Part 15

England was excited, and London was more excited still. But Spilsborough was the most excited of them all. How it came out, no one knew, but the fact that the bishop was hunting for Lady Penelope Brading, who was married, who was unmarried, who had an infant which was black, which was white, which was adopted, was blazed all over that quiet episcopal town. Dean Briggs was very much annoyed, for the cathedral was no longer the centre of interest in the place. The clergy and the choir and the beadles and the tradesmen all discussed Lady Penelope. They stood in knots and fought and wrangled and argued till they were metaphorically black in the face. The lovers were pursued by gangs of boys who knew their names, and expected them to fight when they met, and followed them around in the hope of making a ring for them. All the world was aware that the duchess was at the palace. As a result, every one called there who was on terms with the bishop. It is not at all surprising that rumour ran fast, east and west and south and north. It is not every day that a quiet cathedral town is the centre of a vast social cyclone. Boston and Spalding had their eyes on Spilsborough. Boston knew that the bishop had made an unepiscopal visitation there with a white-haired peer. Spilsby heard of it, and was jealous. Spilsby talked of it and began to wonder who the young married lady at the Moat House was. Spilsby wondered slowly. In Lincolnshire things move slowly. Lincolnshire is not fast. Folks there are rooted to the soil; they consider matters firmly and stolidly. And of course it has to be remembered that they belong to the see of Lincoln and do not think very much of Spilsborough. Spilsborough was all very well, no doubt, but Lincoln was older and finer and much more wonderful. Nevertheless, though the Lincolnshire folks are slow, they get there at last. It was all very well for Penelope to call herself Mrs. Bramwell. The Spilsby people began to see through the matter. In another month they would have solved the problem, and would have given away the solution by calling Mrs. Bramwell "Your ladyship." But this was not to be, for when Geordie came back from Boston, he went to Bob at once.

"Mr. Robert, the gaff is pretty nigh blowed," he said, earnestly.

"Is it?" asked Bob.

"Safe as houses," said Geordie. "I've my suspicions that the whole show is up the spout, or very nigh up!"

"You don't say so?" said Bob.

"Blimy, but I do say it," replied Geordie. "I saw that gaitered josser, the bishop, at Boston this very afternoon. Her ladyship will be spoofed and smelt out. Some one is givin' the game away. I don't trust that bishop."

"No more do I," said Bob. "He's very mean, Geordie. He encouraged me to follow you so that I could tell them where my cousin was."

"Bah!" said Geordie, "and they call him a bishop! Her ladyship wishes not to be found out, and she sha'n't be--by a bishop. I own I don't understand her ladyship's idea."

"I do," said Bob. "Suppose some one said you couldn't do something, Geordie, a hundred miles an hour for instance."

Geordie shook his head.

"I'd show 'em!"

"And that you wouldn't after you said you would."

"I'd show 'em," repeated Geordie.

"And that you shouldn't?"

"Shouldn't be damned, beggin' your pardon, Mr. Robert. I'd show 'em!"

"That's my cousin's idea," said Bob.

"And a dashed good idea, too," said Geordie. "I hate interferin' folks worse than policemen. I'd tell her ladyship about this here bishop. And Lord Bradstock was with him, sir."

"The devil!" said Bob, and he ran to Penelope bawling.

"I say, Pen, you'll have to go," he roared, bursting into the room where Pen was lamenting over her many griefs. "The bishop is after you. Geordie's seen him and Bradstock, too. And I feel quite certain that all of 'em will be at Spilsborough now."

"I won't go," sniffed Pen.

"Oh, but you must," said Bob. "You can't be caught here now by the whole lot."

"I don't seem to care," said Penelope.

"Oh, what rot!" cried Bob. "You won't break down now, Pen, just in the middle of the game. I mean in the middle of your idea. Just think how they'll crow over you and the baby."

That roused Penelope.

"They--they sha'n't!"

"Well, they will, unless you've got the one you are married to here," said Bob. "Or are you going to tell me who it is?"

Pen snuffled sadly.

"How can I when we've q-quarrelled?" she demanded.

"Then we'll start at once," said Bob. "I'll tell Miss Mackarness and Tim and all of 'em, and we'll get your car and mine and we'll go somewhere else."

"But where?" asked Pen.

"What rot!" said Bob. "You've got heaps of houses; any of 'em that are deserted. Upwell Castle will do."

"So it will," said Penelope, helplessly. "But we can't go to-day, Bob. Baby is always asleep at this hour. Can't it be to-morrow?"

Bob shook his head.

"It's very dangerous, with the bishop on our track," he said; "it's very dangerous. He's very determined, except in motor-cars. In motor-cars, going fast, he's not at all determined. But out of 'em he's a terror. I'd go to-day."

"No, no, to-morrow," said Penelope, weeping.

And Bob went away.

"I wish Baker was here," he said. "Baker is quite as determined as the bishop, and his advice would be very valuable. I wish I knew how to treat Gordon. I'm afraid he'll be angry. If he's angry, he may keep my money. Well, I don't care."

He told Miss Mackarness to pack up, and Miss Mackarness said she would. 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?"

"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.