The Bishops Secret | Page 6

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, gay 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 Croesus 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