His legs were all that could be desired to fill out episcopalian gaiters; and his bland, clean-shaven face beamed with smiles and benignity. But Bishop Pendle was not the mere figure-head Mrs Pansey’s malice declared him to be; he had great administrative powers, great organising capabilities, and controlled his diocese in a way which did equal credit to his heart and head. As he chatted with his guests and did the honours of the palace, he seemed to be the happiest of men, and well worthy of his exalted post. With a splendid position, a charming wife, a fine family, an obedient flock of clergy and laity, the bishop’s lines were cast in pleasant places. There was not even the proverbial crumpled rose-leaf to render uncomfortable the bed he had made for himself. He was like an ecclesiastical Jacob—blessed above all men.
‘Well, bishop!’ said Dr Graham, a meagre sceptic, who did not believe in the endurance of human felicity, ‘I congratulate you.’
‘On my daughter’s engagement?’ asked the prelate, smiling pleasantly.
‘On everything. Your position, your family, your health, your easy conscience; all is too smooth, too well with you. It can’t last, your lordship, it can’t last,’ and the doctor shook his bald head, as no doubt Solon did at Croesus when he snubbed that too fortunate monarch.
‘I am indeed blessed in the condition of life to which God has been pleased to call me.’
‘No doubt! No doubt! But remember Polycrates, bishop, and throw your ring into the sea.’
‘My dear Dr Graham,’ said the bishop, rather stiffly, ‘I do not believe in such paganism. God has blessed me beyond my deserts, no doubt, and I thank Him in all reverence for His kindly care.’
‘Hum! Hum!’ muttered Graham, shaking his head. ‘When men thank fortune for her gifts she usually turns her back on them.’
‘I am no believer in such superstitions, doctor.’
‘Well, well, bishop, you have tempted the gods, let us see what they will do.’
‘Gods or God, doctor?’ demanded the bishop, with magnificent displeasure.
‘Whichever you like, my lord; whichever you like.’
The bishop was nettled and rather chilled by this pessimism. He felt that it was his duty as a Churchman to administer a rebuke; but Dr Graham’s pagan views were well known, and a correction, however dexterously administered, would only lead to an argument. A controversy with Graham was no joke, as he was as subtle as Socrates in discovering and attacking his adversary’s weak points; so, not judging the present a fitting occasion to risk a fall, the bishop smoothed away an incipient frown, and blandly smiling, moved on, followed by his chaplain. Graham looked grimly after this modern Cardinal Wolsey.
‘I have never,’ soliloquised the sceptic, ‘I have never known a man without his skeleton. I wonder if you have one, my lord. You look cheerful, you seem thoroughly happy; but you are too fortunate. If you have not a skeleton now, I feel convinced you will have to build a cupboard for one shortly. You thank blind fortune under the alias of God? Well! well! we shall see the result of your thanks. Wolsey! Napoleon! Bismarck! they all fell when most prosperous. Hum! hum! hum!’
Dr Graham had no reason to make this speech, beyond his belief—founded upon experience—that calms are always succeeded by storms. At present the bishop stood under a serene sky; and in no quarter could Graham descry the gathering of the tempest he prophesied. But for all that he had a premonition that evil days were at hand; and, sceptic as he was, he could not shake off the uneasy feeling. His mother had been a Highland woman, and the Celt is said to be gifted with second sight. Perhaps Graham inherited the maternal gift of forecasting the future, for he glanced ominously at the stately form of his host, and shook his head. He thought the bishop was too confident of continuous sunshine.
In the meantime, Dr Pendle, quite free from such forebodings, unfortunately came within speaking distance of Mrs Pansey, who, in her bell of St Paul’s voice, was talking to a group of meek listeners. Daisy Norsham had long ago seized upon Gabriel Pendle, and was chatting with him on the edge of the circle, quite heedless of her chaperon’s monologue. When Mrs Pansey saw the bishop she swooped down on him before he could get out of the way, which he would have done had courtesy permitted it. Mrs Pansey was the one person Dr Pendle dreaded, and if the late archdeacon had been alive he would have encouraged the missionary project with all his heart. ‘To every man his own fear.’ Mrs Pansey was the bishop’s.
‘Bishop!’ cried the lady, in her most impressive archidiaconal manner, ‘about that public-house, The Derby Winner, it must be removed.’
Cargrim, who was deferentially smiling at his lordship’s elbow, cast a swift glance at Gabriel when he heard Mrs Pansey’s remark. He had a belief—founded upon spying—that Gabriel knew too much about the public-house mentioned, which was in his district; and this belief was strengthened when he saw the young man start at the sound of the name. Instinctively he kept his eyes on Gabriel’s face, which looked disturbed and anxious; too much so for social requirements.
‘It must be removed,’ repeated the bishop, gently; ‘and why, Mrs Pansey?’
‘Why, bishop? You ask why? Because it is a hot-bed of vice and betting and gambling; that’s why!’
‘But I really cannot see—I have not the power—’
‘It’s near the cathedral, too,’ interrupted Mrs Pansey, whose manners left much to be desired.