IN WHICH THE BISHOP EATS JAM TART, AND MISS MATILDA HUMBLE-PIE.
"Now," remarked the Bishop to Miss Arminster, as Marchmont quitted the cabin after this last astounding remark, "Now I'm certain he's mad."
"Oh, no," replied the lady, "it's merely journalistic enterprise. I don't blame him for being disappointed. It must be hard to find that we're not conspirators, after all."
"But why should he wish to make us so?"
"You dear stupid old Joe!" she exclaimed. "You haven't the remotest inkling of what American journalism means. It's sensation first, last, and altogether. Think of a bishop, and an English bishop at that, posing as an agent of the Spanish secret service, and eloping with an actress on somebody else's yacht. Why, I can shut my eyes and see the headlines. They're almost certain to print them in red ink. There's fame for you!"
"But why should he wish to print it if it's not the truth?"
"Truth! My dear Bishop, who said anything about truth? We were speaking of news, and—journalistic enterprise."
At this moment the door again burst open, and Marchmont flung into the cabin.
"There!" he said, with a tone of triumph, "we've sighted an American steamer down channel, and have hoisted the Spanish flag. We're pursuing her, and very presently we shall be captured, and you'll be surrendered."
"I suppose," began the Bishop, "that, to a man so devoid of moral consciousness as you appear to be, no arguments of mine—"
"Don't waste your breath," broke in Miss Arminster. "They wouldn't."
"Why, I'm sorry to cause you any inconvenience," said the journalist amiably, "but you see, my paper's simply panting for sensation, and when they hear about this little racket they'll sell extras till they can't see straight."
"And what, may I ask, will happen when the truth comes out?" demanded his Lordship severely.
"Oh, the war'll probably be over by the time you reach New York, and you'll cease to be interesting," replied Marchmont. "Besides, we'll have had our scoop, and most likely, when the Daily Leader finds there's no case against you they'll give you a return ticket. The management's generally pretty liberal."
"Well, I must say," spluttered the Bishop, "that of all the brazen—unconscionable—!"
"Why did you raise the Spanish flag?" interrupted Miss Arminster.
"That was my idea," said the journalist, "and I'm rather proud of it. You see, we could hardly reverse the Union Jack as a sign of distress, and then go full speed ahead, but I don't think an American ship would resist taking a Spanish prize; and as soon as they get within firing range we'll run up a flag of truce. By the way," he continued, becoming quite courteous, now that he felt he had them in his power, "why do you remain in this stuffy cabin? I shall be very glad to have you up on deck, provided you'll give me your parole."
"What, not to escape?" asked Violet. "Did you think we were going to jump overboard and swim ashore?"
"No. I mean that you should give your parole not to be anything but Spaniards."
"I am afraid we couldn't manage that," she replied. "The Bishop doesn't look nearly ferocious enough."
"I absolutely refuse to become a party to this deception!" said his Lordship.
"Oh, I don't ask you to do that," returned Marchmont, "only to promise that you'll not try and enlist the sympathies of the crew in your behalf."
"I shall not promise anything," said the Bishop, "nor shall I allow this lady to do so. I'm a man of peace, but if ever I get hold of you on dry land I'll horsewhip you, if it costs me my see; and if you don't leave this cabin at once I'll treat you as you treated your friend. You are a thorough blackguard, and not fit to associate with gentlemen!"
The journalist started to say something, but, remembering that his accuser was muscular, thought better of it, shrugged his shoulders, and went out silently, locking the door behind him.
"There!" said his Lordship, "I can breathe more freely now."
Miss Arminster made no reply, for the excellent reason that her head was out of a port-hole, and she could not hear clearly what was said. Presently she pulled it in again, crying, as she did so:
"Oh, do look! This is great sport! The American ship is running away from us!"
Such was indeed the case. The vessel they were overhauling was a small tramp steamer, which had evidently found courage, through the general incapacity of the Spanish navy and the fancied security of neutral waters, to flaunt the Stars and Stripes. It was therefore most disconcerting to find herself suddenly pursued in the English Channel by a craft which had every appearance of being a Spanish gunboat. No sooner had she caught a glimpse of the red and yellow flag of her enemy than she crowded on to her yards every stitch of canvass she possessed, in the hope of obtaining some advantage from the light breeze that was blowing, while the black clouds of smoke which belched from her single funnel showed that her engines were being driven to their utmost capacity. She having a long lead and the combined assistance of wind and steam, the distance between the pursuer and the pursued decreased slowly, and it soon became evident that it was to be a stern chase, which is proverbially a long chase. The yacht, therefore, turned about in search of some fresh enemy to whom she might surrender, and in this fortune favored her, for down the Channel came a great liner, whose name, albeit she flew temporarily the flag of another nation, proclaimed her to be an American ship, with an American captain and crew.
Those on board the "Homing Pigeon" now adopted different tactics, and an inverted British ensign replaced the banner of the Dons.
As the yacht stood directly in the path of the oncoming ocean greyhound, and flew signals of distress which she could not disregard, the great ship was forced to heave to. Marchmont hastened to convey the news to his prisoners in the cabin, saying that he considered them very fortunate, as they had every prospect of a speedy and pleasant voyage, and cautioning them at the same time, as he led the way up the cabin stairs, that resistance was futile, and that any remarks of theirs to the crew would only be so much waste of breath. To all of which neither deigned to answer a word, realising that in their present precarious position silence was not only the most dignified but also the safest course.
As they reached the deck the great liner was almost abreast of them, and gradually came to a standstill with clouds of pent-up steam pouring from her safety-valves.
"What do you want?" bawled her chief officer through a megaphone, his voice sounding very large and clear from the great height above them.
"We've two prisoners of war, Spanish spies, and we wish to hand them over!" shouted the mate in return.
"This isn't an American ship," came the reply.
"Yes, it is," howled Marchmont; "we know better! You belong to the 'Pink Star' line."
The chief officer conferred with the captain.
"It's Mason and Slidell the other way round," he said. "I wouldn't touch 'em with a ten-foot pole. Besides—" and here he seized the megaphone from his subordinate and yelled through it:
"You infernal idiots! don't you know the war with Spain is over? We've declared a truce!"
"I don't believe it,", cried Marchmont, shaking his fist at the great steamship in a paroxysm of disappointed rage. "It's only an excuse to shirk your duty! We've brought them out to you, and you've got to take them! I'll report you to the government! I'll—!"
The sharp ring of the engine-room bell from the liner's bridge was the only reply vouchsafed him, and a moment later the big ship forged ahead, her captain very red in the face and swearing like a trooper: for the most precious thing on board a racer of that class is time, and the "Homing Pigeon" had been wasting it.
The Bishop, noting the sheepish faces of the mate and his two fellow conspirators, and the lowering glances of the crew, turned to Miss Arminster, saying:
"We'd better return to the cabin, my dear. I think there's going to be trouble."
The little actress followed his Lordship's gaze, and descended without a word of protest. She thought so, too.
They had hardly entered the saloon, when there came a respectful knock at the door, and an elderly seaman entered, ducking his head.
"Well, my good man," said his Lordship, "what can I do for you?"
"Meanin' no disrespect, sir, be you really the Bishop of Blanford?"
"Certainly I am," that gentleman replied. "You see my dress, and," as a happy thought struck him, "here's one of my cards to prove my identity." And he handed the sailor a bit of pasteboard with his title engraved thereon.
"And the lady?" asked the seaman.
"The lady is no more connected with this absurd charge than I am," pursued the Bishop. "You've been grievously misled by your mate and these two strangers. But if you'll take us safe to the nearest port, I'll speak a word in your favour to your master, Lord Downton, who's an intimate friend of mine. Can you read?"
"Yes, your honour."
"Then here's a letter from his Lordship, which I fortunately have by me, requesting me to join his yacht. Read it yourself, and show it to your fellows as a proof of who I am." And he handed him the missive.
The sailor took it, ducked again, and retired silently, and there was presently a great shuffling of feet on the deck above.
"What do you think they're doing?" asked Violet.
"I trust they're coming to their senses—and if—" But his remarks were interrupted by a most terrific row overhead, shouts, blows, and curses.
"Bless my soul!" exclaimed the Bishop. "What can be the matter?"
"They're squaring accounts with Marchmont, Friend Othniel, and the mate, I guess," she replied, "and I hope they'll half kill them."
"Fie, fie! my dear Leopard—most unchristian. I must certainly go and—"
"No, you mustn't do anything of the sort! Stay right where you are. We're in hot enough water already." And suiting the action to the word, she pushed him back on to the divan.
"Well, really—!" remarked the Bishop, and collapsed amiably.
Presently the sounds of commotion ceased, and gave way to laughter, but laughter with a certain grim note in it that boded ill for those laughed at. After a little, there came another knock at the cabin door, and this time quite a deputation entered the saloon, the sailor who had first visited them being the spokesman.
"Having disposed of those gents as you suggested—" he began.
"No, no!" the Bishop hastened to disclaim, "I suggested nothing."
"Well," said the seaman, "we've fixed 'em, anyway. And now we're heading for the nearest port, which the same's Weymouth, and we hopes you'll overlook what's gone before, and come on deck and take command of this yacht."
"I will certainly come on deck," replied the Bishop. "But as to assuming command of the ship, I hardly feel qualified. Is there not some one among you—?"
"I'm bo'sn, please your honour," volunteered the speaker.
"Ah," said the Bishop blandly, "then I appoint you." And as the men fell back, he escorted Miss Arminster upstairs.
As they appeared on deck, a striking scene met their eyes. Three wretched figures were triced up to the mainmast. They had only such remnants of clothes remaining on their persons as decency demanded, and they had all evidently made a recent acquaintance with the ship's tar-barrel and slush-bucket.
As his Lordship and Miss Arminster appeared, the crew approached, expecting a speech.
"I hardly know what to say," began the Bishop to Violet.
"Let me speak to them, will you?" she asked, her eyes sparkling. "I understand human nature pretty well. I have to, in my profession."
His Lordship nodded assent, and a moment later she had sprung on to the cabin hatch, a most entrancing little figure, and instantly commanded the attention and admiration of her audience.
"Mates!" she cried, in her clear ringing voice, "mates, I want a word with you."
"Speak up, and welcome!" called some one in the crowd, while the boatswain, nudging a comrade in the ribs, remarked under his breath:
"My eye, but she's a stunner!"
Silence having been obtained, she continued:
"I've only this to say. We've all been made fools of. Those gentlemen tied up to the mast made fools of you, and you've certainly made fools of them."
A loud laugh greeted this sally.
"And," she resumed, "if it ever gets out that his Lordship the Bishop of Blanford and myself were carried off as Spanish spies, we'll never hear the last of it. Now let's all keep silence for the sake of the others. Put us ashore at Weymouth, and we'll say to Lord Downton that it was our wish to be landed there. He won't know about the occurrences of this day, unless some of you tell him. You might leave the journalist and the tramp at Weymouth, too. I guess they'll have had enough of the sea to last them for some time. And oh, by the way, I suppose Mr. Marchmont intended to pay you for this. Perhaps you'll see that the division is properly carried out."
"Ay, ay!" came from twenty throats, followed by a rousing cheer.
And so it happened that they reached terra firma about six in the afternoon. But Weymouth, while it is geographically not far distant from Blanford, is miles away by the railroad and its connections, and they did not reach the palace till nearly midnight.
Everything was dark and still, and as they stood shivering in the porch, the Bishop remarked, producing his latch-key:
"Do you know I—I'm really afraid to open the door."
She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, and they entered softly.
"Is there anything I can get for the Leopard, before she retires?" he asked apologetically, as they crossed the stone-paved floor of the palace by the aid of a single bedroom candle, which only served to accentuate the surrounding darkness.
"No, thank you, I'm all right," she faltered, putting her foot on the first step of the stairs. And then, without the slightest warning, she burst into tears.
His Lordship, completely bewildered at this unexpected turn of affairs, patted her on the head, saying: "Dear, dear!" much as he would have done to obstreperous babies suspicious of baptism. But the fair Violet wept on.
"What is it?" said the Bishop. "What have I done?"
"You haven't done anything," she replied between her sobs, "but I—I'm so dreadfully hungry."
"Dear me!" exclaimed his Lordship, "I forgot all about dinner."
It was quite true that, in his anxiety to catch trains and make a series of bewildering connections, the question of food had entirely escaped his memory, and, now he came to think of it, he was ravenously hungry himself.
"I'm so sorry," he said helplessly. "We must see what we can find."
It was years since he had dared to investigate his own pantries; but under the spur of Miss Arminster's necessities he achieved prodigies of valour, even breaking into that holy of holies, his sister's jam-closet. The little actress aided and abetted him, creating havoc among jars of sardines, olives, and caviare. And then, while they were in the midst of their midnight orgy, a figure appeared before them—a figure clad in an indescribable dressing-gown and carrying a bedroom candle.
"Josephus," said the apparition, "is that you?"
"Yes, my dear," replied the Bishop, with his mouth full of jam tart, "it is."
"I wonder you've the face to enter the house!" said his sister.
"His own house! That's good," commented Miss Arminster from the midst of sardines.
"I admit that the circumstances are unusual," remarked the Bishop, cutting himself another large slice of the pastry, "but the train service is most irregular, and, as you can see, it was necessary to bring the Leopard home to-night, and so—"
"Josephus!" broke in his sister, "there are no leopards in this country, and I can see that to the other sins you have undoubtedly committed you have added the vice of—"
But she got no further, for the Bishop, casting a glance at each of the two women, decided that now or never was salvation at hand, and said brusquely:
"Matilda, go to bed at once!"
It was the first time he had ever spoken to her in tones of authority, and his sister, not believing her ears, returned to the charge.
"And as for that shameless minx—" she continued; but his Lordship again interrupted, remarking severely:
"Matilda, go to bed instantly!"
But the spinster was not yet defeated.
"Josephus!" she began, in her most approved style.
"Go to bed!" repeated the Bishop sharply.
For one moment she wavered. Then, realising that under the present conditions resistance was worse than useless, she turned slowly upon her heel, and marched upstairs with the air of a martyr going to the stake.
"You were right," said his Lordship moodily, as he disposed of the last piece of pie-crust.
"Right about what?" asked Violet.
"Mud-baths," returned the Bishop.