomacy. "I shall never
be able to complete that last volume without the spur of your
appreciative criticism."
"Well," she replied, partially relenting, "I'd do a good deal
for--Jonah."
"Then you will!" he cried.
"I've one row of those peas left," she returned, "and when I've reset
them I'll give you your answer. That'll be in fifteen minutes. Now go
away, or you'll fidget round, and I sha'n't get 'em straight." And
without another word she resumed her digging.
Fifteen minutes later his Lordship was at her side.
"There's one more plant left," remarked Mrs. Mackintosh, cleaning her
trowel and addressing herself to the task.
"And are you going to say Yes when you have finished?"
"Yes," said the lady, "I am, but it's mostly on account of Jonah."
The Bishop ruthlessly set his foot on the tender shoot which intervened
between him and happiness, crushing it to the earth.
Some time later Mrs. Mackintosh remarked:
"The cathedral clock is striking twelve, and you're due in the study."
"You mean, my dear, that _we_ are due," replied his Lordship.
* * * * *
On their arrival in the Bishop's sanctum, they found the full force of
the company assembled to receive them.
Miss Matilda looked on this gathering with suspicion.
"I do not see," she said, "the need of so many witnesses to what must
prove, I fear, a humiliating confession."
"I've come," returned Mrs. Mackintosh, "to lend moral support to--" She
glanced at the Bishop, changed her mind, and supplemented--"Miss
Arminster."
"Shall I speak?" asked Miss Matilda, ignoring her remark.
"I will speak," said his Lordship. "It is my house, and my place to do
so."
His sister sat down hurriedly.
"I've sent for you, my dear," he continued, turning to Violet, "because
certain charges have been made against you by Mr. Marchmont and--others,
and, as my son informs me that you contemplate marrying Mr. Spotts, and
asking me to perform the ceremony, I feel it is my duty--"
"She's already--" broke in his sister.
"I am speaking, Matilda," he said quietly, and she collapsed.
"You mustn't think," he went on, "that my asking you to explain your
position implies any belief on my part in the charges made against you.
I've only requested this interview because I thought you'd like an
opportunity to disprove idle gossip."
"It's very kind of you," she replied, "and I shall avail myself of it
gladly."
"Quite so. Now my sister tells me that she's seen, in a neighbouring
church, the record of your marriage to Mr. Spotts. Is this so?"
"Certainly," said Violet. "I married him there in 1895."
Miss Matilda sniffed viciously.
"Mr. Marchmont," continued the Bishop, "in whose statements, I need
hardly say, I place no reliance, informed my sister that you had been
married with unusual frequency; and my son tells me, also, that you've
admitted to him a--er--a considerable number of--er--matrimonial
alliances. Would you--er--er--consider it an intrusion on my part if I
asked how many times you have been married?"
"I've had the marriage service performed over me," she replied,
"thirty-seven times in four years."
Miss Matilda threw up her hands in an access of horror.
"But your husbands--" stammered his Lordship.
"I never had but one husband," she said. "And here he stands." And she
took Spotts's hand in hers.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the Bishop. "You surely haven't married him
thirty-seven times?"
"Yes, that is exactly the case," she returned.
"But I don't understand."
"The explanation is very simple," she replied. "My husband and I are
both actors. He plays the part of the hero, and I the part of the
heroine. In the fifth act, after many struggles and disappointments,
we're at last united. To have the marriage ceremony actually performed
on the stage, or the next day at church, has always proved a great
attraction to our audiences. At first I objected. But I've been informed
by a competent authority in my own country that there's no canonical
rule against it, and in remarrying my husband I merely renew my vows to
him, and I've never once gone through the ceremony lightly or
thoughtlessly. I do not defend the practice, or expect you to approve of
it, and, now that you know the truth, I shouldn't think of asking you to
marry us again; but I don't consider that I've done anything of which I
need be ashamed."
"Dear me!" said the Bishop. "In my ecclesiastical position I can hardly
approve of the course you've taken; but as a man--well, it's a great
relief to me."
"I consider it a sacrilege," exclaimed Miss Matilda, "and, as I remarked
to Cecil this morning, that young person leaves the palace to-day, or I
do!"
"You'll naturally act as seems to you best," said her brother. "But I
beg you to remember that I'm master of this house, and that this lady is
my guest."
"And who, pray, will keep your house for you when I'm gone?" she
snapped.
"I'm sure that Mrs. Spotts will attend to it for me until Mrs.
Mackintosh and I are married."
"Till you're married!" his sister repeated after him, too astounded to
grasp fully the meaning of his words.
"It is an event which I hope will occur shortly," her brother replied.
"That's enough!" she retorted. "I leave Blanford this afternoon!"
"I trust you'll not go in anger, Matilda," he said. "I'm sure a change
will do you good. Miss Arminster--I mean Mrs. Spotts--suggests a course
of mud-baths; and if you'll permit me to assume the expense--"
"Josephus!" she returned shortly, "do not add insult to injury." And she
swept from the room.
"I, too," said Professor Tybalt Smith, who had hitherto remained
silent--"I, too, must be permitted to excuse myself. It may be that I
can comfort that injured lady in her exile." And he followed her out.
"Oh, I'm delighted!" cried Violet, seizing Mrs. Mackintosh's hand.
"And I, too," said Cecil.
"Thank you," replied his stepmother-to-be. "That pleases me more than
anything else. I hope you'll really make Blanford your home."
"I shall indeed," he returned, "since no one will have me as a husband."
"You've the great success of your book to comfort you," suggested
Violet. "What more can you ask?"
"Well, as it seems a day of explanations," he said, "I should really
like to know why you're called 'the Leopard'?"
"It's a very trifling secret after all," she replied, laughing. "But to
have let you know it would have given away our little plot. Now it
doesn't matter. Tell him, Alvy."
"It's merely this," said her husband gaily: "that, as much as she may
marry, HIS LORDSHIP'S LEOPARD CAN NEVER CHANGE HER SPOT(T)S."
THE END.
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_21st Impression of a Remarkable Romance._
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BARROW'S THE FORTUNE OF WAR A novel of the last year of the American
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_N. Y. Times Saturday Review_: "The story is a good one, the
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GODFREY'S THE HARP OF LIFE
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Some 125 poems of out-door life and 25 prose passages,
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"_Better than the 'Prisoner of Zenda.'_"--CRITIC
10th Impression of the Sequel to
"The Prisoner of Zenda"
HOPE'S RUPERT OF HENTZAU
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--_New York Commercial Advertiser_.
FOLLY CORNER
BY MRS. HENRY DUDENEY
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_N. Y. Commercial Advertiser_: "It shows the same deep insight into the
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_Buffalo Commercial_: "We find just the same originality in plot, skill
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"One of the most captivating works of fiction that it has been our good
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GOD'S PRISONER
By JOHN OXENHAM. 12mo, $1.25.
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_Dial_: "A series of the most romantic and startling experiences. The
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End of Project Gutenberg's His Lordship's Leopard, by David Dwight Wells