Upon arriving at the middle of the Close the Dean stopped. He had been
walking briskly, his chin from very custom a little tilted, but his
eyes beaming with condescension and general good-will, while an
indulgent smile playing about the lower part of his face relieved for
the time its massive character. His walking-stick was swinging to and
fro in a loose grasp, his feet trod the pavement of the precincts with
the step of an owner, he felt the warmth of the sun, the balminess of
the spring air dimly, and somewhere at the back of his mind he was
conscious of a vacant bishopric, and of his being the husband of one
wife. In fine, he presented the appearance of a contented, placid,
unruffled dignitary, until he reached the middle of the Close.
But there, alas! the ferule of his stick came to the ground with a
mighty thud; the sweetness and light faded from his eyes as they
rested upon Mr. Swainson's plot; the condescension and good-will
became conspicuous only by their absence. The Dean was undisguisedly
angry; he disliked opposition as much as lesser men, and met with it
more rarely. For Bicester is old-fashioned, and loves the Church and
State, but especially the former, and looks up to principalities and
powers, and even now execrates the memory of a recreant Bicestrian,
otherwise reputable, on account of a terrible mistake he made. It was
at a public dinner. "I remember," said this misguided man, "going in
my young days to the old and beautiful cathedral of this city. (Great
applause.) I was only a child then, and my head hardly reached above
the top of the seat, but I remember I thought the Dean the greatest of
living men. (Whirlwinds of applause.) Well (smiling) perhaps I don't
think quite that now." (Dead silence.) And so dull at bottom may even
a man be whose name is not unknown in half the capitals of Europe,
that this degenerate fellow never could guess why the friends of his
youth from that moment turned their backs upon him.
Such is the faith of Bicester, but even in Bicester there are
heretics. To say that the Dean rarely met with opposition, is to say
that he rarely met with Mr. Swainson, and that he seldom saw Mr.
Swainson's plot. As a rule, when he crossed the Close he averted his
eyes by a happy impulse of custom, for he did not like Mr. Swainson,
and as for the latter's plot, it was _anathema maranatha_ to him. The
Dean was tall, Mr. Swainson was taller; the Dean was stubborn, Mr.
Swainson was obstinate; so there arose between them the antagonism
that is born of similarity. On the other hand the Dean was stout and
Mr. Swainson a scarecrow; the Dean was comely and clerical, but not
over-rich, Mr. Swainson was pallid, lantern-jawed, wealthy, and a
lawyer, and hence the dislike born of difference. Moreover, years ago
Mr. Swainson had been Mayor of Bicester, when there was a little
dispute between the Chapter and the Bishop, and he showed so much
energy upon the one side as to earn the nickname of the "Mayor of the
Palace." Finally Mr. Swainson delighted in opposition as a cat in
milk, and cared to have a good reason for his antagonism no more than
puss in the dairy about a sixty years' title to the cream-pan.
But a sixty years' title to his plot was the very thing which Mr.
Swainson did claim to have. Exactly opposite his house--his father's
and grandfather's house, too--in which, said his enemies, they had
lived and grown fat upon cathedral patronage, lay this debatable land.
His front windows commanded it, and on such a morning as this he loved
to stand upon his doorstep and gaze at it with the air of a dog
watching the spot where his bone is buried. But if Mr. Swainson was
right, that was just what was not buried there; there were no bones
there. True, the smoothly shorn surface of the little patch was
divided from the green turf around the cathedral only by a slight iron
railing, but, said Mr. Swainson, ponderously seizing upon his
opponent's weapon and using it with telling effect, it was of another
sort altogether: of a very different nature indeed. It had never been
consecrated, and close as it was to the sacred pile, being in fact
separated from it on two sides but by a yard of sunk fence, it did not
belong to it, it was not of it, quoth he; it was private property, the
property of Erasmus John Swainson, and the appanage of his substantial
red-brick house just across the Close.
And no one could refute him, though several tried their best, to his
huge delight. It cannot now be exactly computed by how many years the
discovery of his rights prolonged his life--not certainly by some. His
liver demanded activity, namely, a quarrel, and what a coil this was!
If he had been given the choice of opponents, he would probably have
preferred the Dean and Chapter, they were so substantial, wealthy, and
all but formidable. And such a thorn in the side of those comfortable
personages as these rights of his were like to be he could hardly have
imagined in his most sanguine dreams, or hoped for in his happiest
moments.
It was great fun stating his claim, flouting it in their faces,
displaying it through the city, brandishing it in season and out of
season; but when it came to making a hole in the smooth turf hitherto
so sacred, and setting up an unsightly post, and affixing to it a
board with "Trespassers will be prosecuted. E. J. Swainson," the fun
became furious. So did the Dean, so did the Chapter, so did every
sidesman and verger. Bicester was torn in pieces by the contending
parties, but Mr. Swainson was firm. The only concession that could be
wrung from him was the removal of the obnoxious board. Instead of it
he placed a neat iron railing round his property, enclosing just
thirty feet by fifteen. Such was the _status in quo_ on this morning,
and with it the Dean had for some time been obliged to rest content.
And yet, sooth to say, the greatest pleasure of the very reverend
gentleman's life was gone with this accession to the roundness and
fulness of Mr. Swainson's. No more with the thorough satisfaction of
hitherto could he conduct the American traveller through the ancient
crypt, or dilate upon the beauty of the quaint gargoyles to the
Marquis of Bicester's visitors. No; indeed that railed-in spot was a
plague-spot to him, ever itching, an eyesore even when invisible, a
thing to be evaded and dodged and given the slip, as a Dean who is a
Dean should scorn to evade anything mortal. He winced at the mere
thought that the inquisitive sight-seer might touch upon it might,
probe the matter with questions. He hurried him past it with averted
finger and voluble tongue, nor recovered his air of kindly
condescension, or polished ease (as the case might be), until he was
safe within his own hall. Only in moments of forgetfulness could the
Dean now walk in his own Close of Bicester with the easy grace of old
times.
But on this particular morning the sunshine was so pleasant, the wind
so balmy, that he walked halfway across the Close as if the river of
Lethe flowed fathoms deep over Mr. Swainson's plot; then it chanced
that his eyes in a heedless moment rested upon it; and he saw that a
man was at work in the tiny enclosure, and he paused. The Dean knew
Mr. Swainson by this time, and did not trust him. What was this? By
the man's side lay a small heap of grayish-white things, and he was
holding a short-handled mallet, and was using it deftly to drive one
of the grayish-white things into the ground. From him the Dean's eyes
travelled to a couple of parti-colored sticks, one at each end of the
plot. What was this? A horror so terrible that the Dean stood still,
and that remarkable change came over him which we have described.
Great men rise to the occasion. It was only a moment he thus stood and
looked. Then he turned and walked rapidly back to a house he had just
passed. A tall thin man was standing upon the steps, with the ghost of
a smile upon his face. For a moment the Dean could only stammer. It
was such a dreadful outrage.
"Is that," he said at last, "is that there, sir, being done by your
authority?" With a shaking finger he pointed to Mr. Swainson's plot.
The tall man in a leisurely manner settled a pair of eyeglasses upon
his nose and looked in the direction indicated. "Ah, I see what you
mean," he said at last with delicious coolness. "Certainly, Mr. Dean,
certainly!"
"Are you aware, sir, what it is?" gasped the clergyman; "it is
sacrilege!"
"Pooh, nothing of the kind, I assure you, my dear sir. It's croquet!"
The tone was one of explanation, and there was such an air of
frankness, of putting an end to an unfounded error, that the veins
upon the Dean's temples swelled and his face grew, if possible, redder
than before.
"I won't stay to bandy words with you----"
"Bandy!" cried the tall man, intensely amused. "Ha, ha, ha! you
thought it was hocky! Bandy! Oh, no, you play it with hoops and a
mallet. Drive the balls through--so!"
And to the intense delight of the Close people, nine-tenths of whom
were at their windows, Mr. Swainson executed an ungainly kind of
gambade upon the steps. "Disgusting," the Dean called it afterwards,
when talking to sympathetic ears. Now he merely put it away from him
with a wave of the hand.
"I will not discuss it now, Mr. Swainson. If your own feelings of
decency and of what is right and proper do not forbid this--this
ribald profanity--I can call it nothing else, sir--I have but one word
to add. The Chapter shall prevent it."
"The Chapter!" replied the other in a tone of singular contempt, which
changed to savageness as he continued, "You are well read in history,
Mr. Dean, they tell me. Doubtless you remember what happened when the
puissant king Canute bade the tide come no further. I am the tide, and
you and the Chapter sit in the chair of Canute."
The Dean, it must be confessed, was a little taken aback by this
terrible defiance. He was amazed. The two glared at one another, and
the clergyman was the first to give way; baffled and disconcerted, yet
still swelling with rage, he strode towards the deanery. His
antagonist followed him with his eyes, then looked more airily than
ever at his plot and the progress being made there, considered the
weather with his chin at the decanal angle, and with a flirt of his
long coat-tails went into the house, a happy man and the owner of a
vastly improved appetite.
But the Dean had more to go through yet. At the door of his garden he
ran in his haste against some one coming out. Ordinarily, great man as
he was, he was also a gentleman. But this was too much. That, when the
father had insulted him, the son should almost prostrate him on his
own threshold, was intolerable--at any rate at a moment when he was
smarting with the sense of unacknowledged defeat.
"Good-morning, Mr. Dean," said the young fellow, raising his hat with
an evident desire to please that was the very antipodes of his sire's
manner--only the Dean was in no mood to discriminate--"I have just
been having a very pleasant game of croquet."
It is greatly to be regretted, but here a short hiatus in the
narrative occurs. The minor canons, than whom no men are more wanting
in reverence, say that the Dean's answer consisted of two words, one
of them very pithy, very full of meaning, but in the mouth of a Dean,
however choleric, impossible--perfectly impossible. Accounting this as
a gloss, and the original reading not being forthcoming, we are driven
to conjecture that the Dean's answer expressed mild disapprobation of
the game of croquet. Certain it is that young Swainson, surprised
doubtless at so novel and original a sentiment, only said,
"I beg your pardon."
"Hem! I mean to say that I do not approve of this. I will come to the
point. I must ask you to discontinue your visits at my house." The
young man stared as if he thought the excited divine had gone mad; the
Deanery was almost a home to him. "Your father," the Dean went on more
coherently, "has taken a step so unseemly, so--so indecent, has used
language so insulting to me, sir, that I cannot, at any rate at
present, receive you here."
Young Swainson was a gentleman, and moreover, for a very good reason
hereinafter appearing, the Dean failed to anger him. He raised his hat
as respectfully as before, bowed slightly in token of acquiescence,
and went on his way sorrowfully.
He had a singularly pleasant smile, this young gentleman, though this
was not the time for displaying it. Mrs. Dean had once pronounced him
a pippin grafted on a crab-stock, and thereafter in certain circles he
was known as King Pepin. He was tall and straight and open-eyed, with
faults enough, but of a generous youthful kind, easily overlooked and
more easily forgiven. Doubtless Mr. Swainson would have had his son
more practical, cool-headed, and precise; but the shoot did not grow
in the same way as the parent tree. Old Swainson would not have been
happy without an enemy, nor young Swainson as happy with one; and if,
as the former often said, the latter's worst enemy was himself, he was
likely to have a tolerably prosperous life.
In a space of time inconceivably small the doings of the grim old
lawyer and the Dean's remonstrance were all over Bicester. Nay, fast
as the stone had rolled, it had gathered moss. It was gravely asserted
by people who rapidly grew to be eyewitnesses, that Mr. Swainson had
danced a hornpipe in the middle of his plot, snapping his fingers at
the Dean the while the latter prodded him as well as he could over the
railings with his umbrella; and that only the arrival of Mr.
Swainson's son put an end to this disgraceful exhibition.
Neither side wasted time. The Dean, the Canon in residence, and the
Praecentor, an active young fellow, consulted their legal adviser, and
talked largely of ejectment, title, and seisin. Mr. Swainson, having
nine points of the law in his favor, and as well acquainted with the
tenth as his opponents' legal adviser, devoted himself to the lighter
pursuit of the mallet and hoop. In a state of felicity undreamt of
before, he played, or affected to play, croquet, his right hand
against his left, the former giving the latter two hoops and a cage.
He played with a cage and a bell; it was more cheerful, not to say
noisy.
Of course all Bicester found occasion to pass through the Close and
see this great sight, while every window in the precincts was raised,
that the denizens thereof might hear the tap, tap of the sacrilegious
mallet. The Cathedral lawyer, urged to take some step, and well
knowing the strength of the enemy's position, was fairly nonplussed.
But while he pondered, with a certain grim amusement, over Mr.
Swainson's crotchet, which did not present itself to his legal mind in
so dreadful a light as it did to the mind clerical, some unknown
person took action, and made it war to the knife.
"Who did it?" Bicester asked loudly when it awoke one morning, to find
Mr. Swainson in a state of mind which seemed imperatively to call for
a padded room and a strait waistcoat. During the night some one had
thrown down the iron railing, taken up and broken his hoops, crushed
his bell, and snapped his pegs; all this in the neatest possible
manner, and with no damage to the turf. War to the knife indeed! Mr.
Swainson, like the famous Widdrington, would have fought upon his
stumps on such a provocation.
He expressed his opinion very hotly that this was the work of "that
arrogant priest," and he should smart for it. A clergyman in this kind
of context becomes a priest. This is common knowledge.
The Dean said, if hints were to go for anything, that it was a more or
less direct interposition of Providence.
Young Swainson said nothing.
The vergers followed his example, but smiled a good deal.
The Dean's lawyer said it was a very foolish act, whoever did it.
Mrs. Dean said she should like to give the man who did it five
shillings. Perhaps her inclination mastered her.
The Dean's daughter sighed.
And Bicester said everything except what young Swainson said.
I have not mentioned the Dean's daughter before. It is the popular
belief that she was christened Sweet Clive Buxton, and if people are
mistaken in this, and the name "Sweet" does not appear upon the highly
favored register, what of that? It is but one proof the more of the
utter and tremendous want of foresight of godfathers and godmothers.
They send the future lounger in St. James's into the world handicapped
with the name of Joseph or Zachary, and dub the country curate Tom or
Jerry. No matter; Clive Buxton, whatever her name, could be nothing
but sweet. She was not tall nor yet short; she was just as tall and
just as short as she should have been, with a well-rounded figure and
grave carriage of the head. Her hair was wavy and brown, and sometimes
it strayed over a white brow, on which a frown was so great a stranger
that its right of entry was barred by the Statute of Limitations.
There were a few freckles, etherealized dimples, about her well-shaped
nose. But these charms grew upon one gradually; at first her suitors
were only conscious of her great gray wide-open eyes, so kind and
frank and trustful, and so wise withal, that they filled every young
man upon whom she turned them with a certainty of her purity and
goodness and lovableness, and sent him away with a frantic desire to
make her his wife without loss of time. With all this, she overflowed
with fun and happiness--except when she sighed--and she was just
nineteen. Such was Sweet Clive Buxton then. If her picture were
painted to-day, there would be this difference: she is older and more
beautiful.
To return to our plot. Bicester watched with bated breath to see what
Mr. Swainson would do. No culprit was forthcoming, and it seemed as if
the day was going against him. He made no sign; only the broken hoops,
the cage and battered bell, so lately the instruments and insignia of
triumph, were cleared away and, at the ex-mayor's strenuous request,
taken in charge by the police. Even the iron railing was removed. The
excitement in the Close rose high. Once more the Cathedral vicinage
was undefined by lay appropriation, but the Dean knew Mr. Swainson too
well to rejoice. The ground was cleared, it is true, but only, as he
well foresaw, that it might be used for some mysterious operations, of
which the end and aim only--his own annoyance--were clear to him, and
not the means. What would Mr. Swainson do?
The strange unnatural calm lasted several days. The Cathedral
dignitaries moved about in fear and trembling. At length one night the
dwellers in the Close were aroused by a peculiar hammering. It was
frequent, deep, and ominous, and came from the direction of Mr.
Swainson's plot. To the nervous it seemed as the knocking of nails
into an untimely coffin; to the guilty--and this was very near the
Cathedral--like the noise of a rising scaffold; to the brave and those
with clear consciences, such as Clive Buxton, it more nearly resembled
the knocking a hoarding together. And indeed that was the very thing
it was, and around Mr. Swainson's plot.
But what a hoarding! When the light of day discovered it to people's
eyes, the Dean's fearful anticipations seemed slight to him, as the
boy's vision who has dreamed he is about to be flogged in jail, and
awakes to find his father standing over him with a strap. It was so
unsightly, so gaunt, so unpainted, so terrible; the very stones of the
Cathedral seemed to blush a deeper red at discovering it, and the
oldest houses to turn a darker purple. Had the Dean possessed the
hundred tongues of Fame (which in Bicester possessed many more) and
the five hundred fingers of Briareus he could not hope to prevent the
Marquis's visitors asking questions about _that_, or to divert the
attention of the least curious American. He recognized the truth at a
glance, and formed his plan. Many generals have formed it before; it
was--retreat. He sent out his butler to borrow a continental Bradshaw
from the club, and shut himself up in his study. The truly great mind
is never overwhelmed.
The vergers alone inspected the monster unmoved. They eyed it with
glances not only of curiosity, but of appreciative intelligence. Not
so, however, later in the day. Then Mr. Swainson appeared, leading by
a strong chain a brindled bull-dog, of the most ferocious description
and about sixty pounds weight. The animal contemplated the nearest
verger with much satisfaction, and licked his chops: it might be at
some grateful memory. The verger, who was in a small way a student of
natural history, pronounced it however a lick of anticipation, and
appeared not a little disconcerted. Mr. Swainson entered with the dog
by a small door at the corner, and came out again without him. The
other vergers then left.
Their coming and going was nothing to Mr. Swainson. It was enough for
him that he stood there the cynosure of every eye in the Close; even
Mrs. Dean was watching him from a distant garret window. In slow and
measured fashion he walked to the steps of his own house, and, taking
from them a board he had previously placed there, returned to the
entrance of his plot, now enclosed to the height of about ten feet by
this terrible hoarding. Above the door he carefully hung the board and
drew back a few feet to take in the effect. Mrs. Dean sent down
hastily for her opera-glasses, but really there was no need of them.
The legend in huge black letters on a white ground ran thus: "No
Admittance! Beware of the Dog!!!" A smile of content crept slowly over
Mr. Swainson's face, and he said aloud,
"Trump that card, Mr. Dean, if you can."
As he turned--Mrs. Dean saw it distinctly and declared herself ready
to swear to it in any court of justice--he snapped his fingers at the
Deanery. And the dog howled!
It was the first of many howls, for he was a dog of great width of
chest; and not even the surgeon of an insurance company, if he had
lived twenty-four hours in Bicester Close, would have found fault with
his lungs. Why he howled during the night, for it was not the time of
full moon, became the burning question of each morning. That he joined
in the Cathedral services with a zest and discrimination which
rendered the organ almost superfluous, and drove the organist to the
verge of resignation, was only to be expected. There was nothing
strange in that, nor in his rivalry of the Praecentor's best notes,
whose voice was considered very fine in the Litany. The voluntary,
Tiger made his own; and of the sermon he expressed disapproval in so
marked a manner that it was hard to say which swelled more with rage,
the Dean within or the dog without. Their rage was equally impotent.
Things went so far that the Dean publicly wrung his hands at the
breakfast-table. "You could not hear the benediction this morning! And
I was in good voice too, my dear!" he wailed, with tears in his eyes.
"You should appeal to the Marquis," suggested his wife. It must be
explained that the Marquis in Bicester ranks next to and little
beneath Providence. But the Dean shook his head. He put no faith in
the power even of the Marquis to handle Mr. Swainson. "I will lay it
before the Bishop, my dear," he said humbly. And then, indeed, Mrs.
Dean knew that the iron had entered into his soul, and that the hand
of the Mayor of the Palace was very heavy upon him; and her good,
wifely heart grew so hot that she felt she could have no more patience
with her daughter.
For Clive's sympathies were no longer to be trusted. She was not the
Sweet Clive of a month ago, but a sadder and more sedate young person,
who had a troublesome and annoying way of defending the absent foe,
and of sighing in dark corners, that was more than provoking. Duty
demanded that she should be an ocean, into which her father and mother
might pour the streams of their indignation and meet with a
sympathizing floodtide, and lo! this unfeeling girl declined to make
herself useful in that way, and instead sent forth a "bore" of light
jesting that made little of the enemy's enormities and a trifle of his
outrages. More, she showed herself for the first time disobedient; she
altogether refused to promise not to speak to King Pepin if
opportunity should serve, and, clever girl as she was, laughed her
father out of insisting upon it, and kissed her mother into being a
not unwilling ally. A wise woman was her mother and clear-sighted; she
saw that Clive had a spirit, but no longer a heart of her own. Yet at
such a time as this, when her husband was wringing his hands, Clive's
insensibility to the family grievances tried Mrs. Dean sorely. It was
hard that the Canon's sleepless night, the Praecentor's peevishness,
the singing man's influenza, and all the countless counts of the
indictment against Mr. Swainson, should fail to awaken in the young
lady's mind a tithe of the indignation shared by every other person at
the Deanery, from the Dean himself to the scullery maid. But then love
is blind; for which most of us may thank Heaven.
Day after day went by and the hoarding still reared its gaunt height,
and the unclean beast of the Hebrews still made night hideous, and the
day a time for the expression of strong feelings. At length the Dean
met his legal adviser in the Close--ay, and within a few feet of the
obnoxious erection; he kept his back to it with ridiculous care, while
they talked.
"We have come to something like a settlement at last," said the lawyer
briskly;--"confusion take the dog! I can hardly hear myself speak.--We
are to meet at the Chapter House at five, Mr. Dean, if that will suit
you: Mr. Swainson, the Bishop, Canon Rowcliffe, and myself. I think he
is inclined to be reasonable at last."
The Dean shook his head gloomily.
"Ah, you will see it turn out better than you expect. Let me whisper
something to you. There is an action commenced against him for
shutting up a road across one of his farms at Middleton, and it will
be fought stoutly. One suit at a time will be sufficient to satisfy
even Mr. Swainson."
"You don't say so? This is good news!" cried the Dean, with
unmistakable pleasure. "Certainly, I will be there."
"And--I am sure I need not hint at it--you will be ready to meet Mr.
Swainson halfway?"
The Dean looked gloomy again. But at this moment a long loud howl,
more frenzied, more fiendish than any which had preceded it, seemed to
proclaim that the dog knew his reign was menaced, and, like
Sardanapalus, was determined to go out right royally. It was more than
the Dean could stand. With an involuntary motion of his hands to his
ears, he nodded and fled with unseemly haste to a place less exposed,
where he could in a seemly and decanal manner relieve his feelings.
The best-laid plans even of lawyers will go astray, and when they do
so, the havoc is generally of a singularly wide-spread description.
The meeting in the chapter-house proved stormy from the first. Whether
it was that the writ in the right-of-way case had not yet reached Mr.
Swainson, and so he clung to his only split-straw, or that the Dean
was soured by want of sleep, or that the Bishop was not thorough
enough--whatever was the cause, the spirit of compromise was absent,
and the discussion across the chapter-house table threatened to make
matters worse and not better. Whether the Dean first called Mr.
Swainson's enclosure the "toadstool of a night," or Mr. Swainson took
the initiative by styling the Dean the "mushroom of a day" (the Dean
was not of old family), was a question afterwards much and hotly
debated in Bicester circles. Be that as it may, the high powers at
length rose from the table in dudgeon and much confusion.
There was behind the Dean at the end of the chapter-house a large
window. It looked directly down upon what he, in the course of the
discussion, had more than once termed "The Profanation," and since the
eventful day of Mr. Swainson's match at croquet it had been, by the
Dean's order, kept shuttered, to the intent that, when occupied in the
chapterhouse, the Profanation might not be directly before his eyes.
On this occasion the shutter was still closed; it may be that this
phenomenon had weakened Mr. Swainson's not over-robust resolves on the
side of amity.
The Dean was a choleric man. As the party rose, he stepped to this
shutter and flung it back. He turned to the others and said
excitedly--
"Look, sir; look, my Lord! Is that a sight becoming the threshold of a
cathedral? Is that a thing to be endured on consecrated ground?"
They stepped towards the window, a wide low-browed Tudor one, and
looked out. The Dean himself stood aside, grasping the shutter with a
hand that shook with passion. He could see the others' faces. He
expected little show of shame or contrition on that of Mr. Swainson,
but he did wish to bring this hideous thing home to the Bishop, who
had not been as thorough in the matter as he should have been. Still,
as a bishop, he could not see that thing there in its horrid reality
and be unmoved!
No, he certainly could not. Slowly, and as if reluctantly, his
lordship's face changed; it broke into a smile that broadened and
rippled wider and wider, second by second, as he looked. His color
deepened until he became almost purple! And Mr. Swainson? His face was
the picture of horror: there could not be a doubt of that. Confusion
and astonishment were stereotyped on every feature. The Dean could not
believe his own eyes. He turned in perplexity to the lawyer, who was
peeping between the others' heads. His shoulders were shaking and his
face was puckered with laughter.
The Bishop stepped back. "Really, gentlemen, I think it is hardly fair
of us to play the spy. This is no place for us." He was a kindly man;
there never was a more popular bishop in Bicester, and never will be.
At this the Canon and the lawyer lost all control over themselves, and
their laughter, if not loud, was deep. The Dean was immensely puzzled,
confused, perplexed, wholly angry. He did at last what he should have
done at first, instead of striking an attitude with that shutter in
his hand. He looked through the window himself. It was dusty, and he
was somewhat near-sighted, but at length he saw; and this was what he
saw.
In the further corner of the ugly enclosure, a couple of lovers
billing and cooing; about and around them Mr. Swainson's big dog
performing uncouth gambols. Bad enough this; but it was not all. The
unsuspicious couple were Frank Swainson and--the Dean's daughter.
Frank's arm was round her, and as the Dean looked, he stooped and
kissed her, and Clive gazed with her brave eyes full of love into his
and scarcely blushed.
When the Dean turned round he was alone.
Was it very wrong of them? There was nowhere else, since this
miserable fracas began, where, away from others' eyes, they could
steal a kiss. But into Mr. Swainson's plot no window, save a shuttered
one, could look; the door, too, was close to one of the side doors of
the cathedral, and you could pop in and out again unseen, and as for
the big dog, Frank and Tiger were great friends. So if it was very
wrong, it was very easy and very nice, and---_faciles descensus
Averni_.
For one hour the Dean remained shut up in his study. At the end of
that time he put on his hat and walked across the Close. He knocked at
Mr. Swainson's door, and, upon its being opened, went in, and did not
come out again for an hour and five minutes by Mrs. Canon Rowcliffe's
watch. I have not the slightest idea of what passed there. More
than two thousand different and distinct accounts of the interview
were current next day in Bicester, but no one, and I have examined
them all with care, seems to me to account for the undoubted
results:--Imprimis, the disappearance next day from Mr. Swainson's
plot of the famous hoarding, which was not even replaced by the old
iron railing. Secondly, the marriage six weeks later of King Pepin and
Sweet Clive.