chaplain, in a shocked tone.
‘Well, it’s in the Bible, isn’t it, man? You aren’t going to say Holy Writ is indecent, are you?’
‘Well, really, Mrs Pansey, clergyman as I am, I must say that there are parts of the Bible unfit for the use of schools.’
‘To the pure all things are pure, Mr Cargrim; you have an impure mind, I fear. Remember the Thirty-Nine Articles and speak becomingly of holy things. However, let that pass,’ added Mrs Pansey, in livelier tones. ‘Here we are, and there’s that hussy hanging out from an upper window like the Jezebel she is.’
This remark was directed against Bell, who, apparently in her mother’s room, was at the window amusing herself by watching the passers-by. When she saw Mrs Pansey and the chaplain stalking along in black garments, and looking like two birds of prey, she hastily withdrew, and by the time they arrived at the hotel was at the doorway to receive them, with fixed bayonets.
‘Young woman,’ said Mrs Pansey, severely, ‘I have come to see your mother,’ and she cast a disapproving look on Bell’s gay pink dress.
‘She is not well enough to see either you or Mr Cargrim,’ said Bell, coolly.
‘All the more reason that Mr Cargrim, as a clergyman, should look after her soul, my good girl.’
‘Thank you, Mr Pendle is doing that.’
‘Indeed! Mr Pendle, then, combines business with pleasure.’
Bell quite understood the insinuation conveyed in this last speech, and, firing up, would have come to high words with the visitors but that her father made his appearance, and, as she did not wish to draw forth remarks from Mrs Pansey about Gabriel in his hearing, she discreetly held her tongue. However, as Mrs Pansey swept by in triumph, followed by Cargrim, she looked daggers at them both, and bounced into the bar, where she drew beer for thirsty customers in a flaming temper. She dearly desired a duel of words with the formidable visitor.
Mosk was a lean, tall man with a pimpled face and a military moustache. He knew Mrs Pansey, and, like most other people, detested her with all his heart; but she was, as he thought, a great friend of Sir Harry Brace, who was his landlord, so for diplomatic reasons he greeted her with all deference, hat in hand.
‘I have come with Mr Cargrim to see your wife, Mr Mosk,’ said the visitor.
‘Thank you, ma’am, I’m sure it’s very kind of you,’ replied Mosk, who had a husky voice suggestive of beer. ‘She’ll be honoured to see you, I’m sure. This way, ma’am.’
‘Is she very ill?’ demanded the chaplain, as they followed Mosk to the back of the hotel and up a narrow staircase.
‘She ain’t well, sir, but I can’t say as she’s dying. We do all we can to make her easy.’
‘Ho!’ from Mrs Pansey. ‘I hope your daughter acts towards her mother like as a daughter should.’
‘I’d like to see the person as says she don’t,’ cried Mr Mosk, with sudden anger. ‘I’d knock his head off. Bell’s a good girl; none better.’
‘Let us hope your trust in her is justified,’ sighed the mischief-maker, and passed into the sickroom, leaving Mosk with an uneasy feeling that something was wrong. If the man had a tender spot in his heart it was for his handsome daughter; and it was with a vague fear that, after presenting his wife to her visitors, he went downstairs to the bar. Mrs Pansey had a genius for making mischief by a timely word.
‘Bell,’ said he, gruffly, ‘what’s that old cat hinting at?’
‘What about?’ asked Bell, tossing her head till all her ornaments jingled, and wiping the counter furiously.
‘About you! She don’t think I should trust you.’
‘What right has she to talk about me, I’d like to know!’ cried Bell, getting as red as a peony. ‘I’ve never done anything that anyone can say a word against me.’
‘Who said you had?’ snapped her father; ‘but that old cat hints.’
‘Let her keep her hints to herself, then. Because I’m young and good-looking she wants to take my character away. Nasty old puss that she is!’
‘That’s just it, my gal. You’re too young and good-looking to escape folks’ talking; and I hear that young Mr Pendle comes round when I’m away.’
‘Who says he doesn’t, father? It’s to see mother; he’s a parson, ain’t he?’
‘Yes! and he’s gentry too. I won’t have him paying attention to you.’
‘You’d better wait till he does,’ flashed out Bell. ‘I can take care of myself, I hope.’
‘If I catch him talking other than religion to you I’ll choke him in his own collar,’ cried Mr Mosk, with a scowl; ‘so now you know.’
‘I know as you’re talking nonsense, father. Time enough for you to interfere when there’s cause. Now you clear out and let me get on with my work.’
Reassured by the girl’s manner, Mosk began to think that Mrs Pansey’s hints were all moonshine, and after cooling himself with a glass of beer, went away to look into his betting-book with some horsey pals. In the meantime, Mrs Pansey was persecuting his wife, a meek, nervous little woman, who was propped up with pillows in a large bed, and seemed to be quite overwhelmed by the honour of Mrs Pansey’s call.
‘So you are weak in the back, are you?’ said the visitor, in loud tones. ‘If you are, what right have you to marry and bring feeble children into the world?’
‘Bell isn’t feeble,’ said Mrs Mosk, weakly. ‘She’s a fine set-up gal.’
‘Set-up and stuck-up,’ retorted Mrs Pansey. ‘I tell you what, my good woman, you ought to be downstairs looking after her.’
‘Lord! mum, there ain’t nothing wrong, I do devoutly hope.’
‘Nothing as yet; but you shouldn’t have young gentlemen about the place.’
‘I can’t help it, mum,’ said Mrs Mosk, beginning to cry. ‘I’m sure we must earn our living somehow. This is an ‘otel, isn’t it? and Mosk’s a pop’lar character, ain’t he? I’m sure it’s hard enough to make ends meet as it is; we owe rent for half a year and can’t pay—and won’t pay,’ wailed Mrs Mosk, ‘unless my ‘usband comes ‘ome on Skinflint.’
‘Comes home on Skinflint, woman, what do you mean?’
‘Skinflint’s a ‘orse, mum, as Mosk ‘ave put his shirt on.’
Mrs Pansey wagged her plumes and groaned. ‘I’m sadly afraid your husband is a son of perdition, Mrs Mosk. Put his shirt on Skinflint, indeed!’
‘He’s a good man to me, anyhow,’ cried Mrs Mosk, plucking up spirit.
‘Drink and betting,’ continued Mrs Pansey, pretending not to hear this feeble defiance. ‘What can we expect from a man
