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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 45648
   :PG.Title: Lady Penelope
   :PG.Released: 2014-05-14
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Morley Roberts
   :MARCREL.ill: Arthur William Brown
   :DC.Title: Lady Penelope
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1904
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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LADY PENELOPE
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      Cover art

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   .. _`LADY PENELOPE BRADING`:

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      :alt: LADY PENELOPE BRADING Who had ideas of her own

      LADY PENELOPE BRADING Who had ideas of her own

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      Lady Penelope

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      By

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      Morley Roberts

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      *Author of* "Rachel Marr," "The Promotion of
      the Admiral," etc.

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      *Illustrated by*
      Arthur William Brown

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      \L. \C. Page & Company
      *Boston*
      *Mdccccv*

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      *Copyright, 1904, 1903*
      BY \L. \C. PAGE & COMPANY
      (INCORPORATED)

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      *All rights reserved*

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      Published February, 1905

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      *COLONIAL PRESS
      Electrotyped and Printed by \C. \H. Simonds & Co.
      Boston, Mass., U.S.A.*

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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`LADY PENELOPE BRADING`_ . . . . . . . . . *Frontispiece*
   Who had ideas of her own.

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`CAPTAIN PLANTAGENET GOBY, V.C., LATE OF THE GUARDS`_
   Who was ordered to read poetry.

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`LEOPOLD NORFOLK GORDON`_
   Some said his real name was Isaac Levi.

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`AUSTIN DE VERE`_
   He wrote poetry, and abhorred bulldogs and motor-cars.

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`THE MARQUIS DE RIVAULX`_
   Anti-Semite to his manicured finger-tips.

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`RUFUS Q. PLANT`_
   Born in Virginia.

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`CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT`_
   He wrote with a red picturesqueness which was horribly attractive.

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

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`THE EARL OF PULBOROUGH`_
   Clever; but indolent.





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.. _`CHAPTER I.`:

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   LADY PENELOPE

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   CHAPTER I.

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All the absurd birthday celebrations were over,
and Penelope was twenty-one.

She declared that her whole life was to be
devoted to reform.  She meant to reform society,
to make it good and useful and straightforward,
and simple and utterly delightful.

She let it be understood that men were in great
need of her particular attention.  They were too
selfish and self-centred, too extravagant, too
critical of each other, too vain.  They acknowledged
it humbly when she mentioned it, for Lady Penelope
Brading's beauty was something to see and to talk
of; major and minor poets agreed about it; artists
desired to paint her and failed, as they always do
when true loveliness shines on them.  She had the
colour of a Titian; the contours of a Correggio;
the witchery of a Reynolds, and under wonderful
raiment the muscles of a young Greek athlete.  She
wiped out any society in which she moved.  When
sweet Eclipse showed herself, the rest were
nowhere.  The other girls did not exist; she even
made married beauties quake; as for the men, they
endured everything she said, and worshipped her
all the more.  She was strange and new and a tonic.
She had no sense of humour whatsoever; she could
not understand a joke even if it was explained by
an expert on the staff of *Punch*.  This made her
utterly delightful.  Her beautiful seriousness was
as refreshing as logic in a sermon.  She believed
in clergymen, in politicians, in the Deceased Wife's
Sister, in all eminent physicians, in the London
County Council, in the City of Westminster, in the
British Constitution, in herself, and hygiene.  She
read the *Times*, the *Athenæum*, the Encyclopædia
Britannica, Herbert Spencer, Mr. Kidd, and the
late Mr. Drummond.  She used Sandow's exercises
and cold water.  She was opposed to war; she
admired the leader of the opposition and the lord
mayor; she subscribed to a society for establishing
a national theatre to play Mr. Bernard Shaw's
tragedies, and to the nearest hospital.  She was the
most delightful person in England, and was against
vaccination.  She had money and lands and houses
and ideas.

"We ought all to do something; to be
something," said Lady Penelope Brading.

It was an amazing statement, a shocking statement,
and clean against all class tradition when
she interpreted it to the alarmed.  Was it not to
be something if one was rich, let us say?  Was
it not to do something if one spent one's money on
horses and sport and dress and bridge?  Heaven
defend us all if anything more is asked of man or
woman than killing time and killing beasts!  Hands
went up to heaven when Penelope preached.

Not that she preached at length.  Her sermons
lasted five seconds by any clock, save at the times
when she warmed her ankles by the fire with some
pet friend of hers, and took into consideration how
she was to use her power for the regeneration of
the world which was hers.  Now she was with
Ethel Mytton, a remote relative of the celebrated
Mytton who drank eight bottles of port a day, and
was a sportsman of the character which makes all
Englishmen prouder of sport than of their history.
Ten thousand on a football field would put him
higher than Sir Richard Grenville.  Sidney was a
fool to him.  Her father was a cabinet minister.

But Ethel was meek and mild, and followed
Penelope at a humble distance, modelling herself
on that sweet mould of revolution.  So might a
penny candle imitate an arc-light; so a glowworm
worship the big moon.

"But you'll get married, dear," said Ethel, "of
course you'll get married."

Penelope was pensive.

"There are other things than marriage," said
Penelope.

"Oh, are there?" sighed Ethel.  She did not
think so, for she was in love.  Penelope loved
theories best.

"Which of them will you marry?" asked Ethel.

"Which what?"

"Silly, them," said Ethel.  "What the duchess
calls your 'horde.'"

"I don't know," replied Penelope.  "I'm like
Diogenes, and I'm looking for an honest man."

"Oh, honesty,—yes, of course, I know what
you mean.  But there are plenty of them, Pen dear.

"Boo!" said Pen; "so the other Greeks said to
the man in the tub."

Ethel sighed.

"What Greeks and what man in what tub?" she
inquired, plaintively.

And Penelope did not enlighten her darkness, for
in came the Duchess of Goring, her aunt, whose
Christian name was Titania.  She weighed sixteen
stone in glittering bead armour, and had a voice
exactly like Rose Le Clerc's in "The Duchess of
Bayswater."  She rarely stopped talking, and was
ridiculously moral and conventional, and, except
for her voice, she might have been a shopkeeper's
wife in any suburb.

"My dear Penelope," said Titania, "I'm glad to
see you again.  You look positively sweet, my
darling, after all these parties and carryings-on, and
what not, and now at last you are quite grown up
and yourself and your own and twenty-one.  I wish
I was.  I was nine stone then exactly,—not a
pound more.  Oh, and it's you, Ethel.  I hope your
dear papa is not overworking himself, now he's a
cabinet minister.  Cabinet ministers will overwork
themselves.  I've known them die of it.  Tell him
what I say, will you?  But of course he will pay
no attention, and in time will die like the rest.
It's no use advising men to be sensible.  I've given
it up.  Ah, here at last is Lord Bradstock."

Titania flowed on wonderfully; she flowed exactly
like the twisting piece of glass in a mechanical
clock which mimics a jet of water.  She turned
round and never advanced.  But Augustin, Lord
Bradstock, was as calm as a mill-pond, as a mere
in the mountains.  He was tall and thin and ruddy
and white-haired at fifty.  He had been twice a
widower.

"Why at last, Titania?" he yawned, as he stood
with Penelope's hand in his.  He was still her
guardian in his heart, though she was out of tutelage.

"I say at last, Augustin, because you were not
here before me," cried Titania.  "And I expected
you to be here before me from what you said this
morning.  I told you I meant to come in and speak
quietly and seriously to Penelope, and you said you
would come, too."

Penelope's eyes thanked her guardian, and they
smiled at him half-secretly, saying as plain as any
words: "What a dear you are to come in and dilute
aunty for me!"

"Yes," said Bradstock, "I think I said I would
prepare her."

"I've not had a single chance lately to say a word
for her good," cried Titania, "what with this person
and that person and the horde.  I think it is time
now, Penelope, that you reorganized your amazing
circle of acquaintances, mostly men, by the way.
While Augustin was responsible for you, of course
you were obstinate, but now you are in a position
of greater freedom you will see the advisability
of being guided by your aunt.  I'm sure, I'm
positive of it."

Now the real sore point with the duchess was
this matter of the "horde."  It was the only
picturesque phrase she ever invented in her life, and
without any doubt it did characterize in some
measure the remarkable collection of men who were
pretenders to Penelope's hand and fortune.

"Out of the entire, the entire—"

"Caboodle," said Bradstock, suggestively.

The duchess shook her head like a horse in fly-time.

"No, Augustin, not caboodle; pray, what is
caboodle?  Out of the entire—lot, Penelope, there
are hardly three who belong to your class.  I
entreat you to go through them and dismiss those
of whom we can't approve, I and Lord Bradstock."

"Don't drag me in," said Bradstock.  "They are
all very good fellows; I approve of them all."

"Tut, tut," said Titania, "is this the way you
help, Augustin?  You are a hindrance.  I believe
it is entirely owing to you that Penelope has these
strange and alarming ideas.  Yes, my dear, I'm
afraid it is.  He is not the kind of man who should
have been your guardian.  I ought to have been
consulted.  I knew a bishop who would have been
admirable, most admirable.  He's dead, dear man,
and the present one is a scandal to the Protestant
Church, what with incense and processions and
candles and confession-boxes.  But, as I was saying,
I do hope you will dismiss some of these men.  And
I hope you will be sensible and not say shocking
things.  No one should say shocking things till they
are married, and even then with discretion.  Socialism
and reform and marriage!  Dear me, you really
must not talk about marriage, but you must get
married to a suitable person.  I'm sure, Augustin,
we should have no insuperable objection to, let
us say, young Bramber.  He'll be an earl by and
by.  And you mustn't talk about reforming society,
my dear love.  It is quite impossible to reform
society without abolishing it, my pet.  Ethel darling,
many cabinet ministers have owned as much to me
with much alarm, almost with tears.  It's no use
trying.  Tell your dear father so, Ethel.  I forgot to
mention it the other day when we discussed the
London County Council and its terrible extravagance
compared with the economy of the government.  We
talked, too, about the War Office, and I told him
that it couldn't be reformed without abolishing it,
which was not to be thought of for an instant.
What should we do without a War Office, as we
are always fighting?  He sighed deeply, poor man.
Dr. Lumsden Griff says sighing is cardiac in its
origin, and I wish your father would see him, Ethel.
He's the first doctor in London for the ventricles
of the heart.  So every one says.  But about your
ideas, Penelope—"

"Good heavens, aunty, I haven't any left," said
Penelope.  This was not in the least surprising, for
Titania reduced any ordinary gathering to idiocy at
the shortest notice.

"Oh, but you have," said Titania, "and society
cannot endure ideas, my love.  Anything but ideas,
darling."

"Well, well," sighed Bradstock, "what is the
use of talking to her, Titania?  Pen is Pen, and
there's an end of it."

"I wish there was," cried the duchess.  "But
she rails against marriage.  And she's only
twenty-one.  Dear, dear me!"

"She pays too much attention to you married
women," said Bradstock.  "How's the duke, by
the way?"

As the duke was engaged in running two theatres
at the same time, not wholly in the interests
of art or finance, Bradstock might have asked after
his health at some other juncture.  Titania ignored him.

"She rails against marriage," lamented Titania.

"I don't," said Penelope.

"You do," said her aunt.

"It's only the horrible publicity," said Penelope,
"and the way things are done, and the ghastly
presents and the bishops and the newspaper men
and the horrible crowd outside and the worse crowd
inside, and all the horrid fluff and flummery of it.
If I'm ever married, I'll get it done in a registrar's
office."

"Oh, Penelope," wailed Ethel.

But Titania became terrible.

"You shall not be, Penelope," she cried.  "I
could not stand it.  As your aunt, my dear—  Oh,
my love, I knew some one who was married in that
way, and it was a most shocking affair, and of
course it turned out that he had been married
before and was a bigamist.  The scandal was hushed
up, and the first wife, who was the sweetest girl,
and died of consumption shortly afterward at her
father's vicarage in Kent or Yorkshire, near
Pevensey or Pontefract; at any rate it began with
a P, and the man, though a villain, was a gentleman,
for he married the second one all over again in a
foreign place, with a chaplain officiating; much
better than a registrar, who can marry you, I'm
told, in pajamas if he likes, though not like a bishop,
which one might have expected in his case.  You
all knew him slightly, at any rate.  Never, my dear,
get married at a registrar's."

"It's better than the open shame of a cathedral
and a bishop," said Penelope.  "Being married
is one's private business, and it's nothing but horrid
savagery to have crowds there!"

"Bravo!" said Bradstock, and Titania turned on him.

"Did I not say all this was your fault, Augustin?
You were no more fit to be her guardian than you
are to be Archbishop of Canterbury.  Am I a
savage, Penelope? and did I not get married in a
cathedral, a most beautiful cathedral, all Gothic
and newly restored at a vast expense?  My dear,
I am amazed and horrified and shocked to think that
you should not perceive the quite exquisite fitness
of being married in a piece of lovely Gothic
architecture, to the very loveliest music, breathing over
Eden, and so on, while all your dearest friends shed
tears of purest joy—"

"To see her got rid of," said Bradstock.

And even Ethel Mytton laughed.

"Augustin!  Ethel Mytton!  How can you say
such things and laugh?  It's wicked; it's indecent!"

"Yes," said Penelope, "that's what I say.
There's nothing to choose between your way and
the American way the millionaire women have over
there, when they hold a flower-show in a gilded
room, and get married under a bell of roses at the
cost of a hundred thousand dollars.  I'd rather be
knocked down by a nice savage, or run away with
by a viking, or caught by a pirate.  I won't be
breathed over in Eden by a stuffy crowd.  If—if—"

"Oh, if what?" gasped Titania.

"If I ever do get married," said Penelope, "I'll
never tell any of you beforehand!"

"Good heavens!" said the duchess, "you won't tell us?"

"I won't."

"You'll let us find out!  Shall I know nothing
of the marriage of my brother's child till I read
it in the *Times*?  It shall not be!  Augustin, does
she mean it?"

Augustin lighted a cigarette and walked to the
window, which looked down on the traffic of Piccadilly.

"I give it up," said Augustin.  "When could
I answer riddles?  Do you mean it, Pen?"

And Penelope, rising up, stood on the hearthrug
and, looking like the descendant of a viking and
some fair Venetian, declared that she did mean
it.  And she further went on to say, in great haste
and with a most remarkable flow of words, that
it shouldn't be in the *Times* or any other paper.
And she said that if Titania, Duchess of Goring,
was her aunt, it couldn't be helped, and that her
principles were more to her than any one's approval.
Though she loved her aunt and her dear sweet
guardian, these same principles were even dearer
than they were.  And she said that they had no
principles ("not even Guardy dear"), and that they
only thought of a demon thing called Society, which
was at once a fetich and a phantom.  And she
became so excited that she talked like a real woman
orator upon a platform, and expressed her
intention of using her influence to bring about reform,
especially in such matters and with regard to young
men who did nothing, and seemed to think they
had been created for that very purpose.  And, as
she talked, there wasn't a man in the world who
would not have yearned to take his coat off and
ask for a pick and shovel at the least, for she was
as beautiful as any young goddess fresh from
Grecian foam or from high Olympus.  Even Bradstock
sighed to think that he had never done anything
for the human race, which required so much help,
but sit in the Upper House, a speechless phantom.
And Ethel Mytton cried with an imparted enthusiasm,
while the duchess wept with horror.

"And more than that," said Penelope, who broke
down in her eloquence and resorted to the tone of
conversation, "more than that, I'll never, never
let you know whom I marry!  I mean it!  That—that's flat!"

And after this damp but awful peroration, she
sat down with heaving bosom, and poor, bewildered
Titania shook her head till it looked as if it would
come off.  She found no flow of words to oppose
Penelope with.  The biggest river is nothing when
it flows into the sea, and, if Titania was the
Amazon, Pen was the South Atlantic.

"Not who he is?" said the duchess, as feebly
as if she were no more than a brook in a meadow.

"I will not," said Penelope, like a sea in a cyclone.

"Not—  Oh, I must go home," piped Titania.
"Augustin, she's capable of marrying a chauffeur,
because he can drive at sixty miles an hour,—or—or
a groom!"

"I'd rather marry either or both," said Pen,
furiously, "than be mobbed and musicked into
matrimony with a grinning crowd of idiots looking on."

"This is immoral," said Titania, "it's very
immoral; you couldn't marry both.  I'll go home,
Bradstock."

And Bradstock took her there.

"You've done it, Titania," he said, as they drove.
"She's as obstinate and as violent as a passive
resister.  You've put her bristles up, and Pen never
goes back from what she says."

"You are very like a man, Augustin," sobbed
the duchess.

"She's more like a woman than I'm like a man,"
growled Bradstock.

He had never risen to eminence, and only once
to his feet in the Upper House, and sometimes this
rankled.

"Yes, I mean it, I mean it," said Penelope.

"And I wanted to be your bridesmaid," sobbed Ethel.

"You never will be, and you can tell every one
what I say."

"I won't," said Ethel, "I won't."

And she went away and told them.





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.. _`CHAPTER II.`:

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   CHAPTER II.

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In spite of what good conventional people said,
there was nothing abnormal in Penelope's character.
The walking world appears abnormal to an
institute for cripples; good going is an absurdity, and
as for running—  The truth is that Penelope, by
some unimaginable freak of fortune, had been born
quite sound and sane, barring her one lack, that
of humour.  The providential death of her parents
at an early age saved her from a deal of teaching.
Bradstock saved her from a great deal more, and
she saw to the rest.  It pleased Augustin, Lord
Bradstock, to play with gunpowder, in spite of what
he said about dynamite.  He encouraged her to
trust to herself in a way that every well-regulated
woman considered highly dangerous, and he used
to enrage her in order to hear what she had to say
to him.  There was a period in which she swore
vigorously.  She learnt her language from an old
stableman, who adored her even more than he did
any horse.  This was at the age of three.  Her first
interview with her aunt, the Duchess of Goring,
was positively so shocking to Titania, who was
mid-Victorian, and never got over it, that the poor
thing almost fainted when Penelope, a shining brat
of three, damned her eyes with terrific vigour.
Goring, who was that very curious and absurd survival
of a thousand ages, known as a sportsman, roared
with laughter.  There was humanity in him.  There
was none in Titania, though there might have been
if she had married any one but a duke.  And
Penelope damned her eyes for saying she mustn't go
to the stables without a retinue, an escort, a
bodyguard of footmen and nurses and governesses.

"I haven't a governeth now," lisped Penelope.
"I thacked the latht one, didn't I, Bradstock?"

Lady Bradstock, number two, was then reigning
without governing as far as Bradstock was
concerned, and governing without reigning as far as
another was concerned, and she paid no attention
to Penelope, except to encourage her to amuse her
guardian.  Thus Penelope grew like a tree in the
open, and there were no Dutch gardeners to clip
her.  At fifteen she greeted her last governess, a
lady of great learning and no ability, with the news
that she had had her luggage got ready, and that
there was the carriage at the door for her.  There
is no defending such conduct.  Pen never defended
it herself in later years.  She acknowledged she had
been a brute to Miss Mackarness, and gave her
a position as housekeeper in one of her own houses,
that she never visited, with permission to receive
the shillings some visitors paid to see a mansion
like a sarcophagus, with one treasure of a Turner
in it.

The trouble was that Penelope was natural.  She
had not been trained to become so; she grew so.
There is no more painful and laborious a process
than to learn to be natural in later life.  But to
grow like it!  Ah, that was splendid, and many
unthinking people laughed to hear Pen when she
swore, or cried, or begged for pardon, or dominated
the whole little world around her.  The world
indeed smiled on Pen, and now she was twenty-one
and splendid, mobile, gracious, Venetian, strong,
and as rich as an American heiress, and she already
had as many wooers as Penelope of old.  But the
little bow of Cupid was too much for them.
Other defence was too good.  And now these strange
notions grew up in her.  There was some natural
shame in her heart that the crowd of duchesses and
what not could not understand.  When He came
at last, riding gallantly, a brave male, virile, strong,
and bold, armed in shining armour, should she lead
him out into Piccadilly, investing him in a frock
coat for his armour and a cylinder for his helmet,
and marry him in a crowd, while a paid organist
played something about Eden?  Oh, where was Eden?

Here's romance then, and in a new guise in a
young woman.  For the true romantic age is the
age of feminine desperation.  When one has been
"taught" all one's best years, it's hard to be
romantic till one wears through one's fetters at the
very foot of the scaffold, when it's too late.  How
many sweet women sour in cream-jugs, and escape
the cat, or some roaring lion, for nothing but
sourest contemplation.  They crowd feminine churches.

Pen's brother, or, rather, half-brother, was ten
years her senior, and played a suitable part in the
orchestra of the House of Lords as Lord Brading.
He voted for the government when it was conservative,
and against it when it was liberal with perfect
certainty and good-will.  There was nothing
remarkable about Brading but the strange, almost
awestruck admiration with which he worshipped
Penelope.  A man even of the most absurd
conservative solidity must be a radical and an
anarchist somewhere, and indeed he pretended to be
something of a socialist.  Nevertheless, he had
humour.  Brading thought his half-sister a wonder,
and had no criticism for her.  Indeed it is believed
that he helped the groom mentioned above to teach
her unrefinements of the English language peculiarly
shocking to early and mid Victorians.  But in his
heart "Bill" Brading considered Pen's mother
accounted for, excused everything.  The last Lady
Brading was an American who wallowed in money,
which she invested in repairing her husband's
character and his castles.  When he died, and nothing
could be done for his character but suppress
biographers, she invested in ancient demesnes on Pen's
behalf, and bought her rat-riddled and
ghost-haunted mansions of historic character till there
were few (and among them Penelope could not
be counted) who could tell how many of them she
owned.  Then Lady Brading went to a newer world
than the United States, and left Pen to the care
of Augustin, Lord Bradstock, a man of brains and
no voice when on his legs.  It is reported that he
learnt a speech of his own composing by heart, and
when he rose to deliver it all he said was, "Good
God," in an astonished whisper, and collapsed,
struck by a form of paralysis which rarely attacks
fools and which bores cannot suffer from.

Penelope was richer than her half-brother, for
her mother, having paid her husband's debts, rebuilt
Brading House, and saved his life from being
written after a very quiet and gentlemanly departure,
considered she had done her duty to the family.
She left her stepson five thousand pounds, it is true,
and, with a want of ostentation not peculiarly
American, she left another five to Penelope, and modestly
made her residuary legatee.  The residue was
considerably over a million dollars.  And then there
were the houses, most of them ineligible properties
in ring-fences, fit for immediate occupation after
they had been restored.  For poor Lady Brading
had a passion for ruins, and collected castles as some
do bric-à-brac.  The two great griefs of her life
were that she could not buy Haddon Hall and Arundel Castle.

Well, there is the situation plainly outlined.  Pen
was as savage as Pocahontas, so some said, and
she could, an she liked, wallow in money.  She
owned property all over England, to say nothing
of a chateau near Tours, a palazzo in Venice, and
a building in New York which brought in more
than the rest cost to keep up.  She had a brother,
a peer with a voice, a guardian a peer without one,
an aunt who was a duchess, and strange ideas of
her own which got up and talked on the most
unsuitable occasions.

But then there was her beauty as clamant as a
rose of fire, as sweet as violet or verbena!  The
rose can be gilded it seems, like a lily, and the gold
was a power to her, giving authority over men.
She who had enough to command the work of many
thousands at current wages (for this is money
truly) commanded that strange respect for power
as well as love for herself.  Her lovers were
numberless, so people said, and there was this truth in
their being beyond arithmetic that no one troubled
to count them.  Marriageable beauties of a lesser
order of loveliness prayed for her extinction in
matrimony.  Mothers of the marriageable prayed
for it with a fervour only equalled by the fervour
of her hopeless lovers, if there can be fervour
without hope.  It is the command of true beauty that
it can.  Had not all the painters, all the sculptors,
from Pheidias down to the unselected classics of
our own time, met together when she rose, a newer
Aphrodite from the sea of the unknown!  Her
loveliness was sweet and intolerable; one ached
at it.  Cowards shrank from it.  Brave men cried
for her.  There are strange tales!

What a strange motley gathering she selected.
They had one thing in common, to be discovered
shortly, one would think.  She discovered their
qualities by inspection.  Many would-bes she drove
away overcliff.  She knew men of many classes
adored her, wondering and humble.  One great
lover of hers, who was very good to horses, and
only reasonably bitter against motor-cars, was her
groom, Timothy Bunting.  He didn't know he loved
her.  Indeed, he imagined he loved her maid.  But
there is this quality in a great love, that it asks all
or nothing.  Tim was perhaps as great as the
greatest, but he rode behind her even when the Marquis
de Rivaulx or Rufus Q. Plant rode alongside her
with a quiet and unjealous mind.  There was much
in Timothy, as much or more than there was in
the French marquis, who rode "well enough," as
Tim said, or as in Plant, who rode "all over 'is
'orse," as became one bred in Arizona.  These must
show themselves by and by.  They had the quality,
at any rate.  Even Tim knew it.

But what was it that gave permission to
Mr. Austin de Vere to join the throng?  He wrote
poetry.  He followed her as close as a rhyme in
a couplet.  He never wrote her any, for which she
was pleased to be flatteringly thankful.  There are
some things that cannot be set down in verse even
by the greatest, and the poet De Vere acknowledged
this humbly.  He had the character of being the
most conceited and immitigable ass in England,
and when he was with Penelope he was as humble
as a puppy in leash.  There was something great
in his mighty subjection.  Not even Goby, late
of the Guards, was so mitigable and so mitigated
when Pen was by.  And Goby's V.C. was almost
as much valued by him as his clothes and boots.
He gained it by a fit of angry rage, such as had
led him to pay several sovereigns at a desk in a
back office at a police-station, and came out of his
temper to discover he was a hero.  So much for
luck when a big man, with the quality and temper
of a bull, gets into a row in a sangar without any
police to stay his hand.

"As for that De Vere," said Goby, "why, I
could crush him with one hand."

"And he could make you sore with a few words,"
said Penelope.

"He couldn't," bragged Goby.

Penelope smiled.

"No, perhaps he couldn't," she said, pensively,
and Goby was pleased with her opinion of his bull's
hide.  Europa had at any rate scratched him.  He
indicated the sea of matrimony with inarticulate
bellows.  But of course he was really quite possible.
As Chloe Cadwallader said, his boots were
inspiration, polished, and his Christian name was
Plantagenet.  He had some obscure right to it.

Then there was Lord Bramber.  Some folks said
if she married any one, she would marry Bramber,
because his father was the Earl of Pulborough.
They forgot all the rest of the aristocratic mob.
If any title pleased her democratic soul, she could
pick strawberries.  One senile and one merely silly
duke pursued her panting.  But she certainly liked
Bramber, and showed her partiality for him or her
unpartiality with frankness.  She had hopes of him,
though he appeared hopeless now at the age of
twenty-seven.  She maintained that men were half
their age and women twice it, at the least.

"Dear Titania is ninety," said Penelope, "and
Guardy is twenty-five.  Lord Bramber will perhaps
think of doing some work when he is fifteen."

There came with these, with and not after, Jimmy
Carew, who was an A.R.A.  He painted portraits,
and talked about art with eloquence till no one,
even an artist, could guess what he meant.  But
he believed things with such faith that many of his
fair sitters agreed with him.  He was the best
looking of the whole "horde," as Titania called Pen's
adorers.

The "horde" included Leopold Norfolk Gordon,
who had a house in Park Lane and ever so many
people's money to keep it up with.  As may be
guessed from his name, he was a Jew.  Several
people, with whom he could not share the money
he had acquired by unsullied dishonesty, said his
real name was Isaac Levi.  Goby, who hated him
bitterly, consoled him when a less successful Israelite
called him "Ikey," at Ascot, by saying:

"It's damned hard lines, Gordon.  A man may
be born in Whitechapel without being a Jew."

So near may insolence come to wit.  When this
was pointed out to Goby, he told the story
everywhere with many chuckles.  But it was impossible
to deny certain attributes to poor Gordon, whether
his name was Levi or Moses, or Ehrenbreitstein,
for that matter.  Penelope had no racial prejudices,
and anti-Semitism was unnatural and abhorrent to
her.  She said things about negroes to Rufus
Q. Plant (born in Virginia) which made his flesh
creep almost as badly as if he had been born in
Delaware.  So in spite of Gordon's looking
somewhat Semitic, she asserted there were the qualities
she required in the poor man, who indeed was not
bumptious or loud or peculiarly offensive in her
presence.  He that stole millions feared a girl.  He
polished his last week's hat with trembling hands,
that had signed death-warrants in the city, when
he spoke with her.

And to round off the "horde" with another
sample, there came in Carteret Williams.  He was the
biggest of the lot, and had a voice like a
toastmaster's, or that of the man who announces the
train at Zurich.  It is worth going there to hear
him, by the way.  Many good Americans travel for
less.  Williams was a writer, a journalist, a
war-correspondent, or, as he said, a "battle
vulture."  When he could dip his pen in blood, he wrote with
a red picturesqueness which was horribly attractive.
He belonged to a very decent family, and took
to his present trade by nature.  That gives some
hint of why Penelope liked him.

What was the secret, then, the secret that brought
young Bramber, and Rufus Quintus Plant, and
"Ikey Levi," alias Leopold Norfolk Gordon, and
Captain Plantagenet Goby, and the verse-making
De Vere, together with the Marquis de Rivaulx and
Jimmy Carew, under one table-cloth, so to speak,
at the Tattenham Corner of wooing?  Some said
Penelope wouldn't have anything to do with any
one who was not a Man.  It is true she abhorred
those who were not men; but so much depends
upon a definition.  In the West (and the East,
for that matter) a Man goes for what he is worth,
and is common currency, as he should be, and a
"White Man" is the gold.  To be called a White
Man is the true compliment, and implies,—well,
it implies what the "horde" implied.  They were
men and Man, and "White," so Penelope said
when she had picked up the picturesque figure from
Rufus Q. Plant.  They might be asses (and some
were, or at least mules), but they meant to run
straight.  They were lazy, or some were, but the
laziest lay under the delusion that laziness was their
godlike duty.  They needed the spur.  They might
be brutes in the way of business (you should read
what has been written in a New York paper about
Plant, or hear what a certain disembowelled set
in the city say of Gordon, who turned them inside
out), but they played the game.  They knew what
cricket was, even when it was played with red-hot
shot, and not to carry one's bat meant blue ruin.
After saying that they were all this, which implies
they were men of honour, each according to the
code of their fellows (for this is honour), I shall
show you how they came, or how many of them
came, to utter grief in curious ways under very
odd stresses.  What can a man of honour do in
an entirely new position, one not provided for in
any code?  It would puzzle a jury of archangels to
say.

"Have you heard?" asked Goby, with wondering eyes.

"What she says?" replied Gordon.

"Shade of Titian!" cried Jimmy Carew.

"Well, I'm damned!" said Carteret Williams.

"This is romance," sighed the De Vere.

"I'm—I'm—that's what I am," whistled Rufus
Q. Plant.

"Imphm!" murmured Lord Bramber.

"Sapristi!" shrieked the French marquis.

Wasn't it enough to make them exclaim when it
was reported all over London, and in the country,
and in papers and cables to New York that
Penelope Brading had sworn, with a great oath, that
she meant to upset the holy apple-cart of all
tradition (at least since Adam) by never letting any one
know who her husband was!  They knew her, and
knew her word was sacred.  Now let all unwhite
men, all unrealities, all ghosts, all vain folks vanish
one by one.

With one voice the "horde" exclaimed, as they
set their teeth:

"Well, we don't care!"

What does this say for Penelope's faculties of
distinguishing men from monkeys, and white from gray?





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER III.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.

.. vspace:: 2

All that happened now only shows one how the
greatest sense of modesty may end in the biggest
advertisement.  Penelope, though determined to do
her duty, which was mainly to educate mankind,
meant doing it unobtrusively, and there was not a
man or woman in the British Isles or in the United
States who did not hear of her quiet intention.  The
cables hummed with Penelope's name; it was
whispered in the great deeps of the sea; wireless
telegraphists caught Lady Penelope Brading out of
Hertzian waves; ships ploughed the ocean laden
with Penelope and copy about her.

In two twos the notoriety hunters in London sank
into insignificance; professional beauties were
neglected, and the sale of their photographs fell off.
There was an immense demand for Penelope's,
which, luckily, no one could satisfy until an
enterprising New Yorker flooded the United States with
portraits.  Before it was found out that this
particular photograph was one of a young actress
whom he proposed introducing to the public shortly,
he sold amazing quantities of them.  When there
was one in every inquiring household from Hudson
Bay to the Gulf of Mexico, the real sitter for
it wrote to the papers and complained bitterly.  She
is now playing to crowded houses.  There are many
paths to fame.

Poor Pen was at first horribly shocked.  She was
young.  And yet she was human.  She said: "Oh,
dear, oh, dear!" and, swearing that she would
never read a word about herself, she subscribed to
a newspaper cutting agency.

From the New York papers alone one could cull
a highly coloured account of her whole history.
And they gave Bradstock's history, too, not
omitting his two-word exclamatory speech in the House
of Lords.  Bradstock stood it like a Trojan, like a
Spartan.  He never turned a hair even when they
said that he was going to marry Penelope himself.
They gave a full biography of Titania, with a real
photograph.  When the duchess saw it, she was
silent for full five minutes, such was the shock it
gave her.  Then she talked for five hours, and
called on the American ambassador.

"Cannot you do anything for me?" asked
Titania, perorating.

"I'm afraid not, your Grace," said the
ambassador, wearily.  He said it was an awful thing to
be an ambassador sometimes, though it had its
points.

Being discomfited for once by an ambassador,
she turned on Bradstock, and rent him limb from
limb.  And then she went to Penelope.

"I'm only doing my duty," said Penelope, with
her beautiful lips as firm as Grecian marble.

"Your duty!" shrieked the duchess; "and look
at the papers!"

"I can't help what they say, aunt.  One's duty—"

"They tell my weight," said Titania.  "How
did they know?"

"They must have guessed it," said Penelope.

"I don't *look* it," pleaded the duchess, now
suddenly plaintive.

"No, no, dear auntie, you don't," said poor
Penelope.  "Oh, it's cruel of them."

"Help me, then," said Titania.  "Get married
at once in a cathedral, and all this will stop.  I'll
ask the dear archbishop to officiate, Penelope.  Oh,
my darling!"

But Penelope became Pentelican marble again;
she froze into a severe goddess, and she saw Titania
weep.

"It's scandalous!  Oh, and they have a list of
them all," said Titania.

Indeed, the *New York Dustman* had the "horde"
set out in a row like the entries for the Derby.
They said the betting was on Rufus Q. Plant, of
course.  They gave a short and succulent biography
of them all.  They headed the list "The Lady
Penelope Handicap."  They used some slang about
"weight for age."

"Great heavens!" said Titania, "all town is
ringing with it.  If this is the result of looking on
marriage as one's private business, give me publicity!"

There would have been less of it if a prince had
married a publican's daughter in St. Paul's, and
had presented the dean with a set of pewter pots.

"And if she does what she says!"

The only men who did not talk much about
Penelope were naturally those who aspired to win
her.  Every one neglected politics and sport to
discuss her.  She became politics and sport.  Huge
sums of money were at stake as to whether she
would keep her word; as to the length of time she
would keep the secret, and as to who the man was
to be.  There were public and private books made
on the series of events.  And there was a Penelope
party and an opposition.  Many young people who
were revolutionary in their sentiments said she was
right.  There was a Penelope Cave in the House
of Commons.  Some of those who fought year in
and year out for the Deceased Wife's Sister backed
her up.  It was whispered that the prince was a
Penelopian; two princesses threatened with
objectionable persons of the royal blood were heard to
observe that there was something in what she said.
Penelope was within measurable distance of
becoming a national, or even an international, question.
Mrs. X. wrote an article in the *Fortnightly* on
"Secret Marriage in History."  Mr. Z. sat down
and wrote a novel, bristling with "wit and
epigram," in ten days, which ran into the third edition
of two hundred and fifty copies in thirty.  It was
said that questions were to be asked in the House.
A play on the subject was forbidden by the lord
chamberlain.  The wittiest article on the subject
was written by a Mr. Shaw.  He argued that no
really beautiful woman had any right to be
married at all.  He said plaintively that it wasn't fair,
and convinced the ugly in two syllogisms.

And, as the result of this, Penelope went away
into the country, though it was May, with Ethel
Mytton and Mrs. Cadwallader, who was called
Chloe, and stood by Pen remorselessly in every
difficulty.  For Pen had helped her out of an awful
mess, the history of which would make a whole
story of itself.  As a result of it, Cadwallader was
in the Rocky Mountains shooting, and a certain
young soldier was taking too much liquor and too
little quinine in Nigeria, and Chloe got her
diamonds back from Messrs. Attenborough, and was
eternally grateful to Penelope in consequence.

"And I shall send for them one by one," said
Penelope.  "They can come down by the ten
o'clock train from Paddington, and go back by the
five o'clock one from here.  And after lunch I shall
explain my ideas to them."

"And I'll be with you," said Chloe, who was
as dark-locked as a raven's wing.

"Oh, I don't mind," said Penelope; "of course
you will.  I'm too young, am I not, to be left alone,
Chloe?  Is it true, Chloe, that the older a woman
gets the bigger fool she is?"

Chloe said it was true.

"I'll ask Titania to let Bob come over," said
Penelope.  "He's the wisest person I know."

Bob was Titania's grandson, and was certainly
young enough to be wise, as he was only fourteen.
He had been sent to three of the great public
schools, and had been taken away because of his
fighting capabilities.  He never knew when he had
enough, and it is quite impossible to keep a boy
at any school if he breaks out of bounds to fight
some young butcher or baker in a back alley at least
once a week.  Now he had a tutor who had been
an amateur boxer of great merit.  It began to take
the tutor all his time to handle his pupil.  But if
Bob was knocked endways about three times a week,
it sobered him and made him do his work.  He did
not yet know whether he wanted to be a prize-fighter
or the commander-in-chief.  But he loved
Penelope.

"I'll send for Bob," said Penelope.

And Bob came with Mr. Guthrie, his tutor, and
Titania was glad to get rid of him for a time.

"Oh, Pen," said Bob, "how jolly kind of you
to ask me.  I'm sick of grandmother; she worries
me to death.  Always says, 'Robert, you mustn't.'  I
say, have you read Kip's 'Cat that Walked by
Himself'?  Mr. Guthrie says it's splendid, and
I say it's rot.  But old Guth likes Virgil and
Horace.  Isn't that strange, for he can box like
anything.  Baker, the groom, says he can.  And Baker's
awful good with the mitts.  But I say, Pen, what's
all this about you in the papers?  Grandmother
wails when she sees one now.  I ain't sure I like
having you so much in the papers, Pen."

"I don't like it, either," said Penelope, "but I
can't help it."

"Is it true that you're going to be married and
never tell any one?" demanded Bob from the
bottom of a huge rocking-chair, as they sat on the
lawn.  They were in one of Pen's habitable houses,
and the lawn ran down to the Thames.

"I won't if I don't want to," said Penelope.
"But you're a boy, Bob, and don't understand these
things."

Bob snorted and smiled, not unsubtly.

"Oh, Pen, don't be like grandmother.  I understand
pretty nearly everything now.  Granny's always
saying that, and it's jolly rot.  You can't be
like me, turned out of three schools, and not know
something.  Are you going to get married soon?"

Pen shook her head.

"She's very savage at your knowing that Jew
cad, Gordon, but grandfather isn't.  He says that
Gordon may be a Jew, of course, but he's all right.
I asked him if I could get put on a board as a
director, and he was so mad with me.  I think
Gordon's asked him to be a director, and he'd like
to only he daren't.  He's got none too much money,
you know, Pen.  But about all these chaps, Pen?"

He went through the horde seriatim, and
pronounced upon them all with ineffable wisdom.

"Goby's an ass, but a good ass, Pen," he said,
as he kicked with his legs.  "He gave me a thick-un
a year ago when I was in difficulties.  But he hasn't
the brains to make a good corporal.  Baker says
that.  Baker was a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers.
I like Plant, though, Pen.  Baker says he rides in
a rummy fashion, more like a circus man than
anything else, but he can stick to a horse.  And there's
your Frenchman.  I say, how does he come to be
called Rivaulx?  Was he called after Rivaulx in
Yorkshire, or was it called after him?  Ask him
if he shoots larks in his native country.  All
Frenchmen do, old Guth says.  He says he read a book
the other day in which a French priest says he never
sees a lark without wanting to shoot it.  What a
miserable rotter, wasn't he?  But Rivaulx isn't so
bad, though.  He's a gentleman, at any rate, though
he is French.  I say, why do foreigners never look
like gentlemen?  Dashed if I know.  I've often
wondered, because grandfather likes them, through
his having been an ambassador.  Sometimes a
German does, though.  And Bramber's all right, Pen.
I don't think I'd mind your marrying him."

"I won't marry any one who isn't a useful
citizen," said Pen.

"He's all right," urged Bob.  "He's as strong
as a bull.  Baker says he'd peel better than most
prize-fighters.  What is a useful citizen?  I say,
if you get married, you'll tell me who it is?"

"No," said Penelope.

"I call that mean," said Bob.  "I'd not tell any
one, and I'd help like fun."

"I'm sure you would, Bob.  But I may never
get married."

"Rot," said Bob, "a girl like you not get married!
Oh, I say!"

And he continued to say for some hours, and
proved himself most entertaining company, quoting
Baker, who had been a sergeant in the Dublin
Fusiliers, and had been very severely knocked about by
Jem Mace, and appealing to Mr. Guthrie, who came
over with him to get him to look at a book in the
mornings, to back him up.  He was really very
modest and gentlemanly, at the same time that he
was exceedingly bumptious and arrogant, after the
best manner of the extremely healthy English boy.

And at twelve o'clock he came running to Penelope
and Chloe by the river-bank in wild excitement.

"I say, Pen, I say, Pen, there's old Goby coming,
and with that miserable rotter who makes poetry.
What's brought 'em here?"

"I asked them to lunch," said Pen.

"Eh, what?" cried Bob.  "Goby and that rotter,
Austin de Vere!  I say, Mr. Guthrie—"

He ran off to Guthrie, bawling:

"I say, Mr. Guthrie, here's that poet chap, Austin
de Vere, come.  Didn't you say he mostly wrote rot?"

And Goby and De Vere came across the lawn
together, like a mastiff and a Maltese in company.
They made each other as nervous as cats, and
couldn't for their lives understand why they were
asked together.

"The clumsy brute," said De Vere.

"The verse-making monkey," said Goby.

But tailors could have admired them both.  They
were perfect.  And lunch was a most painful
function, only endurable to Penelope because she was
on the track of her duty, and to Chloe because she
laughed internally, and to Mr. Guthrie (who was
really a clever man) because he liked to study men
and manners, and to Bob because he talked all the
time, owing to the silence of the others.

"I say, Captain Goby, I've got a splendid
bull-pup.  Baker got him for me, cheap, for a
quid,—a sovereign, I mean.  You remember Baker.  He
was a sergeant,—oh, I told you that just now.
Do you like bulldogs, Mr. de Vere?"

De Vere was politely sulky.

"Bulldogs, oh, ah, well, I do not know that I do."

He looked at Goby, who was also sulky and feeling
very much out of it.  But the subject of
bulldogs appealed to him, because he saw it didn't
amuse his rival.

"I'll give you a real good pup, Bob," he said,
good-naturedly; "one that no one could get for a
sovereign.

"A real pedigree pup?"

"With a pedigree as long as your own," said Goby.

Bob sighed, and laid his hand on Goby's.

"I say, Pen, isn't Captain Goby a real good
'un?" he asked.  "Baker says—"

But what Baker said does not come into this
history, as the lunch finished, and they all went into
the garden.  Goby spoke to Bob as they went out.

"I say, Bob, get hold of that ass De Vere, and
talk to him as hard as the very deuce, will you?"

"You meant that about the pup?" said Bob.

"Of course, Bob."

"I'll talk his beastly head off," said Bob.

And this was why Penelope spoke confidentially
to Captain Goby before she did so to the poet.  She
was exceedingly pale and very dignified, but she
lost no time in getting to the point.

"Captain Goby," she said, "you have asked me
to marry you at least three times."

Goby sighed.

"Is it only three?" he demanded, and he added,
firmly, "it will be more yet."

"And I said 'no' because I had no idea of
marrying any one."

"That was rot," said Goby.  "For, if you
married no one else, you would marry me."

"Certainly not as you are," retorted Penelope.
"I want you and all men (that I know) to reform."

Goby was not astonished at anything Penelope said.

"I reformed long ago," he said.  "As soon as
I saw you, I said I'd reform and I did.  It was a
great deal of trouble, but I did it.  Oh, you've no
idea how I suffered.  But I said, 'Plantagenet, my
boy, if you are to be worthy, you must buck up!'"

This was encouraging.

"I'm glad I've had so much influence," said Pen,
who didn't quite know what his reforms had been.
"But there are other things.  This is merely
negative.  What are you doing to be useful to the state?
Are you loafing about on your money?  Do you
do any work?  Are you educating yourself?"

Goby gasped.

"I say, come, Lady Penelope, I've done all that!
Education! why, I had a horrid time at school and
at a crammer's—"

"Do you read?" asked Pen, severely.

"Why, of course," said Goby.

"What?"

Goby rubbed his cropped hair with two fingers.

"Papers?"

"Anything?" said Pen.

"Well, I read the *Sportsman* and the *Pink Un*
(at least, I did before I reformed) and the
*Referee*," said Goby.

"Books?"

"Not many," said Goby.  "But I will.  What
do you recommend?"

"I think Tennyson and Shelley would do you
good," said Pen, "but you had better ask Mr. de
Vere.  And do you do anything useful?"

"De Vere!  Oh, Lord!" cried Goby.  "Anything
useful?  Why, I was in the army—"

"And now you do nothing.  Well," said Penelope,
"I think you had better begin at once.  Any
man I know has to do something useful.  You must
go to the War Office and ask to be made something
again.  I think a colonelcy of a militia regiment
would suit you.  And I am going to ask Mr. de
Vere to take an interest in your reading."

"The devil!" said Goby.  "I say, my dear Lady
Penelope, I can't stand him.  Why, you may have
seen we are barely civil to each other."

"I shall speak to him firmly," said Penelope,
"and it's for his good, too.  He leads an unhealthy
indoor life.  I want you to change all that.  You
row a great deal still, don't you?"

"Since I reformed I began again," said Goby.
He felt the muscles of his right arm with complacency.

"Take him out and make him row, then," said
Pen, "and while he rows you can read poetry to
him, and so on.  It will be good for both of you."

"But—" said Goby.

"Yes?"

"If I do this, will you marry me?"

Penelope shook her head.

"If you do it, I'll think whether I'll marry you."

"Oh," said the soldier, "and if I just can't hit
it off with that poet?"

"Then I won't think about it," replied Pen.
"I'll never, never consider the possibility of
marrying any one who isn't leading a useful life, and
educating himself, and living on less than a thousand
a year.  Can you do that, too?"

"Dashed if I see how it can be done," said
Plantagenet Goby.  "But I'll try, oh, yes, I'll try."

"Now you talk to Chloe," said Penelope, and
she went away to the rescue of the poet.  For Bob
had got him in a corner.

.. _`CAPTAIN PLANTAGENET GOBY, V.C., LATE OF THE GUARDS`:

.. figure:: images/img-044.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: CAPTAIN PLANTAGENET GOBY, V.C., LATE OF THE GUARDS. Who was ordered to read poetry

   CAPTAIN PLANTAGENET GOBY, V.C., LATE OF THE GUARDS. Who was ordered to read poetry

"I say, Mr. de Vere, wasn't that ripping of old
Goby to say he'd give me a real pedigree bull-pup?
He knows a bull-pup from a window-shutter, as
Baker says.  You don't like them?  No, but you
would if you had one.  I feed mine myself, and I
wear thick gloves, so's not to get hydrophobia when
he bites.  He's a most interesting dog, and not so
good-tempered as most bulldogs.  When he sees
a cat, oh, my, it's fun!  Look here, when Goby
gives me the new pup with the pedigree, you can
have mine, if you like, cheap.  I know you have a
place in the country, and you must want a bulldog.
Will you buy him?"

"Good heavens, no!" said the poet.

"Humph!" cried Bob, who of course had quite
forgotten that he was doing all this for Goby, and
was just enjoying himself.  "Why, what do you
do in the country without a dog?  Do you ride?"

"No," said De Vere.

"Well, of all—I say, Mr. de Vere, what do you
do?  Do you walk about and make poetry, and do
you like making it?  Old Guth, I mean Mr. Guthrie,
he's my tutor, and he's over there talking to
Mrs. Cadwallader, he reads a lot, and some of yours, too."

"Oh, does he!" said De Vere, who began to
take some interest.  "Does he?"

"Oh, a lot of yours, he says; most of it, I think."

"And does he like it?"

Bob put his head on one side.

"Well, he says it's not bad, some of it."

De Vere flinched at this faint praise.

"Indeed!  And what does he like best?" he asked.

"Oh, the beastliest rot," returned Bob, "Browning
and Shelley, and I say, do you see that bulge
in his pocket?  That's Catullus.  He reads him all
day.  But here comes Pen.  I say, won't you have
my bull-pup?  I'll let you have him for half a
sovereign; I got him for a sovereign, at least, Baker
did.  *I* think your poetry's very fine, sir; Mr. Guthrie
lent me some."

But Penelope came across the lawn, and De Vere
forgot Bob and the bull-pup, and fell down and
worshipped.  And the goddess took hold of him,
and stripped a lot of his poetry away, and set a
few facts before him and made him gasp.

"I heard a very strange rumour, Lady Penelope,"
he said, when he was once more standing
upright before Aphrodite.  "I heard—oh, but
it was absurd!  I can't believe it."

"Then it is probably true," said the goddess,
breathlessly, "for I mean to have my own way
and to initiate a reform in marriages, Mr. de Vere.
I have been reading the accounts of some fashionable
weddings lately, and they made me ill.  What
you have heard is quite true."

The poet shook his head.

"I have had the honour to beg you to believe a
thousand times that I am devoted to you—"

"Three times, I think," said Pen, who was good
at arithmetic.

"Is it only thrice?  But do I understand that,
if I were to have the inexpressible delight of
winning your love, Lady Penelope, that the marriage
would be a secret one, that no one would know
of it?"

"I mean that," said Penelope, enthusiastically.
"It is a new departure, an assertion of a just
individualism, although I am a socialist.  I abhor
ceremonies, and will not be interfered with.  I have
stated with the utmost clarity to all my relations
that I shall not consult them or let them know until
I choose, and I shall only get married (if I ever
do) on these terms."

"I agree to them," said the poet.  "Lady Penelope,
will you do me the inexpressible honour to be my wife?"

"Oh, dear, no," said Pen.  "Why, certainly not,
Mr. de Vere.  I don't love any one yet, and perhaps
I never shall.  But what I say is this: I'll think as
to whether I shall marry you if you do as I wish
about this matter and about others."

"My blessed lady," said the poet, "is there
anything I would not dare or do?"

"I've told Captain Goby exactly the same thing,"
said Penelope, thereby putting her pretty foot upon
the sudden flowers of De Vere's imagination, "and
what I want of you is to be more an out-of-door
man.  You live too much in rooms, hothouses,
Mr. de Vere, and in your own garden."

"I was in a garden, I a poet, with one who
was (oh, and is) an angel," said De Vere, "but
now I dwell in arid deserts, shall I say the Desert
of Gobi?  What have I to do with him?  Shall he
dare to pretend to you, dear lady?"

"He's a very good chap," said Pen, quite shortly,
"and I think it would do you good to associate
with him more.  I've told him so, and he agrees.
I want you to make him read a little, and exercise
his imagination.  And he can take you out rowing
and shooting perhaps, and I think a little hunting
wouldn't do you harm.  You might ask him to stay
with you, and he'll ask you.  And I want you to
go out in motor-cars."

"Good heavens!" said De Vere.

"I know it will be hard," said Pen, consolingly.
"But you know what I want.  It's not enough to
be rich and write poetry, Mr. de Vere.  I think you
might read statistics; statistics are a tonic, and I
want you to be a useful citizen, too.  There are
things to be done.  Just look at my cousin Bob.
Now he'll be a splendid man."

"He wanted to sell me a bull-pup," murmured
the poet.

"He's a good boy," said Pen, affectionately,
"and his instincts are to be trusted.  I think a
bulldog would do you good perhaps.  And I shall
expect to hear you have asked Captain Goby to
stay with you.  And don't forget the statistics."

"I'll do it," said the unhappy poet, "for while
the One Hope I have exists, and until 'vain desire
at last and vain regret go hand in hand to death,'
I am your slave."

And, as he went away, he called Bob to him.

"I'll give you half a sovereign for that bulldog,"
he said, bitterly.

"Oh, I say.  But Baker says he's worth two
sovereigns," cried Bob.

"I'll give you two," said the poet.

And Bob danced on the lawn.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IV.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.

.. vspace:: 2

If Penelope had had any sense of humour, she
would have deprived the round world of much to
laugh at in sad times, when laughter was wanted.
But thanks be to whatever gods there are, some
folks have no humour, and some have a little, and
a few much, and thus the world gets on in spite
of the spirit of gravity, which, as may be
remembered by students of philosophy, Nietzsche branded
as the enemy.  Pen went ahead, bent on cutting
her own swath in the hay-field, and she cut a big
one.  Goby and the poet must stand as exemplars
of her clear and childlike method.  It was Pen's
Short Way with Her Lovers.  She got Rivaulx,
who was Nationalist and Anti-Semite to his
manicured finger-tips, and had been mixed up in the
Dreyfus case, and set him cheek by jowl with
Gordon, alias Isaac Levi.

She made them dine together in public, and the
poor marquis, being head over heels in love with
the earnest creature who was so beautiful,
submitted like a lamb.

"Very well, I will," said Rivaulx.  There were
almighty shrieks in the Paris press.  The *Journal*
had an article that was wonderful.  The affair woke
up anti-Semitism again.  Rivaulx had been bought
by Jewry; France was once more betrayed; the
bottom of the world was falling out.

Pen, with no sense of humour, had a native
capacity for discovering every one's real weakness.
As the Frenchman would rather have died than dine
as he did, so Gordon would almost prefer to die
suddenly than to run the risk of it.  He had
wonderful brains, and was a power in finance: he could
risk a million when he hadn't it or when he had it
as coolly as most men can risk a penny on the
chance of a slot-machine working.  But physically
he was timid.  Rivaulx went ballooning.  He
intended to rival Santos-Dumont.

"You must go with him, Mr. Gordon," said
Penelope.  Gordon nearly fainted, but Pen was
firm, as firm as a rock.  Gordon offered to subscribe
to all the hospitals in London if she would let him
off.  He offered to build a small one and endow
it; he even suggested that he would build a church.
But the poor man had to go.  It was now
thoroughly understood that any man who refused to
do exactly what she told him was struck off the
list.  The comic papers were almost comic about
it.  On the day that Gordon went up with Rivaulx
in an entirely non-dirigible balloon, the Crystal
Palace grounds were crowded with all the Frenchmen
and all the Jews in London.  The balloon came
down in a turnip-field fifteen miles from anywhere,
and Gordon got back to London and went to bed.
He was consoled by a telegram from Penelope,
who congratulated him on overcoming his natural
cowardice, and suggested he should do it again.

"I'll give her up first," said Gordon, knowing
all the time that he could no more do it than give
up finance.  He went out and robbed a lot of his
friends as a compensation for disturbance, and
found himself a hero.  In about forty-eight hours
the sensation of being looked on as a man of
exceptional grit so pleased him that he adored
Penelope more than ever.  He was as proud of having
been in a balloon as Rivaulx was of having dined
*tête-à-tête* with him in the open.

She sent for Rufus Q. Plant, and she introduced
him to Lord Bramber.  Plant was a big American
with the common delusion among Americans that
he had an entirely English accent.  But he hated
aristocrats.  Bramber had an Oxford accent
(Balliol variety), and disliked Americans more than
getting up in the morning.  He was a fine-looking
young fellow with a good skull, who did nothing
with it.  He had the tendencies of a citizen of
Sybaris, and got up at noon.  Plant rose at dawn.
Bramber loved horses and hated motor-cars.  Plant
had a manufactory of motors.  Pen sent them away
together on a little tour, and hinted delicately to
Plant that his English accent would be improved
by a little Oxford polish.

"And as for you, Lord Bramber, when you come
back, I hope you will be more ready to acknowledge
that you don't know everything.  Mr. Plant will
do you good, and will teach you to drive a motor!"

She had never been so beautiful.  She showed
at her best when her interest in humanity made
her courageous and brutal.  The colour in her
cheeks was splendid; her eyes were as earnest as
the sea.  If Bramber choked, he submitted, though
he blasphemed awfully when he got alone.

"Go at once," said Penelope.

She paired off Carteret Williams with Jimmy
Carew, A.R.A.  Williams knew as much about
art as a hog does of harmony.  Jimmy thought the
war correspondent a howling Philistine, as indeed
he was, and believed anything that could not be
painted was a mere by-product of the universe.

"You'll do each other good," said Pen, clasping
her beautiful hands together with enthusiasm.
Jimmy wanted to draw her at once.  Williams
wished for an immediate invasion, so that he could
save her life and write a flamboyant article about it.

"Show him pictures, Mr. Carew, beginning with
Turner and Whistler."

"Make him understand that art isn't everything,
Mr. Williams."

She sent them away together, and was wonderfully
pleased with herself.

"They are all fine men," she said, thoughtfully,
"but it is curious that every man I know thinks
every other man more or less of a fool or an idiot,
or a cad.  They are dreadfully one-sided.  When
they come back they will be much improved.  This
is my work in the world, and I don't care a bit
what people say."

People said lots, though after a bit the fun died
down, except among her own people.  And even
they laughed at last.  At least, every one did but
Titania, and she had no more sense of humour than
Penelope herself.  Indeed, she had less, for
Penelope could understand a joke when it was explained
to her carefully, and Titania couldn't.  And in after
years Pen came to see the humourous side of things.
She even appreciated a joke against herself, which
is the crucial test of humour.  But Titania died
maintaining that life was a serious business, and
should be taken like medicine.

"I never heard of more insane proceedings,"
said Titania, "never!  The notion of sending that
poor Jew up in a balloon with that mad Frenchman!
Balloons at the best are blasphemous.  And to make
Captain Goby read with poor little De Vere!  I'm
sure there will be murder done before she's
married.  And now it's an understood thing that she
will marry one of them.  And Brading laughs!  If
he is only her half-brother, I consider him
responsible.  And Augustin smiles and smokes and smokes
and smiles.  And Chloe Cadwallader, whom I never
approved of and never shall, backs her up, of course.
One of these days I shall tell Chloe Cadwallader
what I think of her!"

"I say, granny, what do you think of her?"
asked Bob.

"Never mind," said Titania; "there are things
that you know nothing of, Robert."

"Oh, are there?" said Bob.  "I say, granny, I
ain't sure of that.  I've been expelled from three
schools, and Baker says—"

"Oh, bother Baker," cried his exasperated
grandmother.  "I think Mr. Guthrie might keep you
away from Baker."

"He can't," said Bob, cheerfully.  "Old Guth
and I have made a treaty.  I do what he tells me
between ten and twelve, and what I like afterward.
If we are reading Latin, and the clock strikes twelve,
I say, 'Mr. Guthrie, don't you think Latin's rot?'
and he says, 'Oh, is it twelve?  I thought it was
only eleven!'  I get on with Guth, I tell you."

And he was very thick with Goby, who had given
him the pedigree bull-pup.  Mr. de Vere now owned
the interesting one which had to be fed with gloves
on, and loathed it with an exceeding hatred only
exceeded by his hatred for Goby.

"I say, Pen, you go it," said Bob.  "There's
heaps of fun in this.  They all tip me now like
winking."

But Pen did not see the fun.  It was a serious
business.  She looked after her lovers with the
greatest care.  They brought her reports; they
complained of each other.  She smoothed over
difficulties, and explained what they were to do.

"How the devil am I to live on a thousand a
year!" said Goby.  But he tried it and found it
quite exciting.  It exercised his self-control
wonderfully.  He went into the War Office once a week
and demanded some kind of job, and was put off
with all kinds of regulations.  He sent a telegram
to Penelope the first week, saying that according
to his accounts he had spent no more than £20.
She wired congratulations, and received another wire:

.. vspace:: 2

"Have made a mistake.  Forgot to include a
few bills.  Will be more careful in future.

.. vspace:: 1

"GOBY."

.. vspace:: 2

Plant said:

"What, a thousand a year!  That's easy.  I can
live on thirty shillings a week.  My dear Lady
Penelope, I've done it on half a dollar a day.  I'll
show you."

He took one room in Bloomsbury, and sent in
his bills and accounts to her weekly.  She suggested
he should find out if his great success in the United
States had ruined any one in particular, and if so
that he should compensate them.  This cost him
a hundred thousand dollars.  Almost every other
day she got a telegram something like this:

"Have found another person I ruined.  Am
cabling five thousand dollars to widow and orphans.
Man is dead."

Or,—

"Another find.  Man said to be a lunatic, but
perfectly sane except on point of Trusts.  Have
cabled for his transfer to more comfortable asylum."

Or,—

"Widow refuses money with insults.  Have
settled it on daughter, and have given son job."

Or,—

"Man in question has given amount cabled to
Republicans of New York.  Has recovered and has
started a Trust himself."

This was very satisfactory.  Penelope saw she
was doing good.  In the middle of her joy, she
received a wire from Goby.

.. vspace:: 2

"May I stop poetry with De Vere?  Doctor says
I am overdoing it.  GOBY."

.. vspace:: 2

She also received one at the same time from
De Vere:

.. vspace:: 2

"If I could have a week to myself to write satire,
should be eternally grateful.  Doctor says rowing
may be carried to excess.  The bulldog is well.

.. vspace:: 1

"DE VERE."

.. vspace:: 2

The Marquis de Rivaulx, after a fortnight with
Gordon, asked to be allowed to go over to Paris to
see his mother.  But he acknowledged that Gordon
was not a bad chap, though he was as white as a
sheet in the balloon.

"And he told me, my dear lady, what to buy.
He knows very well what to buy and what to sell.
He is immensely clevair, oh, yes.  And may I go
and see *maman*?"

She let him go, but not before he promised to
take no part in any further anti-Semitic
proceedings.  She told Gordon not to brag so much of
having been in a balloon.

"You know you were afraid," she said.  "The
marquis said you were."

"Of course I was," said Gordon, "but I went,
didn't I?"

That was unanswerable.

She had an "at home" once a week.  It was
understood that no one but her own relatives and
members of the horde were to call on that day.
She then issued any directions that she thought of
during the week.  Bradstock was now openly and
recklessly on her side.

"I believe you're doing good, real good," said
Augustin.  "I'm proud of you.  Don't mind my
laughing, Pen.  Oh, but you are wonderful."

He gave her advice.

"Kick young Bramber into public life," he said.
"He's got brains."

"Lord Bramber," said Pen, "you are to go into
Parliament at once.  Speak to Lord Bradstock
about it, and I'll talk to Mrs. Mytton on your
behalf.  I expect you to be an Under-Secretary of
State at once."

"Damn!  this is worse than Plant," said the
obedient Bramber.  Nevertheless, he owned that
Plant was a man, and a real good sort.

"I go to see him, Lady Penelope, in his room
in Bloomsbury.  He's living on about half a crown
a day.  I—oh—yes, I'm coming down to the
thousand by degrees.  And of course if you want
me to go into the House, I'll go."

Carteret Williams was there, and was put
through his paces by Pen about art.  He had learnt
something about it by rote.

"The Academy is composed of painters," he
said, mechanically, "but there are few artists in it.
I quite agree with Carew, who had his pictures
chucked before they made him an associate through
fear.  Turner is a very great artist.  He shows how
near the sublime can get to the ridiculous.  Whistler
is also great.  He shows how near the ridiculous
can go to the sublime.  Art is a combination of the
material and the spiritual.  So Carew says.  He
showed me a lot of Blake, and he says that the
beauty of Blake is that you can't understand him
by any ordinary means, such as the intellect.  I'm
not up to Blake yet.  The old masters are very fine.
I admit it.  Velasquez is dry, but wonderful.
Rembrandt appeals to me because he is very dark; I
think he would be better if he were darker.  We
go to the National Gallery every day, and then I
take him to the Press Club, where he hears about
real life."

When Carew came, he owned that Williams
wasn't a bad sort.

"And he's doing his level best to understand,"
said Carew, with enthusiasm.  "He stands before
a picture of mine every day for an hour while I
explain it.  He sees something in it at last.  And
he's reading about art, and is beginning to see why
a photograph isn't the last word of things.  He's
led a wonderful life, Lady Penelope, and when he
gets on what he's seen and done, I feel almost
ashamed to live as I do."

"That's right," said Pen; "every artist should.
And every man who is not an artist should be sorry
that he is not.  We are far from perfect yet."

How beautiful she looked, thought Carew.

"She lives in the world of the ideal, and so do I."

"I am very much pleased with everything,"
said Pen at large to the assembly, and De Vere,
who was having a holiday for his satire, was pleased
too.  And Goby was delighted at being let off poetry
for awhile.

"Not but what there's something in it, I admit,"
said Goby, critically.  "Robert Lindsay Gordon is
a fair snorter at it.  I can't say I'm up to Shelley
yet.  De Vere read me the Epi-something-or-other."

"'Epipsychidion,'" said Pen.

"That's it, a regular water-jump of a word,"
said Goby, "and he took it in his stride, while I
boggled on the bank.  However, I'm coming up
hand over hand with him.  I'm reading Keats with
him.  He's all right when you get to know him,
Lady Penelope, and rowing's doing him no end of
good.  He's a well-made little chap, and getting
some good muscle.  If I'm not dead by the time
I can take the Epi-what's-his-name, I'll make a
man of him."

Rivaulx, who had come in with Gordon on his
return from seeing his mother in Paris, was very
proud of himself.

"A year ago I should not have had the courage
to show myself with a Jew," said Rivaulx,
triumphantly.  "Lady, dear lady, I thought I should
have died when I asked him to dinner.  But now
I like him.  He is wonderful.  When he says 'buy,'
I buy, and heigh, presto! the shares go up like
my balloon.  And when he says 'sell,' I sell, and
they go down like a barometer when you go up.
Oh, yes, and all your aristocracy admire him.  I
saw seven great lords with him the other day, and
they said: 'What company am I to be a director
of, Gordon?' and he said he'd ask his clerk.  But
I have refused to be a director.  I should not like
*maman* to know I know him.  She is very dreadful
against Jews, owing to the *affaire* in France."

And that was the celebrated afternoon that
Penelope, who found that she was doing good in every
way to all mankind by obliterating all class and
professional jealousies, raised passion and curiosity
to its highest point by saying, with the sweetest
blush:

"Very well, then, I promise to marry one of you!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER V.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.

.. vspace:: 2

Penelope was the swan, and all her relations
were the ducks.  The noise they made was simply
unendurable.  For, besides Titania, she had cousins
and other aunts, or people who were in the
position of aunts, and she had friends who had been
friends of her mother, and they came down on her
like the Assyrian.  They objected to publicity,
especially for other people, and for a young woman to
become a public character was something worse
than immorality.  Nothing but Penelope's entire
singleness of character and her humourous want
of humour enabled her to meet and overcome them.
And even she felt at times that flight was the only
thing left.  She sent to her solicitor for a list of
all the houses and mansions and castles that she
owned, and she took her motor-car and her pet
chauffeur, and, having borrowed Bob from his
grandmother, she set off on a tour.  She
disappeared for a week at a time.  Then she disappeared
for two weeks.  She was even lost for a month.

"She ought to be in an asylum," said Titania,
"and I have to let Bob go with her.  He is some
kind of a safeguard.  How do I know she isn't
married already?  Bob, dear Bob, has ceased to
confide in me.  When I interrogate him, he puts
me off.  I get nothing out of him.  The only thing
that I can congratulate myself on is that now,
instead of 'Baker says,' it is 'Pen says.'  And I
doubt, I own I doubt, and I cannot help it, whether
Bob is not being done serious harm to, considering
that he will one day be a duke.  A duke should be
brought up properly.  Goring was brought up
badly, I deeply regret to say.  He laughs at Penelope's
behaviour, and says girls will be girls.  I say
they will be women, and he says, 'Thank the Lord,'
and I don't know what he means.  But, as I say,
this wretched girl may be married by now.  It is
already months since she said, in my hearing, to
a whole crowd of men, 'I promise to marry one
of you!'  Was there ever an aunt in a more
unfortunate position?  I feel as if I should become a
lunatic.  Augustin, do you hear me, I am rapidly
becoming insane."

"Oh, ah," said Augustin, who always knew more
about Pen's actions than any one else.  She wrote
to him from a hundred places.

"Keep your eye upon Mr. Gordon," she said.
"And what are people saying about Lord Bramber's
speech?  I shall be up in town in time to see
Mr. Carew's new picture.  I got a letter from
Mr. de Vere, saying that Captain Goby was learning
Wordsworth's ode on the 'Intimations of
Immortality in Childhood' by heart.  Mr. de Vere says
he is doing what I told him, and is keeping his
eye on Mr. Roosevelt.  I told him to model
himself on the President of the United States.  He says
he rows and has bought a Sandow exerciser, and
he says it does not make him so tired now.
Mr. Williams told me when I was last in town that he
was thinking of writing a guide to Dulwich
Gallery if war didn't break out.  I am afraid he hopes
it will.  Mr. Plant's last weekly accounts were only
10*s*. 6*d*.  I advised him to see a doctor if he thought
it was doing him harm.  The marquis has written
a very good article in the *Revue des Deux Mondes*
against anti-Semitism.  I am greatly pleased with
this.  I hope Mr. Carew's picture is intelligible.
I told him it was no absolute sign of genius to be
entirely incomprehensible.  He took it very well.
I think Mr. Williams will have a good effect on
him.  I have visited ten mansions, seven castles
(two with moats; mother used to love moats,
because there are none in America), and several other
houses of mine.  Most need repairs.  I shall be
home next week.  Tell aunt that Bob is very well
and brown, and is learning to drive my car at full
speed down a narrow road with sharp turns in it.
Smith says he will be the best driver in England
when he is grown up, if he goes on and doesn't
have his nerve broken up early by an accident.  But
I think his nerve is good, though I can't always
tell, as I shut my eyes when we go very fast.
Good-bye now, dear Guardy.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"Your loving
   "PENELOPE.

.. vspace:: 1

"P. S. I am sure I am doing good!"

.. vspace:: 2

Bob was very sure of it, too.

"I say, Pen, old Guth will be lonely, won't he?
But he's all right if he has a bally Catullus in his
pocket, and he draws his screw just the same.
Granny is very decent to him, take it all around.
And I like him because he likes dogs.  I must wire
to Baker to hear how 'Captain' is getting on.  I
called him Captain because old Goby gave him to
me.  I say, Pen, don't you think Smith is a ripping
good driver?  He says that he'll be my chauffeur
when I'm a duke, if you don't want him.  He says
him and me'll win every bally race.  I'd like to do
that.  I begin to think horse-racing is rot.  You
see three or four people can't ride a race-horse, and
the responsibility of driving you fast when the
road's crooked is the fun.  Every time I miss a
cart, Pen, I feel as happy as if I'd hit Rhodes for
four every time he sent a ball down to me.  That
would be fun.  Baker says—no, I mean Smith
says that all other sports are rot of the worst kind.
He says if he's ever rich, he'll go through the city
every day as fast as he can.  He hates the police,
and some of them hate him.  He rode over a
sergeant in the Kingston Road once, but he didn't
hurt him much.  When shall we leave this castle
and go to another one?  I hope the next is a long
way off.  Smith says he wants a good road to show
what she'll do when she's out to the last notch.
And it must be down-hill."

And in town, while Pen was going about the
country, people's tongues ran as fast as any motorcar.

"It is nonsense," said one; "she's married already."

"I know she's not.  I paid a shilling and looked
it up at Somerset House."

"That's nothing," said a barrister.  "They could
have been married under wrong names."

"That wouldn't be legal."

"Yes, it would.  It's only illegal if a false name
is used and one of the parties doesn't know.  Then
the one who is deceived can get a declaration of
nullity," said the barrister.

"Oh, well, but who is it?"

"It's no one.  I don't believe she'll marry at all."

"She's a crank."

"It's madness.  I hear the Duchess of Goring
has taken to her bed."

"Well, Goring hasn't.  I saw him at the Frivolity."

"Who is it now?"

"I don't know her name.  But where's Lady
Penelope?"

No one knew but Bradstock, and even Augustin
was behind by a post or two.  None of the "horde"
knew, and they began to get suspicious of each
other.  Goby watched De Vere, and De Vere kept
his eye on Goby.  It was obvious from the
newspapers that Bramber was in the House.  Gordon
was seen at his Club.  And then Carteret Williams
was missing.  Carew hunted for him in vain at
the Press Club and at the office of the *Morning
Hour*.  There was no war yet, though there were
rumours of it in the Balkans as usual.

It got about that she had married Williams,
though he had only run away from Carew for a
week.

"The very worst of the lot," wailed Titania.
"I knew it would be Williams.  He's hardly a
gentleman, though he comes of a good family.
Being a war correspondent makes a man brutal.
I knew, I knew, I knew it was Williams, and now
I shall never speak to her; and he will beat her in
time, I know it, and there will be a horrible scandal;
and what, oh, what can she have done with Bob?
Augustin, go at once and find where Bob is.  I
knew it would be Williams!  Didn't I always say
it would be Williams?  I could have forgiven her
any one else."

Gordon came to ask Bradstock if it was true.
And Bradstock had a sense of humour, if Pen had
none.

"My dear sir," he said, "how can I tell?  She
liked him very much, took a great interest in him.
She told me he was writing a guide to the art of
Dulwich Gallery.  Do you think that a bad sign?"

Gordon groaned.

"It looks bad, Lord Bradstock.  But I don't
believe she takes much interest in him.  She takes
an interest in me, my lord!  Why, I went up in a
balloon all on her account.  I went with that
madman, the French marquis, and as sure as my name's
Le—  I mean Gordon, there's not another woman
in the world I'd have done it for.  Don't you think
that going up in a balloon, when you'd rather die
than do it, ought to touch a woman's heart?  I
give you my word that she as good as said, 'Go
up in a balloon and I'll—' well, or words to that
effect.  I tell you what, Lord Bradstock, I know
you ain't a rich man, not a very rich one, that is,
but, if you'll be on my side, I'll put you on to a
good thing, the best thing in the market.  It's going
up like—oh, like a beastly balloon, sir,—my lord,
I mean.  I'm making it go up, and I'll tell you when
to sell.  Oh, Lord, I'm very unhappy, my lord.  I
love the ground she walks on.  I'd like to buy it
at the price of a city frontage.  Come in with me,
my lord, and you shall have a tip that half a dozen
dukes are dying for.  There's a room full of bally
dukes waiting to see me now, and I gave them the
slip.  Will you come in with me?  Do, do!"

He was a lamentable object, and there was a spot
upon his hat which did not shine.  He worked at
it eagerly with his sleeve, and stood waiting for a
reply.

"I don't mind telling you," said Bradstock, "that
my income is only five thousand a year."

"Poor beggar!" murmured Gordon.

"But I only spend four.  And if I had more
what could I do with it?"

"Give it me," said Gordon, eagerly, "and I'll
make more of it for you.  Man alive,—my lord,
I mean—I can make it millions."

There was a faint suspicion of the "millionth"
in the word.

"I can make it millionth," said Gordon.  "I've
put a pound or two into that Frenchman's pocket,
I can tell you, though he did take me up in a balloon,
and I'll put fifty for one into yourth, so help me."

"I don't want it."

"Well, you can give it away," shrieked Gordon.
"They'll make you a duke if you only give away
enough.  If there wathn't a faint thuspithion of
Jewish blood in me, I'd be a baron now at leathth.
Give it away to hospithalths, build a lunatic asylum,
finanth your party.  And if that don't thucktheed,
go into beer or biscuits, and you'll be made
anything you like."

"If they would make me thirty, I'd do it," said
Bradstock.

"Thirty dukes?" asked Gordon, in bewilderment.

"Thirty years old," said Bradstock.

.. _`LEOPOLD NORFOLK GORDON`:

.. figure:: images/img-072.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: LEOPOLD NORFOLK GORDON. Some said his real name was Isaac Levi

   LEOPOLD NORFOLK GORDON. Some said his real name was Isaac Levi

Gordon advanced on him and took him by a
button.

"My lord," he said, solemnly, "money ith youth
and strength and everything except Lady Penelope.
If you had a million, you'd feel twenty-five.  When
I had a measly hundred thousand, I was thin and
always going to doctors.  When I got two, I got
fatter and gave 'em up.  Now I'm worth two millionth."

But Bradstock said, brutally: "No, Mr. Gordon,
I don't want money, and I don't want you to marry
Lady Penelope.  If I had a million, I'd rather lose
it than see her do so."

"Did you tell her that?" asked Gordon.

"I did."

"I'm damned glad," said Gordon.  "If you want
a cat to go one way, pull its tail the other."

"Tut, tut," said Bradstock, and Gordon went
away sorrowfully, for he had great riches, and saw
no good in them without Pen.

Bradstock had to interview all the lovers one
after one.  They came to implore his vote and
interest.  He saw Rivaulx, whose great desire was
to look like an Englishman and act like one.
Rivaulx adopted a stony calm, which sat upon him
like a title on a Jew, but did not stick so tight.
He ended a talk which began most conventionally
in a wild and impassioned waltz around Bradstock's
room, with despair for a partner.  He tore at his
hair, but, having had it clipped till it was like a
shaved blacking-brush, he could not get hold of it.

"I must wed her," he howled.  "I told *maman*
so, or I shall perish.  I will become an Englishman.
*Mon Dieu*, I am sad.  I am fearfully mournful.  I
weep exceedingly.  Have I not done all?  I have
eaten largely in public with Mr. Gordon.  I have
bought his shares and have sold them, but in my
heart I cannot.  When I return to Paris, I shall
fight duels because I have written for Dreyfus with
tears in my eye and my tongue in my cheek for
sorrow.  Where is she, Lord Bradstock?  Tell me
where she is?  I will go to her and say I have done
all and can no more!"

De Vere tackled him, too.

"My dear chap," said Bradstock, "I don't know
her mind."

"She knows her own," said De Vere, with much
bitterness, "and so does that boy Bob.  I bought
a bulldog of him, because she said she thought one
would do me good.  I don't know why, and now
Bob sells me dogs by telegram, and I daren't refuse 'em."

"Great Scott!" said his host; "but why?"

"That young ruffian has an influence over her,"
mourned the poet.  "He is always with her.  He
is capable of saying I am a 'rotter'; yes, a rotter,
a dozen times a day if I refuse, and to have him
doing that would be more than I can endure.  I
want her to love me, and so I buy his dogs.  I have
a bulldog which hasn't done me any good.  All
he has done is to tear my trousers and trample over
my flower-beds.  I have an Irish terrier who is
now being cured of bulldog bites by a veterinary
surgeon.  I've a retriever who howls at night and
makes the bulldog unhappy.  I have a Borzois with
bronchitis and no hair on his tail.  Bob wrote to
say the hair would grow if I put hair-wash on it
myself.  He said men couldn't be trusted to do it.
And then I've Goby on my hands.  I speak in
confidence, Lord Bradstock."

"Of course," said Bradstock.

"Then I own I loathe Goby," said De Vere,
viciously.  "He has less brains than my bulldog,
and I think the bulldog has less brains than the
retriever.  He reads poetry because she said he was
to, and he makes me explain mine to him.  Explain
it!  And he makes me row every day he's with me,
and he says I'm not imitating Roosevelt if I don't.
She said I was to imitate Roosevelt.  Why should
I?  I loathe Republicans.  She also told me I was
to imitate Sven Hedin.  On inquiry I found Sven
Hedin was an ass who explored deserts, and went
without water for many days.  Goby can do that,
as my wine-cellar can testify.  He says he only
tastes water when he cleans his teeth, and then it
makes him sick.  And, though I keep wine for my
friends, I am a water-drinker.  How can I do
without it?  I am very unhappy."

"I should chuck Goby and give it up," said Bradstock.

"I wish I could," said the poet, "but my nature
is an enduring one.  We learn in suffering Gobies
and bulldogs what we teach in song.  A dog may
be the friend of man, but a bulldog is a tailor's
enemy.  And I believe they gave Goby the V.C. to
get rid of him.  Do they ever give decorations
to get rid of people?"

Bradstock said he thought so, and wondered what
he could give De Vere.

And then the poet sighed and rose.

"I have to meet Goby and lunch with him.  And
afterward we read Shelley together, and then he
will teach me billiards at his club.  I loathe billiards.
It is the most foolish game on earth except keeping
bulldogs.  And Goby's friends are not sympathetic.
They are sportsmen, and ought to be hunted with
bulldogs."

He went away sadly, and Bradstock lay on a
sofa and laughed till he cried.

"Pen will be my death and the death of a dozen,"
he said.  "And as for Bob—"

No sooner had De Vere departed than young
Bramber was announced.

"Conceited young ass," said Bradstock.  But
Bramber was in the House, and was supposed to
be doing very well.  He had brains, no doubt, and
the manner of Oxford (Balliol variety, as
aforesaid) sat on him well.  He made speeches, and
Mr. Mytton congratulated him on one of them.
Nothing but his passion for Penelope prevented him
being as conceited as Bradstock supposed him to
be.  But it must be remembered that Bradstock
couldn't make speeches.

"I thought I'd come and look you up," said
Bramber.  "I thought you could tell me something
about Lady Penelope."

"I can't," replied Bradstock.  "I spend all my
afternoons in saying so.  I've had Rivaulx and
Austin de Vere and Gordon here already, and after
you go I don't doubt that Goby or Plant will turn
up.  How do you get on with Plant?  Do you
know, Bramber, I believe Plant is the best man of
the lot of you."

Bramber frowned.

"He has an accent that can be cut into slabs, to
use his own dialect," said Bramber.

"Your own accent is equally disagreeable to an
American," said Bradstock, who had been in the
United States several times.

"I have no accent," said Bramber, haughtily.

"Oh," returned Bradstock.  "And how do you
get along with Plant?"

Bramber was obviously more jealous of Plant
than any one.  But he made a tremendous effort
to be fair.

"He's a very able man," he said at last, "but
there's no man I should find it so hard to get on
with.  He says just what he thinks in the most
awful way.  And because Lady Penelope said he
was not to spend more than twenty-five pounds a
week, he is living on ten shillings out of bravado.
I hate bravado.  He made me dine with him in
Soho, and our dinners came to elevenpence each.
Where is Lady Penelope?"

"I don't know," said Bradstock.

"I didn't see Plant yesterday," said Bramber,
uneasily.

"The devil!"

"You don't think?"

"I don't know what to think," said Bradstock,
wickedly.  "I hear that Jimmy Carew hasn't been
seen for days, either."

Bramber fidgeted on his chair.

"She *can't* marry Carew.  He's a thorough outsider."

"Women don't understand the word, my dear
chap.  How are you getting on in the House?  And
have you been motoring with Plant?"

"Yes," said Bramber; "we killed three fowls
and a dog yesterday.  And Plant was fined ten
pounds a week ago.  He said he would wire to
Lady Penelope to know if that was business
expenses.  I believe he wants to break my neck."

"I shouldn't be surprised," said Bradstock.
"Has he gone out alone to-day, do you think?  I
suppose you know Penelope is doing a lot of it now?"

"The devil she is!" said Bramber.  "I think
I'll go and look up Plant."

Bradstock got some amusement out of the
situation, if Titania didn't.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VI.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.

.. vspace:: 2

Penelope came back to town about a week later
and saw every one.

"I wonder whom I love," said Pen, "for I'm
sure I love some one.  And they are all so kind and
sweet and good.  I'm sorry I shall have to hurt
so many of them, for the poor dears all adore me."

It was marvellous how they had developed in
a short time under Pen's system, which was
evidently sound, as Bradstock declared.  Plant, under
his ten-and-sixpence-a-week scheme, had lost a stone
weight, and was as hard and fine as a coil of wire.
His search after the people he had ruined gave him
a peace of mind to which he had long been a
stranger, for American millionaires in business have
no peace of mind.

"I feel good," said Plant, meaning it both ways,
"and my endurance of young Bramber has stiffened
my moral fibre."

"Whether I marry you or not, Mr. Plant," said
Penelope, "I am awfully pleased with you.  And
how has Lord Bramber behaved?"

"He's been death on what he called my accent,"
said Plant, a little bitterly, "and it is notorious
I've none to speak of; and, for that matter, his own
you could cut with a knife.  However, I think he's
a good boy, and will discover he has brains.  I've
talked to him straight, Lady Penelope.  I told him
you meant me to.  I said he might be a lord and
the son of an earl, but that he was a lazy, loafing
scallawag, and that, if he'd been my son, I'd have
cowhided him.  That did him good; it made him
sit up, I tell you.  Oh, he fairly fizzled and felt like
going for me, but he knew better.  He has brains,
and I've talked with members of your legislature
who say he'll do well.  Put this down to me, Lady
Penelope.  Credit me with this.  I've looked after
him like a baby, and I've hustled him around in
my motor till he can't help going when he's out
of it.  You and me together, my dear young lady,
could educate the entire universe.  If you'll only
marry me, I'll start a university on these lines of
yours."

The idea was a pleasing one, but of course Pen
pointed out to him that it was his duty to do it
whether she married him or not.

"Duty is duty," said Pen.  "I'm doing all this
out of a sense of duty."

"Don't marry out of a sense of it," retorted
Plant.  "I just want to be loved.  I'm going around
feeling I want to be loved.  I've never been loved
properly all my life, and I begin to hanker after
it wildly.  And, if you do marry me, Lady
Penelope, I want you to understand right here and now
that I don't want you to do your duty by me.  If
you begin to do that, I'll take a Colt's forty-five
and scatter my brains out.  I want love, that's what
I want.  I want it straight, without water in it."

"I see what you mean," said Penelope.  "I think
you are a very noble-hearted man, Mr. Plant."

And away went poor Plant to draw up a scheme
for a university.

"I think I could almost love him," said the pensive
Penelope.  "I could—almost—"

Her contemplations were interrupted by Captain
Goby.  He was a little paler than usual, and perhaps
a trifle more intelligent.  And he was more in love
than ever.

"I've done everything you told me," he said,
as he sat down and eyed her wistfully.  "I've gone
into poetry like a bull at a hedge, Lady Penelope.
I begin to see what it means.  Old Austin (poor
old josser) has taken the deuce's own pains over
me.  He's read 'The Lady of the Garden' to me
seventeen times.  He wrote it ten years ago.  He
says he wonders how he did it, and so do I.  I've
been trying to write poetry to you, do you know.
That showed me there must be some special gift in
it, for I never did anything worth the horrid trouble.
And I've been worrying the War Office like a
bulldog.  They say they'll think of me, and haven't
gone any further, and talking of bulldogs, Bob's
bulldog bit Austin de Vere, and he swore like a
man.  I was surprised.  But if I were you, I'd tell
Bob to stop sending him more dogs.  He's very
kind to them, but they worry him.  Bob's prices are
very high, too.  How is Bob?  Oh, by the way,
I'm living on ten pounds a week.  Need I reckon
tailor's bills in, do you think?  Oh, yes, this bulge
is the Golden Treasury.  I take it out and read a
lyric between meals.  The chaps at the Rag chaff
me like blazes, but I don't mind so long as I
improve.  I want to improve so as to be worthy of
your intellect, Lady Penelope."

"The poor dear," said Pen, when he was gone,
"I think I could almost love him!"

As luck would have it, Bob and Austin de Vere
came in almost at the same minute.  For now Titania
couldn't keep Bob away.  For the matter of
that, she did not want to.  Bob was to be
Penelope's safeguard.  He was much better than Chloe
Cadwallader, said Titania.

However, De Vere came in first.  He held
Penelope's hand no longer than a poet should, as poets
naturally hold girls' hands rather longer than other
people.

"You are looking really well, Mr. de Vere," said
Penelope, when she was free.

"I am well," said the poet, "exceedingly well
in a way.  My dear lady of the beautiful garden,
I owe all that to you.  At first I was afraid of
Captain Goby.  I told Lord Bradstock so the other
day.  I'm afraid I left him under a false
impression as to my feelings to Goby, by the way.  I'm
quite proud of Goby.  He says I am really a
powerful man, and he made me row till I was worn out.
And then he insisted that I should use Sandow's
exerciser.  I own I did it with reluctance.  I pointed
out to Goby that I did not wish to look like
Mr. Sandow.  Goby always stopped by the posters in
which Mr. Sandow is lifting ten tons or so, and
pointed out certain muscles to me as ideals.  I was
recalcitrant, for, although I admire Mr. Sandow
immensely, I think muscle can be overdone.
However, I used the machine, which is ingenious and
elastic, and only dangerous if the hook comes out
of the wall, and I've found I rather like it.  I should
miss it now.  I think it imparts a certain vigour
to verse, if not overdone.  Oh—"

For in came Bob.  He rushed at Pen and kissed
her hair, and then bounced at the poet.

"I say is it true the bulldog bit you?  I saw Goby
yesterday in the park, and he said so," asked Bob,
in great excitement.

"It is true," said the poet.

Penelope shook her head at the late owner of
the dog.

"Oh, Bob!  Mr. de Vere, I'm very sorry."

"So was I," said De Vere.

"Where did he bite you?" asked Bob, anxiously.
"Was it the arm or the leg?  And did he hang
on like a proper bulldog?  Baker says that if a
bulldog once gets hold, you have to use a red-hot
poker to make him let go.  Did you use a red-hot
poker?"

"He only snapped and fetched blood," said De Vere.

"Ah!" cried Bob, "I always thought he wasn't
a real good bulldog."

"At any rate, he bit the Irish terrier," said the
poet.  "I mean the one you sold to me for three
pounds."

"I'm glad he did, sir.  That Irish terrier, though
he's splendidly bred, Baker says, has an awful
temper and is very troublesome.  Does Rollo, the
retriever, howl much at night, sir?"

"Oh, not so very much," said De Vere.  "It's
only when the moon is near the full that he does
his best."

"I never thought of that," said Bob, "but now
I remember that it was very moony when I sent
him over to you.  Baker said you'd like him.  His
kennel is next to Baker's house."

"I'm much obliged to Baker," said De Vere.
"But the tail of the Borzois is still bald, Bob."

Bob opened his eyes wide.

"Oh, dear, I thought you would have cured him
by now; and how about his bronchitis?"

"That's better, I hope and trust," said the poet.
And Penelope, who was very greatly touched by
his kindness to all these dogs, sent Bob into the
library.

"It's so good of you to be kind to Bob," she
said.  "Bob's a dear, and he adores me.  He says
that he's going to live with me always, even when
I'm married."

.. _`AUSTIN DE VERE`:

.. figure:: images/img-086.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: AUSTIN DE VERE. He wrote poetry, and abhorred bulldogs and motor-cars

   AUSTIN DE VERE. He wrote poetry, and abhorred bulldogs and motor-cars

"Oh!" gasped De Vere.  "We were talking
about Goby, I think, when dear Bob came in.  You'll
find him much improved, I'm sure, my dear Lady
Penelope.  He has read a great deal of Shelley
and Keats and Browning with me.  He was
especially struck with 'Sordello.'  I read it to him
and he sat with his hand to his forehead taking
it all in.  And every now and again he said, 'Great
Scott!' which is his way of expressing wonderment
and admiration.  I do not know its origin.  I've
written to Doctor Murray to ask him if he knows.
And Goby, oh, yes, you'll find him improved.  I've
done my best with him, and I've really struggled
hard.  Any improvement you notice is, I really
believe, under you and Providence, due to me."

And when he went, Penelope sat thinking.

"The poor dear, how nicely he took the bulldog
bites and the howling of the retriever.  I
think—I think I could almost love him!"

And that afternoon and evening she saw Bramber
and Carteret Williams and Jimmy Carew and
Gordon, and they were all most marvellously improved.
Bramber was alert and bright, and began to show
that he had some ambition in him, and, if he did
not tell Penelope his exact mind about Plant, he
did show some little appreciation of the American's
qualities.

"Associating with him has done you good," said
Pen.  "I see it has.  You lived far too much for
yourself, Lord Bramber.  I cannot endure selfishness."

"I'm not selfish any more, I think," said Bramber.
"I rather like Plant.  He seems a man, take
him all around.  He is abrupt, perhaps, and brutal.
I own I've found him trying, and he says things
one finds it hard to forgive."

"Yes, he told me," said Pen, delightedly.  "Oh,
he told me he said you ought to be beaten severely,
and he said you took it very nicely.  Did you?"

Bramber bit his lip.

"I did."

"That's right," said Pen.  "Oh, I'm improving
you all so much.  You've no idea how much
improved you are.  Mr. Mytton said he'd make
something out of you, Lord Bramber."

"Did he really?"

"Oh, yes.  He said he made fair successes out
of very much worse material.

"He's quite a dear," she sighed, when he was
gone, but, before she could add that she might
almost love him, Carew and Williams came in
together.  And before she could greet them, Gordon
came, too.  Williams eyed him with strange
ferocity, for he was by nature a hater of Hebrews,
and wanted to dust the floor with him.  Pen, who
was as quick as lightning, caught his glances and
said to him, sweetly:

"I think you would get on nicely with Mr. Gordon."

And Williams blenched visibly.

"Oh, I couldn't leave Carew," he said.  "I'm
deep in art, very deep; I adore it.  Carew has
introduced me to several Academicians, and I have
bought a box of paints.  One Academician took
me home with him and showed me his pictures.
He doesn't agree with Jimmy altogether, and he
says Jimmy will alter his opinions presently.  His
idea is that when a man is an A.R.A., he is only
beginning, you see.  He also explained to me the
attitude of the R.A. with regard to the Chantrey
Bequest.  He says that if they found a good
picture not by an Academician, they would buy it,
which is interesting, isn't it?  He was painting a
picture called 'War,' and wanted my opinion.  I
said I'd ask Jimmy, because I didn't know anything
about war except what I'd seen.  I don't know
why he was chuffy about it.  I find artists get chuffy
and huffy very quick, and I don't know what for.
Do you think there will be war soon?"

Penelope didn't know, and said she wanted
eternal peace and happiness for every one, and meant
having it if it could be got by any legitimate influence.

"War is horrible!"

"It is," said Carew, who joined in just here,
after getting away from Gordon, who told him
to buy Hittites at 3-1/8.  "War is horrid.  Williams
is always talking of it."

"I'm not," said Williams, angrily.  "I want
peace, eternal peace and happiness for every one."

"Ah, so do I," put in Gordon.  "My idea is to
have a peaceful life, far from the roar of London,
in a deep green vale, where I shall hear no one
talking of shares, and where mines are unknown, and
there are no Chinese or crushing reports.  Why
is it that most reports from mines are crushing?
I wish I knew."

"Ah, how sweet it would all be," said beautiful
Penelope.  "You could keep cows, Mr. Gordon."

"I adore them," said Gordon.  "There is a breed
without horns, isn't there?"

"They look incomplete," said Jimmy.

"What are you painting now?" asked Pen.

"I'm not really painting, I'm modelling in clay,
as you told me," said the obsequious lover.  "Don't
you remember saying I was to model in clay?  I'm
doing Williams in clay.  He looks very well in it.
I'm also doing a bull going at a gate.  When I
get tired of Williams, I do the bull, and when I'm
fatigued by the bull I go back to Williams."

"And are they like?" asked Penelope.

"Oh, exactly," replied Carew.

And the interesting conversation was interrupted
by Chloe and Ethel.  But Penelope said to herself
that they were all dears.

"Mr. Williams is greatly improved," she
murmured happily.  "And Mr. Carew looks more
healthy and less engrossed in himself.  I was
awfully glad to hear Mr. Gordon speak like that about
a peaceful life."

And Williams slipped Carew on the door-step
and went to his club.  He roared of war till two
o'clock in the morning, and then got three
out-of-work war correspondents in the corner and told
them the great story of his love.  But Jimmy went
down to Chelsea, and damned modelling in clay
to other impressionist painters, and had a real good
time.  As for Gordon of the "deep green vale,"
he went home and found a clerk waiting with a
bundle of cables from all quarters of the mining
globe.  He sent a wire to Bramber to be let off
an engagement to hear a debate on drains.

On the whole, every one was tolerably happy,
if we do not include Titania and the retriever who
howled at nights.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.

.. vspace:: 2

It is possible that Penelope never enjoyed herself
so much as she did at this period.  She was so busy
that she had no time to worry; her team took all
her time.  She was young, she was beautiful, she
was adored, she was popular, she was even
notorious.  A dozen reporters dogged her footsteps, and
when they lost her they followed her lovers.  They
haunted her door-step armed with kodaks; they
invented paragraphs; they hunted her men and
her maids.  They made love to the girls, and
seduced the men into neighbouring bars.  One
newspaper man, who belonged to the *Mayfair Daily*,
got into her establishment as a footman, and was
discovered by the butler drawing Penelope at
dinner when he should have been drawing corks.  A
search in his clothes revealed some pencils and a
note-book and another book of drawings.  They
were of such a character that the reporter was put
outside into the street.  The butler could have
forgiven the sketch of his mistress: there was one
of himself that no man could forgive.

The great desire of all these men was to spot the
winner.  Penelope's maid, Harriet Weekes, who
was more or less engaged to Timothy Bunting, the
groom (a sad *mésalliance*, by the way), found it
impossible to go out without being accosted
respectfully by a new admirer, who tried to lead the
conversation around to her mistress.

"If you please, my lady, another of them spoke
to me to-day.  I hope, my lady, you don't think it
my fault," said Weekes.

"What do they say?" asked Penelope, curiously.
She took great interest in the manners and customs
of other classes, perhaps with a view of altering
them when she got time.

"Oh, my lady, they always say the same thing.
I think men are very much the same all over the
world.  They say 'It's a fine day,' even if it's
raining, and of course it is, and they say they want
to walk a little way with me (begging your
pardon), and that I am very beautiful, and that they
have long loved me, if you please, my lady, and
have been trying to speak about it for years.  And
I tell 'em I don't want 'em, and I don't, to be sure,
though one (he's on the *Piccadilly Circus Gazette*)
is a very handsome man with a heagle's glance,
dressed in gray tweeds.  And they won't be put off,
I assure you, my lady.  Men on newspapers are
hextremely persevering with a fine flow of
language.  And if, being persuaded to take a little
walk, for they are difficult to put off by trade, I
do take one, they begin to ask, begging your
pardon, I'm sure, my lady, if I am your sister, and
I'm sure I'm as like you as a butterfly is to a beetle,
as Mr. Bunting says, though he adores the ground
I walk on, if he's to be believed, which I'm not sure
of yet, and the butler is very angry with me about
the whole affair.  And one, who said he was the
editor of the *Times*, which I don't believe in the
least, because it doesn't seem likely, does it, my
lady, that the editor of the *Times* would do such
things himself? said he wanted to marry me and
put me on the staff as his lovely bride.  I must say
he spoke most beautifully, and he said he knew
Captain Goby, and also Mr. Gordon, and he said they
were getting thin he thought.  And another, quite
the gentleman, though by his trousers poor and
careful, said he owned most of the *Daily Telegraph*.
And I couldn't help looking at his clothes.  He
was very quick, and said that was owing to the
competition of the half-penny papers.  Would I
save the *Daily Telegraph* from himpending ruin
by telling him which it would be, he said.  And
I said flatly that I wouldn't.  I never saw such
wicked impudence.  Oh, yes, my lady, your hair's
done now, and it's as lovely as a dream."

And, as Miss Weekes finished, she wondered,
quite as much as any of the newspaper men, who
it was to be.

"It's my belief," she said to Timothy, a little
later, "that my lady is beginning to incline to one
of 'em.  I've noticed she's quieter like and more
gentle.  And there's a soft sadness in her eye and
a colour that comes and goes."

"There ain't one of the biling worthy of her,"
said Timothy, bitterly.  "But there, Miss Weekes,
there ain't no man worthy of a real beautiful, good
lidy.  A fair wonder how I dares to hope that some
day far off, when motor-cars has killed every 'orse,
you'll be Mrs. Bunting."

"It's a great come down, Tim," said Harriet.
"Mr. Gubbles says he wonders, too."

"If he wasn't the butler, and old, I'd plug 'im,"
said Timothy, crossly.  "It's all right for me to
wonder, but he ain't in it."

"Ah, but class distinctions is hard to get over,
Mr. Bunting," said Harriet.  "You must pardon
a butler's feelings.  Even Mr. Gubbles has his
feelings.  And he agrees with you that there's no one
but a duke ought to marry our dear lady.  And
she demeaning herself (if I dare say so) with
Academicians and war correspondencies and Jew men;
not but what Mr. Gordon is very gentlemanly and
generous.  Only yesterday, Mr. Bunting, he says
to me when he met me outside, 'Do you read?'  And
I says, 'Yes, sir,' being some flustered, and
he says, 'You read that.'  And it was a five-pound
note.  And he adds something about 'your vote and
hinfluence.'  But I can't do it, Mr. Bunting, I can't.
If it was Captain Goby, I might, and if it was young
Lord Bramber I might more so, and even if it was
Mr. de Vere, with a duke remote in his family, but
for a Jewish man I can't.  So I said, 'Thank you,
sir,' and he went off.  But some one is beginnin' to
rise up in my lady's mind, I saw it plainly when I
was dressing her.  It would be worth more than
five pounds to know who is risin'."

"Yes," said Timothy.  "'Ow much would it
run to, do you think?"

"I believe it would be worth a public 'ouse."

"Beer and spirits?" asked Timothy, eagerly.

"And a corner 'ouse at that," replied Harriet,
nodding her head.

"Oh, 'Arriet," said Timothy, with a gasp, "you
fairly dazzle me."

The newspaper men had dazzled Harriet.

But indeed what she said seemed true to her.
And it seemed true to Lord Bradstock, who had,
like the man of the *Circus Gazette*, an eagle's
glance.

"She has been playing fair," said Bradstock,
"but one of them is drawing ahead, Titania."

"Good heavens, who is he, and how do you
know?" asked Titania.

"It's intuition," said Bradstock, "intuition
combined with, or founded on, a little observation.
She's different, Titania.  She takes no interest in
the London County Council."

"You don't say so!" cried the duchess, in alarm.

Bradstock nodded.

"It's a fact.  I asked her if she had read the
last debate, and she hadn't, and when I mentioned
the Deceased Wife's Sister she yawned."

"That looks bad," said Titania, "for only a
week ago she raved about her, and Goring said
he'd vote for her if she insisted on it.  And she did
insist, and tears came in her eyes about the poor
thing."

"Well, I told you so," said Bradstock, "and
I do hope it isn't Williams.  I'm afraid of Williams.
He's capable of knocking her down and carrying
her off on his shoulder.  Do you remember with
what joy she read us the account of the savage
tribe somewhere (was it the east of London?)
where they do that?"

"It made me shiver with apprehension," said
Titania.  "Oh, if she was only married safely to
a good duke, one not like Goring!  Is there a good
duke, Augustin?"

"Several, so I'm informed," replied Bradstock,
"and there are quite a number of good earls, some
quite admirable.  But I wish you'd get hold of
Chloe Cadwallader, and find out something."

Titania bristled like a porcupine.

"There is no need to find out anything about
Mrs. Cadwallader," she said.  "If Penelope wasn't
too dangerously innocent to be single, she would
not have anything to do with her."

"I'm sure the poor woman was only silly," said
Bradstock.  "Haven't we all been silly in our time,
Titania?  Didn't I marry twice?  And you married once."

"I'll speak to her," said the duchess, hastily.
"If we can only find out who it is, we can, I'm
sure, prevent her doing as she says and making
a secret marriage of it.  The scandal would be
horrid.  Oh, Augustin, suppose she did it, and had
a large family suddenly.  I should die of it."

"Good heavens," said Bradstock, "you alarm
me, Titania, you are so gloomy.  She would surely
acknowledge her marriage then?"

Titania threw up her hands.

"Augustin, I'm sure of nothing with Penelope.
I cannot answer for her.  She will bring my gray
hairs with sorrow—"

"To cremation," said Bradstock.  "She has
invested money in a crematorium."

"I thought it was dairy-farming," cried Titania.
"Oh, but think, Augustin, of the horror of the
situation as it might be!  What would her Royal
Highness say to me?  Imagine her marrying and
keeping it dark, and having, as I say, a large family
suddenly without a husband producible on the
moment to answer natural inquiries!  Imagine her
saying *then* that her marriage was her own business,
and her certificate of marriage firmly withheld
by a young and obstinate mother in a safe!  She has
a safe.  She has a safe, Augustin, with many keys.
I wish I could get at it, and find things out that
are in it.  I wish I knew a burglar, a good honest
and reliable burglar, married and trustworthy, that
I could send in to break it open.  Most girls have
a desk with an ordinary key, easy to open, but
Penelope has a Lord Milner's safe with patent
things to keep it shut.  It's not natural, it's wicked.
Oh, I did hope, when I found out what the duke
was like and what his ways were, that I knew the
extent of my troubles, but there is no end to them,
and Penelope begins where Goring leaves off."

"Is it as bad as that?" asked Bradstock.

"And then there's Bob—"

"By Jove," said Augustin, "I believe Bob's the
key to the safe!  Titania, he's more likely to find
something out than any one."

Titania nodded solemnly.

"Augustin, you are right.  I'll speak to Bob."

"Let me do it."

"No, no, Augustin.  He is very quick and suspicious,
and he loves her, he adores her.  This requires
a feminine intelligence.  I will work upon
him quietly."

And she went away to work upon Bob quietly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VIII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.

.. vspace:: 2

Now Titania believed that she was very smart
and very clever, and that she would do things subtly
and do them better than Bradstock or a barrister,
even if he was a K.C.  And as it is the most
invariably weak point in people that they think
young people fools, or at any rate easily
hoodwinked, she really believed that Bob, her dearly
beloved young scoundrel of a grandson, would be
as easy to work on as butter.  And yet she had the
sense to see that Bob adored Penelope.

"I am very greatly troubled about Penelope,
Bob," she said to him, as soon as she got him
alone.

"Don't you worry about Pen, granny," replied
Bob, cheerfully, "she can take care of herself.
Why, she can drive a motor-car now up to about
thirty miles an hour, and Geordie Smith says she's
all there.  And so does old Guth.  He had long
talks with her, and he says she has brains.  I tell
you old Guth knows 'em when he sees 'em."

Titania nodded.

"Oh, I know she is clever, dear, but her ideas
are so extraordinary."

"Ain't they?" said Bob.  "I do wonder which
of 'em she'll marry, don't you?"

"Indeed I do," replied his grandmother.  "Have
you any idea, Bob, which she likes best?"

Bob shook his head.

"Not me.  I wish it was Goby; old Goby is a
ripping good sort.  He knows what's what, does
old Goby."

Goby tipped him freely and frequently, and Bob
sold him a spavined pony, aged fifteen years.

"He's a bit of a fool, of course," said Bob,
thoughtfully.  "Do you know, granny, he isn't the
judge of horses you'd think he is?"

"Does Penelope ever confide in you, Bob?"
asked Titania.

There was a touch of anxiety in her voice that
the boy felt at once.  He put his head on one side
and looked at her out of the corner of his eye.  He
didn't answer the question.

"I say, granny, don't you think I can have a
bigger allowance now?  I find mine much too
little.  If I had ten shillings a week more, I could
get on for a bit."

"You shall have it," said Titania.  "Does she
ever confide in you, Bob?"

"Some," said Bob, carelessly.

"Which do you think she likes best?" asked Titania.

"I don't know," said Bob, "but I dare say I
could find out.  I say, should you be very angry
if it was Gordon?"

Titania uttered a little scream.

"Great heavens, Bob, I should die of it!"

Bob sat down and looked at her.

"He's not bad, granny, not half mean, oh, no, not
at all!"

He had given Bob as much as he gave Miss
Harriet Weekes about three days before.

"I rather like him," said Bob.  "Pen thinks he's
much improved since she put him in harness with
the Frenchy.  It touched her his going up in a
balloon.  I say, may I go up in a balloon?  Rivaulx
said I might."

"No!" screamed his grandmother.  "Oh, Bob,
you wouldn't?"

"I won't if you don't want me to," sighed Bob,
"but it's a horrid disappointment.  He says going
up in one is jolly, and London underneath is
ripping.  If I don't, will you ask grandfather to give
me another hunter?"

"Yes, of course," said poor Titania; "but
what do you think about Penelope?  Could you
find out anything, Bob, if I let you go and stay
with her?"

Bob's eyes gleamed.

"Rather," he said, "of course.  But I needn't
worry about old Guth if I do?  I've been working
very hard, and I think a holiday would do him
good, too.  I'm very much overworked.  Do I look
tired, granny?  I always feel tired now in my head.
Guth says a breakdown from overwork is much
worse than most fatal diseases."

"You shall go to Penelope if she'll have you,"
said his anxious grandmother.  "Do you have
headaches, Bob?"

"Not headaches," said Bob, "I shouldn't call
'em headaches exactly.  They're pains, and old
Guth says he had 'em when he was at Oxford.
They get worse, he says, and then the breakdown
comes, and you have to take a very long rest.  I'll
go on working if you like, though."

He sighed.

"You shall go to your cousin's," said Titania,
"and my dear, dear Bob, keep your eye on Penelope
and tell me all you discover.  Her ideas are
very strange, you know, and we are all so anxious
about her future."

"So am I," said Bob.  "If she married the
wrong one I shall be out of it.  I couldn't get on
well with old De Vere, and if she married him
I'm quite convinced he wouldn't buy any more
dogs.  I want her to marry Goby or Bramber.
But I think Bramber is rather mean in some ways,
and very thoughtless of others.  I told him I wanted
some salmon fishing at his father's place in
Scotland, and he's said nothing about it since."

"I shouldn't mind Lord Bramber so much," said
Titania.  "But I'm afraid it won't be Bramber."

"Cheer up," said her grandson.  "I'll look after
her.  But don't forget about the extra ten shillings
and the horse.  Could you give me the ten shillings
for six weeks now, granny?"

And he went off to Penelope's house and marched
in on her.

"Pen, I'm coming to stay with you if you'll have
me," he said.

"Of course I will," said Penelope.  "But how
did you manage it?"

"I'm overworked," said Bob, solemnly, "and
sitting on chairs and learning Latin don't agree
with me.  I want more open air, I think, or I shall
get consumption."

He was fat and ruddy and as strong as a bull-calf.
He put his arm around Pen's neck.

"I say, Pen, I do love you," he said.  "I think
it's rot I'm so young, or I'd have married you
myself.  Granny's in an awful state about you,
Pen.  She asked me if I knew who it was you
liked best, and she threw out hints a foot wide that
I was to find out if I could."

"Indeed," said Pen; "and what did you say?"

Bob chuckled.

"I said the best thing would be for me to come
and stay with you.  And that's why I'm here.  But
I say, Pen, I'll never sneak, not even if you marry
Mr. de Vere.  Granny's raised my allowance ten
bob a week, and I'm to have another hunter.  I
got too big for the pony, so I sold him to Goby;
Goby looked very melancholy, but he said he wanted
him badly for some reason.  And he said he hoped
I'd be his friend always.  I like poor old Goby.  I
think I'll go into the park, Pen.  My things will
be here by and by.  Couldn't we go to the theatre
to-night?  There's a ripping farce with a fight in
it at the Globe.  And will you have plum pudding
for dinner, and ice meringues?"

He went into the park and met Williams there.

"I say, Mr. Williams, where's Mr. Carew?" he asked.

"Damn Carew," said Williams.  "I don't know
where he is, and I don't want to."

"I'm staying at my cousin's," said Bob.

"At Lady Penelope's?" asked the war correspondent.

"That's it," said Bob.  "Would you like to know
what theatre we are going to to-night?"

"Yes," said Williams, eagerly.

Bob shook his head.

"I don't suppose I ought to tell you.  Tell me
something very exciting about some bloody war,
Mr. Williams."

Williams grunted.

"Or an execution.  Have you ever seen heads
chopped off with a sword?"

"Often in China, Bob."

"I say, what fun!" said Bob.  "Tell me all about
it.  Is it true they smoke cigarettes while they
are being chopped?  And do they mind?  Could I
see one if I went out?  I say, if you'll describe it,
I'll see if I can tell you about the theatre."

Carteret Williams described it.

"Seventeen!" said Bob.  "By Jove, I'll tell
this to Penelope.  She'll be greatly interested.  Do
you think I could be a war correspondent,
Mr. Williams?  I'd like to be, because Latin wouldn't
be needed.  I'm awfully sorry for war correspondents
in those days when no one but the Roman chaps
did any fighting.  I've enjoyed that story of yours
more than anything I've heard for years, Mr. Williams.
When they write about these things in books,
why don't they describe the blood the way you do?
It's the Globe we're going to; there's a ripping
farce there.  I wish they would do an execution
of pirates.  I say, don't tell Pen I told you; she
might be waxy with me.  Think of something else
to tell me.  Good-bye."

And he went to look at the ducks.

"Williams is all right," said Bob; "I wonder
if it is Williams."

And at home Pen began to know who it was.
And Ethel Mytton began to know it was some
one.  And so did Chloe Cadwallader.

Miss Weekes was right, there is no mistake about
that.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IX.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.

.. vspace:: 2

Penelope was certainly on the verge of being
in love, to go no farther than that.  She discovered
that certain of the horde had a curious tendency to
disappear from her mind, though none of them
lost any opportunity of appearing in her drawing-room.
She was so sorry for those she didn't love
that her kindness to them increased.  Her dread
of the one she began to adore forbade her to show
how soft she had grown to him.  Not even Ethel
and Chloe together could make anything out of it,
which shows every one, of course, that they were
two simple idiots, or that Penelope had a very
remarkable character.  It seems to me that the
latter must have been the case, for Chloe was no
fool in spite of the folly she had shown on one
particular occasion.

"Am I a fool?" she asked Ethel Mytton, "or
is Penelope the deepest, darkest mystery of modern
times?  I am convinced she has made her choice."

"Oh, which do you think?" asked Ethel, with
much anxiety.  "Do you—do you think it is
Captain Goby?"

"I don't know," replied Chloe; "it may be.  I
give it up.  I shall ask Bob."

"I've asked him," said Ethel, "and he won't say
anything.  I think he knows more than we do.
He's a sweet boy, but just as cunning as a ferret."

But of course Bob knew no more than they did,
though he would never own to it.  He threw out
casual hints that he was wiser than his elders, and
the only one he was in the least frank with was
Lord Bradstock, who asked him to lunch and was
infinitely amused with him.

"I say, Lord Bradstock, if you'll keep it dark,
I'll tell you something!"

Bradstock promised to keep it as dark as a dry
plate.

"All these women think I know who Penelope's
sweet on, and I don't.  And, what's more, I
wouldn't tell if I did.  Would you?"

"Certainly not," said Bradstock.

"You can't think how I'm chased," said Bob.
"Ethel Mytton is the worst.  She's dead nuts on
poor Goby, and Goby doesn't see her when Pen's
in the room.  And Mrs. Cadwallader, she's always
mugging up to me with chocolates or something to
get things out of me.  And the newspaper Johnnies
are on me, too.  And Williams takes me out, and
Carew (I don't care for Carew), and I like Goby
best.  Mr. de Vere is a rotter, don't you think?
The marquis was at Pen's, and he said that if Pen
didn't marry him he'd go up in a balloon and never
come back.  I want him to take me in a balloon.
Don't you think I might go?  Granny's cross when
I speak of it.  I've always wanted to go in a balloon,
and I think it hard lines I can't go because she
doesn't like 'em.  Pen won't go, either.  She thinks
that if she did, Rivaulx would never let her come
down again, or something.  I daresay he wouldn't;
he's quite mad, I think, sometimes.  Baker says
all Frenchmen are mad.  Do you think so?"

Bradstock didn't know; he wasn't sure of it,
though he owned to thinking it was possible.

"After all, Bob," he said, when Bob went at last,
"and after all I dare say Penelope won't marry any
of them."

And of course that is what a good many people
said.  They said it was Lady Penelope's fun.  The
Marchioness of Rigsby, who settled every one's
affairs, said so to Titania.

"Why wasn't she beaten, my dear, when she
was young?" asked the marchioness.  "I was
severely beaten; it did me good; it gave me sense.
I always used to beat my girls with the flat of
my hand, and now they are *most* sensible and
married excellently, although I own they are not
beauties.  I can afford to own it now.  I shall
speak to Penelope myself."

She did it and was routed.  Pen was direct;
she beat no one, and certainly did not beat about
the bush.  She had no fear of the world, and
dreaded no marchioness.

"I'll attend to my own affairs, thank you," said Pen.

"My dear love," said the marchioness, "you
ought to have been beaten while you were still young.
This conduct of yours is a scandal.  It is merely
a means of attracting public notice.  And I am
old enough to speak about it.  I will speak about it."

Pen left her speaking and went out.

"She is distinctly rude," said the marchioness,
viciously.  "I wish she was about ten and I was
her mother!"

But Pen could not endure being spoken to.

"I love him," said Pen, "and what business is
it of theirs?  If they disapprove I shall hate them!
If they approve I shall hate them worse.  Oh, I
almost wish I was going to marry some one who
would make them die!"

"Mark me," said the marchioness to Titania,
"this will end in her marrying a groom.  Has she a
good-looking one?"

Titania started.

"Oh, a very good-looking one," she cried.

"What did I say?  Remember what I said," said
the marchioness, darkly.  "No really good girl
could act as she does.  She will marry a groom!"

She went around saying so in revenge for
Penelope's want of politeness.  The journalists took
Timothy Bunting's photograph, and Miss Weekes
was proud till she heard the dreadful rumour.
Timothy beat a man on a paper, and Bob was
delighted.  Titania took to her bed, and said the
end of the world was at hand.  Bradstock laughed
till he cried, and cut the marchioness in the park.
Her husband was very much pleased at this, and
said it served her right.  Chloe Cadwallader wrote
her first letter since the scandal to Cadwallader in
the Rockies, for she felt he would be the only man
in the world who hadn't heard of it.  Ethel lay
wait for Captain Goby, and asked him to kill some
one.  There was not a soul in London who did
not hear of it.  And then Timothy quarrelled with
Harriet Weekes.  He went to Penelope, and with
a crimson face and bated breath and much
humbleness asked to be sent down to the country.

"You shall go," said Penelope, with great
decision.  "I can trust you, I know."

"My lady, you can trust me with untold gold
and diamonds," replied Timothy Bunting, almost
with tears.

"I shall send you to a house of mine you have
never heard of," said Penelope.  "And I expect
you, Bunting, not to write to any one from there.
I do not wish any one to know I live there."

"I'll not tell the Harchbishop of Canterbury
'imself, my lady, not if he begged me on his knees,
with lighted candles in his 'and," said Bunting.
"And, above all, my lady, I'll not tell it to Miss
Weekes.  Her and me 'ave quarrelled, and 'ave
parted for hever.  And I wouldn't trust her, my
lady, not farther than you can sling a bull by the
tail, my lady.  I've trusted her to my rueing, so
I have, and if she finds out hanything she'll sell it
to the *Times*, which 'ave promised her a public
'ouse at a corner."

This revelation of the methods of Printing House
Square shocked Penelope dreadfully.

"Oh, I always thought the *Times* was a respectable
journal," she said.

But Timothy Bunting shook his head.

"Their sportin' tips ain't a patch on many of the
penny papers, my lady.  But don't you forget what
I says of Miss Weekes.  She's a serpent in your
boodore a-coiling everywhere, and speaking to
newspaper men outside the harea like an 'ousemaid.
Not but that I knows an 'ousemaid far above
such dirty work, my lady."

A little encouragement might have led him to
say more about the housemaid who would not
condescend to talk with journalists.  But Penelope gave
him an address, verbally.

"You will go to this place to-morrow," she said.
"There are no horses now, but there will be next
week.  I trust you to do what I tell you."

"Miss—my lady, I mean," said Timothy,
proudly, "I wouldn't reveal where I was if the
Hemperor of Germany crawled to me for that
purpose all along of the ground, making speeches
as he went."

Penelope smiled at her faithful henchman kindly,
and she wondered how it happened that he thought
of placing the emperor in such an absurd position;
a position, too, which was very unlikely.

"Now are you sure you remember, Bunting?"
she asked.

"Miss Mackarness, Moat 'Ouse, near Spilsby,
Lincolnshire," repeated Timothy.

"And you will speak personally to Miss Mackarness,
who will give you every instruction," said
his young mistress.  "I hope you don't drink,
Bunting?"

"Never," said Bunting, promptly, "at least I
won't from now on till you give the word, my lady.
But, my lady, as I'm goin' from here I don't mind
revealin' to you that Mr. Gubbles does.  Mr. Gubbles
'as been very unkind to me, and—"

"That will do," said Penelope.  "Good-bye,
Bunting.  I expect to see you in about a month.  It
may be less."

"I 'opes, my lady, it will be much less," said the
groom, and as he went away he nodded his
close-cropped head.

"This is a damned rum start," he murmured.
"Wot's up, I wonder?  This 'ere Miss Mackarness
was 'ousekeeper at Upwell Castle, and I'm a
Dutchman if any one of us 'as ever 'eard of Moat 'Ouse.
She's goin' to do it, as she said, goin' to be
married and keep it dark.  Women is wonderful strange
and, so to speak, dreadful.  I thot I knew
'Arriet Weekes through and through, and she turned
out to be a serpent with false teeth, ready to sell
Lady Penelope to the *Times*.  And my lady 'as
turned me round 'er finger.  I'm knee-deep in secret
hoaths, and, without knowin' what I was doin',
I've swore off drink.  Well, I always did like
ginger-beer!"

But he sighed all the same.  And that
afternoon he packed up and disappeared, and no one
knew what had become of him.  Neither he nor
any one of those who hunted for news had any
notion of the fame which would presently be his.
Nor did Penelope see quite what she had done when
this nice-looking young man suddenly vanished by
her orders.

But Penelope was in love.





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.. _`CHAPTER X.`:

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   CHAPTER X.

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Love is a pathological state which can only be
cured by one means.  It is a disease, and robs the
most humourous of their humour.  When Rabelais
was in love he no doubt wrote poems which he
afterward destroyed.  When Dante was in love he
did the Paradiso.  When he cheered up he wrote
the Inferno.  Neither of these is any joke.  But
then, Dante had no more humour than Penelope.
It can be imagined (or it cannot be imagined) how
unhumourous Pen became when she found she had
made her choice between Plant and De Vere and
Goby and Carew and Williams and Bramber and
Gordon and Rivaulx.  She wept at night over those
she could not marry.  And it added grief to grief
to think that the unmarried would probably relapse
into their evil ways.

"What can one poor girl do with so many?"
she asked.  "I'm sure they will turn around on me,
and once more follow their dreadful instincts!  And
they have improved so much!"

The result of her sorrow was such pity that every
poor wretch of them all was convinced she loved
him better and better.  They were quite cheerful.
They looked at each other almost sympathetically.
They grieved for each other, and struggled on the
hard cinder-path of duty, with Penelope at least a
long lap ahead.  The amount of good they did was
wonderful.  Plant got his university started,
Rivaulx went over to Paris and asked Dreyfus to
dinner, Goby was deep in Imperial Yeomanry and
rifle ranges, Bramber spoke on every opportunity
in the House and voted with the insistence of a
whip.  De Vere wrote a monograph on outdoor
sports, with an appendix on bulldogs.  He also
owned that poetry was not everything, and went
so far as to say that the poet laureate was a very good
fellow.  Gordon floated a company without any
water in the capital, and ran the whole affair with
absolute honesty and no waiver clause.  Carew
learned to draw, and spoke sober truth about the
Chantry Bequest.

Williams never swore in public, and painted in
water-colours.  And none of them played bridge or
went into good society.

"And when they know?" said poor Penelope.

"I wonder if I ought not to sacrifice him and
myself on the altar of duty?" said Pen.  But she
was in love, and the motor-car in which she was to
disappear stood ready.  She made weekly trips in
it with Bob.  Sometimes they stayed away for three
days, sometimes even for a week.

"Oh, Bob, I'm so unhappy: so happy," said Pen.

And Bob looked at her critically.

"Well, you look stunning, anyhow," he replied,
"you get better looking every day, Pen.  Old De
Vere said so.  He let on that you were a cross
between a lily and a rose, or some such rot.  You mark
me, Pen, he'll go back to poetry if you marry him,
and give up dogs.  I don't want him to do that.
Baker has some pups coming on, a new kind of
very savage dog, and I'm halves in 'em.  Can't
you give me a tip as to whether it's De Vere?  If
it is, I'll sell him one now, cheap."

But Pen looked beautiful and kept her mouth
shut.  Neither Bob nor Titania nor Bradstock could
extract a word from her.  And, nevertheless, the
whole world grew suspicious.  The society papers
said she had made her choice.  The sporting papers
gave tips.  They said, "For the *Lady Penelope
Stakes* we give Plant or Bramber," or at least one of
them did.  Others selected De Vere, and one rude
man said a rank outsider would get it.  Of course
he didn't believe in Pen's word.  But then, no one
did.

And still Pen kept her teeth shut and was as
obstinate as a government mule to all persuasion.
Ethel cried and said:

"Oh, is it Captain Goby?"

Chloe laughed and laid traps for Penelope saying:

"Oh, by the way, I saw Lord Bramber just now."

Or it might be De Vere or Carew or Williams.
But no one got a rise out of Penelope.

"I am entirely determined to give a lead to those
who wish to be married without publicity.  I shall
found a society presently," said Penelope.

When Titania, whom nothing could discourage,
went at her furiously, Bradstock smiled.

"If she has a daughter, some day we shall see the
girl married in Westminster Abbey," said Bradstock.
But even he was very curious.

"Have you found out anything yet, Bob?" he
asked that young financier.

"I'm on the way," said Bob, "give me time,
Lord Bradstock.  I feel sure it's not De Vere.  He's
buying all the dogs I offer him.  If he was sure,
he wouldn't."

But Bradstock wasn't certain.  Penelope might
have no humour, but she was quite equal to ordering
De Vere to buy in order to blind Bob.

"I never thought of that," said Bob.  "I frankly
own Pen's a deal worse than Euclid.  And I never
thought to say that of anything."

And upon a certain day in June, when June was
doing its best to live up to the poet's ideal, Pen
disappeared, by herself, leaving Bob at home with
Guthrie, who now came over each day to keep the
young vagabond doing something.  She came back
after lunch, and Bob found her abnormally silent.
She had nothing to say, and there was a curious
far-off look in her eyes.  Her interest in dogs was
nil; she showed no appreciation of ferrets; when he
spoke she said "Oh" and "Ah" and "what's that
you say?"  And Bob had no suspicion whatsoever,
just as clever people never have when they might be
expected to show their wisdom.

When she did speak, though, it was to the point.

"I think, Bob, it is time you went back to your
grandmother's," she declared, suddenly, and back
he went in spite of all his cajoleries.  Pen was very
strange, he thought, and rather beastly.  There
certainly was a change in her, for she dismissed
Harriet Weekes with a douceur which did not really
sweeten that lady's departure.

And in the afternoon Pen casually remarked to
Chloe that she was going out of town for three
days.  When she said so the motor-car was at the
door, and Geordie Smith was there too.

If Timothy Bunting had known that Smith was
as deep in his lady's confidence as he was himself,
he would have been jealous.  But he must have
been, for Pen said to him, when they were out of
Piccadilly:

"How long will it take to get to Spilsby, Smith?"

"My lady, with this new racing-car I'll get there
when you like," replied Smith, firmly.

Pen remembered that Bob said Smith's ambition
was to ride through the city regardless of fines.

"I wouldn't try to do it under three hours,"
she said.

"Unless we are followed," said Smith.  "If we
are followed, my lady, may I let her go?"

"Yes," said Penelope.

Geordie Smith nodded to himself.

"Fines be damned, and legal limits ditto," said
Smith to himself; "wait, my darling, till we get
through the traffic."

He meant "darling" for his new car.  He adored
it as much as he did his mistress.  He used to
dream of it at night and had nightmares about it.
Dream ruffians cut up his tires; he was in the
middle of Salisbury Plain without petrol; "she"
refused to spark; he was held up by gigantic
policemen with stop watches the size of a church clock.
But now she moved under him smooth and cosy,
with a vast reserve of power; she was quick, swift,
docile, intelligent, fearless of policemen, careless
of the limping law.

"If my lady wants to go quick, I'm the man,"
said Geordie.  "But I wonder what's up?"

Geordie played the car as Joachim plays the
violin, or Paderewski the piano.  She skated, she
swam, she shot like a water-beetle, she was
responsive to his lightest touch.  He heard her music as
every engineer does, and found it as lovely as a
dream song.

"Oh, for a clear road," said the player.  He
found some of it clear before they reached Barnet,
and then he fingered the keyboard, as it were, like
a master.

"Horses, horses," said Smith, "the poor miserable
things!  Ain't I sorry for Tim Bunting!  Here
we go, my lady."

He broke the law magnificently, and with such
skill that Penelope wondered.  But only once he ran
against the law in the shape of a policeman, north
of Hatfield, who saw him coming and signalled to
him to stop.

"Shall I?" said Smith.

"No!" shrieked Pen, against the tide of wind.

They passed him flying and saw him run as they
passed.

"He'll wire to Hitchin and have us there,"
said Smith.  But he knew his roads.  "Oh, will he?"

He took the right fork of the roads at Welwyn
and roared through Stevenage to Baldock and
found the main road again at Sandy.  They reached
Huntington, sixty miles from town, in an hour and
three quarters.

"And I've never let her out but once," said
Smith; "she's a daisy!"

The eighteen miles to Spilsborough they did at
a speed that made Penelope bend her head.  She
felt wonderful: she was on a shooting-star.  They
slackened on the outskirts of the cathedral city and
rolled through it delicately.  She looked about her
and remembered the dear bishop who had christened
her when he was no more than a vicar.

"We'll go by Crowland and Spalding, Smith."  A
car followed them out of Spilsborough, and
Smith, going easy, looked back and saw it.

"Catch us, my son," he said, contemptuously.
But when they were well clear of town and he
turned her loose, so to speak, Pen's nerve went,
or it appeared to go.

"Don't go so fast, Smith," she commanded.

And Smith obeyed sorrowfully.

"They can't stand it," he said; "none of 'em
can stand it really.  They let on they can, but it's
no go.  A few hot miles gives them the mulligrubs."

But nevertheless they were running over thirty
miles an hour.  The car behind crawled up to them.

"All I've got to do, my lady, is to ask her to
shake 'em off, and away we go and leave 'em," he
suggested.

"Oh, no, no," said Pen.

At Spalding the pursuer, if he were one, was
not a hundred yards behind.  But in the town
Smith got ahead.  He did not see Penelope
trembling.  Smith had taken a look at the one behind.

"There's power there," he said, savagely.  "If
he lets her out and my lady squeals, I'm passed!"

She did "squeal" the other side of Spalding,
but not for herself.  The other car had to stop.

"That's done 'em," said Smith; "they're in the
ditch."  He gained ten miles on them, and Penelope wept.

And just as they were coming into Boston at an
easy gait, Smith turned and saw the other car
coming up behind like a meteor, with the dust astern
of her in a fume.

"That chap can drive after all," said Smith.
"Won't you try to let me get away from him
before we get to Spilsby, my lady?"

"I—I don't want to," said Pen.

And five miles outside of Spilsby the pursuing
car drew up with them.  Two indistinguishable
monsters drove it, and through his glaring goggles
Smith glared at them as they came alongside.

"Stop," said Penelope, suddenly.  "Stop, Smith."

And the other car stopped too.

"I'll go on with the other car," said Penelope.
She took her place by the most unrecognizable
portent of the two, and disappeared in a sudden and
terrific cloud of dust.

"Damned if I know who it is, even now," said Smith.





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.. _`CHAPTER XI.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.

.. vspace:: 2

It was Friday when Penelope disappeared from
London in a motor-car, and was carried off by a
motor pirate, unknown to any one, because he wore
a peak cap, a fur coat with the fur outside, and
gigantic goggles, making him resemble a diver or
a cuttlefish.

It was Monday when she returned to town in a
motor-car with Geordie Smith.  And all the way
into town Geordie said:

"Blessed if I'd ha' thought it.  I always
reckoned it would have been one of the others.  I lose
money on this, but if I do, it warms the cockles
of my heart to see my lady happy.  Bless her sweet
face, I wish she'd leave the blooming world alone
and have a good time.  I never set eyes on such
an aggravatin' beautiful sweet lady for interferin'
with men.  Just as if the queen herself could alter
our ways!  Women always gas that they can or
mean to, and they're just like hens with men for
ducks."

If he had been a classical scholar he might have
remembered Ariadne up to her knees in the sea,
with her lover on the deep in a boat.

"When I saw who it was at Moat House," said
Geordie, "you could have knocked me endwise with
something less than a steel spanner.  And that
horse-whipping ass of a Bunting was equal took
aback.  For somehow we never spotted him as
likely to make the non-stop run.  Humph, humph!"

And he left Penelope at her house just in time
for afternoon tea.  As she lay on the sofa she
handed a paper to Chloe Cadwallader, saying:

"I wish you would send out cards to all these
people for Thursday night."

"That's very short notice, darling," said Chloe.

"They'll come," said Pen.

And when Chloe looked at the list she found it
included only Pen's particular friends, her most
bitter relations, and the whole of the "horde."

"I wonder—" said Chloe, and she wondered
somewhat later with Ethel.

"Is it?" said Ethel.

"Can it be?" cried Chloe.

"It can't be," said Ethel.

"Who knows?" asked Chloe.  "She is so plain
and so simple and straightforward that there is no
certainty about anything she does.  I understand
the wicked and the weak, but Penelope—"

She threw up her hands, and presently wrote out
the cards.  And Penelope was trying "to a degree,"
as Chloe said all Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday.
And on Thursday she sent for Bob, who came
helter-skelter in a hansom.

"You'll stand by me, Bob," said Pen, clutching him.

Bob put his hands in his pockets and stood
straddle-legs.  He stared at her.  What was hidden
from the wisdom of Chloe was revealed to the
simplicity of this boy.

"Pen," said Bob, solemnly, "I'll stick by you
till death.  But ain't you going to tell me who it is?"

"Who what is?" asked Pen, feebly.

"Him," said Bob.  "Pen, you've been and gone
and done it."

Pen, the strong and mighty Pen, wept a little.

"Don't snivel," said Bob.  "It can't be helped
now, I suppose, unless you get a divorce.  Do you
want one?"

"Oh, no!" said Pen.  "Not at all!"

Bob considered the matter for a few minutes.

"I say, what makes you cry?" he asked.

"I—I don't know," said Penelope.

"Girls are very rum.  Baker says they are.  He's
not married, you know.  He says mules are easy to
them.  He drove mules once in India, he says.
You know you are doing all this off your own bat,
Pen, ain't you?  Why don't you chuck it?"

"Chuck what, dear?"

"Oh, this notion of not letting on.  Baker says
it's the rummest start he ever knew, and he says
he's seen some rum things in his life, especially
when he was a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers.
Can't you chuck it?"

"Oh, no, certainly not," said Pen, firmly.  "It's
only, Bob, that I'm not used to it yet, you see."

"Of course not," said Bob.  "Being married is
strange at first, I suppose.  Baker says he knew a
woman who was married four times, and by the
fourth time she wasn't nervous to speak of.  But
is it true, Pen, that you won't tell any one who
it is?"

"I won't," said Pen.

"Bravo," cried Bob.  "Stick to it.  Oh, it will
make granny so savage!  Has Bill spoken about it
to you?"

"He laughs," said Pen.  "He always does laugh."

"He tells rattling good stories," said Bob.  "He
told me a splendid one about a man who stole a
parrot the other day.  I'll tell it you sometime when
I remember it.  Is anything going to happen to-night, Pen?"

Pen shivered.

"Oh, dear, I don't know.  Mind you come, too, Bob."

Bob vowed he wouldn't miss coming for worlds.

"I believe you're thinking of telling 'em you've
done it," he said, and Pen said she was thinking
of telling them.

"You won't tell me who it is?  I'm as close as
wax," urged Bob.

"I can't, dear," said Pen.

"Oh, by Jove, I remember Bill's parrot story,
Pen.  A man stole a parrot, and when he was caught
he said he took it for a lark.  And the man who
owned it said he'd make a bally fine judge at a
bird-show."

"Oh," said Pen, rather blankly; "but if he only
took it for a lark, I suppose they let him off.  Did
they?"

"Let him off what?"

"Why—going to prison, of course," said Pen.

"I don't know," replied Bob, staring.  "Don't you
see it's a joke?"

"Yes, I see, of course," said Pen.  "Why, the
man said it was a lark, and it was a parrot.  I think
it's a very good story, Bob."

And Bob went away wondering whether it was or not.

"I'll tell it to Baker," he said, thoughtfully.

He turned up at nine o'clock that night with
Titania, who was in a state of mind requiring
instant attention from a physician.

"Good heavens, what is it, I wonder," said
Titania.  "Robert, I wonder what it is?  But what
do you know?  I am in a tremble; I am sure she
will do or say something even more scandalous than
she has done yet.  I put it all on Bradstock; to
make him her guardian was a fatal error.  My
nerves—but I have none.  I quiver like a jelly; I
shake; I must be pale as a ghost.  Why should
we take so much trouble over anything?  I must
think of myself.  I will go to bed and stay there
for a week, and send for Dr. Lumsden Griff."

But Bradstock was as calm as a philosopher
without anything in the objective world to worry him.

"What does it matter?" he inquired.  "Does
anything matter?"

Brading, whom no one had seen for many months,
as he had spent the whole winter in a yacht down
the Mediterranean, was perfectly good-humoured.

"You see, she's a dear, but only my half-sister
after all," he said to Bradstock, "and women are
so wonderful!  I can tell you a story by and by
of a Greek lady, and one about a Spaniard.  And,
to tell the truth, I almost agree with Pen.  I'm a
bit of a socialist, or an anarchist, if you like.  Have
you read Nietzsche?"

"Who wrote it?" asked Bradstock.

But the horde came in one by one, and Penelope,
who was dressed in the most unremarkable
costume at her disposal, and looked like a lily,
received them at the door.

"A most awful and improper situation," said
Titania.

"I say, I'll tell you about that Greek girl,"
said Brading.  "Do you think Pen could stick a
knife in a fellow?"

Bradstock didn't think so, and listened to the
story of the lady who suggested the notion.

"Right through my coat and waistcoat," said
Brading.  "Only a very stiff piece of starch saved
my life!"

"Good heavens!" cried Bradstock.

The room was full, and Bob buzzed around it
like a bluebottle in an orchard.

"Oh, I say," he cried to every one.  He told the
story of the parrot after he had asked Brading
whether he had it right.  He tried it on De Vere
and failed.  Goby roared handsomely.  Bramber
was absent-minded with his eye on Penelope.
Gordon said, "Yes, yes, a ripping good story."  The
Marquis de Rivaulx balked at it, but was led to
understand it.

"And when can I go up in a balloon?" asked
Bob.  He waited for no answer, but told it to
Williams, suggesting that the war correspondent might
pay for it by a story with blood and torture in it,
please.  And all of a sudden it was noticed that
the hostess had slipped out of the room.

"Where—where is Penelope?" asked trembling
Titania.  "Mrs. Cadwallader, where is Lady
Penelope?"

Bob ran her to earth in her bedroom, and after
many appeals he was let in.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear," said Penelope.  "Bob, let
me take hold of you.  Do I tremble?"

"Rather," said Bob.  "I'll bet you couldn't
drink a glass of wine without spilling it.  What's
wrong?  Buck up.  Ain't you comin' in to tell 'em?
I've broken it a bit for you."

Pen screamed.

"You wretched boy, what have you done?"

"Bless you, nothing to speak of," said Bob.  "I
only said you would make 'em sit up presently.
They think I know something, and want to bribe
me.  I say, Pen, if you say nothing for a few
days, I believe old Gordon will make me a director.
Can you?  I want to make money and restore the
family property.  I say, do."

But Pen paid no attention to him.  She groaned
instead.

"Where's the pain?" asked Bob, anxiously.
"Shall I get you some brandy?"

"No, no, Bob!  I *must* go in and tell them."

"Come on, then," said Bob, eagerly.  "I don't
care about the directorship.  They're all white and
shaking.  I *guess* they *are* in a stew."

But still Pen did not move, and when Chloe came
she sent her away, saying, "In a moment, in a
moment!"

Then Bob had a brilliant idea.

"I say, Pen, I'll do it!"

"Do what?"

"I'll go in and tell 'em you've done it.  It would
be a lark!"

But Pen shook her head.

"No, I must, I will be brave.  If a woman has
ideas she must live up to them.  I have done
good so far.  Are they not very much improved, Bob?"

"Some, I think," said Bob, carelessly.  "But I
dare say they'll go regular muckers now.  Come
on, Pen, I do want to see their jaws drop."

And Pen went with him.  She stayed outside the
door, and Bob went in first.

"She's coming," said Bob.  And Pen entered
with her eyes on the floor.  Bob took her hand.

"Buck up and spit it out," he said, in an
encouraging whisper, which was audible in the farthest
corner of the room.  Some of the horde turned
pale; Titania fell back in her chair; Bradstock
leant against the wall.  Brading put up his
eyeglass, and then told Bradstock Pen reminded him
of a girl who had once tried to smother him with
a pillow.

"She had Penelope's straightforwardness, and
never gave in, just like Pen," said Brading, thoughtfully.

And now Penelope took hold of her courage, so
to speak, and opened her mouth.

"S-sh," said Bob, who looked on himself as the
master of the ceremonies, "s-sh, I say."

And he took hold of Pen's hand.

"I'm so glad to see you here to-night," said the
reformer, "for I am so much interested in you all,
you see.  And you've all been so brave."

"Hear, hear," said Bob.

"So brave in different ways, about balloons and
motor-cars and curing yourselves of your weak
points," went on Penelope.  "That's what I hoped
my influence would do.  I said I was only a girl,
but even a girl ought to do something, and I knew
you all liked me very much, for you all said so, and
I said, what can I do for you?  And I did my best,
and you did yours, I'm sure, for I've heard from
every one of you all about the others."

This made many of them look rather queer, as no
doubt it might.

"And months ago I said—I said—"

"Go ahead, Pen," whispered Bob.  "You mean
you said you'd marry one of 'em."

"I said I'd—marry one of you."

Titania groaned in the corner of a vast settee.
Bradstock and Brading whistled, or it seemed so.
But the other poor wretches stared at Penelope,
and saw no one, heard no one, but her.

"And I wanted you to come to-night so that I
could ask you all to go on in the path of rectitude
and simplicity and courage, balloons and hard
work and healthiness and thought for others, even
if I was married," said Pen, with a gasp.  "Will
you, oh, will you?"

"We will," said the crowd, Goby leading with
a deep bass voice and tears in his eyes.

"Oh, I'm so glad," said Penelope, "for I shall
not have lived in vain even if I died to-night.  And
now—and now—I have to tell you something."

"Great heavens," said Titania, in an awestricken
and penetrating whisper, "what is she going to say now?"

"I have kept my word," said Penelope, with her
eyes on the floor.  "I have kept my word!"

"What—what word?" asked the collapsed
duchess, and Pen tried to say what word she had kept.

"Speak up," said Bob, "speak up, Pen!"

And she did speak up.

"For—for," gasped Penelope, "for, you see,
I *have* married one of you!"

Titania uttered a scream and promptly fainted.
The men looked at each other furiously and
suspiciously, while Pen was on her knees beside the
poor duchess.  At that moment a message was
brought in for Gordon, and an urgent note from
the whip for Bramber.  Brading stood in a corner
and whistled.  Bradstock shrugged his shoulders,
and Bob buzzed all over the room like a wasp in a
bottle.  By dint of water and smelling-salts and the
slapping of hands Titania was brought to, and
when she had recovered consciousness to the extent
of knowing what it was that had bowled her over,
she uttered words on the spur of the moment which
were almost as much of a bombshell as those
Penelope had spoken.

"I don't believe she's married at all," said Titania.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.

.. vspace:: 2

To talk about the grounds of certainty is to talk
metaphysically, and metaphysics being the highest
form of nonsense, becomes sense in that altitude,
as it must be if Hegel is to be believed.  But in the
conduct of life the grounds of certainty are an
estate beyond the rainbow.  If Penelope believed
any one thing with more fervour than another, it
was that her truthfulness must be self-evident.  The
course of events after the evening on which Titania
fainted and recovered so sharply showed her that
nothing was certain, not even self-evident truths.
For though she said she was married, few, if any,
believed her.  Titania, who believed in her intuitions,
as all right-minded women must, because reason is
only an attribute of man, declared that Penelope
had lied, to put it plainly.  She invented an
hypothesis to account for it.

"She found out she didn't want to marry any of
them, and her courage to say so failed her.  This
notion of hers gives her time, and of course, my
dear, as you see from what I say, she's not married
in the least."

Bradstock, who was a philosopher, disagreed with
her, and agreed with Bob.

"Not married in the least, eh?" said Bradstock.
"What is the least degree of marriage which would
meet with your moral approval, Titania?"

"Don't talk nonsense, Augustin," replied Titania,
tartly.

"I cannot help it," said Augustin, "the situation
is so absurd."

And so it was for every one but the Duchess and
Penelope, who did not understand a joke even with
illustrations.  And they undoubtedly had the
illustrations.  There were leading articles in several
papers on the subject of marriage, with discreet
allusions to Penelope's case.  There was a long
and rabid correspondence in the *Daily Turncoat*,
a new halfpenny paper, to which every lady with a
past or a future contributed.  The editor of the
*Dictator* wrote a moral essay with his own hand,
obvious to every student of his immemorial style,
which proved that another such case would knock
the bottom out of the British Empire and bring on
protection.  He showed that marriage, open and
unadulterated, in a chapel, at the least, was the
minimum on which morality could exist, and he pointed
out with sad firmness that the ethical standards of
the true Briton were the only decent ones at present
unfurled in the universe, and that they were in great
danger of being rolled up and put away.  As every
one knows, all he said was undoubtedly fact.  The
true Briton is the only moral person in the world.
As a result Penelope felt that she wasn't a true
Briton, and it made her very mournful, as it should
have done.  Nothing but her native obstinacy, which
was imperial if not British, made her stick to her
ideas, when her half-brother came to her and asked
her crudely to "chuck" it.  For, though he was
humourous, it was past a joke now, and his
admiration of Pen was tinged with alarm.

"I say, old girl, chuck it," said Bill.

"I can't!  I won't!" said Penelope.

"Nobody believes you."

Penelope couldn't help that.

"I've spoken the truth."

"Why, even the other men don't believe it," said
her brother.  "Why, I met three of 'em to-day, and
they all said, 'Oh, yes, we understand.'  I say, Pen,
this is too much.  Chuck it!"

"Once for all, dear, I won't," said Penelope.
"Much as I dislike this publicity, I see it is doing
good.  I get letters every day from scores of people
saying that I am doing good.  Three to-day
declared that they were following my example in a
registrar's office, and three more are thinking of
it.  One lady writes, saying she hopes I would go
in for abolishing marriage altogether when public
opinion was prepared for the extinction of the race.
I don't agree with her, but she was enthusiastic,
and enthusiasm is a great thing."

"I shall go yachting for a year," said Bill.

"I wish you would, dear Bill," replied Penelope.
"It will do you good.  You look quite pale, and I
don't like you to do that.  Have you any cough?"

"Damn it, no," said Brading, crossly.

And he went yachting again without publicity
but with a lady.  He was no true Briton, and never
read the *Dictator*.

His departure took one thing off Pen's hands,
but none of her lovers departed.  Titania's words
had sunk deep in their minds.

"She's not married," they said.  "And if she
says she is, it is only to try us."

They all interviewed Bob, and made things very
pleasant for that rising statesman.  If he believed
Pen was married there was no reason to say so
openly.

"Am I old enough to be a director, do you
think?" he asked Gordon.  "What I want is to
make pots of money and rebuild Goring, which is
a bally ruin."

"You don't answer my questions," said Gordon.

"Oh, about Pen," said Bob.  "She's queer.  I
don't know, Mr. Gordon, I can't tell.  She may be,
for all I know.  She's so clever, I don't know that
she hasn't married you, and put you up to coming
and asking me questions."

Gordon couldn't help grinning.

"I think you'll be a director of something some
day," said he.  "I can't make you one now, but if
you have a hundred pounds I'll invest it in
something for you, my son, that will make your hair
curl."

"Like yours?" asked Bob, curiously, and Gordon
flinched.

"Well," went on Bob, without waiting for an
answer, "I haven't a hundred pounds, but I've an
idea how to get it."

"Yes?" said the financier.  "What's your idea, Bob?"

"It's a safe and a certain investment, is it?"

"Why, of course," replied Gordon.

"Then I'll tell you what, you lend it me," said
Bob, brightly, "and invest it for me."

"Damned if I don't," cried Gordon.  "Bob, when
you are twenty-one I'll make you a director and ask
your advice!  And you'll come and tell me if you
find out anything about Lady Penelope?"

Bob looked at him and shook his head.

"I say, you're so clever, I don't know how to
take you.  I dare say it's you!"

The flattered financier smiled.

"Oh, by the way," said Bob, rather in a hurry,
"I suppose I should get nearly as much if I
invested ninety pounds as if I put in a hundred?"

"Nearly," said Gordon, who hoped to be let off
a little, "only ten per cent. less."

"That'll do me," said Bob.  "Then you can give
me the tenner now, Mr. Gordon, and put in the
rest for me."

"I wish I had a boy like that," said Gordon.
He went away ten pounds poorer, but with a great
admiration for Bob, who was determined to restore
the faded splendour of Goring.

"Hanged if I know who it is," said Bob.  "It
may be Gordon after all.  And every one but De
Vere and Bramber have been at me.  Is it one of
these?"

He had a remarkable list of all those who had
pretended to Penelope's hand, for he was very
curious, like all the rest of the world.  He was also
a little sore with Pen for not confiding in him.

"I told her I'd find out," he said, "and I will."

This was his list, and a curious document it was,
written in a big, round hand that "old Guth" could
never get him to modify.  His spelling was almost
ducal in its splendour.

.. vspace:: 2

"*Plant*.  It isn't Mr. Plant, because he said would
I like to go out in a motor, a new one, ninety-horse
power, and I said rather, if he'd let her rip.  And
he looked anshious I thought.  He tiped me.

"*Goby*.  It isn't Goby, Goby says he'll always be
my friend.  He said had I another pony not sound,
to experiment with.  He stamped up and down,
some.  He tiped me.

"*Williams*.  It isn't Williams, he took me to
lunch and told me lots of things about the Chinese
that his paper wouldn't print.  They were orful.
He said if I'd keep in with him he knew worse.  He
didn't tip me this time because the lunch was so
much.  I had turtell three times.

"*Rivaulx*.  It isn't the Frenchy because he tore
his hair, and said I could go up in a baloon any
day.  At least, he didn't tear his hair; it's too short.
He keeps it up with Gordon too but looks horrid.
He tiped me.

"*Carew*.  It isn't him.  He's very anxshus and
says he can't paint: says the crittics are right.  He
was a sad sight to see, walking around in his studio.
He said would I sit to him for an angel.  He stops
walking and tries to do Pen quick.  I think it's muck.
I wouldn't like a tip from him, for if an artist
can't paint through grief what becomes of him?
Do the others buy him for the Chantrey Bequest?"

.. vspace:: 2

"That's the lot so far," said Bob.  And he added
to his notes:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Gordon*.  It isn't Gordon.  He lent me a
hundred pounds to invest in something to make hair
curl.  I said make it ninety and give me ten now,
and he did.  He didn't tip me, but I don't think
him mean on that account."

.. vspace:: 2

"That leaves only De Vere and Bramber," said
Bob, "and she never seemed much stuck on either
to my mind.  But if they don't say anything to me
I shall begin to suspect."

He said so to Bradstock, who called him a young devil.

But about three days later Bob added to his notes:

.. vspace:: 2

"*Bramber*.  It isn't Bramber.  I met him in the
park.  He took me to the House and gave me a
beastly lunch.  But he didn't notice it as he couldn't
eat and looked very pale and savidge.  He tiped me.

"*De Vere*.  It's not the poetry rotter.  He wants
me to stay with him and look after the dogs.  He
said if I had a sick one he'd rather have it than not.
He said he was desprit.  I don't know why, but
suppose it's Pen.  He tiped me."

.. vspace:: 2

"Now where am I at?" he said, blankly.  "I've
written down it isn't any of 'em.  And that's what
granny says.  But I don't believe her."

He chewed his pencil till it was in rags, and then
a sudden idea struck him.

"I'll buy all Sherlock Holmes and read him right
through," said Bob.  "That's the way to find out
anything.  I wish I knew the man that wrote him.
I wonder if De Vere knows him?  I'll ask Baker
to get a sick dog from the vet's, and I'll go down
and stay with De Vere if I can make granny say
'yes.'  I wonder why old De Vere wants a sick
dog, though.  I can't understand poets."

It was no wonder Gordon wished he had a boy like Bob.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.

.. vspace:: 2

It was all very well for Bob to declare that his
grandmother was altogether "off it" when she said
that Penelope wasn't married at all.  For, little by
little, after furious discussions in ten thousand
houses, in the court, the camp, and the grove, that
came to be the general opinion.

Titania expressed the general opinion:

"She is mad, of course.  What can one expect
when her mother was an American?  All Americans
are mad.  Bradstock assures me there is a
something in the air of the United States (oh, even in
Canada) which makes one take entirely new views
of everything.  And that, of course, is madness,
my dear, madness undoubted and dangerous.  He
assured me, poor fellow, that six months in that
absurd country made him tremble for his belief in
a constitutional monarchy!  He adds that he has
only partially recovered, by firmly fixing his eyes
on what a limited monarch might be, if he tried.
Yes, she was an American, and adored our
aristocracy, not knowing what we are, poor thing.
And yet where Penelope's ideas come from I do
not know.  I firmly believe Bradstock is the cause
of them.  When she was a little girl he would take
her on his knee and pour anarchism into her
innocent ears.  You know his way; he runs counter to
everything, though now comparatively silent.  And
Penelope was always ready to go against me, though
she loves me.  This was an early idea of hers;
Augustin owns that he suggested it humourously
to her years ago.  There is nothing so dangerous
as humour; it is always liable to be taken seriously.
Mr. Browning, the poet, said so to me at a
garden-party; he said he was a humourist, and he said
Mr. Tennyson (oh, yes, Lord Tennyson) lacked
humour, while he himself had too much of it.  He
explained Sordello to me, and made me laugh
heartily.  But as I was saying, Penelope took up
the idea and gave it out, and now is sorry, and, not
having the courage to say so, she has taken refuge
in what I am reluctantly compelled to characterize as
a lie, and it is a great relief to me.  The scandal
will blow over; already the halfpenny papers are
tired of her.  I expect she will marry by and by.
Oh, no, of course she isn't married!"

And as Penelope's ideas were in every way
absolutely contrary to what one has a right to expect,
it is only natural that, proof of the contrary being
lacking, the whole world began gradually to come
around to Titania's opinion.  A duchess has a great
deal of influence if she only likes to use it, and the
public is no more proof against her than the public
offices are.

And Pen set her teeth together and ignored every
one, and had very little to say to society.  Her
apparent passion was for motor-cars, and she went
out in the sixty-horse Panhard almost every day.
And every end of the week she disappeared,
coming back on Monday or Tuesday.

"I could tell 'em something," said Geordie
Smith, "couldn't I, old girl?"

The "old girl" he referred to was the machine he
loved next best, at least, to Lady Penelope.

"Me and Bunting could wake 'em up some," he
said.  "I'd like Bunting if he'd only get rid of the
notion that horses are everything.  I hope to see the
time when there won't be any except in parks,
running wild like deer."

It was an awful notion, and it was a wonder that
he and Bunting got on without fighting.

"My lady *uses* your bloomin' tracking engine,"
said Tim, contemptuously, "but she *loves* 'orses.
You can't give carrots to your old thing, and it
ain't got no smooth and silky muzzle to pat.
Faugh! the smell of it makes me sick; give me the 'ealthy
hodour of the stable, Smith!"

"Find me a horse that'd carry her and me a
hundred and twenty miles in three hours and damn the
expense in fines," replied Smith, "and I'm with
you.  My lady loves this car a'most as much as
I do.  Who can catch her and me, flying along?
Let 'em come, let 'em try, and I'll put her out to
the top notch and let her sizzle.  You come out and
try, Tim; one drive and you'll be another man,
looking on horses as what they are, mere animals
and not up to date.  My lady's up to date and
beyond it."

"When I go in your bally machine hit'll be by my
lady's horders," said Timothy, "and it'll be tryin'
my hallegiance very 'ard.  Come and 'ave a drink,
if you hain't too advanced for that!  'Ave you been
chased lately as you brought my lady 'ome?"

"I thought I was," replied Smith, "but I shook
'em off.  I'm egging her on to get a ninety-horse
in case.  That young cousin of hers let on to me
that she'll be followed up some day, and I told her.
She'll do it!"

"I wonder what's her game?" said Tim.
"Blowed if I hunderstand."

"So far's I see," replied Smith, "it's a general
notion that a party's private biz is their private
biz.  And the others says it isn't, and there's where
the trouble begins.  I agree with her in a measure,
don't you?"

"I agrees with my lady hevery time," said Tim.
"She's a sweet lady, and, my word, if I didn't I'd
get the sack, which I don't want.  What she says
she sticks to, bein' in that different to hany woman
I never met.  That's what the trouble is, that and
reformin' lovers and husbands and law and so hon!"

But the real trouble was that what she said she
stuck to.  She began to care much less for reform,
and now never read Herbert Spencer and the greater
philosopher, who has discovered that man doesn't
think so much of yesterday as he does of to-morrow.
She forgot the Deceased Wife's Sister, and
ignored the London County Council, and didn't read
the *Times* except on great occasions.  She spent the
days in dreaming, and, except when she was
devouring the space between London and Lincolnshire,
she lay about on sofas and read poetry or listened
to Bob, and looked ten thousand times more
beautiful than ever, like the Eastern beauties, of whom
one reads in the Arabian Nights, returning from
the bath.  She was wonderfully affectionate to Bob,
who was a most considerate boy, and didn't worry
her when he had once discovered that asking
questions was no use.  He told her of his vain efforts
to find out whom she had married, and was very
amusing.  He began to have great ambitions.

"Mr. Gordon says I've a great future before me,
Pen.  He thinks no end of me.  He says being a
duke by and by is all very well, but I agree with
him there are greater things than merely being one.
He says the men with power are the rulers of the
world.  He told me how he and Rothschild stopped
a war in a hurry.  He didn't say which war.  I
asked him why he didn't stop the South African
War, and he said that was different.  I asked him
did he bring it on then, and he said 'No.'  But I
think he did, somehow.  Will you ask old Sir Henry
if he did?  I don't like Sir Henry, though, do you?"

He went on to tell her about Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm reading him through again, Pen.  And
when I go down to De Vere's I shall ask De Vere
to invite the man that wrote him.  I'm going to De
Vere's to take him a sick dog.  He said he wanted
one, and I've got one from Baker.  Baker says he
must want to vivisect him, and he doesn't like the
idea.  Baker's a very kind man to animals, but
I've given my word that the dog sha'n't be
vivisected.  You don't think a poet would, do you?
Did you tell him to learn to be a vet or anything?
If you did, that would explain it.  I've been through
the whole list, Pen, and, though I won't worry you,
I've come to the conclusion so far that I don't know
which you've married.  If I find out I won't tell."

"You're a dear," said Pen, languidly.

"I've got a notion how to find out, though," said
Bob.  "At least, I shall have when I've finished
Sherlock Holmes.  I'd rather be Sherlock Holmes
than a duke.  It seems to me that unless you are
the Duke of Norfolk or the Duke of Devonshire
you are out of it.  Being a common duke is dull,
but being Holmes must be very exciting."

One thing that he told her made her think furiously.

"Not one of 'em really believes you, Pen, and
they're much more jealous of each other than they
were.  I believe they'll be fighting presently."

"Don't talk nonsense," said Pen, anxiously.

Bob shrugged his shoulders, a trick he had caught
from the marquis.

"It's not nonsense.  I can see bloodshed in their
eyes.  The marquis looks awfully ferocious, and
Williams, too.  Of course, I don't say that Gordon
would fight much.  And I should snigger to see old
De Vere in a duel, shouldn't you?  But if Bramber
and the marquis and Williams and Goby get together,
I shouldn't be surprised if they fought with
swords or guns.  I think Rivaulx would like that.
He would stick them all and make 'em squeal, I
can tell you.  He's a whale at fencing.  He took
me to see him once, and when he stamped and said
'Ha-ha,' like a war-horse, I wondered the other
man didn't run."

"If they had a duel, any of them, I shouldn't
speak to them again," said Penelope.  "I abhor
duels and warfare and weapons, and think they
should be abolished in universal peace.  And as I
am married now, Bob, I hope you will do what you
can to make them believe it."

"You can make 'em believe it at once," said
Bob.  "I do think this is absurd.  And don't you
see it's funny, too, Pen?"

"No," said Pen, "it's not.  It's right, and what
is right can't be funny."

Bob reflected.

"Well, there's something in that.  It ain't much
fun generally."

And he returned to Sherlock Holmes.

"I wonder what he would do," said Bob to himself,
pensively.  "There ain't any footsteps or blood
in this.  I suppose he'd take a look at Pen and then
have a smoke and go out in a hansom and come
back very tired.  I've looked at Pen a lot, but
smoking still makes me sick, and I don't know where
to go in a hansom.  And I think Holmes would
think it mean to follow her when she goes off with
Smith in her car.  Besides, a hansom can't catch
a sixty-horse Panhard unless it breaks down.  I
think he would get at it by looking at the men."

That put him on the track of a dreadful scheme,
a most wicked and immoral scheme, that his hero
would have disapproved of.

"I believe I have it," said Bob, starting up in
wild excitement.  "If I go around to them all and
say that I'm sure she's not married, but that she
loves the one they hate most, they will jump and be
in a rage, won't they?  I should be, I know.  And
the one that doesn't jump will be him.  I dare say
De Vere won't jump, but he's not a jumping sort,
but he'll cry, likely.  Rivaulx *will* snort if it isn't
him."

He sat and pondered over this lovely scheme.

"But if she loves one of 'em, why don't she
own it to him, and why this mystery?  They'll ask
that, of course.  Oh, but that doesn't matter; they'll
do the snorting first.  And, besides, I could let on
that not all of them are in earnest.  Ain't it possible
that the one she loves won't ask her now, and she's
covering up her disappointment?  That would make
Rivaulx fairly howl, I know.  He's a real good
chap, and between howling and weeping he says he
wants her to be happy.  I'll do it."

He went off to do it at once.

"Ha, ha, my beautiful boy," said the Marquis
of Rivaulx, whom he found in his rooms in
Piccadilly, "have you come with news for me, the
devoted and despairing?"

"Well, I don't know, marquis," returned Bob,
soberly.  "I've been thinking about it, and I'm in
a state of puzzle."

"And I am in a state of the devil himself," replied
Rivaulx.  "I suspect every one.  I am enraged.
I suspect you, Bob, my boy."

Bob shook his head.

"I suspect you, too.  I've never got over thinking
that it may be you," he said, "for you are all
just like each other, and it's obvious some one is
telling me lies."

Rivaulx smiled, a deep and dark French smile,
which was agonizing to behold.  It puzzled Bob
dreadfully.

"There," he said, "you smile, and so does Pen,
and you all smile.  But I believe I've discovered
something."

"About who or which?" asked Rivaulx.  "Is
it about that Goby?"

He might loathe Gordon, but he was jealous of
Goby.  He promenaded the room, and was already
in a rage.

"Yes," said Bob, boldly.  "I believe she's not
married, and I believe she likes him best."

"The hound, the vile one, the unmeasured beast,"
roared Rivaulx, "it cannot be.  If she loves him
(no, I can't believe it), why does she not wed him?
I shall slay him.  Is she unhappy?  Does she weep?
I adore her, but if she loves him he shall marry
her or I will stab him to the heart."

"I dare say he's not in earnest," said Bob.  And
the marquis ground his teeth and foamed at the
mouth, and again tried to tear his close-cropped
hair without the least success.

"Not—oh, sacred dog of a man,—ha—let
me kill him!"

He tore around the room and knocked two ornaments
off the mantelpiece and upset a table, which
Bob laboriously restored to its place.  After he had
put it back three times, he gave it up and cowered
under the storm.

"I shouldn't be surprised if this was put on,"
said Bob, rather gloomily.  "I know he can act like
blazes; Pen says he can.  She said he was finer
than Irving or Toole in a tragedy.  I don't think it
has the true ring of sincerity."

And making his escape from the cyclone, he went
off to see Goby, who was hideously jealous of
Carteret Williams.

"I hope he won't be as mad as the marquis,"
said Bob.  "That table barked my shins horribly
the last time it fell.  I wish Frenchmen wouldn't
shout so when they're angry; I'm nearly deaf."

There was the devil to pay with Goby.  He
announced his intention of assaulting Williams at
once.

"Oh, I say, you mustn't," cried Bob, in great
alarm.  "She'll never forgive you."

"That Williams!" said Goby.  "I always did
hate war correspondents.  I don't believe it."

But it looked as if he did.

"I dare say you are putting it on," cried Bob.
"I don't know where I am."

Goby said he didn't, either, but that if this turned
out to be true he would wring Williams's neck in
the park the first fine Sunday in June.

"He would have acted just the same if he was
married to her, and thought she loved Williams best
after all," said Bob to himself.  "I'll try Bramber
and Williams, and then give it up."

Bramber was in a furious temper, and when Bob
assured him that Penelope loved Gordon best of
any one, he swore horribly.  As he rarely swore,
this was very impressive, and Bob almost shivered.

"I say, you mustn't kick Gordon," he urged.
"After all, I may be mistaken."

"I wish you were dead," said Bramber, "and you
will be if you don't get out."

Bob got out, and when he was in the open air he
sighed.

"I don't think I'll try Williams," he said,
thoughtfully.  "He's much bigger and stronger even than
Goby, and they say he's a terror when he's very
angry.  My scheme doesn't seem to work; there's
something wrong with it."

But there was nothing wrong with it, and it
worked marvellously.  The report that Bob said
positively that Pen wasn't married carried much weight.
Goby and Rivaulx both gave it away.  And all the
men now loathed each other openly.  Rivaulx cut
Goby and Goby cut Williams and Bramber sneered
at Gordon, and there was great likelihood of there
being the devil to pay.  Pen tried to patch up peace
among them, and failed, and wept about it, seeing
so much of the good she had done melt like sugar
in warm rain.  At last she announced her intention
of leaving them and the world alone.

"I almost think I'll give up reform," she sighed.

And the season went by and the autumn came,
and Titania found herself at Goring in October
with a large house-party which didn't include Penelope.

"She is, of course, somewhat ashamed of herself,"
said Titania, happily.  "This comes of having
ideas and foolishly attempting to carry them
into practice.  Now that I am certain she is not
married and that she only says so, I feel quite
different.  I no longer abhor the poor, foolish men
who are so much in love with her.  I see plainly
(for I, too, am naturally a democrat of the proper
kind) that they have fine qualities.  I have
marked my sense of this in a way which appears to
amuse Lord Bradstock for some reason that I do not
follow,—but then, I never could follow Augustin,
poor fellow,—by asking them all down here.  I dare
say they think Penelope will come, for they have
all accepted.  I am delighted, for I really admire
them.  Mr. Carew is the handsomest young man in
London, and will paint my portrait between meals.
I wonder whether I shall try to get thinner by
eating less, or will it be better to tell Mr. Carew to
make me thinner in his picture.  That seems the
easiest course; for if Penelope's conduct has not
made me thin, what would?  Neither hot weather
nor despair has the least effect upon me.  I shall
trust to Mr. Carew's idea of what is right and
proper.  I wish I could rely with equal confidence
upon poor, dear, misguided Penelope."

There was much discontent in the camp when the
lovers learnt that their beloved was not one of
Titania's house-party.  They were not civil to each
other, and with difficulty were civil to Titania.

"Confound the old harridan," said Goby.  This
was wicked, for Titania was very sweet, and
retained much more than a trace of her youthful
beauty.  She belonged to the modern band of those
who sternly refuse to grow old.

"Great Scott!" said Carteret Williams.  The
others made equally appropriate exclamations.  They
damned Goring in heaps, and looked at each other
like a crowd of strange dogs.  Owing to Penelope's
influence they all came in motor-cars.  Even De
Vere turned up in one which was guaranteed by age
and its maker not to go more than ten miles an hour.
There wasn't room to get them into the temporary
garage out of the wet.  But the marquis did not
come in a balloon or a flying-machine.  That was
something, at any rate, though Bob growled about
it bitterly.  Pen's request that he should do his best
to make the world believe she was married was
entirely forgotten.  Without quite meaning to say
so, he practically asserted in every word that she
was not.

"After all," said Bob, "I believe she is capable
of deceiving even me, for she is a woman.  Horace,
in his Odes, seems to think that.  It seems to me
that classical authors had a very poor opinion of
women."

He went to Rivaulx crossly.

"I say, I think you ought to have come in a
flying-machine.  Why didn't you?  Pen will be mad."

He introduced De Vere to Baker (who had been
a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers), and left him
with him, discussing hydrophobia and bulldogs.

"Baker says he has a great admiration for you,
sir," said Bob.  "He has lots of pups for you to
look at.  There's a very queer spotted one that Pen
said she was sure you would like.  It's very cheap
for a spotted dog of the kind, Baker says."

But they were an unhappy crowd, and even the
shooting, which was fairly good for a poor duke's
place, hardly consoled them.

At night the women, who all gambled, naturally
were very cross.  It appeared that not one of the
men would play bridge, because Penelope had made
them swear off.  There were only three men in the
house not in love with Penelope.  Titania had a
dreadful time, and much regretted her hospitality.
Carew was furious, of course, and his notions of
colour were very morbid.  And he appeared to see
the duchess as she was, in spite of the hints the
poor woman threw out to the desperate painter,
who looked at her sorrowfully and sighed as he
shook his head.

"Being painted is an ordeal," she said.  Not one
of the others consoled her.  De Vere wept with her
in the drawing-room; Williams wrecked her orchids
in the hothouse; Plant and Gordon quarrelled in
the smoking-room.  And Bramber, who was only
there for four days, looked horridly sorry for
himself, and sneered at every one.  The marquis went
around the park in a ninety-horse-power racer
seventeen times between breakfast and lunch.  The
chauffeurs quarrelled furiously; they even fought
in the stable yard with Baker as umpire and Bob as
timekeeper.

At the dinner-table was the only time of peace,
and then it was too peaceful.  Nobody but Bob and
Ethel Mytton and Titania did any talking.  Bob
spoke of very little but Penelope, which was natural
but awkward.  He told them what Baker said, till
they all desired to go out and strangle Baker.
Bradstock encouraged him, for Bradstock was the only
man there who had any apparent desire to be
amused.  The rest of them played with the soup,
toyed with the *entrées*, fooled with the roasts, choked
over the birds, and went out and oversmoked
themselves.  Then they met in the big hall and the
drawing-room, and Titania had to assure them all
one after the other, that she was certain Penelope
was not married.

"Then why does she say she is?" they asked, bitterly.

"It must be to try you," said Titania.  "Augustin,
don't you think it is to try them?"

Bradstock made that sound which the
English write as "Humph" and the Scotch put
down as "Imphm."  It means a great deal, but is
intelligible to the intelligent.

"Yes, it is to try you," said Titania.  "She is a
dear, sweet thing, but has ideas which do not
commend themselves to me.  I understand them, of
course, but regret them.  It may be, of course, that
she does not love any of you, and is trying to get
out of it.  By and by you will find out if that is
so.  She is enthusiastic and impulsive.  Oh, these
impulses of youth!  How well I remember the
delightful impulses of youth, when one feels as if
one could fly with wings!  Even now I get
impulses.  Poor Penelope!  Ah, dear, I wish she would
come.  I have written again and again to ask her,
but I'm afraid she will not."

And, indeed, no one at that moment knew where
she was, unless, indeed, it was Timothy and Geordie
Smith and Miss Mackarness and the pirate in
goggles of the motor-car who carried her off.

Titania and Bob between them, at any rate,
accomplished one thing.  No one pretended to assign a
satisfactory reason for Pen's conduct, but every one,
except one, perhaps, believed she was still single.  They
were sure of it, and grew surer every day.  As a
result, they recovered some little peace of mind; they
quarrelled less and ate more and shot straighter.
Rivaulx only went fifteen times around the park
before lunch; De Vere bought more dogs; Plant
agreed to go into some scheme of trust robbery with
Gordon, who assured the rest of them that he had
Rothschild up his sleeve.  Williams stamped less on
flower-beds and swore half as much as usual.  Goby
and Bramber went out walks together with Bob and
Ethel Mytton.  Titania's barometer went up and her
size went down in Carew's picture.  He saw her
less yellow, and did not insist on her wrinkles.
Augustin sat in the library and read books which
were of so humourous a character that they
compelled him to put them down and laugh continually.
It was certainly a most amusing house-party.

"I thought there would have been duels in the
park," said Augustin.  "I wonder what the deuce
Pen would think of them if she saw them now."

And then one day something serious happened.
It was on a Sunday, and on Sundays the post came
in at half-past ten, just at the time they were all
having breakfast before going to church.  They
were just about as happy as they could ever hope
to be till Penelope married one or all of them.  Bob,
who was especially greedy that morning, was eating
against time and winning.  Only Ethel was sad,
for Goby seemed quite cheerful.  When he was
mournful she was happier always.  Titania flowed
wonderfully.  Augustin was saying the kind of thing
he could say when sitting down.  Goring himself
was eating as if he was in rivalry with Bob.  He
never said anything, but looked like a duke, which
is a very fine thing when a man is a duke, and
can afford it with care.  Gordon was eating bacon
as if he had no great appetite for it.

"Oh, here's the post," said Titania.  Augustin
took Saturday's *Times* and opened it.

"I wonder whether dear Penelope has written
to me," said Titania.  The "horde" looked up;
they hoped even yet that Penelope would give in and
come at last.

"Any news?" grunted Goring.

"I don't see any," replied Augustin.

"What are Jack Sheppard's United?" asked
Gordon, slipping a piece of bacon into his pocket.

And Augustin made his celebrated speech over
again, his single speech in the House of Lords.

"Good God!" said Augustin, and he turned
almost as white as the *Times* paper before it went
through the machines.  Every one stared at him.

"What is it?" screamed Titania.  Bob jumped
up and deserted a pig's cheek just as it was showing
signs of utter defeat.

"It's—it's—" said Augustin, and he stammered vainly.

"I say, let's look," cried Bob.  "Granny, it's
something in the Births, Marriages, and Deaths!"

"Good heavens, speak, Augustin!" implored Titania.

The band of lovers went as white as Augustin;
they stood up simultaneously.

"I see it, I see it," said Bob, and he actually
snatched the paper from Lord Bradstock's hand.

"Is she married?  Is she dead?" asked Titania.

"No, no," said Bob, sputtering and aflame with
wild excitement; "it's 'Brading—Lady Penelope
Brading on the 18th of a son!'"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIV.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV.

.. vspace:: 2

There are blows which stun; this was, of course,
one of them.  Titania did not shriek or faint at the
awful intelligence conveyed by the Thunderer of
Printing House Square.  She nodded her head as
if she was partially paralyzed, and at last murmured
in a dry whisper:

"Of a son!  Of a son!"

Bradstock's eyebrows were as high as they would
go, and he stared at Titania, and then look around
on the circle of men and women.  Ethel squeaked
a little squeak, like a mouse behind the wainscot
and was silent.

"Oh—of a son," said Goby, sighing and looking
at the floor.

"Of a son!" said Plant, eyeing the ceiling.

"*Un fils!*" shrieked Rivaulx.

Gordon said "Damnation;" De Vere shook like
a stranded jelly-fish; Bramber went as scarlet as
a lobster, and then as white as cotton; Carteret
Williams looked blue, and Carew looked green, and
Bob said: "My eye!"

There is something organic in any given number
of people acting under the same shock or the same
impulse.  What one thinks another thinks; and
now all the room fixed their eyes on Titania, whose
lips moved in silence.

"This is dreadful!" said Titania to herself.  "I
don't believe she's married at all.  One of these
men is a scoundrel, a ruffian, a seducer!"

No one heard what she said, but as she thought
it the men looked at each other with awful
suspicions.  And then Titania, whose mind was
whirling, said feebly:

"We—we must hush it up!"

And there lay the *Times*!  Hush it up indeed!
And Bradstock recovered some of his equanimity.

"Nonsense!  She's married, as she says," he
remarked, with comparative coolness.

But no one believed it.  The men drew apart
from each other.  De Vere moved his chair,
because Goby was looking at him like a demon.
Carew shrank from Carteret Williams.  Gordon
went livid under Plant's eyes.  Bramber looked at
them all as if he would die on the spot.  Rivaulx
rose up and waltzed around the room.  It was a
happy chance that he did so; it is possible that
he saved immediate bloodshed.  Bradstock and Bob
caught the Frenchman in their arms, and led him
outside to the lawn, where there was ample room
for a frantic *pas seul*.

"Steady, old chap!" said Bradstock, "steady!
Her husband *must* acknowledge now who he is!"

"Oh, no," said Bob, in immense delight, "not
much!  If she's married at all, she's sworn him not
to.  She told me she'd swear him not to!  And she
said if he broke his oath she'd never see him
again!"

"Great heavens!" said Bradstock, "so she did.
I remember now, she *did* speak of oaths, dreadful
oaths!"

Rivaulx danced over a flower-bed, came in
contact with a fence, fell over it, and uttered a howl
which brought every one into the garden.  He
tumbled into a ditch, fortunately a comparatively
dry one, and lay there, using the very worst French
language.

The gloomy crowd lined the ditch and listened,
and wished they understood.  As a matter of fact,
only Bradstock and Bramber knew sufficient decent
French to guess what Rivaulx said, and they
shivered.  In the background Titania and Ethel hung
to each other and wept; old Goring remained
inside sucking at an unlighted cigar.

"The terrible, terrible disgrace!" said Titania.
She believed the very worst at once.  "Is it the
marquis?  Is he smitten with remorse?"

Rivaulx got out of the ditch on the wrong side,
and walked out into the park, where he addressed
a commination service to a nice little herd of Jersey
cows.  After five minutes of this exercise, he
returned toward the house and climbed the fence.
Then he shook his fist at the others.

"One of you is a *scélerat*," he howled, "a
scoundrrrel!  I challenge you all to fight!  Ha, ha!"

Bradstock took him by the arm and led him away.

"One of us is a hound!" said Goby.

"Yes," said the others, "yes!"

They glared at each other horribly, and clenched
their fists.  Bob ran around them in the wildest
excitement.

"Look here, I say, Captain Goby.  Oh, Mr. de
Vere!  I say, Mr. Plant, if you want to fight, come
into the stables.  Granny says you mustn't fight
here."

He grabbed several of them, and was hurled into
space at once.  He finally laid hold of De Vere,
who wasn't capable of hurling a ladybird off his
finger.

"You shall fight Goby if you want to," he roared.

.. _`THE MARQUIS DE RIVAULX`:

.. figure:: images/img-174.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: THE MARQUIS DE RIVAULX. Anti-Semite to his manicured finger-tips

   THE MARQUIS DE RIVAULX. Anti-Semite to his manicured finger-tips

"But I don't want to," shrieked the poet.
"What shall I do?  My heart is broken!"

"Oh, what rot!" said Bob.  "I don't understand
what the row is about.  Pen said she married,
and she's got a kid.  It will make her happy, for
she always loved kids."

But then the notice in her maiden name!  Was
it not awful, horrible, brazen, peculiar, anti-social,
against all law?  It was wicked, immoral, indecent.
Behind it there must be a dreadful story.

"By God!" said Bradstock, speaking at large
to all but Rivaulx, who was breaking up a cane
chair at a short distance, "I do think, oaths or
none, that the man who is married to her should
tell the duchess in confidence."

But Rivaulx heard in the intervals of destruction,
and stayed his hand.

"Ha, ha!" he said aloud, "I love her!  I am a
man!  I love her!  What shall I do?"

He threw the fragments of the chair into a
fountain, kicked over a flower-pot, and ran again into
the park, taking the fence in his stride.

"I believe it's remorse," said Titania.  "I begin
to suspect the marquis!"

But everybody suspected everybody, and yet at
the very height of their rage what Bradstock said
sank into their hearts.  Pen had selected them with
care for their inherent nobility.  They said to
themselves that they would show how noble they were.
With one accord they straightened themselves up,
and an air of desperate resolve was upon every
man's face.

"I will think it out and make up my mind this
afternoon," said each of them.  They walked away
in different directions, and in five minutes not one
of them was in sight but the marquis, who was
knocking his head against a sapling in a way that
caused the herd of Jerseys to revise their estimate
of humanity.  Even he gave up at last, and went
off into the distance with great strides.

"I say," said Bob, "I don't know what to make
of this.  Where are they going, and what are they
going to do?  I wish I knew where Pen is; I'd
send her a telegram."

The rest of the party said nothing.  Titania wept.
Old Goring asked Bradstock for a light, and at last
got his cigar going.  He said nothing whatsoever.
Ethel Mytton was in a fearful state of nervousness,
and shook with it.  Bradstock walked up and down
whistling.  The men who were not in it gathered in
the billiard-room, and said they thought they had
better have urgent calls to town.  They wanted
to discuss the scandal in their clubs.  They knew
that there wasn't a house in England that would
not consider their presence in the light of a
tremendous favour, considering all that had occurred
at Goring while they were there.  They went, and
regretted it afterward, for much occurred that very
afternoon that no man could have foreseen.

Not a soul came in to lunch but Bob and Bradstock
and the old duke.

"Augustin, my boy," said Goring, "these are
surprising events, very surprising events.  I thought
I understood something about women, but I find
I'm as ignorant as a two-year-old.  What the devil
does Penelope mean?"

Bob intervened.

"I believe, grandfather, that she wants to make
you all sit up," he said, eagerly.

"Shut up, Bob," said the duke.  "Eat pie and
hold your tongue.  Augustin, is she married, or
isn't she?"

"I'm sure of it," said Bradstock, "but—"

"I think it's a damn silly business," said the
duke.  "I can't remember any parallel except when
Miss Wimple, who was a devilish pretty girl fifty
years ago, married Prince Scharfskopf morganatically,
and kept it dark in spite of twins.  There
was a devil of a fuss, but it was kept quiet, no
announcements in papers, and so on.  The emperor
boxed Scharfskopf's ears in court when it came
out, for it upset his diplomatic apple-cart, as
Scharfskopf was to have married Princess Hedwig
of Wigstein.  She was virtuous and particular, and
made trouble, being thirty-five.  Do you think
Penelope has married any damn prince, for instance?"

Bradstock didn't think so.

"Was any prince sneaking about, eh?"

"Oh, I say," cried Bob, who was listening
eagerly, "there was the Rajah of Jugpore!"

"Good heavens!" said Goring, "so there was.
I say, Bradstock, what have you to say to that?
I'd like to have a look at the infant.  Damme, it's
a wonderful world!"

And this bore its fruit afterward in scandal and
conjecture, for Bob threw out hints about it.  But
in the meantime they could only talk, and presently
they saw the marquis coming across the lawn.  He
kept on stopping and looking up at the sky, as if
for help or a balloon, and he smote his breast
repeatedly in a very peculiar fashion.

"Queer cuss, Rivaulx," said Goring.  "Takes it
hard.  Give me a light, Bob.  Look at the Johnny
smiting himself in the chest.  What's he thinking
of now?  Looks as if he was bound upon a
desperate deed.  Dear me, I hope there will be no
bloodshed, Bradstock!  I'm too old for bloodshed
now.  I won't have duels in the immediate
neighbourhood of the house, Bradstock, mind that."

"All right," said Augustin, still looking at
Rivaulx gesticulating violently in front of a large
laurestinus.  "Bob, give me those glasses."

Through the glass Rivaulx's face was plain to see.

"Damn!" said Augustin to himself, "what's
up?  He's going to do something, something
desperate.  He is looking like a hero on a scaffold.
He has an air of sad nobility.  Oh, Pen, Pen!"

Rivaulx advanced on the house with his head
up.  He came in and sent word to the collapsed
duchess that he desired most humbly an audience
with her.  Bob listened.

"He wanted to see granny," said Bob.

"Let him," said the duke.  "I don't; I want peace."

Titania sent down word that she would see him.

"Poor sad Penelope, poor mournful Penelope!"
said Rivaulx.  "Ha, but I will save her from
further woe!"

He found Titania on a sofa, and he kissed her
hand.  This pleased poor Titania; it reminded her
of her youth.

"Oh, marquis, I am in despair!" she cried.

"Despair not," said Rivaulx, as he stood up
and smote his forehead, "despair not.  All is not
lost.  But for me, I stand between two dreadful
alternatives, and I have resolved to do my duty."

There was an air of tragedy about him that
covered him like a robe.  Titania shivered.

"What is it?  What have you to tell me?"

"Ah, what!" cried Rivaulx.  "But I shall do
it.  I shall do it at once, immediately, if not sooner,
as your poet says."

"You won't kill any one, at least not here,"
shrieked Titania.

"Far from it," replied the marquis.  "Oh, but
it is terrible, for I have to smash, to break an oath.
I swore not to reveal what I am about to reveal."

"Good heavens!" said Titania.  "Oh, what?
Is it—can it be—no—"

"Yes, yes," cried Rivaulx, "it is true; I own it!"

"Own what, marquis?"

He smote his breast and looked above her.

"I am the man!"

"Oh, what man?" squealed the duchess.

"I am the husband—and—and—the father,"
said Rivaulx, with a gulp, as if he were swallowing
an apple whole.

"Of my Penelope?"

"Yes, yes," said the marquis.  "Say nothing.
It is a secret, full of oaths.  Why, I know not, but
she, the dear, insists, and what am I?"

Titania lay and gasped.  The relief was
tremendous.  Three hours ago she would have refused
to think of Rivaulx as Pen's husband.  Now she
welcomed the notion; she sighed and almost
fainted.  Rivaulx muttered strange things to himself.

"Can I announce it?"

"No," said the marquis, "it is a secret.  But
it is all right.  I go."

"Take my blessing," said Titania.  "Go to her
quickly, poor dear, and implore her to let me come
to her, and bid her tell all the world.  What is her
address?"

"I cannot give it," said Rivaulx, pallidly.  "It
is a secret.  But I go, I hasten.  Adieu, duchess;
I am distracted.  Oh, my mother and my country!"

He fled from the room, and, leaving his man to
bring on his things, went away at an illegal speed
toward London.

"Well, well," said Titania, with a gasp, "I
cannot understand anything.  But, after all, the
marquis is a fine man and of a good family.  I could
almost sleep a little."

But just as she was composing herself to rest,
Mr. Plant sent up word that he wished to see her
for a few moments on urgent business before he
went back to town.

"Let him come up," said the duchess.  When
Plant entered, he stood bolt upright in front of her,
with a strange air of determination.

"I shall surprise you, I reckon," he said, in an
American accent as thick as petrol fumes.  "I know
I shall."

"No, you won't," said Titania.  "Nothing can
surprise me now, I assure you."

"I shall surprise you, ma'am," said Plant, "and
you'll have to own it.  Prepare yourself and
remember that what I tell you is in the nature of a
secret.  I can stand it no longer.  I have to let it
out.  To hear Lady Penelope, whom I adore,
spoken of as I do, makes my blood boil.  She may
have made some mistakes, but I've made some, too.
I am going to surprise you—"

"No, you are not, Mr. Plant," said Titania.

"I—I am Lady Penelope's husband," said
Plant, desperately, fixing his eyes on space.

"You are *what*?" shrieked Titania.

"Her husband—and—the parent of the announcement
in the *Times*," said Plant, firmly.

"Am I mad?" asked Titania.

"No, but I am," said Plant, who was as pale
as a traditional ghost.  "I'm mad both ways.  I
want to kill."

"You mustn't," cried Titania, feebly.  "I don't
know where I am.  What did you say?  Oh, say
it again!"

He said it again, and before she could say
anything further, he rushed from the room and
bounded down-stairs.  She heard him turn his
motor-car loose, and knew that in twenty seconds
he was a mile away.

"What's wrong with everything, and me, and
them?" asked Titania.  "I wish I was a dairy-maid
in a quiet farm, and had no relations.  Am
I mad?  Did the marquis say it?  Or did I dream it?"

Lord Bramber was announced.

"Oh, oh, oh!" said Titania.  "Yes, I'll see him."

Bramber came in fuming, and, like the others,
fixed his eyes over her head.  He was nervous and
abrupt.

"I can't stand any more, duchess," he began.

"I can't stand much," said Titania.

"It's a secret of course," said Bramber, "and
I'm breaking my word!"

"Are you the husband of Penelope?" asked Titania.

"I—I am," replied Bramber, "and the cause,
so to speak, of the notice in the *Times*."

"I thought so," said Titania.  "Look at me,
Ronald.  Do I look mad? does my hair stand on
end? do I seem wild and wandering?"

"No, of course not," said Bramber.  "I'm
telling you this because I feel I ought to.  Now I'm
going to her at once.  This last news was rather
unexpected, of course.  Good-bye—"

"Stay!" shrieked Titania, but she was too late.
Bramber was down-stairs and bounded into his
motor-car and let her rip.

"What's the matter with everybody?" wailed
Titania.  "The marquis made me happy, but now
I'm confused, very sadly confused, and I can't think
she's married them all."

Gordon was announced, and in about three sentences
he told her that, though the affair was a
secret, he was Penelope's husband.

"I knew you were," said Titania.  "When I
heard you wanted to see me, I knew you were
coming to say so.  Oh, good-bye.  Ask Lord Bradstock
to send for a doctor.  Good-bye, Mr. Gordon.
Go now."

And Gordon went, just as De Vere came in.

"You have come to say you have married Penelope,
I *know*," said Titania.  "I feel sure you have."

"I have a heart for sorrow, for disgrace, for
all things lovely.  I—I am responsible for
everything, even the *Times*," said De Vere, who was
as pale as plaster.

"Leave me," said Titania.  "Go and see her
at once.  Settle who it is.  Go!"

And when he had gone, Carteret Williams and
Carew came one after the other with the same
confession.  And she received them sadly, and appeared
to wander.  When the house was empty, she sent
for Bradstock.

"Augustin, dear Augustin," she said, "you
won't let them put me in an asylum.  Have me
taken care of at home, won't you?  Don't let
Goring give me cruel keepers.  I am quite gentle and
broken down!"

"I won't let anything beastly be done," said
Bradstock.  "But, my dear child, what's the matter?"

And Titania told him:

"By the Lord," said Bradstock, "they are
damned good chaps! but where the devil are we?"

He went down-stairs when the doctor came and
told everything to Goring.  And Goring told Bob.
For Titania forgot to mention to Augustin that all
the husbands had insisted it was a dead secret.

"I say," said Bob, "of all the larks I've ever
heard of, this takes the cake!  I wonder what I
ought to do.  I think I'll ask Baker."

And he asked Baker.  And in less than twenty-four
hours the world knew all about it.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XV.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.

.. vspace:: 2

But when it is said that all the world knew of
it, Penelope herself must be excepted.  She knew
nothing for some time, and, whoever her husband
was, he certainly never acquainted her with the
horrible details of all the good men who sacrificed
their honour in the noble attempt to save her from
the results of the terrible misfortune they believed
had happened to her.  It was, indeed, Miss
Mackarness who told her about it, and Miss Mackarness
was the old governess whom Penelope had once
sacked and sent away.  The poor woman was in
a terrible state of mind about the affair, and in that
was no different from all the rest of the world.
To her went Timothy Bunting with the strange story.

"If you please, ma'am, Geordie Smith 'as just
brought in a paper wiv a true and pertic'ler account
of 'ow all the gents that was courtin' our lady told
the Duchess of Goring as 'ow they 'as married 'er!"

"What!" said Miss Mackarness.

"A true and perticuler account as 'ow they 'ad
hall married our lady, sayin' as they 'ad concealed
it till they could no longer!" repeated Timothy
more loudly.

"Good heavens!" said Miss Mackarness, trembling
very much, "I fear it will upset Lady Penelope,
to say nothing of the infant.  Do they all claim
the infant, Bunting?"

"I presume so, ma'am," said Bunting.  "It looks likely."

"Under these circumstances, Bunting," cried
Miss Mackarness, "I feel it is my duty to communicate
the facts to our lady.  Give me the paper,
Bunting!"

Bunting said he would get it, and came back with
a hatful of fragments.

"If you please, ma'am, this is hall I can rescue
of the details.  The cook and the parlour-maid and
the two 'ousemaids 'ave fought over it in the
servants' 'all, and are now in tears, not 'aving read
a word."

And Miss Mackarness took the hatful up to
Penelope, who sat with her nurse and the cause of
all the trouble in a south room overlooking the moat.

"In the name of all that is wonderful, what's
in that hat?" asked Penelope.

"It is Timothy Bunting's hat, my lady," replied
the Mackarness.

"So I perceive," said Penelope.  "Is a bird in it?"

"Oh, no, my lady.  It's the bits of a newspaper,"
replied the housekeeper, as if she served
up the *Times* in a groom's hat every day.  "It's
Timothy's hat, but a clean new one."

"But why do you bring it, and why do you put
newspaper in it?" asked Penelope.

"If you please, my lady, I cannot help it.  The
cook and the parlour-maid and the two housemaids
fought over it in the servants' hall, and are now in
tears, not having read a word of it."

To all appearance the housekeeper had lost her
senses.  Though this was no wonder, Penelope
wondered at it.

"Well," she said at last, "I see what's in the
hat, but what's in the newspaper?"

"If you please, my lady, according to Timothy
Bunting and Smith, who appear to have read it,
it contains the true account of what happened at
Goring House the other day, when all the
gentlemen staying there, hearing from the *Times* that
your ladyship had a fine boy on the eighteenth, and
no husband named by your ladyship's particular
directions, all got up one after the other, and,
requesting private interviews with her upset Grace,
the duchess, declared upon their oaths, though in
secret, that they had married you themselves!"

She recited this in a strange, mechanical way,
which would have been extremely effective upon
the stage, as a picture of hopeless conventionality
wounded to death, and at last dying in sheer
indifference to all things.

"Dear me!" said Penelope, "dear me!"

"It furthermore appears, my lady, begging your
pardon for mentioning it, and I have reproved
Bunting bitterly for daring to do so, though I haven't
read the fragments in the hat, that no one believes
your ladyship's word at all as to your being married."

"Oh, how shameful!" said Penelope.  "Why,
here's baby!"

The nurse coughed and hid her mouth with her hand.

"Yes, my lady, so he is," said Miss Mackarness.
"There doesn't seem any doubt whatsoever about
that, but—"

And Penelope sighed.  Suddenly her face lighted up.

"Ah!" she said, "I see why they said it to
aunty.  How very, very noble of them!  I knew
they were all splendid men; men of the highest
character and attainments and possibilities.  Will
you have telegrams written out to all of them,
saying, 'Your conduct is noble, and I am deeply
grateful'?"

"Yes, my lady," replied the housekeeper, "and
how will you sign it?"

"Sign it Penelope Brading," said Penelope.
"And tell Smith to take his car as quickly as he
can to Spilsborough, and send them from there."

She lay back in her pillows.

"They are noble fellows," she said.  "I have
done them an immense amount of good.  A year
ago not one of them could have risen to such heights
of abnegation, such love, such tenderness.  I shall
see them bringing in a new era yet.  Leopold
Gordon will inaugurate a new and pure finance.  The
dear marquis will abolish anti-Semitism and
duelling in France.  De Vere will write poems of a
purity appealing equally to Brixton and Belgravia,
and my dear friend Carew will vindicate the Royal
Academy's policy of showing that charity begins
at home.  And the rest—ah, me!  Poor dear
aunty, how I love her!"

And by the time that she had pondered over a
renewed world, Geordie Smith was sending off
the wires from Spilsborough with wonderful results.

"I like this," said Smith.  "This is what I like!
There's nothing dull about it.  I wonder what'll
happen now?  I'll lay five to one I can guess!"

He guessed right as to some, for in about four
hours Rufus Plant arrived in Spilsborough on his
racing-car, and put up at the Grand Hotel.

"I guess she must be somewhere in this
neighbourhood," said Plant.  "And here I stay till I
find her.  And by the tail of the sacred bull,
whatever happens, I'll marry her right here in this hyer
noble pile of a cathedral.  And if she'll do it, I'll
restore it for the authorities free of charge, till it's
as gawdy as a breastpin and right up to date."

He ran against Gordon, and the two men fell
back in horrible surprise.

"You—"

"You!"

"Oh, yes," said Plant, "I'm here on business
connected with the cathedral."

"And I'm to see the—bishop, who will join the
board on allotment," mumbled Gordon.

And then Goby roared into town on his motorcar.
The others saw him, and he saw them, and
ignored them palely.  He, too, put up at the Grand,
but never spoke to them.  And De Vere came in
while they were at dinner, and sat down opposite
to Goby.  He said, "Oh!" and, rising, at once
bolted from the table.

"I'm damned," said Goby, and he lost his appetite.

"How many more of us?" they asked themselves.

They looked up at every one who entered.

"Bramber will be in any moment," said Plant.

Poor De Vere sat in his bedroom and was ill.

"If I look out into the corridor, I know I shall
see that beast Williams," he sobbed.

"Where's that French fool, Rivaulx?" asked
Gordon.  They all believed the other was the
scoundrel of the dreadful drama.

And then the evening papers came in.  They
declared in big lines that there had been "A Fracas
in High Life."  They added that it had taken place
in the Row at four o'clock that very afternoon.
They went on to say that Lord Bramber and the
Marquis de Rivaulx, well known as a great
sportsman and a balloonist, had fought in a flower-bed,
and had been torn from each other's arms and a
big rhododendron by two dukes, three earls, and
a viscount.  They further declared that it was a
matter of public notoriety that all the trouble rose
out of the mystery connected with the *Times* and
Lady Penelope Brading.  They promised more
details in later editions.

"They'll fight," said Gordon, savagely.  "I hope
they'll kill each other.  But especially I hope that
the marquis will be killed first and most!"

And about eleven o'clock Rivaulx turned up with
his chauffeur and a bad black eye.

"He shall fight me here," said Rivaulx.  "This
is a quiet town.  No one will think of
Spilsborough!  He does not know that *she* sent me a
telegram from here!"

He put up at the Angel, and escaped seeing the
others for the time.  On his way up he had sent
a defiant telegram to Bramber, desiring him to come
to Spilsborough, and fight there with swords or
pistols or any weapon that commended itself to him.
This telegram Bramber never got, for, on reaching
home and washing away the traces of the struggle
in Hyde Park before all the loveliness of London,
he had found his telegram from Spilsborough sent
by Geordie Smith.  After looking in the ABC
guide, and finding no good train, he pelted off in
his motor-car, leaving a note for Rivaulx, saying
that, though duels were absurd and illegal, he would
not refuse to meet the marquis in France or
Belgium, if he desired to make a bigger fool of himself
than he had already done in the park.

"Curse and confound them all," said Bramber,
who was horribly cross and exceedingly sick of the
whole world, even including Penelope.  "I wonder
what she means by this telegram.  I wish I was
dead!  Is she at Spilsborough?"

Just in the middle of Spilsborough he met
Rivaulx and pulled up short, not having the least
notion, of course, that he would meet him there.
But Rivaulx grinned a ghastly smile and raised
his hat, as Bramber stopped.

"Ha, I am pleased to see you," said the French
marquis.  "You have come quickly.  It is a fine
night, there is a moon, and close by here under
the shadow of the cathedral there is a most
beautiful piece of grass.  There we will fight.  I have
brought swords with me.  Or have you brought guns?"

"I haven't brought guns," said Bramber, who
was entirely stunned and at a loss for a word.

The marquis bowed.

"We will fight with swords, my lord.  I think
this hotel is good; the lady is amiable; there are
rooms to spare.  When the moon rises, ha!  I will
call you forth."

And Bramber went to the hotel to think what he
should do.

"The ass! the lunatic!  How did he get here?
I can't get out of fighting him."

He sat outside in his car.

"No, I won't.  I'm damned if I do!" he said.

He went in and wrote a note for Rivaulx, who
was out in the cathedral close picking what he
considered a good place for a duel.  The spot he chose
was not far from the dean's house.

"I wish it had been Mr. Plant," he said.  "Of
Bramber, who is a young ass, I am not jealous.
But of Plant I am horribly jealous, and he is a bad
man.  If I met Plant I would say, 'Fight me at
once now, and I will put off Lord Bramber till
another day.'"

And, going around the corner, he ran right into
Plant, who was raging about the town, wondering
where Penelope was and how everything was going
to end.

"The scoundrel is that marquis," said Plant.
And he ran into the scoundrel's arms.

And just while Bramber was shaking the dust
of Spilsborough from the tires of his motor-car,
Bob himself came into the town in a hired Daimler,
full of the most extraordinary news.  And Titania
was having a series of fits down at Goring, with
Dr. Lumsden Griff in attendance.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVI.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.

.. vspace:: 2

It cannot be imagined that Titania, who had
survived so many shocks, was ill for nothing.  When
Bob discovered what she was ill of, he stood outside
on the lawn with his hands deep in his pockets and
with his legs wide apart.

"I must tell 'em this at once," said Bob, gloomily.
"If I don't tell Gordon, he'll forget he's
invested a hundred of mine in something to make
hair curl, and I shall lose the money.  I mean to
make money to keep up Goring by and by.  And
he said he'd make me a director, too.  For the sake
of the family, I can't neglect him.  Or De Vere,
either.  Or any of 'em.  But—but I never thought
it of Pen!"

With his pockets full of money derived from the
sale of dogs to De Vere, he rushed off to the
station and caught a train for town.  When he reached
London, he sent a wire to "Old Guth."

"I'm in town on important business.  Break it
to grandmother between fits.  I hope to be back
to-morrow."

He rushed off to Park Lane to find Gordon.

"Mr. Gordon has gone to Spilsborough, sir,"
said Gordon's man.

"D—  I mean confound it!" said Bob.  He went
to Plant's.

"Mr. Plant went to Spilsborough in a great
hurry this afternoon, sir," said Plant's landlady.
The American millionaire still lived in Bloomsbury,
though not on ten shillings a week.

"Oh," said Bob, "I wonder what this means.
There's a secret here!"

He drove in a hansom to find Bramber.  A very
ingenuous piece of humanity in buttons told Bob
that Lord Bramber came in about four o'clock torn
to ribbons, and found a telegram waiting him.

"And off he went in his motor-car."

"Where?" asked Bob.

"I don't know," said the buttons.  But on Bob's
going to Bramber's room, he found the ABC open
on the table at the page with Spilsborough on it.

"Sherlock Holmes would say he has gone to
Spilsborough," cried Bob.  "And if Gordon and
Plant have gone there, too, I'll bet all the rest have
gone.  I'll go, too."

But there was no train for three hours!

"I'm done," said Bob, "No, I'm not.  I'll hire
a motor-car."

He went to the nearest place in Regent Street
and hired one.

"Very well, sir," said the man, "but it's rather
expensive, you know."

Bob pulled out a handful of sovereigns.

"Take as many as you think fair," he said,
grandly.  "And don't forget I want a speedy one,
and a man that can drive, and I'll pay the fines of
course!"

That was how he came to Spilsborough just in
time and about the hour when the moon was to
rise.  He passed a motor-car in the ditch about
ten miles out of the cathedral city, and did not stop
to find out what was the matter.  He thus missed
the discovery that Bramber and his chauffeur were
both sitting upon the wreck, using very awful
language to each other on the subject of losing the
way and coming bolt down a side road into the
opposing hedge.  It is astonishing how an accident
at thirty miles an hour brings owners and
mechanics down to the same human level.

When Bob reached Spilsborough, he was covered
with dust, but was as spry as a grasshopper and
awfully full of his news.

"You *can* drive," said Bob to his man.  "I'm
very much pleased with you.  Stop at this hotel."

He went into the Angel, and staggered blithely
to the office.

"Is Mr. Gordon here, or Mr. Plant, or the
Marquis of Rivaulx?" he demanded.

He thus discovered the marquis.

He drove off to the Grand, and found Plant and
Goby and De Vere and Gordon were there.  They
were all in bed but Plant, and Plant had gone to
see the cathedral by moonlight.

"All right, we'll put up here," said Bob, "and
I'll see if I can find Plant.  I say, I wonder what
Baker will think of this?  It beats me!"

He got to the cathedral precincts just about an
hour after Rivaulx and Plant had run into each
other's arms.  Much had occurred since then.

For Rivaulx started back from Plant and almost
forgot the existence of Bramber.

"You are a scoundrrrel," said Rivaulx, rolling
his r's in the most fearful manner.

"You are a lunatic," replied Plant, coolly;
"when did you escape?"

"I have not escaped, I am here," snorted Rivaulx,
"but you shall not escape.  I meant to kill
Lord Bramber upon this spot, but I prefer to keel
you.  I let him go; he is nothing.  You are the
scoundrrel!"

"Oh, dry up!" said Plant, crossly.  "You tire
me, you fatigue me very much.  I am exhausted
by looking at you.  Go home, or I will break you
in three pieces and eat them!"

Rivaulx foamed at the mouth.

"Do you refuse to fight me, sare?"

"Certainly not," said Plant.  "Take your coat
off and hang it on a tombstone, and I'll leave
nothing of you but a smear."

"I do not fight with fists," said Rivaulx,
contemptuously.  "I fight with swords, with steel,
with guns or pistols."

Plant shook his head.

"I've none of 'em about me, my son!"

"At the hotel I have swords," cried Rivaulx,
eagerly.  "I brought them to kill Bramber, who
punched my eye in the Rotten Row, and we rolled
in bushes.  But I will first fight you.  Wait and I
fetch the swords."

He ran violently into the darkness, and Plant
sat on a railing.

"What am I to do?  Am I to wait and fight a
lunatic?  Or shall I go back to the hotel?  I think
I'll go back.  If that raging idiot is found prancing
about here with swords, they will run him in."

But he did not know how fast the marquis could
run and how near the hotel was.  Before he had
made up his mind to go, Rivaulx came back again.
He flung the swords at Plant's feet.

"Take one and let us begin," he said.

"I think on the whole I'll have both," said Plant,
suiting the action to the word.  "Now go home,
marquis, like a good little boy, and come to the
Grand Hotel in the morning and tell me why you
want to be hanged in England."

He put both the weapons under his arm.

"You will not fight?" said the marquis, gasping
like a dying dolphin.

"What kind of a galoot do you reckon me?"
asked Plant, quite unintelligibly.

"Ha!" said the marquis, "I know not what a
galoot is, but I will fight you here and leave your
body on the grass."

Neither of them had observed the approach of a
portly and pleasant gentleman behind them.  He
was now leaning upon the railing, watching them
with a great deal of kindly curiosity.

"I think, gentlemen, that the dean will object,"
he said at length, and they both turned around
suddenly.

"You must not interfere," said Rivaulx; "we
do not know you."

.. _`RUFUS Q. PLANT`:

.. figure:: images/img-202.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: RUFUS Q. PLANT. Born in Virginia

   RUFUS Q. PLANT. Born in Virginia

"To be sure, to be sure," replied the gentleman,
who was dressed very curiously, as Rivaulx noticed.
"I hate interfering, especially with anything
belonging to a dean.  Deans, gentlemen, are very
touchy about matters connected with their
cathedrals.  Now Dean Briggs, gentlemen, takes the
very greatest care of that grass on which you both
are now illegally trampling, and I understand that
he has made a rule never to have duels upon it.
He is very firm on that point.  Do I mistake you
if I say that it looks to an unprejudiced observer
as if you were going to fight a duel?"

Rivaulx bowed.

"I do not know you, sare, and I do not want to.
I want to keel this man, who is a scoundrrel."

The stranger addressed Plant.

"And are you equally anxious to break this very
rigid rule of the dean's?" he asked, suavely.

"Certainly not," replied Plant; "I want to go to bed."

"I am delighted to hear it.  I am intensely gratified
to hear it.  If one duellist, having possession of
both deadly weapons, desires to go to bed, I cannot
see anything to hinder him, unless, indeed, he wants
to lie down on Mr. Dean's grass.  You see, gentlemen,
I am a bishop, and a bishop's first desire is
to be on good terms with the dean.  If Mr. Dean
heard that I encouraged any one to break his rules
about duelling or going to bed in the precincts of
this cathedral, I should *not* be on good terms with
him, I assure you."

"I do not understand," said Rivaulx.  "I want
to fight, that is all I want to do!"

"Stay!" said the bishop, mildly.  "If the
somewhat excited gentleman, who is, I gather, not an
Englishman, will accompany me a few yards, we
will go to the dean's, with whom I have been
dining, and will refer the matter to him."

"Of course," said Plant, "that is the right thing
to do.  Marquis, his lordship the bishop suggests
the only course open to gentlemen.  I trust you will
accept his offer, and, if you do, I undertake to
fight you if the dean gives his permission."

"Stay, sare, my lord the bishop," said Rivaulx,
"one moment, sare, the bishop.  Is this dean of
whom you speak a gentleman?"

"Certainly, certainly," replied the bishop, hastily.
"He is of the highest breeding, and in his youth he
fenced like a fencing-master."

"Then he understands the code of honour, sare
the bishop?"

"Absolutely, for a dean," replied his lordship.

"Then I agree, sir lord," cried Rivaulx.

"Ha, we will go to his house, then," said the
bishop, "if you will step over this railing.  But
stop here one moment and observe the moon rising
over Mr. Dean's cathedral.  Is it not a peaceful,
pleasant spot, gentlemen?"

"It beats thunder," said Plant.

"It does, it does," nodded his lordship.  "Many
Americans, who admire this cathedral immensely,
have made the same acute observation.  May I ask
your names, gentlemen?  I am the bishop of this
diocese."

"My name is Plant, Rufus Q. Plant, and my
friend is the Marquis of Rivaulx."

"Indeed," returned the bishop, "is the gentleman
the French nobleman who is interested in balloons?"

"Yes," said Plant.

"Dear me!  I am delighted," said his lordship.
"I, too, am interested in balloons.  I saw one go
up once."

"You like them?" asked Rivaulx, warmly.
"That is good!  I will take you up in one."

"We will talk of it later," said the bishop, rather
hastily for a man of his gentle flowing speech.
"But this is the dean's house.  If I knock at this
window, he will put his head out."

He knocked at the window, and Mr. Dean did
put his head out.

"I am *so* loath to disturb you, Mr. Dean," said
his lordship, "but, as I was leaving you and taking
a little stroll before retiring, I met two gentlemen,
one from the United States and one a French
marquis, who were engaged in a warm discussion on
a point of honour.  I am ignorant of the exact
point, and I dare say there is no necessity for our
knowing.  As a result of this discussion, the French
marquis desired to fight a duel with swords (you
will observe them under the arm of the gentleman
from the United States), and I ventured to intervene,
as the duel was to take place upon your grass."

"Humph, indeed!" said the dean, in great astonishment.
"And what did you say?"

"I said that it was against your rules to allow
any one to fight duels there.  Was I not right?"

"Rather!" said the dean.  "I should say so."

"And on the other hand," continued the bishop,
"the gentleman from across the Atlantic wished
to go to bed."

"Then why the—why doesn't he?" asked the dean.

"It seemed to me that the gentleman from across
the water wanted to go to bed upon your grass,"
said the bishop.  "I pointed out to him that there
was a very old and strict rule dating from the time
beyond record which forbade this.  Was I not right?"

"You were," said the dean.  "I never go to
bed on the grass myself, and do not permit others
to do so.  I never fight duels there, either, and do
not allow it."

"You see, gentlemen," said the bishop, but
before he could add another word Bob rushed right
upon the group outside the dean's windows, and
saw that Plant made one of them.  He saw the
swords also, and then recognized Rivaulx.

"Oh, I say," said Bob, "you were going to fight
a duel about Pen!  I've come in time!  It's no good.
She has married Timothy Bunting, her groom!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.

.. vspace:: 2

It was such an awful shock to Plant and Rivaulx,
and, for the matter of that, to his lordship the
Bishop of Spilsborough, that they all gasped dreadfully.
Plant took the bishop by the sleeve.  Rivaulx
lay down upon the grass under the dean's window,
and howled as he tore at the turf.  The dean said:

"I'll come out!  This is becoming serious!"

He came out, and, as he opened the door, the
light of the hall lamp fell upon Bob's face.

"Good heavens!" said the bishop, "I thought I
knew the voice.  Is that you, Robert Goring?"

Bob said it was, but added that he didn't know
the bishop.

"Boy, I christened you," said the bishop.  "Is
all this trouble about Penelope Brading, whom I
also christened?"

"Yes," replied Bob; "shall I tell you about it?"

"Let us retire a few paces, and you can tell me,"
said the bishop.  "In the meantime, Mr. Dean,
I beg you to exercise patience with the French
nobleman on the grass.  Come, Bob."

"Well, it's awful rot, you know," said Bob,
speaking very rapidly.  "We don't know where
we are in the family, and grandmother is lying on
a sofa screaming."

"Why, Bob?"

"You must have heard of it."

The bishop had heard a great deal, but not all.

"Pen says she's married and has a kid," said Bob,
"and she won't say who it is.  And all these
jossers, including Plant, he's the American over there,
and the marquis chewing the grass, said they had
married her themselves.  Do you see, sir,—my
lord, I mean?"

"I see," said the bishop, putting his finger-tips
together.  "It was, I think, very noble of them."

"But granny said it was very trying, and it made
her ill, for she wasn't any further than before,
unless Pen had married them all.  And grandfather,
who kept cool, said that was unlikely."

"It certainly seems unlikely," said the bishop.
"But when you came to us, you made some very
astonishing remarks about a groom, one Bunting,
I think.  Now what is there to know about him?"

"Weekes said that, the beast!" cried Bob.

"Who is the beast Weekes?" asked the bishop.

Bob told him who Miss Harriet Weekes was.

"And not an hour after these had said they were
married to Pen, this Weekes woman came in black
and in a cab and said she must see granny.  And
granny saw her, and is now in fits, with the doctor
feeling her pulse and giving her brandy.  For
Weekes was very solemn (I listened), and she said:
'Your Grace, I shall reveal the truth, which lies
upon my bosom like a tombstone.  Her ladyship
treated me cruel, and gave me the sack moreover,
and I've no call to be silent no more 'avin'
diskivered the truth.'  She talks like that.  Weekes is an
uneducated beast, and why Pen ever had her as a
maid I can't tell.  And granny was confused with
the others, having said they were all married to
Pen, and she waggled her head awfully.  'I shall
surprise your Grace,' said Weekes, and granny said
she wouldn't.  And she said, 'I shall surprise your
Grace, for I've to reveal that I know the man, the
serpent, that her ladyship 'as married.'  And granny
smiled very curiously, and said, 'Weekes, who do
you say it is?'  And then Weekes cried, the
crocodile, and she said that Penelope had married
Timothy Bunting, the groom, and that Timothy had
been engaged to her, and had as good as told her
that he was looking high and despised a public-house
at a corner.  I don't know what she meant.
And she was so solemn and furious that granny
believed her, and went off into fit after fit most
awful, my lord, and they sent for the doctor, and
I came away, for I knew the others would fight
when they learnt that all of them had said the same
thing.  And I believe it is Timothy myself."

"Dear, dear me!" said the bishop, "this is even
more remarkable than I anticipated from the very
strange reports in the papers.  But I think you have
done well, Robert, and I do not regret having
christened you by any means, which is more than I can
say for some of the aristocracy.  Let us return to
the dean, who is, I am afraid, having some trouble
with the French marquis.  He is not accustomed
to foreign noblemen and to Americans, except when
they come here to see his cathedral."

They turned toward the deanery, where Rivaulx
was still rolling on the grass.

"Do you think it is Timothy?" asked Bob.

The bishop shook his head gently.

"I do not see what grounds we have to go on,
Robert.  Here we have an American who states,
if I understand you rightly, that he has married
my poor Penelope, and a French marquis of high
repute who also states the same.  And there are
others—"

"Five or six!" said Bob.

"And there are five or six others who commit
themselves to the same statement.  And then a
lady's maid says she knows that Penelope has
married a groom.  I do not see what logical grounds
we have for concluding anything more than that
some one has told a lie, or that Penelope has been
breaking the law by marrying more than one man
at a time.  Speaking *a priori*, I think this latter
alternative unlikely, and, as a matter of probability,
I am forced to believe that only one at least out
of seven (is it seven?) gentlemen of unblemished
reputation has told the truth."

It was all very sad.  But there were practical
details to be attended to.  Though the marquis had
ceased to raise the echoes of the stilly night, to say
nothing of the echoes of the cathedral's west front,
he was still in a fearfully mournful condition.  He
was now weeping in the dean's arms, and the dean
was endeavouring to soothe him as best he could.
When the bishop came back, Mr. Dean seemed
much relieved.

"Don't you think you could get them to go away,
bishop?" he inquired, pathetically.  "This kind of
thing is beyond my experience, and I am extremely
fatigued by it."

"I will do my best," replied the bishop.

Turning to the marquis, he said:

"Get up, marquis.  I will walk with you to the
hotel.  Mr. Plant, please follow with Robert, and
be good enough to take care of those lethal instruments,
which are, I rejoice to say, little understood
in a quiet cathedral town.  It appears to me we are
all in a state of mind which needs repose.  On the
morrow, after I have slept upon it, I shall be happy
to receive you all and give you the best advice in
my power.  Now, marquis, I am waiting for you.
The grass is damp."

And they walked to the hotel, leaving the dean
staring open-mouthed.

"This is very unusual," sighed the dean.  "I
cannot recollect anything exactly like it in my long
experience."

No more could the bishop.  Plant was in the
same state of mind.  Rivaulx wept silently.  Bob
was in the seventh heaven of delight, in spite of
Bunting.  He thoroughly believed in what Harriet
Weekes said.  Neither Plant nor Rivaulx knew that
he knew they both claimed to be Pen's husband.

"This story of Bunting is a goldarned lie," said
Plant, hoarsely.  Bob did not reply.  He was sorry
for them all, and relied on the bishop.  What he
relied on him for he did not know.  All he did
know was that the bishop seemed fully equal to
the situation.

"How many more of you are there, Mr. Plant?"
he asked at length.

"Gordon and Goby and De Vere," replied Plant,
miserably.

"I must see Mr. Gordon," said Bob.  And then
they came to the Angel.  By this time Rivaulx and
the bishop were great friends, for Rivaulx was a
clerical in his heart of hearts, and, if there wasn't
a Catholic bishop to lean on, a Protestant one was
a good substitute.  He stopped weeping, and held
the bishop's hand.

"You are a good man, sare bishop," he said.
"I wish I was a good bishop, but I cannot.  Life
is a very terrible thing.  I wish I could cut my
throat.  I am weary."

"I should go to bed," said the bishop, "and I'll
look in and see you in the morning.  Bed is the
best place when one is weary.  I assure you that I
am not wholly ignorant of the world, or of the
desire to cut my throat, but I find that after a good
night's rest the wish to do so evaporates, and one
determines to live for another twelve hours at least.
But before you go, I hope you will give me your
word that you will cut no one else's."

"I give it," said Rivaulx.  "The desire to kill
Mr. Plant has left me.  I am no longer furious,
even with Bramber.  I am simply sad and fearfully
mournful.  I thank you, sare; good night."

"Good night," said the bishop.  "Stay, marquis,
I think Mr. Plant has the weapons."

The marquis waved them off.

"I have no need of them.  I give them you, sare
bishop.  Take them."

And when the bishop had bidden Plant and Bob
good night, and had arranged to see Bob in the
morning, the curious sight might have been
witnessed of a great ornament of the Episcopal bench
walking through the precincts of the cathedral to
his palace, with a couple of duelling-swords under
his arm.

"This has been a very interesting evening," said
the bishop.  "I very much wonder what Ridley
will think when he sees me come in.  A butler's
mind is naturally limited."

He went in and gave the swords to Ridley.

"Take these," said his lordship.

"Yes, m'lord," said Ridley, stolidly.

"I think you can hang them up in the dining-room, Ridley."

"Yes, m'lord."

"They are trophies, Ridley."

"So I perceive, m'lord," said Ridley.

"What are trophies, Ridley?"

"These, m'lord," said Ridley.

"Exactly so," said his lordship.

And while he was taking off his gaiters and
thinking of Penelope, Bob was sitting on the edge
of Gordon's bed and telling him all about it.

"Why are you here?" asked Bob.

"She sent me a telegram," said poor Gordon.

"I say, what about?"

"Sayin' I wath a noble character and so on,"
replied Gordon, miserably, "and I came here at
onth becauth the telegram came from here."

As the sleep went out of his eyes, he talked less
Hebraically.

"I thought she might be here," he added,
shaking his curly head.

Bob thought very hard.

"I say, this is awfully mixed, Mr. Gordon,
because I know you told granny you were married
to Pen!"

Gordon gulped something down.  It was
probably very bad language.

"So—so I am," he said, sternly, without looking at Bob.

"Rivaulx says so, too."

"The devil!" cried Gordon.

"And so does Goby and Rivaulx and Bramber
and De Vere and all of 'em!"

Gordon fell back on his pillows.

"So you see," said Bob, "we're no further than
we were, except that Weekes, who used to be Pen's
maid, came to granny this afternoon and told her,
the beast, that Pen had married Timothy Bunting!"

Gordon bounced out of bed in his night-shirt.

"Who the devil is Timothy Bunting?" he roared.

Bob told him.

"It's a lie—a lie!"

"Of course it must be, if you've married her,
as you say," said Bob.  "But perhaps I'm disturbing
you.  Would you like to go to sleep?"

"Very much indeed," replied Gordon.  "I should
like to go to sleep and stay asleep.  I wish you'd
go and serve Goby and De Vere as you've served me!"

"I'm so sorry," said Bob, "but you always said
you wanted any news, and that's why I told you first."

Gordon held out his hand, and Bob shook it warmly.

"By the way," he asked, "what about the hair restorer?"

"What hair restorer?" asked the astonished Hebrew.

"The one you put ninety pounds of mine in, sir."

"It wasn't in a hair restorer.  What makes you
say so?"

"Well," replied Bob, "I thought it was.  You
said it would make my hair curl.  How much did
it make, whatever it was?"

A glow of pleasure spread over Gordon's sad
countenance.  Making money was something even
in despair.

"My boy, I bought you Amalekites at half a
crown, five hundred and sixty of 'em, and now
they're at £4."

"Dear me," said Bob, "how much does that
make?  Why, it's £2,240."

"Less commission," agreed the financier.

"By Jove, that's a very, very good beginning,"
said Bob.  "Do you think they will go up more,
Mr. Gordon?"

Gordon looked at him and sighed.

"They might.  But don't you think it would be
safer to get out now, Bob?"

Bob shook his head.

"I'll follow your advice, sir, of course.  If it was
only myself, I'd take the money, but I'm thinking
of Goring, when my father and grandfather and
uncle die.  What I want is fifty thousand, at least.
Grandfather often says that is the least that can
put the house on its legs again.  Let me see, £2,240
is eight times four times £90.  That's thirty-two
times £90.  What's thirty-two times £2,240?"

"Seventy-one thousand six hundred and eighty,"
replied Gordon, promptly.

"That would do very well indeed," said Bob.
"Please go on, sir, till it's that.  Or shall I take
half and ask Mr. Plant to do something with it?
He offered to help me."

"Certainly not," replied Gordon, angrily.
"Plant's a reckless speculator and a liar, and he'll
wake up some day worth half a million less than
nothing.  I'll do my best for you and Goring, Bob."

"I'm sure you will, sir," said Bob.  "Good
night, Mr. Gordon.  I'm sorry if I've worried you."

And he went off to worry Goby.  Gordon walked
up and down the room weeping.

"If I only had a boy like that!" he cried.  "By
Moses and all the prophets, I'll put Amalekites up
sky-high, and squeeze the bears till they howl.  Oh,
Pen, Pen!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVIII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.

.. vspace:: 2

By breakfast-time or a little later, Goby and
Gordon and De Vere and Rivaulx knew not only
what was said about Timothy Bunting, but also
that every one of them had told the Duchess of
Goring that he was married to Penelope.  When
the bishop looked in to see the marquis, he found
him exceedingly difficult to manage.  He wanted
the duelling-swords back in order to fight every
one.  His especial desire now was to put cold steel
through Gordon, and this led to a general
evacuation of Spilsborough.

"I say, Mr. Gordon," said Bob, rushing in upon
the financier while he was shaving, "I've just met
the bishop, and he wanted to know if I knew you,
and I said 'rather,' and he said would I ask you,
in the interests of peace, to go back to London,
because the marquis wanted to cut your throat with
swords hanging in the bishop's dining-room.  I
say, will you go, or stay and fight?"

Gordon cut himself, and then, as Bob said, "cut
his stick" and went back to town shaved on one
side and not on the other.  As a result of this,
several men in the city sold bears of everything
that Gordon was interested in, and they got left
most horribly, especially on Amalekites.  Never
afterward did they venture to think that any
financier was on the borders of ruin if he came into
the city partially shaved.  In fact, three very shady
Jews, with some wildcat stock to boom, played the
trick successfully, and, through not being shaved
themselves, they shaved others.

But this is all by the way, and it only shows
that a real financier in love or in despair is just
as dangerous as at other times.  Bob and the bishop
talked the situation over in Spilsborough while
Gordon was going to town, and the result was what
might have been expected.

"All we know is that Penelope, poor dear
Penelope is near Spilsborough," said the bishop.

"And that she's married," said Bob.

"We infer that from general grounds, our
knowledge of her character," said the logical bishop.
"Strictly we cannot be said to know it.  It is not
a primary datum of consciousness, nor is it a
judgment or a purely rational conclusion, Bob."

"Oh," said Bob, "well, perhaps not."

"I think," said the bishop, "that I shall write
to her—"

"Where to?"

"To everywhere," said the bishop, "and ask her
to come and confide in me.  And in the meantime,
as the others have gone, and your presence here is
no longer necessary, I think you should go home
and console your grandmother, and apply yourself
to work."

"All right," said Bob; "I don't think it's interesting
here any more.  But are you glad I came in
time to stop the duel?"

"I am glad," said the bishop.  "But, to tell the
truth, Robert, I should not have allowed a duel on
Mr. Dean's ancient grass and under his immemorial
elms without a remonstrance, even a physical
remonstrance."

Within the memory of this portly and admirable
pillar of the Church to which the British Empire
owes all its greatness, and to which it pays a great
deal of its money, were many fierce encounters at
Oxford, that haunt of ancient peace and modern
progress.

"Would you have knocked 'em down?" asked
Bob, eagerly.

"Certainly," said the bishop.  "I would have
knocked them as flat as a flounder."

And Bob bade him good-bye.

"I think he's a ripping good bishop," said Bob.
"I'll ask Mr. Gordon to help restore the cathedral."

He got back to Goring to find Titania no longer
suffering from fits.  Fits were not equal to the
situation.  All her friends were writing to her to
condole with her on the marriage of Penelope to
Timothy Bunting.  They came down in droves to
condole and to get the latest intelligence, while
gamekeepers and grooms were keeping journalists
out of the grounds with guns and pitchforks.

For the world was absolutely certain that Miss
Weekes was right, and Pen's *ci-devant* maid was
making the salary of a star at the Empire by
according interviews to those halfpenny papers which
are England's glory and her hope.  The editors
endeavoured to interview the lovers, but they were
stern and savage.  They would not speak to each
other and avoided strangers.  But it was no secret
now that they each claimed to be Lady Penelope's
husband.  As the acutest journalist of them all
remarked, this was hardly possible.  The only theory
that held water (or, at least, "good" water, as the
Baboo pleader remarked) was the Bunting theory.
But if Bunting was the man, where was he? and
why this mystery?  A journalist solved it, or said
he did.  Bunting was a very handsome man.  There
was no doubt of that.  But he was an uneducated
man.  That was quite certain.  If a lady of
Penelope's standing married a man of Bunting's, what
would she do?  The answer was easy.  She would
send him to Oxford to acquire the accent and the
aplomb and the insolence which have rendered
Oxford men the idols of the mob, and have put them
into every position where tact with inferior races
is a *sine qua non*.  This is what the journalist said.
He ought to have known, as he had been brought
up in the Yorkshire Dissenting College, and
dissented from all other codes of manners, except those
popular with the non-conformist conscience, which,
equally with the Church of England, has made the
empire what it is and what it should be.

But this journalist knew his market.  The eyes
of the civilized world once more turned to Oxford.

"If it's Bunting, I'll kill him," said all the lovers
who were not married to Penelope.  "She has
made a mistake, if it's true, and he must be got rid of."

Now was the time of the Marchioness of Rigsby's glory.

"Did I not tell you she had married her
groom?" she demanded of Titania.  "Penelope
was extremely rude to me.  I am almost glad she
has married a groom.  If he is a nice groom, he
may improve her manners."

"She hasn't married any groom," cried Titania,
furiously.  "I am perfectly certain it is the
Marquis of Rivaulx."

She was certain of nothing.  Bradstock was
certain of nothing.  They both asked Bob what he
was certain of, and Bob replied all the lovers were
in such a state of mind that it couldn't be any of
them.  And then at last Titania hit upon a certain
truth.

"Whoever it is would be just as miserable as
all the others," she said.  "He'll be sorry now that
he agreed to it, and he'll be asking her to give in,
and she won't.  And they'll quarrel."

"You're right, Titania," cried Bradstock, slapping
his thigh.  "Bob, I believe the most miserable
of them all is the man.  Which is the most miserable?"

Bob thought.

"Gordon cried a little."

"Ha!" said the duchess.

"But Rivaulx cried a good deal," said Bob.

"Oh," said the duchess.  "But which do you
think it is, Robert?"

"I think it's Timothy Bunting," said Bob.
"And I want to go to Oxford to find out if he's
there.  Baker says—"

"Do you discuss these matters with Baker?"
demanded his grandmother, haughtily.

"He knows a great deal about the world," said
Bob, "and about Bunting, you know.  Baker says—"

"You may go to Oxford," cried Titania, "and
I will go to bed and stay there.  I am a most
unhappy woman, and Goring does not care!"

So Bob went to Oxford all by himself, and called
upon an undergraduate who had just come up from
Harrow, one of the schools which Bob had been
requested to leave on account of pugilism.  Jack
Harcourt was four years Bob's senior, but could
not fight so well in spite of that, and there was
much more equality between them than would seem
possible at first sight.  But then it is almost
impossible to feel very much superior to a boy who has
knocked you absolutely senseless, as Bob did
Harcourt.  And Bob was one of those boys who make
all the world equal.  He was familiar with princes,
and said "Baker says" to cabinet ministers.  And
if his uncle didn't marry, he was bound to be a
duke.  Dukes are very important people, somehow,
and the fact that Bob never showed any side was
much in his favour over and above that important
fact.

"I say, is there a man up here called Bunting?"
asked Bob.

And Harcourt, after consulting a calendar, said
there was.

"Timothy Bunting?" asked Bob, jumping as if
he were shot.

"Thomas," said Harcourt.

"Oh, he'd say Thomas, I dare say," said Bob.
And he told Harcourt all about it.

"Do you think she's married him?" asked the
undergraduate.

"Who knows what girls will do?" said Bob.
"Don't you remember the black-eyed one in the
pastry-cook's at Harrow who wouldn't look at you
and was in love with that beast Black?"

Harcourt did remember, but changed the
conversation as quickly as possible.

"This fellow is at All Saints," he said.  "I dare
say, they'd let a groom in there."

"Let's go and find him," said Bob.  "Poor old
Bunting will be sick to see me.  I'm very sorry for
him if he is a presumptuous beast.  It will be very
awkward for the family.  But we must know.  The
uncertainty is killing my grandmother, and Baker
says it's always best to know the worst at once.
Baker's the best judge of dogs and horses I know.
He was a sergeant in the Dublin Fusiliers.  Oh,
I told you that!"

And when they got into the High Street, they
ran right into Plant, who smiled a sickly smile and
said he had come up to have a look at Oxford.

"I say, Mr. Plant, what's the matter with your
clothes?" asked Bob.  "Have you fallen downstairs?"

Plant murmured something unintelligible and
hurried away, leaving Bob staring.

"That's one of 'em, Harcourt," he said to his
friend.  "He's a millionaire."

"Then I think he might afford a hat without a
dint in it," replied Harcourt.

Bob shook his head.

"I can't make it out.  He's very particular," he
said.  "But let's get on."

Around the next corner they bumped into
Gordon, who also announced that he had been struck
with a wild desire to have a look at the ancient
university city.  Bob shook his head.

"I say, Mr. Gordon, you want brushing badly.
Do you know you look as if you had fallen
downstairs?" he asked.

Gordon said, "Do I?" and bolted.

"I can't make this out," said Bob.  "This has
all the appearance of a mystery, Harcourt."

"It has," said Harcourt.  As they entered All
Saints, they saw a man run across the grass and
disappear under the far archway which led out into
the Turl.

"That looked very much like De Vere," said
Bob, "very much.  Only I never saw him run
except that time when the bulldog chased him.  And
then he ran differently.  But of course it can't be
De Vere."

After asking two reverend-looking members of
the university, who looked as if they knew all about
the subjective world, and a scout with every
appearance of a deep acquaintance with the objective one,
they discovered Mr. Bunting's rooms.

"I think he's havin' some gents to lunch, though
I'm not his scout, sir, and they seems to be
enjoying themselves now very much," said the scout.
"Mr. Bunting is readin' 'ard, so I 'ear, but he's
relaxin' a little to-day.  Just now I see a gentleman
drop hout of 'is window, sir.  And you're the third
lot I've directed there.  This is 'is staircase, gents,
first floor.  Thank you, sir, I'm sure.  I'll drink
your 'ealth."

And here Harcourt said he thought he'd leave
Bob.  So Bob went up about six dark steps by
himself, and then he stopped.

"Whoever he is, he's making a devil of a row,"
said Bob, pausing, "a devil of a row.  I wonder
if it is Bunting.  I think Harcourt might have
stayed.  But he never did like fighting or rows."

He climbed up another step or two, and heard
a mighty uproar.

"I think they must be having a boxing party,"
said Bob.  And then he heard a door open on the
landing above him.

"Confound you, sir! to the devil with you,
sir!" said a voice that he certainly did not
recognize.  Then he heard a noise which was presently
explained by the fact that Carteret Williams fell
down the stairs, turning a crooked corner most
wonderfully in company with a very large Liddell
and Scott's Dictionary of that beautiful language,
Greek.

"Oh, is that you, Mr. Williams?" asked Bob.

Williams appeared rather confused.

"Yes, Bob," he said, as he hugged the dictionary.
"I—I think so."

"Why have you fallen down-stairs?" asked Bob.

"That damn groom threw me down," said Williams.
"At least, he threw this book at me, and
I came down."

.. _`CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT`:

.. figure:: images/img-230.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT. He wrote with a red picturesqueness which was horribly attractive

   CARTERET WILLIAMS, WAR CORRESPONDENT. He wrote with a red picturesqueness which was horribly attractive

"What, is it really Bunting?" roared Bob, eagerly.

"He says his name's Bunting," replied Williams.
"But he's very difficult to handle."

"Oh, Tim can box," said Bob.  "But is he our Bunting?"

"Whichever Bunting he is, you are welcome to
him," said the enraged war correspondent.

"I must go up and see," said Bob.  "Do you
think he threw Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon down,
too?  I met 'em just now, and they looked as if he had."

"I'm sure he's capable of it," said Williams,
bitterly.  "Here, take this book with you.  I don't
want it."

And Bob climbed up, hugging several pounds'
weight of Greek with him.  He stood at the door
and listened, and heard a man inside snorting
violently and slamming things about as if he was very
much disturbed in his mind.  Bob knocked at the
door, and it was opened suddenly.  The man who
opened it was in deep shadow.

"It is—it is.  No, it isn't," said Bob, quite
aloud.

"Are you another of 'em?" asked the occupier
of the rooms.

"Oh, it isn't," said Bob.  And, choking down his
disappointment, his politeness returned.

"Is this your Greek dictionary?" he asked,
courteously.  "I found it lying on Mr. Carteret
Williams on the next landing, and he said he didn't
want it."

The man named Bunting seized the dictionary,
and then took Bob by the shoulder and led him in.
Bob went like a lamb, for this Mr. Bunting was
six feet high, about three feet across the chest, more
or less, and had a grip like clip-hooks on a bale.

"Was that man named Williams?" he asked.

"Yes," said Bob.

"You know him?"

"Why, of course," said Bob.  "I know 'em all."

"All I've thrown down-stairs this afternoon?"

"I think so," said Bob, modestly.  "At least, I
met Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon, who looked very
much as if they had fallen down-stairs.  And I
think the little gentleman you dropped out of the
window on the grass must have been Mr. Austin
de Vere."

"Oh," said Mr. Bunting, "sit down, boy, and
look at me.  Do I look mad?"

Bob looked at him and then at the room.

"The room looks mad," he replied.  And it certainly did.

"That was the last one," said Mr. Bunting.
"He was very troublesome."

"He's a war correspondent," said Bob.  "But
why is your name Bunting?"

"How the devil do I know?" asked the other,
in reply.  "Perhaps, as you seem to know them,
you can explain what it all means?"

"I will try, sir, if you will tell me what
occurred," said Bob.

"First of all," said the outraged member of All
Saints, "the American person knocked and came
in, and he said: 'Is your name Bunting?'  And
I said, 'Yes, confound you, for your infernal
impudence, and what is yours?'  And he said, 'What
the devil do you mean by saying you have married
her?'  And I said I'd said nothing of the kind,
and I said if he didn't get out in two shakes of a
lamb's tail, I'd throw him out.  And he was furious,
and couldn't and wouldn't explain, so I did throw
him out.  And, as he tumbled down-stairs, he said
he'd married her himself.  And he went away, and
I sat down to read Thucydides.  He's under the
sofa now somewhere.  And then the Jew came, and
he said: 'You mutht contradict the report of your
being married to her at onth,' and that made me
very cross, and I said I wouldn't, and that made
him very wild, so I said I was married to her just
as he said he was—"

"Oh," said Bob, "and are you?  Oh, dear, I
am so confused!  Are you really, really married
to Pen?"

"I shall drop you out of the window in a minute,"
said Mr. Bunting.  "I said it to annoy him,
and it did, and he said I was a liar.  So I opened
the door and took him by the neck and dropped him
down-stairs, and he howled awfully.  And I said
to him over the bannisters, 'I am married to her,
and have been married for years to her, and she
loves me very much, and we are going to
acknowledge it as soon as I've taken my B.A.'  And he
went away holding his neck, and then the little
man came in.  Did you say he was a poet?"

"A very good poet, too," said Bob.  "And I
sell him bulldogs."

"Oh," said Mr. Bunting, blankly, "you do, do
you?  Why?"

"Because Pen thought they would do him good."

Mr. Bunting shook his head.

"Thicksides is lucid compared with this!" he
murmured.  "But patience, patience, and I shall
construe it yet."

"And what did Mr. de Vere say?" asked Bob.

"The same thing.  He stood there and said I
must contradict it.  And he said of course it was
very kind of her to have me educated, but that,
if I had a spark of decency, I should know that
a man who had once occupied the position I had
couldn't possibly marry her.  And, by the way, what
position had I occupied in regard to her?"

"A groom," said Bob.  "You were supposed to
have been a groom."

"Dear me," said Mr. Bunting, "how interesting
and remarkable.  Still no light, no real light!  And
of course I said I had married her, and I asked him
did he think I would desert the lady now?  And
he went scarlet.  Why did he go scarlet do you
think?"

"I know," said Bob, "it must have been on
account of the baby!"

Mr. Bunting smote his forehead.

"So it must," he said.  "I never thought of that.
What a fearful complication!  And then he, too,
said I was a liar.  So I took him by the collar and
led him to the window, and I opened it and dropped
him out.  And then the one you call Williams came,
and he also was indignant, and said I was to deny
it, and I wouldn't of course.  And then we fought,
and the furniture was much disarranged and
Thicksides went under the sofa, and at last I got him
outside, and finished him with Liddell and Scott.
And now you know all!  In your turn you can
explain what it means.  I beg you to do it, and then
we will have some tea."

And Bob explained the whole story.

"You might have seen it in the papers," said Bob.

"I don't read 'em," said Bunting, "except to
turn a *Times* leader into Greek.  But it seems a
complicated situation, doesn't it?"

"It is very complicated," sighed Bob, "and my
grandmother is very ill about it.  And now she
will wonder if it's you, after all!"

"Dear me, so she will," said Bunting.  "Have
some tea."

They had tea, and Bob rose to go.

"Will you write to the *Times*, and say you
haven't married her?" he asked.

"Certainly not," said Mr. Bunting.  "Didn't I
say to the others that I threw down-stairs that I
*had* married her?"

"So you did," said Bob.  "But of course you haven't?"

Bunting smiled.

"Good-bye.  When you come to Oxford again,
come and see me.  I must crawl under the sofa now."

"What for?" asked Bob.

"For Thucydides, of course," replied Mr. Bunting.

And when Bob was in the train for London, he
turned very pale.

"Good heavens!" he said, "how do I know it
isn't this Bunting, after all?"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XIX.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.

.. vspace:: 2

After this, things by no means cleared up, as they
should have done considering the amount of trouble
that all the world took to find out the truth.  Every
one said something different from some one else.
Bob gave horribly imaginative accounts of his
adventures at Oxford, and threw out suggestions that
Pen was really married to a Bunting, if not to
Timothy Bunting.  But when he appealed for
corroboration to Gordon, that gentleman shuffled and
prevaricated dreadfully, as he did not like to
acknowledge he had been thrown down-stairs.  There was
a very curious scene, in which Gordon and Bob
had the best part of a row before Titania, who came
up to town to be near Dr. Lumsden Griff, who
knew all about the left or right ventricle of her
heart.  As his jealous confrères said he knew nothing
else, perhaps he did.  However, that is by the way.

"Tell it me again, Robert," said Titania.

Bob told her again.

"He said he was married to her?"

"He said he said so to Mr. Plant and Mr. Gordon,
and Williams and De Vere," said Bob, gloating
over the details of the row.  "And he slung
'em all down-stairs.  He's about six feet six high,
and as broad as a billiard-table, and as strong as
three Sandows, I should say."

"I am much confused again," said Titania,
plaintively.  "I had come to the point where certain
news of her marriage to a groom would have been
a relief to me.  Where are we now?"

As she asked, Gordon was announced.  Bob
rushed at him.

"I say, Mr. Gordon, tell us how he threw you
down-stairs, and what he said?"

"He didn't throw me down-stairs," said Gordon,
quite crossly.  "I threw myself down—I mean I
slipped."

"Tell us how you slipped, then, and why," said Bob.

But Gordon wouldn't.

"Oh, I say!" said Bob.

Titania begged Gordon to tell her.

"But then he told me he had married Pen," she
said to herself.  "What is the use of asking any
one anything?"

"How did you find him?" asked Bob.

"I looked him up," said Gordon.

"Why did you look him up?"

"Because I wanted to find him out," returned
Gordon, sulkily.  "But I didn't come to be
cross-examined by you, Bob."

In spite of the large sums of money which
Gordon owed Bob, Bob was on the point of an
explosion.  But trouble was averted by Plant's entrance.
Before he could say a word, a telegram was brought
to Titania, and she read it at once and uttered
dismal groans.

"What is it?" chorused the two men and Bob.

"It's from Penelope."

"Please read it out."

Bob read it for his grandmother.

.. vspace:: 2

"Am exceedingly displeased with latest reports
and news.  Contradict at once.  Am not married
to Bunting, who is much upset by report, and can
hardly look me in the face.  PENELOPE."

.. vspace:: 2

"Bunting is with her!" said Titania.

"Which Bunting?" asked Bob.  "He—I mean
the one at Oxford—told Mr. Gordon and
Mr. de Vere that he was married to her."

Gordon groaned, and, seizing his hat, fled from
the room.  He came back again.

"Where does the wire come from?"

"From Spilsborough," said Bob.  "Granny, I
wonder if the bishop is in it."

Gordon groaned and went.  And went a little
too early, for another wire came.  It was a very
long one.

Titania looked at the signature first, and she sat up.

"It's from Penelope's husband," she cried.

"Who is he really?" shrieked Bob.

"It's signed Penelope's husband, I mean," said
Titania, "and he seems very unhappy."

The telegram read:

.. vspace:: 2

"Am in great distress.  Penelope is furious
because told you confidence that was married to her.
She has heard this, and has learnt that others, lying
scoundrels, said they were, too.  She says their
noble conduct saved her, and will not speak at
present, though holding out hopes of reconciliation
later to her and infant, which is doing well, if I
say nothing and do not fight with others, but do
my duty, which I find hard under peculiar
circumstances.  Hence am precluded from confirming what
I told you, and can only communicate anonymously,
as Penelope threatens to have divorce or equivalent,
being headstrong, as you are aware, and I am in
distress about it.  Wire reply.

.. vspace:: 1

"PENELOPE'S HUSBAND."

.. vspace:: 2

"He's mad," said Titania.  "How can I wire
reply to a man I know nothing of?"

She turned to Plant.

"You told me in confidence, Mr. Plant.  Did you
send this?"

Plant turned all the colours of the rainbow.

"Yes," he said, desperately, and he bolted from
the room and the house and disappeared, while Bob
gasped, and Titania nodded her head in a most
awe-inspiring manner.

"Get some telegraph forms," she said.  And
when Bob brought them, she dictated telegrams
to all the horde in the diplomatic form of identic
notes.

.. vspace:: 2

"Have received sad telegram signed Penelope's
husband.  Recognize under painful circumstances
he cannot reveal himself.  Am much composed and
have given up hope.  It appears it cannot be
Bunting, though Bunting is with her.  Contradict this;
also the rumour that it is the Rajah of Jugpore.

.. vspace:: 1

"TITANIA GORING."

.. vspace:: 2

"Send them," she said, "and let me rest.  I
presume that the right one will get it.  The only
trouble is that six of the wrong ones will, too."

"Goby will go insane," said Bob.  "I know he
will.  I can't see how this will end without murder."

And Titania laughed dreadfully.  She laughed
so queerly that Doctor Griff was sent for, and
refused to allow her to see De Vere and Goby and
Bramber and Gordon and Plant and Williams and
Carew.  The last turned up first in a hansom cab,
with a large palette knife in his hand.  He had
forgotten to put it down.  As hansom after hansom
came up and discharged one furious lover after
another at the steps of Titania's town house, it
looked as if Bob's foreseen murder would occur
there and then.  It is possible that nothing but the
timely arrival of Bradstock saved London from the
desirable news of a murder in high life and
Belgrave Square.  He got hold of the men one by one,
and sent them away.  As they went, a telegraph
boy came to the house with another telegram
addressed to Titania.

"I shall open this, Bob," said Bradstock.  It was
another from Pen.

.. vspace:: 2

"Have just learnt that you and others have
been trying to discover my whereabouts.  If I am
pursued, I shall leave and go elsewhere.  This is
final.

.. vspace:: 1

PENELOPE."

.. vspace:: 2

"From Spilsborough, Bob," said Bradstock.

"She's heard that I and Goby and Rivaulx and
the others were there," said Bob.  "Do you think
the bishop knows where she is?"

"I wouldn't trust a bishop," said Bradstock.
"I daresay he does.  It is said that bishops steal
Elzevirs and umbrellas, Bob.  I think I shall go
to Spilsborough myself.  Have you seen the evening
papers, Bob?"

Bob had seen none of them.

"Some say now that she is married to Jugpore,
and others say it is a morganatic marriage to the
mediatized Prince of Bodenstrau."

"Oh, I say, Pen will be mad," cried Bob.  "Isn't
he a real bad un?"

"The very worst," said Bradstock.

"And are you really going to Spilsborough, Lord
Bradstock?"

"I really think so," said Bradstock.  "I begin
to think I must do something."

He stood pondering.

"May I come with you?"

Bradstock declined the honour.

"If I don't succeed, you may go again if you
like," he said.  And that very afternoon he went
to Liverpool Street and took the train for
Spilsborough to call on the bishop.

"My dear Bradstock, I am delighted to see you,"
said his lordship.  "I presume you, too, have come
here about Penelope?"

"I have," said Bradstock, "every one does."

"Did young Bob tell you all about the peculiar
occurrences which took place here only lately?
They were quite remarkable."

Bradstock agreed that they were remarkable.

"A duel on the dean's grass, now!  Who would
have thought of that but a Frenchman?  Have you
seen the marquis lately, and that very agreeable
financier, the American?  I was much grieved not
to be able to ask him to dinner, owing to his
sudden departure.  He showed considerable skill in
grasping the essentials of the situation, for, when
the marquis, who was literally foaming at the
mouth, offered him the choice of swords in a
violent but perfectly gentlemanly way, he chose both
of them, and put them under his arm.  It is not
every one who could have displayed such readiness
in preventing violence.  One would not have
expected it in an American, for I understand disorder
and disturbances leading to bloodshed are quite
common even in Washington."

"I have frequently seen most bloodthirsty duels
behind the Capitol during the sessions of Congress,"
said Bradstock, gravely.

"Ah, so I understand," replied the bishop.  "But
is there no news of dear Penelope?"

"Come, bishop, let us be frank," said Bradstock.
"Have you no idea whom she has married?"

The gentle bishop looked much surprised.

"I?  My dear Bradstock, I haven't the least idea.
But I gather that both the gentlemen I interrupted
the other day claim to be her husband, to say
nothing of many others whom I have not yet set eyes on."

"And you have no notion where she is?"

The bishop lifted his hands.

"I think she must be near this place," he said.
"I consider there can be no doubt of that, owing
to matters with which Bob made me acquainted.
By the way, I think this young Bob a very
remarkable boy, Bradstock."

"So do I, bishop," said Bradstock.

"A very remarkable boy.  The dean, who saw
very little of him, came to that conclusion.  He said
he would be an ornament to the House of Lords,
or the biggest young rip that ever disgraced it."

"Your dean must be a clever man," said Bradstock.

"Do not call him my dean," replied the bishop.
"He is the cathedral's dean, and very difficult to
handle.  However, he is said to be clever, and I
dare say is clever, especially about grass and a choir
and things material.  But, as I was going on to
say, I consider it quite easy to find out where
Penelope is, provided we go about it skilfully.  I
cannot but remember that I christened her, and I still
take an interest in her."

"How do you propose to discover her whereabouts?"
asked Bradstock.

"She sends telegrams from our Spilsborough
post-office, does she not?"

"Yes," said Bradstock.

"Then some one should watch the post-office for
her messenger.  It seems probable that you would
know him, as she is not likely to confide in strangers.
Who can say that the very man she has married
does not send them?"

That was easily disposed of, for, to Bradstock's
certain knowledge, all the lovers were in town when
the last wires came.

"Well, I suggest you watch the post-office," said
the bishop.  "It is, I opine, a perfectly legitimate
thing to do."

Bradstock objected that she mightn't send any
more for weeks.

A brilliant idea struck the bishop.

"Send her one which requires an answer, Bradstock."

"Where to?" asked Bradstock.

"Tut, tut!" said the bishop, "how foolish of
me.  Stay, I have it.  Put something in the *Times*
which requires an answer."

"I will," said Bradstock.

"And send for young Bob to watch," said the
bishop.  "It is time that this scandal was stopped.
I am exceedingly grieved with Penelope for getting
married in a registrar's office.  I will offer to marry
her all over again in this very cathedral.  And now
you shall come and have lunch, and I will show you
the swords given me by the marquis."

After lunch and an inspection of the trophies in
the dining-room, Bradstock and the bishop drafted
an advertisement for the *Times*, imploring Pen to
telegraph to Bradstock, saying how she was, as
there was a rumour afloat that she didn't feel well.
This was sent by wire to town, and was accompanied
in its flight by one to Bob, asking him to
come up in a motor-car at once.

"I think," said the bishop, "that I should like
to go in a motor-car.  There must be something
delightful in speeding through the country feeling
that steel and petrol do not suffer any of the strain
that comes on horses.  I shall ask young Bob to
take me out."

"He will be delighted," said Bradstock.  "I'm
sure he will be delighted.  They say he is an
enterprising driver for his youth."

"I love enterprise," murmured the bishop.  "I
am surprised now to think of my own.  I entered
the Church meaning to be a bishop, and I am a
bishop.  I love enterprise.  All curates seem full
of it.  Deans, I regret to say, are seldom vigorously
enterprising.  Archdeacons, too, have a tendency to
take things easily, too easily."

"What do you think of the Higher Criticism?"
asked Bradstock.

"Ha!" said the bishop, "ha!  I think—oh, I
think a great deal of it.  That is, I think of it a
great deal.  I do not think all enterprise is
praiseworthy.  Would you like to know the dean?"

They spent the afternoon in the dean's cathedral,
and walked on the dean's grass, and about six
o'clock Bob rolled into the cathedral close in a
fifteen-horse-power Daimler, and drew up in front
of the bishop's palace.

"Have you found her out?" he demanded,
eagerly, of Bradstock.

"No, but you shall," said Bradstock.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XX.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.

.. vspace:: 2

The bishop was very kind and amiable to Bob.
Some people say that bishops are always kind and
good to people who will be dukes by and by.  One
never knows what a duke can do for one later, and,
of course, a bishop wants to be an archbishop.  That
is only natural: even a cardinal wants to be Pope,
although he almost always says he is sorry he
became one when he finds himself at the end of his
tether.  The bishop was a human being, but a nice
one, and he really liked Bob, who suggested youth
and strength and the future, all of them agreeable
things to those who are not young and see their
future behind them.  So he talked to Bob almost
as if he was one of the Bench of Bishops.  He was
familiar and jovial, and told some good stories of
other bishops and even one of an archbishop.  And
he suggested to Bob that he rather wanted to see
what a motor-car was like.

"There is a prejudice against them here," said
the bishop.  "Perhaps a natural prejudice among
those who own chickens and dogs and children.
But Providence works in a mysterious way, and
I should be the last to hasten to blame even the
gentleman known as a road hog.  I begin to
perceive an unwonted sprightliness in the villagers as
the elimination of the unfit, the rheumatic, the
undecided, and the foolish proceeds apace.  A young
man, who told me that he had in the course of his
career as an owner of cars killed nearly a thousand
dogs, two thousand five hundred fowls, several aged
persons, some idiots, and a policeman, said that he
noticed nowadays an air of bright alertness in his
immediate neighbourhood which was at once a
pleasure and an encouragement.  He asserted that
the dogs who remained were of a higher type of
intellect than the others; and he said that even the
fowls now stood sideways in the road and used
their natural advantage of looking both ways at
once.  There was, too, a great improvement in
village children and even in policemen.  Oh, yes, I
think much may be said for the motor-car."

"I should very much like to take you out in one,
my lord," said Bob.

The bishop smiled graciously.

"You shall, my boy, as soon as this matter of
Penelope is settled.  I shall greatly enjoy passing
rapidly through the country.  I think of buying one
for purposes of my pastoral visitations.  Perhaps
I may wake up some of my more somnolent clergy.
I may even raise their general intellectual average,
which is low, really low."

Bob's chauffeur put up at the Angel, but Bob
himself had a bed in the palace, and dined in state
with the bishop and Bradstock.  They discussed
Penelope all dinner-time, even before Ridley, for,
as the bishop explained, Ridley took no interest in
anything whatever but wine.

"I believe," said the bishop, with a chuckle, "that
I might venture in his presence to advocate the
disestablishment of the Church, or to give vent to
heretical or even atheistical sentiments without his
being aware that I was doing anything surprising,
improper, or unusual.  By all means, let us talk
before Ridley.  How do you think Bob should
proceed, Bradstock?"

"He must stay in his car near, but not too near,
the post-office," said Bradstock.  "If Bob is
properly goggled, this George Smith, whom we suppose
to bring Pen's letters and telegrams, will not notice
him.  Shall you know him, Bob?"

"Rather," said Bob.  "He walks very queerly.
I could tell him a mile off."

"Very well, then," Bradstock continued, "when
he goes, you will follow him at a distance.  He
must not be lost sight of."

"I much underrate our young friend's enterprise
if he loses him," said the bishop.  "There are
occasions when exceeding the legal limit becomes a
duty, Bob."

"Rather," said Bob.  "Oh, I'll do it."

They calculated that the *Times* would reach Pen
about noon, as they believed she must be within
twenty miles of Spilsborough.  Bob accordingly
arranged to take up his watch at the post-office before
one o'clock.

"And perhaps to-morrow night the mystery will
be solved," said the bishop.  "It is really
remarkable.  I am not at all able to follow Penelope's
mind."

Bob explained it to him.

"They ragged her," he said,—by "they"
meaning Titania and others,—"and she loves peace
and hates showing off, and she's as obstinate as a
pig.  And grandmother said she was to be
married in Westminster Abbey by a bishop, and that
put her back up.  Oh, Pen's easy to understand,
I think."

"You have no idea whom she has really
married?" asked the bishop.

"Not much," said Bob.  "I give it up.  I've
thought it was all of 'em, and every one has done
or said something that could be taken both ways.
I was sure it was Goby, and then I was certain it
was Bramber, and then I fairly knew it was
Rivaulx, and I could have sworn it was Plant.  And
I'm very much worried by what occurred at Oxford.
This new Bunting was very surprising."

The bishop had not heard of the new Bunting,
and listened to Bob's story with great interest.

"The world is a very surprising place," said the
bishop, with emphasis; "a very surprising place
indeed.  We do not need to go to Africa for new
things.  We are surrounded by the unexpected, by
the marvellous.  Bob's delightful story makes me
feel that no one can reckon with certainty upon
anything.  I am half-inclined to think that this new
Bunting must be a relation of the other Bunting,
and that Penelope has met him, been struck with
him, and has married him and lives in temporary
retirement, while her husband struggles with
Thucydides under a sofa.  But after to-morrow we shall
know more."

"I hope so," said Bradstock.

"I feel sure of it," said the bishop.

And Bob went to bed.

"Do you know, Bradstock," said the bishop, as
he stroked his leg, which was a very reasonable leg
for a bishop, "I wonder you didn't think I had
married Penelope."

"Good heavens!" said Bradstock, "have you?"

"Certainly not," replied the bishop, "but it is
odd she should be near Spilsborough, isn't it?"

"She must be somewhere," said Bradstock,
rather irritably.  "Hang it! the girl must be
somewhere."

"When you think of it, she must," said the
bishop.  "Yes, yes, you are right.  Still,
Spilsborough—yes, it's odd, but not remarkable.  As you
say, she must be somewhere.  I hope it's not the
Jew, Bradstock."

So did Bradstock.

"It looks very much as if she was ashamed of
him.  But I'm incapable of judging, not having
been married," said the bishop.

"I've been married twice," said Bradstock, "and
Pen is a woman, which means she resembles no
other woman in any respect whatever as regards
her ways, manners, customs, and thoughts."

"You say that coolly?" asked the bishop.

"Icily," replied Bradstock.

The bishop shook his head.

"You surprise me," said the bishop, "and I
think I will go to bed."

Bradstock went to bed, too.

"I shouldn't be surprised if she had married the
bishop and was under this roof now," said
Bradstock.  "Nothing would surprise me unless I
discover she's married to Rivaulx or Bramber.  I don't
think I should mind either of 'em."

And next day at half-past twelve Bob and his
chauffeur took up a position near the post-office.  As
Geordie Smith knew Bradstock, he kept quietly at
the palace.  But the interested bishop who had not
married Penelope kept bustling about the
neighbourhood in quite an excitement.

"I wish I was coming with you, Bob."

"Oh, do!" said Bob.

"I almost think it would be advisable," said the
bishop.  "What I said would have weight with
Penelope, I believe."

"I rather wish you'd come," cried Bob.  "It
would be fun, and you said you'd like to go in a
motor-car."

"So I did," said the bishop, "but I've never been
in one.  No one has seen me in one.  I fear a crowd
would assemble."

"At any rate, my lord, you might get in and
sit down a minute."

The bishop looked around.

"I really think I will," he said.  And he entered
the car.

"This is really comfortable, Bob, very comfortable,
quite like an armchair.  Is your driver a good one?"

"A ripper," said Bob.  "The best they have
where I got the car.  It's not mine, but when I get
all the money that Gordon owes me, I'll buy one."

The chauffeur got down and did something inexplicable
to the machinery with a spanner.  And
the spanner broke.

"I'll just run across and get a new one, sir,"
said the chauffeur.

"It's getting late," said Bob.  "Don't be long,
and before you go start her up."

The driver set her going, and the bishop caught
hold of Bob.

"You're not off?  This is very surprising.  It
makes a very curious noise."

"There won't be any to speak of when we get
her moving," said Bob.  "You see the engine is
going, and when we like we can start at once."

He was happy, bright, and eager.

"There's a motor-car coming," whispered the bishop.

Bob jumped.

"I say, it's yellow like Pen's big new one," he
said.  And the car stopped in front of the
post-office ten yards away.  Bob grabbed the bishop's
arm.

"That's Geordie Smith," he said.  "That's
Geordie getting out.  I could tell his legs a mile
off.  Where's my man?"

But the man didn't come, and Geordie was back
in his car.  He went off sweetly.

"The north road," said Bob.  "I'm sure he'll
take it.  He's going quick.  We can't wait for my
man."

He grabbed the steering-wheel, shifted the lever,
and the car moved off on the first speed.

"I'll—I'll go a little way with you," said the
bishop.

"You'll have to unless you jump," replied Bob.
"I'll keep in sight if I die for it."

This encouraged the bishop very much, of course,
and it is possible that he might have jumped if he
had not caught sight of the dean and a minor canon,
who were staring hard at him with their mouths
as wide open as the grotesque muzzle of a Gothic
gargoyle.

"I'll not jump," said the bishop, and he waved
his hand to Mr. Dean.  "No, I'll not jump before
the dean if I die for it."

Before he knew it, they were out on the road,
and the dust of the yellow car in front was like
the pillar of smoke to the Hebrews in the desert.
Bob let her out to the second speed, and the bishop
gasped.

"We go very quick," he said.

"Oh, not at all," replied Bob.  "I don't want to
go fast.  If Geordie thinks he's being followed,
he'll go sixty miles an hour, and I don't think I
can do more than forty-five in this."

"Can't you?" asked the bishop.  "I'm almost
glad you can't."

"Is this the great north road?" asked Bob.

"No," said the bishop, "it's the road to Crowland
and Spalding.  I've often driven on it, but
never so fast as this."

Geordie's car drew ahead, and Bob put his car
on the third speed.

"Bob!" cried the bishop, as he clutched the sides
of his seat.  "Bob!"

"Yes?"

"Isn't this an illegal speed?"

"Rather," said Bob.

"I cannot aid and abet you in going at it, then,"
said the bishop, as firmly as he could.  "I must
request you to be legal."

Bob kept his eyes ahead.

"Please don't talk," he roared, "or I shall have
an accident.  You must remember I'm not at all
experienced."

What could the poor bishop do?  He groaned
and sat very tight indeed, and, seeing the landscape
eaten up by this monster at the rate of thirty miles
an hour, came to the conclusion that there was
nothing stable in the universe, not even theology.  And
about a mile ahead of them rose a pillar of dust.

"This is a remarkable situation," thought the
bishop; "a situation which requires some firmness
of mind.  I am a bishop, and I am no better than
half my clergy who break the law regularly.  This
must be nearly a hundred miles an hour!  I wish,
I almost wish Penelope had died soon after I
christened her.  This Bob is an infernal young ruffian;
his manner is not respectful.  I should like to cane
him.  But how can I stop him?  I do not understand
these strange brass things.  I could as soon
play the big organ in the cathedral that I wish I
was in.  If I pull Bob he will have an accident.  If
I speak to him, I may divert his attention—oh!"

They executed a fowl which had not learnt to
stand sideways, and slammed through a village,
scattering several ancient inhabitants who were
enjoying a gossip in the middle of the road.  As a
matter of fact, they were damning Geordie Smith
in heaps when the pursuing Bob fell upon them.
They passed a church, and the bishop saw a clergyman
staring over the wall.  The village fell into
the category of things which had been and slid away
behind them.

"We are stopping still and the world slides,"
said the bishop, "but that was Griggs, I know, and
he knew me.  He has eyes like a hawk's.  I am
much surprised at myself.  I have seventeen
engagements this afternoon.  Ridley will be alarmed.
The dean—oh!"

They slammed a barking dog into the middle
of the week after next.

"That was a near shave," roared Bob, exulting.
"I've seen a smaller dog than that capsize a bigger
car than this!"

"May I speak now?" implored the bishop.

"Righto," said Bob.  "Here's a good straight
bit.  What is it?"

He was the superior: he was a big bird and the
bishop was a beetle.  He was the head master; his
lordship of the see of Spilsborough was a new boy.
The bishop felt small, terrified, amazed, humiliated.

"Are we going a hundred miles an hour?" asked
the bishop.

"Rot!" said Bob, "we're only doing about thirty."

They scorched through quiet Crowland.

"Please put me down," implored the humble bishop.

"I can't stop," said Bob.  "I'm afraid he's
getting ahead.  Sit tight, bishop, I'm going faster
now."

"You mustn't, you can't," said the bishop.

Bob stooped for an answer and turned on the
fourth speed.  The bishop felt the machine sailing
underneath him.  He fell back and lost all ordinary
consciousness.

"It is true," said his mind deep inside him; "it
is true that all things are illusion!  I have
sometimes suspected it.  We are a mode of motion; we
are affections of the ether.  I believe Professor
Osborne Reynolds is right.  I am a kind of vortex
spinning in piled grains of ether.  Bob is a vortex.
We are in a vortex.  We are straws in ether; we
are shadows.  I have a real non-existent pain in
my real imaginary non-existent stomach.  I am
not alive and I am not dead.  I am brave; I am
a coward; I am a bishop.  This is very wonderful.
I shall preach about it when I return to earth.  Is
that a hedge?  Did I see a cow?—a strange,
elongated, horned, lowing, permanent, impermanent
possibility of sensation and milk in a field made
of matter, which is energy, which is an illusion.
I become calm; motion is relative.  I almost enjoy
it.  I become a Hegelian.  I see that being equals
non-being; that pain becomes pleasure if you only
have enough of it.  I no longer pity those who
suffer sufficiently.  There is apparently too little
pain in the universe.  Torquemada did his best
to remedy it.  Oh, was that a dog?  I quite enjoy
myself.  I wonder if he can go faster.  If he can,
I wish he would.  We are going slow, too slow!"

And, as Geordie's dust showed up much nearer,
Bob put his car again at the third speed, and the
bishop gasped.

"How do you like it?" asked Bob, as they spun
through Spalding.

The bishop's face was a fine glowing crimson;
his bloodshot eyes glittered like opals; he was
intoxicated with movement and with new lights on
philosophy.

"I—I should like to go a thousand miles an
hour at night," said the bishop.  "I think it is
wonderful, Bob.  Are you Bob, and I a bishop?
Where is Spilsborough?  Is there a Spilsborough?"

"Steady on!" said Bob.  "I say, you're excited!"

"I am," replied the bishop.  "I am excited; I
feel peculiar.  I think I can originate a new
philosophy.  Why are we doing this?"

"We are trying to find out where Penelope is,"
said Bob.

"Penelope, Penelope," said the bishop.  "Penelope
is a vortex.  Yes, she is a vortex.  Men and
women are vortices.  I shall study mathematics and
apply it to theology."

"Hello!" said Bob, and he stopped almost dead.
For Geordie's dust had suddenly died down.

"I'll bet he has a puncture," said Bob.  And the
bishop sighed and stared about him, as if he were
just awakened.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Blessed if I know," said Bob.  "But you ought
to know."

"I don't," said the bishop.  And he got out and
stood on the dusty road.  He reeled, and the dean
would have said he was intoxicated.  And so he was.

"Geordie's off again," said Bob.  "Come, jump in."

"I won't," said the bishop.  "Certainly I won't.
That machine is a kind of devil.  It undermines the
strongest convictions.  I am afraid of it.  I shall
have to resign my bishopric if I ride another mile."

"Oh, rot!" said Bob.  "Aren't you coming?
I can't wait."

"Take the devilish thing away," cried the bishop.
"Anathema maranatha and all the rest of it!"

Without another word, Bob pulled the lever and
sailed off up the road, leaving a trail of petrol
vapour behind him.

"Mentally and physically, I don't know where
I am," said the bishop.  "I don't know who I am,
either.  From my clothes I conclude I am a bishop,
but to come to that conclusion I have to assume
that I have the right to wear them.  I have had
a remarkable experience.  Yes, I am a bishop.
This is the earth and very dusty.  It is hot, and I
am miles from anywhere."

He looked up the road and saw a far cloud of dust.

"Under that dust is Bob," said the bishop.  "As
I said, Penelope is a vortex.  Everything is much
more remarkable than I thought, much more
remarkable.  I shall write to the professor to
discover what he means.  It is dreadful that what may
be called a mere physical experience should incline
me to look on some of my fellow bishops and the
higher criticism with a more lenient eye.  I don't
see how any dogma can survive a hundred miles
an hour.  But Bob has not treated me altogether
well.  He plumps me down somewhere between
Spalding and Spilsby or Boston or some other
dreadful locality under the ghostly influence of my
brother of Lincoln, and disappears in dust and
smell.  He was distinctly disrespectful.  He said,
'Sit down, bishop,' in a very authoritative manner.
He told me I was excited.  I own I was, but I
resented being told so by a boy, because he was
a boy, or was it because I am a bishop?  An
unaccustomed bishop in a motor-car is plainly nobody
compared with an experienced boy in one.  I wish
Penelope was a sensible person, or that I had never
known her, or that she hadn't been born!  I wonder
what I am to do.  I must walk; I may be overtaken
by a cart and get a ride in one.  I anticipate much
talk in Spilsborough about this.  I wonder what
Ridley will say.  Ridley is a stoic; perhaps he will
say nothing.  I wish I was near Ridley; I am
thirsty.  This road is dusty.  It also appears long
and interminable.  I am as dry as convocation.  I
much resent Bob's treatment of me.  I wish
Bradstock was here, and I was where Bradstock is.
Bradstock is in my library, in my chair, with a book
in his hand and a whiskey and soda by his side.
He takes things with great calmness.  I wish he
was here to take this with calmness."

And he walked south for three hours and got
back to Spalding, and there took a train for Spilsborough.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXI.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI.

.. vspace:: 2

"I don't think I quite understand the bishop,"
said Bob, as he left the dignitary of the Church
stranded long miles from anywhere.  "He looked
very queer.  But I suppose they're made bishops
because they are queer, unless it's on account of
their legs.  I can understand the gaiters, but the
apron licks me.  I'll ask him about it some day.
But I wonder where we are, and how much longer
Geordie will go on.  It's luck I've had no
puncture and no breakdown.  I thought it was all up
when I sent that dog over the hedge.  He did fly.
I wonder whether any bobbies have spotted my
number.  I don't care.  Gordon owes me a lot of
money by now.  What's thirty-two times two
thousand odd?  Oh, I can't remember.  I'm getting
rather tired."

But he stuck to Geordie like a burr to a sheep,
and between the two of them they stirred up more
ancient peace and the haunts of it than any other
two cars in the United Kingdom.  They fairly
bounded through sleepy old Boston, and a
policeman, waked up from sleep by Geordie, was
wide-awake enough by the time Bob came through to
call on him to stop.

"I wouldn't stop for an army of policemen,"
said Bob, recklessly.  "I don't care.  I'll catch
Geordie if I die for it.  Gordon will pay my fines.
I wonder how the bishop is.  This is the Spilsby
road, is it?  I wonder whether Pen's at Spilsby?
Will she be very cross with me?  Oh, that was a
hen!  I *do* think hens shouldn't be allowed in a
road."

A dog stood in the middle of the way and barked.
In the middle of his second bark, the front wheel
caught him.  He ended his bark in the ditch, and
was very dreamy about the whole affair for some
time afterward.

"That was a dog," said Bob.  "I *do* think dogs
shouldn't be allowed in a road."

He missed a horse by a hairbreadth a mile
farther on, and felt very cross.  He said horses
shouldn't be allowed in a road.  He said the same
of carts and of a carriage, of children and
agricultural labourers.  They were so slow.  For now
Geordie was going pretty fast, and Bob had to go
on the fourth speed, which is highly illegal and
wicked and very dangerous.  He had never enjoyed
himself so much before, and he was undoubtedly
the happiest boy in the three kingdoms.

"Geordie doesn't know I'm after him," he said.
"I'll bet he's riding along easy.  That car of Pen's
can go like lightning if he lets her out.  He will
be mad when I come up."

And suddenly he perceived down a long, white
road that Geordie was going more slowly.

"This must be Spilsby," said Bob.  He saw
Geordie's dust go off at a right angle toward the
right.

"I've done it," said the exultant boy.  "We
must be near Pen's now."

For to turn to the right in the neighbourhood
of Spilsby means to go toward the North Sea.

Bob ran into Spilsby quite meekly on the second
speed, and turned after Geordie.  A mile farther
on, Bob saw a house in some trees, and all of a
sudden there was no more dust from Geordie's car.
Bob pulled up in the middle of the road.

"By Jove, I've done it, I know," said Bob, "and
now I feel a bit nervous.  I wonder what Pen will
say, and whether her husband is there, and what
the kid's like.  Well, here's for it!  She can't do
more than eat me."

And he drove on till he came to the house, which
was an ivy-covered building like a square barrack,
and would have been hideous without its creepers.
There was a moat around it and big elms hid it
from a distance.  The gate was open, and by the
front door stood Geordie and his car.  Bob gave a
view-halloo, and, twisting through the gate, came
to a standstill alongside Pen's big yellow racer.

And Penelope herself came to the door, and saw
not only Geordie, whom she recognized simply by
the fact that he was in a car she knew, but an
undistinguishable stranger also.

"Oh!" said Bob.

"Eh?" said Geordie.

"Who—" said Penelope.

And Bob staggered out of his machine, and fairly
reeled when he stood upright.  He had no notion
that no one, not even Titania, could have
recognized him.  He forgot his goggles, and he forgot
he was so dusty that one might have planted
cabbages on his cheeks.  He did not know that he
weighed several pounds more than usual, owing to
the amount of Lincolnshire that he carried on him.
He had no idea that he was awful, hideous, a
goggled, dirty portent.  He smiled, and the dirt cracked
upon him, and Penelope shrank back.

"Oh, I say, Pen, are you mad with me?" he asked.

And Penelope shrieked and ran to him, and, falling
upon him, embraced him with horrible results
to her clothes.

"Oh, Bob, Bob, is it you?" she cried.

"It's me, right enough," said Bob.  "I say, can
I have a drink?  I'm dying!  Am I dusty?  Yes,
so I am.  Oh, Pen, it's come off on you!  I say, I
do want a drink.  It's such a warm day, and Geordie
would go so fast.  I followed Geordie."

Geordie looked horribly disgusted, but neither
Pen nor Bob paid the least attention to him.

"Followed up by a boy," groaned Geordie, "and
in that thing!"

He regarded the mean fifteen-horse-power
concern with great contempt.  "Well, I'm blessed!"

"Oh, come in, Bob, dear Bob," said Pen.

"Are you glad to see me?"

"Oh, I've been dying to see you."

"Upon your honour?" asked Bob.

"Yes, yes," said Penelope.  "I want to ask you
so much, and I've got so much to say.  But tell
me, tell me quick.  Does any one else know where
I am?"

Bob shook dust out of his head.

"Not a soul, unless it's the bishop," he replied.

"What bishop?"

"The Bishop of Spilsborough," replied Bob.  "I
left him on the road."

"Oh!" gasped Pen, "is he following you?"

"Not much," said Bob.  "He got scared and
got out and wouldn't get in again, and he talked
such rot I thought he was mad, for a bishop, so I
left him, and suppose he's walking home again."

Pen almost shook him.

"But what was he doing with you?"

"He wanted to come part of the way in my car,
so I let him, and he was awfully funky.  I don't
think much of bishops if they're all like him, though
he did stop Plant and Rivaulx fighting with swords
in the cathedral."

"Fighting? with swords?  Oh, what—" said Penelope.

"To be sure, I forgot you very likely didn't
know.  I'll tell you by and by.  Bradstock's at
Spilsborough.  Where's my drink, Pen?  I say,
did you hear of Mr. Bunting at Oxford?  That
was fun.  He threw De Vere out of the window,
and knocked Carteret Williams down with Liddell
and Scott."

"What Mr. Bunting?"

"They thought he was Timothy Bunting, but
he wasn't.  I had tea with him afterward.  I'll tell
you by and by.  Do you know grandmother had
fits about it all?"

Penelope knew nothing, or very little, and as the
results of her fatal conduct were thus revealed to
her in dreadful incomplete chunks, her heart almost
failed her and she half-forgot her own terrible
troubles.

"Am I mad, or is Bob?" she asked.  "Oh, the
bishop and Guardy and duels and fits and Mr. Bunting
and windows and Liddell and Bob having tea!"

She ran for a drink herself, and poured it over
Bob in her eagerness for more news.

"I say, Pen, be careful!  That went down my
neck," said Bob, "and outside it, too.  I say, who've
you married?  Tell me.  Where's the kid?  May I
see it?  I say, Pen, you look splendid, but sad
somehow and rather worried.  I feel better now.  I don't
mind what went down outside.  I'll have a bath
soon.  Where's the kid?  They *do* talk a lot about
it in town.  They say, some of 'em, that you've
married the Rajah of Jugpore, the little beast, and
that the baby is black, or partly black.  Is it?  I
know it isn't."

"Oh, oh!" said Pen, "how horrible of them!"

She rushed at the bell, and when the servant
came she commanded the instant appearance of the
baby and the nurse.

"You know they said you married Timothy
Bunting," said Bob.

Penelope flushed crimson.

"It was wicked of them."

"That beast Weekes told granny you had.  She
said she knew it.  That's how I had tea with
Mr. Bunting at Oxford, after he'd chucked Plant and
Gordon down-stairs.  They were sick.  Oh, oh! is
this the kid?"

Pen took the precious infant in her arms, and
told the nurse she might go and have tea.  When
she had disappeared, Pen burst into tears.

"He's—he's all I've got," she said, sobbing.

Bob started.

"I say, what do you mean?  You don't mean
you aren't married at all?"

"No, no," said Penelope.  "I mean—oh, it's
terrible!  Oh, baby, I love you!"

She kissed the baby, who was certainly a very
fine baby, and wept again.  Bob inspected the boy
with great interest.

"I say, I rather think it's like Plant," he said.

Pen gasped.

"But in this light, it's rather like Gordon."

"Oh!" said Penelope.

"And its forehead is like De Vere's a little.
I say, won't you tell me who you've married?"

Penelope hugged the baby and howled.

"I can't, I can't.  We've q-quarrelled," she said,
"and he's furious, and I'm f-furious with him."

"Why?" asked Bob, still inspecting the baby
for signs of his male parentage, "why?  Oh, I say,
sideways he reminds me of Williams and Rivaulx,
and upside down he's a little like Carew and Goby.
But why have you quarrelled, Pen?"

Pen explained with tears how it had happened.

"You see, I said he wasn't to tell," she said.
"And he went to your grandmother and told!"

"So did all the rest," said Bob, "and that was
where granny got very confused.  I listened.  I
know it was a sneak thing to do, but I was thinking
of your interests, and she said to the last of 'em:
'I know you've come to say you've married dear
Penelope.'  It was very pathetic, Pen.  I never
thought granny could be pathetic before.  She
usually makes me pathetic instead, or she used to.
But was he one of 'em?"

"He was," sniffed Pen, "and he broke his
solemn oath.  The others were noble.  I sent them
telegrams to say they were noble."

"That's why they all went to Spilsborough,
where you sent the telegrams from," said Bob,
"and that's why Plant and Rivaulx fought with
swords under the cathedral, till the bishop and the
dean stopped them.  I tell you the dean *was* mad."

"Oh, dear, dear!" said Penelope.  "I wish they
wouldn't.  Did they hurt each other?"

"Not much, I think," replied Bob.  "I didn't
see any blood.  But when I told 'em you'd married
Timothy Bunting, Rivaulx lay on the grass and
tried to bite it and howled dreadfully."

"Poor marquis!" said Pen.  "But why did you
tell them so dreadful a story?"

Bob shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Pen, but I believed it.  Weekes said
she *knew*, and granny had fits.  There's something
about fits that makes you believe almost anything.
But you haven't told me who it is.  I say, with
the light sideways on that baby, he reminds me of
Bramber.  But who is it?"

"We've p-parted," said Penelope.  "He came
and said he'd told, and I was very f-furious, and we
had a r-row.  And he was so cross and mad, because
without me he couldn't prove it.  For we were
married in other names, and I wrote my name in
another handwriting, and I said I would deny it.  And
he flew into a passion and into a motor-car and
went away.  And I've only my p-pride and b-baby
left.  And I'm so sorry for every one.  And how
did you find me?"

Bob told her how he had done it, and told her
of Bradstock's advertisement, and told her about
the bishop, and more about Mr. Bunting of All
Saints, Oxford, who was the strongest man he had
ever seen.  Carteret Williams was nothing in his
hands.

"And now I've told you everything, won't you
tell me who it is?"

"No," said poor Penelope; "it would humiliate
me to tell now, and I won't."

"But they must know here," said Bob.

"Only three," replied Penelope.  "Miss
Mackarness and Geordie Smith and Timothy.  And
Timothy was so unhappy when he heard he had
married me that I sent him away to Upwell, where there
are more horses.  But he's back now.  And Miss
Mackarness and Geordie Smith have sworn not to
tell.  And I expect you not to ask them."

Bob snorted a little at this.

"Oh, all right, but I shall have to say where you
are when I go back to Spilsborough."

"Oh, you won't," said Pen.

"I must," said Bob.  "Bradstock is terribly
worried about it now, and thinks you've treated him
badly, and the bishop is very curious, and he asks
questions in a way that it's difficult not to answer
somehow.  And besides there's granny and all the
rest.  I say, do you know Gordon has been
speculating for me, and has made seventy thousand
pounds for me?"

"You don't say so?" cried Pen.

"I think it must be Gordon," said Bob.  "When
the shadow's on that kid, he looks rather like
Gordon, if you can think of Gordon as a baby, which
is hard.  But when I'm a duke, I shall rebuild
Goring and pay off some of the mortgages.  Whoever
you've married, I'm very grateful to you, Pen,
about Gordon and De Vere.  De Vere bought the
spotted dog I told you of.  I found Goby weeping
with Ethel.  That made me think it wasn't him.
But now you say you've quarrelled with him, I'm
not sure again.  I say, I'm very sleepy.  May I
stay to-night?"

"Of course," said Penelope.  And then a brilliant
idea struck her.

"Bob, you do love me, don't you?"

"What rot! of course," said Bob.

"Then stay here altogether for a time," said Pen.

"By Jove, what fun!" cried Bob.  "I'll send
'em a wire, and I will.  Can Geordie go somewhere
else but Spilsborough and send one?"

"Certainly," said Penelope.  And it was
arranged that Geordie should go to Lincoln to send
it from there.  This is the telegram Bob sent to
Lord Bradstock:

"I have found Penelope.  She won't say who
it is because she has quarrelled with him, and she
won't let me come back yet.  I will take care of her.
Tell grandmother and Guthrie.  She quarrelled
with him because he said he was married to her.
But the baby is not black."

And Bradstock swore.  The bishop was too tired
to swear, perhaps, but he was very cross.  So were
all the others, including her husband.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXII.

.. vspace:: 2

They had relied greatly upon Bob.  The bishop,
though rather bitter on the subject of Bob, tried
to be fair to him, and said he was a very promising boy.

"I think it most remarkable," said his lordship,
when his fine but tired legs were beneath the
mahogany once more, "that he should be able to drive
these dreadful machines with such skill.  He missed
a great many things that he might have hit, but,
as he said, he 'boosted' one dog over a hedge in
a most skilful way.  He said 'boosted,' a very
peculiar word.  I must write to Doctor Murray
about it.  But I do not think he has been brought
up with care.  He was not altogether respectful
to me, Bradstock."

"I much regret it," said Bradstock, "but what
can you expect at Goring?  On the whole, his
manners are not so bad.  Perhaps you annoyed him.
He does not like being annoyed."

"Indeed," said the bishop, "indeed!  Well, I
may have worried him in a way that I do not quite
understand.  But I have to own that for a boy
to put his hand on my shoulder and say, 'Sit down,
bishop,' in a most authoritative way, made me a
little cross.  And when I refused to enter the
motorcar again, I think he might have given me more
time to reflect on the fact that I was a very long
way from anywhere.  He was very short and
peremptory with me.  It was most curious, and I
regret I did not go on with him, for I am extremely
anxious to put an end to this scandal.  One never
knows what will happen.  The duel in the moonlight
under the cathedral was most remarkable.  I
wonder when Bob will return."

"So do I," said Bradstock, drily.

"Why do you say so in that tone?" asked the bishop.

"Because I doubt whether he will return at all
if he finds Penelope," replied Bradstock.

"Good heavens!" cried the bishop, "but he
went for the very purpose of discovering her."

"You don't know Pen," said Bradstock, "and
he worships her.  If she doesn't want to be
discovered, she will keep him.  I am certain of it."

This showed that Bradstock, though a silent peer,
was a very sensible one.  The bishop frowned and
smote the table.

"I shall be extremely angry with Bob if you turn
out to be right," he said, firmly.  "I shall be
extremely angry with him."

"Much he will care about that," said Bradstock.
"You ought to have gone on with him."

"I believe I ought to have done so.  Yes, you
are right, Bradstock; it was an error of judgment.
I was a coward.  I was afraid to die.  I did not
like the idea of being 'boosted' over a hedge.  I
am ashamed of myself."

"Never mind," said Bradstock, consolingly, "I
have seen heroes quail in a motor-car.  I myself
have quailed in one."

The bishop shook his head.

"Nevertheless, I blame myself.  I ought not to
have been afraid, even though I felt peculiar and
unwonted sensations in my gaiters," he murmured.

He smote the table again.

"I will make amends, Bradstock.  I will devote
myself to the task of finding Penelope at any speed
that is necessary.  I cannot quite reconcile myself
to the notion that I am a coward.  I will find her
if Bob deceives us."

"You can't," said Bradstock, rather gloomily.

"I can, I will," said the bishop.  "I will use
my brains."

It was a happy thought.  The bishop mused.
There was a knock at the outer door.  It was a
double, a telegraphic knock.

"From the duchess?" asked the bishop.

"From Bob, or I am a bishop," said the peer.

And Ridley gave him a telegram.  Bradstock
read it slowly, lifted his eyebrows, rubbed his
handsome white head, and handed it to the bishop.

"From Bob, bishop, a very remarkable Bobbish
document."

The bishop read it.

"It certainly is a remarkable document, a very
remarkable document, indeed," said his lordship.
"I see it was handed in at Lincoln.  She won't
say who it is because she has quarrelled with him.
With her husband, that is to say.  She will not let
Bob come back.  She quarrelled with *him* because
he said he was married to *her*.  Very remarkable!
Somewhat confusing.  But it is a relief to hear that
the baby is not black, Bradstock."

Bradstock was pessimistic.

"It may be half-black," he said, mournfully.

"Which half?" asked the bishop, with alarm.
"If it is, I hope it will not be the top half."

"Absurd!" said Bradstock.  "I mean it may be
dun or yellowish."

"Let us trust not," replied the bishop.  "I am
inclined to think Bob would have said it was not
very black if it had been at all coloured.  I think
we may dismiss the Jugpore legend."

"I trust we may," said Bradstock.

"I have an idea," said the bishop, "I have a
luminous idea.  Let us go to the library."

They adjourned to the library, and Bradstock
lighted a cigar.

"What is your idea?" he asked.

"I will tell you in a few minutes," said the
bishop, as he laid a big atlas upon his table.
Bradstock watched him curiously.  The bishop opened
the atlas and laid a flat ruler on it.  He shifted
it once or twice, nodded his head, said "Ah!" and
nodded it again.

"I believe I have it," said the bishop.  "It will
be worth trying, at any rate."

"What is it?" asked Bradstock.

"Come and look at the atlas," said the bishop,
and Bradstock did as he was asked.

The bishop put his finger-tips together and began:

"Bob was following this person named Smith,
and went north, did he not?  Let us say north.
I believe it is technically north by east.  He put me
out, or, to be fair even to Bob, I got out and was
asked to return very casually, north of Spalding
in the Boston road, miles from anywhere.  This
Smith was going back to Penelope.  For while Bob
and I were away, you got her telegram dated
Spilsborough, sent to London and re-telegraphed to you
here, saying that she was well, in reply to your
*Times* advertisement.  Obviously, Penelope lives
somewhere north of the spot where Bob left me
without time for argument.  Do you follow me?"

"Certainly," said Bradstock.  "It is all as clear
as quaternions."

"Now we get this very remarkable document
from Lincoln."

"We do, bishop."

"It is obvious she doesn't live at Lincoln.  She
has sent this very fast Smith there to send off Bob's
telegram.  Is that not so?"

"Of course," said Bradstock.

"Let us imagine that Lincoln is nearly as far
from where she is as Spilsborough is."

"Let us imagine it," said Bradstock.  "I am
willing to imagine it."

"What conclusion do you draw?" asked the bishop.

Bradstock shook his head.

"Really, Bradstock," said the bishop, "I am
surprised at you.  If she is between Spalding and
Lough, as I'm sure she is, an equal distance from
her to Lincoln and from her to Spilsborough would
place her about Boston, or perhaps farther north.
Now, if on inquiry we find she is not near Boston,
she must be near a decent road fit for motor-cars
to Lincoln.  Do you follow me?"

"I do," said Bradstock.

"Then if she is not near Boston, where is she?"
Bradstock studied the map.

"I should say Burgh, or Warnfleet, or Spilsby."

"Right," said the bishop.  "I am almost sure
of it.  For if she had been farther north, she would
not have chosen Spilsborough to telegraph from
in the first instance.  What do you say to that?"

"I say that I am not surprised that you are a
bishop, though I may wonder why you are in the
Church," said Bradstock.

"What do you mean by that, Bradstock?" asked
his lordship.

"Nothing, nothing at all," replied Bradstock,
hastily.  "I agree with you.  What shall we do?"

The bishop eyed him a little doubtfully, but
returned to his muttons.

"I want to bowl out Bob," he said.

"A bishop is a human being, after all," thought
Bradstock.

"He might have reasoned with me," said the
bishop.  "I am quite free the day after to-morrow,
and we will go to Boston and make inquiries.  If
they fail, we will try Warnfleet and Spilsby and
Burgh."

"We will," said Bradstock.  "I think this idea
of yours exceedingly clever, bishop."

"You do?"

"Certain, I do."

"I forgive your recent gibe," said the bishop.
"It was clearer than quaternions to me, and much
clearer than Bob's rudeness, which I continue to
find inexplicable.  And now I think the duchess
should be informed of his telegram.  It will console
her, I am sure, to learn that this fatherless infant
is not black."

"Not very black," insisted Bradstock.

And the bishop sent a wire to Titania, saying that
Bob had disappeared into space, but had telegraphed
saying that he had found Penelope with a normal
infant.

"After all, he only said it wasn't black," sighed
Bradstock.

But the bishop would not listen to him.  So he
went out and sent a wire to Titania himself.

"I should like to make Bob black and blue," the
bishop said.  For his legs still ached.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII.

.. vspace:: 2

Next morning the bishop had an hysteric
telegram from Titania.  It was obscure and of great
length:

"Do not understand anything, but have hopes.
Your telegram arrived before Augustin's.  You say
normal; he says Robert's words do not convey
anything but negation of extreme blackness.
Jugpore going back to India, owing to scandalous
conduct at music-hall.  India Office furious.  Secretary
of State in bed.  Rumour now affirms infant not
Penelope's.  Says adopted.  Have just seen Plant
and Gordon and Carteret Williams, and expect the
others.  They say they knew it all the time.  Say
they gave her the infant.  Am confused, but hope
you and Augustin will clear up details and find
Penelope.  Am exceedingly vexed with Robert.
De Vere has just come, weeps, but seems pleased.
Bramber wires wishes to see me, but father is ill
at Pulborough, doctors (three) giving up hope.
Goby just left.  Will come to Spilsborough myself
to-day if doctor permits, owing to palpitations.
Keep me informed."

"Dear me!" said the bishop, "this seems quite
a new development, a very surprising one.  But
I am sorry to see, Bradstock, that you sent another
telegram without consulting me."

"I didn't want you to give her too much hope,"
replied Bradstock.  "You were so certain.  Your
telegram was not logical.  What is not black is not
necessarily white, for not-black may be green, or
blue, or magenta."

"You are a pessimist," said the bishop.  "However,
I forgive you.  What surprises me is this
adoption story.  I don't believe it."

Bradstock was fractious.

"Well, I don't know, bishop.  She always said
if she had none of her own she would adopt one."

"Nonsense!" said the bishop.

"It is not nonsense," said Bradstock.

"Why don't you say they are twins?" demanded
the bishop.

"What are twins?"

"It," said the bishop.  "Really, Bradstock, don't
you see you are unreasonable?  You will believe
anything."

"And this from a bishop," murmured Bradstock.
"Why should I say it was twins?"

"If she adopted one, she might adopt two," said
the bishop.

"That is ridiculous.  I never heard of twins
being adopted," cried Bradstock.  "Besides, Bob
says 'the baby.'"

"Well, well," said the bishop, "do not let us
argue passionately about a detail."

"I do not see that twins can be called a detail,"
said Bradstock, crossly.

"Very well, call them what you like," said the
bishop, hastily.  "But I expect the duchess will
be here any moment."

Bradstock said he shouldn't wonder if she was.

"She will insist on coming with us to-morrow,"
he said.

The bishop started.

"Bradstock, we will go to-day.  I will put off
my business and go at once.  The duchess is a
remarkable woman, but she talks too much."

And such was his lordship's energy that they
started by train for Boston in less than half an
hour.

"I rather enjoy this," said the bishop.  "This
is an unusual event in a life like mine, Bradstock.
I wonder whether we shall succeed, and I wonder
what the young rascal will say when he sees me.
He will be rather abashed, I fancy."

"Do you fancy that?" asked Bradstock.  "Is
imagination necessary, by the way, for the clerical
or episcopal life?"

"It is highly necessary, but rare," said the bishop.

"So I should imagine," said Bradstock.

"What do you mean by that?" asked the bishop,
a little warmly.

Bradstock said he meant nothing by it, except
that he was glad it was necessary.  Nevertheless,
the bishop looked at him sternly for some minutes,
and he felt rather uncomfortable.

"I should not be surprised if Titania was now
at the palace," he said, to change the conversation.

"Ridley and my housekeeper must deal with
her," said the bishop.  "Ridley deals with every
one calmly.  Kings and curates come equally and
easily within his powers.  Ridley may most
distinctly be called an adequate butler.  He will offer
her my best spare bedroom, or arrange for her
sojourn at the Grand.  I do not believe an
archbishop in a fit would throw Ridley off his balance.
I rather wondered whether it would disturb him
to see me come in with two duelling-swords under
my arm upon that memorable occasion of the duel,
but Ridley was as calm as—as an adequate butler.
I rejoice in Ridley.  If we fail to-day, I think I
will ask his advice.  He is a sound and solid
thinker.  I hardly think I should have been a
bishop to-day, but for Ridley.  When I was a vicar
of St. Mary's at Ray Pogis, he came to me, then
deeply engaged in smashing Harnack into dust,
and said: 'Sir, the Prime Minister is staying at
Pogis House.'  I knew if he was at Pogis House,
he would attend New Pogis church.  The
incumbent at New Pogis was one of those men whom
it would require much courage to make an
archdeacon of, and he was under great obligations to
me.  I spoke to him.  He fell ill most opportunely.
I preached a sermon which had every appearance
of spontaneity, though I had spent months upon
it, keeping it by me for some such occasion, as it
dealt with the duties of men in high position, and
three months later I was offered Spilsborough.
But for Ridley, I might still be a vicar.  This, I
believe, Bradstock, is Boston."

They left the train and began to make inquiries
just about the time that Ridley was dealing with
the duchess.  He knew all about her, all about the
duke, all about Penelope, all about Bradstock, and
all about the "horde."  He had read all the
telegrams, those which were sent and those which he
had picked out of the bishop's waste-paper basket.

"Yes, your Grace," said Ridley, "his lordship
the bishop was called away early with Lord
Bradstock on important business.  He wrote a letter
which his lordship has probably taken away in his
pocket, and desired me to ask your Grace whether
you would prefer to stay here or at the Grand.
The Grand is comfortable, but this is quiet."

"I will stay here," said the duchess.  "I should
like to lie down at once."

And when she was comfortable, Ridley cross-examined
her maid about everything, and was soon
on firm ground.

"You may rely on his lordship," said Ridley.
"With me at his back, he will be an archbishop
yet.  No, certainly not.  The baby is not black
if his lordship says so."

"But they do say she's not married and it isn't
hers," said the lady's maid, shaking her head.
"They say now that she has adopted it."

"When I hear of young ladies adopting infants
in obscure parts of the country, I know what to
think," said Ridley.

"Lord, Mr. Ridley, but I can't believe it of
her," urged the maid.

"I am alleging nothing against her young ladyship,"
said Ridley.  "She states it is hers.  I said
that if she stated that she had adopted it, I should
know what to think.  When she states it, I will
tell you what I think.  And in the meantime I may
say that I expect every one connected with this
unseemly business to be here shortly.  I am a man
of some discernment.  This adoption rumour will
encourage these poor gentlemen, who are all mad,
and they will follow her Grace here, or I am a mere
footman in a poor family and my name's not Ridley."

It apparently was Ridley, for there was a very
loud knock at the door.

"Mr. Ridley, will you see this gentleman?" said
the footman, handing the butler a card, on which
was engraved the name of Leopold Norfolk Gordon.
"He seems very excited.  I think he's a Jew."

"A Jew!" said Ridley.

"By the looks of 'im a Jew," said the footman.
And her Grace's maid gave them a few details of
Mr. Gordon's career.

"Oh, yes, of course," said Ridley.  "I remember.
Let him wait, Johnson.  He can wait in the
little room.  As a Christian, I confess to feeling
bitter against Jews, especially as I once borrowed
money from one."

"This is a very nice one, though," said the lady's
maid, "and Mr. Robert is quite fond of him."

"I cannot stomach the idea," said Ridley.  "I
thought better of the boy.  But I suppose I must
see what he wants, though I can guess."

He interviewed Gordon in the little room.

"I want to see his lordship the bishop," said
Gordon.

"His lordship the bishop is absent on important
business, sir," said Ridley.  He added to himself,
"As the butler of a Christian bishop, I object to
calling him 'sir;' but as a butler in the habstract
I must."

"Where has he gone?" asked Gordon.  "Do you know?"

"He has gone to look for her young ladyship, sir."

"Ah!  I guessed it!  With Lord Bradstock?"

"Yes, sir, with his lordship."

"Which way has he gone?"

"I don't think, sir, that I should be justified in
mentioning which way, sir," said Ridley.

"Oh, yes, you would," said Gordon.  He put his
hand in his pocket.

"I do not think so, sir.  At least, I have doubts,"
said Ridley, with modified firmness.

Gordon took out a sovereign and scratched his
nose with it.

"Which way?"

"Boston way," said Ridley.  "Thank you, sir.
But I do not think you can find him or catch him.
Could I assist you in any manner, sir?  Things
are mixed, sir.  Have you heard the news that
Mr. Robert sent?"

"What news?" asked Gordon.

"I 'ardly think I should be justified in repeating
it, sir," said Ridley.

"Oh, yes, you would," said Gordon, as he put
his hand in his pocket.

And Ridley told him all about everything.
Gordon knew very little beyond the fact that Bob had
sent a telegram to Bradstock, who had sent it to
the duchess, who had published it on the wires that
the infant was not black.  And of course he knew
the fresh London rumour that Penelope had
adopted it.

"Her Grace the Duchess of Goring is now in the
palace, sir," said Ridley.  "And between you and
me, sir, I should not be surprised if all the other
gentlemen came.  I suppose you heard of the duel,
sir?"

"What duel?" asked Gordon.

"I do not think I should be justified in saying
which duel, sir," said Ridley.

"Oh, yes, you would," said Gordon, thinking
that a Christian butler was a very expensive
person to deal with.  And Ridley told him.

"You'll send me word to the Grand when his
lordship comes back?" said Gordon.

"I should hardly be—"

"Of course, you would be," said Gordon.

"Very well, I will, sir," said Ridley.

Gordon went back to the hotel, and Ridley went
back to the others.

"He's not at all bad for a Jew," he said,
contemplatively, "not at all bad.  I only hope that the
Christian gentlemen whom I expect every moment
will be as reasonable."

Before the evening was over, he interviewed with
varying results Mr. Rufus Q. Plant, Mr. de Vere,
Captain Goby, and Mr. Carteret Williams.  He
knew that Lord Bramber couldn't come on account
of the illness of the earl, and he heard that Carew
was down with influenza and delirious on the
subject of Penelope.  He told the others what he
thought of them all.

"Mr. Plant is a man I should like to meet often,"
said Ridley.  "I have heard people say unpleasant
things of Americans.  It may be true that they
know little of cathedrals.  I myself have heard an
American speak of our best Norman harches as
vurry elegant Gothic.  I have known one voluble
with hadmiration of a beastly bit of late perpendic'lar.
But a man may know little of harchitecture
and be a very worthy person for all that.  This
Mr. Plant has ways that I've heard described as
befitting a nobleman.  My own opinion is that very
few noblemen have ideas befitting an American
millionaire.  Dukes are often mean; earls also.  I
am acquainted with one viscount who is viciously
careful.  Mr. Plant is a gentleman far above the
others, even above Captain Goby, who has a
generous mind.  Mr. Williams is peculiar, but, for a
poor man, not mean.  His second cousin, Lord
Carteret, when I knew him, was as fine an
open-handed, swearing nobleman as one would wish to
meet.  Mr. Austin de Vere is peculiar; mad, I
think, about dogs especially.  Young Mr. Robert
told me he collected bulldogs.  He said it with a
wink which I did not understand.  I wonder where
his lordship is now."

His lordship the bishop and Lord Bradstock were
both cross.  They had drawn Boston blank, and
found it too late and too hot to go on to Spilsby
and Waynfleet and Burgh.

"Well," said the bishop, "we have proved a
certain amount.  She isn't at Boston."

"Nor at Windsor or Manchester or Bristol or
Plymouth," said Bradstock, whose temper was
rapidly going.

"I am surprised at you," said the bishop, who
felt it necessary not to be cross when Bradstock
was.  "We have also proved that a yellow car
comes through here very often, mostly without
disastrous results.  She is farther north.  We will go
to Spilsby to-morrow, I think."

"I think I will stay at home," replied Bradstock,
"or at your place, and I'll read theology."

The bishop raised his eyebrows.

"It will do you good, if you can understand it,"
he said, a little tartly.

"I do not expect to understand it," said Bradstock.

"Then why read it?"

"Only to see if the theologians understand it,"
replied Bradstock.

It was quite evident that events were proving too
much for Bradstock.  It was also evident that
Bradstock was proving too much for the bishop.

"As a layman, you had better stick to Paley,"
said the bishop, tartly.  "But let us return to
Spilsborough.  I own my temper is a little touchy
to-day, Bradstock."

Bradstock's heart softened.

"Bishop, I apologize for touching it," he said.
"Penelope is rather too much for me."

"She is too much for all of us, I fear," said the
bishop.

They took the train for home, and, as they moved
out of the station, a man in the waterproof clothing
of a chauffeur came on the platform.  He was not
wearing goggles.

"Bishop," said Bradstock, "that man is Geordie
Smith."

"Do you think he saw us?"

"How do I know?"

"I didn't ask how you could know.  I only asked
what your opinion was," said the bishop.

"My opinion is worthless," said Bradstock.

"Dear me!" said the bishop, blandly.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIV.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIV.

.. vspace:: 2

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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXV.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV.

.. vspace:: 2

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't *all* be 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't *one* be 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?"

.. _`JIMMY CAREW, A.R.A.`:

.. figure:: images/img-318.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: JIMMY CAREW, A.R.A. He was the best looking of the whole "horde"

   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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXVI.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVI.

.. vspace:: 2

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 I *might* run 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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXVII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII.

.. vspace:: 2

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.

"*I* will 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.  *I* will
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 or *argot*, 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, *I* know all about it,
Miss Mackarness."

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

"Then *good*-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.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXVIII.`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVIII.

.. vspace:: 2

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."

Bob wagged his head to and fro.

"Why, what about?" he asked.

"At your not returning, sir," said his lordship.
"You treated me and Lord Bradstock, I regret to
say, with great disrespect."

"I'm very sorry," said Bob, "but I couldn't help
it.  Pen—Oh, Lord! there's granny!"

The duchess intervened.

"Robert, where is Penelope?"

Bob hesitated.

"Gone to—t-to London for Paris and Marseilles
and Australia," said Bob, hurriedly.  "She
said she couldn't wait, but had an appointment there
somewhere.  And she said I was to say she was
sorry if any one called."

"Robert," said the duchess, severely, "do not
keep your eyes fixed upon the distant landscape.
Look me in the face.  Are you speaking the truth?"

Bob wriggled and shuffled.

"No, I'm not," he said.  "It's a beastly lie.
But she did say the other day that she would go
to the ends of the earth.  And that's Australia,
ain't it?"

"Bob," said the bishop, "this is very painful
to me.  Speak the truth like a man."

"I won't," said Bob; "it isn't my truth.  I
won't give Pen away to any one."

His vision cleared, and he saw the lovers ranked
behind his grandmother and the bishop.

"Oh, Mr. Gordon," he cried, "do come and help
me!  Would you tell if you were me?"

"No," said Gordon, "no, of course not."

"I always liked you," said Bob, "so I won't."

"I command you," said Titania, looking at
Gordon furiously.

"It's no good," said Bob, rapidly; "Pen's a
great way off, far enough, that is, and I swore I'd
never disclose the secret of her whereabouts to any
one.  At least, if I didn't swear it, I said it, and,
if I said it, my lord, and broke my promise, it
wouldn't be honourable, would it?"

"I don't care," began Titania.

"Would it, my lord?" asked Bob.

"I'm afraid not," said the bishop, "though
perhaps in the circumstances, which are very
peculiar—"

"Well, I won't," said Bob, "and that's flat.
Goby wouldn't, I know, would you, Captain Goby?"

But the duchess waved Goby into the background.

"I mean to have the truth.  Shall we listen to
your foolish scruples now?  If you won't tell us
where she is, tell us whom she has married.  Is
it one of these gentlemen?"

"I won't give any of 'em away," said Bob.

"Then you know?"

"Of course I know," said Bob.

"Ah," sighed the duchess, "then she is married?"

"She says so," said Bob, "and, if it's true, as
I suppose, I know who it is.  But Pen, before she
went up—before she went, said I wasn't to speak."

Bradstock smiled.

"Titania, Penelope is in the house.  Let us go
in," he said, and he marched up the steps.  Bob
shook himself free from the duchess and darted
indoors before Bradstock.  He bolted up-stairs to
Penelope, and burst in upon her like a whirlwind.

"Pen, they're all here, all the gang!  I couldn't
keep 'em out!"

"Who are here?" asked Pen, in awful dismay.

"All of 'em, and the bishop and Bradstock and
granny!"

"Oh, what shall I do?" wailed Penelope.

"I'll tell you," said Bob.  "Let's sneak down
the back way and steal one of their cars now, and
get away!"

"No, no," said Penelope, "it wouldn't be
dignified.  I must be dignified, Bob, I must be; I will
go down and see them."

"No," said Bob.

"I will," said Penelope.

"And tell 'em the truth?"

Penelope started.

"I can't, I can't, because we've quarrelled.  But
I will see them; I must."

She went red and white and red again, and once
more as pale as dawn.  She kissed the sleeping,
adopted, illegitimate, normal-coloured infant as he
sprawled upon an historic bed, and went to the door.

"Come with me, Bob."

"I'll hold your hand, Pen.  I say, you shake!"

"Squeeze my hand till you hurt me," said Pen.
"Now come!"

She swept down the big staircase, with Bob in
tow, and found herself in the presence of the entire
"gang," as Bob had called them.

"Penelope!" said Titania, recoiling.

"Oh, Pen," said Bradstock, advancing.

"My dear Lady Penelope," said the bishop,
sweetly, "do you recollect that I christened you
at the early age of three months?"

"No," said Penelope.

"No!" said the bishop, "no, to be sure, how
could you?  But I did."

"It—it was very kind of you," said Penelope.
Titania recovered herself and advanced.  Gordon
and the rest hung about in the distance, looking
as wretched as the ruined wing of the castle.

"Are you married, Penelope?" asked Titania.

"Yes," said Penelope.

"Of course she is," said Bob.

"Hold your tongue, Robert," said his grandmother.
"And to whom?"

"I won't say," replied Penelope.  "I told you
I wouldn't, and I won't."

"I said she wouldn't," cried Bob.

Titania pointed her hand at the shrinking horde.

"Every single one of these gentlemen, to say
nothing of Lord Bramber, who is with his invalid
father at the present moment, came to me and said
he was married to you!  Every one of them without
an exception!"

"I am very much obliged to them," said Pen.
"In the circumstances, I think it was noble of
them."

"Are you alluding to the advertisement in the
*Times*?" asked Titania.  "Are you aware that
every one now says that you have adopted an infant?"

"What rot!" said Bob.

"Robert," cried his grandmother, "be silent, I
command you.  I will not be interrupted by you.
Are you aware, Penelope, that it is said all over
England and Europe and the blatant United States
that you have adopted an infant?"

Penelope shook her head.

"It's the first I've heard of it," said Penelope,
who was the colour of a rose.

"Is it true?  Do not evade my question," cried
Titania.

"I don't see, granny, what right you have to
ask 'em," said the irrepressible Bob.  "I sent you
a wire to say it wasn't black, and it isn't."

"Augustin, silence that boy," said Titania.

But Augustin shook his head.

"Don't you answer anything, Pen," said Bob.
"No one has any right to ask you anything."

He marched over to Gordon.

"Don't look so sad, Mr. Gordon."

"I can't help it, my boy," said Gordon.  "It's
a horrid situation.  I don't care whether it's adopted
or not.  If she'll marry me, I'll have her."

Bob squeezed his hand.

"I ain't *absolutely* sure it isn't you yet," he said.
"Pen hasn't told me all, you know.  By the way,
Mr. Gordon, did that speculation come off?"

"Not so well as I thought by ten thousand," said
Gordon.

"Oh, I say," said Bob, "but, after all, it doesn't
matter.  I'll make fifty or sixty thousand do."

"You're a fine boy," said Gordon.  "But, Bob,
I would like to strangle your grandmother."

"Would you?" asked Bob, eagerly.  "I dare say
Pen does, too.  Grandmothers and aunts are very
trying.  At least, I find them so."

The duchess's voice rose now quite above the
limits of social decency, except when any one is
playing or singing.

"I will not be put off, Penelope.  You will say
who it is, and you will be married again by the
bishop in his fine Gothic cathedral—"

"Mr. Dean's cathedral," interjected the bishop.

"With a proper service and the usual hymns,
breathing over Eden, or I will stay here till you do."

"Steady, Titania," said Bradstock.  "If she
won't, she won't."

"But she shall," shrieked Titania.  "Gentlemen,
which of you is it?  I am now entirely desperate;
which of you is it?"

No one said a word.

"Marquis, is it you?" asked the duchess.  "You
said so before."

"How can I say?" asked poor Rivaulx.  "She
says no one must."

"Quite right," said Bradstock.  "Who will
believe any one, Titania?  Let's have lunch and be
friendly and stop this.  I'm very hungry, Pen.  And
let's see the baby."

The duchess shivered.

"I cannot and will not see it," said Titania.
"For by all accounts, it is an adopted illegitimate
child.  If Penelope will send it back to the person
she got it of, and own the truth, I will forgive her
and have lunch, for I am very faint."

"I want to see the baby, Pen," said Augustin,
with his hand on Pen's shoulder.  "You know,
Pen, they still say it's rather dusky."

Penelope was very indignant.

"He's not," she cried.  "They sha'n't say it
any more.  Bob, tell that girl up-stairs to bring
him down."

And Bob ran up-stairs like a monkey up a stick.

"I decline to see it," said Titania.  "A baby
without a name is a terrible object to me.  It is
an insult to the bishop and to the Church to bring
one into the room.  I will retire into the open air
and try to breathe again."

Goby assisted her outside.

"This is a calamity," said Titania.  "It's a
catastrophe.  What is the truth, Captain Goby?  Are
you a liar, too?"

Goby sobbed.

"How can I say?" he asked.  "You know I can't."

He looked out into the park.

"Here's some one coming in a motor," he cried.
They all ran to the windows.  But just then Bob
and the nurse came down with the infant, who,
though evidently awed by the number of creatures
he saw about him, behaved like a gentleman, and
not in the least like an adopted child.

"I congratulate you, Pen," said Bradstock.
"The mother must be a devilish pretty woman!
Does she miss it much, Pen?  Oh, Pen, what a
queer, mad darling you are!  I begin to see
daylight."

But nobody else did.  Penelope blushed and
hugged the baby tenderly, while Bob danced around
her in the wildest state of excitement.

"I say, Captain Goby, come and look at it!  Mr. de
Vere!  I say, marquis!  Ain't it a ripper, and as
fat as a pup, and hardly a squeal out of it day or
night!  Granny dear, won't you look at it?"

"No, no," said Titania.  "I cannot, cannot bring
myself to do so!"

"You'll soon be jolly sorry, I can tell you,"
cried the loving grandson.  "I'll bet you'll be
sorry."

He ran to Pen.

"I say, Pen, give the kid to me, or you'll drop it."

"Drop him!" exclaimed Penelope.  "Oh, Bob,
is it likely?"

"Very likely," said Bob, "if you knew that I
sent a telegram to some one just as soon as we got
here!"

Pen flushed scarlet.  But not with anger.

"Oh, Bob!"

"I did!  You ain't angry?"

"Oh, Bob!"

"I don't care," said Bob, as he took the child.
"I don't care a hang.  I'm ruined with all these
jossers now.  De Vere will never buy any more
dogs of me.  I say, who's that?"

A motor-car stopped outside the great hall door,
and a gentleman in black got out.  He came up
the steps rapidly, and stopped dead when he found
all the world in front of him.

"I thought so," said Bradstock.  "Now the
catalogue is complete."

"Lord Bramber!" cried the others.  Penelope
stood in the centre of the great hall as if she were
turned to marble.  But no marble ever had so sweet
a colour.

.. _`THE EARL OF PULBOROUGH`:

.. figure:: images/img-361.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: THE EARL OF PULBOROUGH. Clever; but indolent

   THE EARL OF PULBOROUGH. Clever; but indolent

"I believe it is now the Earl of Pulborough,"
said Bradstock, gravely, to the newcomer.

"Yes," he replied.  "Penelope, you sent for me?"

Pen fell upon his neck before them all and did
not deny it.

And, as they stood still in great amazement, Bob
danced the baby up and down till that young
gentleman made up his mind to roar as soon as he
got his breath.

"This—this is Lord Bramber," howled Bob,
triumphantly.  "Now admit you feel sorry you
spoke, granny!"

He gave the baby to the nurse, and grabbed Goby
by the arm.

"I say, I'm awfully sorry, but it isn't my fault,
Captain Goby, and Ethel Mytton is a very nice girl,
and dead in love with you."

"Is she?" sighed Goby.

"Mr. de Vere, I've got a bulldog—"

"Damn bulldogs!" said De Vere.

Bob seized Gordon.

"Do you feel very bad, Mr. Gordon?" he asked,
sympathetically.  "I almost wish it had been you."

"It can't be helped," said Gordon, gloomily.  "I
never had a chance.  Come and see me in the city
next week, Bob."

Rivaulx and Carew and Williams took their hats
and slipped from the house, while Bob did what
he could to soften things for them.

"I'll come and see you all very often," he cried.
"Good-bye now!"

An hour later, when Titania had the baby upon
her capacious lap, and said how certain she had
been the whole time that Bramber was Penelope's
choice, Bob walked around the garden with the
bishop and Lord Bradstock.

"Oh, it's quite easy to understand," said Bob.
"After all she said, you expected she would marry
some outsider, and you see she took the pick of the
basket, and of course was ashamed.  Oh, I know Pen."

"You are a wonder, Bob," said Bradstock.

The bishop said that upon adequate reflection he
was inclined to agree with Bradstock.

"Well, Pen's all right," said Bob.

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   THE END.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*      \*


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   L. C. Page and Company's
   Announcement List
   of New fiction

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The Flight of Georgiana

A ROMANCE OF THE DAYS OF THE YOUNG PRETENDER.  By
ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS, author of "The Bright Face of
Danger," "An Enemy to the King," "The Mystery of
Murray Davenport," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50

Mr. Stephens's novels all bear the hall-mark of success
for his men are always live, his women are always worthy of
their cavaliers, and his adventures are of the sort to stir the
most sluggish blood without overstepping the bounds of good
taste.

The theme of the new novel is one which will give Mr. Stephens
splendid scope for all the powers at his command.
The career of "Bonnie Prince Charlie" was full of romance,
intrigue, and adventure; his life was a series of episodes to
delight the soul of a reader of fiction, and Mr. Stephens is
to be congratulated for his selection of such a promising
subject.



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Mrs. Jim and Mrs. Jimmie

By STEPHEN CONRAD, author of "The Second Mrs. Jim."

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50

This new book is in a sense a sequel to "The Second Mrs. Jim,"
since it gives further glimpses of that delightful
stepmother and her philosophy.  This time, however, she divides
the field with "Mrs. Jimmie," who is quite as attractive in
her different way.  The book has more plot than the former
volume, a little less philosophy perhaps, but just as much
wholesome fun.  In many ways it is a stronger book, and
will therefore take an even firmer hold on the public.



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The Story of Red Fox

Told by CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, author of "The Watchers
of the Trails," "The Kindred of the Wild," "Barbara
Ladd," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with fifty illustrations and
cover design by Charles Livingston Bull . . . $2.00

Mr. Roberts's reputation as a scientifically accurate writer,
whose literary skill transforms his animal stories into
masterpieces, stands unrivalled in his particular field.

This is his first long animal story, and his romance of Red
Fox, from babyhood to patriarchal old age, makes reading
more fascinating than any work of fiction.  In his hands Red
Fox becomes a personality so strong that one entirely forgets
he is an animal, and his haps and mishaps grip you as do
those of a person.

Mr. Bull, as usual, fits his pictures to the text as hand to
glove, and the ensemble becomes a book as near perfection
as it is possible to attain.



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Return

A STORY OF THE SEA ISLANDS IN 1739.  By ALICE
MACGOWAN and GRACE MACGOWAN COOKE, authors of "The
Last Word," etc.  With six illustrations by C. D. Williams.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

A new romance, undoubtedly the best work yet done by
Miss MacGowan and Mrs. Cooke.  The heroine of "Return,"
Diana Chaters, is the belle of the Colonial city of Charles
Town, S.C., in the early eighteenth century, and the hero
is a young Virginian of the historical family of Marshall.
The youth, beauty, and wealth of the fashionable world, which
first form the environment of the romance, are pictured in
sharp contrast to the rude and exciting life of the frontier
settlements in the Georgia Colony, and the authors have
missed no opportunities for telling characterizations.  But
"Return" is, above all, a love-story.

We quote the opinion of Prof. Charles G. D. Roberts, who
has read the advance sheets: "It seems to me a story of
quite unusual strength and interest, full of vitality and
crowded with telling characters.  I greatly like the authors'
firm, bold handling of their subject."



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Lady Penelope

By MORLEY ROBERTS, author of "Rachel Marr," "The
Promotion of the Admiral," etc.  With nine illustrations by
Arthur W. Brown.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

Mr. Roberts certainly has versatility, since this book has
not a single point of similarity with either "Rachel Marr"
or his well-known sea stories.  Its setting is the English
so-called "upper crust" of the present day.  Lady Penelope is
quite the most up-to-date young lady imaginable and equally
charming.  As might be expected from such a heroine, her
automobiling plays an important part in the development
of the plot.  Lady Penelope has a large number of suitors,
and her method of choosing her husband is original and
provocative of delightful situations and mirthful incidents.



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The Winged Helmet

By HAROLD STEELE MACKAYE, author of "The Panchronicon,"
etc.  With six illustrations by H. C. Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

When an author has an original theme on which to build
his story, ability in construction of unusual situations, skill
in novel characterization, and a good literary style, there can
be no doubt but that his work is worth reading.  "The
Winged Helmet" is of this description.

The author gives in this novel a convincing picture of life
in the early sixteenth century, and the reader will be
delighted with its originality of treatment, freshness of plot,
and unexpected climaxes.



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A Captain of Men

By E. ANSON MORE.

Library 12mo, cloth, illustrated . . . $1.50

A tale of Tyre and those merchant princes whose discovery
of the value of tin brought untold riches into the country
and afforded adventures without number to those daring
seekers for the mines.  Merodach, the Assyrian, Tanith, the
daughter of the richest merchant of Tyre, Miriam, her
Hebrew slave, and the dwarf Hiram, who was the greatest artist
of his day, are a quartette of characters hard to surpass in
individuality.  It has been said that the powerful order of
Free Masons first had its origin in the meetings which were
held at Hiram's studio in Tyre, where gathered together the
greatest spirits of that age and place.



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The Paradise of the Wild Apple

By RICHARD LEGALLIENNE, author of "Old Love Stories
Retold," "The Quest of the Golden Girl," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

The theme of Mr. LeGallienne's new romance deals with
the instinct of wildness in human nature,—the wander spirit
and impatience of tame domesticity, the preference for wild
flowers and fruits, and the glee in summer storms and
elemental frolics.  A wild apple-tree, high up in a rocky meadow,
is symbolic of all this, and Mr. LeGallienne works out in
a fashion at once imaginative and serious the romance of a
young man well placed from the view of worldly goods and
estate, who suddenly hungers for the "wild apples" of his
youth.  The theme has limitless possibilities, and
Mr. LeGallienne is artist enough to make adequate use of them.



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The Grapple

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

This story of a strike in the coal mines of Pennsylvania
gives both sides of the question,—the Union and its methods,
and the non-Union workers and their loyal adherents, with
a final typical clash at the end.  The question is an absorbing
one, and it is handled fearlessly.

For the present at least "The Grapple" will be issued
anonymously.



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Brothers of Peril

By THEODORE ROBERTS, author of "Hemming the Adventurer."

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50

"Brothers of Peril" has an unusual plot, dealing with a
now extinct race, the Beothic Indians of the sixteenth
century, who were the original inhabitants of Newfoundland
when that island was merely a fishing-station for the
cod-seeking fleets of the old world.

The story tells of the adventures of a young English
cavalier, who, left behind by the fleet, finds another
Englishman, with his daughter and servants, who is hiding from
the law.  A French adventurer and pirate, who is an
unwelcome suitor for the daughter, plays an important part.
Encounters between the Indians and the small colony of white
men on shore, and perilous adventures at sea with a shipload
of pirates led by the French buccaneer, make a story of
breathless interest.



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The Black Barque

By T. JENKINS HAINS, author of "The Wind Jammers,"
"The Strife of the Sea," etc.  With five illustrations by
W. Herbert Dunton.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

According to a high naval authority who has seen the
advance sheets, this is one of the best sea stories ever offered
to the public.  "The Black Barque" is a story of slavery and
piracy upon the high seas about 1815, and is written with a
thorough knowledge of deep-water sailing.  This, Captain
Hains's first long sea story, realistically pictures a series of
stirring scenes at the period of the destruction of the exciting
but nefarious traffic in slaves, in the form of a narrative
by a young American lieutenant, who, by force of circumstances,
finds himself the gunner of "The Black Barque."



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Cameron of Lochiel

Translated from the French of PHILIPPE AUBERT DE GASPÉ
by PROF. CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

The publishers are gratified to announce a new edition of
a book by this famous author, who may be called the Walter
Scott of Canada.  This interesting and valuable romance is
fortunate in having for its translator Professor Roberts, who
has caught perfectly the spirit of the original.  The French
edition first appeared under the title of "Les Anciens
Canadiens" in 1862, and was later translated and appeared in an
American edition now out of print.

Patriotism, devotion to the French-Canadian nationality,
a just pride of race, and a loving memory for his people's
romantic and heroic past, are the dominant chords struck
by the author throughout the story.



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.. class:: noindent large bold

Castel del Monte

By NATHAN GALLIZIER.  Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.5O

A powerful romance of the fall of the Hohenstaufen
dynasty in Italy, and the overthrow of Manfred by Charles of
Anjou, the champion of Pope Clement IV.  The Middle Ages
are noted for the weird mysticism and the deep fatalism
characteristic of a people believing in signs and portents
and the firm hand of fate.  Mr. Gallizier has brought out
these characteristics in a marked degree.



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.. class:: noindent large bold

Slaves of Success

By ELLIOTT FLOWER, author of "The Spoilsmen," etc.  With
twenty illustrations by different artists.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

Another striking book by Mr. Flower, whose work is
already so well known, both through his long stories and his
contributions to *Collier's*, the *Saturday Evening Post*, etc.
Like his first success, "The Spoilsmen," it deals with politics,
but in the broader field of state and national instead of
municipal.  The book has recently appeared in condensed form
as a serial in *Collier's Magazine*, where it attracted
wide-spread attention, and the announcement of its appearance
in book form will be welcomed by Mr. Flower's rapidly
increasing audience.  The successful delineation of characters
like John Wade, Ben Carroll, Azro Craig, and Allen Sidway
throws new strong lights on the inside workings of American
business and political "graft."



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Silver Bells

By COL. ANDREW C. P. HAGGARD, author of "Hannibal's
Daughter," "Louis XIV. in Court and Camp," etc.  With
cover design and frontispiece by Charles Livingston Bull.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

Under the thin veneer of conventionality and custom lurks
in many hearts the primeval instinct to throw civilization
to the winds and hark back to the ways of the savages in the
wilderness, and it often requires but a mental crisis or an
emotional upheaval to break through the coating.  Geoffrey
Digby was such an one, who left home and kindred to seek
happiness among the Indians of Canada, in the vast woods
which always hold an undefinable mystery and fascination.
He gained renown as a mighty hunter, and the tale of his
life there, and the romance which awaited him, will be heartily
enjoyed by all who like a good love-story with plenty of
action not of the "stock" order.  "Silver Bells," the Indian
girl, is a perfect "child of nature."



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   Selections from
   L. C. Page and Company's
   List of Fiction

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   WORKS OF
   ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS

.. vspace:: 3

**Captain Ravenshaw;** OR, THE MAID OF
CHEAPSIDE.  (40th thousand.)  A romance of Elizabethan
London.  Illustrations by Howard Pyle and other artists.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

Not since the absorbing adventures of D'Artagnan have we
had anything so good in the blended vein of romance and
comedy.  The beggar student, the rich goldsmith, the roisterer
and the rake, the fop and the maid, are all here: foremost
among them Captain Ravenshaw himself, soldier of fortune
and adventurer, who, after escapades of binding interest,
finally wins a way to fame and to matrimony.



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**Philip Winwood.**  (70th thousand)  A Sketch of
the Domestic History of an American Captain in the War of
Independence, embracing events that occurred between and
during the years 1763 and 1785 in New York and London.
Written by his Enemy in War, Herbert Russell, Lieutenant
in the Loyalist Forces.  Presented anew by ROBERT
NEILSON STEPHENS.  Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

"One of the most stirring and remarkable romances that have
been published in a long while, and its episodes, incidents, and
actions are as interesting and agreeable as they are vivid and
dramatic."—*Boston Times*.



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**The Mystery of Murray Davenport.**  (30th
thousand.)  By ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS, author of
"An Enemy to the King," "Philip Winwood," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth, with six full-page illustrations by
H. C. Edwards . . . $1.50

"This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done.
Those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure of
this praise, which is generous."—*Buffalo News*.

"Mr. Stephens won a host of friends through his earlier volumes,
but we think he will do still better work in his new field if the
present volume is a criterion."—*N. Y. Com. Advertiser*.



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**An Enemy to the King.**  (60th thousand.)  From
the "Recently Discovered Memoirs of the Sieur de la
Tournoire."  Illustrated by H. De M. Young.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing
the adventures of a young French nobleman at the Court of
Henry III., and on the field with Henry of Navarre.

"A stirring tale."—*Detroit Free Press*.

"A royally strong piece of fiction."—*Boston Ideas*.

"Interesting from the first to the last page."—*Brooklyn Eagle*.

"Brilliant as a play; it is equally brilliant as a romantic
novel."—*Philadelphia Press*.



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**The Continental Dragoon:** A ROMANCE OF
PHILIPSE MANOR HOUSE IN 1778.  (43d thousand.)  Illustrated
by H. C. Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

A stirring romance of the Revolution, the scene being laid
in and around the old Philipse Manor House, near Yonkers,
which at the time of the story was the central point of the
so-called "neutral territory" between the two armies.



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**The Road to Paris:** A STORY OF ADVENTURE.
(25th thousand.)  Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

An historical romance of the 18th century, being an account
of the life of an American gentleman adventurer of Jacobite
ancestry, whose family early settled in the colony of
Pennsylvania.



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**A Gentleman Player:** HIS ADVENTURES ON A
SECRET MISSION FOR QUEEN ELIZABETH.  (38th
thousand.)  Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

"A Gentleman Player" is a romance of the Elizabethan
period.  It relates the story of a young gentleman who, in the
reign of Elizabeth, falls so low in his fortune that he joins
Shakespeare's company of players, and becomes a friend and
protégé of the great poet.


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   WORKS OF
   CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS

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**Barbara Ladd.**  With four illustrations by Frank Verbeck.

Library 12mo, gilt top . . . $1.50

"From the opening chapter to the final page Mr. Roberts lures
us on by his rapt devotion to the changing aspects of Nature and
by his keen and sympathetic analysis of human character."—*Boston
Transcript*.



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**The Kindred of the Wild.**  A BOOK OF ANIMAL
LIFE.  With fifty-one full-page plates and many decorations
from drawings by Charles Livingston Bull.

Small quarto, decorative cover . . . $2.00

"Professor Roberts has caught wonderfully the elusive
individualities of which he writes.  His animal stories are marvels of
sympathetic science and literary exactness.  Bound with the superb
illustrations by Charles Livingston Bull, they make a volume which
charms, entertains, and informs."—New York World.

"... Is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal
stories that has appeared ... well named and well done."—*John
Burroughs*.



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**The Forge in the Forest.**  Being the Narrative of
the Acadian Ranger, Jean de Mer, Seigneur de Briart, and
how he crossed the Black Abbé, and of his Adventures in a
Strange Fellowship.  Illustrated by Henry Sandham, R.C.A.

Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top . . . $1.50

A romance of the convulsive period of the struggle between
the French and English for the possession of North America.
The story is one of pure love and heroic adventure, and
deals with that fiery fringe of conflict that waved between
Nova Scotia and New England.  The Expulsion of the Acadians
is foreshadowed in these brilliant pages, and the part of
the "Black Abbé's" intrigues in precipitating that catastrophe
is shown.



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**The Heart of the Ancient Wood.**  With
six illustrations by James L. Weston.

Library 12mo, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"One of the most fascinating novels of recent days."—*Boston
Journal*.

"A classic twentieth-century romance."—*New York Commercial
Advertiser*.



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**A Sister to Evangeline.**  Being the story of
Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went into Exile with the
Villagers of Grand Pré.

Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.50

This is a romance of the great expulsion of the Acadians,
which Longfellow first immortalized in "Evangeline."  Swift
action, fresh atmosphere, wholesome purity, deep passion,
searching analysis, characterize this strong novel.



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**By the Marshes of Minas.**

Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.50

This is a volume of romance, of love and adventure in that
picturesque period when Nova Scotia was passing from the
French to the English regime.  Each tale is independent of
the others, but the scenes are similar, and in several of them the
evil "Black Abbé"," well known from the author's previous
novels, again appears with his savages at his heels—but to
be thwarted always by woman's wit or soldier's courage.



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**Earth's Enigmas.**  A new edition, with the addition
of three new stories, and ten illustrations by Charles
Livingston Bull.

Library 12mo, cloth, uncut edges . . . $1.50

"Throughout the volume runs that subtle questioning of the
cruel, predatory side of nature which suggests the general title of
the book.  In certain cases it is the picture of savage nature
ravening for food—for death to preserve life; in others it is the secret
symbolism of woods and waters prophesying of evils and misadventures
to come.  All this does not mean, however, that Mr. Roberts
is either pessimistic or morbid—it is nature in his books after all,
wholesome in her cruel moods as in her tender."—*The New York
Independent*.


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   WORKS OF
   LILIAN BELL

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**Hope Loring.**  Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.

Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"Lilian Bell's new novel, 'Hope Loring,' does for the American
girl in fiction what Gibson has done for her in art.

"Tall, slender, and athletic, fragile-looking, yet with nerves and
sinews of steel under the velvet flesh, frank as a boy and tender and
beautiful as a woman, free and independent, yet not bold—such is
'Hope Loring,' by long odds the subtlest study that has yet been
made of the American girl."—*Dorothy Dix, in the New York
American*.



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**Abroad with the Jimmies.**  With a portrait, in
duogravure, of the author.

Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"A deliciously fresh, graphic book.  The writer is so original and
unspoiled that her point of view has value."—*Mary Hartwell
Catherwood*.

"Full of ozone, of snap, of ginger, of swing and
momentum."—*Chicago Evening Post*.

"... Is one of her best and cleverest novels ... filled to the
brim with amusing incidents and experiences.  This vivacious
narrative needs no commendation to the readers of Miss Bell's well-known
earlier books."—*N. Y. Press*.



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**The Interference of Patricia.**  With a frontispiece
from drawing by Frank T. Merrill.

Small 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.00

"There is life and action and brilliancy and dash and cleverness
and a keen appreciation of business ways in this story."—*Grand
Rapids Herald*.

"A story full of keen and flashing satire."—*Chicago
Record-Herald*.



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**A Book Of Girls.**  With a frontispiece.

Small 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.00

"The stories are all eventful and have effective humor."—*New
York Sun*.

"Lilian Bell surely understands girls, for she depicts all the
variations of girl nature so charmingly."—*Chicago Journal*.

*The above two volumes boxed in special holiday dress, per set, $2.50*.



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**The Red Triangle.**  Being some further chronicles of
Martin Hewitt, investigator.  By ARTHUR MORRISON, author
of "The Hole in the Wall," "Tales of Mean Streets," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

This is a genuine, straightforward detective story of the
kind that keeps the reader on the *qui vive*.  Martin Hewitt,
investigator, might well have studied his methods from
Sherlock Holmes, so searching and successful are they.

"Better than Sherlock Holmes."—*New York Tribune*.

"The reader who has a grain of fancy or imagination may be
defied to lay this book down, once he has begun it, until the last
word has been reached."—*Philadelphia North American*.

"If you like a good detective story you will enjoy
this."—*Brooklyn Eagle*.

"We have found 'The Red Triangle' a book of absorbing
interest."—*Rochester Herald*.

"Will be eagerly read by every one who likes a tale of
mystery."—*The Scotsman, England*.




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**Prince Hagen.**  By UPTON SINCLAIR, author of "King
Midas," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . . $1.50

In this book Mr. Sinclair has written a satire of the first
order—one worthy to be compared with Swift's biting tirades
against the follies and abuses of mankind.

"A telling satire on politics and society in modern New
York."—*Philadelphia Public Ledger*.

"The book has a living vitality and is a strong depiction of
political New York."—*Bookseller, Newsdealer, and Stationer*.



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**The Silent Maid.**  By FREDERIC W. PANGBORN.

Large 16mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece by Frank
T. Merrill . . . $1.00

A dainty and delicate legend of the brave days of old, of
sprites and pixies, of trolls and gnomes, of ruthless barons and
noble knights.  "The Silent Maid" herself, with her strange
bewitchment and wondrous song, is equalled only by Undine
in charm and mystery.

"Seldom does one find a short tale so idyllic in tone and so
fanciful in motive.  The book shows great delicacy of
imagination."—*The Criterion*.



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**The Spoilsmen.**  By ELLIOTT FLOWER, author of
"Policeman Flynn," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

"The best one may hear of 'The Spoilsmen' will be none too
good.  As a wide-awake, snappy, brilliant political story it has few
equals, its title-page being stamped with that elusive mark, 'success.'
One should not miss a word of a book like this at a time like this
and in a world of politics like this."—*Boston Transcript*.

"Elliott Flower, whose 'Policeman Flynn' attested his acquaintance
with certain characteristic aspects of the American city, has
written a novel of municipal politics, which should interest many
readers....  The characters are obviously suggested by certain
actual figures in local politics, and while the conditions he depicts
are general in large cities in the United States, they will be unusually
familiar to local readers....  Ned Bell, the 'Old Man,' or political
boss; Billy Ryan, his lieutenant; 'Rainbow John,' the alderman,
are likely to be identified....  and other personages of the story
are traceable to their prototypes."—*Chicago Evening Post*.



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**Stephen Holton.**  By CHARLES FELTON PIDGIN,
author of "Quincy Adams Sawyer," "Blennerhassett," etc.
The frontispiece is a portrait of the hero by Frank T. Merrill.

One vol., library 12mo, cloth, gilt top . . . $1.50

"In the delineation of rural life, the author shows that intimate
sympathy which distinguished his first success, 'Quincy Adams
Sawyer.'"—*Boston Daily Advertiser*.

"'Stephen Holton' stands as his best achievement."—*Detroit
Free Press*.

"New England's common life seems a favorite material for this
sterling author, who in this particular instance mixes his colors with
masterly skill."—*Boston Globe*.



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**Asa Holmes;** OR, AT THE CROSS-ROADS.  A Sketch
of Country Life and Country Humor.  By ANNIE FELLOWS
JOHNSTON.  With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery.

Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top . . . $1.00

"'Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads' is the most delightful,
most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a
long while.  The lovable, cheerful, touching incidents, the
descriptions of persons and things are wonderfully true to
nature."—*Boston Times*.



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**A Daughter Of Thespis.**  By JOHN D. BARRY,
author of "The Intriguers," "Mademoiselle Blanche," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

"I should say that 'A Daughter of Thespis' seemed so honest
about actors and acting that it made you feel as if the stage had
never been truly written about before."—*W. D. Howells, in
Harper's Weekly*.

"This story of the experiences of Evelyn Johnson, actress, may
be praised just because it is so true and so wholly free from
melodrama and the claptrap which we have come to think inseparable
from any narrative which has to do with theatrical
experiences."—*Professor Harry Thurston Peck, of Columbia University*.

"Certainly written from a close and shrewd observation of stage
life."—*Chicago Record-Herald*.



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**The Golden Dog:** A ROMANCE OF QUEBEC.  By
WILLIAM KIRBY.  New authorized edition, printed from new
plates.  Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy.

One vol., library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.25

"A powerful romance of love, intrigue, and adventure in the
times of Louis XV. and Madame de Pompadour, when the French
colonies were making their great struggle to retain for an ungrateful
court the fairest jewels in the colonial diadem of France.  It is a
most masterly picture of the cruelties and the jealousies of a maiden,
Angelique des Melloises—fair as an angel and murderous as Medea.
Mr. Kirby has shown how false prides and ambitions stalked abroad
at this time, how they entered the heart of man to work his
destruction, and particularly how they influenced a beautiful demon in
female form to continued vengeances."—*Boston Herald*.



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**The Last Word**.  By ALICE MACGOWAN.  Illustrated
with seven portraits of the heroine.

Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top . . . $1.50

"When one receives full measure to overflowing of delight in a
tender, charming, and wholly fascinating new piece of fiction, the
enthusiasm is apt to come uppermost.  Miss MacGowan has been
known before, but her best gift has here declared itself."—*Louisville
Post*.

"The story begins and ends in Western Texas.  Between chapters,
there is the ostensible autobiography of a girl who makes her way
in New York journalism.  Out of it all comes a book, vivid, bright,
original—one of a kind and the kind most welcome to readers of
the hitherto conventional."—*New York World*.



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**The Captain's Wife.**  By W. CLARK RUSSELL,
author of "The Wreck of the Grosvenor."  With a
frontispiece by C. H. Dunton.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

"Mr. Russell's descriptions of the sea are vivid and full of color,
and he brings home to the reader the feeling that he is looking
upon the real thing drawn by one who has seen the scenes and
writes from knowledge."—*Brooklyn Eagle*.

"Every page is readable and exciting."—*Baltimore Herald*.

"This story may be considered as one of the best of his excellent
tales of the sea."—*Chicago Post*.

"There are suggestions of Marryat in it, and reminders of Charles
Reade, but mostly it is Clark Russell, with his delightful descriptions
and irresistible sea yarns."—*Phila. North American*.



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**The Mate of the Good Ship York.**  By
W. CLARK RUSSELL, author of "The Wreck of the Grosvenor,"
etc.  With a frontispiece by C. H. Dunton.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

"One of the breeziest, most absorbing books that have come to
our table is W. Clark Russell's 'The Mate of the Good Ship
York.'"—*Buffalo Commercial*.

"For a rousing, absorbing, and, withal, a truthful tale of the sea,
commend me to W. Clark Russell.  His novel, 'The Mate of the
Good Ship York,' is one of the best, and the love romance that runs
through it will be appreciated by every one."—*Philadelphia North
American*.

"Romantic adventures, hairbreadth escapes, and astounding
achievements keep things spinning at a lively rate and hold the
reader's attention throughout the breezy narrative."—*Toledo Blade*.



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**The Golden Kingdom.**  By ANDREW BALFOUR,
author of "Vengeance Is Mine," "To Arms!" etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

This is a story of adventure on land and sea, beginning in
England and ending in South Africa, in the last days of the
seventeenth century.  The scheme of the tale at once puts
the reader in mind of Stevenson's "Treasure Island."

"Every one imbued with the spirit of adventure and with a broad
imaginative faculty will want to read this tale."—*Boston Transcript*.

"'The Golden Kingdom' is the rarest adventure book of them
all."—*N. Y. World*.



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**The Schemers: A Tale of Modern Life.**

By EDWARD F. HARKINS, author of "Little Pilgrimages
Among the Men Who Have Written Famous Books," etc.
With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

A story of a new and real phase of social life in Boston,
skilfully and daringly handled.  There is plenty of life and
color abounding, and a diversity of characters—shop-girls,
society belles, men about town, city politicians, and others.
The various schemers and their schemes will be followed with
interest, and there will be some discerning readers who may
claim to recognize in certain points of the story certain
happenings in the shopping and the society circles of the Hub.

"A faithful delineation of real shop-girl life."—*Milwaukee
Sentinel*.

"This comes nearer to the actual life of a modern American city,
with all its complexities, than any other work of American fiction.
The book shows an unusual power of observation and a still more
unusual power to concentrate and interpret what is
observed."—*St. Louis Star*.



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**The Promotion of The Admiral.**  By
MORLEY ROBERTS, author of "The Colossus," "The Fugitives,"
"Sons of Empire," etc.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50

This volume contains half a dozen stories of sea life,—fresh,
racy, and bracing,—all laid in America,—stories full
of rollicking, jolly, sea-dog humor, tempered to the keen edge of
wit.

"If any one writes better sea stories than Mr. Roberts, we don't
know who it is; and if there is a better sea story of its kind than
this it would be a joy to have the pleasure of reading it."—*New
York Sun*.

"To read these stories is a tonic for the mind; the stories are
gems, and for pith and vigor of description they are
unequalled."—*New York Commercial Advertiser*.

"There is a hearty laugh in every one of these stories."—*The
Reader*.

"Mr. Roberts treats the life of the sea in a way that is intensely
real and intensely human."—*Milwaukee Sentinel*.

"The author knows his sea men from A to Z."—*Philadelphia
North American*.

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