The Bishop's Secret. Hume Fergus

Pansey swept by in triumph, followed by Cargrim, she looked daggers at them both, and bounced into the bar, where she drew beer for thirsty customers in a flaming temper. She dearly desired a duel of words with the formidable visitor.

      Mosk was a lean, tall man with a pimpled face and a military moustache. He knew Mrs Pansey, and, like most other people, detested her with all his heart; but she was, as he thought, a great friend of Sir Harry Brace, who was his landlord, so for diplomatic reasons he greeted her with all deference, hat in hand.

      'I have come with Mr Cargrim to see your wife, Mr Mosk,' said the visitor.

      'Thank you, ma'am, I'm sure it's very kind of you,' replied Mosk, who had a husky voice suggestive of beer. 'She'll be honoured to see you, I'm sure. This way, ma'am.'

      'Is she very ill?' demanded the chaplain, as they followed Mosk to the back of the hotel and up a narrow staircase.

      'She ain't well, sir, but I can't say as she's dying. We do all we can to make her easy.'

      'Ho!' from Mrs Pansey. 'I hope your daughter acts towards her mother like as a daughter should.'

      'I'd like to see the person as says she don't,' cried Mr Mosk, with sudden anger. 'I'd knock his head off. Bell's a good girl; none better.'

      'Let us hope your trust in her is justified,' sighed the mischief-maker, and passed into the sickroom, leaving Mosk with an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. If the man had a tender spot in his heart it was for his handsome daughter; and it was with a vague fear that, after presenting his wife to her visitors, he went downstairs to the bar. Mrs Pansey had a genius for making mischief by a timely word.

      'Bell,' said he, gruffly, 'what's that old cat hinting at?'

      'What about?' asked Bell, tossing her head till all her ornaments jingled, and wiping the counter furiously.

      'About you! She don't think I should trust you.'

      'What right has she to talk about me, I'd like to know!' cried Bell, getting as red as a peony. 'I've never done anything that anyone can say a word against me.'

      'Who said you had?' snapped her father; 'but that old cat hints.'

      'Let her keep her hints to herself, then. Because I'm young and good-looking she wants to take my character away. Nasty old puss that she is!'

      'That's just it, my gal. You're too young and good-looking to escape folks' talking; and I hear that young Mr Pendle comes round when I'm away.'

      'Who says he doesn't, father? It's to see mother; he's a parson, ain't he?'

      'Yes! and he's gentry too. I won't have him paying attention to you.'

      'You'd better wait till he does,' flashed out Bell. 'I can take care of myself, I hope.'

      'If I catch him talking other than religion to you I'll choke him in his own collar,' cried Mr Mosk, with a scowl; 'so now you know.'

      'I know as you're talking nonsense, father. Time enough for you to interfere when there's cause. Now you clear out and let me get on with my work.'

      Reassured by the girl's manner, Mosk began to think that Mrs Pansey's hints were all moonshine, and after cooling himself with a glass of beer, went away to look into his betting-book with some horsey pals. In the meantime, Mrs Pansey was persecuting his wife, a meek, nervous little woman, who was propped up with pillows in a large bed, and seemed to be quite overwhelmed by the honour of Mrs Pansey's call.

      'So you are weak in the back, are you?' said the visitor, in loud tones. 'If you are, what right have you to marry and bring feeble children into the world?'

      'Bell isn't feeble,' said Mrs Mosk, weakly. 'She's a fine set-up gal.'

      'Set-up and stuck-up,' retorted Mrs Pansey. 'I tell you what, my good woman, you ought to be downstairs looking after her.'

      'Lord! mum, there ain't nothing wrong, I do devoutly hope.'

      'Nothing as yet; but you shouldn't have young gentlemen about the place.'

      'I can't help it, mum,' said Mrs Mosk, beginning to cry. 'I'm sure we must earn our living somehow. This is an 'otel, isn't it? and Mosk's a pop'lar character, ain't he? I'm sure it's hard enough to make ends meet as it is; we owe rent for half a year and can't pay – and won't pay,' wailed Mrs Mosk, 'unless my 'usband comes 'ome on Skinflint.'

      'Comes home on Skinflint, woman, what do you mean?'

      'Skinflint's a 'orse, mum, as Mosk 'ave put his shirt on.'

      Mrs Pansey wagged her plumes and groaned. 'I'm sadly afraid your husband is a son of perdition, Mrs Mosk. Put his shirt on Skinflint, indeed!'

      'He's a good man to me, anyhow,' cried Mrs Mosk, plucking up spirit.

      'Drink and betting,' continued Mrs Pansey, pretending not to hear this feeble defiance. 'What can we expect from a man who drinks and bets?'

      'And associates with bad characters,' put in Cargrim, seizing his chance.

      'That he don't, sir,' said Mrs Mosk, with energy. 'May I beg of you to put a name to one of 'em?'

      'Jentham,' said the chaplain, softly. 'Who is Jentham, Mrs Mosk?'

      'I know no more nor a babe unborn, sir. He's bin 'ere two weeks, and I did see him twice afore my back got so bad as to force me to bed. But I don't see why you calls him bad, sir. He pays his way.'

      'Oh,' groaned Mrs Pansey, 'is it the chief end of man to pay his way?'

      'It is with us, mum,' retorted Mrs Mosk, meekly; 'there ain't no denying of it. And Mr Jentham do pay proper though he is a gipsy.'

      'He's a gipsy, is he?' said Cargrim, alertly.

      'So he says, sir; and I knows as he goes sometimes to that camp of gipsies on Southberry Heath.'

      'Where does he get his money from?'

      'Better not inquire into that, Mr Cargrim,' said Mrs Pansey, with a sniff.

      'Oh, Mr Jentham's honest, I'm sure, mum. He's bin at the gold diggin's and 'ave made a trifle of money. Indeed, I don't know where he ain't been, sir. The four pints of the compass is all plain sailing to 'im; and his 'airbreadth escapes is too h'awful. I shivers and shudders when I 'ears 'em.'

      'What is he doing here?'

      'He's on business; but I don't know what kind. Oh, he knows 'ow to 'old 'is tongue, does Jentham.'

      'He is a gipsy, he consorts with gipsies, he has money, and no one knows where he comes from,' summed up Cargrim. 'I think, Mrs Pansey, we may regard this man as a dangerous character.'

      'I shouldn't be surprised to hear he was an Anarchist,' said Mrs Pansey, who knew nothing about the man. 'Well, Mrs Mosk, I hope we've cheered you up. I'll go now. Read this tract,' bestowing a grimy little pamphlet, 'and don't see too much of Mr Pendle.'

      'But he comforts me,' said poor Mrs Mosk; 'he reads beautiful.'

      Mrs Pansey grunted. Bold as she was she did not like to speak quite plainly to the woman, as too free speech might inculpate Gabriel and bring the bishop to the rescue. Besides, Mrs Pansey had no evidence to bring forward to prove that Gabriel was in love with Bell Mosk. Therefore she said nothing, but, like the mariner's parrot, thought the more. Shaking out her dark skirts she rose to go, with another grunt full of unspoken suspicions.

      'Good-day, Mrs Mosk,' said she, pausing at the door. 'When you are low-spirited send for me to cheer you up.'

      Mrs Mosk attempted a curtsey in bed, which was a failure owing to her sitting position; but Mrs Pansey did not see the attempt, as she was already half-way down the stairs, followed by Cargrim. The chaplain had learned a trifle more about the mysterious Jentham and was quite satisfied with his visit; but he was more puzzled than ever. A tramp, a gipsy, an adventurer – what had such a creature in common with Bishop Pendle? To Mr Cargrim's eye the affair of the visit began to assume the proportions of a criminal case. But all the information he had gathered proved nothing, so it only remained to wait for the bishop's return and see what discoveries he could make in that direction. If Jentham's name was in the cheque-book the chaplain would be satisfied that there was an understanding between the pair; and