Читать книгу The Jest of Life - Arthur Gask - Страница 5

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THE afternoon was certainly going to be a glorious one, and within a few moments of leaving the club the subtle influence of blue sky and bright sun appeared in some mysterious way to have worked a most extraordinary change in the archdeacon. He walked with elastic, springy steps; he threw out his chest, and he inhaled delightedly the soft, warm air. His eyes twinkled and he smiled broadly. Indeed, the austere and scornful ecclesiastic of the Boodle Club was now replaced by an individual who scintillated joy and contentment, as if there were no cares or troubles in all the world.

At the top of the railway-station steps he came again upon Wangleton, the Baptist Minister, and the latter, remembering that curt nod of but a little while ago, now turned his head away and pretended not to see his colleague in the spiritual world. But the archdeacon stopped point-blank, and in the friendliest manner possible, proceeded to engage him in conversation. He asked him about his family, his work, and how his church was getting on. He invited him to come up to St. Benger's and hear the new organ they had put in, and also he expressed the hope that in future he should see more of him.

"You know, we black-coated chaps," he said finally, wagging his finger in the astonished minister's face, "ought to try and pull together more. The Reunion of Christendom will never eventuate, until we do," and off he went down the steps, smiling and beaming as before.

His smile, however, sobered somewhat down after he had taken his ticket and was approaching the platform from where the race-specials were about to start. Then he frowned in a puzzled kind of way and pinched himself furtively to make sure that he was not dreaming, but was truly and actually awake.

What had happened, he asked himself, that he, Augustine Bottleworthy, of all people, should be going to the race-meeting at Morphettville? And then he suddenly remembered. "Ah! it was his duty," and at once he chuckled at the very thought of all the gossip there would be.

Now racing is undoubtedly the most popular of all pastimes in the great Commonwealth of Australia, but for all that it is, and always has been, strictly taboo in Church circles. No clergyman or minister of any Protestant denomination is ever to be seen upon the race-course side, no matter how many of their congregation may be given openly to the sport.

So the archdeacon might well smile to himself when thinking of the stir his presence would now occasion at Morphettville. He knew it would be quite impossible that he would pass unnoticed, even amongst the large crowd that would be assembled there, and that speculation and interest would be aroused at once.

And he was quite right, too, but the speculation, and the interest he excited, began long before he had left the railway-station itself.

Before he had gone even five yards from the barrier, the official who had clipped his ticket there, turning to follow his retreating form with astonished eyes, gave it emphatically as his opinion that his own after-life was destined to be an unpleasant one. The inspector who politely showed him into the railway carriage gulped hard, as if he were in the act of swallowing his whistle, and the boy who came round with race-cards grinned impishly when he saw what manner of man it was who was handing him the sixpence.

But the archdeacon settled himself unconcernedly in a corner, congratulating himself that he had come in good time, for the carriage, a large saloon, began filling rapidly. He started to study the programme, and then again he found his hand wandering to his leg and once more he began pinching himself to make sure that he was actually awake.

What had happened, he again asked himself, and this time much more fearfully? What had come over his mind? The whole contents of the racing programme seemed perfectly familiar to him, and he sensed, without any possible doubt whatsoever, a most extensive acquaintanceship with the names, and even the very merits of the horses down to run!

He knew somehow, for instance, that Podger would be top-weight in the hurdles, and he was quite expecting that Dripping Tin would be carrying somewhere about nine stone one. He took it for granted that Baby Boy would be one of the bottom weights in the Welter, and that the burden of Whiskers would be seven stone four in the Cup! He appeared to know lots of other things, too, about the racing, and indeed the whole business seemed to be one with which he was on perfectly familiar and even intimate terms.

He pinched himself vigorously. Who was he—Augustine Bottleworthy, or some dreadful racing man? He could not for the life of him understand it. Two personalities were fighting in him, one cold, stern and haughty, and the other free-and-easy and profane, and each of them in turn appeared to be getting the upper hand.

The train started upon its short six-mile journey, and for the first few minutes or so he sat thoughtfully regarding the passing objects as the train flashed by. Then he sighed heavily, but immediately followed up the sigh with a chuckling laugh. Why should he worry, he asked himself suddenly? Life was for happiness and enjoyment, and it was a lovely day!

He looked round to find himself being most intently regarded by a young man sitting opposite to him. Like the archdeacon, the latter was holding a race-card in his hand, but his eyes were now fastened furtively upon the clergyman's face. He seemed not only puzzled, but a trifle uneasy as well, as if apparently he did not relish such close proximity to a man who was given to laughing to himself.

The archdeacon smiled blandly. "Lovely day, sir, is it not?"' he remarked.

"Yes, it is," assented the young man rather nervously.

"Sure to be a good crowd," went on the archdeacon.

The young man just nodded his head this time, and for a moment there was silence. Then the archdeacon suddenly bent over and asked with his most ingratiating smile: "Now what do you think of Reunion?"

The young man appeared most embarrassed.

"What weight has it got?" he stammered, as he began hurriedly to turn over the pages of his race-card.

The archdeacon burst into a loud and hearty laugh. "Very good, very good! Excellent, my young friend!" He tapped the young man jocularly upon the knee and then suddenly became grave again. "But I'm afraid it's got a very big weight indeed, for it's weighted with all the jealousies and mistakes of nearly two thousand years."

The young man looked more uncomfortable than ever, and it almost seemed as if he were about to get up and change his seat, but happily for his peace of mind the archdeacon's attention was at that moment diverted into quite another direction.

A man at the other end of the carriage, hearing the laughter, had turned round to see what was going on. Meeting the archdeacon's eye, however, he had instantly averted his gaze, and sinking his neck into his collar had tried forthwith to make himself as unnoticed and inconspicuous as possible.

The archdeacon frowned as if rather puzzled, but then light seemed to break in upon him and he smiled with the pleasure of a man making an unexpected and agreeable discovery.

"Ah, Riddle!" he exclaimed. "I thought I knew that suit of clothes," and, with a courteous bow of apology to the young man opposite, he rose up and moved briskly along the carriage to where his junior mathematical master was sitting.

The luckless Riddle, however, was not alone, for there were a lady and two little boys with him. The archdeacon gave him a friendly pat upon the shoulder and squeezed down beside him.

"Well, Riddle," he said jovially, "so you wouldn't notice one of your friends, eh?"

The junior mathematical master was hot in his embarrassment. He had recognized the archdeacon the instant he had looked round, but had devoutly hoped that the recognition was not mutual, for to be caught, as he was now, by the Head when going to the races was a ghastly piece of misfortune that might easily lead to his dismissal from the school. The archdeacon, he knew, had absolutely no mercy where his prejudices were concerned, and he felt sick in his dismay when he thought of his wife and two little boys.

But he pulled himself together and forced his lips into a smile.

"I didn't think it could be you, sir," he replied, and then he inclined his head towards the lady opposite. "This is my wife, sir. Mary, this is Archdeacon Bottleworthy, our Head."

Mrs. Riddle coloured. She, of course, knew all about the archdeacon and was quite aware that the situation was most awkward, and indeed, might mean positive disaster for her husband, but she was a clever woman, as well as a pretty one—she was still only in the twenties—and rising to the occasion, gave the archdeacon a most captivating smile.

"I've often heard you preach," she fibbed bravely. "We always try to go, when it's your duty at the cathedral."

The archdeacon raised his hand protestingly. "My dear young lady," he replied, "now don't please refer to that, upon a beautiful day like this. We're all on pleasure bent this afternoon and unpleasant matters should be put away." He smiled at the two little boys and patted the elder one upon the head. "Now what's your name?" he asked.

"Jack," replied the little boy.

"Well, when you're old enough, Jack, your Daddy must bring you up to my school. Now don't forget that, Riddle." He turned again to the little boy. "You'd like to come, Jack, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, please," said the little boy and he added timidly: "Daddy says there's a bear up there."

The mother blushed scarlet and Riddle himself broke into a clammy sweat.

The archdeacon looked puzzled for a moment and then, observing, as he could not help doing, the embarrassment upon the parents' faces, a sudden light came into his own.

"Ha, ha!" he laughed happily. "A bear! Of course there is! That's me!" He wagged his finger roguishly at the luckless master. "'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,' Riddle, but you really will have to be more careful as they grow older." He chucked little Jack delightedly under the chin. "Well, you shall come up and see the bear, my boy, and perhaps he'll be able to find you a nice warm corner in his cage." He smiled pleasantly at Mrs. Riddle, and then turned again to her husband. "Now where are you going to take these youngsters to this afternoon, Riddle—on to the grand-stand?"

"No, sir," stammered the perspiring Riddle, "we're all going on the Flat. It's just a little picnic we're going to have there. We've brought our lunch with us!"

"And very nice too," said the archdeacon. "It will be lovely for the children, I'm sure."

"If Ju-Ju wins," said little Jack shyly, "Daddy's going to buy us pistols that fire caps."

There was a horrible glare from the boy's father and Mrs. Riddle looked as uncomfortable as anyone could possibly be.

The archdeacon's face became all suddenly cold and stern and he turned frowningly to the junior mathematical master.

"Riddle," he said sharply, and there was anger as well as incredulity in his tone, "you're not surely going to put money on Ju-Ju? You can't be such an ass!"

Poor Riddle winced, and in his own mind he felt more muddled than any ass. He could think of no adequate excuse at all. His misfortunes had all come so quickly that he had had no time to prepare for them. Fate was indeed dealing a disastrous blow. He had boarded the train expecting to have a nice, happy afternoon and perhaps back a winner or two with a lucky half-crown, and then—in had butted this dreadful ecclesiastic and everything was being spoilt. Visions of instant dismissal on Monday loomed up into his mind, and he wondered where on earth he would be able to get another crib.

"A friend of mine, sir," he stammered crestfallenly at length, "advised me that Ju-Ju was certain to win the race to-day and I was going to have a trifle on him, for luck."

The archdeacon shook his head. "Ju-Ju won't win," he said emphatically. "They're not running him to win to-day. I'm sure of it." He looked round significantly and lowered his voice. "Back Whiskers," he muttered; "he's the nap for this afternoon. He's a snip."

The junior mathematical master could not believe his ears.

"Back Whiskers!" he exclaimed incredulously—"put some money on him, sir!"

The archdeacon nodded. "He's a sure thing," he whispered, "and you'll be able to make your wife a nice little present afterwards." He smiled most benevolently upon Mrs. Riddle. "Here, give me your race-card, Mrs. Riddle, and I'll mark what I think's going to win. I'm not a bad judge, as you will see."

Mrs. Riddle was all smiles as she handed over the card. She could not for the life of her understand it, but she realized thankfully that whatever danger had threatened them had, at any rate for the moment, passed, and she was so bright and animated in her relief that the archdeacon thought how pretty and attractive she looked.

The remainder of the journey passed very quickly for them all, and Mrs. Riddle, for one, was quite sorry when it was over. She was simply charmed with the archdeacon. He was so polite and so courtly and had such aristocratic manners. Besides, he undoubtedly wanted to be so friendly, too. Twice, again, he spoke about the little boys going to St. Benger's and when finally upon their arrival at the race-course, he said good-bye, he gave them all a hearty hand-shake and wished them good-luck.

"Hm!" he muttered thoughtfully to himself, as he walked towards the entrance gates. "Riddle's not at all a bad sort and not half such an irresponsible chap as I have thought him. Nice little wife, too, and good-looking children. Must cost him something to keep them so spick and span. That's why, I suppose, he always wears that one shabby suit himself." The archdeacon frowned. "I'll see what salary we are paying him on Monday. It's time, perhaps, he had a rise."

THE horses had gone down to the starting post for the first race when the archdeacon arrived upon the course, and most of the spectators had already taken up their positions upon the grand-stand, to ensure a good view. All the lower rows were crowded, and so he had to proceed some way up, before he could obtain a seat.

Now it could convey no very good idea of exactly what occurred to say that the archdeacon was noticed at once. Not only was he noticed, but he immediately became the centre of lively interest for a great many pairs of eyes, and his stately march up the steps was punctuated, at almost every stride, by the greetings he both gave and returned. He was lifting his hat all the time.

"How do you do, Mrs. Wopple-Smith? how do you do, Mrs. Muggs? a lovely day, Mr. Bumbletoes; beautiful weather, Mrs. Potts."

He simply beamed amiability, and every line of his fine, handsome face and every curve of his upright and commanding figure spoke of the good temper which possessed him.

He found a seat at last, and in the friendliest manner possible at once opened a conversation with the man sitting next to him.

"Glorious afternoon, isn't it? Yes, but I like it hot; in fact, it can't be too hot for me. Ah! this race is only a mile, I see. Then they will be starting right opposite to us on the other side, won't they? No, I don't think myself that Turk's Head can give the weight. He's a good horse, I know, but nine stone's a steadier any day for a three-year-old. I think one of the middle brigade will take it. Chatsworthy for instance, or Friar's Oak. But there goes the starting-bell, and now we shall soon see."'

A couple of minutes later and a roar from the crowd announced that the horses were off. Then for a few minutes followed the usual almost breathless silence.

"Turk's Head got a good break on them anyhow," said the archdeacon's neighbour triumphantly. "They'll never catch him now."

"Don't you be so sure, my friend," replied the archdeacon calmly. "Turk's Head's only a six furlong horse, remember, and he's not bred to stay. He's certainly running well, but they've a long way to go yet."

The man looked round in astonishment. He knew well who the archdeacon was, and now to hear him talking so familiarly of racing matters surprised him immensely. But a minute later and he was destined to be even more surprised still.

The horses came thundering into the straight and then things happened almost exactly as the archdeacon had forecast. Turk's Head led easily until just beyond six furlongs and then he shut up like a concertina, leaving Chatsworthy and Old Joe to carry on. The pair ran neck and neck, until within ten yards of the winning post and then up came Friar's Oak to beat them both by more than a length. Chatsworthy took second place, by the shortest of heads.

The archdeacon walked down off the grand-stand with an amused smile upon his face. "Really," he murmured, "I don't know at all what's happened, but I'm certainly not a bad judge. One with each barrel, first time."

He was pounced upon at once by a showily dressed woman, with a highly-powdered face.

"Archdeacon," she exclaimed volubly, "I'm astonished to see you here! Fancy you're coming racing, now!"

"Why not, Mrs. Gobling?" replied the archdeacon blandly. "Why separate the glad shepherd from his flock?" He smiled grimly and waved his hand around. "Quite a number of my sheep I see are here, although from the way they've just missed supporting Friar's Oak, I'm almost inclined to believe that many of them must be goats. Look! he's paying an £18 15s. 0d. dividend in the totalisator and I regarded him as quite a good thing."

"Oh, Archdeacon Bottleworthy!" exclaimed the showily dressed woman delightedly, "I had no idea you knew anything about racing. Now do, please, mark my card for me."

"Certainly I will, Mrs. Gobling," replied the archdeacon, laughing, "but, remember, I am only doing it in my capacity as a private individual." He looked round with a well-assumed appearance of guile and lowered his voice to a whisper. "As Archdeacon of the Cathedral, and Head Master of St. Benger's, I have no knowledge whatsoever about horses, for they are only the very languid predecessors of motor-cars to me."

"Oh, Archdeacon," said Mrs. Gobling, "you are a wonderful man!"

The two walked up and down the lawn and it was soon known all over the race-course that Archdeacon Bottleworthy was in the enclosure. People edged near to have a look at the bold cleric who was so defying the conventions of his order, and many were the laudatory remarks that were passed about him.

"Well I'm damned!" exclaimed a bull-necked individual whom, from his general appearance, no one would certainly have suspected of being a teetotaller. "A blinking parson, is it, and enjoying himself too! Now where's his show, I wonder? I must find out and take the missus to see what form he shows on his own course. Sure I will."

"Oh, look!" said a middle-aged lady upon the grand-stand, vigorously powdering her nose. "Now, just fancy Archdeacon Bottleworthy being here! Who would have thought it, and he looks as nice as anything too. I'll give it to my boy the next time he says the Head is a bear."

"Ha-ha!" sniffed cynical old Major Kanns, "Bottleworthy's got more go in him than I thought. I really think I must return the compliment and go and hear him preach. I've got a crooked threepenny bit that's been bothering me for quite a long while, and it will just do for the collection bag. No one will take it in the City."

Just after the fifth race had been decided one of the committee-men of the racing club rushed excitedly into their private room.

"Look here, you fellows," he called out, "we ought to invite old Bottleworthy in to have some refreshment. Gingerbeer or anything he likes. He seems a decent old sort and it won't do us any harm."

"Oh, no," said another member, "leave the old blighter alone. I'm told he's going to preach to-morrow in the cathedral and he'll probably pitch it in then, hot and strong, about the evils of gambling. He's only come here to spy out the land."

"Spy out the land!" ejaculated the first speaker disdainfully. "Why he's been picking out winners all the afternoon! He's been marking people's cards ever since he came on the course and I know for a fact that he's already given three firsts and one second. He told simply scores of people to back Whiskers and there are whole bevies of Church females now counting up their cash. I tell you it's the greatest blow the Nonconformist clergy have had for years. Spy out the land indeed! Why, he's been by far the best tipster here this afternoon."

And there could be no denial of the truth of the committee-man's report. The archdeacon had certainly been most successful in his prognostications. He had picked out Blucher for the Hurdles when the bookmakers had been offering ten to one. Then he had given Conger Eel for the Welter and it had returned its gratified supporters £6 5s. 0d. in the totalisator. But it was Whiskers that had been his greatest triumph—for Whiskers, the despised Whiskers—ridden by a raw apprentice boy, had simply romped home and had paid the delightful dividend of £27 for each pound invested.

It had been the easiest win of the afternoon, too. All the horses had got off well and Ju-Ju had led for half a mile. Then Grey Salmon had suddenly headed the field, and it had been shouted everywhere that the son of Tinned Fish would take the spoils. But just after turning the bend and coming into the straight, Whiskers had been noticed to be going like a scalded cat and almost before anyone could realize it, he had established a lead of at least half a dozen lengths. Nothing could then make any impression on him, and retaining his advantage to the end, he had simply rolled home as he liked.

The congratulations to the archdeacon had been almost overwhelming and not even the comparative seclusion of a corner in the tea-room had been able to preserve him from the attention of his admirers.

But the best summary of all that happened upon that memorable afternoon was undoubtedly that given by the committee-man, Puffett-Hughes, to his wife that night at dinner.

"Yes, my dear, it's quite true that the great Archdeacon Bottleworthy came to the races, although it seems incredible, and no one can understand it, even now. But there he was the whole afternoon strutting about like an old peacock, with all his feathers spread. He went everywhere and he was friendly and affable to everyone. He took a most active interest in the racing, too, and simply reeled off winners, as if he were quoting texts. They say he was right through the card without one mistake. I know for certain he gave Whiskers to win the Cup, for with my own ears I heard him implore the Button-Browns to back nothing else in the race. He said Whiskers would head all the others as he came round into the straight, and, funnily enough, that's exactly what the old beggar did.

"Then you should have seen Bottleworthy clap, when young Blotter rode up to weigh in. Of course most people had lost their money and the boy was getting quite a cool reception until the archdeacon started the cheers. Then everybody began to laugh and the cheering that followed was as much, I am sure, for the archdeacon as for the boy himself.

"Then the next thing that happened was that we invited Bottleworthy into the committee-room to have some refreshment, and, by Jove, we got the shock of our lives there again! We asked him if he would like some lemonade or a cup of tea, and he replied as bold as brass that he'd prefer a large whisky and soda. A large whisky and soda, mind you, not a small one!

"Then Spicer, the chairman, as a compliment, suggested he should be taken into the weighing-room and other places where the general public are not permitted to go. Spicer thought it would be an education for him and give him some idea of the inner workings of the racing game. But, bless your heart, Bottleworthy seemed to know as much about things there as we did, if not more. He even knew all the jockeys by name, and started chipping one or two of them for the way they rode. He told Muggins he was a bad finisher, and used his whip too much, and he advised Ferntops to ride with a much longer stirrup, for it always looked as if he had got no control over his mounts."

Puffett-Hughes nodded smilingly to his wife. "Yes, my dear, everyone thought it most extraordinary Bottleworthy should have come to the meeting and, to return the compliment, scores of racing folk have arranged to go to the cathedral to-morrow to hear him preach." He made a grimace. "I'm going and so are you."

The archdeacon arrived home that evening, very cheerful, although rather tired.

His family was a small one, consisting only of his wife and daughter, and no one could by any possibility have said that he was not fortunate in their possession. His wife, a small and fragile-looking woman, had a great affection for him but was very much afraid of him as well. All her married life, she had never crossed him, regarding him as a superior sort of being, who was wise in all things, and whose will should always be law. His daughter, Margaret, however, was much firmer in disposition than her mother and rather resembled her father in appearance. She was a tall, good-looking girl of two and twenty, with clear-cut aristocratic features and beautiful grey eyes. She, too, stood in some considerable awe of her father, but by no means to the extent that her mother did, and of late years she had often dared to argue with him, and to laugh at some of his ideas, when he happened to be in a particularly good humour.

The archdeacon was certainly happy in his home life and, if he were seldom demonstrative in his affection for his family, it was apparently because it was natural for him to be reserved.

His wife met him as he came into the hall. "Ah, now don't scold me because I'm late," he said gaily. "I've been to the races, my dear."

"The races, Augustine!" she ejaculated, looking very startled. "What made you go there?"

He bent down and kissed her affectionately on the cheek. "Why not, Theresa?" he asked. "It was quite an experience and I met so many people I knew, quite half the cathedral congregation, I am sure, and certainly more than half the choir."

"But you must have felt out of place, Augustine," she said.

"Not at all, my dear," he replied, looking rather pleased and then, after a moment, puzzled. "Indeed everything seemed to come quite naturally to me and I made some really wonderful prognostications as to which particular horses would come in first. In fact, Theresa," and he dropped his voice and smiled mysteriously, "although I don't quite understand it, your husband was verily among the prophets, this afternoon."

Contrary to the usual order of things, it was quite a lively dinner that evening, and under the mellowing influence of some old wine the archdeacon overflowed with wit and humour, indeed, he was so bright and merry that he kept his wife and daughter in smiles all the time.

He remarked how becomingly the former had done her hair, and laughingly said it reminded him of the day when he had first met her.

"You remember how you squeezed my hand then, Theresa," he said, "that afternoon when we were introduced at the bishop's garden-party? Oh, yes, she did, Margaret!"—for his wife had smilingly shaken her head—"she squeezed it right enough and I couldn't prepare a line of my sermon that evening, in consequence! She looked at me, too, as she is looking now." He pretended to sigh heavily. "I remember I was intending at that time to join the High Church party and become a celibate priest, and I am always convinced it was that squeeze that upset all my plans."

"Was mother's then the only girl's hand that ever gave you a squeeze, Father?" asked his daughter demurely, but with a twinkle in her eyes.

"Tut, tut!" replied the archdeacon grandly. "Remember, my dear, I was ordained when I was quite young"—he affected a discreet cough—"and the Church was never without its privileges. Oh, by the by, Margaret," he went on, as if his thoughts had suddenly been turned into some particular channel, "I met young Grainger at the races this afternoon. He came up and shook hands with me, but somehow he didn't think to ask after you."

The girl flushed hotly. She was surprised as well as embarrassed, for she knew it was not like her father to make any mention at all of young Grainger's name. Everyone was quite aware that the latter was an admirer of hers and also that because of the occupation of his people he was never invited up to the house. His father was a provision merchant in the City, but he himself had just been admitted to the practice of the law. A little more than three years Margaret's senior, and an old St. Benger's boy, he was well spoken and undeniably good-looking. He was also not without some determination of character, for notwithstanding repeated snubs from the archdeacon, whenever, indeed, the latter deigned to notice him, he was always about and handy at any public function, where it was probable the girl would be. What exactly Margaret thought about him no one knew, but it was averred by some that, when at the cathedral, she always took care to look, at least once, in the direction where he usually sat.

"Yes," the archdeacon went on thoughtfully, "he's certainly a good-looking young fellow, and there's one thing I always did like about him—he's always most obliging and polite. This afternoon he was most anxious to explain to me all about the details of horse-racing, but I assured him it was quite unnecessary, and in return I advised him to back a quadruped called 'Whiskers.'"

"And did it win, Father?" asked his daughter, who had now recovered her composure.

"Certainly it did, my dear, and it paid a most healthy dividend, too, £27 for each pound invested. Its progress was, moreover, exactly as I predicted. It was not of much account in the early part of the race, but once round the corner it was seen to be galloping like blue blazes"—he smothered a cough—"ahem! was seen to be proceeding at a greatly accelerated pace and finally it easily outdistanced all the others and came in first."

Dinner over, they went into the drawing-room, and the archdeacon was just lighting a cigar when the telephone bell rang sharply in the hall, and a moment later the parlour-maid came in.

"It's a Mr. Grainger, sir," she said to the archdeacon, "and he wants to know when he can see you for a few minutes, about the Old Boys' Concert. He says he won't keep you long."

"Ah," remarked the archdeacon, thoughtfully, "certainly a most determined young man. I thought he had not been given that square chin of his for nothing." He turned to his daughter.

"You speak to him, Margaret," he said rather slyly. "Tell him he can come up this evening if he likes, but impress upon him that I can only give him a few minutes, and that if he stays longer than that, then you or your mother will have to entertain him. I have my sermon for to-morrow to prepare."

Some twenty minutes later a student of psychology would have been enabled to make at least three subtle analyses in the drawing-room of Archdeacon Bottleworthy, at St. Benger's College.

First, he would have considered the archdeacon himself, a man of seemingly two distinct personalities; the one cold and narrow-minded, and contemptuous of the young fellow then before him, because the latter's father pursued an occupation that to the arch-deaconal mind was incompatible with the calling of a gentleman, and the other—warm and sympathetic, but for long years entombed in prejudice and pride, and only now tearing at its cere-cloth and rising from the dead.

Then, next, there was young Grainger. A challenger in the lists of love! A youth who had for his incentive the desire of all the ages, and who was urged forward and made bold by the inherited instinct of all time.

And then there was the girl. What of the girl? Was the mystery and sweetness of Love calling to her, and was she, even now, preparing for the great surrender, when a woman bows her head to the woman nature in her, and gives up all?

Who could have told?

THE following evening, the Sunday evening, a full quarter of an hour before the time when the service was to begin, the great cathedral of St. Jehu was filled to its utmost capacity, and in hoarse whispers the cathedral officials frankly admitted to one another that they could not understand it at all.

That the archdeacon was always a good draw they conceded readily enough, but for the cathedral to be fully occupied so early, required more explanation than on the surface was apparent.

"And such a mixed lot, too, Mottle," whispered Spiker, the head verger, to his assistant. "There's people 'ere I've never seen come before." He covered his mouth with his hand, and with a great air of mystery dropped his voice very low. "Racing crowd—lots of them. That's old Bloxam, the trainer, I just showed to the front pew, and before him there was Spooner and the jockey 'Obbs, and there's lots of others, too."

"Pooh, pooh!" whispered back Mottle, whose rule of life it was never to be outdone. "I've been showing in nothing but trainers and jocks for the last half hour. There's four jocks all together over there by that pillar now." He nodded his head solemnly, as if he were confiding some tremendous secret. "That little one's Blotter, who won on Whiskers yesterday, the one with the red tie."

"You don't say so," muttered Spiker, with a reverence that he had never in his life accorded to any Church dignitary, "and it paid twenty-seven pounds for one!"

But there was no doubt that, even allowing for the somewhat exaggerated statement of Mr. Mottle, there were a large number of racing people in the cathedral that evening. Indeed, as Bloxam, the trainer, remarked when once, for one brief moment, he summoned up courage and turned his head to look round, there was enough material at hand to have made up quite a respectable race-meeting, in all its departments.

"Quite a good-looking lot, we are too," he whispered to his neighbour, "if our blooming faces wasn't so red. But I do hope the boys won't fidget and'll behave. We don't, any of us, know the course too well, but it'll be all right if we go easy and just follow old Bottleworthy over the jumps."

But Mr. Bloxam, as events proved, need have had no anxiety at all on the score of good behaviour. Nothing at all went wrong. It was true that habitual frequenters of the cathedral could sense a certain feeling of strained awkwardness in the building, and it is quite possible as several of them afterwards averred, that a palpable rustle of excitement did flutter round when the numbers of the hymns went up into their frame, but apart from this little and peculiar happening everything else was just as ordinary and regular as it possibly could be, and the offertory afterwards showed most conclusively in what appreciation the service had been held.

Punctually at the stroke of seven the choir appeared, and behind them marched the clergy, with Archdeacon Bottleworthy and the bishop last of all. It was remarked by several that the archdeacon looked rather pale, and indeed it seemed that he was even nervous as he took his place in his accustomed stall.

But he looked as dignified and majestic as ever, as if he were quite aware that the chancel of a cathedral was the only fit and proper setting for a personality such as his. And when in due time he mounted the pulpit steps and, after a silent prayer, paused for a moment to look thoughtfully upon the sea of upturned faces before him, there was no one surely in that great congregation who was not moved to some small or great extent by the mien of priestly authority that was his.

It was quite a short sermon that he preached, but one very much to the point.

Undoubtedly the greatest failing of many well-intentioned religious people, he told them, was their narrow-mindedness. They took to themselves certain views of life—in most cases quite by accident, and without any thought at all—and for those who did not agree with them they had nothing but condemnation and distrust. They arrogated to themselves superior judgment in all things, and were convinced, absolutely, that they alone were right. The more ignorant they were, the more certain they were, for it was their obsession that they should measure all the corn of the earth in their own little pottles.

And it was these narrow-minded people who so turned the world against religion, for they made of it a deadly Upas tree, beneath whose shadow were to die so much of the joy and happiness of life.

But in reality religion was a kind and beautiful thing, giving to all a consciousness of right and wrong, and without something of it, in some form or other, no man could be a useful member of the community and of service to his kind.

No matter what his disposition was, everyone must have and follow some definite rule of conduct, and whether in his business or his pleasure, he must see to it that he did not fall away from his reverence for ideals. It was the cheat and the liar who filled the world with distrust. It was the trickster and the thief in any calling who robbed that calling of its honour and good name, and it must be remembered always that things that were not wrong in themselves, became wrong and harmful to the community when their pursuit was carried on among surroundings of evil.

So, in conclusion, it must be the endeavour of everyone to so purify his calling that the slanderer and the bigot should be able to cast no stone.

"JIM," whispered old Bloxam, to his friend Maloney, as they were coming out of the cathedral, "I shall only run one of mine in the Handicap next week, and the racing folks can chip in with me on Fairy Queen if she's good enough to win. There shall be no stalling them off with Beggar Boy, as I intended. I've done with all that."

Major Kanns took his crooked threepenny bit home with him after all. He had put half a crown in the plate and, as he tucked himself into bed that night, he ruminated rather thoughtfully on the many years that had passed since he had last said any prayers.