"I suppose they would, if we had more of 'em," answered his Worship thoughtfully. "When I said just now that we had no end of antikities, it was in a manner of speaking. There's the Cathedral, of course, and the old Palace--or what's left of it, and St. Hospital here. But there's a deal been swept away within my recollection.

We must move with the times."

At this point the inspiration came upon Mr. Bamberger. He laid down the spoon in his soup and hurriedly caught at the rim of his plate as a vigilant waiter swept a hand to remove it.

"Hold hard, young man!" said Mr. Bamberger, s.n.a.t.c.hing at his spoon and again fixing his eye on the Mayor. "You ought to have a Pageant, Sir."

"A what?"

"A Pageant; that's what we want for Merchester--something to advertise the dear old place and bring grist to our mills.

I've often wondered if we could not run something of the sort."

This was not a conscious falsehood, but just a word or two of political patter, dropped automatically, absently. In truth, Mr.

Bamberger, possessed by his inspiration, was wondering why the deuce it had never occurred to him until this moment. Still more curious, too, that it had never occurred to his brother Isidore!

This Isidore, after starting as a _croupier_ at Ostend and pushing on to the post of _Directeur des Fetes Periodiques_ to the munic.i.p.ality of that watering-place, had made a sudden name for himself by stage-managing a Hall of Odalisques at the last Paris Exposition, and, crossing to London, had acc.u.mulated laurels by directing popular entertainments at Olympia (Kensington) and Shepherd's Bush.

One great daily newspaper, under Hebrew control, habitually alluded to him as the Prince of Pageantists. Isidore saw things on a grand scale, and was, moreover, an excellent brother. Isidore (said Mr.

Julius Bamberger to himself) would find all the History of England in Merchester and rattle it up to the truth of music.

Aloud he said--

"This very scene we're looking on, f'r instance!"

"There would be difficulties in the way of presenting it in the open air," hazarded his Worship.

Mr. Bamberger, never impatient of stupidity, opined that this could be got over easily.

"There's all the material made to our hand. Eh, Master?--these old pensioners of yours--in a procession? The public is always sentimental."

Master Blanchminster, rousing himself out of reverie, made guarded answer that such an exhibition might be instructive, historically, for schoolchildren.

"An inst.i.tution like this, supported by endowments, don't need advertising, of course--not for its own sake," said Mr. Bamberger.

"I was thinking of what might be done indirectly for Merchester.

But--you'll excuse me, I must ride a notion when I get astride of one--St. Hospital would be no more than what we call an episode.

We'd start with Alfred the Great--maybe before him; work down to the Cathedral and its consecration and Sir John, here--that is, of course, his ancestor--swearing on the Cross to depart for Jerusalem."

Sir John--a Whig by five generations of descent--glanced at Mr.

Bamberger uneasily. He had turned Unionist when Mr. Gladstone embraced Home Rule; and now, rather by force of circ.u.mstance than by choice, he found himself Chairman of the Unionist Committee for Merchester; in fact he, more than any man, was responsible for Mr.

Bamberger's representing Merchester in Parliament, and sometimes wondered how it had all come about. He answered these rare questionings by telling himself that Disraeli, whose portrait hung in his library, had also been a Jew. But he did not quite understand it, or what there was in Mr. Bamberger that personally repelled him.

At any rate Sir John was a pure Whig and to your pure Whig personal dignity is everything.

"So long," murmured he, "as you don't ask me to dress up and make myself a figure of fun."

The Bishop had already put the suggestion, so far as it concerned him, aside with a tolerant smile, which encouraged everything from which he, _bien entendu_, was omitted.

Mr. Bamberger, scanning the line of faces with a Jew's patient cunning, at length encountered the eye of Mr. Colt, who at the farther end of the high table was leaning forward to listen.

"You're my man," thought Mr. Bamberger. "Though I don't know your name and maybe you're socially no great shakes; a chaplain by your look, and High Church. You're the useful one in this gang."

He lifted his voice.

"You won't misunderstand me, Master," he said. "I named the Cathedral and the Crusades because, in Merchester, history cannot get away from the Church. It's _her_ history that any pageant of Merchester ought to ill.u.s.trate primarily--must, indeed: _her_ past glories, some day (please G.o.d) to be revived."

"And," said Mr. Bamberger some months later, in private converse with his brother Isidore, "that did it, though I say it who shouldn't.

I froze on that Colt straight; and Colt, you'll allow, was trumps."

For the moment little more was said. The company at the high table, after grace--a shorter one this time, p.r.o.nounced by the Chaplain-- bowed to the Brethren and followed the Master upstairs to the little room which had once served for espial-chamber, but was now curtained cosily and spread for dessert.

"By the way, Master," said the Bishop, suddenly remembering the Pet.i.tion in his pocket, and laughing amicably as he dropped a lump of sugar into his coffee, "what games have you been playing in St.

Hospital, that they accuse you of Romanising?"

The Master's ivory face flushed at the question.

"That was old Warboise," he answered nervously. "I must apologise for the annoyance."

"Not at all--not at all! It amused me, rather, to be reminded that, as Visitor, I am a person in St. Hospital, and still reckoned an important one. 'Made me feel like an image in a niche subjected to a sudden dusting. Who is this--er, what-d'-ye-call-him? Warboise?

An eccentric?"

"I will not say that. Old and opinionated, rather; a militant Protestant--"

"Ah, we know the sort. Shall we glance over his screed? You permit me?"

"I was about to suggest your doing so. To tell the truth, I am curious to be acquainted with the charge against me."

The Bishop smiled, drew forth the paper from his pocket adjusted his gold-rimmed eyegla.s.ses and read--

"To the Right Rev. Father in G.o.d, Walter, Lord Bishop of Merchester.

"My Lord,--We the undersigned, being Brethren on the Blanchminster and Beauchamp foundations of St. Hospital's College of n.o.ble Poverty by Merton, respectfully desire your lordship's attention to certain abuses which of late have crept into this Society; and particularly in the observances of religion.

"We contend (1) that, whereas our Reformed and Protestant Church, in Number XXII of her Articles of Religion declares the Romish doctrine of purgatory inter alia to be a fond thing vainly invented, etc., and repugnant to the Word of G.o.d, yet prayers for the dead have twice been publicly offered in our Chapel and the practice defended, nay recommended, from its pulpit.

"(2) That, whereas in Number XXVIII of the same Articles the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper is defined in intention, and the definition expressly cleared to repudiate several practices not consonant with it, certain of these have been observed of late in our Chapel, to the scandal of the Church, and to the pain and uneasiness of souls that were used to draw pure refreshment from these Sacraments--"

The Bishop paused.

"I say, Master, this Brother Warboise of yours can write pa.s.sable English."

"Warboise? Warboise never wrote that--never in his life."

Master Blanchminster pa.s.sed a hand over his forehead.

"It's Copas's handwriting!" announced Mr. Colt, who had drawn close and, unpermitted, was staring over the Bishop's shoulder at the ma.n.u.script.

The Bishop turned half about in his chair, slightly affronted by this offence against good manners; but Mr. Colt was too far excited to guess the rebuke.

"Turn over the page, my lord."

As the Bishop turned it, on the impulse of surprise, Mr. Colt pointed a forefinger.