in her efforts to render herself attractive.
Ichabod was writ large on her powdered brow, and it needed no great foresight to foresee the speedy approach of acidulated spinsterhood. But, to do her justice, this regrettable state of single blessedness was far from being her own fault. If her good fortune had but equalled her courage and energy she should have relinquished celibacy years ago.
‘Oh, dear—dear Mrs Pansey,’ said the younger lady, strong in adjectives and interjections and reduplication of both, ‘is the bishop very, very sweet?’
‘He’s sweet enough as bishops go,’ growled Mrs Pansey, in her deep-toned voice. ‘He might be better, and he might be worse. There is too much Popish superstition and worship of idols about him for my taste. If the departed can smell,’ added the lady, with an illustrative sniff, ‘the late archdeacon must turn in his grave when those priests of Baal and Dagon burn incense at the morning service. Still, Bishop Pendle has his good points, although he is a time-server and a sycophant.’
‘Is he one of the Lancashire Pendles, dear Mrs Pansey?’
‘A twenty-fifth cousin or thereabouts. He says he is a nearer relation, but I know much more about it than he does. If you want an ornamental bishop with good legs for gaiters, and a portly figure for an apron, Dr Pendle’s the man. But as a God-fearing priest’ (with a groan), ‘a simple worshipper’ (groan) ‘and a lowly, repentant sinner’ (groan), ‘he leaves much—much to be desired.’
‘Oh, Mrs Pansey, the dear bishop a sinner?’
‘Why not?’ cried Mrs Pansey, ferociously; ‘aren’t we all miserable sinners? Dr Pendle’s a human worm, just as you are—as I am. You may dress him in lawn sleeves and a mitre, and make pagan genuflections before his throne, but he is only a worm for all that.’
‘What about his wife?’ asked Daisy, to avert further expansion of this text.
‘A poor thing, my dear, with a dilated heart and not as much blood in her body as would fill a thimble. She ought to be in a hospital, and would be, too, if I had my way. Lolling all day long on a sofa, and taking glasses of champagne between doses of iron and extract of beef; then giving receptions and wearing herself out. How he ever came to marry the white-faced doll I can’t imagine. She was a Mrs Creagth when she caught him.’
‘Oh, really! a widow?’
‘Of course, of course. You don’t suppose she’s a bigamist even though he’s a fool, do you?’ and the eyebrows went up and down in the most alarming manner. ‘The bishop—he was a London curate then—married her some eight-and-twenty years ago, and I daresay he has repented of it ever since. They have three children—George’ (with a whisk of her fan at the mention of each name), ‘who is a good-looking idiot in a line regiment; Gabriel, a curate as white-faced as his mother, and no doubt afflicted as she is with heart trouble. He was in Whitechapel, but his father put him in a curacy here—it was sheer nepotism. Then there is Lucy; she is the best of the bunch, which is not saying much. They’ve engaged her to young Sir Harry Brace, and now they are giving this reception to celebrate having inveigled him into the match.’
‘Engaged?’ sighed the fair Daisy, enviously. ‘Oh, do tell me if this girl is really, really pretty.’
‘Humph,’ said the eyebrows, ‘a pale, washed-out rag of a creature—but what can you expect from such a mother? No brains, no style, no conversation; always a simpering, weak-eyed rag baby. Oh, my dear, what fools men are!’
‘Ah, you may well say that, dear Mrs Pansey,’ assented the spinster, thinking wrathfully of this unknown girl who had succeeded where she had failed. ‘Is it a very, very good match?’
‘Ten thousand a year and a fine estate, my dear. Sir Harry is a nice young fellow, but a fool. An absentee landlord, too,’ grumbled Mrs Pansey, resentfully. ‘Always running over the world poking his nose into what doesn’t concern him, like the Wandering Jew or the Flying Dutchman. Ah, my dear, husbands are not what they used to be. The late archdeacon never left his fireside while I was there. I knew better than to let him go to Paris or Pekin, or some of those sinks of iniquity. Cook and Gaze indeed!’ snorted Mrs Pansey, indignantly; ‘I would abolish them by Act of Parliament. They turn men into so many Satans walking to and fro upon the earth. Oh, the immorality of these latter days! No wonder the end of all things is predicted.’
Miss Norsham paid little attention to the latter portion of this diatribe. As Sir Harry Brace was out of the matrimonial market it conveyed no information likely to be of use to her in the coming campaign. She wished to be informed as to the number and the names of eligible men, and forewarned with regard to possible rivals.
‘And who is really and truly the most beautiful girl in Beorminster?’ she asked abruptly.
‘Mab Arden,’ replied Mrs Pansey, promptly. ‘There, now,’ with an emphatic blow of her fan, ‘she is pretty, if you like, though I daresay there is more art than nature about her.’
‘Who is Mab Arden, dear Mrs Pansey?’
‘She is Miss Whichello’s niece, that’s who she is.’
‘Whichello? Oh, good gracious me! what a very, very funny name. Is Miss Whichello a foreigner?’
‘Foreigner? Bah!’ cried Mrs Pansey, like a stentorian ram, ‘she belongs to a good old English family, and, in my opinion, she disgraces them thoroughly. A meddlesome old maid, who wants to foist her niece on to George Pendle; and she’s likely to succeed, too,’ added the lady, rubbing her nose with a vexed air, ‘for the young ass is in love with Mab, although she is three years older than he is. Mr Cargrim also likes the girl, though I daresay it is money with him.’
‘Really! Mr Cargrim?’
‘Yes, he is the bishop’s chaplain; a Jesuit in disguise I call him, with his moping and mowing and sneaky ways. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth; oh, dear no! I gave my opinion about him pretty plainly to Dr Graham, I can tell you, and Graham’s the only man with brains in this city of fools.’
‘Is Dr Graham young?’ asked Miss Norsham, in the faint hope that Mrs Pansey’s list of inhabitants might include a wealthy bachelor.
‘Young? He’s sixty, if you call that young, and in his second childhood. An Atheist, too. Tom Payn, Colonel Ingersoll, Viscount Amberly—those are his gods, the pagan! I’d burn him on a tar-barrel if I had my way. It’s a pity we don’t stick to some customs of our ancestors.’
‘Oh, dear me, are there no young men at all?’
‘Plenty, and all idiots. Brainless officers, whose wives would have to ride on a baggage-waggon; silly young squires, whose ideal of womanhood is a brazen barmaid; and simpering curates, put into the Church as the fools of their respective families. I don’t know what men are coming to,’ groaned Mrs Pansey. ‘The late archdeacon was clever and pious; he honoured and obeyed me as the marriage service says a man should do. I was the light of the dear man’s eyes.’
Had Mrs Pansey stated that she had been the terror of the late archdeacon’s life she would have been vastly nearer the truth, but such a remark never occurred to her. Although she had bullied and badgered the wretched little man until he had seized the first opportunity of finding in the grave the peace denied him in life, she really and truly believed that she had been a model wife. The egotism of first person singular was so firmly ingrained in the woman that she could not conceive what a scourge she was to mankind in general; what a trial she had been to her poor departed husband in particular. If the late Archdeacon Pansey had not died he would doubtless have become a missionary to some cannibal tribe in the South Seas in the hope that his tough helpmate would be converted into ‘long-pig.’ But, unluckily for Beorminster, he was dead and his relict was a mourning widow, who constantly referred to her victim as a perfect husband. And yet Mrs Pansey considered that Anthony Trollope’s celebrated Mrs Proudie was an overdrawn character.
As to Miss Norsham, she was in the depths of despair, for, if Mrs Pansey was to be believed, there