CHAPTER XVIII.By breakfast-time or a little later, Goby and Gordon and De Vere and Rivaulx knew not only what was said about Timothy Bunting, but also that every one of them had told the Duchess of Goring that he was married to Penelope. When the bishop looked in to see the marquis, he found him exceedingly difficult to manage. He wanted the duelling-swords back in order to fight every one. His especial desire now was to put cold steel through Gordon, and this led to a general evacuation of Spilsborough."I say, Mr. Gordon," said Bob, rushing in upon the financier while he was shaving, "I've just met the bishop, and he wanted to know if I knew you, and I said 'rather,' and he said would I ask you, in the interests of peace, to go back to London, because the marquis wanted to cut your throat with swords hanging in the bishop's dining-room. I say, will you go, or stay and fight?"Gordon cut himself, and then, as Bob said, "cut his stick" and went back to town shaved on one side and not on the other. As a result of this, several men in the city sold bears of everything that Gordon was interested in, and they got left most horribly, especially on Amalekites. Never afterward did they venture to think that any financier was on the borders of ruin if he came into the city partially shaved. In fact, three very shady Jews, with some wildcat stock to boom, played the trick successfully, and, through not being shaved themselves, they shaved others.But this is all by the way, and it only shows that a real financier in love or in despair is just as dangerous as at other times. Bob and the bishop talked the situation over in Spilsborough while Gordon was going to town, and the result was what might have been expected."All we know is that Penelope, poor dear Penelope is near Spilsborough," said the bishop."And that she's married," said Bob."We infer that from general grounds, our knowledge of her character," said the logical bishop. "Strictly we cannot be said to know it. It is not a primary datum of consciousness, nor is it a judgment or a purely rational conclusion, Bob.""Oh," said Bob, "well, perhaps not.""I think," said the bishop, "that I shall write to her—""Where to?""To everywhere," said the bishop, "and ask her to come and confide in me. And in the meantime, as the others have gone, and your presence here is no longer necessary, I think you should go home and console your grandmother, and apply yourself to work.""All right," said Bob; "I don't think it's interesting here any more. But are you glad I came in time to stop the duel?""I am glad," said the bishop. "But, to tell the truth, Robert, I should not have allowed a duel on Mr. Dean's ancient grass and under his immemorial elms without a remonstrance, even a physical remonstrance."Within the memory of this portly and admirable pillar of the Church to which the British Empire owes all its greatness, and to which it pays a great deal of its money, were many fierce encounters at Oxford, that haunt of ancient peace and modern progress."Would you have knocked 'em down?" asked Bob, eagerly."Certainly," said the bishop. "I would have knocked them as flat as a flounder."And Bob bade him good-bye."I think he's a ripping good bishop," said Bob. "I'll ask Mr. Gordon to help restore the cathedral."He got back to Goring to find Titania no longer suffering from fits. Fits were not equal to the situation. All her friends were writing to her to condole with her on the marriage of Penelope to Timothy Bunting. They came down in droves to condole and to get the latest intelligence, while gamekeepers and grooms were keeping journalists out of the grounds with guns and pitchforks.For the world was absolutely certain that Miss Weekes was right, and Pen'sci-devantmaid was making the salary of a star at the Empire by according interviews to those halfpenny papers which are England's glory and her hope. The editors endeavoured to interview the lovers, but they were stern and savage. They would not speak to each other and avoided strangers. But it was no secret now that they each claimed to be Lady Penelope's husband. As the acutest journalist of them all remarked, this was hardly possible. The only theory that held water (or, at least, "good" water, as the Baboo pleader remarked) was the Bunting theory. But if Bunting was the man, where was he? and why this mystery? A journalist solved it, or said he did. Bunting was a very handsome man. There was no doubt of that. But he was an uneducated man. That was quite certain. If a lady of Penelope's standing married a man of Bunting's, what would she do? The answer was easy. She would send him to Oxford to acquire the accent and the aplomb and the insolence which have rendered Oxford men the idols of the mob, and have put them into every position where tact with inferior races is asine qua non. This is what the journalist said. He ought to have known, as he had been brought up in the Yorkshire Dissenting College, and dissented from all other codes of manners, except those popular with the non-conformist conscience, which, equally with the Church of England, has made the empire what it is and what it should be.But this journalist knew his market. The eyes of the civilized world once more turned to Oxford."If it's Bunting, I'll kill him," said all the lovers who were not married to Penelope. "She has made a mistake, if it's true, and he must be got rid of."Now was the time of the Marchioness of Rigsby's glory."Did I not tell you she had married her groom?" she demanded of Titania. "Penelope was extremely rude to me. I am almost glad she has married a groom. If he is a nice groom, he may improve her manners.""She hasn't married any groom," cried Titania, furiously. "I am perfectly certain it is the Marquis of Rivaulx."She was certain of nothing. Bradstock was certain of nothing. They both asked Bob what he was certain of, and Bob replied all the lovers were in such a state of mind that it couldn't be any of them. And then at last Titania hit upon a certain truth."Whoever it is would be just as miserable as all the others," she said. "He'll be sorry now that he agreed to it, and he'll be asking her to give in, and she won't. And they'll quarrel.""You're right, Titania," cried Bradstock, slapping his thigh. "Bob, I believe the most miserable of them all is the man. Which is the most miserable?"Bob thought."Gordon cried a little.""Ha!" said the duchess."But Rivaulx cried a good deal," said Bob."Oh," said the duchess. "But which do you think it is, Robert?""I think it's Timothy Bunting," said Bob. "And I want to go to Oxford to find out if he's there. Baker says—""Do you discuss these matters with Baker?" demanded his grandmother, haughtily."He knows a great deal about the world," said Bob, "and about Bunting, you know. Baker says—""You may go to Oxford," cried Titania, "and I will go to bed and stay there. I am a most unhappy woman, and Goring does not care!"So Bob went to Oxford all by himself, and called upon an undergraduate who had just come up from Harrow, one of the schools which Bob had been requested to leave on account of pugilism. Jack Harcourt was four years Bob's senior, but could not fight so well in spite of that, and there was much more equality between them than would seem possible at first sight. But then it is almost impossible to feel very much superior to a boy who has knocked you absolutely senseless, as Bob did Harcourt. And Bob was one of those boys who make all the world equal. He was familiar with princes, and said "Baker says" to cabinet ministers. And if his uncle didn't marry, he was bound to be a duke. Dukes are very important people, somehow, and the fact that Bob never showed any side was much in his favour over and above that important fact."I say, is there a man up here called Bunting?" asked Bob.And Harcourt, after consulting a calendar, said there was."Timothy Bunting?" asked Bob, jumping as if he were shot."Thomas," said Harcourt."Oh, he'd say Thomas, I dare say," said Bob. And he told Harcourt all about it."Do you think she's married him?" asked the undergraduate."Who knows what girls will do?" said Bob. "Don't you remember the black-eyed one in the pastry-cook's at Harrow who wouldn't look at you and was in love with that beast Black?"Harcourt did remember, but changed the conversation as quickly as possible."This fellow is at All Saints," he said. "I dare say, they'd let a groom in there.""Let's go and find him," said Bob. "Poor old Bunting will be sick to see me. I'm very sorry for him if he is a presumptuous beast. It will be very awkward for the family. But we must know. The uncertainty is killing my grandmother, and Baker says it's always best to know the worst at once. Baker's the best judge of dogs and horses I know. He was a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers. Oh, I told you that!"And when they got into the High Street, they ran right into Plant, who smiled a sickly smile and said he had come up to have a look at Oxford."I say, Mr. Plant, what's the matter with your clothes?" asked Bob. "Have you fallen downstairs?"Plant murmured something unintelligible and hurried away, leaving Bob staring."That's one of 'em, Harcourt," he said to his friend. "He's a millionaire.""Then I think he might afford a hat without a dint in it," replied Harcourt.Bob shook his head."I can't make it out. He's very particular," he said. "But let's get on."Around the next corner they bumped into Gordon, who also announced that he had been struck with a wild desire to have a look at the ancient university city. Bob shook his head."I say, Mr. Gordon, you want brushing badly. Do you know you look as if you had fallen downstairs?" he asked.Gordon said, "Do I?" and bolted."I can't make this out," said Bob. "This has all the appearance of a mystery, Harcourt.""It has," said Harcourt. As they entered All Saints, they saw a man run across the grass and disappear under the far archway which led out into the Turl."That looked very much like De Vere," said Bob, "very much. Only I never saw him run except that time when the bulldog chased him. And then he ran differently. But of course it can't be De Vere."After asking two reverend-looking members of the university, who looked as if they knew all about the subjective world, and a scout with every appearance of a deep acquaintance with the objective one, they discovered Mr. Bunting's rooms."I think he's havin' some gents to lunch, though I'm not his scout, sir, and they seems to be enjoying themselves now very much," said the scout. "Mr. Bunting is readin' 'ard, so I 'ear, but he's relaxin' a little to-day. Just now I see a gentleman drop hout of 'is window, sir. And you're the third lot I've directed there. This is 'is staircase, gents, first floor. Thank you, sir, I'm sure. I'll drink your 'ealth."And here Harcourt said he thought he'd leave Bob. So Bob went up about six dark steps by himself, and then he stopped."Whoever he is, he's making a devil of a row," said Bob, pausing, "a devil of a row. I wonder if it is Bunting. I think Harcourt might have stayed. But he never did like fighting or rows."He climbed up another step or two, and heard a mighty uproar."I think they must be having a boxing party," said Bob. And then he heard a door open on the landing above him."Confound you, sir! to the devil with you, sir!" said a voice that he certainly did not recognize. Then he heard a noise which was presently explained by the fact that Carteret Williams fell down the stairs, turning a crooked corner most wonderfully in company with a very large Liddell and Scott's Dictionary of that beautiful language, Greek."Oh, is that you, Mr. Williams?" asked Bob.Williams appeared rather confused."Yes, Bob," he said, as he hugged the dictionary. "I—I think so.""Why have you fallen down-stairs?" asked Bob."That damn groom threw me down," said Williams. "At least, he threw this book at me, and I came down."[image]CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT. He wrote with a red picturesqueness which was horribly attractive"What, is it really Bunting?" roared Bob, eagerly."He says his name's Bunting," replied Williams. "But he's very difficult to handle.""Oh, Tim can box," said Bob. "But is he our Bunting?""Whichever Bunting he is, you are welcome to him," said the enraged war correspondent."I must go up and see," said Bob. "Do you think he threw Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon down, too? I met 'em just now, and they looked as if he had.""I'm sure he's capable of it," said Williams, bitterly. "Here, take this book with you. I don't want it."And Bob climbed up, hugging several pounds' weight of Greek with him. He stood at the door and listened, and heard a man inside snorting violently and slamming things about as if he was very much disturbed in his mind. Bob knocked at the door, and it was opened suddenly. The man who opened it was in deep shadow."It is—it is. No, it isn't," said Bob, quite aloud."Are you another of 'em?" asked the occupier of the rooms."Oh, it isn't," said Bob. And, choking down his disappointment, his politeness returned."Is this your Greek dictionary?" he asked, courteously. "I found it lying on Mr. Carteret Williams on the next landing, and he said he didn't want it."The man named Bunting seized the dictionary, and then took Bob by the shoulder and led him in. Bob went like a lamb, for this Mr. Bunting was six feet high, about three feet across the chest, more or less, and had a grip like clip-hooks on a bale."Was that man named Williams?" he asked."Yes," said Bob."You know him?""Why, of course," said Bob. "I know 'em all.""All I've thrown down-stairs this afternoon?""I think so," said Bob, modestly. "At least, I met Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon, who looked very much as if they had fallen down-stairs. And I think the little gentleman you dropped out of the window on the grass must have been Mr. Austin de Vere.""Oh," said Mr. Bunting, "sit down, boy, and look at me. Do I look mad?"Bob looked at him and then at the room."The room looks mad," he replied. And it certainly did."That was the last one," said Mr. Bunting. "He was very troublesome.""He's a war correspondent," said Bob. "But why is your name Bunting?""How the devil do I know?" asked the other, in reply. "Perhaps, as you seem to know them, you can explain what it all means?""I will try, sir, if you will tell me what occurred," said Bob."First of all," said the outraged member of All Saints, "the American person knocked and came in, and he said: 'Is your name Bunting?' And I said, 'Yes, confound you, for your infernal impudence, and what is yours?' And he said, 'What the devil do you mean by saying you have married her?' And I said I'd said nothing of the kind, and I said if he didn't get out in two shakes of a lamb's tail, I'd throw him out. And he was furious, and couldn't and wouldn't explain, so I did throw him out. And, as he tumbled down-stairs, he said he'd married her himself. And he went away, and I sat down to read Thucydides. He's under the sofa now somewhere. And then the Jew came, and he said: 'You mutht contradict the report of your being married to her at onth,' and that made me very cross, and I said I wouldn't, and that made him very wild, so I said I was married to her just as he said he was—""Oh," said Bob, "and are you? Oh, dear, I am so confused! Are you really, really married to Pen?""I shall drop you out of the window in a minute," said Mr. Bunting. "I said it to annoy him, and it did, and he said I was a liar. So I opened the door and took him by the neck and dropped him down-stairs, and he howled awfully. And I said to him over the bannisters, 'I am married to her, and have been married for years to her, and she loves me very much, and we are going to acknowledge it as soon as I've taken my B.A.' And he went away holding his neck, and then the little man came in. Did you say he was a poet?""A very good poet, too," said Bob. "And I sell him bulldogs.""Oh," said Mr. Bunting, blankly, "you do, do you? Why?""Because Pen thought they would do him good."Mr. Bunting shook his head."Thicksides is lucid compared with this!" he murmured. "But patience, patience, and I shall construe it yet.""And what did Mr. de Vere say?" asked Bob."The same thing. He stood there and said I must contradict it. And he said of course it was very kind of her to have me educated, but that, if I had a spark of decency, I should know that a man who had once occupied the position I had couldn't possibly marry her. And, by the way, what position had I occupied in regard to her?""A groom," said Bob. "You were supposed to have been a groom.""Dear me," said Mr. Bunting, "how interesting and remarkable. Still no light, no real light! And of course I said I had married her, and I asked him did he think I would desert the lady now? And he went scarlet. Why did he go scarlet do you think?""I know," said Bob, "it must have been on account of the baby!"Mr. Bunting smote his forehead."So it must," he said. "I never thought of that. What a fearful complication! And then he, too, said I was a liar. So I took him by the collar and led him to the window, and I opened it and dropped him out. And then the one you call Williams came, and he also was indignant, and said I was to deny it, and I wouldn't of course. And then we fought, and the furniture was much disarranged and Thicksides went under the sofa, and at last I got him outside, and finished him with Liddell and Scott. And now you know all! In your turn you can explain what it means. I beg you to do it, and then we will have some tea."And Bob explained the whole story."You might have seen it in the papers," said Bob."I don't read 'em," said Bunting, "except to turn aTimesleader into Greek. But it seems a complicated situation, doesn't it?""It is very complicated," sighed Bob, "and my grandmother is very ill about it. And now she will wonder if it's you, after all!""Dear me, so she will," said Bunting. "Have some tea."They had tea, and Bob rose to go."Will you write to theTimes, and say you haven't married her?" he asked."Certainly not," said Mr. Bunting. "Didn't I say to the others that I threw down-stairs that Ihadmarried her?""So you did," said Bob. "But of course you haven't?"Bunting smiled."Good-bye. When you come to Oxford again, come and see me. I must crawl under the sofa now.""What for?" asked Bob."For Thucydides, of course," replied Mr. Bunting.And when Bob was in the train for London, he turned very pale."Good heavens!" he said, "how do I know it isn't this Bunting, after all?"CHAPTER XIX.After this, things by no means cleared up, as they should have done considering the amount of trouble that all the world took to find out the truth. Every one said something different from some one else. Bob gave horribly imaginative accounts of his adventures at Oxford, and threw out suggestions that Pen was really married to a Bunting, if not to Timothy Bunting. But when he appealed for corroboration to Gordon, that gentleman shuffled and prevaricated dreadfully, as he did not like to acknowledge he had been thrown down-stairs. There was a very curious scene, in which Gordon and Bob had the best part of a row before Titania, who came up to town to be near Dr. Lumsden Griff, who knew all about the left or right ventricle of her heart. As his jealous confrères said he knew nothing else, perhaps he did. However, that is by the way."Tell it me again, Robert," said Titania.Bob told her again."He said he was married to her?""He said he said so to Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon, and Williams and De Vere," said Bob, gloating over the details of the row. "And he slung 'em all down-stairs. He's about six feet six high, and as broad as a billiard-table, and as strong as three Sandows, I should say.""I am much confused again," said Titania, plaintively. "I had come to the point where certain news of her marriage to a groom would have been a relief to me. Where are we now?"As she asked, Gordon was announced. Bob rushed at him."I say, Mr. Gordon, tell us how he threw you down-stairs, and what he said?""He didn't throw me down-stairs," said Gordon, quite crossly. "I threw myself down—I mean I slipped.""Tell us how you slipped, then, and why," said Bob.But Gordon wouldn't."Oh, I say!" said Bob.Titania begged Gordon to tell her."But then he told me he had married Pen," she said to herself. "What is the use of asking any one anything?""How did you find him?" asked Bob."I looked him up," said Gordon."Why did you look him up?""Because I wanted to find him out," returned Gordon, sulkily. "But I didn't come to be cross-examined by you, Bob."In spite of the large sums of money which Gordon owed Bob, Bob was on the point of an explosion. But trouble was averted by Plant's entrance. Before he could say a word, a telegram was brought to Titania, and she read it at once and uttered dismal groans."What is it?" chorused the two men and Bob."It's from Penelope.""Please read it out."Bob read it for his grandmother."Am exceedingly displeased with latest reports and news. Contradict at once. Am not married to Bunting, who is much upset by report, and can hardly look me in the face. PENELOPE.""Bunting is with her!" said Titania."Which Bunting?" asked Bob. "He—I mean the one at Oxford—told Mr. Gordon and Mr. de Vere that he was married to her."Gordon groaned, and, seizing his hat, fled from the room. He came back again."Where does the wire come from?""From Spilsborough," said Bob. "Granny, I wonder if the bishop is in it."Gordon groaned and went. And went a little too early, for another wire came. It was a very long one.Titania looked at the signature first, and she sat up."It's from Penelope's husband," she cried."Who is he really?" shrieked Bob."It's signed Penelope's husband, I mean," said Titania, "and he seems very unhappy."The telegram read:"Am in great distress. Penelope is furious because told you confidence that was married to her. She has heard this, and has learnt that others, lying scoundrels, said they were, too. She says their noble conduct saved her, and will not speak at present, though holding out hopes of reconciliation later to her and infant, which is doing well, if I say nothing and do not fight with others, but do my duty, which I find hard under peculiar circumstances. Hence am precluded from confirming what I told you, and can only communicate anonymously, as Penelope threatens to have divorce or equivalent, being headstrong, as you are aware, and I am in distress about it. Wire reply."PENELOPE'S HUSBAND.""He's mad," said Titania. "How can I wire reply to a man I know nothing of?"She turned to Plant."You told me in confidence, Mr. Plant. Did you send this?"Plant turned all the colours of the rainbow."Yes," he said, desperately, and he bolted from the room and the house and disappeared, while Bob gasped, and Titania nodded her head in a most awe-inspiring manner."Get some telegraph forms," she said. And when Bob brought them, she dictated telegrams to all the horde in the diplomatic form of identic notes."Have received sad telegram signed Penelope's husband. Recognize under painful circumstances he cannot reveal himself. Am much composed and have given up hope. It appears it cannot be Bunting, though Bunting is with her. Contradict this; also the rumour that it is the Rajah of Jugpore."TITANIA GORING.""Send them," she said, "and let me rest. I presume that the right one will get it. The only trouble is that six of the wrong ones will, too.""Goby will go insane," said Bob. "I know he will. I can't see how this will end without murder."And Titania laughed dreadfully. She laughed so queerly that Doctor Griff was sent for, and refused to allow her to see De Vere and Goby and Bramber and Gordon and Plant and Williams and Carew. The last turned up first in a hansom cab, with a large palette knife in his hand. He had forgotten to put it down. As hansom after hansom came up and discharged one furious lover after another at the steps of Titania's town house, it looked as if Bob's foreseen murder would occur there and then. It is possible that nothing but the timely arrival of Bradstock saved London from the desirable news of a murder in high life and Belgrave Square. He got hold of the men one by one, and sent them away. As they went, a telegraph boy came to the house with another telegram addressed to Titania."I shall open this, Bob," said Bradstock. It was another from Pen."Have just learnt that you and others have been trying to discover my whereabouts. If I am pursued, I shall leave and go elsewhere. This is final.PENELOPE.""From Spilsborough, Bob," said Bradstock."She's heard that I and Goby and Rivaulx and the others were there," said Bob. "Do you think the bishop knows where she is?""I wouldn't trust a bishop," said Bradstock. "I daresay he does. It is said that bishops steal Elzevirs and umbrellas, Bob. I think I shall go to Spilsborough myself. Have you seen the evening papers, Bob?"Bob had seen none of them."Some say now that she is married to Jugpore, and others say it is a morganatic marriage to the mediatized Prince of Bodenstrau.""Oh, I say, Pen will be mad," cried Bob. "Isn't he a real bad un?""The very worst," said Bradstock."And are you really going to Spilsborough, Lord Bradstock?""I really think so," said Bradstock. "I begin to think I must do something."He stood pondering."May I come with you?"Bradstock declined the honour."If I don't succeed, you may go again if you like," he said. And that very afternoon he went to Liverpool Street and took the train for Spilsborough to call on the bishop."My dear Bradstock, I am delighted to see you," said his lordship. "I presume you, too, have come here about Penelope?""I have," said Bradstock, "every one does.""Did young Bob tell you all about the peculiar occurrences which took place here only lately? They were quite remarkable."Bradstock agreed that they were remarkable."A duel on the dean's grass, now! Who would have thought of that but a Frenchman? Have you seen the marquis lately, and that very agreeable financier, the American? I was much grieved not to be able to ask him to dinner, owing to his sudden departure. He showed considerable skill in grasping the essentials of the situation, for, when the marquis, who was literally foaming at the mouth, offered him the choice of swords in a violent but perfectly gentlemanly way, he chose both of them, and put them under his arm. It is not every one who could have displayed such readiness in preventing violence. One would not have expected it in an American, for I understand disorder and disturbances leading to bloodshed are quite common even in Washington.""I have frequently seen most bloodthirsty duels behind the Capitol during the sessions of Congress," said Bradstock, gravely."Ah, so I understand," replied the bishop. "But is there no news of dear Penelope?""Come, bishop, let us be frank," said Bradstock. "Have you no idea whom she has married?"The gentle bishop looked much surprised."I? My dear Bradstock, I haven't the least idea. But I gather that both the gentlemen I interrupted the other day claim to be her husband, to say nothing of many others whom I have not yet set eyes on.""And you have no notion where she is?"The bishop lifted his hands."I think she must be near this place," he said. "I consider there can be no doubt of that, owing to matters with which Bob made me acquainted. By the way, I think this young Bob a very remarkable boy, Bradstock.""So do I, bishop," said Bradstock."A very remarkable boy. The dean, who saw very little of him, came to that conclusion. He said he would be an ornament to the House of Lords, or the biggest young rip that ever disgraced it.""Your dean must be a clever man," said Bradstock."Do not call him my dean," replied the bishop. "He is the cathedral's dean, and very difficult to handle. However, he is said to be clever, and I dare say is clever, especially about grass and a choir and things material. But, as I was going on to say, I consider it quite easy to find out where Penelope is, provided we go about it skilfully. I cannot but remember that I christened her, and I still take an interest in her.""How do you propose to discover her whereabouts?" asked Bradstock."She sends telegrams from our Spilsborough post-office, does she not?""Yes," said Bradstock."Then some one should watch the post-office for her messenger. It seems probable that you would know him, as she is not likely to confide in strangers. Who can say that the very man she has married does not send them?"That was easily disposed of, for, to Bradstock's certain knowledge, all the lovers were in town when the last wires came."Well, I suggest you watch the post-office," said the bishop. "It is, I opine, a perfectly legitimate thing to do."Bradstock objected that she mightn't send any more for weeks.A brilliant idea struck the bishop."Send her one which requires an answer, Bradstock.""Where to?" asked Bradstock."Tut, tut!" said the bishop, "how foolish of me. Stay, I have it. Put something in theTimeswhich requires an answer.""I will," said Bradstock."And send for young Bob to watch," said the bishop. "It is time that this scandal was stopped. I am exceedingly grieved with Penelope for getting married in a registrar's office. I will offer to marry her all over again in this very cathedral. And now you shall come and have lunch, and I will show you the swords given me by the marquis."After lunch and an inspection of the trophies in the dining-room, Bradstock and the bishop drafted an advertisement for theTimes, imploring Pen to telegraph to Bradstock, saying how she was, as there was a rumour afloat that she didn't feel well. This was sent by wire to town, and was accompanied in its flight by one to Bob, asking him to come up in a motor-car at once."I think," said the bishop, "that I should like to go in a motor-car. There must be something delightful in speeding through the country feeling that steel and petrol do not suffer any of the strain that comes on horses. I shall ask young Bob to take me out.""He will be delighted," said Bradstock. "I'm sure he will be delighted. They say he is an enterprising driver for his youth.""I love enterprise," murmured the bishop. "I am surprised now to think of my own. I entered the Church meaning to be a bishop, and I am a bishop. I love enterprise. All curates seem full of it. Deans, I regret to say, are seldom vigorously enterprising. Archdeacons, too, have a tendency to take things easily, too easily.""What do you think of the Higher Criticism?" asked Bradstock."Ha!" said the bishop, "ha! I think—oh, I think a great deal of it. That is, I think of it a great deal. I do not think all enterprise is praiseworthy. Would you like to know the dean?"They spent the afternoon in the dean's cathedral, and walked on the dean's grass, and about six o'clock Bob rolled into the cathedral close in a fifteen-horse-power Daimler, and drew up in front of the bishop's palace."Have you found her out?" he demanded, eagerly, of Bradstock."No, but you shall," said Bradstock.CHAPTER XX.The bishop was very kind and amiable to Bob. Some people say that bishops are always kind and good to people who will be dukes by and by. One never knows what a duke can do for one later, and, of course, a bishop wants to be an archbishop. That is only natural: even a cardinal wants to be Pope, although he almost always says he is sorry he became one when he finds himself at the end of his tether. The bishop was a human being, but a nice one, and he really liked Bob, who suggested youth and strength and the future, all of them agreeable things to those who are not young and see their future behind them. So he talked to Bob almost as if he was one of the Bench of Bishops. He was familiar and jovial, and told some good stories of other bishops and even one of an archbishop. And he suggested to Bob that he rather wanted to see what a motor-car was like."There is a prejudice against them here," said the bishop. "Perhaps a natural prejudice among those who own chickens and dogs and children. But Providence works in a mysterious way, and I should be the last to hasten to blame even the gentleman known as a road hog. I begin to perceive an unwonted sprightliness in the villagers as the elimination of the unfit, the rheumatic, the undecided, and the foolish proceeds apace. A young man, who told me that he had in the course of his career as an owner of cars killed nearly a thousand dogs, two thousand five hundred fowls, several aged persons, some idiots, and a policeman, said that he noticed nowadays an air of bright alertness in his immediate neighbourhood which was at once a pleasure and an encouragement. He asserted that the dogs who remained were of a higher type of intellect than the others; and he said that even the fowls now stood sideways in the road and used their natural advantage of looking both ways at once. There was, too, a great improvement in village children and even in policemen. Oh, yes, I think much may be said for the motor-car.""I should very much like to take you out in one, my lord," said Bob.The bishop smiled graciously."You shall, my boy, as soon as this matter of Penelope is settled. I shall greatly enjoy passing rapidly through the country. I think of buying one for purposes of my pastoral visitations. Perhaps I may wake up some of my more somnolent clergy. I may even raise their general intellectual average, which is low, really low."Bob's chauffeur put up at the Angel, but Bob himself had a bed in the palace, and dined in state with the bishop and Bradstock. They discussed Penelope all dinner-time, even before Ridley, for, as the bishop explained, Ridley took no interest in anything whatever but wine."I believe," said the bishop, with a chuckle, "that I might venture in his presence to advocate the disestablishment of the Church, or to give vent to heretical or even atheistical sentiments without his being aware that I was doing anything surprising, improper, or unusual. By all means, let us talk before Ridley. How do you think Bob should proceed, Bradstock?""He must stay in his car near, but not too near, the post-office," said Bradstock. "If Bob is properly goggled, this George Smith, whom we suppose to bring Pen's letters and telegrams, will not notice him. Shall you know him, Bob?""Rather," said Bob. "He walks very queerly. I could tell him a mile off.""Very well, then," Bradstock continued, "when he goes, you will follow him at a distance. He must not be lost sight of.""I much underrate our young friend's enterprise if he loses him," said the bishop. "There are occasions when exceeding the legal limit becomes a duty, Bob.""Rather," said Bob. "Oh, I'll do it."They calculated that theTimeswould reach Pen about noon, as they believed she must be within twenty miles of Spilsborough. Bob accordingly arranged to take up his watch at the post-office before one o'clock."And perhaps to-morrow night the mystery will be solved," said the bishop. "It is really remarkable. I am not at all able to follow Penelope's mind."Bob explained it to him."They ragged her," he said,—by "they" meaning Titania and others,—"and she loves peace and hates showing off, and she's as obstinate as a pig. And grandmother said she was to be married in Westminster Abbey by a bishop, and that put her back up. Oh, Pen's easy to understand, I think.""You have no idea whom she has really married?" asked the bishop."Not much," said Bob. "I give it up. I've thought it was all of 'em, and every one has done or said something that could be taken both ways. I was sure it was Goby, and then I was certain it was Bramber, and then I fairly knew it was Rivaulx, and I could have sworn it was Plant. And I'm very much worried by what occurred at Oxford. This new Bunting was very surprising."The bishop had not heard of the new Bunting, and listened to Bob's story with great interest."The world is a very surprising place," said the bishop, with emphasis; "a very surprising place indeed. We do not need to go to Africa for new things. We are surrounded by the unexpected, by the marvellous. Bob's delightful story makes me feel that no one can reckon with certainty upon anything. I am half-inclined to think that this new Bunting must be a relation of the other Bunting, and that Penelope has met him, been struck with him, and has married him and lives in temporary retirement, while her husband struggles with Thucydides under a sofa. But after to-morrow we shall know more.""I hope so," said Bradstock."I feel sure of it," said the bishop.And Bob went to bed."Do you know, Bradstock," said the bishop, as he stroked his leg, which was a very reasonable leg for a bishop, "I wonder you didn't think I had married Penelope.""Good heavens!" said Bradstock, "have you?""Certainly not," replied the bishop, "but it is odd she should be near Spilsborough, isn't it?""She must be somewhere," said Bradstock, rather irritably. "Hang it! the girl must be somewhere.""When you think of it, she must," said the bishop. "Yes, yes, you are right. Still, Spilsborough—yes, it's odd, but not remarkable. As you say, she must be somewhere. I hope it's not the Jew, Bradstock."So did Bradstock."It looks very much as if she was ashamed of him. But I'm incapable of judging, not having been married," said the bishop."I've been married twice," said Bradstock, "and Pen is a woman, which means she resembles no other woman in any respect whatever as regards her ways, manners, customs, and thoughts.""You say that coolly?" asked the bishop."Icily," replied Bradstock.The bishop shook his head."You surprise me," said the bishop, "and I think I will go to bed."Bradstock went to bed, too."I shouldn't be surprised if she had married the bishop and was under this roof now," said Bradstock. "Nothing would surprise me unless I discover she's married to Rivaulx or Bramber. I don't think I should mind either of 'em."And next day at half-past twelve Bob and his chauffeur took up a position near the post-office. As Geordie Smith knew Bradstock, he kept quietly at the palace. But the interested bishop who had not married Penelope kept bustling about the neighbourhood in quite an excitement."I wish I was coming with you, Bob.""Oh, do!" said Bob."I almost think it would be advisable," said the bishop. "What I said would have weight with Penelope, I believe.""I rather wish you'd come," cried Bob. "It would be fun, and you said you'd like to go in a motor-car.""So I did," said the bishop, "but I've never been in one. No one has seen me in one. I fear a crowd would assemble.""At any rate, my lord, you might get in and sit down a minute."The bishop looked around."I really think I will," he said. And he entered the car."This is really comfortable, Bob, very comfortable, quite like an armchair. Is your driver a good one?""A ripper," said Bob. "The best they have where I got the car. It's not mine, but when I get all the money that Gordon owes me, I'll buy one."The chauffeur got down and did something inexplicable to the machinery with a spanner. And the spanner broke."I'll just run across and get a new one, sir," said the chauffeur."It's getting late," said Bob. "Don't be long, and before you go start her up."The driver set her going, and the bishop caught hold of Bob."You're not off? This is very surprising. It makes a very curious noise.""There won't be any to speak of when we get her moving," said Bob. "You see the engine is going, and when we like we can start at once."He was happy, bright, and eager."There's a motor-car coming," whispered the bishop.Bob jumped."I say, it's yellow like Pen's big new one," he said. And the car stopped in front of the post-office ten yards away. Bob grabbed the bishop's arm."That's Geordie Smith," he said. "That's Geordie getting out. I could tell his legs a mile off. Where's my man?"But the man didn't come, and Geordie was back in his car. He went off sweetly."The north road," said Bob. "I'm sure he'll take it. He's going quick. We can't wait for my man."He grabbed the steering-wheel, shifted the lever, and the car moved off on the first speed."I'll—I'll go a little way with you," said the bishop."You'll have to unless you jump," replied Bob. "I'll keep in sight if I die for it."This encouraged the bishop very much, of course, and it is possible that he might have jumped if he had not caught sight of the dean and a minor canon, who were staring hard at him with their mouths as wide open as the grotesque muzzle of a Gothic gargoyle."I'll not jump," said the bishop, and he waved his hand to Mr. Dean. "No, I'll not jump before the dean if I die for it."Before he knew it, they were out on the road, and the dust of the yellow car in front was like the pillar of smoke to the Hebrews in the desert. Bob let her out to the second speed, and the bishop gasped."We go very quick," he said."Oh, not at all," replied Bob. "I don't want to go fast. If Geordie thinks he's being followed, he'll go sixty miles an hour, and I don't think I can do more than forty-five in this.""Can't you?" asked the bishop. "I'm almost glad you can't.""Is this the great north road?" asked Bob."No," said the bishop, "it's the road to Crowland and Spalding. I've often driven on it, but never so fast as this."Geordie's car drew ahead, and Bob put his car on the third speed."Bob!" cried the bishop, as he clutched the sides of his seat. "Bob!""Yes?""Isn't this an illegal speed?""Rather," said Bob."I cannot aid and abet you in going at it, then," said the bishop, as firmly as he could. "I must request you to be legal."Bob kept his eyes ahead."Please don't talk," he roared, "or I shall have an accident. You must remember I'm not at all experienced."What could the poor bishop do? He groaned and sat very tight indeed, and, seeing the landscape eaten up by this monster at the rate of thirty miles an hour, came to the conclusion that there was nothing stable in the universe, not even theology. And about a mile ahead of them rose a pillar of dust."This is a remarkable situation," thought the bishop; "a situation which requires some firmness of mind. I am a bishop, and I am no better than half my clergy who break the law regularly. This must be nearly a hundred miles an hour! I wish, I almost wish Penelope had died soon after I christened her. This Bob is an infernal young ruffian; his manner is not respectful. I should like to cane him. But how can I stop him? I do not understand these strange brass things. I could as soon play the big organ in the cathedral that I wish I was in. If I pull Bob he will have an accident. If I speak to him, I may divert his attention—oh!"They executed a fowl which had not learnt to stand sideways, and slammed through a village, scattering several ancient inhabitants who were enjoying a gossip in the middle of the road. As a matter of fact, they were damning Geordie Smith in heaps when the pursuing Bob fell upon them. They passed a church, and the bishop saw a clergyman staring over the wall. The village fell into the category of things which had been and slid away behind them."We are stopping still and the world slides," said the bishop, "but that was Griggs, I know, and he knew me. He has eyes like a hawk's. I am much surprised at myself. I have seventeen engagements this afternoon. Ridley will be alarmed. The dean—oh!"They slammed a barking dog into the middle of the week after next."That was a near shave," roared Bob, exulting. "I've seen a smaller dog than that capsize a bigger car than this!""May I speak now?" implored the bishop."Righto," said Bob. "Here's a good straight bit. What is it?"He was the superior: he was a big bird and the bishop was a beetle. He was the head master; his lordship of the see of Spilsborough was a new boy. The bishop felt small, terrified, amazed, humiliated."Are we going a hundred miles an hour?" asked the bishop."Rot!" said Bob, "we're only doing about thirty."They scorched through quiet Crowland."Please put me down," implored the humble bishop."I can't stop," said Bob. "I'm afraid he's getting ahead. Sit tight, bishop, I'm going faster now.""You mustn't, you can't," said the bishop.Bob stooped for an answer and turned on the fourth speed. The bishop felt the machine sailing underneath him. He fell back and lost all ordinary consciousness."It is true," said his mind deep inside him; "it is true that all things are illusion! I have sometimes suspected it. We are a mode of motion; we are affections of the ether. I believe Professor Osborne Reynolds is right. I am a kind of vortex spinning in piled grains of ether. Bob is a vortex. We are in a vortex. We are straws in ether; we are shadows. I have a real non-existent pain in my real imaginary non-existent stomach. I am not alive and I am not dead. I am brave; I am a coward; I am a bishop. This is very wonderful. I shall preach about it when I return to earth. Is that a hedge? Did I see a cow?—a strange, elongated, horned, lowing, permanent, impermanent possibility of sensation and milk in a field made of matter, which is energy, which is an illusion. I become calm; motion is relative. I almost enjoy it. I become a Hegelian. I see that being equals non-being; that pain becomes pleasure if you only have enough of it. I no longer pity those who suffer sufficiently. There is apparently too little pain in the universe. Torquemada did his best to remedy it. Oh, was that a dog? I quite enjoy myself. I wonder if he can go faster. If he can, I wish he would. We are going slow, too slow!"And, as Geordie's dust showed up much nearer, Bob put his car again at the third speed, and the bishop gasped."How do you like it?" asked Bob, as they spun through Spalding.The bishop's face was a fine glowing crimson; his bloodshot eyes glittered like opals; he was intoxicated with movement and with new lights on philosophy."I—I should like to go a thousand miles an hour at night," said the bishop. "I think it is wonderful, Bob. Are you Bob, and I a bishop? Where is Spilsborough? Is there a Spilsborough?""Steady on!" said Bob. "I say, you're excited!""I am," replied the bishop. "I am excited; I feel peculiar. I think I can originate a new philosophy. Why are we doing this?""We are trying to find out where Penelope is," said Bob."Penelope, Penelope," said the bishop. "Penelope is a vortex. Yes, she is a vortex. Men and women are vortices. I shall study mathematics and apply it to theology.""Hello!" said Bob, and he stopped almost dead. For Geordie's dust had suddenly died down."I'll bet he has a puncture," said Bob. And the bishop sighed and stared about him, as if he were just awakened."Where are we?" he asked."Blessed if I know," said Bob. "But you ought to know.""I don't," said the bishop. And he got out and stood on the dusty road. He reeled, and the dean would have said he was intoxicated. And so he was."Geordie's off again," said Bob. "Come, jump in.""I won't," said the bishop. "Certainly I won't. That machine is a kind of devil. It undermines the strongest convictions. I am afraid of it. I shall have to resign my bishopric if I ride another mile.""Oh, rot!" said Bob. "Aren't you coming? I can't wait.""Take the devilish thing away," cried the bishop. "Anathema maranatha and all the rest of it!"Without another word, Bob pulled the lever and sailed off up the road, leaving a trail of petrol vapour behind him."Mentally and physically, I don't know where I am," said the bishop. "I don't know who I am, either. From my clothes I conclude I am a bishop, but to come to that conclusion I have to assume that I have the right to wear them. I have had a remarkable experience. Yes, I am a bishop. This is the earth and very dusty. It is hot, and I am miles from anywhere."He looked up the road and saw a far cloud of dust."Under that dust is Bob," said the bishop. "As I said, Penelope is a vortex. Everything is much more remarkable than I thought, much more remarkable. I shall write to the professor to discover what he means. It is dreadful that what may be called a mere physical experience should incline me to look on some of my fellow bishops and the higher criticism with a more lenient eye. I don't see how any dogma can survive a hundred miles an hour. But Bob has not treated me altogether well. He plumps me down somewhere between Spalding and Spilsby or Boston or some other dreadful locality under the ghostly influence of my brother of Lincoln, and disappears in dust and smell. He was distinctly disrespectful. He said, 'Sit down, bishop,' in a very authoritative manner. He told me I was excited. I own I was, but I resented being told so by a boy, because he was a boy, or was it because I am a bishop? An unaccustomed bishop in a motor-car is plainly nobody compared with an experienced boy in one. I wish Penelope was a sensible person, or that I had never known her, or that she hadn't been born! I wonder what I am to do. I must walk; I may be overtaken by a cart and get a ride in one. I anticipate much talk in Spilsborough about this. I wonder what Ridley will say. Ridley is a stoic; perhaps he will say nothing. I wish I was near Ridley; I am thirsty. This road is dusty. It also appears long and interminable. I am as dry as convocation. I much resent Bob's treatment of me. I wish Bradstock was here, and I was where Bradstock is. Bradstock is in my library, in my chair, with a book in his hand and a whiskey and soda by his side. He takes things with great calmness. I wish he was here to take this with calmness."And he walked south for three hours and got back to Spalding, and there took a train for Spilsborough.
CHAPTER XVIII.
By breakfast-time or a little later, Goby and Gordon and De Vere and Rivaulx knew not only what was said about Timothy Bunting, but also that every one of them had told the Duchess of Goring that he was married to Penelope. When the bishop looked in to see the marquis, he found him exceedingly difficult to manage. He wanted the duelling-swords back in order to fight every one. His especial desire now was to put cold steel through Gordon, and this led to a general evacuation of Spilsborough.
"I say, Mr. Gordon," said Bob, rushing in upon the financier while he was shaving, "I've just met the bishop, and he wanted to know if I knew you, and I said 'rather,' and he said would I ask you, in the interests of peace, to go back to London, because the marquis wanted to cut your throat with swords hanging in the bishop's dining-room. I say, will you go, or stay and fight?"
Gordon cut himself, and then, as Bob said, "cut his stick" and went back to town shaved on one side and not on the other. As a result of this, several men in the city sold bears of everything that Gordon was interested in, and they got left most horribly, especially on Amalekites. Never afterward did they venture to think that any financier was on the borders of ruin if he came into the city partially shaved. In fact, three very shady Jews, with some wildcat stock to boom, played the trick successfully, and, through not being shaved themselves, they shaved others.
But this is all by the way, and it only shows that a real financier in love or in despair is just as dangerous as at other times. Bob and the bishop talked the situation over in Spilsborough while Gordon was going to town, and the result was what might have been expected.
"All we know is that Penelope, poor dear Penelope is near Spilsborough," said the bishop.
"And that she's married," said Bob.
"We infer that from general grounds, our knowledge of her character," said the logical bishop. "Strictly we cannot be said to know it. It is not a primary datum of consciousness, nor is it a judgment or a purely rational conclusion, Bob."
"Oh," said Bob, "well, perhaps not."
"I think," said the bishop, "that I shall write to her—"
"Where to?"
"To everywhere," said the bishop, "and ask her to come and confide in me. And in the meantime, as the others have gone, and your presence here is no longer necessary, I think you should go home and console your grandmother, and apply yourself to work."
"All right," said Bob; "I don't think it's interesting here any more. But are you glad I came in time to stop the duel?"
"I am glad," said the bishop. "But, to tell the truth, Robert, I should not have allowed a duel on Mr. Dean's ancient grass and under his immemorial elms without a remonstrance, even a physical remonstrance."
Within the memory of this portly and admirable pillar of the Church to which the British Empire owes all its greatness, and to which it pays a great deal of its money, were many fierce encounters at Oxford, that haunt of ancient peace and modern progress.
"Would you have knocked 'em down?" asked Bob, eagerly.
"Certainly," said the bishop. "I would have knocked them as flat as a flounder."
And Bob bade him good-bye.
"I think he's a ripping good bishop," said Bob. "I'll ask Mr. Gordon to help restore the cathedral."
He got back to Goring to find Titania no longer suffering from fits. Fits were not equal to the situation. All her friends were writing to her to condole with her on the marriage of Penelope to Timothy Bunting. They came down in droves to condole and to get the latest intelligence, while gamekeepers and grooms were keeping journalists out of the grounds with guns and pitchforks.
For the world was absolutely certain that Miss Weekes was right, and Pen'sci-devantmaid was making the salary of a star at the Empire by according interviews to those halfpenny papers which are England's glory and her hope. The editors endeavoured to interview the lovers, but they were stern and savage. They would not speak to each other and avoided strangers. But it was no secret now that they each claimed to be Lady Penelope's husband. As the acutest journalist of them all remarked, this was hardly possible. The only theory that held water (or, at least, "good" water, as the Baboo pleader remarked) was the Bunting theory. But if Bunting was the man, where was he? and why this mystery? A journalist solved it, or said he did. Bunting was a very handsome man. There was no doubt of that. But he was an uneducated man. That was quite certain. If a lady of Penelope's standing married a man of Bunting's, what would she do? The answer was easy. She would send him to Oxford to acquire the accent and the aplomb and the insolence which have rendered Oxford men the idols of the mob, and have put them into every position where tact with inferior races is asine qua non. This is what the journalist said. He ought to have known, as he had been brought up in the Yorkshire Dissenting College, and dissented from all other codes of manners, except those popular with the non-conformist conscience, which, equally with the Church of England, has made the empire what it is and what it should be.
But this journalist knew his market. The eyes of the civilized world once more turned to Oxford.
"If it's Bunting, I'll kill him," said all the lovers who were not married to Penelope. "She has made a mistake, if it's true, and he must be got rid of."
Now was the time of the Marchioness of Rigsby's glory.
"Did I not tell you she had married her groom?" she demanded of Titania. "Penelope was extremely rude to me. I am almost glad she has married a groom. If he is a nice groom, he may improve her manners."
"She hasn't married any groom," cried Titania, furiously. "I am perfectly certain it is the Marquis of Rivaulx."
She was certain of nothing. Bradstock was certain of nothing. They both asked Bob what he was certain of, and Bob replied all the lovers were in such a state of mind that it couldn't be any of them. And then at last Titania hit upon a certain truth.
"Whoever it is would be just as miserable as all the others," she said. "He'll be sorry now that he agreed to it, and he'll be asking her to give in, and she won't. And they'll quarrel."
"You're right, Titania," cried Bradstock, slapping his thigh. "Bob, I believe the most miserable of them all is the man. Which is the most miserable?"
Bob thought.
"Gordon cried a little."
"Ha!" said the duchess.
"But Rivaulx cried a good deal," said Bob.
"Oh," said the duchess. "But which do you think it is, Robert?"
"I think it's Timothy Bunting," said Bob. "And I want to go to Oxford to find out if he's there. Baker says—"
"Do you discuss these matters with Baker?" demanded his grandmother, haughtily.
"He knows a great deal about the world," said Bob, "and about Bunting, you know. Baker says—"
"You may go to Oxford," cried Titania, "and I will go to bed and stay there. I am a most unhappy woman, and Goring does not care!"
So Bob went to Oxford all by himself, and called upon an undergraduate who had just come up from Harrow, one of the schools which Bob had been requested to leave on account of pugilism. Jack Harcourt was four years Bob's senior, but could not fight so well in spite of that, and there was much more equality between them than would seem possible at first sight. But then it is almost impossible to feel very much superior to a boy who has knocked you absolutely senseless, as Bob did Harcourt. And Bob was one of those boys who make all the world equal. He was familiar with princes, and said "Baker says" to cabinet ministers. And if his uncle didn't marry, he was bound to be a duke. Dukes are very important people, somehow, and the fact that Bob never showed any side was much in his favour over and above that important fact.
"I say, is there a man up here called Bunting?" asked Bob.
And Harcourt, after consulting a calendar, said there was.
"Timothy Bunting?" asked Bob, jumping as if he were shot.
"Thomas," said Harcourt.
"Oh, he'd say Thomas, I dare say," said Bob. And he told Harcourt all about it.
"Do you think she's married him?" asked the undergraduate.
"Who knows what girls will do?" said Bob. "Don't you remember the black-eyed one in the pastry-cook's at Harrow who wouldn't look at you and was in love with that beast Black?"
Harcourt did remember, but changed the conversation as quickly as possible.
"This fellow is at All Saints," he said. "I dare say, they'd let a groom in there."
"Let's go and find him," said Bob. "Poor old Bunting will be sick to see me. I'm very sorry for him if he is a presumptuous beast. It will be very awkward for the family. But we must know. The uncertainty is killing my grandmother, and Baker says it's always best to know the worst at once. Baker's the best judge of dogs and horses I know. He was a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers. Oh, I told you that!"
And when they got into the High Street, they ran right into Plant, who smiled a sickly smile and said he had come up to have a look at Oxford.
"I say, Mr. Plant, what's the matter with your clothes?" asked Bob. "Have you fallen downstairs?"
Plant murmured something unintelligible and hurried away, leaving Bob staring.
"That's one of 'em, Harcourt," he said to his friend. "He's a millionaire."
"Then I think he might afford a hat without a dint in it," replied Harcourt.
Bob shook his head.
"I can't make it out. He's very particular," he said. "But let's get on."
Around the next corner they bumped into Gordon, who also announced that he had been struck with a wild desire to have a look at the ancient university city. Bob shook his head.
"I say, Mr. Gordon, you want brushing badly. Do you know you look as if you had fallen downstairs?" he asked.
Gordon said, "Do I?" and bolted.
"I can't make this out," said Bob. "This has all the appearance of a mystery, Harcourt."
"It has," said Harcourt. As they entered All Saints, they saw a man run across the grass and disappear under the far archway which led out into the Turl.
"That looked very much like De Vere," said Bob, "very much. Only I never saw him run except that time when the bulldog chased him. And then he ran differently. But of course it can't be De Vere."
After asking two reverend-looking members of the university, who looked as if they knew all about the subjective world, and a scout with every appearance of a deep acquaintance with the objective one, they discovered Mr. Bunting's rooms.
"I think he's havin' some gents to lunch, though I'm not his scout, sir, and they seems to be enjoying themselves now very much," said the scout. "Mr. Bunting is readin' 'ard, so I 'ear, but he's relaxin' a little to-day. Just now I see a gentleman drop hout of 'is window, sir. And you're the third lot I've directed there. This is 'is staircase, gents, first floor. Thank you, sir, I'm sure. I'll drink your 'ealth."
And here Harcourt said he thought he'd leave Bob. So Bob went up about six dark steps by himself, and then he stopped.
"Whoever he is, he's making a devil of a row," said Bob, pausing, "a devil of a row. I wonder if it is Bunting. I think Harcourt might have stayed. But he never did like fighting or rows."
He climbed up another step or two, and heard a mighty uproar.
"I think they must be having a boxing party," said Bob. And then he heard a door open on the landing above him.
"Confound you, sir! to the devil with you, sir!" said a voice that he certainly did not recognize. Then he heard a noise which was presently explained by the fact that Carteret Williams fell down the stairs, turning a crooked corner most wonderfully in company with a very large Liddell and Scott's Dictionary of that beautiful language, Greek.
"Oh, is that you, Mr. Williams?" asked Bob.
Williams appeared rather confused.
"Yes, Bob," he said, as he hugged the dictionary. "I—I think so."
"Why have you fallen down-stairs?" asked Bob.
"That damn groom threw me down," said Williams. "At least, he threw this book at me, and I came down."
[image]CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT. He wrote with a red picturesqueness which was horribly attractive
[image]
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CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT. He wrote with a red picturesqueness which was horribly attractive
"What, is it really Bunting?" roared Bob, eagerly.
"He says his name's Bunting," replied Williams. "But he's very difficult to handle."
"Oh, Tim can box," said Bob. "But is he our Bunting?"
"Whichever Bunting he is, you are welcome to him," said the enraged war correspondent.
"I must go up and see," said Bob. "Do you think he threw Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon down, too? I met 'em just now, and they looked as if he had."
"I'm sure he's capable of it," said Williams, bitterly. "Here, take this book with you. I don't want it."
And Bob climbed up, hugging several pounds' weight of Greek with him. He stood at the door and listened, and heard a man inside snorting violently and slamming things about as if he was very much disturbed in his mind. Bob knocked at the door, and it was opened suddenly. The man who opened it was in deep shadow.
"It is—it is. No, it isn't," said Bob, quite aloud.
"Are you another of 'em?" asked the occupier of the rooms.
"Oh, it isn't," said Bob. And, choking down his disappointment, his politeness returned.
"Is this your Greek dictionary?" he asked, courteously. "I found it lying on Mr. Carteret Williams on the next landing, and he said he didn't want it."
The man named Bunting seized the dictionary, and then took Bob by the shoulder and led him in. Bob went like a lamb, for this Mr. Bunting was six feet high, about three feet across the chest, more or less, and had a grip like clip-hooks on a bale.
"Was that man named Williams?" he asked.
"Yes," said Bob.
"You know him?"
"Why, of course," said Bob. "I know 'em all."
"All I've thrown down-stairs this afternoon?"
"I think so," said Bob, modestly. "At least, I met Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon, who looked very much as if they had fallen down-stairs. And I think the little gentleman you dropped out of the window on the grass must have been Mr. Austin de Vere."
"Oh," said Mr. Bunting, "sit down, boy, and look at me. Do I look mad?"
Bob looked at him and then at the room.
"The room looks mad," he replied. And it certainly did.
"That was the last one," said Mr. Bunting. "He was very troublesome."
"He's a war correspondent," said Bob. "But why is your name Bunting?"
"How the devil do I know?" asked the other, in reply. "Perhaps, as you seem to know them, you can explain what it all means?"
"I will try, sir, if you will tell me what occurred," said Bob.
"First of all," said the outraged member of All Saints, "the American person knocked and came in, and he said: 'Is your name Bunting?' And I said, 'Yes, confound you, for your infernal impudence, and what is yours?' And he said, 'What the devil do you mean by saying you have married her?' And I said I'd said nothing of the kind, and I said if he didn't get out in two shakes of a lamb's tail, I'd throw him out. And he was furious, and couldn't and wouldn't explain, so I did throw him out. And, as he tumbled down-stairs, he said he'd married her himself. And he went away, and I sat down to read Thucydides. He's under the sofa now somewhere. And then the Jew came, and he said: 'You mutht contradict the report of your being married to her at onth,' and that made me very cross, and I said I wouldn't, and that made him very wild, so I said I was married to her just as he said he was—"
"Oh," said Bob, "and are you? Oh, dear, I am so confused! Are you really, really married to Pen?"
"I shall drop you out of the window in a minute," said Mr. Bunting. "I said it to annoy him, and it did, and he said I was a liar. So I opened the door and took him by the neck and dropped him down-stairs, and he howled awfully. And I said to him over the bannisters, 'I am married to her, and have been married for years to her, and she loves me very much, and we are going to acknowledge it as soon as I've taken my B.A.' And he went away holding his neck, and then the little man came in. Did you say he was a poet?"
"A very good poet, too," said Bob. "And I sell him bulldogs."
"Oh," said Mr. Bunting, blankly, "you do, do you? Why?"
"Because Pen thought they would do him good."
Mr. Bunting shook his head.
"Thicksides is lucid compared with this!" he murmured. "But patience, patience, and I shall construe it yet."
"And what did Mr. de Vere say?" asked Bob.
"The same thing. He stood there and said I must contradict it. And he said of course it was very kind of her to have me educated, but that, if I had a spark of decency, I should know that a man who had once occupied the position I had couldn't possibly marry her. And, by the way, what position had I occupied in regard to her?"
"A groom," said Bob. "You were supposed to have been a groom."
"Dear me," said Mr. Bunting, "how interesting and remarkable. Still no light, no real light! And of course I said I had married her, and I asked him did he think I would desert the lady now? And he went scarlet. Why did he go scarlet do you think?"
"I know," said Bob, "it must have been on account of the baby!"
Mr. Bunting smote his forehead.
"So it must," he said. "I never thought of that. What a fearful complication! And then he, too, said I was a liar. So I took him by the collar and led him to the window, and I opened it and dropped him out. And then the one you call Williams came, and he also was indignant, and said I was to deny it, and I wouldn't of course. And then we fought, and the furniture was much disarranged and Thicksides went under the sofa, and at last I got him outside, and finished him with Liddell and Scott. And now you know all! In your turn you can explain what it means. I beg you to do it, and then we will have some tea."
And Bob explained the whole story.
"You might have seen it in the papers," said Bob.
"I don't read 'em," said Bunting, "except to turn aTimesleader into Greek. But it seems a complicated situation, doesn't it?"
"It is very complicated," sighed Bob, "and my grandmother is very ill about it. And now she will wonder if it's you, after all!"
"Dear me, so she will," said Bunting. "Have some tea."
They had tea, and Bob rose to go.
"Will you write to theTimes, and say you haven't married her?" he asked.
"Certainly not," said Mr. Bunting. "Didn't I say to the others that I threw down-stairs that Ihadmarried her?"
"So you did," said Bob. "But of course you haven't?"
Bunting smiled.
"Good-bye. When you come to Oxford again, come and see me. I must crawl under the sofa now."
"What for?" asked Bob.
"For Thucydides, of course," replied Mr. Bunting.
And when Bob was in the train for London, he turned very pale.
"Good heavens!" he said, "how do I know it isn't this Bunting, after all?"
CHAPTER XIX.
After this, things by no means cleared up, as they should have done considering the amount of trouble that all the world took to find out the truth. Every one said something different from some one else. Bob gave horribly imaginative accounts of his adventures at Oxford, and threw out suggestions that Pen was really married to a Bunting, if not to Timothy Bunting. But when he appealed for corroboration to Gordon, that gentleman shuffled and prevaricated dreadfully, as he did not like to acknowledge he had been thrown down-stairs. There was a very curious scene, in which Gordon and Bob had the best part of a row before Titania, who came up to town to be near Dr. Lumsden Griff, who knew all about the left or right ventricle of her heart. As his jealous confrères said he knew nothing else, perhaps he did. However, that is by the way.
"Tell it me again, Robert," said Titania.
Bob told her again.
"He said he was married to her?"
"He said he said so to Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon, and Williams and De Vere," said Bob, gloating over the details of the row. "And he slung 'em all down-stairs. He's about six feet six high, and as broad as a billiard-table, and as strong as three Sandows, I should say."
"I am much confused again," said Titania, plaintively. "I had come to the point where certain news of her marriage to a groom would have been a relief to me. Where are we now?"
As she asked, Gordon was announced. Bob rushed at him.
"I say, Mr. Gordon, tell us how he threw you down-stairs, and what he said?"
"He didn't throw me down-stairs," said Gordon, quite crossly. "I threw myself down—I mean I slipped."
"Tell us how you slipped, then, and why," said Bob.
But Gordon wouldn't.
"Oh, I say!" said Bob.
Titania begged Gordon to tell her.
"But then he told me he had married Pen," she said to herself. "What is the use of asking any one anything?"
"How did you find him?" asked Bob.
"I looked him up," said Gordon.
"Why did you look him up?"
"Because I wanted to find him out," returned Gordon, sulkily. "But I didn't come to be cross-examined by you, Bob."
In spite of the large sums of money which Gordon owed Bob, Bob was on the point of an explosion. But trouble was averted by Plant's entrance. Before he could say a word, a telegram was brought to Titania, and she read it at once and uttered dismal groans.
"What is it?" chorused the two men and Bob.
"It's from Penelope."
"Please read it out."
Bob read it for his grandmother.
"Am exceedingly displeased with latest reports and news. Contradict at once. Am not married to Bunting, who is much upset by report, and can hardly look me in the face. PENELOPE."
"Bunting is with her!" said Titania.
"Which Bunting?" asked Bob. "He—I mean the one at Oxford—told Mr. Gordon and Mr. de Vere that he was married to her."
Gordon groaned, and, seizing his hat, fled from the room. He came back again.
"Where does the wire come from?"
"From Spilsborough," said Bob. "Granny, I wonder if the bishop is in it."
Gordon groaned and went. And went a little too early, for another wire came. It was a very long one.
Titania looked at the signature first, and she sat up.
"It's from Penelope's husband," she cried.
"Who is he really?" shrieked Bob.
"It's signed Penelope's husband, I mean," said Titania, "and he seems very unhappy."
The telegram read:
"Am in great distress. Penelope is furious because told you confidence that was married to her. She has heard this, and has learnt that others, lying scoundrels, said they were, too. She says their noble conduct saved her, and will not speak at present, though holding out hopes of reconciliation later to her and infant, which is doing well, if I say nothing and do not fight with others, but do my duty, which I find hard under peculiar circumstances. Hence am precluded from confirming what I told you, and can only communicate anonymously, as Penelope threatens to have divorce or equivalent, being headstrong, as you are aware, and I am in distress about it. Wire reply.
"PENELOPE'S HUSBAND."
"He's mad," said Titania. "How can I wire reply to a man I know nothing of?"
She turned to Plant.
"You told me in confidence, Mr. Plant. Did you send this?"
Plant turned all the colours of the rainbow.
"Yes," he said, desperately, and he bolted from the room and the house and disappeared, while Bob gasped, and Titania nodded her head in a most awe-inspiring manner.
"Get some telegraph forms," she said. And when Bob brought them, she dictated telegrams to all the horde in the diplomatic form of identic notes.
"Have received sad telegram signed Penelope's husband. Recognize under painful circumstances he cannot reveal himself. Am much composed and have given up hope. It appears it cannot be Bunting, though Bunting is with her. Contradict this; also the rumour that it is the Rajah of Jugpore.
"TITANIA GORING."
"Send them," she said, "and let me rest. I presume that the right one will get it. The only trouble is that six of the wrong ones will, too."
"Goby will go insane," said Bob. "I know he will. I can't see how this will end without murder."
And Titania laughed dreadfully. She laughed so queerly that Doctor Griff was sent for, and refused to allow her to see De Vere and Goby and Bramber and Gordon and Plant and Williams and Carew. The last turned up first in a hansom cab, with a large palette knife in his hand. He had forgotten to put it down. As hansom after hansom came up and discharged one furious lover after another at the steps of Titania's town house, it looked as if Bob's foreseen murder would occur there and then. It is possible that nothing but the timely arrival of Bradstock saved London from the desirable news of a murder in high life and Belgrave Square. He got hold of the men one by one, and sent them away. As they went, a telegraph boy came to the house with another telegram addressed to Titania.
"I shall open this, Bob," said Bradstock. It was another from Pen.
"Have just learnt that you and others have been trying to discover my whereabouts. If I am pursued, I shall leave and go elsewhere. This is final.
PENELOPE."
"From Spilsborough, Bob," said Bradstock.
"She's heard that I and Goby and Rivaulx and the others were there," said Bob. "Do you think the bishop knows where she is?"
"I wouldn't trust a bishop," said Bradstock. "I daresay he does. It is said that bishops steal Elzevirs and umbrellas, Bob. I think I shall go to Spilsborough myself. Have you seen the evening papers, Bob?"
Bob had seen none of them.
"Some say now that she is married to Jugpore, and others say it is a morganatic marriage to the mediatized Prince of Bodenstrau."
"Oh, I say, Pen will be mad," cried Bob. "Isn't he a real bad un?"
"The very worst," said Bradstock.
"And are you really going to Spilsborough, Lord Bradstock?"
"I really think so," said Bradstock. "I begin to think I must do something."
He stood pondering.
"May I come with you?"
Bradstock declined the honour.
"If I don't succeed, you may go again if you like," he said. And that very afternoon he went to Liverpool Street and took the train for Spilsborough to call on the bishop.
"My dear Bradstock, I am delighted to see you," said his lordship. "I presume you, too, have come here about Penelope?"
"I have," said Bradstock, "every one does."
"Did young Bob tell you all about the peculiar occurrences which took place here only lately? They were quite remarkable."
Bradstock agreed that they were remarkable.
"A duel on the dean's grass, now! Who would have thought of that but a Frenchman? Have you seen the marquis lately, and that very agreeable financier, the American? I was much grieved not to be able to ask him to dinner, owing to his sudden departure. He showed considerable skill in grasping the essentials of the situation, for, when the marquis, who was literally foaming at the mouth, offered him the choice of swords in a violent but perfectly gentlemanly way, he chose both of them, and put them under his arm. It is not every one who could have displayed such readiness in preventing violence. One would not have expected it in an American, for I understand disorder and disturbances leading to bloodshed are quite common even in Washington."
"I have frequently seen most bloodthirsty duels behind the Capitol during the sessions of Congress," said Bradstock, gravely.
"Ah, so I understand," replied the bishop. "But is there no news of dear Penelope?"
"Come, bishop, let us be frank," said Bradstock. "Have you no idea whom she has married?"
The gentle bishop looked much surprised.
"I? My dear Bradstock, I haven't the least idea. But I gather that both the gentlemen I interrupted the other day claim to be her husband, to say nothing of many others whom I have not yet set eyes on."
"And you have no notion where she is?"
The bishop lifted his hands.
"I think she must be near this place," he said. "I consider there can be no doubt of that, owing to matters with which Bob made me acquainted. By the way, I think this young Bob a very remarkable boy, Bradstock."
"So do I, bishop," said Bradstock.
"A very remarkable boy. The dean, who saw very little of him, came to that conclusion. He said he would be an ornament to the House of Lords, or the biggest young rip that ever disgraced it."
"Your dean must be a clever man," said Bradstock.
"Do not call him my dean," replied the bishop. "He is the cathedral's dean, and very difficult to handle. However, he is said to be clever, and I dare say is clever, especially about grass and a choir and things material. But, as I was going on to say, I consider it quite easy to find out where Penelope is, provided we go about it skilfully. I cannot but remember that I christened her, and I still take an interest in her."
"How do you propose to discover her whereabouts?" asked Bradstock.
"She sends telegrams from our Spilsborough post-office, does she not?"
"Yes," said Bradstock.
"Then some one should watch the post-office for her messenger. It seems probable that you would know him, as she is not likely to confide in strangers. Who can say that the very man she has married does not send them?"
That was easily disposed of, for, to Bradstock's certain knowledge, all the lovers were in town when the last wires came.
"Well, I suggest you watch the post-office," said the bishop. "It is, I opine, a perfectly legitimate thing to do."
Bradstock objected that she mightn't send any more for weeks.
A brilliant idea struck the bishop.
"Send her one which requires an answer, Bradstock."
"Where to?" asked Bradstock.
"Tut, tut!" said the bishop, "how foolish of me. Stay, I have it. Put something in theTimeswhich requires an answer."
"I will," said Bradstock.
"And send for young Bob to watch," said the bishop. "It is time that this scandal was stopped. I am exceedingly grieved with Penelope for getting married in a registrar's office. I will offer to marry her all over again in this very cathedral. And now you shall come and have lunch, and I will show you the swords given me by the marquis."
After lunch and an inspection of the trophies in the dining-room, Bradstock and the bishop drafted an advertisement for theTimes, imploring Pen to telegraph to Bradstock, saying how she was, as there was a rumour afloat that she didn't feel well. This was sent by wire to town, and was accompanied in its flight by one to Bob, asking him to come up in a motor-car at once.
"I think," said the bishop, "that I should like to go in a motor-car. There must be something delightful in speeding through the country feeling that steel and petrol do not suffer any of the strain that comes on horses. I shall ask young Bob to take me out."
"He will be delighted," said Bradstock. "I'm sure he will be delighted. They say he is an enterprising driver for his youth."
"I love enterprise," murmured the bishop. "I am surprised now to think of my own. I entered the Church meaning to be a bishop, and I am a bishop. I love enterprise. All curates seem full of it. Deans, I regret to say, are seldom vigorously enterprising. Archdeacons, too, have a tendency to take things easily, too easily."
"What do you think of the Higher Criticism?" asked Bradstock.
"Ha!" said the bishop, "ha! I think—oh, I think a great deal of it. That is, I think of it a great deal. I do not think all enterprise is praiseworthy. Would you like to know the dean?"
They spent the afternoon in the dean's cathedral, and walked on the dean's grass, and about six o'clock Bob rolled into the cathedral close in a fifteen-horse-power Daimler, and drew up in front of the bishop's palace.
"Have you found her out?" he demanded, eagerly, of Bradstock.
"No, but you shall," said Bradstock.
CHAPTER XX.
The bishop was very kind and amiable to Bob. Some people say that bishops are always kind and good to people who will be dukes by and by. One never knows what a duke can do for one later, and, of course, a bishop wants to be an archbishop. That is only natural: even a cardinal wants to be Pope, although he almost always says he is sorry he became one when he finds himself at the end of his tether. The bishop was a human being, but a nice one, and he really liked Bob, who suggested youth and strength and the future, all of them agreeable things to those who are not young and see their future behind them. So he talked to Bob almost as if he was one of the Bench of Bishops. He was familiar and jovial, and told some good stories of other bishops and even one of an archbishop. And he suggested to Bob that he rather wanted to see what a motor-car was like.
"There is a prejudice against them here," said the bishop. "Perhaps a natural prejudice among those who own chickens and dogs and children. But Providence works in a mysterious way, and I should be the last to hasten to blame even the gentleman known as a road hog. I begin to perceive an unwonted sprightliness in the villagers as the elimination of the unfit, the rheumatic, the undecided, and the foolish proceeds apace. A young man, who told me that he had in the course of his career as an owner of cars killed nearly a thousand dogs, two thousand five hundred fowls, several aged persons, some idiots, and a policeman, said that he noticed nowadays an air of bright alertness in his immediate neighbourhood which was at once a pleasure and an encouragement. He asserted that the dogs who remained were of a higher type of intellect than the others; and he said that even the fowls now stood sideways in the road and used their natural advantage of looking both ways at once. There was, too, a great improvement in village children and even in policemen. Oh, yes, I think much may be said for the motor-car."
"I should very much like to take you out in one, my lord," said Bob.
The bishop smiled graciously.
"You shall, my boy, as soon as this matter of Penelope is settled. I shall greatly enjoy passing rapidly through the country. I think of buying one for purposes of my pastoral visitations. Perhaps I may wake up some of my more somnolent clergy. I may even raise their general intellectual average, which is low, really low."
Bob's chauffeur put up at the Angel, but Bob himself had a bed in the palace, and dined in state with the bishop and Bradstock. They discussed Penelope all dinner-time, even before Ridley, for, as the bishop explained, Ridley took no interest in anything whatever but wine.
"I believe," said the bishop, with a chuckle, "that I might venture in his presence to advocate the disestablishment of the Church, or to give vent to heretical or even atheistical sentiments without his being aware that I was doing anything surprising, improper, or unusual. By all means, let us talk before Ridley. How do you think Bob should proceed, Bradstock?"
"He must stay in his car near, but not too near, the post-office," said Bradstock. "If Bob is properly goggled, this George Smith, whom we suppose to bring Pen's letters and telegrams, will not notice him. Shall you know him, Bob?"
"Rather," said Bob. "He walks very queerly. I could tell him a mile off."
"Very well, then," Bradstock continued, "when he goes, you will follow him at a distance. He must not be lost sight of."
"I much underrate our young friend's enterprise if he loses him," said the bishop. "There are occasions when exceeding the legal limit becomes a duty, Bob."
"Rather," said Bob. "Oh, I'll do it."
They calculated that theTimeswould reach Pen about noon, as they believed she must be within twenty miles of Spilsborough. Bob accordingly arranged to take up his watch at the post-office before one o'clock.
"And perhaps to-morrow night the mystery will be solved," said the bishop. "It is really remarkable. I am not at all able to follow Penelope's mind."
Bob explained it to him.
"They ragged her," he said,—by "they" meaning Titania and others,—"and she loves peace and hates showing off, and she's as obstinate as a pig. And grandmother said she was to be married in Westminster Abbey by a bishop, and that put her back up. Oh, Pen's easy to understand, I think."
"You have no idea whom she has really married?" asked the bishop.
"Not much," said Bob. "I give it up. I've thought it was all of 'em, and every one has done or said something that could be taken both ways. I was sure it was Goby, and then I was certain it was Bramber, and then I fairly knew it was Rivaulx, and I could have sworn it was Plant. And I'm very much worried by what occurred at Oxford. This new Bunting was very surprising."
The bishop had not heard of the new Bunting, and listened to Bob's story with great interest.
"The world is a very surprising place," said the bishop, with emphasis; "a very surprising place indeed. We do not need to go to Africa for new things. We are surrounded by the unexpected, by the marvellous. Bob's delightful story makes me feel that no one can reckon with certainty upon anything. I am half-inclined to think that this new Bunting must be a relation of the other Bunting, and that Penelope has met him, been struck with him, and has married him and lives in temporary retirement, while her husband struggles with Thucydides under a sofa. But after to-morrow we shall know more."
"I hope so," said Bradstock.
"I feel sure of it," said the bishop.
And Bob went to bed.
"Do you know, Bradstock," said the bishop, as he stroked his leg, which was a very reasonable leg for a bishop, "I wonder you didn't think I had married Penelope."
"Good heavens!" said Bradstock, "have you?"
"Certainly not," replied the bishop, "but it is odd she should be near Spilsborough, isn't it?"
"She must be somewhere," said Bradstock, rather irritably. "Hang it! the girl must be somewhere."
"When you think of it, she must," said the bishop. "Yes, yes, you are right. Still, Spilsborough—yes, it's odd, but not remarkable. As you say, she must be somewhere. I hope it's not the Jew, Bradstock."
So did Bradstock.
"It looks very much as if she was ashamed of him. But I'm incapable of judging, not having been married," said the bishop.
"I've been married twice," said Bradstock, "and Pen is a woman, which means she resembles no other woman in any respect whatever as regards her ways, manners, customs, and thoughts."
"You say that coolly?" asked the bishop.
"Icily," replied Bradstock.
The bishop shook his head.
"You surprise me," said the bishop, "and I think I will go to bed."
Bradstock went to bed, too.
"I shouldn't be surprised if she had married the bishop and was under this roof now," said Bradstock. "Nothing would surprise me unless I discover she's married to Rivaulx or Bramber. I don't think I should mind either of 'em."
And next day at half-past twelve Bob and his chauffeur took up a position near the post-office. As Geordie Smith knew Bradstock, he kept quietly at the palace. But the interested bishop who had not married Penelope kept bustling about the neighbourhood in quite an excitement.
"I wish I was coming with you, Bob."
"Oh, do!" said Bob.
"I almost think it would be advisable," said the bishop. "What I said would have weight with Penelope, I believe."
"I rather wish you'd come," cried Bob. "It would be fun, and you said you'd like to go in a motor-car."
"So I did," said the bishop, "but I've never been in one. No one has seen me in one. I fear a crowd would assemble."
"At any rate, my lord, you might get in and sit down a minute."
The bishop looked around.
"I really think I will," he said. And he entered the car.
"This is really comfortable, Bob, very comfortable, quite like an armchair. Is your driver a good one?"
"A ripper," said Bob. "The best they have where I got the car. It's not mine, but when I get all the money that Gordon owes me, I'll buy one."
The chauffeur got down and did something inexplicable to the machinery with a spanner. And the spanner broke.
"I'll just run across and get a new one, sir," said the chauffeur.
"It's getting late," said Bob. "Don't be long, and before you go start her up."
The driver set her going, and the bishop caught hold of Bob.
"You're not off? This is very surprising. It makes a very curious noise."
"There won't be any to speak of when we get her moving," said Bob. "You see the engine is going, and when we like we can start at once."
He was happy, bright, and eager.
"There's a motor-car coming," whispered the bishop.
Bob jumped.
"I say, it's yellow like Pen's big new one," he said. And the car stopped in front of the post-office ten yards away. Bob grabbed the bishop's arm.
"That's Geordie Smith," he said. "That's Geordie getting out. I could tell his legs a mile off. Where's my man?"
But the man didn't come, and Geordie was back in his car. He went off sweetly.
"The north road," said Bob. "I'm sure he'll take it. He's going quick. We can't wait for my man."
He grabbed the steering-wheel, shifted the lever, and the car moved off on the first speed.
"I'll—I'll go a little way with you," said the bishop.
"You'll have to unless you jump," replied Bob. "I'll keep in sight if I die for it."
This encouraged the bishop very much, of course, and it is possible that he might have jumped if he had not caught sight of the dean and a minor canon, who were staring hard at him with their mouths as wide open as the grotesque muzzle of a Gothic gargoyle.
"I'll not jump," said the bishop, and he waved his hand to Mr. Dean. "No, I'll not jump before the dean if I die for it."
Before he knew it, they were out on the road, and the dust of the yellow car in front was like the pillar of smoke to the Hebrews in the desert. Bob let her out to the second speed, and the bishop gasped.
"We go very quick," he said.
"Oh, not at all," replied Bob. "I don't want to go fast. If Geordie thinks he's being followed, he'll go sixty miles an hour, and I don't think I can do more than forty-five in this."
"Can't you?" asked the bishop. "I'm almost glad you can't."
"Is this the great north road?" asked Bob.
"No," said the bishop, "it's the road to Crowland and Spalding. I've often driven on it, but never so fast as this."
Geordie's car drew ahead, and Bob put his car on the third speed.
"Bob!" cried the bishop, as he clutched the sides of his seat. "Bob!"
"Yes?"
"Isn't this an illegal speed?"
"Rather," said Bob.
"I cannot aid and abet you in going at it, then," said the bishop, as firmly as he could. "I must request you to be legal."
Bob kept his eyes ahead.
"Please don't talk," he roared, "or I shall have an accident. You must remember I'm not at all experienced."
What could the poor bishop do? He groaned and sat very tight indeed, and, seeing the landscape eaten up by this monster at the rate of thirty miles an hour, came to the conclusion that there was nothing stable in the universe, not even theology. And about a mile ahead of them rose a pillar of dust.
"This is a remarkable situation," thought the bishop; "a situation which requires some firmness of mind. I am a bishop, and I am no better than half my clergy who break the law regularly. This must be nearly a hundred miles an hour! I wish, I almost wish Penelope had died soon after I christened her. This Bob is an infernal young ruffian; his manner is not respectful. I should like to cane him. But how can I stop him? I do not understand these strange brass things. I could as soon play the big organ in the cathedral that I wish I was in. If I pull Bob he will have an accident. If I speak to him, I may divert his attention—oh!"
They executed a fowl which had not learnt to stand sideways, and slammed through a village, scattering several ancient inhabitants who were enjoying a gossip in the middle of the road. As a matter of fact, they were damning Geordie Smith in heaps when the pursuing Bob fell upon them. They passed a church, and the bishop saw a clergyman staring over the wall. The village fell into the category of things which had been and slid away behind them.
"We are stopping still and the world slides," said the bishop, "but that was Griggs, I know, and he knew me. He has eyes like a hawk's. I am much surprised at myself. I have seventeen engagements this afternoon. Ridley will be alarmed. The dean—oh!"
They slammed a barking dog into the middle of the week after next.
"That was a near shave," roared Bob, exulting. "I've seen a smaller dog than that capsize a bigger car than this!"
"May I speak now?" implored the bishop.
"Righto," said Bob. "Here's a good straight bit. What is it?"
He was the superior: he was a big bird and the bishop was a beetle. He was the head master; his lordship of the see of Spilsborough was a new boy. The bishop felt small, terrified, amazed, humiliated.
"Are we going a hundred miles an hour?" asked the bishop.
"Rot!" said Bob, "we're only doing about thirty."
They scorched through quiet Crowland.
"Please put me down," implored the humble bishop.
"I can't stop," said Bob. "I'm afraid he's getting ahead. Sit tight, bishop, I'm going faster now."
"You mustn't, you can't," said the bishop.
Bob stooped for an answer and turned on the fourth speed. The bishop felt the machine sailing underneath him. He fell back and lost all ordinary consciousness.
"It is true," said his mind deep inside him; "it is true that all things are illusion! I have sometimes suspected it. We are a mode of motion; we are affections of the ether. I believe Professor Osborne Reynolds is right. I am a kind of vortex spinning in piled grains of ether. Bob is a vortex. We are in a vortex. We are straws in ether; we are shadows. I have a real non-existent pain in my real imaginary non-existent stomach. I am not alive and I am not dead. I am brave; I am a coward; I am a bishop. This is very wonderful. I shall preach about it when I return to earth. Is that a hedge? Did I see a cow?—a strange, elongated, horned, lowing, permanent, impermanent possibility of sensation and milk in a field made of matter, which is energy, which is an illusion. I become calm; motion is relative. I almost enjoy it. I become a Hegelian. I see that being equals non-being; that pain becomes pleasure if you only have enough of it. I no longer pity those who suffer sufficiently. There is apparently too little pain in the universe. Torquemada did his best to remedy it. Oh, was that a dog? I quite enjoy myself. I wonder if he can go faster. If he can, I wish he would. We are going slow, too slow!"
And, as Geordie's dust showed up much nearer, Bob put his car again at the third speed, and the bishop gasped.
"How do you like it?" asked Bob, as they spun through Spalding.
The bishop's face was a fine glowing crimson; his bloodshot eyes glittered like opals; he was intoxicated with movement and with new lights on philosophy.
"I—I should like to go a thousand miles an hour at night," said the bishop. "I think it is wonderful, Bob. Are you Bob, and I a bishop? Where is Spilsborough? Is there a Spilsborough?"
"Steady on!" said Bob. "I say, you're excited!"
"I am," replied the bishop. "I am excited; I feel peculiar. I think I can originate a new philosophy. Why are we doing this?"
"We are trying to find out where Penelope is," said Bob.
"Penelope, Penelope," said the bishop. "Penelope is a vortex. Yes, she is a vortex. Men and women are vortices. I shall study mathematics and apply it to theology."
"Hello!" said Bob, and he stopped almost dead. For Geordie's dust had suddenly died down.
"I'll bet he has a puncture," said Bob. And the bishop sighed and stared about him, as if he were just awakened.
"Where are we?" he asked.
"Blessed if I know," said Bob. "But you ought to know."
"I don't," said the bishop. And he got out and stood on the dusty road. He reeled, and the dean would have said he was intoxicated. And so he was.
"Geordie's off again," said Bob. "Come, jump in."
"I won't," said the bishop. "Certainly I won't. That machine is a kind of devil. It undermines the strongest convictions. I am afraid of it. I shall have to resign my bishopric if I ride another mile."
"Oh, rot!" said Bob. "Aren't you coming? I can't wait."
"Take the devilish thing away," cried the bishop. "Anathema maranatha and all the rest of it!"
Without another word, Bob pulled the lever and sailed off up the road, leaving a trail of petrol vapour behind him.
"Mentally and physically, I don't know where I am," said the bishop. "I don't know who I am, either. From my clothes I conclude I am a bishop, but to come to that conclusion I have to assume that I have the right to wear them. I have had a remarkable experience. Yes, I am a bishop. This is the earth and very dusty. It is hot, and I am miles from anywhere."
He looked up the road and saw a far cloud of dust.
"Under that dust is Bob," said the bishop. "As I said, Penelope is a vortex. Everything is much more remarkable than I thought, much more remarkable. I shall write to the professor to discover what he means. It is dreadful that what may be called a mere physical experience should incline me to look on some of my fellow bishops and the higher criticism with a more lenient eye. I don't see how any dogma can survive a hundred miles an hour. But Bob has not treated me altogether well. He plumps me down somewhere between Spalding and Spilsby or Boston or some other dreadful locality under the ghostly influence of my brother of Lincoln, and disappears in dust and smell. He was distinctly disrespectful. He said, 'Sit down, bishop,' in a very authoritative manner. He told me I was excited. I own I was, but I resented being told so by a boy, because he was a boy, or was it because I am a bishop? An unaccustomed bishop in a motor-car is plainly nobody compared with an experienced boy in one. I wish Penelope was a sensible person, or that I had never known her, or that she hadn't been born! I wonder what I am to do. I must walk; I may be overtaken by a cart and get a ride in one. I anticipate much talk in Spilsborough about this. I wonder what Ridley will say. Ridley is a stoic; perhaps he will say nothing. I wish I was near Ridley; I am thirsty. This road is dusty. It also appears long and interminable. I am as dry as convocation. I much resent Bob's treatment of me. I wish Bradstock was here, and I was where Bradstock is. Bradstock is in my library, in my chair, with a book in his hand and a whiskey and soda by his side. He takes things with great calmness. I wish he was here to take this with calmness."
And he walked south for three hours and got back to Spalding, and there took a train for Spilsborough.