The Bishop's Secret

by Fergus Hume

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  DEA EX MACHINA

  As may be guessed, Captain Pendle, now that the course of true love ransmoother, was an assiduous visitor to the Jenny Wren house. He and Mabwere all in all to one another, and in the egotism of their love did nottrouble themselves about the doings of their neighbours. It is true thatGeorge was relieved and pleased to hear of Mosk's arrest and confession,because Gabriel was thereby exonerated from all suspicion of havingcommitted a vile crime; but when reassured on this point, he ceased tointerest himself in the matter. He was ignorant that his brother lovedBell Mosk, as neither Baltic nor the bishop had so far enlightened him,else he might not have been quite so indifferent to the impending trialof the wretched criminal. As it was, the hot excitement prevalent inBeorminster left him cold, and both he and Mab might have been dwellersin the moon for all the interest they displayed in the topic of the day.They lived, according to the selfish custom of lovers, in an Arcadia oftheir own creation, and were oblivious to the doings beyond its borders.Which disregard was natural enough in their then state of mind.

  However, George, being in the world and of the world, occasionallybrought to Mab such scraps of news as he thought might interest her. Hetold her of his mother's return, of her renewed health, of her pleasurein hearing that the engagement had been sanctioned by the bishop, anddelivered a message to the effect that she wished to see and embrace herfuture daughter-in-law--all of which information gave Mab wondrouspleasure and Miss Whichello a considerable amount of satisfaction, sinceshe saw that there would be no further question of her niece'sunsuitability for George.

  'You deserve some reward for your good news,' said Mab, and produced asilk knitted necktie of martial red, 'so here it is!'

  'Dearest,' cried Captain Pendle, kissing the scarf, 'I shall wear itnext to my heart;' then, thinking the kiss wasted on irresponsive silk,he transferred it to the cheek of his lady-love.

  'Nonsense!' said Miss Whichello, smiling broadly; 'wear it round yourneck like a sensible lover.'

  'Are lovers ever sensible?' inquired the captain, with a twinkle.

  'I know one who isn't,' cried Mab, playfully. 'No, sir,' removing aneager arm, 'you will shock aunty.'

  'Aunty has become hardened to such shocks,' smiled Miss Whichello.

  'Aunty has been as melancholy as an owl of late,' retorted Mab,caressing the old lady; 'ever since the arrest of that man Mosk she hasbeen quite wretched.'

  'Don't speak of him, Mab.'

  'Halloo! said George, with sudden recollection, 'I knew there wassomething else to tell you. Mosk is dead.'

  Miss Whichello gave a faint shriek, and tightly clasped the hand of herniece. 'Dead!' she gasped, pale-cheeked and low-toned. 'Mosk dead!'

  'As a door nail,' rejoined George, admiring his present; 'he hangedhimself last night with his braces, so the gallows have lost a victimand Beorminster society a sensation trial of--'

  'George!' cried Mab, in alarm, 'don't talk so; you will make auntyfaint.'

  And indeed the little old lady looked as though she were on the point ofswooning. Her face was white, her skin was cold, and leaning back herhead she had closed her eyes. Captain Pendle's item of news had producedso unexpected a result that he and Mab stared at one another insurprise.

  'You shouldn't tell these horrors, George.'

  'My love, how was I to know your aunt took an interest in the man?'

  'I don't take an interest in him,' protested Miss Whichello, faintly;'but he killed Jentham, and now he kills himself; it's horrible.'

  'Horrible, but necessary,' assented George, cheerfully; 'a man whomurders another can't expect to get off scot-free. Mosk has only donefor himself what the law would have done for him. I'm sorry for Baltic,however.'

  'The missionary! Why, George?'

  'Because this suicide will be such a disappointment to him. He has beentrying to make the poor devil--beg pardon--poor wretch repent; but itwould seem that he has not been successful.'

  'Did he not confess to Mr Baltic?' asked Miss Whichello, anxiously.

  'I believe so; he repented that far.'

  'Do you know what he told him?'

  'That he had killed Jentham, and had stolen his money.'

  'Did he say if he had found any papers on Jentham's body?'

  'Not that I know of,' replied George, staring. 'Why! had Jentham anyparticular papers in his possession?'

  'Oh, I don't know; I really can't say,' answered Miss Whichello,confusedly, and rose unsteadily to her feet. 'Mab, my dear, you willexcuse me, I am not very well; I shall go to my bedroom.'

  'Let me come too, aunty.'

  'No! no!' Miss Whichello waved her niece back. 'I wish to be alone,' andshe left the room abruptly, without a look at either of the youngpeople. They could not understand this strange behaviour. Mab,woman-like, turned on Captain Pendle.

  'It is all your fault, George, talking of murders and suicides.'

  'I'm awf'ly sorry,' said the captain, penitently, 'but I thought youwould like to hear the news.'

  'Not the police news, thank you,' said Mab, with dignity.

  'Why not? Something to talk about, you know.'

  'You have me to talk about, Captain Pendle.'

  'Oh!' George sprang forward. 'Let us discuss that subject at once. Youdeserve some punishment for calling me out of my name. There, wickedone!'

  'George,' very faintly, 'I--I shall not allow it! You--you should askpermission.'

  'Waste of time,' said the practical George, and slipped his arm roundher waist.

  'Oh, indeed!'--indignantly--'well, I--' Here Captain Pendle punished heragain, after which Mab said that he was like all men, that he ought tobe ashamed of himself, etc., etc., etc. Then she frowned, then shesmiled, and finally became a meek and patient Grissel to the unfeigneddelight of the superior mind. So the pair forgot Mosk and his wretcheddeath, forgot Miss Whichello and her strange conduct, and retreated fromthe world into their Arcadia--Paradise--Elysium, in which it is bestthat all sensible people should leave this pair of foolish lovers.

  Miss Whichello had other things to think of than this billing andcooing. She went to her bedroom, and lay down for ten minutes or so;then she got up again and began pacing restlessly to and fro. Herthoughts were busy with Mosk, with his victim, with Baltic; she wonderedif Jentham had been in possession of certain papers, if these had beenstolen by Mosk, if they were now in the pocket of Baltic. This last ideamade her blood turn cold and her heart drum a loud tattoo. She coveredher face with her hands; she sat down, she rose up, and in a nervousfever of apprehension leaned against the wall. Then, after the manner ofthose over-wrought, she began to talk aloud.

  'I must tell someone; I must have advice,' she muttered, clenching herhands. 'It is of no use seeing Mr Baltic; he is a stranger; he mayrefuse to help me. Dr Graham? No! he is too cynical. The bishop?' Shepaused and struck her hands lightly together. 'The bishop! I shall seehim and tell him all. For his son's sake, he will help my poor darling.'

  Having made up her mind to this course, Miss Whichello put on herold-fashioned silk cloak and poke bonnet. Then she fished a bundle ofpapers, yellow with age, out of a tin box, and slipped them into hercapacious pocket. Biting her lips and rubbing her cheeks to bring backthe colour, she glided downstairs, stole past the drawing-room door likea guilty creature, and in another minute was in the square. Here shetook a passing fly, and ordered the man to drive her to the palace asspeedily as possible.

  'I trust I am acting for the best,' murmured the little old lady, with asigh. 'I think I am; for if Bishop Pendle cannot help me, no one elsecan. After thirty years, oh God! my poor, poor darling!'

  In the Greek drama, when the affairs of the _dramatis personae_ became soentangled by circumstance, or fate, or sheer folly as to be beyond theircapability of reducing them to order, those involved in such disorderwere accustomed to summon a deity to accomplish what was impossible formortals to achieve. Then stepped the god out of a machine to redress thewrong and reward the right, to separate
the sheep from the goats and todeliver a moral speech to the audience, commanding them to note howimpossible it was for man to dispense with the guidance and judgment andpowerful aid of the Olympian Hierarchy. Miss Whichello's mission wassomething similar; and although both she and Bishop Pendle were ignorantthat she represented the 'goddess out of a machine' who was to settleall things in a way conducive to the happiness of all persons, yet suchwas the case. Impelled by Fate, she sought out the very man to whom hermission was most acceptable; and seated face to face with Bishop Pendlein that library which had been the scene of so many famous interviews,she unconsciously gave him a piece of information which put an end toall his troubles. She had certainly arrived at the eleventh hour, andmight just as well have presented herself earlier; but Destiny, theplaywright of the Universe, always decrees that her dramas should playtheir appointed time and never permits her arbitrator to appear untilimmediately before the fall of the green curtain. So far as theBeorminster drama was concerned, the crucial moment was at hand, theactor--or rather actress--who was to remedy all things was on the scene,and shortly the curtain would fall on a situation of the rough madesmooth. Then red fire, marriage bells, triumphant virtue and coweringguilt, with a rhyming tag, delivered by the prettiest actress, of 'All'swell that ends well!'

  'I come to consult you confidentially,' said Miss Whichello, when sheand the bishop were alone in the library. 'I wish to ask for youradvice.'

  'My advice and my friendship are both at your service, my dear lady,'replied the courteous bishop.

  'It is about Mab's parents,' blurted out the little old lady.

  'Oh!' The bishop looked grave. 'You are about to tell me the truth ofthose rumours which were prevalent in Beorminster when you brought MissArden home to your house?'

  'Yes. I daresay Mrs Pansey said all sorts of wicked things about me,bishop?'

  'Well, no!'--Dr Pendle wriggled uneasily--'she spoke rather of yoursister than of you. I do not wish to repeat scandal, Miss Whichello, solet us say no more about the matter. Your niece shall marry my son; beassured of that. It is foolish to rake up the past,' added the bishop,with a sigh.

  'I must rake up the past; I must tell you the truth,' said MissWhichello, in firm tones, 'if only to put a stop to Mrs Pansey's eviltongue. What did she say, bishop?'

  'Really, really, my dear lady, I--'

  'Bishop, tell me what she said about my sister. I will know.'

  Reluctantly the bishop spoke out at this direct request. 'She said thatyour sister had eloped in London with a man who afterwards refused tomarry her, that she had a child, and that such child is your niece, MissArden, whom you brought to Beorminster after the death of your unhappysister.'

  'A fine mixture of truth and fiction indeed,' said the old lady, in ahaughty voice. 'I am obliged to Mrs Pansey for the way in which she hasdistorted facts.'

  'I fear, indeed, that Mrs Pansey exaggerates,' said Dr Pendle, shakinghis head.

  'With all due respect, bishop, she is a wicked old Sapphira!' cried MissWhichello, and forthwith produced a bundle of papers out of her pocket.'My unfortunate sister Annie did run away, but she was married to herlover on the very day she left our house in London, and my darling Mabis as legitimate as your son George, Dr Pendle.'

  The bishop winced at this unlucky illustration. 'Have you a proof ofthis marriage, Miss Whichello?' he asked, with a glance at the papers.

  'Of course I have,' she replied, untying the red tape with tremblingfingers. 'Here is the certificate of marriage which my poor Annie gaveme on her dying bed. I would have shown it before to all Beorminster hadI known of Mrs Pansey's false reports. Look at it, bishop.' She thrustit into his hand. 'Ann Whichello, spinster; Pharaoh Bosvile, bachelor.They were married in St Chad's Church, Hampstead, in the month ofDecember 1869. Here is Mab's certificate of birth; she was christened inthe same church, and born in 1870, the year of the Franco-German war, soas this is ninety-seven, she is now twenty-seven years of age, just twoyears older than your son, Captain Pendle.'

  With much interest the bishop examined the two certificates of birth andmarriage which Miss Whichello placed before him. They were both legallyperfect, and he saw plainly that however badly Bosvile might havebehaved afterwards to Ann Bosvile she was undoubtedly his wife.

  'Not that he would have married her if he could have helped it,' went onMiss Whichello, while the bishop looked at the documents, 'but Annie hada little money--not much--which she was to receive on her wedding day,so the wretch married her and wrote to my dear father for the money,which, of course, under grandfather's will, had to be paid. Father neverwould see Annie again, but when the poor darling wrote to me a yearafterwards that she was dying with a little child by her side, whatcould I do but go and comfort her? Ah, poor darling Annie!' sobbed thelittle old lady, 'she was sadly changed from the bright, beautiful girlI remembered. Her husband turned out a brute and a ruffian and aspendthrift. He wasted all her money, and left her within six months ofthe marriage--the wretch! Annie tried to support herself by needlework,but she took cold in her starving condition and broke down. Then Mab wasborn, and she wrote to me. I went at once, bishop, but arrived just intime to get those papers and close my dear Annie's eyes. Afterwards Ibrought Mab back with me to Beorminster, but I kept her for some time inLondon on account of my father. When I did bring her here, and I showedhim the marriage certificate, he got quite fond of the little pet. Soall these years Mab has lived with me quite like my own sweet child, andyour son is a lucky man to win her love,' added the old maid, ratherincoherently. 'It is not everyone that I would give my dear Annie'schild to, I can tell you, bishop. So that's the whole story, and a sadlycommon one it is.'

  'It does you great credit, Miss Whichello,' said Dr Pendle, patting herhand; 'and I have the highest respect both for you and your niece. I amproud, my dear lady, that she should become my daughter. But tell me howyour unhappy sister became acquainted with this man?'

  'He was a violinist,' replied Miss Whichello, 'a public violinist, andplayed most beautifully. Annie heard him and saw him, and lost her headover his looks and genius. He called himself Amaru, but his real namewas Pharaoh Bosvile.'

  'A strange name, Miss Whichello.'

  'It is a gipsy name, bishop. Bosvile was a gipsy. He learned the violinin Hungary or Spain, I don't know which, and played wonderfully.Afterwards he had an accident which hurt his hand, and he could notplay; that was the reason he married Annie--just for her money, thewretch!'

  'A gipsy,' murmured the bishop, who had turned pale.

  'Yes; an English gipsy, but like all those people he wandered far andnear. The accident which hurt his hand also marked his cheek with ascar.'

  'The right cheek?' gasped Dr Pendle, leaning forward.

  'Why, yes,' said Miss Whichello, rather astonished at the bishop'semotion; 'that was how I recognised him here when he called himselfJentham. He--'

  With a cry the bishop sprang to his feet in a state of uncontrollableagitation, shaking and white. 'W--was Jentham--Bos--Bosvile?' hestammered. 'Are--are you sure?'

  'I am certain,' replied Miss Whichello, with a scared look. 'I have seenhim dozens of times. Bishop!' Her voice rose in a scream, for Dr Pendlehad fallen forward on his desk.

  'Oh, my God!' cried the bishop. 'Oh, God most merciful!'

  The little old lady was trembling violently. She thought that the bishophad suddenly gone out of his mind. Nor was she reassured when he stoodup and looked at her with a face, down which the tears were streaming.Never had Miss Whichello seen a man weeping before, and the sightterrified her much more than an outburst of anger would have done. Shelooked at the bishop, he looked at her, and they were both ashy white,both overcome with nervous emotion.

  After a moment the bishop opened a drawer and took out a bundle ofpapers. Out of these he selected the marriage certificate of his wifeand Krant, and compared it with the certificate of Pharaoh Bosvile andAnn Whichello.

  'Thank God!' he said again, in a tremulous voice. 'This man as Bosvilemarried your sis
ter in 1869, as Krant he married Mrs Pendle in 1870.'

  'Married Mrs Pendle!' shrieked Miss Whichello, darting forward.

  'Yes. She was a Mrs Krant when I married her, and as her husband wasreported dead, I believed her to be his widow.'

  'But she was not his widow!'

  'No, for Krant was Jentham, and Jentham was alive after my marriage.'

  'I don't mean that,' cried Miss Whichello, laying a finger on hersister's certificate, 'but Jentham as Bosvile married Annie in 1869.'

  'He married my wife in October 1870,' said the bishop, breathlessly.

  'Then his second marriage was a false one,' said Miss Whichello, 'for inthat year, in that month, my sister was still alive. Mrs Pendle wasnever his wife.'

  'No, thank God!' said the bishop, clasping his hands, 'she is my owntrue wife after all.'