Chapter 9

CHAPTER XXIV.England was excited, and London was more excited still. But Spilsborough was the most excited of them all. How it came out, no one knew, but the fact that the bishop was hunting for Lady Penelope Brading, who was married, who was unmarried, who had an infant which was black, which was white, which was adopted, was blazed all over that quiet episcopal town. Dean Briggs was very much annoyed, for the cathedral was no longer the centre of interest in the place. The clergy and the choir and the beadles and the tradesmen all discussed Lady Penelope. They stood in knots and fought and wrangled and argued till they were metaphorically black in the face. The lovers were pursued by gangs of boys who knew their names, and expected them to fight when they met, and followed them around in the hope of making a ring for them. All the world was aware that the duchess was at the palace. As a result, every one called there who was on terms with the bishop. It is not at all surprising that rumour ran fast, east and west and south and north. It is not every day that a quiet cathedral town is the centre of a vast social cyclone. Boston and Spalding had their eyes on Spilsborough. Boston knew that the bishop had made an unepiscopal visitation there with a white-haired peer. Spilsby heard of it, and was jealous. Spilsby talked of it and began to wonder who the young married lady at the Moat House was. Spilsby wondered slowly. In Lincolnshire things move slowly. Lincolnshire is not fast. Folks there are rooted to the soil; they consider matters firmly and stolidly. And of course it has to be remembered that they belong to the see of Lincoln and do not think very much of Spilsborough. Spilsborough was all very well, no doubt, but Lincoln was older and finer and much more wonderful. Nevertheless, though the Lincolnshire folks are slow, they get there at last. It was all very well for Penelope to call herself Mrs. Bramwell. The Spilsby people began to see through the matter. In another month they would have solved the problem, and would have given away the solution by calling Mrs. Bramwell "Your ladyship." But this was not to be, for when Geordie came back from Boston, he went to Bob at once."Mr. Robert, the gaff is pretty nigh blowed," he said, earnestly."Is it?" asked Bob."Safe as houses," said Geordie. "I've my suspicions that the whole show is up the spout, or very nigh up!""You don't say so?" said Bob."Blimy, but I do say it," replied Geordie. "I saw that gaitered josser, the bishop, at Boston this very afternoon. Her ladyship will be spoofed and smelt out. Some one is givin' the game away. I don't trust that bishop.""No more do I," said Bob. "He's very mean, Geordie. He encouraged me to follow you so that I could tell them where my cousin was.""Bah!" said Geordie, "and they call him a bishop! Her ladyship wishes not to be found out, and she sha'n't be—by a bishop. I own I don't understand her ladyship's idea.""I do," said Bob. "Suppose some one said you couldn't do something, Geordie, a hundred miles an hour for instance."Geordie shook his head."I'd show 'em!""And that you wouldn't after you said you would.""I'd show 'em," repeated Geordie."And that you shouldn't?""Shouldn't be damned, beggin' your pardon, Mr. Robert. I'd show 'em!""That's my cousin's idea," said Bob."And a dashed good idea, too," said Geordie. "I hate interferin' folks worse than policemen. I'd tell her ladyship about this here bishop. And Lord Bradstock was with him, sir.""The devil!" said Bob, and he ran to Penelope bawling."I say, Pen, you'll have to go," he roared, bursting into the room where Pen was lamenting over her many griefs. "The bishop is after you. Geordie's seen him and Bradstock, too. And I feel quite certain that all of 'em will be at Spilsborough now.""I won't go," sniffed Pen."Oh, but you must," said Bob. "You can't be caught here now by the whole lot.""I don't seem to care," said Penelope."Oh, what rot!" cried Bob. "You won't break down now, Pen, just in the middle of the game. I mean in the middle of your idea. Just think how they'll crow over you and the baby."That roused Penelope."They—they sha'n't!""Well, they will, unless you've got the one you are married to here," said Bob. "Or are you going to tell me who it is?"Pen snuffled sadly."How can I when we've q-quarrelled?" she demanded."Then we'll start at once," said Bob. "I'll tell Miss Mackarness and Tim and all of 'em, and we'll get your car and mine and we'll go somewhere else.""But where?" asked Pen."What rot!" said Bob. "You've got heaps of houses; any of 'em that are deserted. Upwell Castle will do.""So it will," said Penelope, helplessly. "But we can't go to-day, Bob. Baby is always asleep at this hour. Can't it be to-morrow?"Bob shook his head."It's very dangerous, with the bishop on our track," he said; "it's very dangerous. He's very determined, except in motor-cars. In motor-cars, going fast, he's not at all determined. But out of 'em he's a terror. I'd go to-day.""No, no, to-morrow," said Penelope, weeping.And Bob went away."I wish Baker was here," he said. "Baker is quite as determined as the bishop, and his advice would be very valuable. I wish I knew how to treat Gordon. I'm afraid he'll be angry. If he's angry, he may keep my money. Well, I don't care."He told Miss Mackarness to pack up, and Miss Mackarness said she would. Miss Mackarness remarked that the world was not what she had imagined it when she was young. It had in fact come to an end. She said she was not surprised at anything and never would be again. She said she had never been in a motor-car, but wanted to be in one, because death seemed quick and easy in a motor-car. She also said that if she escaped, and Lady Penelope was killed, she knew of a good opening in a lunatic asylum for a woman without nerves, who could not be surprised, and had been accustomed to the ways of the highest society."Oh, yes, yes; we'll be ready," said Miss Mackarness. And Bob went away to instruct Geordie and Timothy Bunting, and he spent the whole afternoon, covered with dirty oil, dancing about the two motor-cars, while Geordie put them into first-class trim."We ain't going to be run to ground by a bishop," said Bob."Not much we ain't, sir," said Tim. "I'd sooner go in one of these machines, so I would."It was the first time he had ever said as much, and Geordie paid him a compliment from under the car."That's the first sensible remark I've ever heard you make, Tim," said the concealed chauffeur."Thank you," said Timothy. "I always said you were a good chap, Geordie, even if you was wrapped up in muck and grease." And an idea came to Bob."I know what I'll do about Gordon," he said. "I'll write something about this now so's to show it him afterward."He wrote:"Pen is very sad. I fear she has quarrelled with Gordon. I'm sure she has married Gordon. I wish she would let me send to him to come, but she has sworn me not to. I think the baby is very like Gordon. It is clever like him, only, being younger, not so clever. I don't mind if it is Gordon. Gordon has been very kind to me, knowing how poor the family is. I wish I was as clever as he is."He read it over carefully."He's more jealous of Rivaulx than any one. I'll put something in about him."He added:"I think Rivaulx an ass because of balloons.""That will please Gordon," said Bob, as he stowed his note-book away. "But I do wish I knew who it is. Women are very fond of secrets. They seem to like babies and secrets best. Pen likes both together, and it's very confusing to any one."They started next morning in the two cars for Upwell Castle, taking the whole household. Bob installed an old villager and his wife as caretakers. He had selected them himself on the ground that they seemed the stupidest people in the village. Bob was very clever, if not so clever as Gordon."I think we've spoofed 'em, Pen," said Bob.Penelope hugged her baby and wept."Why are you crying?" asked Bob."I don't know," said Penelope."Then don't," said Bob. "It makes me very uncomfortable."They devoured space, and Timothy held on to the car and to Miss Mackarness. Miss Mackarness said it altered her ideas. Tim said it didn't, but then he was very conservative."Now, let 'em all come," said Bob.CHAPTER XXV.Titania fell on Bradstock's neck when he came back with the bishop. She very nearly fell on the bishop's neck, too, which alarmed him very much indeed, though he had all that confidence with women which marks the celibate clergy, especially when they are beautiful."My dear-r Augustin," said Titania, "I came at once. I felt I had to. I felt I must. There is no sympathy at home for me in my troubles. The duke laughs, laughs in my face, and says Penelope is damn fine sport!""Tut, tut!" said the bishop, who was loath to think that dukes could use bad language. "I very much regret to hear it."Titania waved her hands at large."But I do not care. I am wrapped up in woe, and in Robert. Where is he? Show me the telegram he sent."They showed her the telegram."Not black! Oh, Augustin, that might mean anything.""So it might. What did I say, bishop?" asked Augustin."Nonsense!" said the bishop. "I do not believe it is even dark. This is all waste of time. Time cannot now be wasted. This scandal grows. Ridley tells me all these unfortunate gentlemen, but Lord Bramber and Mr. Carew, are in the town. I have had telegrams from both of those asking for information, most excited telegrams. Mr. Carew says he is delirious with fever, and I believe him. Lord Bramber says his father is delirious, which I much regret. I think the son is also delirious, though he does not say he is. He implores me to remember that he is entitled to know first where Penelope is, as he is her husband. This is the telegram."Augustin and Titania read it."If we could only believe it," said Titania."We cannot," said the bishop. "Ridley declares they all say the same. They also say the infant is an adopted one. I do not remember, in the course of all that wide experience which comes to a country clergyman in a place like Ray Pogis, any situation equal to this. As a bishop with a wider experience, I have seen nothing so absurd even in the conduct of my clergy, who are indeed hard to beat in stupidity. I regret we did not go on to Waynfleet and Spilsby, Bradstock.""So do I," said Bradstock, eyeing Titania."We will go to-morrow," said the bishop. "I have an intuition that to-morrow we shall find her. I feel sure of it.""I will come with you," said Titania. "I must! I must! I cannot help fearing, Augustin, that the very worst may have happened. I have now no confidence whatever in dear, misguided Penelope's morals. I do not feel sure that the child is not black, or that it is adopted!""Good heavens!" said Augustin."Good heavens!" echoed the bishop."I haven't," affirmed Titania, dreadfully. "No such thing has happened in our family since the time of Charles the Second, which was lamentable but natural, and has long since been forgiven. I mistrust the general attitude of all these men, bishop. I mistrust it!""Certainly they seem in great distress," said the bishop.Titania rose and looked awful."Only upon one supposition can I account for it, bishop. This is their remorse. They are remorseful. They have treated her badly, and she has fled from them in her shame and will not see them!""Ha!" said the bishop, "there is something in that!""A great deal in it," boomed Titania, in her deepest tone of tragedy. "It explains everything."But Bradstock said:"Infernal nonsense, Titania! Bishop, I am surprised at you. They can'tallbe remorseful.""Why not?" demanded Titania; "why not, Augustin?""Of course not," interjected the bishop, hastily."Why not, I ask?" repeated the duchess."Oh, well, you know," said Bradstock, "when you come to think of it, wouldn'tonebe enough to be remorseful for having behaved like a scoundrel?"The duchess collapsed."Dear me! so it would," she said, weakly. "Now I come to think of it, one would be sufficient. Nothing is explained or can be explained till we find Penelope."The same feeling of desperation inspired the lovers in the various hotels. Their hopeless passion grew upon them. The sense of mystery deepened. They were sorry for Penelope, for the others, for themselves. What did she mean by it? They were all agreed now about the adoption theory, though they stuck to it manfully that they were married to her. Each one believed the infant was adopted, while he nobly claimed it as his own. They were really noble creatures, and showed themselves worthy of a better fate. A peculiar feeling of sympathy grew up among them, as it does among the unfortunate who are yet strong enough not to be overwhelmed. They spoke to each other again. Goby took De Vere's arm and walked about with him."I wish I could tell you all the truth, old chap," sighed Goby."Ah, so do I," said the poet. "A great passion is a wonderful thing, Goby.""So it is, old chap," said Goby. "Do you remember the happy days we spent in your home when we read Browning and Shelley together, and you explained your poems to me?"Austin de Vere sighed."Ah, they were happy days, when my nose peeled on the water and my hands were blistered by rowing.""Do you remember the bulldog?" asked Goby."Ah, and the terrier he bit!""And the howling retriever?""And the bald, bronchitic Borzois," said De Vere, with enthusiasm. "I bought them all of Bob because she loved him.""I didn't like you then, Austin, old chap," said Goby.Austin gripped his arm."Plantagenet, we will be friends always. Now I can confess that I loathed you. I told Bradstock so. I said you were an ass.""So I am," said poor Goby. "I admit now I can't understand Browning."Austin looked about him:"My dear chap, no more do I," he said, in an alarmed whisper. "He's a much overrated man.""I never overrated him myself," said Goby, sagely. "Look here, Austin. You know, of course, that I'm married to Penelope?""Of course," said Austin. "And you know that I am?""We'll quarrel about nothing now. To-morrow we'll look for her. Ridley, the bishop's butler, told me Bradstock and the bishop were going to Spilsby to-morrow. I gave him a sovereign.""So did I," said Austin. "Let's go in to dinner. I'm glad we are friends, Plantagenet.""So am I, old chap," said Goby.At a near table to them were Rivaulx and Gordon. Farther off Plant was with Carteret Williams. Plant regretted that Bramber wasn't there. Williams sighed for the artistic company of the delirious Carew. Not one look of envy or hatred or malice passed between any of them."Marquis," said Gordon, gloomily, "will you come to-morrow with me to find my—I mean, Penelope?""I will, my dear Gordon," replied the marquis. "To Spilsby.""How did you know?""Ridley, the bishop's man, said it.""He told me, too. I gave him five pounds," said Gordon."I gave him four.""I'll bet he's told 'em all," said Gordon. "I say, marquis, those were jolly, happy days before this misery came on, when you and I dined together.""And went up in balloons," said the marquis.Gordon shook his head."Well, yes, even the balloons. Do you know, marquis, I hated you then. I don't now. I think you a real good chap."The marquis held out his hand, and Gordon shook it."Gordon, I used to despise you. It was a great trial to dine with you. I'm glad I did it now. I'm a wiser, better man for the trials. I see that Jews can be noble by nature just as they can be barons by creation. I finally absolve Dreyfus. I almost love you now!""Good old marquis," said Gordon. "When we get up to town, I'll put you on the betht thing in the market. I will, so help me!"Carteret Williams and Plant got on well together. They talked first of Bramber and Carew."Carew's all right," said Williams; "all right for an artist. I was in the Ashanti war with an artist once. I put his head in a bucket of water!""Why?" asked Plant."Because he was too drunk to draw," said Williams. "He hated me when he got sober, and caricatured me. I never liked artists afterward. But when Penelope put me into harness with Carew, I found there was good stuff in him. He could work. He talked awful rot, but there was something at the back of it. I had to own it. How did you get on with Bramber?""I thought him a damn fool," said Plant. "But I found out he wasn't. There's stuff in Bramber. My—I mean, Penelope knew that. I say, as he isn't here, poor chap, will you come to Spilsby with me to-morrow?"Williams started."How did you come to think of Spilsby?" he asked, suspiciously."The bishop's butler told me. I gave him five pounds," said Plant."I gave him two," said Williams. "Yes, I'll go with you, as Carew isn't here. I like Carew now. Poor Carew!""And I like Bramber, poor chap," said Plant. "And now I'll go and shake hands with the marquis, who wanted to kill me last time I was here.""I wish I'd seen that," said Williams, simply. "I like seeing fights!"They spent a happy evening together and talked of Bob. Austin was great upon Bob. And so was Gordon. Austin told them all about the dogs. Goby spoke about the spavined pony he had bought. Gordon told them how Bob had borrowed a hundred pounds of him to be put into something."I owe him fifty thousand pounds, at least," said Gordon. "The boy is a financier. I wish I had a boy like Bob."And just then Carew walked into the room. He looked ill, but was as handsome as paint. Williams jumped to his feet."Oh, Jimmy, I heard you were delirious," he said, anxiously."I was," said Jimmy, "very delirious, extraordinarily so. I'm not sure that I'm not delirious now."He looked around the room anxiously, and drew Williams into a corner."Do you know anything about delirium?" he asked, anxiously."A lot about delirium tremens," said Williams. "Most of the artists I've been with in Africa had it. They said it was malaria. But have you been drinking?"Carew shook his head."Not much, but I see the room is full of 'em!""Full of what?""Things, visions, phantasms!" said Jimmy, creepily. Williams looked around in alarm."You don't say so!""Yes," said Jimmy. "This influenza is awful! I could swear I see the marquis and Gordon and that ass Goby and De Vere!""Pull yourself together," said Williams. "They're here all right!""Are they real?" asked Jimmy. "They're not delusions?""Devil a bit!" said Williams."Oh," said Jimmy, "then I think I'll have some brandy. What are they doing here?"[image]JIMMY CAREW, A.R.A. He was the best looking of the whole "horde""What are we doing here?" asked Williams. "We're mad! Oh, but, Jimmy, I'm dashed glad to see you," said Williams, with a lurid string of emphatic war expressions. "Those were happy days when I learnt about art with you, and you learnt about life with me!""They were," said Jimmy. "But now I'm almost sick of art."Williams implored him not to say so."Think of Rembrandt and Velasquez and Whistler!""I can't think of them. I think of Penelope!""Try to think of Monet and Manet," said Williams. "They'll do you good.""To be sure, to be sure," sighed Jimmy. "I'll try to."They talked till two in the morning, and the only man missing was Bramber."Perhaps he's chucked it," said Williams. "The last time I saw him he looked sick enough to chuck anything. But I suppose the old earl is so rocky he can't get away.""I hate earls," said Jimmy, jealously. He added with extraordinary irrelevance, "But I'm glad she adopted him."No doubt he referred to the infant.CHAPTER XXVI.While Pen and Bob and the baby were going as fast as they could toward Upwell Castle, Pen wept at intervals and hugged the child that all the "horde" were glad she had adopted."My only darling," said Pen, convulsively.Bob shook his head."I say, Pen, I really don't understand you, you know! I say, this is rot! You mustn't cry; I can't stand it. And you keep on saying it's your only one in a very silly way. You irritate me very much, Pen!""Why, Bob?" asked the desolate creature at his side."You could stop all this if you wanted to!""Not now," said Pen, "since we've quarrelled!""Rot!" said Bob. "You tell me who it is and I'll bring him along. But I'm glad it isn't Timothy, you know."Timothy was now with Geordie in the other car."I can't tell you," said Pen."Then don't snivel, please," said Bob, crossly, "or I shall drive into something and kill the baby.""Oh!" said Pen, "oh, please don't!""I think it's very hard lines," said Bob, "especially as Geordie and Tim know, and Miss Mackarness. If they know, I ought to.""I had to tell them, Bob. Besides, they knew him," said the incautious Pen.Bob's eyebrows lifted, and he drove rather fast down the next straight bit of road."I say," he said to himself, "I ought to make something of that."He thought very hard and did not speak for a mile. He thought all the more."Tim knows 'em all, of course. And Geordie may, though I remember his saying he didn't. But who does Miss Mackarness know? If I can spot that, I can spot the winner."He went back to the time of Pen's youth, which he only knew by hearsay, as he wasn't much more than born then, and went through the list one by one."By Jove!" he said, suddenly, and Penelope started."Yes, Bob.""No," said Bob, thoughtfully; "no, I'm not sure.""What aren't you sure of, dear?""Him," said Bob, and Penelope sighed.After another mile's silence, Bob spoke again."By Jove!""You said that before," cried Pen, irritably. He turned his eyes upon her, and she saw them full of strange intelligence."Oh, what is it?" she asked, in alarm.Bob shook his head."You've told me who it is," he said."I haven't.""You have," said Bob. "Pen, you're a wonder! I say, are all girls like you?"Penelope said she didn't know, and demanded his meaning."If they are, they're interesting but trying," said Bob. "You couldn't have made more fuss about it if it had been Bunting. Pen, you are a wonder. Well, I don't mind; I like him well enough. He's all right. I hope Bill will like him.""You are an annoying, irritating boy," said Pen, crossly. "And you know nothing.""Bar him and Miss Mackarness and Timothy and Smith, I'm the only one that does," said Bob, drily. "I know you, Pen. You were ashamed of him, after all you used to say. All right, don't get angry. I'm all right. I'll keep it dark till you say pull up the blinds. It's not my business. But I'm glad I know. For granny doesn't, and no one has guessed, not even Baker. And he's had great experience with girls in all parts of the world, just as he has had with dogs."Pen wept."You are saying all this to worry me. How can you know?" she cried."I'll tell you some day," said Bob. "But because you haven't told me yourself, and have made me find out, I won't tell you who it is till I want to. But one thing I'll say, I don't think your brother Bill really likes him."He whistled and let the car out till she fairly hummed. Pen was exceedingly cross, and hugged the baby, hoping that they would both be killed at once."I don't know what's going to happen," she said. "I've done my best, and nothing but trouble comes of it. If I had to begin again, I don't think I'd try to reform anything. I—I hate reform!"In the meantime Miss Mackarness's ideas got sadly altered. She did not mind dying at first, but when Bob really went fast, it seemed to her that she loved life better than she thought."If I am to die," she said, "I would rather die in my bed, much rather. I want peace, and my dear lady gives me none. This young wretch is no better than a murderer. He laughs. I can't laugh. I can't even speak. The wind stops my screaming. I want to get out and die quietly."They pulled up close to a village to let a wagon loaded with long timbers get into a side road. Miss Mackarness seized her chance, and, opening the door, jumped to the ground."If you please, my lady, I'm going no farther. I will come on later in a cart."Penelope remonstrated with her. Bob was urgent and impatient."We may be caught any minute," he said. "Pen, let her come on in a cart.""If you prefer it," said Penelope."My lady, I much prefer it," said the housekeeper.Bob let the car go, and Geordie, coming on behind, pulled up to interview Miss Mackarness."Sooner than go in one a mile farther," she said, firmly, "I would lie down and die.""That's silly, ma'am," said Geordie."I would rather live silly than die wise," replied Miss Mackarness. "I may be used to much and past surprises, but I can't stomach these cars."They left her in the road. And now they drove fast, for Bob set the pace, and made it a rapid one."I say, Geordie," said Timothy, about twenty miles farther on, "don't you think you could go slower?""How can I, with the other car ahead, man?" demanded Geordie."Well, I feels queer inside," said poor Timothy. "I'd rather ride a bucking man-eater than go another yard. Set me down!""Not me," said Geordie. "Be a man, Tim!""I won't," said Tim. "Set me down. I'll walk.""Or come on in a cart," sneered Geordie. "Why, Mary here don't mind, do you, Mary?"Mary did mind, but she adored Geordie, and said she didn't. She preferred to die with Geordie than to ride with Miss Mackarness in a cart."I don't care," said Tim; "if Mary wants to die in a blazin' fiery mass of petrol under a wreck, I don't. Let me down."And Geordie let him down."A mad bull sooner," said Tim. "And, though I 'ates walkin', bein' a groom, I'd rather walk to hell than motor into paradise."But peace was established in the cars by now. Geordie and Mary sat side by side, and whenever the pace was hot, she grabbed him so tightly that he remonstrated."My dear, I'd rather you hugged me when we go slow," he said at last."Lor', Mr. Smith, I wasn't huggin' you," remonstrated the blushing Mary."To an outsider it would appear so," said Geordie. "When a young lady puts her arms around a man's neck, it looks like huggin'. Mind I don't say I object, but Imightrun into the hedge.""What a very amusin' gentleman you are," said Mary. "I've a very small opinion of Mr. Bunting except upon an 'orse. I'm surprised he preferred to walk.""I'm not," said Geordie. "I expected it, and if we went really fast, you'd want to walk.""Never," said Mary. "I love goin' fast. There's great po'try in a motor-car, Mr. Smith.""Poetry, well, maybe," said Geordie. "To my mind, there's more machinery and oil. I wonder what the next thing will be with my lady, Mary.""Ah," said Mary, "that's more than I can say. She's very sweet and kind, but I've give up tryin' to understand 'er. And such an 'usband, too. If I 'ad an 'usband, I'd like to show 'im off, if I was proud of 'im, and I would.""Would you be?" asked Geordie."I 'ope so," said Mary."I guess you'd expect him to do what you wanted, like my lady," said Geordie."Oh, no, never," said Mary. "I'd do hexactly as I was told by 'im I loved. I don't believe in a woman 'angin' on a man and tellin' 'im to do this or that!"And just then a mighty fine stretch of road opened before them, and Bob, half a mile in front, turned his car loose at the top speed. Geordie put his on the third, and Mary squealed."Hush your row, my dear," said Geordie. "Why, bless me, what's the matter with the girl!"She had him tight by the neck."Oh, I'm frightened, Mr. Smith. Don't go so fast," she screamed."Lemme go," gasped Geordie, whom she was nearly strangling. "Lemme go, girl!""Never, never!" said Mary, settling on him tighter still. "Stop, stop!""I won't," said Geordie. "D'ye think I'll let that young un get away from me?""You must," screamed Mary, "or I'll get out.""Then get out," said Geordie, rudely."Oh, you cruel, cruel Mr. Smith!" wailed Mary. "Let me down before I'm killed."Geordie wrenched himself free."D'ye mean it?" he asked."Yes, you brute!" said Mary, "I does mean it."He put her down there and then."You're no gentleman," said Mary."I never said I was," retorted Geordie, with his eyes on the vanishing Bob."And I hate you, you coward," sobbed Mary."There's a village a mile up the road," said Geordie. And he left her, disappearing in a whirlwind."Oh, I'm a sad, des'late, disappinted, jilted woman, with thin shoes and three and tuppence in my pocket," said Mary. "And I don't know where I am!"She sat on a pile of road metal and cried bitterly. She took it much harder than the bishop did in a similar situation."Well, it can't be helped," said Geordie, "and I don't know that I'm sorry. She'd have proposed if I'd kept her at the second speed, I know that; so perhaps I'm well out of it."He whirled after Bob and his lady, and soon caught them up.There was peace on that car, too, for Bob hadn't been able to keep his discovery to himself."Yes, you're right, Bob," sighed Penelope. "But what could I do after what I'd said? And what can I do now?""Cheer up!" said Bob. "I'll fix it for you somehow. Do you know, Pen, I begin to think that after all women aren't as difficult to understand as Baker says."They came to Upwell in the early afternoon, and were ignorant that the world was on their track. Bob sent a telegram to "Mr. Bramwell" as soon as they got there.CHAPTER XXVII.The bishop was excited. There is no doubt about it. Nor is it any wonder, for the sporting element exists even on the episcopal bench, and the hunting of Penelope was peculiar and choice sport. The clergy of his diocese were moderately tame, and when he pointed his episcopal gun at them, they said they would come down, just as the celebrated squirrel did when Colonel Crockett raised his weapon. Not for a long time had he felt so pleased with himself. He was quite certain that Penelope was to be run to earth in the neighbourhood of Spilsby, and, when he had found her, he proposed to speak to her like a father."I shall certainly suggest a religious ceremony in the cathedral," he said, blandly. "Oh, yes, I shall insist on it.""You'll do what?" asked Bradstock, who was with him and the duchess in the early train to Spilsby. "You'll do what?"The bishop rubbed his hands."As the one who christened her, I shall insist on a religious ceremony," he replied."Will you?" asked Bradstock."To be sure I shall," said the bishop."Did you ever hear of Mrs. Partington?" asked Bradstock, "or of King Canute, or of any other celebrated character in history or fiction whose insistence did not come off?""I scarcely understand you, Bradstock," said the bishop, with dignity. "I can hardly imagine that you mean to hint, not altogether obscurely, that Lady Penelope will treat any suggestion of mine with disrespect."Bradstock intimated that that was what he did mean, and Titania, who had got up too early and felt like it, said that she expected nothing from Penelope now but the worst."I don't know why I am here, or why I am going there," she said. "I cannot imagine why any of us are doing anything but hiding our disgraced heads in the remoter parts of the country, while Penelope flaunts a black, adopted, illegitimate child in some peculiar part of Lincolnshire, while she is being chased on motor-cars by remorseful scoundrels, of whom I saw about a dozen as we left Spilsborough. Little did I think that I should be running after her with Augustin and you, bishop, while the duke stays at Goring saying she is sport, and Robert is with her when he ought to be at home with Mr. Guthrie learning to spell. And as a result of Penelope's being away like this, that disgraceful Chloe Cadwallader, of whom I shall always have the lowest opinion, is living in her house in Piccadilly, and I dare say spending her money right and left. The marchioness said she knew, on the highest authority, that this was so. The marchioness always goes on the principle of believing the worst, though, of course, she hopes the best. I hope the best for Penelope, but I'm sure the worst is before us. I'm sure of it."The bishop asked her to cheer up, and Augustin stroked her hand to calm her. But nothing calmed or cheered her."I am calm," she said. "I am even peaceful. What can be worse than the worst? I am cheerful, for I believe there is a better world than this, in which even a duchess may find some kind of rest on the highest authority. I shall be glad to go there, and leave you all.""Don't say so," said Augustin."I do say so," said the duchess. "I say it firmly and with faith. You don't dare to deny there is a better world than this, Augustin?""Certainly not, in the presence of the bishop," replied Augustin. "Though, in looking out of the windows, I should not be surprised to learn that there is a more exciting spot than Spilsby."For they had arrived."Iwill make inquiries," said the bishop, "while you look after the duchess in the waiting-room. I see that my wishes have been attended to. I telegraphed for a carriage to be in attendance, and it is in attendance. I will speak with the driver."He spoke to the driver, who was much intimidated by the apron and the gaiters of the clerical dignitary."This is the carriage I ordered, I think," said the bishop. "I want to drive to—to Lady Penelope Brading's house. Do you know it?""No, sir," said the driver. "I never heard owt of it, sir.""Dear me, dear me!" said the bishop. "Well, well! But that is easily explicable, my good man, for my young friend is in the peculiar position of having several names. This is rare; yes, rare I admit, but not altogether so very rare. Can you tell me if there is any one lately come to this neighbourhood known, let us say, as Mrs.—Mrs. Plant, for instance?""No, sir, there be not as I knows," said the driver."Or Mrs. Gordon, shall I say?"The driver scratched his head."I never heard of her," he replied."How remarkable," said the bishop, smiling. "But I am not surprised. Indeed, in this last case I am almost gratified, though I withhold my reasons for saying so. Are you then acquainted with any one called De Vere? No; or with a Mrs. Carteret Williams?"Light dawned in the driver's face at last. "Mrs. Williams! Ay, sure enif. She do sell sweets and tobacco.""Indeed," said the bishop, "indeed, how remarkable! But I don't think she will do. Have you heard of a Mrs. Rivaulx or a Mrs. Goby? Perhaps I surprise you in this part of Lincolnshire, but in London it is not at all uncommon for married ladies to have several names, not at all uncommon.""No, sir, I never heard o' none of 'em," returned the driver, thinking that this gentleman talked most remarkable "cat-blash.""Good heavens!" said the bishop, "this new custom is trying. Do you then know a Mrs. Carew or Mrs. Bramber?"Again the man scratched his head and shook it. What did this strange person in gaiters mean?"Oh! ah!" he said at last. "There be a Mrs. Bramwell at the Moat House.""Indeed," said the bishop. "Perhaps that may be the lady. At the Moat House! Do you know Mr. Bramwell?""I've seen un," said the driver."What is he like?" asked the bishop. "Is he fair or dark, or tall or short?""He's fairish to dark and betwixt and between," said the driver, wishing to be accurate, "and mostly goes in big spectacles in his engine.""Ha!" said the bishop, "we are on the scent! And what is Mrs. Bramwell like?""She do mostly go in the engine with specs on, too, sir. But my wife do say she be a very fine woman."The bishop nodded."I think you may drive us to the Moat House," he said. "I will bring my friends out."He rubbed his hands and congratulated himself on the skill with which he had discovered the object of his search."I really believe I have found her," he said, when he entered the waiting-room. "I really believe it.""No!" said the duchess."Yes," said the bishop. "By a series of skilful questions and the exercise of a little pardonable deceit, I have learnt that there is a Mrs. Bramwell here, who is said to be a very fine woman, and goes out in goggles in a motor-car with her husband, who is fairish to dark and tall and short and also wears goggles."Augustin nodded."This looks like—something," he said, hopefully. "Bramwell! Perhaps really Bramber, Titania.""No, no," said Titania. "I expect disaster. I anticipate the Jew or Williams.""But Bramwell—the first syllable being Bram," suggested the bishop."I cannot build on Bram," said the duchess. "We are an unfortunate family. Lord Bramber may be an earl at any minute, and she has married a coal-heaver, of course! Let us go at once."When they got into the carriage, the bishop told the man to drive to the Moat House."Did you say Moat House?" asked the duchess."I did," replied the bishop."Augustin, do you remember that Penelope's mother loved houses with moats? I think the bishop may be right. I tremble with nervousness."She had more reason to tremble in a moment, for a big motor-car shaved them and scared the horse."Perhaps—" she cried."No," said Augustin, "it's Plant and Williams and Carew!"The duchess gasped. And before she could say another word, another car swept by them."Perhaps—" she cried."No," said the bishop; "in spite of goggles, I recognize the marquis and Mr. Gordon and Mr. Austin de Vere. This is very remarkable, and not a little annoying. We shall all descend upon Penelope at once, and I fear it will somewhat disturb her. I should have much preferred to see her quietly in order to bring her to a just sense of her peculiar, and our painful, position."When they got to the house, they found all the lovers but Bramber assembled at the gates. If it hadn't been for the illness of the Earl of Pulborough, he would have been there, they knew."Oh, which is it?" moaned Titania. "They all said they were married to her, and I know it's none of 'em."The bishop greeted the crowd in the most courteous manner. He shook hands with those he knew, and bowed to those he hoped to know."I think, gentleman, that, with your permission, I will go in first and see Lady Penelope before any one else does."And while he went up the carriage drive, Titania glared at the lovers."Don't look at 'em like that, Titania," said Augustin."Like what, Augustin?""Like a Gorgon, Titania," said Augustin."I look as I feel," said Titania. "I hate them all. I shall not be able to restrain myself when I see Penelope. I shall shake her. I shall say what I think. No, I won't be wise, Augustin! I decline to be wise. I am full of bitterness. From her earliest youth, she has been a thorn. And it is your fault; you encouraged her in reform, in anarchism. Don't speak to me! I shall explode!"And Augustin got out just as the bishop rang the door-bell across the moat. Instead of the kind of servant he expected to see, he was greeted by a bent old woman, whose chief glory was her rheumatism, though her claim on Bob had been her stupidity."Is Mrs. Bramwell at home?" asked the bishop, with a beaming smile."Naw," said the old lady, not beaming in the least."No? Then when will she be back?""I don't know," replied the caretaker."You don't know! Will it be soon?""She never said," snarled the old lady."Did she go early?""Maybe an hour ago, maybe two.""Will she be back late?""Eh? I'm 'ard of 'earin'.""Will she be back late?" roared the bishop."She didn't say.""What did she say, then?""Nothin' as I knows of.""Where did she go, my good woman?""She didn't say.""Dear me, how vexing!" said the bishop."I'm 'ard of 'earin', I tell ye," said the old dame."Who went with her?""All of 'em, so I 'eard.""Who were they?" asked the desperate bishop."All as was 'ere. There ain't one left.""Was a boy with her?""To be sure, a young gentleman as fetched me 'ere, and give me a shillin'.""What was his name?""'E didn't say," said the old woman, and the bishop wiped his fevered brow and tried again."Was Mr. Bramwell with her?""I never seed un.""How did they go?""In two engines.""Ha!" sighed the bishop, "in two motor-cars.""Likely.""Will they be back to-night?""I 'ope not," said the woman."Why do you hope not?" asked the wretched bishop."Because of fifteen bob a week, to be sure.""Then Mrs. Bramwell has gone, has left?""Ain't I been sayin' so this last hour?" asked the exasperated old person. "Me, with rheumatics, standin' on cold stones for hours arglin' that she and all have gone in engines!""Good heavens!" said the bishop, "she has escaped! She has eluded us! She has kept her word and has fled! This is remarkable; it is annoying. I feel nearer losing my temper than I have done with any one but the dean for the last ten years. I must go back and tell them."He went back to the gate."Is it—" they cried."This is her house," said the bishop, who looked rather flushed, "but I have discovered by a series of skilfully devised questions that she is no longer here. Duchess, Lord Bradstock, marquis, and gentlemen, she went away this morning in two motorcars with all her household, leaving behind her no one but a caretaker who, in my humble opinion, ought to be taken care of in an idiot asylum!"The duchess sighed."Then she has kept her word! Finding out that we are still pursuing her, she has fled from us. Oh, I think it wicked of her, wicked to all of us. When I get hold of Robert, I shall take steps to show him what I think of him. Do you give it up, bishop?"The bishop's eyes flashed with indignation."Never!" he said. "I propose that we pursue her at once. She cannot have thought we should be here so soon. If we find out which road she took, we may yet overtake her.""In what?" asked Bradstock, with his hand on the ramshackle landau the duchess sat in. "In this conveyance, for instance?"The bishop looked at the two big motor-cars, and at their wretched owners, Plant and Rivaulx."Taking my courage in both hands," he said, bravely, "I propose that we lose no time.Iwill go in this car with the marquis, if he will take me."The marquis said through his clenched teeth that he would."Bradstock, you will escort the duchess back to Spilsborough.""Certainly not," said the duchess. "I am coming, too. I must and I will. Whatever the condition of Penelope may now be, it is my duty. I come with you!""And so do I," said Bradstock.They packed themselves in the cars, and moved away from the deserted house of the moat. In the village they soon discovered that "Mrs. Bramwell" had gone northwest by the road to Horncastle, and a moment later the bishop said, "Oh!" as Rivaulx fairly launched his car into space. Even Bradstock in Plant's car said something, and the duchess, losing the repose which stamps all duchesses the moment they become duchesses, uttered a scream. Gordon consoled the bishop, being very much pleased to find himself with one, by saying that he had been in a balloon with Rivaulx, and found him careful and very trustworthy."I do not think any one who goes in a balloon," gasped his lordship, "can properly be described by any such terms."Williams said he didn't care if he was killed, as soon as Penelope had acknowledged she was married to him. Gordon, who was desperately scared of Williams, said nothing, but gave the bishop to understand by signs that the war correspondent was mad. Carew, who was still suffering from influenza, sat in his corner and wept at intervals.In Plant's car the duchess and Goby and De Vere got on admirably. Bradstock sat by Plant and prepared to die. The duchess held Captain Goby's hand. De Vere said some poetry before the speed was very great. Afterward he said his prayers, and wished he was at home with his bulldogs."What does anything matter?" he asked, as he clutched Goby's offside.And all of a sudden Rivaulx's motor pulled up so quickly that the bishop was nearly precipitated upon the road. A scared, oldish woman in respectable and sub-freak garments had done her best to get run over. Rivaulx swore terrible French oaths, and the bishop, who knew French far better than he dared acknowledge except in a literary conversation on Rabelais orargot, sympathized with him in awestruck silence."You accursed old lady! Why?" demanded Rivaulx."Hush, hush!" said the bishop, and, leaning from the car, he said: "It is all right, my good woman. I hope we have not alarmed you."Miss Mackarness said they had. It was very hard to have got out of one car and then to be almost killed by another. Then the car behind came up, and the duchess looked at the lady who had given her a little respite. The duchess absolutely screamed again."Augustin, it is Miss Mackarness! I remember her well!""Who the deuce is Miss Mackarness?" grumbled Bradstock.But Titania paid no attention to him. Her eyes brightened. She became clever all at once."I remember," she said, "I remember!"She called to the stranger in the road."I am so pleased to see you again after such a long time, Miss Mackarness," she said, kindly. "Are you still at Upwell Castle?""I'm going there now, ma'am," said the housekeeper, who didn't recognize her Grace."Are you walking?" asked Titania, kindly. "It is a long way to walk. You don't remember me, I see.""No, ma'am," said Miss Mackarness."I am the Duchess of Goring," said Titania."Oh, your Grace! I beg your Grace's pardon, but, of course, you are," gasped Miss Mackarness."And I am going to Upwell now to see my niece."Miss Mackarness gasped again and could not speak."To see Mrs. Bramwell, you know," said Titania, sweetly. "Of course,Iknow all about it, Miss Mackarness.""To be sure, your Grace," replied her victim, not knowing what to do or say."Thengood-bye," said the duchess. "I hope you will enjoy your walk, Miss Mackarness. It's such pleasant weather for a walk."They left the poor woman in the middle of the road, an easy victim to the slowest vehicle in the county."Oh, I've done wrong, I know!" said Pen's housekeeper. "What shall I do now?""I said that on purpose," said Titania, viciously. "She has known all along, and ought to have told me. But now we know all about it, Augustin!""What about 'Mr. Bramwell'?" asked Augustin. Goby and De Vere turned pale, and the duchess threw up her hands."I might have asked her!" she cried."Captain Goby looked at her severely," said Augustin, "and so did De Vere."Goby and De Vere denied it."Never mind," said the duchess, "this time she can't escape. We are on the track."They passed a man a few miles farther on, and only Augustin noticed him."You are right, Titania; we are certainly on the track. That man was Timothy Bunting," he said. "Pen has been shedding her retainers all along the road. I suspect Bob of furious driving."A few miles farther, at the foot of a steep rise, they saw a young and pretty woman weeping on a heap of stones."I wonder if that is another of 'em," said Augustin.It was Mary, whom Geordie had deposited on the road half-way between two villages."Have two motor-cars gone this way?" asked Bradstock."Yes, sir," sobbed Mary."Why are you crying?" asked the sympathetic peer."Because Geordie Smith is no gentleman," said Mary."That's Mrs. Bramwell's driver, isn't it? I know her well," said Bradstock."Yes, it is, and he ain't a gentleman. He drove so fast he frightened me, and I got out.""How sad," said Bradstock. "We are going on to Upwell Castle now. Can we help you?""I would rather walk to Australia than get in another one of 'em," said Mary."You are right," said Augustin. "Titania, you are right. In half an hour we shall see Penelope.""And I shall see Bob," said Titania, viciously.But the bishop felt rather pleased with Bob now. He was in a car driven by Rivaulx. And Rivaulx was desperate. And when Rivaulx was desperate he lacked consideration for others.

CHAPTER XXIV.

England was excited, and London was more excited still. But Spilsborough was the most excited of them all. How it came out, no one knew, but the fact that the bishop was hunting for Lady Penelope Brading, who was married, who was unmarried, who had an infant which was black, which was white, which was adopted, was blazed all over that quiet episcopal town. Dean Briggs was very much annoyed, for the cathedral was no longer the centre of interest in the place. The clergy and the choir and the beadles and the tradesmen all discussed Lady Penelope. They stood in knots and fought and wrangled and argued till they were metaphorically black in the face. The lovers were pursued by gangs of boys who knew their names, and expected them to fight when they met, and followed them around in the hope of making a ring for them. All the world was aware that the duchess was at the palace. As a result, every one called there who was on terms with the bishop. It is not at all surprising that rumour ran fast, east and west and south and north. It is not every day that a quiet cathedral town is the centre of a vast social cyclone. Boston and Spalding had their eyes on Spilsborough. Boston knew that the bishop had made an unepiscopal visitation there with a white-haired peer. Spilsby heard of it, and was jealous. Spilsby talked of it and began to wonder who the young married lady at the Moat House was. Spilsby wondered slowly. In Lincolnshire things move slowly. Lincolnshire is not fast. Folks there are rooted to the soil; they consider matters firmly and stolidly. And of course it has to be remembered that they belong to the see of Lincoln and do not think very much of Spilsborough. Spilsborough was all very well, no doubt, but Lincoln was older and finer and much more wonderful. Nevertheless, though the Lincolnshire folks are slow, they get there at last. It was all very well for Penelope to call herself Mrs. Bramwell. The Spilsby people began to see through the matter. In another month they would have solved the problem, and would have given away the solution by calling Mrs. Bramwell "Your ladyship." But this was not to be, for when Geordie came back from Boston, he went to Bob at once.

"Mr. Robert, the gaff is pretty nigh blowed," he said, earnestly.

"Is it?" asked Bob.

"Safe as houses," said Geordie. "I've my suspicions that the whole show is up the spout, or very nigh up!"

"You don't say so?" said Bob.

"Blimy, but I do say it," replied Geordie. "I saw that gaitered josser, the bishop, at Boston this very afternoon. Her ladyship will be spoofed and smelt out. Some one is givin' the game away. I don't trust that bishop."

"No more do I," said Bob. "He's very mean, Geordie. He encouraged me to follow you so that I could tell them where my cousin was."

"Bah!" said Geordie, "and they call him a bishop! Her ladyship wishes not to be found out, and she sha'n't be—by a bishop. I own I don't understand her ladyship's idea."

"I do," said Bob. "Suppose some one said you couldn't do something, Geordie, a hundred miles an hour for instance."

Geordie shook his head.

"I'd show 'em!"

"And that you wouldn't after you said you would."

"I'd show 'em," repeated Geordie.

"And that you shouldn't?"

"Shouldn't be damned, beggin' your pardon, Mr. Robert. I'd show 'em!"

"That's my cousin's idea," said Bob.

"And a dashed good idea, too," said Geordie. "I hate interferin' folks worse than policemen. I'd tell her ladyship about this here bishop. And Lord Bradstock was with him, sir."

"The devil!" said Bob, and he ran to Penelope bawling.

"I say, Pen, you'll have to go," he roared, bursting into the room where Pen was lamenting over her many griefs. "The bishop is after you. Geordie's seen him and Bradstock, too. And I feel quite certain that all of 'em will be at Spilsborough now."

"I won't go," sniffed Pen.

"Oh, but you must," said Bob. "You can't be caught here now by the whole lot."

"I don't seem to care," said Penelope.

"Oh, what rot!" cried Bob. "You won't break down now, Pen, just in the middle of the game. I mean in the middle of your idea. Just think how they'll crow over you and the baby."

That roused Penelope.

"They—they sha'n't!"

"Well, they will, unless you've got the one you are married to here," said Bob. "Or are you going to tell me who it is?"

Pen snuffled sadly.

"How can I when we've q-quarrelled?" she demanded.

"Then we'll start at once," said Bob. "I'll tell Miss Mackarness and Tim and all of 'em, and we'll get your car and mine and we'll go somewhere else."

"But where?" asked Pen.

"What rot!" said Bob. "You've got heaps of houses; any of 'em that are deserted. Upwell Castle will do."

"So it will," said Penelope, helplessly. "But we can't go to-day, Bob. Baby is always asleep at this hour. Can't it be to-morrow?"

Bob shook his head.

"It's very dangerous, with the bishop on our track," he said; "it's very dangerous. He's very determined, except in motor-cars. In motor-cars, going fast, he's not at all determined. But out of 'em he's a terror. I'd go to-day."

"No, no, to-morrow," said Penelope, weeping.

And Bob went away.

"I wish Baker was here," he said. "Baker is quite as determined as the bishop, and his advice would be very valuable. I wish I knew how to treat Gordon. I'm afraid he'll be angry. If he's angry, he may keep my money. Well, I don't care."

He told Miss Mackarness to pack up, and Miss Mackarness said she would. Miss Mackarness remarked that the world was not what she had imagined it when she was young. It had in fact come to an end. She said she was not surprised at anything and never would be again. She said she had never been in a motor-car, but wanted to be in one, because death seemed quick and easy in a motor-car. She also said that if she escaped, and Lady Penelope was killed, she knew of a good opening in a lunatic asylum for a woman without nerves, who could not be surprised, and had been accustomed to the ways of the highest society.

"Oh, yes, yes; we'll be ready," said Miss Mackarness. And Bob went away to instruct Geordie and Timothy Bunting, and he spent the whole afternoon, covered with dirty oil, dancing about the two motor-cars, while Geordie put them into first-class trim.

"We ain't going to be run to ground by a bishop," said Bob.

"Not much we ain't, sir," said Tim. "I'd sooner go in one of these machines, so I would."

It was the first time he had ever said as much, and Geordie paid him a compliment from under the car.

"That's the first sensible remark I've ever heard you make, Tim," said the concealed chauffeur.

"Thank you," said Timothy. "I always said you were a good chap, Geordie, even if you was wrapped up in muck and grease." And an idea came to Bob.

"I know what I'll do about Gordon," he said. "I'll write something about this now so's to show it him afterward."

He wrote:

"Pen is very sad. I fear she has quarrelled with Gordon. I'm sure she has married Gordon. I wish she would let me send to him to come, but she has sworn me not to. I think the baby is very like Gordon. It is clever like him, only, being younger, not so clever. I don't mind if it is Gordon. Gordon has been very kind to me, knowing how poor the family is. I wish I was as clever as he is."

He read it over carefully.

"He's more jealous of Rivaulx than any one. I'll put something in about him."

He added:

"I think Rivaulx an ass because of balloons."

"That will please Gordon," said Bob, as he stowed his note-book away. "But I do wish I knew who it is. Women are very fond of secrets. They seem to like babies and secrets best. Pen likes both together, and it's very confusing to any one."

They started next morning in the two cars for Upwell Castle, taking the whole household. Bob installed an old villager and his wife as caretakers. He had selected them himself on the ground that they seemed the stupidest people in the village. Bob was very clever, if not so clever as Gordon.

"I think we've spoofed 'em, Pen," said Bob.

Penelope hugged her baby and wept.

"Why are you crying?" asked Bob.

"I don't know," said Penelope.

"Then don't," said Bob. "It makes me very uncomfortable."

They devoured space, and Timothy held on to the car and to Miss Mackarness. Miss Mackarness said it altered her ideas. Tim said it didn't, but then he was very conservative.

"Now, let 'em all come," said Bob.

CHAPTER XXV.

Titania fell on Bradstock's neck when he came back with the bishop. She very nearly fell on the bishop's neck, too, which alarmed him very much indeed, though he had all that confidence with women which marks the celibate clergy, especially when they are beautiful.

"My dear-r Augustin," said Titania, "I came at once. I felt I had to. I felt I must. There is no sympathy at home for me in my troubles. The duke laughs, laughs in my face, and says Penelope is damn fine sport!"

"Tut, tut!" said the bishop, who was loath to think that dukes could use bad language. "I very much regret to hear it."

Titania waved her hands at large.

"But I do not care. I am wrapped up in woe, and in Robert. Where is he? Show me the telegram he sent."

They showed her the telegram.

"Not black! Oh, Augustin, that might mean anything."

"So it might. What did I say, bishop?" asked Augustin.

"Nonsense!" said the bishop. "I do not believe it is even dark. This is all waste of time. Time cannot now be wasted. This scandal grows. Ridley tells me all these unfortunate gentlemen, but Lord Bramber and Mr. Carew, are in the town. I have had telegrams from both of those asking for information, most excited telegrams. Mr. Carew says he is delirious with fever, and I believe him. Lord Bramber says his father is delirious, which I much regret. I think the son is also delirious, though he does not say he is. He implores me to remember that he is entitled to know first where Penelope is, as he is her husband. This is the telegram."

Augustin and Titania read it.

"If we could only believe it," said Titania.

"We cannot," said the bishop. "Ridley declares they all say the same. They also say the infant is an adopted one. I do not remember, in the course of all that wide experience which comes to a country clergyman in a place like Ray Pogis, any situation equal to this. As a bishop with a wider experience, I have seen nothing so absurd even in the conduct of my clergy, who are indeed hard to beat in stupidity. I regret we did not go on to Waynfleet and Spilsby, Bradstock."

"So do I," said Bradstock, eyeing Titania.

"We will go to-morrow," said the bishop. "I have an intuition that to-morrow we shall find her. I feel sure of it."

"I will come with you," said Titania. "I must! I must! I cannot help fearing, Augustin, that the very worst may have happened. I have now no confidence whatever in dear, misguided Penelope's morals. I do not feel sure that the child is not black, or that it is adopted!"

"Good heavens!" said Augustin.

"Good heavens!" echoed the bishop.

"I haven't," affirmed Titania, dreadfully. "No such thing has happened in our family since the time of Charles the Second, which was lamentable but natural, and has long since been forgiven. I mistrust the general attitude of all these men, bishop. I mistrust it!"

"Certainly they seem in great distress," said the bishop.

Titania rose and looked awful.

"Only upon one supposition can I account for it, bishop. This is their remorse. They are remorseful. They have treated her badly, and she has fled from them in her shame and will not see them!"

"Ha!" said the bishop, "there is something in that!"

"A great deal in it," boomed Titania, in her deepest tone of tragedy. "It explains everything."

But Bradstock said:

"Infernal nonsense, Titania! Bishop, I am surprised at you. They can'tallbe remorseful."

"Why not?" demanded Titania; "why not, Augustin?"

"Of course not," interjected the bishop, hastily.

"Why not, I ask?" repeated the duchess.

"Oh, well, you know," said Bradstock, "when you come to think of it, wouldn'tonebe enough to be remorseful for having behaved like a scoundrel?"

The duchess collapsed.

"Dear me! so it would," she said, weakly. "Now I come to think of it, one would be sufficient. Nothing is explained or can be explained till we find Penelope."

The same feeling of desperation inspired the lovers in the various hotels. Their hopeless passion grew upon them. The sense of mystery deepened. They were sorry for Penelope, for the others, for themselves. What did she mean by it? They were all agreed now about the adoption theory, though they stuck to it manfully that they were married to her. Each one believed the infant was adopted, while he nobly claimed it as his own. They were really noble creatures, and showed themselves worthy of a better fate. A peculiar feeling of sympathy grew up among them, as it does among the unfortunate who are yet strong enough not to be overwhelmed. They spoke to each other again. Goby took De Vere's arm and walked about with him.

"I wish I could tell you all the truth, old chap," sighed Goby.

"Ah, so do I," said the poet. "A great passion is a wonderful thing, Goby."

"So it is, old chap," said Goby. "Do you remember the happy days we spent in your home when we read Browning and Shelley together, and you explained your poems to me?"

Austin de Vere sighed.

"Ah, they were happy days, when my nose peeled on the water and my hands were blistered by rowing."

"Do you remember the bulldog?" asked Goby.

"Ah, and the terrier he bit!"

"And the howling retriever?"

"And the bald, bronchitic Borzois," said De Vere, with enthusiasm. "I bought them all of Bob because she loved him."

"I didn't like you then, Austin, old chap," said Goby.

Austin gripped his arm.

"Plantagenet, we will be friends always. Now I can confess that I loathed you. I told Bradstock so. I said you were an ass."

"So I am," said poor Goby. "I admit now I can't understand Browning."

Austin looked about him:

"My dear chap, no more do I," he said, in an alarmed whisper. "He's a much overrated man."

"I never overrated him myself," said Goby, sagely. "Look here, Austin. You know, of course, that I'm married to Penelope?"

"Of course," said Austin. "And you know that I am?"

"We'll quarrel about nothing now. To-morrow we'll look for her. Ridley, the bishop's butler, told me Bradstock and the bishop were going to Spilsby to-morrow. I gave him a sovereign."

"So did I," said Austin. "Let's go in to dinner. I'm glad we are friends, Plantagenet."

"So am I, old chap," said Goby.

At a near table to them were Rivaulx and Gordon. Farther off Plant was with Carteret Williams. Plant regretted that Bramber wasn't there. Williams sighed for the artistic company of the delirious Carew. Not one look of envy or hatred or malice passed between any of them.

"Marquis," said Gordon, gloomily, "will you come to-morrow with me to find my—I mean, Penelope?"

"I will, my dear Gordon," replied the marquis. "To Spilsby."

"How did you know?"

"Ridley, the bishop's man, said it."

"He told me, too. I gave him five pounds," said Gordon.

"I gave him four."

"I'll bet he's told 'em all," said Gordon. "I say, marquis, those were jolly, happy days before this misery came on, when you and I dined together."

"And went up in balloons," said the marquis.

Gordon shook his head.

"Well, yes, even the balloons. Do you know, marquis, I hated you then. I don't now. I think you a real good chap."

The marquis held out his hand, and Gordon shook it.

"Gordon, I used to despise you. It was a great trial to dine with you. I'm glad I did it now. I'm a wiser, better man for the trials. I see that Jews can be noble by nature just as they can be barons by creation. I finally absolve Dreyfus. I almost love you now!"

"Good old marquis," said Gordon. "When we get up to town, I'll put you on the betht thing in the market. I will, so help me!"

Carteret Williams and Plant got on well together. They talked first of Bramber and Carew.

"Carew's all right," said Williams; "all right for an artist. I was in the Ashanti war with an artist once. I put his head in a bucket of water!"

"Why?" asked Plant.

"Because he was too drunk to draw," said Williams. "He hated me when he got sober, and caricatured me. I never liked artists afterward. But when Penelope put me into harness with Carew, I found there was good stuff in him. He could work. He talked awful rot, but there was something at the back of it. I had to own it. How did you get on with Bramber?"

"I thought him a damn fool," said Plant. "But I found out he wasn't. There's stuff in Bramber. My—I mean, Penelope knew that. I say, as he isn't here, poor chap, will you come to Spilsby with me to-morrow?"

Williams started.

"How did you come to think of Spilsby?" he asked, suspiciously.

"The bishop's butler told me. I gave him five pounds," said Plant.

"I gave him two," said Williams. "Yes, I'll go with you, as Carew isn't here. I like Carew now. Poor Carew!"

"And I like Bramber, poor chap," said Plant. "And now I'll go and shake hands with the marquis, who wanted to kill me last time I was here."

"I wish I'd seen that," said Williams, simply. "I like seeing fights!"

They spent a happy evening together and talked of Bob. Austin was great upon Bob. And so was Gordon. Austin told them all about the dogs. Goby spoke about the spavined pony he had bought. Gordon told them how Bob had borrowed a hundred pounds of him to be put into something.

"I owe him fifty thousand pounds, at least," said Gordon. "The boy is a financier. I wish I had a boy like Bob."

And just then Carew walked into the room. He looked ill, but was as handsome as paint. Williams jumped to his feet.

"Oh, Jimmy, I heard you were delirious," he said, anxiously.

"I was," said Jimmy, "very delirious, extraordinarily so. I'm not sure that I'm not delirious now."

He looked around the room anxiously, and drew Williams into a corner.

"Do you know anything about delirium?" he asked, anxiously.

"A lot about delirium tremens," said Williams. "Most of the artists I've been with in Africa had it. They said it was malaria. But have you been drinking?"

Carew shook his head.

"Not much, but I see the room is full of 'em!"

"Full of what?"

"Things, visions, phantasms!" said Jimmy, creepily. Williams looked around in alarm.

"You don't say so!"

"Yes," said Jimmy. "This influenza is awful! I could swear I see the marquis and Gordon and that ass Goby and De Vere!"

"Pull yourself together," said Williams. "They're here all right!"

"Are they real?" asked Jimmy. "They're not delusions?"

"Devil a bit!" said Williams.

"Oh," said Jimmy, "then I think I'll have some brandy. What are they doing here?"

[image]JIMMY CAREW, A.R.A. He was the best looking of the whole "horde"

[image]

[image]

JIMMY CAREW, A.R.A. He was the best looking of the whole "horde"

"What are we doing here?" asked Williams. "We're mad! Oh, but, Jimmy, I'm dashed glad to see you," said Williams, with a lurid string of emphatic war expressions. "Those were happy days when I learnt about art with you, and you learnt about life with me!"

"They were," said Jimmy. "But now I'm almost sick of art."

Williams implored him not to say so.

"Think of Rembrandt and Velasquez and Whistler!"

"I can't think of them. I think of Penelope!"

"Try to think of Monet and Manet," said Williams. "They'll do you good."

"To be sure, to be sure," sighed Jimmy. "I'll try to."

They talked till two in the morning, and the only man missing was Bramber.

"Perhaps he's chucked it," said Williams. "The last time I saw him he looked sick enough to chuck anything. But I suppose the old earl is so rocky he can't get away."

"I hate earls," said Jimmy, jealously. He added with extraordinary irrelevance, "But I'm glad she adopted him."

No doubt he referred to the infant.

CHAPTER XXVI.

While Pen and Bob and the baby were going as fast as they could toward Upwell Castle, Pen wept at intervals and hugged the child that all the "horde" were glad she had adopted.

"My only darling," said Pen, convulsively.

Bob shook his head.

"I say, Pen, I really don't understand you, you know! I say, this is rot! You mustn't cry; I can't stand it. And you keep on saying it's your only one in a very silly way. You irritate me very much, Pen!"

"Why, Bob?" asked the desolate creature at his side.

"You could stop all this if you wanted to!"

"Not now," said Pen, "since we've quarrelled!"

"Rot!" said Bob. "You tell me who it is and I'll bring him along. But I'm glad it isn't Timothy, you know."

Timothy was now with Geordie in the other car.

"I can't tell you," said Pen.

"Then don't snivel, please," said Bob, crossly, "or I shall drive into something and kill the baby."

"Oh!" said Pen, "oh, please don't!"

"I think it's very hard lines," said Bob, "especially as Geordie and Tim know, and Miss Mackarness. If they know, I ought to."

"I had to tell them, Bob. Besides, they knew him," said the incautious Pen.

Bob's eyebrows lifted, and he drove rather fast down the next straight bit of road.

"I say," he said to himself, "I ought to make something of that."

He thought very hard and did not speak for a mile. He thought all the more.

"Tim knows 'em all, of course. And Geordie may, though I remember his saying he didn't. But who does Miss Mackarness know? If I can spot that, I can spot the winner."

He went back to the time of Pen's youth, which he only knew by hearsay, as he wasn't much more than born then, and went through the list one by one.

"By Jove!" he said, suddenly, and Penelope started.

"Yes, Bob."

"No," said Bob, thoughtfully; "no, I'm not sure."

"What aren't you sure of, dear?"

"Him," said Bob, and Penelope sighed.

After another mile's silence, Bob spoke again.

"By Jove!"

"You said that before," cried Pen, irritably. He turned his eyes upon her, and she saw them full of strange intelligence.

"Oh, what is it?" she asked, in alarm.

Bob shook his head.

"You've told me who it is," he said.

"I haven't."

"You have," said Bob. "Pen, you're a wonder! I say, are all girls like you?"

Penelope said she didn't know, and demanded his meaning.

"If they are, they're interesting but trying," said Bob. "You couldn't have made more fuss about it if it had been Bunting. Pen, you are a wonder. Well, I don't mind; I like him well enough. He's all right. I hope Bill will like him."

"You are an annoying, irritating boy," said Pen, crossly. "And you know nothing."

"Bar him and Miss Mackarness and Timothy and Smith, I'm the only one that does," said Bob, drily. "I know you, Pen. You were ashamed of him, after all you used to say. All right, don't get angry. I'm all right. I'll keep it dark till you say pull up the blinds. It's not my business. But I'm glad I know. For granny doesn't, and no one has guessed, not even Baker. And he's had great experience with girls in all parts of the world, just as he has had with dogs."

Pen wept.

"You are saying all this to worry me. How can you know?" she cried.

"I'll tell you some day," said Bob. "But because you haven't told me yourself, and have made me find out, I won't tell you who it is till I want to. But one thing I'll say, I don't think your brother Bill really likes him."

He whistled and let the car out till she fairly hummed. Pen was exceedingly cross, and hugged the baby, hoping that they would both be killed at once.

"I don't know what's going to happen," she said. "I've done my best, and nothing but trouble comes of it. If I had to begin again, I don't think I'd try to reform anything. I—I hate reform!"

In the meantime Miss Mackarness's ideas got sadly altered. She did not mind dying at first, but when Bob really went fast, it seemed to her that she loved life better than she thought.

"If I am to die," she said, "I would rather die in my bed, much rather. I want peace, and my dear lady gives me none. This young wretch is no better than a murderer. He laughs. I can't laugh. I can't even speak. The wind stops my screaming. I want to get out and die quietly."

They pulled up close to a village to let a wagon loaded with long timbers get into a side road. Miss Mackarness seized her chance, and, opening the door, jumped to the ground.

"If you please, my lady, I'm going no farther. I will come on later in a cart."

Penelope remonstrated with her. Bob was urgent and impatient.

"We may be caught any minute," he said. "Pen, let her come on in a cart."

"If you prefer it," said Penelope.

"My lady, I much prefer it," said the housekeeper.

Bob let the car go, and Geordie, coming on behind, pulled up to interview Miss Mackarness.

"Sooner than go in one a mile farther," she said, firmly, "I would lie down and die."

"That's silly, ma'am," said Geordie.

"I would rather live silly than die wise," replied Miss Mackarness. "I may be used to much and past surprises, but I can't stomach these cars."

They left her in the road. And now they drove fast, for Bob set the pace, and made it a rapid one.

"I say, Geordie," said Timothy, about twenty miles farther on, "don't you think you could go slower?"

"How can I, with the other car ahead, man?" demanded Geordie.

"Well, I feels queer inside," said poor Timothy. "I'd rather ride a bucking man-eater than go another yard. Set me down!"

"Not me," said Geordie. "Be a man, Tim!"

"I won't," said Tim. "Set me down. I'll walk."

"Or come on in a cart," sneered Geordie. "Why, Mary here don't mind, do you, Mary?"

Mary did mind, but she adored Geordie, and said she didn't. She preferred to die with Geordie than to ride with Miss Mackarness in a cart.

"I don't care," said Tim; "if Mary wants to die in a blazin' fiery mass of petrol under a wreck, I don't. Let me down."

And Geordie let him down.

"A mad bull sooner," said Tim. "And, though I 'ates walkin', bein' a groom, I'd rather walk to hell than motor into paradise."

But peace was established in the cars by now. Geordie and Mary sat side by side, and whenever the pace was hot, she grabbed him so tightly that he remonstrated.

"My dear, I'd rather you hugged me when we go slow," he said at last.

"Lor', Mr. Smith, I wasn't huggin' you," remonstrated the blushing Mary.

"To an outsider it would appear so," said Geordie. "When a young lady puts her arms around a man's neck, it looks like huggin'. Mind I don't say I object, but Imightrun into the hedge."

"What a very amusin' gentleman you are," said Mary. "I've a very small opinion of Mr. Bunting except upon an 'orse. I'm surprised he preferred to walk."

"I'm not," said Geordie. "I expected it, and if we went really fast, you'd want to walk."

"Never," said Mary. "I love goin' fast. There's great po'try in a motor-car, Mr. Smith."

"Poetry, well, maybe," said Geordie. "To my mind, there's more machinery and oil. I wonder what the next thing will be with my lady, Mary."

"Ah," said Mary, "that's more than I can say. She's very sweet and kind, but I've give up tryin' to understand 'er. And such an 'usband, too. If I 'ad an 'usband, I'd like to show 'im off, if I was proud of 'im, and I would."

"Would you be?" asked Geordie.

"I 'ope so," said Mary.

"I guess you'd expect him to do what you wanted, like my lady," said Geordie.

"Oh, no, never," said Mary. "I'd do hexactly as I was told by 'im I loved. I don't believe in a woman 'angin' on a man and tellin' 'im to do this or that!"

And just then a mighty fine stretch of road opened before them, and Bob, half a mile in front, turned his car loose at the top speed. Geordie put his on the third, and Mary squealed.

"Hush your row, my dear," said Geordie. "Why, bless me, what's the matter with the girl!"

She had him tight by the neck.

"Oh, I'm frightened, Mr. Smith. Don't go so fast," she screamed.

"Lemme go," gasped Geordie, whom she was nearly strangling. "Lemme go, girl!"

"Never, never!" said Mary, settling on him tighter still. "Stop, stop!"

"I won't," said Geordie. "D'ye think I'll let that young un get away from me?"

"You must," screamed Mary, "or I'll get out."

"Then get out," said Geordie, rudely.

"Oh, you cruel, cruel Mr. Smith!" wailed Mary. "Let me down before I'm killed."

Geordie wrenched himself free.

"D'ye mean it?" he asked.

"Yes, you brute!" said Mary, "I does mean it."

He put her down there and then.

"You're no gentleman," said Mary.

"I never said I was," retorted Geordie, with his eyes on the vanishing Bob.

"And I hate you, you coward," sobbed Mary.

"There's a village a mile up the road," said Geordie. And he left her, disappearing in a whirlwind.

"Oh, I'm a sad, des'late, disappinted, jilted woman, with thin shoes and three and tuppence in my pocket," said Mary. "And I don't know where I am!"

She sat on a pile of road metal and cried bitterly. She took it much harder than the bishop did in a similar situation.

"Well, it can't be helped," said Geordie, "and I don't know that I'm sorry. She'd have proposed if I'd kept her at the second speed, I know that; so perhaps I'm well out of it."

He whirled after Bob and his lady, and soon caught them up.

There was peace on that car, too, for Bob hadn't been able to keep his discovery to himself.

"Yes, you're right, Bob," sighed Penelope. "But what could I do after what I'd said? And what can I do now?"

"Cheer up!" said Bob. "I'll fix it for you somehow. Do you know, Pen, I begin to think that after all women aren't as difficult to understand as Baker says."

They came to Upwell in the early afternoon, and were ignorant that the world was on their track. Bob sent a telegram to "Mr. Bramwell" as soon as they got there.

CHAPTER XXVII.

The bishop was excited. There is no doubt about it. Nor is it any wonder, for the sporting element exists even on the episcopal bench, and the hunting of Penelope was peculiar and choice sport. The clergy of his diocese were moderately tame, and when he pointed his episcopal gun at them, they said they would come down, just as the celebrated squirrel did when Colonel Crockett raised his weapon. Not for a long time had he felt so pleased with himself. He was quite certain that Penelope was to be run to earth in the neighbourhood of Spilsby, and, when he had found her, he proposed to speak to her like a father.

"I shall certainly suggest a religious ceremony in the cathedral," he said, blandly. "Oh, yes, I shall insist on it."

"You'll do what?" asked Bradstock, who was with him and the duchess in the early train to Spilsby. "You'll do what?"

The bishop rubbed his hands.

"As the one who christened her, I shall insist on a religious ceremony," he replied.

"Will you?" asked Bradstock.

"To be sure I shall," said the bishop.

"Did you ever hear of Mrs. Partington?" asked Bradstock, "or of King Canute, or of any other celebrated character in history or fiction whose insistence did not come off?"

"I scarcely understand you, Bradstock," said the bishop, with dignity. "I can hardly imagine that you mean to hint, not altogether obscurely, that Lady Penelope will treat any suggestion of mine with disrespect."

Bradstock intimated that that was what he did mean, and Titania, who had got up too early and felt like it, said that she expected nothing from Penelope now but the worst.

"I don't know why I am here, or why I am going there," she said. "I cannot imagine why any of us are doing anything but hiding our disgraced heads in the remoter parts of the country, while Penelope flaunts a black, adopted, illegitimate child in some peculiar part of Lincolnshire, while she is being chased on motor-cars by remorseful scoundrels, of whom I saw about a dozen as we left Spilsborough. Little did I think that I should be running after her with Augustin and you, bishop, while the duke stays at Goring saying she is sport, and Robert is with her when he ought to be at home with Mr. Guthrie learning to spell. And as a result of Penelope's being away like this, that disgraceful Chloe Cadwallader, of whom I shall always have the lowest opinion, is living in her house in Piccadilly, and I dare say spending her money right and left. The marchioness said she knew, on the highest authority, that this was so. The marchioness always goes on the principle of believing the worst, though, of course, she hopes the best. I hope the best for Penelope, but I'm sure the worst is before us. I'm sure of it."

The bishop asked her to cheer up, and Augustin stroked her hand to calm her. But nothing calmed or cheered her.

"I am calm," she said. "I am even peaceful. What can be worse than the worst? I am cheerful, for I believe there is a better world than this, in which even a duchess may find some kind of rest on the highest authority. I shall be glad to go there, and leave you all."

"Don't say so," said Augustin.

"I do say so," said the duchess. "I say it firmly and with faith. You don't dare to deny there is a better world than this, Augustin?"

"Certainly not, in the presence of the bishop," replied Augustin. "Though, in looking out of the windows, I should not be surprised to learn that there is a more exciting spot than Spilsby."

For they had arrived.

"Iwill make inquiries," said the bishop, "while you look after the duchess in the waiting-room. I see that my wishes have been attended to. I telegraphed for a carriage to be in attendance, and it is in attendance. I will speak with the driver."

He spoke to the driver, who was much intimidated by the apron and the gaiters of the clerical dignitary.

"This is the carriage I ordered, I think," said the bishop. "I want to drive to—to Lady Penelope Brading's house. Do you know it?"

"No, sir," said the driver. "I never heard owt of it, sir."

"Dear me, dear me!" said the bishop. "Well, well! But that is easily explicable, my good man, for my young friend is in the peculiar position of having several names. This is rare; yes, rare I admit, but not altogether so very rare. Can you tell me if there is any one lately come to this neighbourhood known, let us say, as Mrs.—Mrs. Plant, for instance?"

"No, sir, there be not as I knows," said the driver.

"Or Mrs. Gordon, shall I say?"

The driver scratched his head.

"I never heard of her," he replied.

"How remarkable," said the bishop, smiling. "But I am not surprised. Indeed, in this last case I am almost gratified, though I withhold my reasons for saying so. Are you then acquainted with any one called De Vere? No; or with a Mrs. Carteret Williams?"

Light dawned in the driver's face at last. "Mrs. Williams! Ay, sure enif. She do sell sweets and tobacco."

"Indeed," said the bishop, "indeed, how remarkable! But I don't think she will do. Have you heard of a Mrs. Rivaulx or a Mrs. Goby? Perhaps I surprise you in this part of Lincolnshire, but in London it is not at all uncommon for married ladies to have several names, not at all uncommon."

"No, sir, I never heard o' none of 'em," returned the driver, thinking that this gentleman talked most remarkable "cat-blash."

"Good heavens!" said the bishop, "this new custom is trying. Do you then know a Mrs. Carew or Mrs. Bramber?"

Again the man scratched his head and shook it. What did this strange person in gaiters mean?

"Oh! ah!" he said at last. "There be a Mrs. Bramwell at the Moat House."

"Indeed," said the bishop. "Perhaps that may be the lady. At the Moat House! Do you know Mr. Bramwell?"

"I've seen un," said the driver.

"What is he like?" asked the bishop. "Is he fair or dark, or tall or short?"

"He's fairish to dark and betwixt and between," said the driver, wishing to be accurate, "and mostly goes in big spectacles in his engine."

"Ha!" said the bishop, "we are on the scent! And what is Mrs. Bramwell like?"

"She do mostly go in the engine with specs on, too, sir. But my wife do say she be a very fine woman."

The bishop nodded.

"I think you may drive us to the Moat House," he said. "I will bring my friends out."

He rubbed his hands and congratulated himself on the skill with which he had discovered the object of his search.

"I really believe I have found her," he said, when he entered the waiting-room. "I really believe it."

"No!" said the duchess.

"Yes," said the bishop. "By a series of skilful questions and the exercise of a little pardonable deceit, I have learnt that there is a Mrs. Bramwell here, who is said to be a very fine woman, and goes out in goggles in a motor-car with her husband, who is fairish to dark and tall and short and also wears goggles."

Augustin nodded.

"This looks like—something," he said, hopefully. "Bramwell! Perhaps really Bramber, Titania."

"No, no," said Titania. "I expect disaster. I anticipate the Jew or Williams."

"But Bramwell—the first syllable being Bram," suggested the bishop.

"I cannot build on Bram," said the duchess. "We are an unfortunate family. Lord Bramber may be an earl at any minute, and she has married a coal-heaver, of course! Let us go at once."

When they got into the carriage, the bishop told the man to drive to the Moat House.

"Did you say Moat House?" asked the duchess.

"I did," replied the bishop.

"Augustin, do you remember that Penelope's mother loved houses with moats? I think the bishop may be right. I tremble with nervousness."

She had more reason to tremble in a moment, for a big motor-car shaved them and scared the horse.

"Perhaps—" she cried.

"No," said Augustin, "it's Plant and Williams and Carew!"

The duchess gasped. And before she could say another word, another car swept by them.

"Perhaps—" she cried.

"No," said the bishop; "in spite of goggles, I recognize the marquis and Mr. Gordon and Mr. Austin de Vere. This is very remarkable, and not a little annoying. We shall all descend upon Penelope at once, and I fear it will somewhat disturb her. I should have much preferred to see her quietly in order to bring her to a just sense of her peculiar, and our painful, position."

When they got to the house, they found all the lovers but Bramber assembled at the gates. If it hadn't been for the illness of the Earl of Pulborough, he would have been there, they knew.

"Oh, which is it?" moaned Titania. "They all said they were married to her, and I know it's none of 'em."

The bishop greeted the crowd in the most courteous manner. He shook hands with those he knew, and bowed to those he hoped to know.

"I think, gentleman, that, with your permission, I will go in first and see Lady Penelope before any one else does."

And while he went up the carriage drive, Titania glared at the lovers.

"Don't look at 'em like that, Titania," said Augustin.

"Like what, Augustin?"

"Like a Gorgon, Titania," said Augustin.

"I look as I feel," said Titania. "I hate them all. I shall not be able to restrain myself when I see Penelope. I shall shake her. I shall say what I think. No, I won't be wise, Augustin! I decline to be wise. I am full of bitterness. From her earliest youth, she has been a thorn. And it is your fault; you encouraged her in reform, in anarchism. Don't speak to me! I shall explode!"

And Augustin got out just as the bishop rang the door-bell across the moat. Instead of the kind of servant he expected to see, he was greeted by a bent old woman, whose chief glory was her rheumatism, though her claim on Bob had been her stupidity.

"Is Mrs. Bramwell at home?" asked the bishop, with a beaming smile.

"Naw," said the old lady, not beaming in the least.

"No? Then when will she be back?"

"I don't know," replied the caretaker.

"You don't know! Will it be soon?"

"She never said," snarled the old lady.

"Did she go early?"

"Maybe an hour ago, maybe two."

"Will she be back late?"

"Eh? I'm 'ard of 'earin'."

"Will she be back late?" roared the bishop.

"She didn't say."

"What did she say, then?"

"Nothin' as I knows of."

"Where did she go, my good woman?"

"She didn't say."

"Dear me, how vexing!" said the bishop.

"I'm 'ard of 'earin', I tell ye," said the old dame.

"Who went with her?"

"All of 'em, so I 'eard."

"Who were they?" asked the desperate bishop.

"All as was 'ere. There ain't one left."

"Was a boy with her?"

"To be sure, a young gentleman as fetched me 'ere, and give me a shillin'."

"What was his name?"

"'E didn't say," said the old woman, and the bishop wiped his fevered brow and tried again.

"Was Mr. Bramwell with her?"

"I never seed un."

"How did they go?"

"In two engines."

"Ha!" sighed the bishop, "in two motor-cars."

"Likely."

"Will they be back to-night?"

"I 'ope not," said the woman.

"Why do you hope not?" asked the wretched bishop.

"Because of fifteen bob a week, to be sure."

"Then Mrs. Bramwell has gone, has left?"

"Ain't I been sayin' so this last hour?" asked the exasperated old person. "Me, with rheumatics, standin' on cold stones for hours arglin' that she and all have gone in engines!"

"Good heavens!" said the bishop, "she has escaped! She has eluded us! She has kept her word and has fled! This is remarkable; it is annoying. I feel nearer losing my temper than I have done with any one but the dean for the last ten years. I must go back and tell them."

He went back to the gate.

"Is it—" they cried.

"This is her house," said the bishop, who looked rather flushed, "but I have discovered by a series of skilfully devised questions that she is no longer here. Duchess, Lord Bradstock, marquis, and gentlemen, she went away this morning in two motorcars with all her household, leaving behind her no one but a caretaker who, in my humble opinion, ought to be taken care of in an idiot asylum!"

The duchess sighed.

"Then she has kept her word! Finding out that we are still pursuing her, she has fled from us. Oh, I think it wicked of her, wicked to all of us. When I get hold of Robert, I shall take steps to show him what I think of him. Do you give it up, bishop?"

The bishop's eyes flashed with indignation.

"Never!" he said. "I propose that we pursue her at once. She cannot have thought we should be here so soon. If we find out which road she took, we may yet overtake her."

"In what?" asked Bradstock, with his hand on the ramshackle landau the duchess sat in. "In this conveyance, for instance?"

The bishop looked at the two big motor-cars, and at their wretched owners, Plant and Rivaulx.

"Taking my courage in both hands," he said, bravely, "I propose that we lose no time.Iwill go in this car with the marquis, if he will take me."

The marquis said through his clenched teeth that he would.

"Bradstock, you will escort the duchess back to Spilsborough."

"Certainly not," said the duchess. "I am coming, too. I must and I will. Whatever the condition of Penelope may now be, it is my duty. I come with you!"

"And so do I," said Bradstock.

They packed themselves in the cars, and moved away from the deserted house of the moat. In the village they soon discovered that "Mrs. Bramwell" had gone northwest by the road to Horncastle, and a moment later the bishop said, "Oh!" as Rivaulx fairly launched his car into space. Even Bradstock in Plant's car said something, and the duchess, losing the repose which stamps all duchesses the moment they become duchesses, uttered a scream. Gordon consoled the bishop, being very much pleased to find himself with one, by saying that he had been in a balloon with Rivaulx, and found him careful and very trustworthy.

"I do not think any one who goes in a balloon," gasped his lordship, "can properly be described by any such terms."

Williams said he didn't care if he was killed, as soon as Penelope had acknowledged she was married to him. Gordon, who was desperately scared of Williams, said nothing, but gave the bishop to understand by signs that the war correspondent was mad. Carew, who was still suffering from influenza, sat in his corner and wept at intervals.

In Plant's car the duchess and Goby and De Vere got on admirably. Bradstock sat by Plant and prepared to die. The duchess held Captain Goby's hand. De Vere said some poetry before the speed was very great. Afterward he said his prayers, and wished he was at home with his bulldogs.

"What does anything matter?" he asked, as he clutched Goby's offside.

And all of a sudden Rivaulx's motor pulled up so quickly that the bishop was nearly precipitated upon the road. A scared, oldish woman in respectable and sub-freak garments had done her best to get run over. Rivaulx swore terrible French oaths, and the bishop, who knew French far better than he dared acknowledge except in a literary conversation on Rabelais orargot, sympathized with him in awestruck silence.

"You accursed old lady! Why?" demanded Rivaulx.

"Hush, hush!" said the bishop, and, leaning from the car, he said: "It is all right, my good woman. I hope we have not alarmed you."

Miss Mackarness said they had. It was very hard to have got out of one car and then to be almost killed by another. Then the car behind came up, and the duchess looked at the lady who had given her a little respite. The duchess absolutely screamed again.

"Augustin, it is Miss Mackarness! I remember her well!"

"Who the deuce is Miss Mackarness?" grumbled Bradstock.

But Titania paid no attention to him. Her eyes brightened. She became clever all at once.

"I remember," she said, "I remember!"

She called to the stranger in the road.

"I am so pleased to see you again after such a long time, Miss Mackarness," she said, kindly. "Are you still at Upwell Castle?"

"I'm going there now, ma'am," said the housekeeper, who didn't recognize her Grace.

"Are you walking?" asked Titania, kindly. "It is a long way to walk. You don't remember me, I see."

"No, ma'am," said Miss Mackarness.

"I am the Duchess of Goring," said Titania.

"Oh, your Grace! I beg your Grace's pardon, but, of course, you are," gasped Miss Mackarness.

"And I am going to Upwell now to see my niece."

Miss Mackarness gasped again and could not speak.

"To see Mrs. Bramwell, you know," said Titania, sweetly. "Of course,Iknow all about it, Miss Mackarness."

"To be sure, your Grace," replied her victim, not knowing what to do or say.

"Thengood-bye," said the duchess. "I hope you will enjoy your walk, Miss Mackarness. It's such pleasant weather for a walk."

They left the poor woman in the middle of the road, an easy victim to the slowest vehicle in the county.

"Oh, I've done wrong, I know!" said Pen's housekeeper. "What shall I do now?"

"I said that on purpose," said Titania, viciously. "She has known all along, and ought to have told me. But now we know all about it, Augustin!"

"What about 'Mr. Bramwell'?" asked Augustin. Goby and De Vere turned pale, and the duchess threw up her hands.

"I might have asked her!" she cried.

"Captain Goby looked at her severely," said Augustin, "and so did De Vere."

Goby and De Vere denied it.

"Never mind," said the duchess, "this time she can't escape. We are on the track."

They passed a man a few miles farther on, and only Augustin noticed him.

"You are right, Titania; we are certainly on the track. That man was Timothy Bunting," he said. "Pen has been shedding her retainers all along the road. I suspect Bob of furious driving."

A few miles farther, at the foot of a steep rise, they saw a young and pretty woman weeping on a heap of stones.

"I wonder if that is another of 'em," said Augustin.

It was Mary, whom Geordie had deposited on the road half-way between two villages.

"Have two motor-cars gone this way?" asked Bradstock.

"Yes, sir," sobbed Mary.

"Why are you crying?" asked the sympathetic peer.

"Because Geordie Smith is no gentleman," said Mary.

"That's Mrs. Bramwell's driver, isn't it? I know her well," said Bradstock.

"Yes, it is, and he ain't a gentleman. He drove so fast he frightened me, and I got out."

"How sad," said Bradstock. "We are going on to Upwell Castle now. Can we help you?"

"I would rather walk to Australia than get in another one of 'em," said Mary.

"You are right," said Augustin. "Titania, you are right. In half an hour we shall see Penelope."

"And I shall see Bob," said Titania, viciously.

But the bishop felt rather pleased with Bob now. He was in a car driven by Rivaulx. And Rivaulx was desperate. And when Rivaulx was desperate he lacked consideration for others.

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