The Bishops Secret | Page 4

turn men into so many Satans
walking to and fro upon the earth. Oh, the immorality of these latter
days! No wonder the end of all things is predicted.'
Miss Norsham paid little attention to the latter portion of this diatribe.
As Sir Harry Brace was out of the matrimonial market it conveyed no
information likely to be of use to her in the coming campaign. She
wished to be informed as to the number and the names of eligible men,
and forewarned with regard to possible rivals.
'And who is really and truly the most beautiful girl in Beorminster?' she

asked abruptly.
'Mab Arden,' replied Mrs Pansey, promptly. 'There, now,' with an
emphatic blow of her fan, 'she is pretty, if you like, though I daresay
there is more art than nature about her.'
'Who is Mab Arden, dear Mrs Pansey?'
'She is Miss Whichello's niece, that's who she is.'
'Whichello? Oh, good gracious me! what a very, very funny name. Is
Miss Whichello a foreigner?'
'Foreigner? Bah!' cried Mrs Pansey, like a stentorian ram, 'she belongs
to a good old English family, and, in my opinion, she disgraces them
thoroughly. A meddlesome old maid, who wants to foist her niece on to
George Pendle; and she's likely to succeed, too,' added the lady,
rubbing her nose with a vexed air, 'for the young ass is in love with
Mab, although she is three years older than he is. Mr Cargrim also likes
the girl, though I daresay it is money with him.'
'Really! Mr Cargrim?'
'Yes, he is the bishop's chaplain; a Jesuit in disguise I call him, with his
moping and mowing and sneaky ways. Butter wouldn't melt in his
mouth; oh, dear no! I gave my opinion about him pretty plainly to Dr
Graham, I can tell you, and Graham's the only man with brains in this
city of fools.'
'Is Dr Graham young?' asked Miss Norsham, in the faint hope that Mrs
Pansey's list of inhabitants might include a wealthy bachelor.
'Young? He's sixty, if you call that young, and in his second childhood.
An Atheist, too. Tom Payn, Colonel Ingersoll, Viscount
Amberly--those are his gods, the pagan! I'd burn him on a tar-barrel if I
had my way. It's a pity we don't stick to some customs of our
ancestors.'

'Oh, dear me, are there no young men at all?'
'Plenty, and all idiots. Brainless officers, whose wives would have to
ride on a baggage-waggon; silly young squires, whose ideal of
womanhood is a brazen barmaid; and simpering curates, put into the
Church as the fools of their respective families. I don't know what men
are coming to,' groaned Mrs Pansey. 'The late archdeacon was clever
and pious; he honoured and obeyed me as the marriage service says a
man should do. I was the light of the dear man's eyes.'
Had Mrs Pansey stated that she had been the terror of the late
archdeacon's life she would have been vastly nearer the truth, but such
a remark never occurred to her. Although she had bullied and badgered
the wretched little man until he had seized the first opportunity of
finding in the grave the peace denied him in life, she really and truly
believed that she had been a model wife. The egotism of first person
singular was so firmly ingrained in the woman that she could not
conceive what a scourge she was to mankind in general; what a trial she
had been to her poor departed husband in particular. If the late
Archdeacon Pansey had not died he would doubtless have become a
missionary to some cannibal tribe in the South Seas in the hope that his
tough helpmate would be converted into 'long-pig.' But, unluckily for
Beorminster, he was dead and his relict was a mourning widow, who
constantly referred to her victim as a perfect husband. And yet Mrs
Pansey considered that Anthony Trollope's celebrated Mrs Proudie was
an overdrawn character.
As to Miss Norsham, she was in the depths of despair, for, if Mrs
Pansey was to be believed, there was no eligible husband for her in
Beorminster. It was with a heavy heart that the spinster entered the
palace, and it was with the courage born of desperation that she perked
up and smiled on the gay crowd she found within.
CHAPTER II
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