Miss Mackarness remarked that the world was not what she had imagined it
when she was young. It had in fact come to an end. She said she was
not surprised at anything and never would be again. She said she had
never been in a motor-car, but wanted to be in one, because death seemed
quick and easy in a motor-car. She also said that if she escaped, and
Lady Penelope was killed, she knew of a good opening in a lunatic asylum
for a woman without nerves, who could not be surprised, and had been
accustomed to the ways of the highest society.
"Oh, yes, yes; we'll be ready," said Miss Mackarness. And Bob went away
to instruct Geordie and Timothy Bunting, and he spent the whole
afternoon, covered with dirty oil, dancing about the two motor-cars,
while Geordie put them into first-class trim.
"We ain't going to be run to ground by a bishop," said Bob.
"Not much we ain't, sir," said Tim. "I'd sooner go in one of these
machines, so I would."
It was the first time he had ever said as much, and Geordie paid him a
compliment from under the car.
"That's the first sensible remark I've ever heard you make, Tim," said
the concealed chauffeur.
"Thank you," said Timothy. "I always said you were a good chap,
Geordie, even if you was wrapped up in muck and grease." And an idea
came to Bob.
"I know what I'll do about Gordon," he said. "I'll write something about
this now so's to show it him afterward."
He wrote:
"Pen is very sad. I fear she has quarrelled with Gordon. I'm sure she
has married Gordon. I wish she would let me send to him to come, but
she has sworn me not to. I think the baby is very like Gordon. It is
clever like him, only, being younger, not so clever. I don't mind if it
is Gordon. Gordon has been very kind to me, knowing how poor the family
is. I wish I was as clever as he is."
He read it over carefully.
"He's more jealous of Rivaulx than any one. I'll put something in about
him."
He added:
"I think Rivaulx an ass because of balloons."
"That will please Gordon," said Bob, as he stowed his note-book away.
"But I do wish I knew who it is. Women are very fond of secrets. They
seem to like babies and secrets best. Pen likes both together, and it's
very confusing to any one."
They started next morning in the two cars for Upwell Castle, taking the
whole household. Bob installed an old villager and his wife as
caretakers. He had selected them himself on the ground that they seemed
the stupidest people in the village. Bob was very clever, if not so
clever as Gordon.
"I think we've spoofed 'em, Pen," said Bob.
Penelope hugged her baby and wept.
"Why are you crying?" asked Bob.
"I don't know," said Penelope.
"Then don't," said Bob. "It makes me very uncomfortable."
They devoured space, and Timothy held on to the car and to Miss
Mackarness. Miss Mackarness said it altered her ideas. Tim said it
didn't, but then he was very conservative.
"Now, let 'em all come," said Bob.
*CHAPTER XXV.*
Titania fell on Bradstock's neck when he came back with the bishop. She
very nearly fell on the bishop's neck, too, which alarmed him very much
indeed, though he had all that confidence with women which marks the
celibate clergy, especially when they are beautiful.
"My dear-r Augustin," said Titania, "I came at once. I felt I had to.
I felt I must. There is no sympathy at home for me in my troubles. The
duke laughs, laughs in my face, and says Penelope is damn fine sport!"
"Tut, tut!" said the bishop, who was loath to think that dukes could use
bad language. "I very much regret to hear it."
Titania waved her hands at large.
"But I do not care. I am wrapped up in woe, and in Robert. Where is
he? Show me the telegram he sent."
They showed her the telegram.
"Not black! Oh, Augustin, that might mean anything."
"So it might. What did I say, bishop?" asked Augustin.
"Nonsense!" said the bishop. "I do not believe it is even dark. This
is all waste of time. Time cannot now be wasted. This scandal grows.
Ridley tells me all these unfortunate gentlemen, but Lord Bramber and
Mr. Carew, are in the town. I have had telegrams from both of those
asking for information, most excited telegrams. Mr. Carew says he is
delirious with fever, and I believe him. Lord Bramber says his father
is delirious, which I much regret. I think the son is also delirious,
though he does not say he is. He implores me to remember that he is
entitled to know first where Penelope is, as he is her husband. This is
the telegram."
Augustin and Titania read it.
"If we could only believe it," said Titania.
"We cannot," said the bishop. "Ridley declares they all say the same.
They also say the infant is an adopted one. I do not remember, in the
course of all that wide experience which comes to a country clergyman in
a place like Ray Pogis, any situation equal to this. As a bishop with a
wider experience, I have seen nothing so absurd even in the conduct of
my clergy, who are indeed hard to beat in stupidity. I regret we did
not go on to Waynfleet and Spilsby, Bradstock."
"So do I," said Bradstock, eyeing Titania.
"We will go to-morrow," said the bishop. "I have an intuition that
to-morrow we shall find her. I feel sure of it."
"I will come with you," said Titania. "I must! I must! I cannot help
fearing, Augustin, that the very worst may have happened. I have now no
confidence whatever in dear, misguided Penelope's morals. I do not feel
sure that the child is not black, or that it is adopted!"
"Good heavens!" said Augustin.
"Good heavens!" echoed the bishop.
"I haven't," affirmed Titania, dreadfully. "No such thing has happened
in our family since the time of Charles the Second, which was lamentable
but natural, and has long since been forgiven. I mistrust the general
attitude of all these men, bishop. I mistrust it!"
"Certainly they seem in great distress," said the bishop.
Titania rose and looked awful.
"Only upon one supposition can I account for it, bishop. This is their
remorse. They are remorseful. They have treated her badly, and she has
fled from them in her shame and will not see them!"
"Ha!" said the bishop, "there is something in that!"
"A great deal in it," boomed Titania, in her deepest tone of tragedy.
"It explains everything."
But Bradstock said:
"Infernal nonsense, Titania! Bishop, I am surprised at you. They can't
_all_ be remorseful."
"Why not?" demanded Titania; "why not, Augustin?"
"Of course not," interjected the bishop, hastily.
"Why not, I ask?" repeated the duchess.
"Oh, well, you know," said Bradstock, "when you come to think of it,
wouldn't _one_ be enough to be remorseful for having behaved like a
scoundrel?"
The duchess collapsed.
"Dear me! so it would," she said, weakly. "Now I come to think of it,
one would be sufficient. Nothing is explained or can be explained till
we find Penelope."
The same feeling of desperation inspired the lovers in the various
hotels. Their hopeless passion grew upon them. The sense of mystery
deepened. They were sorry for Penelope, for the others, for themselves.
What did she mean by it? They were all agreed now about the adoption
theory, though they stuck to it manfully that they were married to her.
Each one believed the infant was adopted, while he nobly claimed it as
his own. They were really noble creatures, and showed themselves worthy
of a better fate. A peculiar feeling of sympathy grew up among them, as
it does among the unfortunate who are yet strong enough not to be
overwhelmed. They spoke to each other again. Goby took De Vere's arm
and walked about with him.
"I wish I could tell you all the truth, old chap," sighed Goby.
"Ah, so do I," said the poet. "A great passion is a wonderful thing,
Goby."
"So it is, old chap," said Goby. "Do you remember the happy days we
spent in your home when we read Browning and Shelley together, and you
explained your poems to me?"
Austin de Vere sighed.
"Ah, they were happy days, when my nose peeled on the water and my hands
were blistered by rowing."
"Do you remember the bulldog?" asked Goby.
"Ah, and the terrier he bit!"
"And the howling retriever?"
"And the bald, bronchitic Borzois," said De Vere, with enthusiasm. "I
bought them all of Bob because she loved him."
"I didn't like you then, Austin, old chap," said Goby.
Austin gripped his arm.
"Plantagenet, we will be friends always. Now I can confess that I
loathed you. I told Bradstock so. I said you were an ass."
"So I am," said poor Goby. "I admit now I can't understand Browning."
Austin looked about him:
"My dear chap, no more do I," he said, in an alarmed whisper. "He's a
much overrated man."
"I never overrated him myself," said Goby, sagely. "Look here, Austin.
You know, of course, that I'm married to Penelope?"
"Of course," said Austin. "And you know that I am?"
"We'll quarrel about nothing now. To-morrow we'll look for her.
Ridley, the bishop's butler, told me Bradstock and the bishop were going
to Spilsby to-morrow. I gave him a sovereign."
"So did I," said Austin. "Let's go in to dinner. I'm glad we are
friends, Plantagenet."
"So am I, old chap," said Goby.
At a near table to them were Rivaulx and Gordon. Farther off Plant was
with Carteret Williams. Plant regretted that Bramber wasn't there.
Williams sighed for the artistic company of the delirious Carew. Not
one look of envy or hatred or malice passed between any of them.
"Marquis," said Gordon, gloomily, "will you come to-morrow with me to
find my--I mean, Penelope?"
"I will, my dear Gordon," replied the marquis. "To Spilsby."
"How did you know?"
"Ridley, the bishop's man, said it."
"He told me, too. I gave him five pounds," said Gordon.
"I gave him four."
"I'll bet he's told 'em all," said Gordon. "I say, marquis, those were
jolly, happy days before this misery came on, when you and I dined
together."
"And went up in balloons," said the marquis.
Gordon shook his head.
"Well, yes, even the balloons. Do you know, marquis, I hated you then.
I don't now. I think you a real good chap."
The marquis held out his hand, and Gordon shook it.
"Gordon, I used to despise you. It was a great trial to dine with you.
I'm glad I did it now. I'm a wiser, better man for the trials. I see
that Jews can be noble by nature just as they can be barons by creation.
I finally absolve Dreyfus. I almost love you now!"
"Good old marquis," said Gordon. "When we get up to town, I'll put you
on the betht thing in the market. I will, so help me!"
Carteret Williams and Plant got on well together. They talked first of
Bramber and Carew.
"Carew's all right," said Williams; "all right for an artist. I was in
the Ashanti war with an artist once. I put his head in a bucket of
water!"
"Why?" asked Plant.
"Because he was too drunk to draw," said Williams. "He hated me when he
got sober, and caricatured me. I never liked artists afterward. But
when Penelope put me into harness with Carew, I found there was good
stuff in him. He could work. He talked awful rot, but there was
something at the back of it. I had to own it. How did you get on with
Bramber?"
"I thought him a damn fool," said Plant. "But I found out he wasn't.
There's stuff in Bramber. My--I mean, Penelope knew that. I say, as he
isn't here, poor chap, will you come to Spilsby with me to-morrow?"
Williams started.
"How did you come to think of Spilsby?" he asked, suspiciously.
"The bishop's butler told me. I gave him five pounds," said Plant.
"I gave him two," said Williams. "Yes, I'll go with you, as Carew isn't
here. I like Carew now. Poor Carew!"
"And I like Bramber, poor chap," said Plant. "And now I'll go and shake
hands with the marquis, who wanted to kill me last time I was here."
"I wish I'd seen that," said Williams, simply. "I like seeing fights!"
They spent a happy evening together and talked of Bob. Austin was great
upon Bob. And so was Gordon. Austin told them all about the dogs. Goby
spoke about the spavined pony he had bought. Gordon told them how Bob
had borrowed a hundred pounds of him to be put into something.
"I owe him fifty thousand pounds, at least," said Gordon. "The boy is a
financier. I wish I had a boy like Bob."
And just then Carew walked into the room. He looked ill, but was as
handsome as paint. Williams jumped to his feet.
"Oh, Jimmy, I heard you were delirious," he said, anxiously.
"I was," said Jimmy, "very delirious, extraordinarily so. I'm not sure
that I'm not delirious now."
He looked around the room anxiously, and drew Williams into a corner.
"Do you know anything about delirium?" he asked, anxiously.
"A lot about delirium tremens," said Williams. "Most of the artists I've
been with in Africa had it. They said it was malaria. But have you
been drinking?"
Carew shook his head.
"Not much, but I see the room is full of 'em!"
"Full of what?"
"Things, visions, phantasms!" said Jimmy, creepily. Williams looked
around in alarm.
"You don't say so!"
"Yes," said Jimmy. "This influenza is awful! I could swear I see the
marquis and Gordon and that ass Goby and De Vere!"
"Pull yourself together," said Williams. "They're here all right!"
"Are they real?" asked Jimmy. "They're not delusions?"
"Devil a bit!" said Williams.
"Oh," said Jimmy, "then I think I'll have some brandy. What are they
doing here?"
[Illustration: JIMMY CAREW, A.R.A. He was the best looking of the whole
"horde"]
"What are we doing here?" asked Williams. "We're mad! Oh, but, Jimmy,
I'm dashed glad to see you," said Williams, with a lurid string of
emphatic war expressions. "Those were happy days when I learnt about
art with you, and you learnt about life with me!"
"They were," said Jimmy. "But now I'm almost sick of art."
Williams implored him not to say so.
"Think of Rembrandt and Velasquez and Whistler!"
"I can't think of them. I think of Penelope!"
"Try to think of Monet and Manet," said Williams. "They'll do you
good."
"To be sure, to be sure," sighed Jimmy. "I'll try to."
They talked till two in the morning, and the only man missing was
Bramber.
"Perhaps he's chucked it," said Williams. "The last time I saw him he
looked sick enough to chuck anything. But I suppose the old earl is so
rocky he can't get away."
"I hate earls," said Jimmy, jealously. He added with extraordinary
irrelevance, "But I'm glad she adopted him."
No doubt he referred to the infant.
*CHAPTER XXVI.*
While Pen and Bob and the baby were going as fast as they could toward
Upwell Castle, Pen wept at intervals and hugged the child that all the
"horde" were glad she had adopted.
"My only darling," said Pen, convulsively.
Bob shook his head.
"I say, Pen, I really don't understand you, you know! I say, this is
rot! You mustn't cry; I can't stand it. And you keep on saying it's
your only one in a very silly way. You irritate me very much, Pen!"
"Why, Bob?" asked the desolate creature at his side.
"You could stop all this if you wanted to!"
"Not now," said Pen, "since we've quarrelled!"
"Rot!" said Bob. "You tell me who it is and I'll bring him along. But
I'm glad it isn't Timothy, you know."
Timothy was now with Geordie in the other car.
"I can't tell you," said Pen.
"Then don't snivel, please," said Bob, crossly, "or I shall drive into
something and kill the baby."
"Oh!" said Pen, "oh, please don't!"
"I think it's very hard lines," said Bob, "especially as Geordie and Tim
know, and Miss Mackarness. If they know, I ought to."
"I had to tell them, Bob. Besides, they knew him," said the incautious
Pen.
Bob's eyebrows lifted, and he drove rather fast down the next straight
bit of road.
"I say," he said to himself, "I ought to make something of that."
He thought very hard and did not speak for a mile. He thought all the
more.
"Tim knows 'em all, of course. And Geordie may, though I remember his
saying he didn't. But who does Miss Mackarness know? If I can spot
that, I can spot the winner."
He went back to the time of Pen's youth, which he only knew by hearsay,
as he wasn't much more than born then, and went through the list one by
one.
"By Jove!" he said, suddenly, and Penelope started.
"Yes, Bob."
"No," said Bob, thoughtfully; "no, I'm not sure."
"What aren't you sure of, dear?"
"Him," said Bob, and Penelope sighed.
After another mile's silence, Bob spoke again.
"By Jove!"
"You said that before," cried Pen, irritably. He turned his eyes upon
her, and she saw them full of strange intelligence.
"Oh, what is it?" she asked, in alarm.
Bob shook his head.
"You've told me who it is," he said.
"I haven't."
"You have," said Bob. "Pen, you're a wonder! I say, are all girls like
you?"
Penelope said she didn't know, and demanded his meaning.
"If they are, they're interesting but trying," said Bob. "You couldn't
have made more fuss about it if it had been Bunting. Pen, you are a
wonder. Well, I don't mind; I like him well enough. He's all right. I
hope Bill will like him."
"You are an annoying, irritating boy," said Pen, crossly. "And you know
nothing."
"Bar him and Miss Mackarness and Timothy and Smith, I'm the only one
that does," said Bob, drily. "I know you, Pen. You were ashamed of
him, after all you used to say. All right, don't get angry. I'm all
right. I'll keep it dark till you say pull up the blinds. It's not my
business. But I'm glad I know. For granny doesn't, and no one has
guessed, not even Baker. And he's had great experience with girls in
all parts of the world, just as he has had with dogs."
Pen wept.
"You are saying all this to worry me. How can you know?" she cried.
"I'll tell you some day," said Bob. "But because you haven't told me
yourself, and have made me find out, I won't tell you who it is till I
want to. But one thing I'll say, I don't think your brother Bill really
likes him."
He whistled and let the car out till she fairly hummed. Pen was
exceedingly cross, and hugged the baby, hoping that they would both be
killed at once.
"I don't know what's going to happen," she said. "I've done my best,
and nothing but trouble comes of it. If I had to begin again, I don't
think I'd try to reform anything. I--I hate reform!"
In the meantime Miss Mackarness's ideas got sadly altered. She did not
mind dying at first, but when Bob really went fast, it seemed to her
that she loved life better than she thought.
"If I am to die," she said, "I would rather die in my bed, much rather.
I want peace, and my dear lady gives me none. This young wretch is no
better than a murderer. He laughs. I can't laugh. I can't even speak.
The wind stops my screaming. I want to get out and die quietly."
They pulled up close to a village to let a wagon loaded with long
timbers get into a side road. Miss Mackarness seized her chance, and,
opening the door, jumped to the ground.
"If you please, my lady, I'm going no farther. I will come on later in a
cart."
Penelope remonstrated with her. Bob was urgent and impatient.
"We may be caught any minute," he said. "Pen, let her come on in a
cart."
"If you prefer it," said Penelope.
"My lady, I much prefer it," said the housekeeper.
Bob let the car go, and Geordie, coming on behind, pulled up to
interview Miss Mackarness.
"Sooner than go in one a mile farther," she said, firmly, "I would lie
down and die."
"That's silly, ma'am," said Geordie.
"I would rather live silly than die wise," replied Miss Mackarness. "I
may be used to much and past surprises, but I can't stomach these cars."
They left her in the road. And now they drove fast, for Bob set the
pace, and made it a rapid one.
"I say, Geordie," said Timothy, about twenty miles farther on, "don't
you think you could go slower?"
"How can I, with the other car ahead, man?" demanded Geordie.
"Well, I feels queer inside," said poor Timothy. "I'd rather ride a
bucking man-eater than go another yard. Set me down!"
"Not me," said Geordie. "Be a man, Tim!"
"I won't," said Tim. "Set me down. I'll walk."
"Or come on in a cart," sneered Geordie. "Why, Mary here don't mind, do
you, Mary?"
Mary did mind, but she adored Geordie, and said she didn't. She
preferred to die with Geordie than to ride with Miss Mackarness in a
cart.
"I don't care," said Tim; "if Mary wants to die in a blazin' fiery mass
of petrol under a wreck, I don't. Let me down."
And Geordie let him down.
"A mad bull sooner," said Tim. "And, though I 'ates walkin', bein' a
groom, I'd rather walk to hell than motor into paradise."
But peace was established in the cars by now. Geordie and Mary sat side
by side, and whenever the pace was hot, she grabbed him so tightly that
he remonstrated.
"My dear, I'd rather you hugged me when we go slow," he said at last.
"Lor', Mr. Smith, I wasn't huggin' you," remonstrated the blushing Mary.
"To an outsider it would appear so," said Geordie. "When a young lady
puts her arms around a man's neck, it looks like huggin'. Mind I don't
say I object, but I _might_ run into the hedge."
"What a very amusin' gentleman you are," said Mary. "I've a very small
opinion of Mr. Bunting except upon an 'orse. I'm surprised he preferred
to walk."
"I'm not," said Geordie. "I expected it, and if we went really fast,
you'd want to walk."
"Never," said Mary. "I love goin' fast. There's great po'try in a
motor-car, Mr. Smith."
"Poetry, well, maybe," said Geordie. "To my mind, there's more
machinery and oil. I wonder what the next thing will be with my lady,
Mary."
"Ah," said Mary, "that's more than I can say. She's very sweet and kind,
but I've give up tryin' to understand 'er. And such an 'usband, too.
If I 'ad an 'usband, I'd like to show 'im off, if I was proud of 'im,
and I would."
"Would you be?" asked Geordie.
"I 'ope so," said Mary.
"I guess you'd expect him to do what you wanted, like my lady," said
Geordie.
"Oh, no, never," said Mary. "I'd do hexactly as I was told by 'im I
loved. I don't believe in a woman 'angin' on a man and tellin' 'im to
do this or that!"
And just then a mighty fine stretch of road opened before them, and Bob,
half a mile in front, turned his car loose at the top speed. Geordie
put his on the third, and Mary squealed.
"Hush your row, my dear," said Geordie. "Why, bless me, what's the
matter with the girl!"
She had him tight by the neck.
"Oh, I'm frightened, Mr. Smith. Don't go so fast," she screamed.
"Lemme go," gasped Geordie, whom she was nearly strangling. "Lemme go,
girl!"
"Never, never!" said Mary, settling on him tighter still. "Stop, stop!"
"I won't," said Geordie. "D'ye think I'll let that young un get away
from me?"
"You must," screamed Mary, "or I'll get out."
"Then get out," said Geordie, rudely.
"Oh, you cruel, cruel Mr. Smith!" wailed Mary. "Let me down before I'm
killed."
Geordie wrenched himself free.
"D'ye mean it?" he asked.
"Yes, you brute!" said Mary, "I does mean it."
He put her down there and then.
"You're no gentleman," said Mary.
"I never said I was," retorted Geordie, with his eyes on the vanishing
Bob.
"And I hate you, you coward," sobbed Mary.
"There's a village a mile up the road," said Geordie. And he left her,
disappearing in a whirlwind.
"Oh, I'm a sad, des'late, disappinted, jilted woman, with thin shoes and
three and tuppence in my pocket," said Mary. "And I don't know where I
am!"
She sat on a pile of road metal and cried bitterly. She took it much
harder than the bishop did in a similar situation.
"Well, it can't be helped," said Geordie, "and I don't know that I'm
sorry. She'd have proposed if I'd kept her at the second speed, I know
that; so perhaps I'm well out of it."
He whirled after Bob and his lady, and soon caught them up.
There was peace on that car, too, for Bob hadn't been able to keep his
discovery to himself.
"Yes, you're right, Bob," sighed Penelope. "But what could I do after
what I'd said? And what can I do now?"
"Cheer up!" said Bob. "I'll fix it for you somehow. Do you know, Pen,
I begin to think that after all women aren't as difficult to understand
as Baker says."
They came to Upwell in the early afternoon, and were ignorant that the
world was on their track. Bob sent a telegram to "Mr. Bramwell" as soon
as they got there.
*CHAPTER XXVII.*
The bishop was excited. There is no doubt about it. Nor is it any
wonder, for the sporting element exists even on the episcopal bench, and
the hunting of Penelope was peculiar and choice sport. The clergy of his
diocese were moderately tame, and when he pointed his episcopal gun at
them, they said they would come down, just as the celebrated squirrel
did when Colonel Crockett raised his weapon. Not for a long time had he
felt so pleased with himself. He was quite certain that Penelope was to
be run to earth in the neighbourhood of Spilsby, and, when he had found
her, he proposed to speak to her like a father.
"I shall certainly suggest a religious ceremony in the cathedral," he
said, blandly. "Oh, yes, I shall insist on it."
"You'll do what?" asked Bradstock, who was with him and the duchess in
the early train to Spilsby. "You'll do what?"
The bishop rubbed his hands.
"As the one who christened her, I shall insist on a religious ceremony,"
he replied.
"Will you?" asked Bradstock.
"To be sure I shall," said the bishop.
"Did you ever hear of Mrs. Partington?" asked Bradstock, "or of King
Canute, or of any other celebrated character in history or fiction whose
insistence did not come off?"
"I scarcely understand you, Bradstock," said the bishop, with dignity.
"I can hardly imagine that you mean to hint, not altogether obscurely,
that Lady Penelope will treat any suggestion of mine with disrespect."
Bradstock intimated that that was what he did mean, and Titania, who had
got up too early and felt like it, said that she expected nothing from
Penelope now but the worst.
"I don't know why I am here, or why I am going there," she said. "I
cannot imagine why any of us are doing anything but hiding our disgraced
heads in the remoter parts of the country, while Penelope flaunts a
black, adopted, illegitimate child in some peculiar part of
Lincolnshire, while she is being chased on motor-cars by remorseful
scoundrels, of whom I saw about a dozen as we left Spilsborough. Little
did I think that I should be running after her with Augustin and you,
bishop, while the duke stays at Goring saying she is sport, and Robert
is with her when he ought to be at home with Mr. Guthrie learning to
spell. And as a result of Penelope's being away like this, that
disgraceful Chloe Cadwallader, of whom I shall always have the lowest
opinion, is living in her house in Piccadilly, and I dare say spending
her money right and left. The marchioness said she knew, on the highest
authority, that this was so. The marchioness always goes on the
principle of believing the worst, though, of course, she hopes the best.
I hope the best for Penelope, but I'm sure the worst is before us. I'm
sure of it."
The bishop asked her to cheer up, and Augustin stroked her hand to calm
her. But nothing calmed or cheered her.
"I am calm," she said. "I am even peaceful. What can be worse than the
worst? I am cheerful, for I believe there is a better world than this,
in which even a duchess may find some kind of rest on the highest
authority. I shall be glad to go there, and leave you all."
"Don't say so," said Augustin.
"I do say so," said the duchess. "I say it firmly and with faith. You
don't dare to deny there is a better world than this, Augustin?"
"Certainly not, in the presence of the bishop," replied Augustin.
"Though, in looking out of the windows, I should not be surprised to
learn that there is a more exciting spot than Spilsby."
For they had arrived.
"_I_ will make inquiries," said the bishop, "while you look after the
duchess in the waiting-room. I see that my wishes have been attended to.
I telegraphed for a carriage to be in attendance, and it is in
attendance. I will speak with the driver."
He spoke to the driver, who was much intimidated by the apron and the
gaiters of the clerical dignitary.
"This is the carriage I ordered, I think," said the bishop. "I want to
drive to--to Lady Penelope Brading's house. Do you know it?"
"No, sir," said the driver. "I never heard owt of it, sir."
"Dear me, dear me!" said the bishop. "Well, well! But that is easily
explicable, my good man, for my young friend is in the peculiar position
of having several names. This is rare; yes, rare I admit, but not
altogether so very rare. Can you tell me if there is any one lately
come to this neighbourhood known, let us say, as Mrs.--Mrs. Plant, for
instance?"
"No, sir, there be not as I knows," said the driver.
"Or Mrs. Gordon, shall I say?"
The driver scratched his head.
"I never heard of her," he replied.
"How remarkable," said the bishop, smiling. "But I am not surprised.
Indeed, in this last case I am almost gratified, though I withhold my
reasons for saying so. Are you then acquainted with any one called De
Vere? No; or with a Mrs. Carteret Williams?"
Light dawned in the driver's face at last. "Mrs. Williams! Ay, sure
enif. She do sell sweets and tobacco."
"Indeed," said the bishop, "indeed, how remarkable! But I don't think
she will do. Have you heard of a Mrs. Rivaulx or a Mrs. Goby? Perhaps
I surprise you in this part of Lincolnshire, but in London it is not at
all uncommon for married ladies to have several names, not at all
uncommon."
"No, sir, I never heard o' none of 'em," returned the driver, thinking
that this gentleman talked most remarkable "cat-blash."
"Good heavens!" said the bishop, "this new custom is trying. Do you
then know a Mrs. Carew or Mrs. Bramber?"
Again the man scratched his head and shook it. What did this strange
person in gaiters mean?
"Oh! ah!" he said at last. "There be a Mrs. Bramwell at the Moat
House."
"Indeed," said the bishop. "Perhaps that may be the lady. At the Moat
House! Do you know Mr. Bramwell?"
"I've seen un," said the driver.
"What is he like?" asked the bishop. "Is he fair or dark, or tall or
short?"
"He's fairish to dark and betwixt and between," said the driver, wishing
to be accurate, "and mostly goes in big spectacles in his engine."
"Ha!" said the bishop, "we are on the scent! And what is Mrs. Bramwell
like?"
"She do mostly go in the engine with specs on, too, sir. But my wife do
say she be a very fine woman."
The bishop nodded.
"I think you may drive us to the Moat House," he said. "I will bring my
friends out."
He rubbed his hands and congratulated himself on the skill with which he
had discovered the object of his search.
"I really believe I have found her," he said, when he entered the
waiting-room. "I really believe it."
"No!" said the duchess.
"Yes," said the bishop. "By a series of skilful questions and the
exercise of a little pardonable deceit, I have learnt that there is a
Mrs. Bramwell here, who is said to be a very fine woman, and goes out in
goggles in a motor-car with her husband, who is fairish to dark and tall
and short and also wears goggles."
Augustin nodded.
"This looks like--something," he said, hopefully. "Bramwell! Perhaps
really Bramber, Titania."
"No, no," said Titania. "I expect disaster. I anticipate the Jew or
Williams."
"But Bramwell--the first syllable being Bram," suggested the bishop.
"I cannot build on Bram," said the duchess. "We are an unfortunate
family. Lord Bramber may be an earl at any minute, and she has married
a coal-heaver, of course! Let us go at once."
When they got into the carriage, the bishop told the man to drive to the
Moat House.
"Did you say Moat House?" asked the duchess.
"I did," replied the bishop.
"Augustin, do you remember that Penelope's mother loved houses with
moats? I think the bishop may be right. I tremble with nervousness."
She had more reason to tremble in a moment, for a big motor-car shaved
them and scared the horse.
"Perhaps--" she cried.
"No," said Augustin, "it's Plant and Williams and Carew!"
The duchess gasped. And before she could say another word, another car
swept by them.
"Perhaps--" she cried.
"No," said the bishop; "in spite of goggles, I recognize the marquis and
Mr. Gordon and Mr. Austin de Vere. This is very remarkable, and not a
little annoying. We shall all descend upon Penelope at once, and I fear
it will somewhat disturb her. I should have much preferred to see her
quietly in order to bring her to a just sense of her peculiar, and our
painful, position."
When they got to the house, they found all the lovers but Bramber
assembled at the gates. If it hadn't been for the illness of the Earl
of Pulborough, he would have been there, they knew.
"Oh, which is it?" moaned Titania. "They all said they were married to
her, and I know it's none of 'em."
The bishop greeted the crowd in the most courteous manner. He shook
hands with those he knew, and bowed to those he hoped to know.
"I think, gentleman, that, with your permission, I will go in first and
see Lady Penelope before any one else does."
And while he went up the carriage drive, Titania glared at the lovers.
"Don't look at 'em like that, Titania," said Augustin.
"Like what, Augustin?"
"Like a Gorgon, Titania," said Augustin.
"I look as I feel," said Titania. "I hate them all. I shall not be
able to restrain myself when I see Penelope. I shall shake her. I
shall say what I think. No, I won't be wise, Augustin! I decline to be
wise. I am full of bitterness. From her earliest youth, she has been a
thorn. And it is your fault; you encouraged her in reform, in
anarchism. Don't speak to me! I shall explode!"
And Augustin got out just as the bishop rang the door-bell across the
moat. Instead of the kind of servant he expected to see, he was greeted
by a bent old woman, whose chief glory was her rheumatism, though her
claim on Bob had been her stupidity.
"Is Mrs. Bramwell at home?" asked the bishop, with a beaming smile.
"Naw," said the old lady, not beaming in the least.
"No? Then when will she be back?"
"I don't know," replied the caretaker.
"You don't know! Will it be soon?"
"She never said," snarled the old lady.
"Did she go early?"
"Maybe an hour ago, maybe two."
"Will she be back late?"
"Eh? I'm 'ard of 'earin'."
"Will she be back late?" roared the bishop.
"She didn't say."
"What did she say, then?"
"Nothin' as I knows of."
"Where did she go, my good woman?"
"She didn't say."
"Dear me, how vexing!" said the bishop.
"I'm 'ard of 'earin', I tell ye," said the old dame.
"Who went with her?"
"All of 'em, so I 'eard."
"Who were they?" asked the desperate bishop.
"All as was 'ere. There ain't one left."
"Was a boy with her?"
"To be sure, a young gentleman as fetched me 'ere, and give me a
shillin'."
"What was his name?"
"'E didn't say," said the old woman, and the bishop wiped his fevered
brow and tried again.
"Was Mr. Bramwell with her?"
"I never seed un."
"How did they go?"
"In two engines."
"Ha!" sighed the bishop, "in two motor-cars."
"Likely."
"Will they be back to-night?"
"I 'ope not," said the woman.
"Why do you hope not?" asked the wretched bishop.
"Because of fifteen bob a week, to be sure."
"Then Mrs. Bramwell has gone, has left?"
"Ain't I been sayin' so this last hour?" asked the exasperated old
person. "Me, with rheumatics, standin' on cold stones for hours arglin'
that she and all have gone in engines!"
"Good heavens!" said the bishop, "she has escaped! She has eluded us!
She has kept her word and has fled! This is remarkable; it is annoying.
I feel nearer losing my temper than I have done with any one but the
dean for the last ten years. I must go back and tell them."
He went back to the gate.
"Is it--" they cried.
"This is her house," said the bishop, who looked rather flushed, "but I
have discovered by a series of skilfully devised questions that she is
no longer here. Duchess, Lord Bradstock, marquis, and gentlemen, she
went away this morning in two motorcars with all her household, leaving
behind her no one but a caretaker who, in my humble opinion, ought to be
taken care of in an idiot asylum!"
The duchess sighed.
"Then she has kept her word! Finding out that we are still pursuing
her, she has fled from us. Oh, I think it wicked of her, wicked to all
of us. When I get hold of Robert, I shall take steps to show him what I
think of him. Do you give it up, bishop?"
The bishop's eyes flashed with indignation.
"Never!" he said. "I propose that we pursue her at once. She cannot
have thought we should be here so soon. If we find out which road she
took, we may yet overtake her."
"In what?" asked Bradstock, with his hand on the ramshackle landau the
duchess sat in. "In this conveyance, for instance?"
The bishop looked at the two big motor-cars, and at their wretched
owners, Plant and Rivaulx.
"Taking my courage in both hands," he said, bravely, "I propose that we
lose no time. _I_ will go in this car with the marquis, if he will take
me."
The marquis said through his clenched teeth that he would.
"Bradstock, you will escort the duchess back to Spilsborough."
"Certainly not," said the duchess. "I am coming, too. I must and I
will. Whatever the condition of Penelope may now be, it is my duty. I
come with you!"
"And so do I," said Bradstock.
They packed themselves in the cars, and moved away from the deserted
house of the moat. In the village they soon discovered that "Mrs.
Bramwell" had gone northwest by the road to Horncastle, and a moment
later the bishop said, "Oh!" as Rivaulx fairly launched his car into
space. Even Bradstock in Plant's car said something, and the duchess,
losing the repose which stamps all duchesses the moment they become
duchesses, uttered a scream. Gordon consoled the bishop, being very much
pleased to find himself with one, by saying that he had been in a
balloon with Rivaulx, and found him careful and very trustworthy.
"I do not think any one who goes in a balloon," gasped his lordship,
"can properly be described by any such terms."
Williams said he didn't care if he was killed, as soon as Penelope had
acknowledged she was married to him. Gordon, who was desperately scared
of Williams, said nothing, but gave the bishop to understand by signs
that the war correspondent was mad. Carew, who was still suffering from
influenza, sat in his corner and wept at intervals.
In Plant's car the duchess and Goby and De Vere got on admirably.
Bradstock sat by Plant and prepared to die. The duchess held Captain
Goby's hand. De Vere said some poetry before the speed was very great.
Afterward he said his prayers, and wished he was at home with his
bulldogs.
"What does anything matter?" he asked, as he clutched Goby's offside.
And all of a sudden Rivaulx's motor pulled up so quickly that the bishop
was nearly precipitated upon the road. A scared, oldish woman in
respectable and sub-freak garments had done her best to get run over.
Rivaulx swore terrible French oaths, and the bishop, who knew French far
better than he dared acknowledge except in a literary conversation on
Rabelais or _argot_, sympathized with him in awestruck silence.
"You accursed old lady! Why?" demanded Rivaulx.
"Hush, hush!" said the bishop, and, leaning from the car, he said: "It
is all right, my good woman. I hope we have not alarmed you."
Miss Mackarness said they had. It was very hard to have got out of one
car and then to be almost killed by another. Then the car behind came
up, and the duchess looked at the lady who had given her a little
respite. The duchess absolutely screamed again.
"Augustin, it is Miss Mackarness! I remember her well!"
"Who the deuce is Miss Mackarness?" grumbled Bradstock.
But Titania paid no attention to him. Her eyes brightened. She became
clever all at once.
"I remember," she said, "I remember!"
She called to the stranger in the road.
"I am so pleased to see you again after such a long time, Miss
Mackarness," she said, kindly. "Are you still at Upwell Castle?"
"I'm going there now, ma'am," said the housekeeper, who didn't recognize
her Grace.
"Are you walking?" asked Titania, kindly. "It is a long way to walk.
You don't remember me, I see."
"No, ma'am," said Miss Mackarness.
"I am the Duchess of Goring," said Titania.
"Oh, your Grace! I beg your Grace's pardon, but, of course, you are,"
gasped Miss Mackarness.
"And I am going to Upwell now to see my niece."
Miss Mackarness gasped again and could not speak.
"To see Mrs. Bramwell, you know," said Titania, sweetly. "Of course,
_I_ know all about it, Miss Mackarness."
"To be sure, your Grace," replied her victim, not knowing what to do or
say.
"Then _good_-bye," said the duchess. "I hope you will enjoy your walk,
Miss Mackarness. It's such pleasant weather for a walk."
They left the poor woman in the middle of the road, an easy victim to
the slowest vehicle in the county.
"Oh, I've done wrong, I know!" said Pen's housekeeper. "What shall I do
now?"
"I said that on purpose," said Titania, viciously. "She has known all
along, and ought to have told me. But now we know all about it,
Augustin!"
"What about 'Mr. Bramwell'?" asked Augustin. Goby and De Vere turned
pale, and the duchess threw up her hands.
"I might have asked her!" she cried.
"Captain Goby looked at her severely," said Augustin, "and so did De
Vere."
Goby and De Vere denied it.
"Never mind," said the duchess, "this time she can't escape. We are on
the track."
They passed a man a few miles farther on, and only Augustin noticed him.
"You are right, Titania; we are certainly on the track. That man was
Timothy Bunting," he said. "Pen has been shedding her retainers all
along the road. I suspect Bob of furious driving."
A few miles farther, at the foot of a steep rise, they saw a young and
pretty woman weeping on a heap of stones.
"I wonder if that is another of 'em," said Augustin.
It was Mary, whom Geordie had deposited on the road half-way between two
villages.
"Have two motor-cars gone this way?" asked Bradstock.
"Yes, sir," sobbed Mary.
"Why are you crying?" asked the sympathetic peer.
"Because Geordie Smith is no gentleman," said Mary.
"That's Mrs. Bramwell's driver, isn't it? I know her well," said
Bradstock.
"Yes, it is, and he ain't a gentleman. He drove so fast he frightened
me, and I got out."
"How sad," said Bradstock. "We are going on to Upwell Castle now. Can
we help you?"
"I would rather walk to Australia than get in another one of 'em," said
Mary.
"You are right," said Augustin. "Titania, you are right. In half an
hour we shall see Penelope."
"And I shall see Bob," said Titania, viciously.
But the bishop felt rather pleased with Bob now. He was in a car driven
by Rivaulx. And Rivaulx was desperate. And when Rivaulx was desperate
he lacked consideration for others.
*CHAPTER XXVIII.*
As all antiquarians know, Upwell Castle consists of two wings and a kind
of centrepiece joining two civilizations and two divergent schools of
architecture. The right wing is Tudor, and ruined; the left is
Georgian, and habitable; the centre is nondescript and pseudo-Palladian.
It cost a great deal to keep up, and nothing could keep it from falling
down. Penelope's mother fell in love with it on first sight, and fell
out with her husband about the price. Its value has fallen since then,
for landed property is the only stable thing which always falls. There
were pictures in it that connoisseurs gloated over, and some that
picture-cleaners had restored till they were as valuable as a Gothic
cathedral brought up to date by a resurrected Vandal. There were
carvings by Grinling Gibbons to be seen, and some that were not by
Grinling Gibbons. There were some rooms decorated by Adams that would
have made Adam ill. There was an oak staircase there that a thousand
intoxicated noblemen had fallen down; there was another that no sober
gentleman could go up. It was ruinous, romantic, and rat-haunted;
tapestry waved in its corridors, ghosts loved its precincts; there was a
room stained with something that the servants said was blood, and that
the skeptical averred to be port wine. The only thing against the
latter theory was that the dining-room was not stained, though some said
it had been so flooded all over that nothing showed. It was a
delightful place, and Penelope never stayed there. Miss Mackarness did,
but then she was a Scotchwoman, and didn't count. Bob adored it, but
then Bob was Bob, and nothing could change him.
"I'll fix this all up," said Bob, "and make her happy. She's silly.
I'll blow the gaff, as Baker says. She's up-stairs now, crying her eyes
out, and making the baby bellow."
He wandered about the grounds, and wondered where Mary and Bunting and
Miss Mackarness were.
"Silly fools!" said Bob; "the idea of being afraid of going in a
motor-car. By Jove, I wonder what's become of my man at Spilsborough!
I suppose those people in Regent Street think I've stolen the car. What
fun!"
He explored the ruined wing, and ruined it a little more, and came out
again into the Queen Anne garden.
"By Jove, I do wish I knew where they all were!" he said. "I wonder
what granny is doing. Is she having fits, and Dr. Lumsden Griff to look
after 'em? I think Griff's a soft-soapy ass. He says, 'Well, how are
we this morning?' By Jove, all the rest of 'em will have fits, too.
They will be sick. But I'm glad they're out of it. I wonder where Lord
Bradstock is. He'll pull my wig when he sees me. And the bishop!
Well, he's not a bad old boy. I rather like bishops, but their legs are
queer. By Jove, but it's fun having skipped and done them! If they
ever get to Spilsby and find us gone, they'll be mad!"
He walked around the corner of the house, and _paff_ came a motor-car
and made him jump. Another one followed like a streak of light. Bob
went quite pale for a boy with a complexion like an ancient red brick,
and made a bolt for the door. He was too late, for Bradstock and the
bishop stood in his way. Bob slowed down, put his hands in his pockets
and whistled.
"I say," said Bob, "how did you find this place out?"
"I own to being surprised and disappointed with you, Robert," said the
bishop; "very much surprised and greatly disappointed."
Bob wagged his head to and fro.
"Why, what about?" he asked.
"At your not returning, sir," said his lordship. "You treated me and
Lord Bradstock, I regret to say, with great disrespect."
"I'm very sorry," said Bob, "but I couldn't help it. Pen--Oh, Lord!
there's granny!"
The duchess intervened.
"Robert, where is Penelope?"
Bob hesitated.
"Gone to--t-to London for Paris and Marseilles and Australia," said Bob,
hurriedly. "She said she couldn't wait, but had an appointment there
somewhere. And she said I was to say she was sorry if any one called."
"Robert," said the duchess, severely, "do not keep your eyes fixed upon
the distant landscape. Look me in the face. Are you speaking the
truth?"
Bob wriggled and shuffled.
"No, I'm not," he said. "It's a beastly lie. But she did say the other
day that she would go to the ends of the earth. And that's Australia,
ain't it?"
"Bob," said the bishop, "this is very painful to me. Speak the truth
like a man."
"I won't," said Bob; "it isn't my truth. I won't give Pen away to any
one."
His vision cleared, and he saw the lovers ranked behind his grandmother
and the bishop.
"Oh, Mr. Gordon," he cried, "do come and help me! Would you tell if you
were me?"
"No," said Gordon, "no, of course not."
"I always liked you," said Bob, "so I won't."
"I command you," said Titania, looking at Gordon furiously.
"It's no good," said Bob, rapidly; "Pen's a great way off, far enough,
that is, and I swore I'd never disclose the secret of her whereabouts to
any one. At least, if I didn't swear it, I said it, and, if I said it,
my lord, and broke my promise, it wouldn't be honourable, would it?"
"I don't care," began Titania.
"Would it, my lord?" asked Bob.
"I'm afraid not," said the bishop, "though perhaps in the circumstances,
which are very peculiar--"
"Well, I won't," said Bob, "and that's flat. Goby wouldn't, I know,
would you, Captain Goby?"
But the duchess waved Goby into the background.
"I mean to have the truth. Shall we listen to your foolish scruples
now? If you won't tell us where she is, tell us whom she has married.
Is it one of these gentlemen?"
"I won't give any of 'em away," said Bob.
"Then you know?"
"Of course I know," said Bob.
"Ah," sighed the duchess, "then she is married?"
"She says so," said Bob, "and, if it's true, as I suppose, I know who it
is. But Pen, before she went up--before she went, said I wasn't to
speak."
Bradstock smiled.
"Titania, Penelope is in the house. Let us go in," he said, and he
marched up the steps. Bob shook himself free from the duchess and
darted indoors before Bradstock. He bolted up-stairs to Penelope, and
burst in upon her like a whirlwind.
"Pen, they're all here, all the gang! I couldn't keep 'em out!"
"Who are here?" asked Pen, in awful dismay.
"All of 'em, and the bishop and Bradstock and granny!"
"Oh, what shall I do?" wailed Penelope.
"I'll tell you," said Bob. "Let's sneak down the back way and steal one
of their cars now, and get away!"
"No, no," said Penelope, "it wouldn't be dignified. I must be
dignified, Bob, I must be; I will go down and see them."
"No," said Bob.
"I will," said Penelope.
"And tell 'em the truth?"
Penelope started.
"I can't, I can't, because we've quarrelled. But I will see them; I
must."
She went red and white and red again, and once more as pale as dawn.
She kissed the sleeping, adopted, illegitimate, normal-coloured infant
as he sprawled upon an historic bed, and went to the door.
"Come with me, Bob."
"I'll hold your hand, Pen. I say, you shake!"
"Squeeze my hand till you hurt me," said Pen. "Now come!"
She swept down the big staircase, with Bob in tow, and found herself in
the presence of the entire "gang," as Bob had called them.
"Penelope!" said Titania, recoiling.
"Oh, Pen," said Bradstock, advancing.
"My dear Lady Penelope," said the bishop, sweetly, "do you recollect
that I christened you at the early age of three months?"
"No," said Penelope.
"No!" said the bishop, "no, to be sure, how could you? But I did."
"It--it was very kind of you," said Penelope. Titania recovered herself
and advanced. Gordon and the rest hung about in the distance, looking
as wretched as the ruined wing of the castle.
"Are you married, Penelope?" asked Titania.
"Yes," said Penelope.
"Of course she is," said Bob.
"Hold your tongue, Robert," said his grandmother. "And to whom?"
"I won't say," replied Penelope. "I told you I wouldn't, and I won't."
"I said she wouldn't," cried Bob.
Titania pointed her hand at the shrinking horde.
"Every single one of these gentlemen, to say nothing of Lord Bramber,
who is with his invalid father at the present moment, came to me and
said he was married to you! Every one of them without an exception!"
"I am very much obliged to them," said Pen. "In the circumstances, I
think it was noble of them."
"Are you alluding to the advertisement in the _Times_?" asked Titania.
"Are you aware that every one now says that you have adopted an infant?"
"What rot!" said Bob.
"Robert," cried his grandmother, "be silent, I command you. I will not
be interrupted by you. Are you aware, Penelope, that it is said all over
England and Europe and the blatant United States that you have adopted
an infant?"
Penelope shook her head.
"It's the first I've heard of it," said Penelope, who was the colour of
a rose.
"Is it true? Do not evade my question," cried Titania.
"I don't see, granny, what right you have to ask 'em," said the
irrepressible Bob. "I sent you a wire to say it wasn't black, and it
isn't."
"Augustin, silence that boy," said Titania.
But Augustin shook his head.
"Don't you answer anything, Pen," said Bob. "No one has any right to ask
you anything."
He marched over to Gordon.
"Don't look so sad, Mr. Gordon."
"I can't help it, my boy," said Gordon. "It's a horrid situation. I
don't care whether it's adopted or not. If she'll marry me, I'll have
her."
Bob squeezed his hand.
"I ain't _absolutely_ sure it isn't you yet," he said. "Pen hasn't told
me all, you know. By the way, Mr. Gordon, did that speculation come
off?"
"Not so well as I thought by ten thousand," said Gordon.
"Oh, I say," said Bob, "but, after all, it doesn't matter. I'll make
fifty or sixty thousand do."
"You're a fine boy," said Gordon. "But, Bob, I would like to strangle
your grandmother."
"Would you?" asked Bob, eagerly. "I dare say Pen does, too.
Grandmothers and aunts are very trying. At least, I find them so."
The duchess's voice rose now quite above the limits of social decency,
except when any one is playing or singing.
"I will not be put off, Penelope. You will say who it is, and you will
be married again by the bishop in his fine Gothic cathedral--"
"Mr. Dean's cathedral," interjected the bishop.
"With a proper service and the usual hymns, breathing over Eden, or I
will stay here till you do."
"Steady, Titania," said Bradstock. "If she won't, she won't."
"But she shall," shrieked Titania. "Gentlemen, which of you is it? I
am now entirely desperate; which of you is it?"
No one said a word.
"Marquis, is it you?" asked the duchess. "You said so before."
"How can I say?" asked poor Rivaulx. "She says no one must."
"Quite right," said Bradstock. "Who will believe any one, Titania?
Let's have lunch and be friendly and stop this. I'm very hungry, Pen.
And let's see the baby."
The duchess shivered.
"I cannot and will not see it," said Titania. "For by all accounts, it
is an adopted illegitimate child. If Penelope will send it back to the
person she got it of, and own the truth, I will forgive her and have
lunch, for I am very faint."
"I want to see the baby, Pen," said Augustin, with his hand on Pen's
shoulder. "You know, Pen, they still say it's rather dusky."
Penelope was very indignant.
"He's not," she cried. "They sha'n't say it any more. Bob, tell that
girl up-stairs to bring him down."
And Bob ran up-stairs like a monkey up a stick.
"I decline to see it," said Titania. "A baby without a name is a
terrible object to me. It is an insult to the bishop and to the Church
to bring one into the room. I will retire into the open air and try to
breathe again."
Goby assisted her outside.
"This is a calamity," said Titania. "It's a catastrophe. What is the
truth, Captain Goby? Are you a liar, too?"
Goby sobbed.
"How can I say?" he asked. "You know I can't."
He looked out into the park.
"Here's some one coming in a motor," he cried. They all ran to the
windows. But just then Bob and the nurse came down with the infant,
who, though evidently awed by the number of creatures he saw about him,
behaved like a gentleman, and not in the least like an adopted child.
"I congratulate you, Pen," said Bradstock. "The mother must be a
devilish pretty woman! Does she miss it much, Pen? Oh, Pen, what a
queer, mad darling you are! I begin to see daylight."
But nobody else did. Penelope blushed and hugged the baby tenderly,
while Bob danced around her in the wildest state of excitement.
"I say, Captain Goby, come and look at it! Mr. de Vere! I say,
marquis! Ain't it a ripper, and as fat as a pup, and hardly a squeal
out of it day or night! Granny dear, won't you look at it?"
"No, no," said Titania. "I cannot, cannot bring myself to do so!"
"You'll soon be jolly sorry, I can tell you," cried the loving grandson.
"I'll bet you'll be sorry."
He ran to Pen.
"I say, Pen, give the kid to me, or you'll drop it."
"Drop him!" exclaimed Penelope. "Oh, Bob, is it likely?"
"Very likely," said Bob, "if you knew that I sent a telegram to some one
just as soon as we got here!"
Pen flushed scarlet. But not with anger.
"Oh, Bob!"
"I did! You ain't angry?"
"Oh, Bob!"
"I don't care," said Bob, as he took the child. "I don't care a hang.
I'm ruined with all these jossers now. De Vere will never buy any more
dogs of me. I say, who's that?"
A motor-car stopped outside the great hall door, and a gentleman in
black got out. He came up the steps rapidly, and stopped dead when he
found all the world in front of him.
"I thought so," said Bradstock. "Now the catalogue is complete."
"Lord Bramber!" cried the others. Penelope stood in the centre of the
great hall as if she were turned to marble. But no marble ever had so
sweet a colour.
[Illustration: THE EARL OF PULBOROUGH. Clever; but indolent]
"I believe it is now the Earl of Pulborough," said Bradstock, gravely,
to the newcomer.
"Yes," he replied. "Penelope, you sent for me?"
Pen fell upon his neck before them all and did not deny it.
And, as they stood still in great amazement, Bob danced the baby up and
down till that young gentleman made up his mind to roar as soon as he
got his breath.
"This--this is Lord Bramber," howled Bob, triumphantly. "Now admit you
feel sorry you spoke, granny!"
He gave the baby to the nurse, and grabbed Goby by the arm.
"I say, I'm awfully sorry, but it isn't my fault, Captain Goby, and
Ethel Mytton is a very nice girl, and dead in love with you."
"Is she?" sighed Goby.
"Mr. de Vere, I've got a bulldog--"
"Damn bulldogs!" said De Vere.
Bob seized Gordon.
"Do you feel very bad, Mr. Gordon?" he asked, sympathetically. "I
almost wish it had been you."
"It can't be helped," said Gordon, gloomily. "I never had a chance.
Come and see me in the city next week, Bob."
Rivaulx and Carew and Williams took their hats and slipped from the
house, while Bob did what he could to soften things for them.
"I'll come and see you all very often," he cried. "Good-bye now!"
An hour later, when Titania had the baby upon her capacious lap, and
said how certain she had been the whole time that Bramber was Penelope's
choice, Bob walked around the garden with the bishop and Lord Bradstock.
"Oh, it's quite easy to understand," said Bob. "After all she said, you
expected she would marry some outsider, and you see she took the pick of
the basket, and of course was ashamed. Oh, I know Pen."
"You are a wonder, Bob," said Bradstock.
The bishop said that upon adequate reflection he was inclined to agree
with Bradstock.
"Well, Pen's all right," said Bob.