The Bishop's Secret

by Fergus Hume

  CHAPTER XI

  MISS WHICHELLO'S LUNCHEON-PARTY

  The little lady trotted briskly across the square, and guided her gueststo a quaint old house squeezed into one corner of it. Here she had beenborn some sixty odd years before; here she had lived her life ofspinsterhood, save for an occasional visit to London; and here she hopedto die, although at present she kept Death at a safe distance byhygienic means and dietary treatment. The house was a queer survival ofthree centuries, with a pattern of black oak beams let into awhite-washed front. Its roof shot up into a high gable at an acuteangle, and was tiled with red clay squares, mellowed by Time to the hueof rusty iron. A long lattice with diamond panes, and geraniums inflower-pots behind them, extended across the lower storey; two littlejutting windows, also of the criss-cross pattern, looked like two eyesin the second storey; and high up in the third, the casement of theattic peered out coyly from under the eaves. At the top of a flight ofimmaculately white steps there was a squat little door painted green andadorned with a brass knocker burnished to the colour of fine gold. Therailings of iron round the area were also coloured green, and theappearance of the whole exterior was as spotless and neat as MissWhichello herself. It was an ideal house for a dainty old spinster suchas she was, and rested in the very shadow of the Bishop Gandolf'scathedral like the nest of a bright-eyed wren.

  'Mab, my dear!' cried the wren herself, as she led the gentlemen intothe drawing-room, 'I have brought Captain Pendle and Mr Cargrim toluncheon.'

  Mab arose out of a deep chair and laid aside the book she was reading.'I saw you crossing the square, Captain Pendle,' she said, shaking hishand. 'Mr Cargrim, I am glad to see you.'

  'Are you not glad to see me?' whispered George, in low tones.

  'Do you need me to tell you so?' was Mab's reply, with a smile, and thatsmile answered his question.

  'Oh, my dear, such a heavenly sermon!' cried Miss Whichello, flutteringabout the room; 'it went to my very heart.'

  'It could not have gone to a better place,' replied the chaplain, in thegentle voice which George particularly detested. 'I am sorry to hear youhave suffered from your alarm last night, Miss Arden.'

  'My nerves received rather a shock, Mr Cargrim, and I had such a badheadache that I decided to remain at home. I must receive your sermonsecond-hand from my aunt.'

  'Why not first-hand from me?' said Cargrim, insinuatingly, whereuponCaptain George pulled his moustache and looked savage.

  'Oh, I won't tax your good nature so far,' rejoined Mab, laughing. 'Whatis it, aunty?' for the wren was still fluttering and restless.

  'My dear, you must content yourself with Captain Pendle till luncheon,for I want Mr Cargrim to come into the garden and see my fig tree; realfigs grow on it, Mr Cargrim,' said Miss Whichello, solemnly, 'the veryfirst figs that have ever ripened in Beorminster.'

  'I am glad it is not a barren fig tree,' said Cargrim, introducing ascriptural allusion in his most clerical manner.

  'Barren indeed! it has five figs on it. Really, sitting under its shadeone would fancy one was in Palestine. Do come, Mr Cargrim,' and MissWhichello fluttered through the door like an escaping bird.

  'With pleasure; the more so, as I know we shall not be missed.'

  'Damn!' muttered Captain Pendle, when the door closed on Cargrim's smileand insinuating looks.

  'Captain Pendle!' exclaimed Miss Arden, becomingly shocked.

  'Captain Pendle indeed!' said the young man, slipping his arm round Mab;'and why not George?'

  'I thought Mr Cargrim might hear.'

  'He ought to; like the ass, his ears are long enough.'

  'Still, he is anything but an ass--George.'

  'If he isn't an ass he's a beast,' rejoined Pendle, promptly, 'and itcomes to much the same thing.'

  'Well, you need not swear at him.'

  'If I didn't swear I'd kick him, Mab; and think of the scandal to theChurch. Cargrim's a sneaking, time-serving sycophant. I wonder my fathercan endure him; I can't!'

  'I don't like him myself,' confessed Mab, as they seated themselves inthe window-seat.

  'I should--think--not!' cried Captain George, in so deliberate anddisgusted a tone that Mab laughed. Whereat he kissed her and wasreproved, so that both betook themselves to argument as to therighteousness or unrighteousness of kissing on a Sunday.

  George Pendle was a tall, slim, and very good-looking young man in everysense of the word. He was as fair as Mab was dark, with bright blue eyesand a bronzed skin, against which his smartly-pointed moustache appearedby contrast almost white. With his upright figure, his alert militaryair, and merry smile, he looked an extremely handsome and desirablelover; and so Mab thought, although she reproved him with orthodoxmodesty for snatching a kiss unasked. But if men had to request favoursof this sort, there would not be much kissing in the world. Moreover,stolen kisses, like stolen fruit, have a piquant flavour of their own.

  The quaint old drawing-room, with its low ceiling and twilightatmosphere, was certainly an ideal place for love-making. It wasfurnished with chairs, and tables, and couches, which had done duty inthe days of Miss Whichello's grandparents; and if the carpet was old, somuch the better, for its once brilliant tints had faded into soft huesmore restful to the eye. In one corner stood the grandfather of allpianos, with a front of drawn green silk fluted to a central button;beside it a prim canterbury, filled with primly-bound books ofyellow-paged music, containing, 'The Battle of the Prague,' 'TheMaiden's Prayer,' 'Cherry Ripe,' and 'The Canary Bird's Quadrilles.'Such tinkling melodies had been the delight of Miss Whichello's youth,and--as she had a fine finger for the piano (her own observation)--shesometimes tinkled them now on the jingling old piano when old friendscame to see her. Also there were Chippendale cupboards with glass doors,filled with a most wonderful collection of old china--older even thantheir owner; Chinese jars heaped up with dried rose leaves spreadingaround a perfume of dead summers; bright silken screens from far Japan;foot-stools and fender-stools worked in worsted which tripped up theunwary; and a number of oil-paintings valuable rather for age thanbeauty. None of your modern flimsy drawing-rooms was Miss Whichello's,but a dear, delightful, cosy room full of faded splendours and relics ofthe dead and gone so dearly beloved. From the yellow silk fire-screenswinging on a rosewood pole, to the drowsy old canary chirping feebly inhis brass cage at the window, all was old-world and marvellously properand genteel. Withal, a quiet, perfumed room, delightful to make love in,to the most beautiful woman in the world, as Captain George Pendle knewvery well.

  'Though it really isn't proper for you to kiss me,' observed Mab,folding her slender hands on her white gown. 'You know we are notengaged.'

  'I know nothing of the sort, my dearest prude. You are the only woman Iever intend to marry. Have you any objections? If so, I should like tohear them.'

  'I am two years older than you, George.'

  'A man is as old as he looks, a woman as she feels. I am quiteconvinced, Miss Arden, that you feel nineteen years of age, so thedisparity rests rather on my shoulders than on yours.'

  'You don't look old,' laughed Mab, letting her hand lie in that of herlover's.

  'But I feel old--old enough to marry you, my dear. What is your nextobjection?'

  'Your father does not know that you love me.'

  'My mother does; Lucy does; and with two women to persuade him, my dear,kind old father will gladly consent to the match.'

  'I have no money.'

  'My dearest, neither have I. Two negatives make an affirmative, andthat affirmative is to be uttered by you when I ask if I may tell thebishop that you are willing to become a soldier's wife.'

  'Oh, George!' cried Mab, anxiously, 'it is a very serious matter. Youknow how particular your father is about birth and family. My parentsare dead; I never knew them; for my father died before I was born, andmy mother followed him to the grave when I was a year old. If my dearmother's sister had not taken charge of me and brought me up, I shouldvery likely have gone on the parish; for--as aunty says--my parent
s werepaupers.'

  'My lovely pauper, what is all this to me? Here is your answer to allthe nonsense you have been talking,' and George, with the proverbialboldness of a soldier, laid a fond kiss on the charming face so near tohis own.

  'Oh, George!' began the scandalised Mab, for the fifth time at least,and was about to reprove her audacious lover again, when Miss Whichellobustled into the room, followed by the black shadow of the parson.George and Mab sprang apart with alacrity, and each wondered, whileadmiring the cathedral opposite, if Miss Whichello or Cargrim had heardthe sound of that stolen kiss. Apparently the dear, unsuspecting oldJenny Wren had not, for she hopped up to the pair in her bird-likefashion, and took George's arm.

  'Come, good people,' she said briskly, 'luncheon is ready; and so areyour appetites, I've no doubt. Mr Cargrim, take in my niece.'

  In five minutes the quartette were seated round a small table in MissWhichello's small dining-room. The apartment was filled with oakfurniture black with age and wondrously carved; the curtains and carpetand cushions were of faded crimson rep, and as the gaily-stripedsun-blinds were down, the whole was enwrapped in a sober brownatmosphere restful to the eye and cool to the skin. The oval table wascovered with a snow-white cloth, on which sparkled silver and crystalround a Nankin porcelain bowl of blue and white filled with deep redroses. The dinner-plates were of thin china, painted with sprawlingdragons in yellow and green; the food, in spite of Mrs Pansey's report,was plentiful and dainty, and the wines came from the stock laid downby the father of the hostess in the days when dignitaries of the Churchknew what good wine was. It is true that a neat pair of brass scales wasplaced beside Miss Whichello, but she used them to weigh out suchportions of food as she judged to be needful for herself, and did notmar her hospitality by interfering with the appetites of her guests. Therepast was tempting, the company congenial, and the two young menenjoyed themselves greatly. Miss Whichello was an entertainer worthknowing, if only for her cook.

  'Mab, my dear,' cried the lively old lady, 'I am ashamed of yourappetite. Don't you feel better for your morning's rest?'

  'Much better, thank you, aunty, but it is too hot to eat.'

  'Try some salad, my love; it is cool and green, and excellent for theblood. If I had my way, people should eat more green stuff than theydo.'

  'Like so many Nebuchadnezzars,' suggested Cargrim, always scriptural.

  'Well, some kinds of grass are edible, you know, Mr Cargrim; although weneed not go on all fours to eat them as he did.'

  'So many people would need to revert to their natural characters ofanimals if that custom came in,' said George, smiling.

  'A certain great poet remarked that everyone had a portion of the natureof some animal,' observed Cargrim, 'especially women.'

  'Then Mrs Pansey is a magpie,' cried Mab, with an arch look at her aunt.

  'She is a magpie, and a fox, and a laughing hyaena, my dear.'

  'Oh, aunty, what a trinity!'

  'I suppose, Cargrim, all you black-coated parsons are rooks,' saidGeorge.

  'No doubt, captain; and you soldiers are lions.'

  'Aunty is a Jenny Wren!'

  'And Mab is a white peacock,' said Miss Whichello, with a nod.

  'Captain Pendle, protect me,' laughed Miss Arden. 'I decline to becalled a peacock.'

  'You are a golden bird of paradise, Miss Arden.'

  'Ah, that is a pretty compliment, Captain Pendle. Thank you!'

  While George laughed, Cargrim, rather tired of these zoologicalcomparisons, strove to change the subject by an allusion to theadventure of the previous night. 'The man who attacked you was certainlya wolf,' he said decisively.

  'Who was the man?' asked Miss Whichello, carefully weighing herself somecheese.

  'Some tramp who had been in the wars,' replied George, carelessly; 'adischarged soldier, I daresay. At least, he had a long red scar on hisvillainous-looking face. I saw it in the moonlight, marking him as withthe brand of Cain.'

  'A scar!' repeated Miss Whichello, in so altered a tone that Cargrimstared at her, and hastened to explain further, so as to learn, ifpossible, the meaning of her strange look.

  'A scar on the right cheek,' he said slowly, 'from the ear to themouth.'

  'What kind of a looking man is he?' asked the old lady, pushing away herplate with a nervous gesture.

  'Something like a gipsy--lean, tall and swarthy, with jet-black eyes andan evil expression. He talks like an educated person.'

  'You seem to know all about him, Cargrim,' said Captain Pendle, in somesurprise, while Miss Whichello, her rosy face pale and scared, satsilently staring at the tablecloth.

  'I have several times been to an hotel called The Derby Winner,'explained the chaplain, 'to see a sick woman; and there I came acrossthis scamp several times. He stays there, I believe!'

  'What is his name?' asked Miss Whichello, hoarsely.

  'Jentham, I have been informed.'

  'Jentham! I don't know the name.'

  'I don't suppose you know the man either, aunty?'

  'No, my love,' replied Miss Whichello, in a low voice. 'I don't supposeI know the man either. Is he still at The Derby Winner, Mr Cargrim?'

  'I believe so; he portions his time between that hotel and a gipsy campon Southberry Common.'

  'What is he doing here?'

  'Really, my dear lady, I do not know.'

  'Aunty, one would think you knew the man,' said Mab, amazed at heraunt's emotion.

  'No, Mab, I do not,' said Miss Whichello, vehemently; more so than theremark warranted. 'But if he attacks people on the high road he shouldcertainly be shut up. Well, good people,' she added, with an attempt ather former lively manner, 'if you are finished we will return to thedrawing-room.'

  All attempts to restore the earlier harmony of the visit failed, for theconversation languished and Miss Whichello was silent and distraught.The young men shortly took their leave, and the old lady seemed glad tobe rid of them. Outside, George and Cargrim separated, as neither wasanxious for the other's company. As the chaplain walked to the palace hereflected on the strange conduct of Miss Whichello.

  'She knows something about Jentham,' he thought. 'I wonder if she has asecret also.'