THE BISHOP IS WANTED
The episcopalian residence, situate some distance from the city, was a
mediaeval building, enshrined in the remnant of a royal chase, and in its
perfect quiet and loneliness resembled the palace of the Sleeping
Beauty. Its composite architecture was of many centuries and many
styles, for bishop after bishop had pulled down portions and added
others, had levelled a tower here and erected a wing there, until the
result was a jumble of divers designs, incongruous but picturesque. Time
had mellowed the various parts into one rich coloured whole of perfect
beauty, and elevated on a green rise, surrounded by broad stone
terraces, with towers and oriels and turrets and machicolated
battlements; clothed with ivy, buried amid ancient trees, it looked like
the realisation of a poet's dream. Only long ages and many changing
epochs; only home-loving prelates, ample monies, and architects of
genius, could have created so beautiful and unique a fabric. It was the
admiration of transatlantic tourists with a twang; the desire of
millionaires. Aladdin's industrious genii would have failed to build
such a masterpiece, unless their masters had arranged to inhabit it five
centuries or so after construction. Time had created it, as Time would
destroy it, but at present it was in perfect preservation, and figured
in steel-plate engravings as one of the stately homes of England. No
wonder the mitre of Beorminster was a coveted prize, when its gainer
could dwell in so noble and matchless a mansion.
As the present prelate was an up-to-date bishop, abreast of his time and
fond of his creature comforts, the interior of the palace was modernised
completely in accordance with the luxurious demands of nineteenth
century civilisation. The stately reception-rooms--thrown open on this
night to what the _Beorminster Weekly Chronicle_, strong in foreign
tongues, tautologically called 'the _elite_ and _creme de la creme_ of
the diocese'--were brilliantly illuminated by electric lamps and
furnished magnificently throughout, in keeping with their palatial
appearance. The ceilings were painted in the Italian style, with
decently-clothed Olympian deities; the floors were of parquetry,
polished so highly, and reflecting so truthfully, that the guests seemed
to be walking, in some magical way, upon still water. Noble windows,
extending from floor to roof, were draped with purple curtains, and
stood open to the quiet moonlit world without; between these, tall
mirrors flashed back gems and colours, moving figures and floods of
amber radiance, and enhanced by reduplicated reflections the size of the
rooms. Amid all this splendour of warmth and tints and light moved the
numerous guests of the bishop. Almost every invitation had been
accepted, for the receptions at the palace were on a large and liberal
scale, particularly as regards eating and drinking. Dr Pendle, in
addition to his official salary, possessed a handsome income, and spent
it in the lavish style of a Cardinal Wolsey. He was wise enough to know
how the outward and visible signs of prosperity and dignity affect the
popular imagination, and frequently invited the clergy and laity to
feast at the table of Mother Church, to show that she could dispense
loaves and fishes with the best, and vie with Court and Society in the
splendour and hospitality of her entertainments. As he approved of an
imposing ritual at the cathedral, so he affected a magnificent way of
living at the palace. Mrs Pansey and many others declared that Dr
Pendle's aims in that direction were Romish. Perhaps they were, but he
could scarcely have followed a better example, since the Church of Peter
owes much of its power to a judicious employment of riches and ritual,
and a dexterous gratification of the lust of the eye. The Anglican
Church is more dignified now than she was in the days of the Georges,
and very rightly, too, since God's ministers should not be the poorest
or meanest of men.
Naturally, as the host was clerical and the building ecclesiastical, the
clergy predominated at this entertainment. The bishop and the dean were
the only prelates of their rank present, but there were archdeacons,
and canons and rectors, and a plentiful supply of curates, all, in their
own opinion, bishops in embryo. The shape and expression of the many
faces were various--ascetic, worldly, pale, red, round, thin, fat, oval;
each one revealed the character of its owner. Some lean, bent forms were
those of men filled with the fire of religion for its own sake; others,
stout, jolly gentlemen in comfortable livings, loved the loaves and
fishes of the Church as much as her precepts. The descendants of Friar
Tuck and the Vicar of Bray were here, as well as those who would have
been Wycliffes and Latimers had the fires of Smithfield still been
alight. Obsequious curates bowed down to pompous prebendaries; bluff
rectors chatted on cordial terms with suave archdeacons; and in the fold
of the Church there were no black sheep on this great occasion. The
shepherds and pastors of the Beorminster flock were polite,
entertaining, amusing, and not too masterful, so that the general air
was quite arcadian.
The laity also formed a strong force. There were lords magnificently
condescending to commoners; M.P.s who talked politics, and M.P.s who had
had enough of that sort of thing at St Stephen's and didn't; hearty
squires from adjacent county seats; prim bankers, with whom the said
squires were anxious to be on good terms, since they were the priests of
Mammon; officers from near garrison towns, gay and lighthearted, who
devoted themselves to the fairer portion of the company; and a
sprinkling of barristers, literary men, hardy explorers, and such like
minnows among Tritons. Last, but not least, the Mayor of Beorminster was
present and posed as a modern Whittington--half commercial wealth, half
municipal dignity. If some envious Anarchist had exploded a dynamite
bomb in the vicinity of the palace on that night, the greatest, the most
intellectual, the richest people of the county would have come to an
untimely end, and then the realm of England, like the people themselves,
would have gone to pieces. The _Beorminster Chronicle_ reporter--also
present with a flimsy book and a restless little pencil--worked up this
idea on the spot into a glowing paragraph.
Very ungallantly the ladies have been left to the last; but now the last
shall be first, although it is difficult to do the subject justice. The
matrons of surrounding parishes, the ladies of Beorminster society, the
damsels of town and country, were all present in their best attire,
chattering and smiling, and becking and bowing, after the observant and
diplomatic ways of their sex. Such white shoulders! such pretty faces!
such Parisian toilettes! such dresses of obviously home manufacture
never were seen in one company. The married ladies whispered scandal
behind their fans, and in a Christian spirit shot out the lip of scorn
at their social enemies; the young maidens sought for marriageable men,
and lurked in darkish corners for the better ensnaring of impressionable
males. Cupid unseen mingled in the throng and shot his arrows right and
left, not always with the best result, as many post-nuptial experiences
showed. There was talk of the gentle art of needlework, of the latest
bazaar and the agreeable address delivered thereat by Mr Cargrim; the
epicene pastime of lawn tennis was touched upon; and ardent young
persons discussed how near they could go to Giant Pope's cave without
getting into the clutches of its occupant. The young men talked golfing,
parish work, horses, church, male millinery, polo and shooting; the
young ladies chatted about Paris fashions and provincial adaptations
thereof, the London season, the latest engagement, and the necessity of
reviving the flirtatious game of croquet. Black coats, coloured dresses,
flashing jewels, many-hued flowers,--the restless crowd resembled a bed
of gaudy tulips tossed by the wind. And all this chattering, laughing,
clattering, glittering mass of well-bred, well-groomed humanity moved,
and swayed, and gyrated under the white glare of the electric lamps.
Urbs in Rus; Belgravia in the Provinces; Vanity Fair amid the
cornfields; no wonder this entertainment of Bishop and Mrs Pendle was
the event of the Beorminster year.
Like an agreeable Jupiter amid adoring mortals, the bishop, with his
chaplain in attendance, moved through the rooms, bestowing a word here,
a smile there, and a hearty welcome on all. A fine-looking man was the
Bishop of Beorminster; as stately in appearance as any prelate drawn by
Du Maurier. He was over six feet, and carried himself in a soldierly
fashion, as became a leader of the Church Militant. His legs were all
that could be desired to fill out episcopalian gaiters; and his bland,
clean-shaven face beamed with smiles and benignity. But Bishop Pendle
was not the mere figure-head Mrs Pansey's malice declared him to be; he
had great administrative powers, great organising capabilities, and
controlled his diocese in a way which did equal credit to his heart and
head. As he chatted with his guests and did the honours of the palace,
he seemed to be the happiest of men, and well worthy of his exalted
post. With a splendid position, a charming wife, a fine family, an
obedient flock of clergy and laity, the bishop's lines were cast in
pleasant places. There was not even the proverbial crumpled rose-leaf to
render uncomfortable the bed he had made for himself. He was like an
ecclesiastical Jacob--blessed above all men.
'Well, bishop!' said Dr Graham, a meagre sceptic, who did not believe in
the endurance of human felicity, 'I congratulate you.'
'On my daughter's engagement?' asked the prelate, smiling pleasantly.
'On everything. Your position, your family, your health, your easy
conscience; all is too smooth, too well with you. It can't last, your
lordship, it can't last,' and the doctor shook his bald head, as no
doubt Solon did at Croesus when he snubbed that too fortunate monarch.
'I am indeed blessed in the condition of life to which God has been
pleased to call me.'
'No doubt! No doubt! But remember Polycrates, bishop, and throw your
ring into the sea.'
'My dear Dr Graham,' said the bishop, rather stiffly, 'I do not believe
in such paganism. God has blessed me beyond my deserts, no doubt, and I
thank Him in all reverence for His kindly care.'
'Hum! Hum!' muttered Graham, shaking his head. 'When men thank fortune
for her gifts she usually turns her back on them.'
'I am no believer in such superstitions, doctor.'
'Well, well, bishop, you have tempted the gods, let us see what they
will do.'
'Gods or God, doctor?' demanded the bishop, with magnificent
displeasure.
'Whichever you like, my lord; whichever you like.'
The bishop was nettled and rather chilled by this pessimism. He felt
that it was his duty as a Churchman to administer a rebuke; but Dr
Graham's pagan views were well known, and a correction, however
dexterously administered, would only lead to an argument. A controversy
with Graham was no joke, as he was as subtle as Socrates in discovering
and attacking his adversary's weak points; so, not judging the present a
fitting occasion to risk a fall, the bishop smoothed away an incipient
frown, and blandly smiling, moved on, followed by his chaplain. Graham
looked grimly after this modern Cardinal Wolsey.
'I have never,' soliloquised the sceptic, 'I have never known a man
without his skeleton. I wonder if you have one, my lord. You look
cheerful, you seem thoroughly happy; but you are too fortunate. If you
have not a skeleton now, I feel convinced you will have to build a
cupboard for one shortly. You thank blind fortune under the alias of
God? Well! well! we shall see the result of your thanks. Wolsey!
Napoleon! Bismarck! they all fell when most prosperous. Hum! hum! hum!'
Dr Graham had no reason to make this speech, beyond his belief--founded
upon experience--that calms are always succeeded by storms. At present
the bishop stood under a serene sky; and in no quarter could Graham
descry the gathering of the tempest he prophesied. But for all that he
had a premonition that evil days were at hand; and, sceptic as he was,
he could not shake off the uneasy feeling. His mother had been a
Highland woman, and the Celt is said to be gifted with second sight.
Perhaps Graham inherited the maternal gift of forecasting the future,
for he glanced ominously at the stately form of his host, and shook his
head. He thought the bishop was too confident of continuous sunshine.
In the meantime, Dr Pendle, quite free from such forebodings,
unfortunately came within speaking distance of Mrs Pansey, who, in her
bell of St Paul's voice, was talking to a group of meek listeners. Daisy
Norsham had long ago seized upon Gabriel Pendle, and was chatting with
him on the edge of the circle, quite heedless of her chaperon's
monologue. When Mrs Pansey saw the bishop she swooped down on him
before he could get out of the way, which he would have done had
courtesy permitted it. Mrs Pansey was the one person Dr Pendle dreaded,
and if the late archdeacon had been alive he would have encouraged the
missionary project with all his heart. 'To every man his own fear.' Mrs
Pansey was the bishop's.
'Bishop!' cried the lady, in her most impressive archidiaconal manner,
'about that public-house, The Derby Winner, it must be removed.'
Cargrim, who was deferentially smiling at his lordship's elbow, cast a
swift glance at Gabriel when he heard Mrs Pansey's remark. He had a
belief--founded upon spying--that Gabriel knew too much about the
public-house mentioned, which was in his district; and this belief was
strengthened when he saw the young man start at the sound of the name.
Instinctively he kept his eyes on Gabriel's face, which looked disturbed
and anxious; too much so for social requirements.
'It must be removed,' repeated the bishop, gently; 'and why, Mrs
Pansey?'
'Why, bishop? You ask why? Because it is a hot-bed of vice and betting
and gambling; that's why!'
'But I really cannot see--I have not the power--'
'It's near the cathedral, too,' interrupted Mrs Pansey, whose manners
left much to be desired. 'Scandalous!'
'When God erects a house of prayer,
The devil builds a chapel there.
'Isn't it your duty to eradicate plague-spots, bishop?'
Before Dr Pendle could answer this rude question, a servant approached
and spoke in a whisper to his master. The bishop looked surprised.
'A man to see me at this hour--at this time,' said he, repeating the
message aloud. 'Who is he? What is his name?'
'I don't know, your lordship. He refused to give his name, but he
insists upon seeing your lordship at once.'
'I can't see him!' said the bishop, sharply; 'let him call to-morrow.'
'My lord, he says it is a matter of life and death.'
Dr Pendle frowned. 'Most unbecoming language!' he murmured. 'Perhaps it
may be as well to humour him. Where is he?'
'In the entrance hall, your lordship!'
'Take him into the library and say I will see him shortly. Most
unusual,' said the bishop to himself. Then added aloud, 'Mrs Pansey, I
am called away for a moment; pray excuse me.'
'We must talk about The Derby Winner later on,' said Mrs Pansey,
determinedly.
'Oh, yes!--that is--really--I'll see.'
'Shall I accompany your lordship?' murmured Cargrim, officiously.
'No, Mr Cargrim, it is not necessary. I must see this man as he speaks
so strongly, but I daresay he is only some pertinacious person who
thinks that a bishop should be at the complete disposal of the
public--the exacting public!'
With this somewhat petulant speech Dr Pendle walked away, not sorry to
find an opportunity of slipping out of a noisy argument with Mrs Pansey.
That lady's parting words were that she should expect him back in ten
minutes to settle the question of The Derby Winner; or rather to hear
how she intended to settle it. Cargrim, pleased at being left behind,
since it gave him a chance of watching Gabriel, urged Mrs Pansey to
further discussion of the question, and had the satisfaction of seeing
that such discussion visibly disconcerted the curate.
And Dr Pendle? In all innocence he left the reception-rooms to speak
with his untoward visitor in the library; but although he knew it not,
he was entering upon a dark and tortuous path, the end of which he was
not destined to see for many a long day. Dr Graham's premonition was
likely to prove true, for in the serene sky under which the bishop had
moved for so long, a tempest was gathering fast. He should have taken
the doctor's advice and have sacrificed his ring like Polycrates, but,
as in the case of that old pagan, the gods might have tossed back the
gift and pursued their relentless aims. The bishop had no thoughts like
these. As yet he had no skeleton, but the man in the library was about
to open a cupboard and let out its grisly tenant to haunt prosperous
Bishop Pendle. To him, as to all men, evil had come at the appointed
hour.