en-es  THE BISHOP’S SECRET by Fergus Hume, CHAPTER 2
At first I want to thank France very much, who allowed gracefully to use her files stored!
Second I want to share some useful guidelines by Commeunetexane (I've been allowed to): - Fellow translators, our mutual goal in collaborative translation is to improve our language skills and to learn from one another. To promote such an environment, please refrain from correcting translations that are already written correctly in English. Where there is an error of either translation, grammar, or punctuation, it is helpful to use the "suggestion" feature to correct it, and when necessary, leave a short comment. In this way the original translator can benefit from the explanation. Replacing words with synonyms or sentences with similar ones is discouraged; this suggests to the translator that his writing is incorrect and can hinder learning. However, at times there may be stylistic changes needed to fit the time period of the piece, to make the story flow better, or to capture an “accent”. In such instances please use the “comments" feature to explain the proposed changes and allow the original translator the opportunity to make the changes himself or herself.
Thank you.


THE BISHOP’S SECRET by Fergus Hume.

CHAPTER 2, THE BISHOP IS WANTED.

The episcopalian residence, situate some distance from the city, was a mediæval building, enshrined in the remnant of a royal chase, and in its perfect quiet and loneliness resembled the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. Its composite architecture was of many centuries and many styles, for bishop after bishop had pulled down portions and added others, had levelled a tower here and erected a wing there, until the result was a jumble of divers designs, incongruous but picturesque. Time had mellowed the various parts into one rich coloured whole of perfect beauty, and elevated on a green rise, surrounded by broad stone terraces, with towers and oriels and turrets and machicolated battlements; clothed with ivy, buried amid ancient trees, it looked like the realisation of a poet’s dream. Only long ages and many changing epochs; only home-loving prelates, ample monies, and architects of genius, could have created so beautiful and unique a fabric. It was the admiration of transatlantic tourists with a twang; the desire of millionaires. Aladdin’s industrious genii would have failed to build such a masterpiece, unless their masters had arranged to inhabit it five centuries or so after construction. Time had created it, as Time would destroy it, but at present it was in perfect preservation, and figured in steel-plate engravings as one of the stately homes of England. No wonder the mitre of Beorminster was a coveted prize, when its gainer could dwell in so noble and matchless a mansion.

As the present prelate was an up-to-date bishop, abreast of his time and fond of his creature comforts, the interior of the palace was modernised completely in accordance with the luxurious demands of nineteenth century civilisation. The stately reception-rooms—thrown open on this night to what the Beorminster Weekly Chronicle, strong in foreign tongues, tautologically called “the élite and crême de la crême of the diocese”—were brilliantly illuminated by electric lamps and furnished magnificently throughout, in keeping with their palatial appearance. The ceilings were painted in the Italian style, with decently-clothed Olympian deities; the floors were of parquetry, polished so highly, and reflecting so truthfully, that the guests seemed to be walking, in some magical way, upon still water. Noble windows, extending from floor to roof, were draped with purple curtains, and stood open to the quiet moonlit world without; between these, tall mirrors flashed back gems and colours, moving figures and floods of amber radiance, and enhanced by reduplicated reflections the size of the rooms. Amid all this splendour of warmth and tints and light moved the numerous guests of the bishop. Almost every invitation had been accepted, for the receptions at the palace were on a large and liberal scale, particularly as regards eating and drinking. Dr Pendle, in addition to his official salary, possessed a handsome income, and spent it in the lavish style of a Cardinal Wolsey. He was wise enough to know how the outward and visible signs of prosperity and dignity affect the popular imagination, and frequently invited the clergy and laity to feast at the table of Mother Church, to show that she could dispense loaves and fishes with the best, and vie with Court and Society in the splendour and hospitality of her entertainments. As he approved of an imposing ritual at the cathedral, so he affected a magnificent way of living at the palace. Mrs Pansey and many others declared that Dr Pendle’s aims in that direction were Romish. Perhaps they were, but he could scarcely have followed a better example, since the Church of Peter owes much of its power to a judicious employment of riches and ritual, and a dexterous gratification of the lust of the eye. The Anglican Church is more dignified now than she was in the days of the Georges, and very rightly, too, since God’s ministers should not be the poorest or meanest of men.

Naturally, as the host was clerical and the building ecclesiastical, the clergy predominated at this entertainment. The bishop and the dean were the only prelates of their rank present, but there were archdeacons, and canons and rectors, and a plentiful supply of curates, all, in their own opinion, bishops in embryo. The shape and expression of the many faces were various—ascetic, worldly, pale, red, round, thin, fat, oval; each one revealed the character of its owner. Some lean, bent forms were those of men filled with the fire of religion for its own sake; others, stout, jolly gentlemen in comfortable livings, loved the loaves and fishes of the Church as much as her precepts. The descendants of Friar Tuck and the Vicar of Bray were here, as well as those who would have been Wycliffes and Latimers had the fires of Smithfield still been alight. Obsequious curates bowed down to pompous prebendaries; bluff rectors chatted on cordial terms with suave archdeacons; and in the fold of the Church there were no black sheep on this great occasion. The shepherds and pastors of the Beorminster flock were polite, entertaining, amusing, and not too masterful, so that the general air was quite arcadian.

The laity also formed a strong force. There were lords magnificently condescending to commoners; M.P.s who talked politics, and M.P.s who had had enough of that sort of thing at St Stephen’s and didn’t; hearty squires from adjacent county seats; prim bankers, with whom the said squires were anxious to be on good terms, since they were the priests of Mammon; officers from near garrison towns, ‘ga y and lighthearted, who devoted themselves to the fairer portion of the company; and a sprinkling of barristers, literary men, hardy explorers, and such like minnows among Tritons. Last, but not least, the Mayor of Beorminster was present and posed as a modern Whittington—half commercial wealth, half municipal dignity. If some envious Anarchist had exploded a dynamite bomb in the vicinity of the palace on that night, the greatest, the most intellectual, the richest people of the county would have come to an untimely end, and then the realm of England, like the people themselves, would have gone to pieces. The Beorminster Chronicle reporter—also present with a flimsy book and a restless little pencil—worked up this idea on the spot into a glowing paragraph.

Very ungallantly the ladies have been left to the last; but now the last shall be first, although it is difficult to do the subject justice. The matrons of surrounding parishes, the ladies of Beorminster society, the damsels of town and country, were all present in their best attire, chattering and smiling, and becking and bowing, after the observant and diplomatic ways of their sex. Such white shoulders! such pretty faces! such Parisian toilettes! such dresses of obviously home manufacture never were seen in one company. The married ladies whispered scandal behind their fans, and in a Christian spirit shot out the lip of scorn at their social enemies; the young maidens sought for marriageable men, and lurked in darkish corners for the better ensnaring of impressionable males. Cupid unseen mingled in the throng and shot his arrows right and left, not always with the best result, as many post-nuptial experiences showed. There was talk of the gentle art of needlework, of the latest bazaar and the agreeable address delivered thereat by Mr Cargrim; the epicene pastime of lawn tennis was touched upon; and ardent young persons discussed how near they could go to Giant Pope’s cave without getting into the clutches of its occupant. The young men talked golfing, parish work, horses, church, male millinery, polo and shooting; the young ladies chatted about Paris fashions and provincial adaptations thereof, the London season, the latest engagement, and the necessity of reviving the flirtatious game of croquet. Black coats, coloured dresses, flashing jewels, many-hued flowers,—the restless crowd resembled a bed of gaudy tulips tossed by the wind. And all this chattering, laughing, clattering, glittering mass of well-bred, well-groomed humanity moved, and swayed, and gyrated under the white glare of the electric lamps. Urbs in Rus; Belgravia in the Provinces; Vanity Fair amid the cornfields; no wonder this entertainment of Bishop and Mrs Pendle was the event of the Beorminster year.

Like an agreeable Jupiter amid adoring mortals, the bishop, with his chaplain in attendance, moved through the rooms, bestowing a word here, a smile there, and a hearty welcome on all. A fine-looking man was the Bishop of Beorminster; as stately in appearance as any prelate drawn by Du Maurier. He was over six feet, and carried himself in a soldierly fashion, as became a leader of the Church Militant. His legs were all that could be desired to fill out episcopalian gaiters; and his bland, clean-shaven face beamed with smiles and benignity. But Bishop Pendle was not the mere figure-head Mrs Pansey’s malice declared him to be; he had great administrative powers, great organising capabilities, and controlled his diocese in a way which did equal credit to his heart and head. As he chatted with his guests and did the honours of the palace, he seemed to be the happiest of men, and well worthy of his exalted post. With a splendid position, a charming wife, a fine family, an obedient flock of clergy and laity, the bishop’s lines were cast in pleasant places. There was not even the proverbial crumpled rose-leaf to render uncomfortable the bed he had made for himself. He was like an ecclesiastical Jacob—blessed above all men.

“Well, bishop!” said Dr Graham, a meagre sceptic, who did not believe in the endurance of human felicity, “I congratulate you.

“On my daughter’s engagement?” asked the prelate, smiling pleasantly.

“On everything. Your position, your family, your health, your easy conscience; all is too smooth, too well with you. It can’t last, your lordship, it can’t last,” and the doctor shook his bald head, as no doubt Solon did at Crœsus when he snubbed that too fortunate monarch.

“I am indeed blessed in the condition of life to which God has been pleased to call me.

“No doubt! No doubt! But remember Polycrates, bishop, and throw your ring into the sea.

“My dear Dr Graham,” said the bishop, rather stiffly, “I do not believe in such paganism. God has blessed me beyond my deserts, no doubt, and I thank Him in all reverence for His kindly care.

“Hum! Hum!” muttered Graham, shaking his head. “When men thank fortune for her gifts she usually turns her back on them.

“I am no believer in such superstitions, doctor.

“Well, well, bishop, you have tempted the gods, let us see what they will do.

“Gods or God, doctor?” demanded the bishop, with magnificent displeasure.

“Whichever you like, my lord; whichever you like.

The bishop was nettled and rather chilled by this pessimism. He felt that it was his duty as a Churchman to administer a rebuke; but Dr Graham’s pagan views were well known, and a correction, however dexterously administered, would only lead to an argument. A controversy with Graham was no joke, as he was as subtle as Socrates in discovering and attacking his adversary’s weak points; so, not judging the present a fitting occasion to risk a fall, the bishop smoothed away an incipient frown, and blandly smiling, moved on, followed by his chaplain. Graham looked grimly after this modern Cardinal Wolsey.

“I have never,” soliloquised the sceptic, “I have never known a man without his skeleton. I wonder if you have one, my lord. You look cheerful, you seem thoroughly happy; but you are too fortunate. If you have not a skeleton now, I feel convinced you will have to build a cupboard for one shortly. You thank blind fortune under the alias of God? Well! well! we shall see the result of your thanks. Wolsey! Napoleon! Bismarck! they all fell when most prosperous. Hum! hum! hum!

Dr Graham had no reason to make this speech, beyond his belief—founded upon experience—that calms are always succeeded by storms. At present the bishop stood under a serene sky; and in no quarter could Graham descry the gathering of the tempest he prophesied. But for all that he had a premonition that evil days were at hand; and, sceptic as he was, he could not shake off the uneasy feeling. His mother had been a Highland woman, and the Celt is said to be gifted with second sight. Perhaps Graham inherited the maternal gift of forecasting the future, for he glanced ominously at the stately form of his host, and shook his head. He thought the bishop was too confident of continuous sunshine.

In the meantime, Dr Pendle, quite free from such forebodings, unfortunately came within speaking distance of Mrs Pansey, who, in her bell of St Paul’s voice, was talking to a group of meek listeners. Daisy Norsham had long ago seized upon Gabriel Pendle, and was chatting with him on the edge of the circle, quite heedless of her chaperon’s monologue. When Mrs Pansey saw the bishop she swooped down on him before he could get out of the way, which he would have done had courtesy permitted it. Mrs Pansey was the one person Dr Pendle dreaded, and if the late archdeacon had been alive he would have encouraged the missionary project with all his heart. “To every man his own fear.

Mrs Pansey was the bishop’s.

“Bishop!” cried the lady, in her most impressive archidiaconal manner, “about that public-house, The Derby Winner, it must be removed.

Cargrim, who was deferentially smiling at his lordship’s elbow, cast a swift glance at Gabriel when he heard Mrs Pansey’s remark. He had a belief—founded upon spying—that Gabriel knew too much about the public-house mentioned, which was in his district; and this belief was strengthened when he saw the young man start at the sound of the name. Instinctively he kept his eyes on Gabriel’s face, which looked disturbed and anxious; too much so for social requirements.

“It must be removed,” repeated the bishop, gently; “and why, Mrs Pansey?

“Why, bishop? You ask why? Because it is a hot-bed of vice and betting and gambling; that’s why!

“But I really cannot see—I have not the power— “It’s near the cathedral, too,” interrupted Mrs Pansey, whose manners left much to be desired. “Scandalous!

“When God erects a house of prayer, The devil builds a chapel there.

“Isn’t it your duty to eradicate plague-spots, bishop?

Before Dr Pendle could answer this rude question, a servant approached and spoke in a whisper to his master. The bishop looked surprised.

“A man to see me at this hour—at this time,” said he, repeating the message aloud. “Who is he? What is his name?

“I don’t know, your lordship. He refused to give his name, but he insists upon seeing your lordship at once.

“I can’t see him!” said the bishop, sharply; “let him call to-morrow.

“My lord, he says it is a matter of life and death.

Dr Pendle frowned. “Most unbecoming language!” he murmured. “Perhaps it may be as well to humour him. Where is he?

“In the entrance hall, your lordship!

“Take him into the library and say I will see him shortly. Most unusual,” said the bishop to himself. Then added aloud, “Mrs Pansey, I am called away for a moment; pray excuse me.

“We must talk about The Derby Winner later on,” said Mrs Pansey, determinedly.

“Oh, yes!—that is—really—I’ll see.

“Shall I accompany your lordship?” murmured Cargrim, officiously.

“No, Mr Cargrim, it is not necessary. I must see this man as he speaks so strongly, but I daresay he is only some pertinacious person who thinks that a bishop should be at the complete disposal of the public—the exacting public!

With this somewhat petulant speech Dr Pendle walked away, not sorry to find an opportunity of slipping out of a noisy argument with Mrs Pansey. That lady’s parting words were that she should expect him back in ten minutes to settle the question of The Derby Winner; or rather to hear how she intended to settle it. Cargrim, pleased at being left behind, since it gave him a chance of watching Gabriel, urged Mrs Pansey to further discussion of the question, and had the satisfaction of seeing that such discussion visibly disconcerted the curate.

And Dr Pendle? In all innocence he left the reception-rooms to speak with his untoward visitor in the library; but although he knew it not, he was entering upon a dark and tortuous path, the end of which he was not destined to see for many a long day. Dr Graham’s premonition was likely to prove true, for in the serene sky under which the bishop had moved for so long, a tempest was gathering fast. He should have taken the doctor’s advice and have sacrificed his ring like Polycrates, but, as in the case of that old pagan, the gods might have tossed back the gift and pursued their relentless aims. The bishop had no thoughts like these. As yet he had no skeleton, but the man in the library was about to open a cupboard and let out its grisly tenant to haunt prosperous Bishop Pendle. To him, as to all men, evil had come at the appointed hour.
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In this way the original translator can benefit from the explanation.
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Thank you.
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THE BISHOP’S SECRET by Fergus Hume.
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CHAPTER 2, THE BISHOP IS WANTED.
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The laity also formed a strong force.
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Such white shoulders!
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such pretty faces!
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such Parisian toilettes!
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He was like an ecclesiastical Jacob—blessed above all men.
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“On everything.
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“No doubt!
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No doubt!
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But remember Polycrates, bishop, and throw your ring into the sea.
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“Hum!
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Hum!” muttered Graham, shaking his head.
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“I am no believer in such superstitions, doctor.
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“Whichever you like, my lord; whichever you like.
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The bishop was nettled and rather chilled by this pessimism.
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Graham looked grimly after this modern Cardinal Wolsey.
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I wonder if you have one, my lord.
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You look cheerful, you seem thoroughly happy; but you are too fortunate.
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You thank blind fortune under the alias of God?
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Well!
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well!
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we shall see the result of your thanks.
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Wolsey!
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Napoleon!
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Bismarck!
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they all fell when most prosperous.
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Hum!
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hum!
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hum!
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He thought the bishop was too confident of continuous sunshine.
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“To every man his own fear.
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Mrs Pansey was the bishop’s.
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“Why, bishop?
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You ask why?
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Because it is a hot-bed of vice and betting and gambling; that’s why!
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“Scandalous!
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“When God erects a house of prayer, The devil builds a chapel there.
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“Isn’t it your duty to eradicate plague-spots, bishop?
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The bishop looked surprised.
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“Who is he?
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What is his name?
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“I don’t know, your lordship.
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“My lord, he says it is a matter of life and death.
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Dr Pendle frowned.
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“Most unbecoming language!” he murmured.
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“Perhaps it may be as well to humour him.
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Where is he?
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“In the entrance hall, your lordship!
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“Take him into the library and say I will see him shortly.
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Most unusual,” said the bishop to himself.
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“Oh, yes!—that is—really—I’ll see.
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“Shall I accompany your lordship?” murmured Cargrim, officiously.
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“No, Mr Cargrim, it is not necessary.
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And Dr Pendle?
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The bishop had no thoughts like these.
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To him, as to all men, evil had come at the appointed hour.
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At first I want to thank France very much, who allowed gracefully to use her files stored!
Second I want to share some useful guidelines by Commeunetexane (I've been allowed to):
- Fellow translators, our mutual goal in collaborative translation is to improve our language skills and to learn from one another. To promote such an environment, please refrain from correcting translations that are already written correctly in English. Where there is an error of either translation, grammar, or punctuation, it is helpful to use the "suggestion" feature to correct it, and when necessary, leave a short comment. In this way the original translator can benefit from the explanation. Replacing words with synonyms or sentences with similar ones is discouraged; this suggests to the translator that his writing is incorrect and can hinder learning. However, at times there may be stylistic changes needed to fit the time period of the piece, to make the story flow better, or to capture an “accent”. In such instances please use the “comments" feature to explain the proposed changes and allow the original translator the opportunity to make the changes himself or herself.
Thank you.

THE BISHOP’S SECRET by Fergus Hume.

CHAPTER 2, THE BISHOP IS WANTED.

The episcopalian residence, situate some distance from the city, was a mediæval building, enshrined in the remnant of a royal chase, and in its perfect quiet and loneliness resembled the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. Its composite architecture was of many centuries and many styles, for bishop after bishop had pulled down portions and added others, had levelled a tower here and erected a wing there, until the result was a jumble of divers designs, incongruous but picturesque. Time had mellowed the various parts into one rich coloured whole of perfect beauty, and elevated on a green rise, surrounded by broad stone terraces, with towers and oriels and turrets and machicolated battlements; clothed with ivy, buried amid ancient trees, it looked like the realisation of a poet’s dream. Only long ages and many changing epochs; only home-loving prelates, ample monies, and architects of genius, could have created so beautiful and unique a fabric. It was the admiration of transatlantic tourists with a twang; the desire of millionaires. Aladdin’s industrious genii would have failed to build such a masterpiece, unless their masters had arranged to inhabit it five centuries or so after construction. Time had created it, as Time would destroy it, but at present it was in perfect preservation, and figured in steel-plate engravings as one of the stately homes of England. No wonder the mitre of Beorminster was a coveted prize, when its gainer could dwell in so noble and matchless a mansion.

As the present prelate was an up-to-date bishop, abreast of his time and fond of his creature comforts, the interior of the palace was modernised completely in accordance with the luxurious demands of nineteenth century civilisation. The stately reception-rooms—thrown open on this night to what the Beorminster Weekly Chronicle, strong in foreign tongues, tautologically called “the élite and crême de la crême of the diocese”—were brilliantly illuminated by electric lamps and furnished magnificently throughout, in keeping with their palatial appearance. The ceilings were painted in the Italian style, with decently-clothed Olympian deities; the floors were of parquetry, polished so highly, and reflecting so truthfully, that the guests seemed to be walking, in some magical way, upon still water. Noble windows, extending from floor to roof, were draped with purple curtains, and stood open to the quiet moonlit world without; between these, tall mirrors flashed back gems and colours, moving figures and floods of amber radiance, and enhanced by reduplicated reflections the size of the rooms. Amid all this splendour of warmth and tints and light moved the numerous guests of the bishop. Almost every invitation had been accepted, for the receptions at the palace were on a large and liberal scale, particularly as regards eating and drinking. Dr Pendle, in addition to his official salary, possessed a handsome income, and spent it in the lavish style of a Cardinal Wolsey. He was wise enough to know how the outward and visible signs of prosperity and dignity affect the popular imagination, and frequently invited the clergy and laity to feast at the table of Mother Church, to show that she could dispense loaves and fishes with the best, and vie with Court and Society in the splendour and hospitality of her entertainments. As he approved of an imposing ritual at the cathedral, so he affected a magnificent way of living at the palace. Mrs Pansey and many others declared that Dr Pendle’s aims in that direction were Romish. Perhaps they were, but he could scarcely have followed a better example, since the Church of Peter owes much of its power to a judicious employment of riches and ritual, and a dexterous gratification of the lust of the eye. The Anglican Church is more dignified now than she was in the days of the Georges, and very rightly, too, since God’s ministers should not be the poorest or meanest of men.

Naturally, as the host was clerical and the building ecclesiastical, the clergy predominated at this entertainment. The bishop and the dean were the only prelates of their rank present, but there were archdeacons, and canons and rectors, and a plentiful supply of curates, all, in their own opinion, bishops in embryo. The shape and expression of the many faces were various—ascetic, worldly, pale, red, round, thin, fat, oval; each one revealed the character of its owner. Some lean, bent forms were those of men filled with the fire of religion for its own sake; others, stout, jolly gentlemen in comfortable livings, loved the loaves and fishes of the Church as much as her precepts. The descendants of Friar Tuck and the Vicar of Bray were here, as well as those who would have been Wycliffes and Latimers had the fires of Smithfield still been alight. Obsequious curates bowed down to pompous prebendaries; bluff rectors chatted on cordial terms with suave archdeacons; and in the fold of the Church there were no black sheep on this great occasion. The shepherds and pastors of the Beorminster flock were polite, entertaining, amusing, and not too masterful, so that the general air was quite arcadian.

The laity also formed a strong force. There were lords magnificently condescending to commoners; M.P.s who talked politics, and M.P.s who had had enough of that sort of thing at St Stephen’s and didn’t; hearty squires from adjacent county seats; prim bankers, with whom the said squires were anxious to be on good terms, since they were the priests of Mammon; officers from near garrison towns, ‘ga y and lighthearted, who devoted themselves to the fairer portion of the company; and a sprinkling of barristers, literary men, hardy explorers, and such like minnows among Tritons. Last, but not least, the Mayor of Beorminster was present and posed as a modern Whittington—half commercial wealth, half municipal dignity. If some envious Anarchist had exploded a dynamite bomb in the vicinity of the palace on that night, the greatest, the most intellectual, the richest people of the county would have come to an untimely end, and then the realm of England, like the people themselves, would have gone to pieces. The Beorminster Chronicle reporter—also present with a flimsy book and a restless little pencil—worked up this idea on the spot into a glowing paragraph.

Very ungallantly the ladies have been left to the last; but now the last shall be first, although it is difficult to do the subject justice. The matrons of surrounding parishes, the ladies of Beorminster society, the damsels of town and country, were all present in their best attire, chattering and smiling, and becking and bowing, after the observant and diplomatic ways of their sex. Such white shoulders! such pretty faces! such Parisian toilettes! such dresses of obviously home manufacture never were seen in one company. The married ladies whispered scandal behind their fans, and in a Christian spirit shot out the lip of scorn at their social enemies; the young maidens sought for marriageable men, and lurked in darkish corners for the better ensnaring of impressionable males. Cupid unseen mingled in the throng and shot his arrows right and left, not always with the best result, as many post-nuptial experiences showed. There was talk of the gentle art of needlework, of the latest bazaar and the agreeable address delivered thereat by Mr Cargrim; the epicene pastime of lawn tennis was touched upon; and ardent young persons discussed how near they could go to Giant Pope’s cave without getting into the clutches of its occupant. The young men talked golfing, parish work, horses, church, male millinery, polo and shooting; the young ladies chatted about Paris fashions and provincial adaptations thereof, the London season, the latest engagement, and the necessity of reviving the flirtatious game of croquet. Black coats, coloured dresses, flashing jewels, many-hued flowers,—the restless crowd resembled a bed of gaudy tulips tossed by the wind. And all this chattering, laughing, clattering, glittering mass of well-bred, well-groomed humanity moved, and swayed, and gyrated under the white glare of the electric lamps. Urbs in Rus; Belgravia in the Provinces; Vanity Fair amid the cornfields; no wonder this entertainment of Bishop and Mrs Pendle was the event of the Beorminster year.

Like an agreeable Jupiter amid adoring mortals, the bishop, with his chaplain in attendance, moved through the rooms, bestowing a word here, a smile there, and a hearty welcome on all. A fine-looking man was the Bishop of Beorminster; as stately in appearance as any prelate drawn by Du Maurier. He was over six feet, and carried himself in a soldierly fashion, as became a leader of the Church Militant. His legs were all that could be desired to fill out episcopalian gaiters; and his bland, clean-shaven face beamed with smiles and benignity. But Bishop Pendle was not the mere figure-head Mrs Pansey’s malice declared him to be; he had great administrative powers, great organising capabilities, and controlled his diocese in a way which did equal credit to his heart and head. As he chatted with his guests and did the honours of the palace, he seemed to be the happiest of men, and well worthy of his exalted post. With a splendid position, a charming wife, a fine family, an obedient flock of clergy and laity, the bishop’s lines were cast in pleasant places. There was not even the proverbial crumpled rose-leaf to render uncomfortable the bed he had made for himself. He was like an ecclesiastical Jacob—blessed above all men.

“Well, bishop!” said Dr Graham, a meagre sceptic, who did not believe in the endurance of human felicity, “I congratulate you.

“On my daughter’s engagement?” asked the prelate, smiling pleasantly.

“On everything. Your position, your family, your health, your easy conscience; all is too smooth, too well with you. It can’t last, your lordship, it can’t last,” and the doctor shook his bald head, as no doubt Solon did at Crœsus when he snubbed that too fortunate monarch.

“I am indeed blessed in the condition of life to which God has been pleased to call me.

“No doubt! No doubt! But remember Polycrates, bishop, and throw your ring into the sea.

“My dear Dr Graham,” said the bishop, rather stiffly, “I do not believe in such paganism. God has blessed me beyond my deserts, no doubt, and I thank Him in all reverence for His kindly care.

“Hum! Hum!” muttered Graham, shaking his head. “When men thank fortune for her gifts she usually turns her back on them.

“I am no believer in such superstitions, doctor.

“Well, well, bishop, you have tempted the gods, let us see what they will do.

“Gods or God, doctor?” demanded the bishop, with magnificent displeasure.

“Whichever you like, my lord; whichever you like.

The bishop was nettled and rather chilled by this pessimism. He felt that it was his duty as a Churchman to administer a rebuke; but Dr Graham’s pagan views were well known, and a correction, however dexterously administered, would only lead to an argument. A controversy with Graham was no joke, as he was as subtle as Socrates in discovering and attacking his adversary’s weak points; so, not judging the present a fitting occasion to risk a fall, the bishop smoothed away an incipient frown, and blandly smiling, moved on, followed by his chaplain. Graham looked grimly after this modern Cardinal Wolsey.

“I have never,” soliloquised the sceptic, “I have never known a man without his skeleton. I wonder if you have one, my lord. You look cheerful, you seem thoroughly happy; but you are too fortunate. If you have not a skeleton now, I feel convinced you will have to build a cupboard for one shortly. You thank blind fortune under the alias of God? Well! well! we shall see the result of your thanks. Wolsey! Napoleon! Bismarck! they all fell when most prosperous. Hum! hum! hum!

Dr Graham had no reason to make this speech, beyond his belief—founded upon experience—that calms are always succeeded by storms. At present the bishop stood under a serene sky; and in no quarter could Graham descry the gathering of the tempest he prophesied. But for all that he had a premonition that evil days were at hand; and, sceptic as he was, he could not shake off the uneasy feeling. His mother had been a Highland woman, and the Celt is said to be gifted with second sight. Perhaps Graham inherited the maternal gift of forecasting the future, for he glanced ominously at the stately form of his host, and shook his head. He thought the bishop was too confident of continuous sunshine.

In the meantime, Dr Pendle, quite free from such forebodings, unfortunately came within speaking distance of Mrs Pansey, who, in her bell of St Paul’s voice, was talking to a group of meek listeners. Daisy Norsham had long ago seized upon Gabriel Pendle, and was chatting with him on the edge of the circle, quite heedless of her chaperon’s monologue. When Mrs Pansey saw the bishop she swooped down on him before he could get out of the way, which he would have done had courtesy permitted it. Mrs Pansey was the one person Dr Pendle dreaded, and if the late archdeacon had been alive he would have encouraged the missionary project with all his heart. “To every man his own fear.

Mrs Pansey was the bishop’s.

“Bishop!” cried the lady, in her most impressive archidiaconal manner, “about that public-house, The Derby Winner, it must be removed.

Cargrim, who was deferentially smiling at his lordship’s elbow, cast a swift glance at Gabriel when he heard Mrs Pansey’s remark. He had a belief—founded upon spying—that Gabriel knew too much about the public-house mentioned, which was in his district; and this belief was strengthened when he saw the young man start at the sound of the name. Instinctively he kept his eyes on Gabriel’s face, which looked disturbed and anxious; too much so for social requirements.

“It must be removed,” repeated the bishop, gently; “and why, Mrs Pansey?

“Why, bishop? You ask why? Because it is a hot-bed of vice and betting and gambling; that’s why!

“But I really cannot see—I have not the power—

“It’s near the cathedral, too,” interrupted Mrs Pansey, whose manners left much to be desired. “Scandalous!

“When God erects a house of prayer, The devil builds a chapel there.

“Isn’t it your duty to eradicate plague-spots, bishop?

Before Dr Pendle could answer this rude question, a servant approached and spoke in a whisper to his master. The bishop looked surprised.

“A man to see me at this hour—at this time,” said he, repeating the message aloud. “Who is he? What is his name?

“I don’t know, your lordship. He refused to give his name, but he insists upon seeing your lordship at once.

“I can’t see him!” said the bishop, sharply; “let him call to-morrow.

“My lord, he says it is a matter of life and death.

Dr Pendle frowned. “Most unbecoming language!” he murmured. “Perhaps it may be as well to humour him. Where is he?

“In the entrance hall, your lordship!

“Take him into the library and say I will see him shortly. Most unusual,” said the bishop to himself. Then added aloud, “Mrs Pansey, I am called away for a moment; pray excuse me.

“We must talk about The Derby Winner later on,” said Mrs Pansey, determinedly.

“Oh, yes!—that is—really—I’ll see.

“Shall I accompany your lordship?” murmured Cargrim, officiously.

“No, Mr Cargrim, it is not necessary. I must see this man as he speaks so strongly, but I daresay he is only some pertinacious person who thinks that a bishop should be at the complete disposal of the public—the exacting public!

With this somewhat petulant speech Dr Pendle walked away, not sorry to find an opportunity of slipping out of a noisy argument with Mrs Pansey. That lady’s parting words were that she should expect him back in ten minutes to settle the question of The Derby Winner; or rather to hear how she intended to settle it. Cargrim, pleased at being left behind, since it gave him a chance of watching Gabriel, urged Mrs Pansey to further discussion of the question, and had the satisfaction of seeing that such discussion visibly disconcerted the curate.

And Dr Pendle? In all innocence he left the reception-rooms to speak with his untoward visitor in the library; but although he knew it not, he was entering upon a dark and tortuous path, the end of which he was not destined to see for many a long day. Dr Graham’s premonition was likely to prove true, for in the serene sky under which the bishop had moved for so long, a tempest was gathering fast. He should have taken the doctor’s advice and have sacrificed his ring like Polycrates, but, as in the case of that old pagan, the gods might have tossed back the gift and pursued their relentless aims. The bishop had no thoughts like these. As yet he had no skeleton, but the man in the library was about to open a cupboard and let out its grisly tenant to haunt prosperous Bishop Pendle. To him, as to all men, evil had come at the appointed hour.