CHAPTER VII.

IN WHICH MISS ARMINSTER VERIFIES THE PROVERB.

The Bishop was pacing his garden. He was far from happy. It is true he had not been worsted in his encounter with his sister. There had been a drawn battle, and he had retired with dignity, conceding nothing but that he would ask Miss Arminster to come to his study at noon and explain her position. He could not believe the charges against the charming Violet, but nevertheless he felt decidedly uncomfortable: for even if she cleared herself, she was still married, and the palace lacked a mistress.

It was easy to say that Miss Matilda should be deposed, but who should take her place? Not another man's wife, certainly. For the first time in all these years, his Lordship realised how lonely he had been. He should have remarried long before, and indeed even so unworldly a person as he knew that more than one young lady in Blanford would have viewed with complacency the prospect of becoming Mrs. Bishop.

A young wife, however, even as attractive as the fair Violet, was not, he told himself, exactly what he wanted. He had tried a period of double rule in which his sister was the power behind the throne, and it was infinitely worse than the present régime. No; if he took another helpmate, she must be a person of strong will, some one who could hold her own against all comers, some one who should have an inexhaustible fund of sympathy for his work, some one whose appreciation of the exalted position of the Bishop of Blanford should be so great as to blind her, occasionally at least, to those minor faults to which, Scripture tells us, all flesh is heir.

It was at just this point in his meditations that his Lordship, turning sharply round the corner of a large gooseberry-bush, came suddenly upon Mrs. Mackintosh. Their surprise was mutual, for the good lady had evidently been gardening, and was suffering from the rigour of the game.

"That head man of yours is a duffer," she said sharply, pointing a very earthy trowel at the unconscious figure of the gardener, who was busy in the middle distance digging potatoes. "A man," she continued, "who calls a plain, every-day squash a vegetable marrow isn't fit to run a well-ordered truck-patch; though it's no more than might be expected in a country where they sell bread by the yard, and flour by the gallon. And what, I should like to know, is a 'punnet'?"

"I'm afraid, madam, I must confess my ignorance," replied the Bishop.

"I thought as much," she retorted. "And yet they put you in command of a diocese. Your gardener said to me this morning: 'I'll pick a "punnet" of strawberries to-day.' 'You'll do nothing of the kind,' I told him. 'Pick them in a Christian basket, or not at all.'"

His Lordship laughed.

"It's some sort of measure, I imagine," he remarked.

"I shouldn't wonder. And your cook's just as bad. She asked me yesterday if I liked jugged hare. 'Let me see your jug,' said I, 'and then I'll tell you.' And as sure's I'm a sinner, she told me she never used one for that dish!"

"Now you speak of it," said his Lordship, "I don't think I ever saw one myself. But what are you doing this morning?"

"Straightening the peas."

"Straightening the peas?" he asked, thoroughly mystified.

"Yes, they're all waggly. When I plant my garden I take a string and two pegs and plant the seed along a line; but these just seem to be put in anyhow."

"Is it good for the peas?" asked the Bishop suspiciously, as he saw them being rooted up and reset.

"I can't say," she returned sharply. "But things ought to be straight at an episcopal palace, if they are anywhere."

"So they should," he admitted mournfully, "but it's far from being the case. That's why I came out to consult you."

"Go ahead, then. You talk, and I'll dig."

And while the plants were being arranged to an ecclesiastical standard, he retailed to her the charges against Violet.

"Do you believe them?" she asked, jamming her trowel up to its hilt in the soft earth.

"Of course I do not."

"Right you are," she said. "I know the whole story, and it's nothing to be ashamed of, I give you my word."

"You relieve me immensely."

"It's merely American enterprise," continued the old lady. "That's why they call her the Leopard."

"The Leopard-- I don't understand. She asked me to call her that."

"Well, I won't steal her thunder. She'll tell you herself."

"But she is married?"

"Oh, yes."

The Bishop sighed.

"That disappoints you?" said Mrs. Mackintosh thoughtfully, balancing a pea-plant in her hand.

"Yes; at least I'd hoped--"

"I know. She told me. We haven't any secrets from each other."

"You see," continued his Lordship, "if my sister leaves me, I must have some one to take her place; otherwise--"

"She won't go."

"Yes," said the Bishop; "that's just the point."

"You ought to marry at once."

"I feel that myself; but then, you see, there's no one who would care to marry me--no one at least who--"

"You don't want a young chit."

"No," said his Lordship. "Somebody more like you."

Mrs. Mackintosh paused in her gardening.

"Look here," she said. "Are you going to propose to me next?"

"I--was--thinking of it," admitted the Bishop.

"As a last resource?"

"My dear Mrs. Mackintosh!"

"I don't know as I ever could be a bishopess," replied that lady, inadvertently resetting a pea-plant upside down.

"There's Jonah," said the Bishop, resorting to diplomacy. "I shall never be able to complete that last volume without the spur of your appreciative criticism."

"Well," she replied, partially relenting, "I'd do a good deal for--Jonah."

"Then you will!" he cried.

"I've one row of those peas left," she returned, "and when I've reset them I'll give you your answer. That'll be in fifteen minutes. Now go away, or you'll fidget round, and I sha'n't get 'em straight." And without another word she resumed her digging.

Fifteen minutes later his Lordship was at her side.

"There's one more plant left," remarked Mrs. Mackintosh, cleaning her trowel and addressing herself to the task.

"And are you going to say Yes when you have finished?"

"Yes," said the lady, "I am, but it's mostly on account of Jonah."

The Bishop ruthlessly set his foot on the tender shoot which intervened between him and happiness, crushing it to the earth.

Some time later Mrs. Mackintosh remarked:

"The cathedral clock is striking twelve, and you're due in the study."

"You mean, my dear, that _we_ are due," replied his Lordship.

* * * * *

On their arrival in the Bishop's sanctum, they found the full force of the company assembled to receive them.

Miss Matilda looked on this gathering with suspicion.

"I do not see," she said, "the need of so many witnesses to what must prove, I fear, a humiliating confession."

"I've come," returned Mrs. Mackintosh, "to lend moral support to--" She glanced at the Bishop, changed her mind, and supplemented--"Miss Arminster."

"Shall I speak?" asked Miss Matilda, ignoring her remark.

"I will speak," said his Lordship. "It is my house, and my place to do so."

His sister sat down hurriedly.

"I've sent for you, my dear," he continued, turning to Violet, "because certain charges have been made against you by Mr. Marchmont and--others, and, as my son informs me that you contemplate marrying Mr. Spotts, and asking me to perform the ceremony, I feel it is my duty--"

"She's already--" broke in his sister.

"I am speaking, Matilda," he said quietly, and she collapsed.

"You mustn't think," he went on, "that my asking you to explain your position implies any belief on my part in the charges made against you. I've only requested this interview because I thought you'd like an opportunity to disprove idle gossip."

"It's very kind of you," she replied, "and I shall avail myself of it gladly."

"Quite so. Now my sister tells me that she's seen, in a neighbouring church, the record of your marriage to Mr. Spotts. Is this so?"

"Certainly," said Violet. "I married him there in 1895."

Miss Matilda sniffed viciously.

"Mr. Marchmont," continued the Bishop, "in whose statements, I need hardly say, I place no reliance, informed my sister that you had been married with unusual frequency; and my son tells me, also, that you've admitted to him a--er--a considerable number of--er--matrimonial alliances. Would you--er--er--consider it an intrusion on my part if I asked how many times you have been married?"

"I've had the marriage service performed over me," she replied, "thirty-seven times in four years."

Miss Matilda threw up her hands in an access of horror.

"But your husbands--" stammered his Lordship.

"I never had but one husband," she said. "And here he stands." And she took Spotts's hand in hers.

"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the Bishop. "You surely haven't married him thirty-seven times?"

"Yes, that is exactly the case," she returned.

"But I don't understand."

"The explanation is very simple," she replied. "My husband and I are both actors. He plays the part of the hero, and I the part of the heroine. In the fifth act, after many struggles and disappointments, we're at last united. To have the marriage ceremony actually performed on the stage, or the next day at church, has always proved a great attraction to our audiences. At first I objected. But I've been informed by a competent authority in my own country that there's no canonical rule against it, and in remarrying my husband I merely renew my vows to him, and I've never once gone through the ceremony lightly or thoughtlessly. I do not defend the practice, or expect you to approve of it, and, now that you know the truth, I shouldn't think of asking you to marry us again; but I don't consider that I've done anything of which I need be ashamed."

"Dear me!" said the Bishop. "In my ecclesiastical position I can hardly approve of the course you've taken; but as a man--well, it's a great relief to me."

"I consider it a sacrilege," exclaimed Miss Matilda, "and, as I remarked to Cecil this morning, that young person leaves the palace to-day, or I do!"

"You'll naturally act as seems to you best," said her brother. "But I beg you to remember that I'm master of this house, and that this lady is my guest."

"And who, pray, will keep your house for you when I'm gone?" she snapped.

"I'm sure that Mrs. Spotts will attend to it for me until Mrs. Mackintosh and I are married."

"Till you're married!" his sister repeated after him, too astounded to grasp fully the meaning of his words.

"It is an event which I hope will occur shortly," her brother replied.

"That's enough!" she retorted. "I leave Blanford this afternoon!"

"I trust you'll not go in anger, Matilda," he said. "I'm sure a change will do you good. Miss Arminster--I mean Mrs. Spotts--suggests a course of mud-baths; and if you'll permit me to assume the expense--"

"Josephus!" she returned shortly, "do not add insult to injury." And she swept from the room.

"I, too," said Professor Tybalt Smith, who had hitherto remained silent--"I, too, must be permitted to excuse myself. It may be that I can comfort that injured lady in her exile." And he followed her out.

"Oh, I'm delighted!" cried Violet, seizing Mrs. Mackintosh's hand.

"And I, too," said Cecil.

"Thank you," replied his stepmother-to-be. "That pleases me more than anything else. I hope you'll really make Blanford your home."

"I shall indeed," he returned, "since no one will have me as a husband."

"You've the great success of your book to comfort you," suggested Violet. "What more can you ask?"

"Well, as it seems a day of explanations," he said, "I should really like to know why you're called 'the Leopard'?"

"It's a very trifling secret after all," she replied, laughing. "But to have let you know it would have given away our little plot. Now it doesn't matter. Tell him, Alvy."

"It's merely this," said her husband gaily: "that, as much as she may marry, HIS LORDSHIP'S LEOPARD CAN NEVER CHANGE HER SPOT(T)S."

THE END.

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End of Project Gutenberg's His Lordship's Leopard, by David Dwight Wells