CHAPTER IV
THE CURIOSITY OF MR CARGRIM
Like that famous banquet, when Macbeth entertained unawares the ghost ofgracious Duncan, the bishop's reception broke up in the most admireddisorder. It was not Dr Pendle's wish that the entertainment should becut short on his account, but the rumour--magnified greatly--of hissudden illness so dispirited his guests that they made haste to depart;and within an hour the palace was emptied of all save its usualinhabitants. Dr Graham in attendance on the bishop was the only strangerwho remained, for Lucy sent away even Sir Harry, although he begged hardto stay in the hope of making himself useful. And the most unpleasantpart of the whole incident was, that no one seemed to know the reason ofBishop Pendle's unexpected indisposition.
'He was quite well when I saw him last,' repeated poor Mrs Pendle overand over again. 'And I never knew him to be ill before. What does it allmean?'
'Perhaps papa's visitor brought him bad news,' suggested Lucy, who washovering round her mother with smelling-salts and a fan.
Mrs Pendle shook her head in much distress. 'Your father has no secretsfrom me,' she said decisively, 'and, from all I know, it is impossiblethat any news can have upset him so much.'
'Dr Graham may be able to explain,' said Gabriel.
'I don't want Dr Graham's explanation,' whimpered Mrs Pendle, tearfully.'I dislike of all things to hear from a stranger what should be told tomyself. As your father's wife, he has no right to shut me out of hisconfidence--and the library,' finished Mrs Pendle, with an aggrievedafterthought.
Certainly the bishop's conduct was very strange, and would have upseteven a less nervous woman than Mrs Pendle. Neither of her children couldcomfort her in any way, for, ignorant themselves of what had occurred,they could make no suggestions. Fortunately, at this moment, Dr Graham,with a reassuring smile on his face, made his appearance, and proceededto set their minds at ease.
'Tut! tut! my dear lady!' he said briskly, advancing on Mrs Pendle,'what is all this?'
'The bishop--'
'The bishop is suffering from a slight indisposition brought on by toomuch exertion in entertaining. He will be all right to-morrow.'
'This visitor has had nothing to do with papa's illness, then?'
'No, Miss Lucy. The visitor was only a decayed clergyman in search ofhelp.'
'Cannot I see my husband?' was the anxious question of the bishop'swife.
Graham shrugged his shoulders, and looked doubtfully at the poor lady.'Better not, Mrs Pendle,' he said judiciously. 'I have given him asoothing draught, and now he is about to lie down. There is no occasionfor you to worry in the least. To-morrow morning you will be laughingover this needless alarm. I suggest that you should go to bed and take astiff dose of valerian to sooth those shaky nerves of yours. Miss Lucywill see to that.'
'I should like to see the bishop,' persisted Mrs Pendle, whose instincttold her that the doctor was deceiving her.
'Well! well!' said he, good-humouredly, 'a wilful woman will have herown way. I know you won't sleep a wink unless your mind is set at rest,so you _shall_ see the bishop. Take my arm, please.'
'I can walk by myself, thank you!' replied Mrs Pendle, testily; andnerved to unusual exertion by anxiety, she walked towards the library,followed by the bishop's family and his chaplain, which latter watchedthis scene with close attention.
'She'll collapse after this,' said Dr Graham, in an undertone to Lucy;'you'll have a wakeful night, I fear.'
'I don't mind that, doctor, so long as there is no real cause foralarm.'
'I give you my word of honour, Miss Lucy, that this is a case of muchado about nothing.'
'Let us hope that such is the case,' said Cargrim, the Jesuit, in hissoftest tones, whereupon Graham looked at him with a pronouncedexpression of dislike.
'As a man, I don't tell lies; as a doctor, I never make false reports,'said he, coldly; 'there is no need for your pious hopes, Mr Cargrim.'
The bishop was seated at his desk scribbling idly on his blotting-pad,and rose to his feet with a look of alarm when his wife and familyentered. His usually ruddy colour had disappeared, and he waswhite-faced and haggard in appearance; looking like a man who hadreceived a severe shock, and who had not yet recovered from it. Onseeing his wife, he smiled reassuringly, but with an obvious effort, andhastened to conduct her to the chair he had vacated.
'Now, my dear,' he said, when she was seated, 'this will never do.'
'I am so anxious, George!'
'There is no need to be anxious,' retorted the bishop, in reprovingtones. 'I have been doing too much work of late, and unexpectedly I wasseized with a faintness. Graham's medicine and a night's rest willrestore me to my usual strength.'
'It's not your heart, I trust, George?'
'His heart!' jested the doctor. 'His lordship's heart is as sound as hisdigestion.'
'We thought you might have been upset by bad news, papa.'
'I have had no bad news, Lucy. I am only a trifle overcome by late hoursand fatigue. Take your mother to bed; and you, my dear,' added thebishop, kissing his wife, 'don't worry yourself unnecessarily.Good-night, and good sleep.'
'Some valerian for your nerves, bishop--'
'I have taken something for my nerves, Amy. Rest is all I need justnow.'
Thus reassured, Mrs Pendle submitted to be led from the library by Lucy.She was followed by Gabriel, who was now quite easy in his mind abouthis father. Cargrim and Graham remained, but the bishop, taking nonotice of their presence, looked at the door through which his wife andchildren had vanished, and uttered a sound something between a sigh anda groan.
Dr Graham looked anxiously at him, and the look was intercepted byCargrim, who at once made up his mind that there was something seriouslywrong, which both Graham and the bishop desired to conceal. The doctornoted the curious expression in the chaplain's eyes, and with bluffgood-humour--which was assumed, as he disliked the man--proceeded toturn him out of the library. Cargrim--bent on discovering thetruth--protested, in his usual cat-like way, against this suddendismissal.
'I should be happy to sit up all night with his lordship,' he declared.
'Sit up with your grandmother!' cried Graham, gruffly. 'Go to bed, sir,and don't make mountains out of mole-hills.'
'Good-night, my lord,' said Cargrim, softly. 'I trust you will findyourself fully restored in the morning.'
'Thank you, Mr Cargrim; good-night!'
When the chaplain sidled out of the room, Dr Graham rubbed his hands andturned briskly towards his patient, who was standing as still as anystone, staring in a hypnotised sort of way at the reading lamp on thedesk.
'Come, my lord,' said he, touching the bishop on the shoulder, 'you musttake your composing draught and get to bed. You'll be all right in themorning.'
'I trust so!' replied Pendle, with a groan.
'Of course, bishop, if you won't tell me what is the matter with you, Ican't cure you.'
'I am upset, doctor, that is all.'
'You have had a severe nervous shock,' said Graham, sharply, 'and itwill take some time for you to recover from it. This visitor brought youbad news, I suppose?'
'No!' said the bishop, wincing, 'he did not.'
'Well! well! keep your own secrets. I can do no more, so I'll saygood-night,' and he held out his hand.
Dr Pendle took it and retained it within his own for a moment. 'Yourallusion to the ring of Polycrates, Graham!'
'What of it?'
'I should throw my ring into the sea also. That is all.'
'Ha! ha! You'll have to travel a considerable distance to reach the sea,bishop. Good-night; good-night,' and Graham, smiling in his dry way,took himself out of the room. As he glanced back at the door he saw thatthe bishop was again staring dully at the reading lamp. Graham shook hishead at the sight, and closed the door.
'It is mind, not matter,' he thought, as he put on hat and coat in thehall; 'the cupboard's open and the skeleton is out. My premonition wastrue--true. AEsculapius forgive me that I should be so
superstitious. Thebishop has had a shock. What is it? what is it? That visitor brought badnews! Hum! Hum! Better to throw physic to the dogs in his case. Minddiseased: secret trouble: my punishment is greater than I can bear. Putthis and that together; there is something serious the matter. Well!well! I'm no Paul Pry.'
'Is his lordship better?' said the soft voice of Cargrim at his elbow.
Graham wheeled round. 'Much better; good-night,' he replied curtly, andwas off in a moment.
Michael Cargrim, the chaplain, was a dangerous man. He was thin andpale, with light blue eyes and sleek fair hair; and as weak physicallyas he was strong mentally. In his neat clerical garb, with a slightstoop and meek smile, he looked a harmless, commonplace young curate ofthe tabby cat kind. No one could be more tactful and ingratiating thanMr Cargrim, and he was greatly admired by the old ladies and young girlsof Beorminster; but the men, one and all--even his clericalbrethren--disliked and distrusted him, although there was no apparentreason for their doing so. Perhaps his too deferential manners andpronounced effeminacy, which made him shun manly sports, had somethingto do with his masculine unpopularity; but, from the bishop downward, hewas certainly no favourite, and in every male breast he constantlyinspired a desire to kick him. The clergy of the diocese maintainedtowards him a kind of 'Dr Fell' attitude, and none of them had more todo with him than they could help. With all the will in the world, withall the desire to interpret brotherly love in its most liberal sense,the Beorminster Levites found it impossible to like Mr Cargrim. Hence hewas a kind of clerical Ishmael, and as dangerous within as he lookedharmless without.
How such a viper came to warm itself on the bishop's hearth no one couldsay. Mrs Pansey herself did not know in what particular way Mr Cargrimhad wriggled himself--so she expressed it--into his present snugposition. But, to speak frankly, there was no wriggling in the matter,and had the bishop felt himself called upon to explain his business toanyone, he could have given a very reasonable account of the election ofCargrim to the post of chaplain. The young man was the son of an oldschoolfellow, to whom Pendle had been much attached, and from whom, inthe earlier part of his career, he had received many kindnesses. Thisschoolfellow--he was a banker--had become a bankrupt, a beggar, finallya suicide, through no fault of his own, and when dying, had commendedhis wife and son to the bishop's care. Cargrim was then fifteen years ofage, and being clever and calculating, even as a youth, had determinedto utilise the bishop's affection for his father to its fullest extent.He was clever, as has been stated; he was also ambitious andunscrupulous; therefore he resolved to enter the profession in which DrPendle's influence would be of most value. For this reason, and notbecause he felt a call to the work, he entered holy orders. The resultof his wisdom was soon apparent, for after a short career as a curate inLondon, he was appointed chaplain to the Bishop of Beorminster.
So far, so good. The position, for a young man of twenty-eight, was byno means a bad one; the more so as it gave him a capital opportunity ofgaining a better one by watching for the vacancy of a rich prefermentand getting it from his patron by asking directly and immediately forit. Cargrim had in his eye the rectorship of a wealthy, easy-goingparish, not far from Beorminster, which was in the gift of the bishop.The present holder was aged and infirm, and given so much to indulgencein port wine, that the chances were he might expire within a few months,and then, as the chaplain hoped, the next rector would be the ReverendMichael Cargrim. Once that firm position was obtained, he could bendhis energies to developing into an archdeacon, a dean, even into abishop, should his craft and fortune serve him as he intended theyshould. But in all these ambitious dreams there was nothing of religion,or of conscience, or of self-denial. If ever there was a square pegwhich tried to adapt itself to a round hole, Michael Cargrim,allegorically speaking, was that article.
With all his love for the father, Dr Pendle could never bring himself tolike the son, and determined in his own mind to confer a benefice on himwhen possible, if only to get rid of him; but not the rich one ofHeathcroft, which was the delectable land of Cargrim's desire. Thebishop intended to bestow that on Gabriel; and Cargrim, in his sneakyway, had gained some inkling of this intention. Afraid of losing hiswished-for prize, he was bent upon forcing Dr Pendle into presenting himwith the living of Heathcroft; and to accomplish this amiable purposewith the more certainty he had conceived the plan of somehow getting thebishop into his power. Hitherto--so open and stainless was Dr Pendle'slife--he had not succeeded in his aims; but now matters looked morepromising, for the bishop appeared to possess a secret which he guardedeven from the knowledge of his wife. What this secret might be, Cargrimcould not guess, in spite of his anxiety to do so, but he intended inone way or another to discover it and utilise it for the furtherance andattainment of his own selfish ends. By gaining such forbidden knowledgehe hoped to get Dr Pendle well under his thumb; and once there theprelate could be kept in that uncomfortable position until he gratifiedMr Cargrim's ambition. For a humble chaplain to have the whip-hand of apowerful ecclesiastic was a glorious and easy way for a meritoriousyoung man to succeed in his profession. Having come to this conclusion,which did more credit to his head than to his heart, Cargrim sought outthe servant who had summoned the bishop to see the stranger. A fullacquaintance with the circumstances of the visit was necessary to thedevelopment of the Reverend Michael's ingenious little plot.
'This is a sad thing about his lordship's indisposition, said he to theman in the most casual way, for it would not do to let the servant knowthat he was being questioned for a doubtful purpose.
'Yes, sir,' replied the man. ''Tis mos' extraordinary. I never knowedhis lordship took ill before. I suppose that gentleman brought bad news,sir.'
'Possibly, John, possibly. Was this gentleman a short man with lighthair? I fancy I saw him.'
'Lor', no, Mr Cargrim. He was tall and lean as a rake; looked like amilitary gentleman, sir; and I don't know as I'd call him gentryeither,' added John, half to himself. 'He wasn't what he thought hewas.'
'A decayed clergyman, John?' inquired Cargrim, remembering Graham'sdescription.
'There was lots of decay but no clergy about him, sir. I fancy I knows aparson when I sees one. Clergymen don't have scars on their cheekses asI knows of.'
'Oh, indeed!' said Cargrim, mentally noting that the doctor had spokenfalsely. 'So he had a scar?'
'A red scar, sir, on the right cheek, from his temple to the corner ofhis mouth. He was as dark as pitch in looks, with a military moustache,and two black eyes like gimblets. His clothes was shabby, and his lookswas horrid. Bad-tempered too, sir, I should say, for when he was withhis lordship I 'eard his voice quite angry like. It ain't no clergy as'ud speak like that to our bishop, Mr Cargrim.'
'And his lordship was taken ill when this visitor departed, John?'
'Right off, sir. When I got back to the library after showing him out Ifound his lordship gas'ly pale.'
'And his paleness was caused by the noisy conduct of this man?'
'Couldn't have bin caused by anything else, sir.'
'Dear me! dear me! this is much to be deplored,' sighed Cargrim, in hissoftest manner. 'And a clergyman too.'
'Beggin' your pardon, sir, he weren't no clergyman,' cried John, who wasan old servant and took liberties; 'he was more like a tramp or a gipsy.I wouldn't have left him near the plate, I know.'
'We must not judge too harshly, John. Perhaps this poor man was introuble.'
'He didn't look like it, Mr Cargrim. He went in and came out quite cockylike. I wonder his lordship didn't send for the police.'
'His lordship is too kind-hearted, John. This stranger had a scar, yousay?'
'Yes, sir; a red scar on the right cheek.'
'Dear me! no doubt he has been in the wars. Good-night, John. Let ushope that his lordship will be better after a night's rest.'
'Good-night, sir!'
The chaplain walked away with a satisfied smile on his meek face.
'I must find the man with the scar,' he though
t, 'and then--who knows.'