CHAPTER XXVIII.
As all antiquarians know, Upwell Castle consists of two wings and a kind of centrepiece joining two civilizations and two divergent schools of architecture. The right wing is Tudor, and ruined; the left is Georgian, and habitable; the centre is nondescript and pseudo-Palladian. It cost a great deal to keep up, and nothing could keep it from falling down. Penelope's mother fell in love with it on first sight, and fell out with her husband about the price. Its value has fallen since then, for landed property is the only stable thing which always falls. There were pictures in it that connoisseurs gloated over, and some that picture-cleaners had restored till they were as valuable as a Gothic cathedral brought up to date by a resurrected Vandal. There were carvings by Grinling Gibbons to be seen, and some that were not by Grinling Gibbons. There were some rooms decorated by Adams that would have made Adam ill. There was an oak staircase there that a thousand intoxicated noblemen had fallen down; there was another that no sober gentleman could go up. It was ruinous, romantic, and rat-haunted; tapestry waved in its corridors, ghosts loved its precincts; there was a room stained with something that the servants said was blood, and that the skeptical averred to be port wine. The only thing against the latter theory was that the dining-room was not stained, though some said it had been so flooded all over that nothing showed. It was a delightful place, and Penelope never stayed there. Miss Mackarness did, but then she was a Scotchwoman, and didn't count. Bob adored it, but then Bob was Bob, and nothing could change him.
"I'll fix this all up," said Bob, "and make her happy. She's silly. I'll blow the gaff, as Baker says. She's up-stairs now, crying her eyes out, and making the baby bellow."
He wandered about the grounds, and wondered where Mary and Bunting and Miss Mackarness were.
"Silly fools!" said Bob; "the idea of being afraid of going in a motor-car. By Jove, I wonder what's become of my man at Spilsborough! I suppose those people in Regent Street think I've stolen the car. What fun!"
He explored the ruined wing, and ruined it a little more, and came out again into the Queen Anne garden.
"By Jove, I do wish I knew where they all were!" he said. "I wonder what granny is doing. Is she having fits, and Dr. Lumsden Griff to look after 'em? I think Griff's a soft-soapy ass. He says, 'Well, how are we this morning?' By Jove, all the rest of 'em will have fits, too. They will be sick. But I'm glad they're out of it. I wonder where Lord Bradstock is. He'll pull my wig when he sees me. And the bishop! Well, he's not a bad old boy. I rather like bishops, but their legs are queer. By Jove, but it's fun having skipped and done them! If they ever get to Spilsby and find us gone, they'll be mad!"
He walked around the corner of the house, and paff came a motor-car and made him jump. Another one followed like a streak of light. Bob went quite pale for a boy with a complexion like an ancient red brick, and made a bolt for the door. He was too late, for Bradstock and the bishop stood in his way. Bob slowed down, put his hands in his pockets and whistled.
"I say," said Bob, "how did you find this place out?"
"I own to being surprised and disappointed with you, Robert," said the bishop; "very much surprised and greatly disappointed."