Chapter IV

“You will excuse me sending a verbal message by the doctor, for, as you see, I am past writing, and... the time is short I wanted to speak with you, Mrs. Arkwright, once before... I died.” And Egerton thought of the day she had stood by her husband's deathbed as now she stood by his, only that the nurse had left the room and there was no third person to be an embarrassment “Do not suppose I forget your words to me the last time we met in private,” he continued, as she did not speak nor look at him, beyond one swift glance as she came into the room; “and believe me, I would not have forced myself on you, nor would I have asked this favour, had it not been that... I have something of which I must deliver my soul.”

“You are not dying; you were a strong man, and a few days' illness couldn't... be fatal,” she burst out, and it seemed as if Mrs. Arkwright for once was going to lose control and fall a-weeping.

Then she mastered herself, and said almost coldly, “Had I known you were so ill, I would have called to inquire; but nothing was said of pneumonia, only a bad cold.”

“You forgive me, then, that ill-judged interference, Mrs. Arkwright, and anything else in which I have offended you or failed in... my brother's part?”

“Do not speak like that to me unless you wish to take revenge; it is I who ask your pardon for my evil temper and insolence that day, and other times; but you are too... good, else you would have understood.”

“You did not, then, hate me, as I supposed?” and his voice was strained with eagerness.

“When you were prepared to approve my engagement to Mr. Crashaw? Yes, I did, and I could have struck you as you bore witness to his character--whom you detested. Conscientious and unselfish... on your part, very. And yet at the same time I... did not hate you; I could have... you are a dull man, Mr. Egerton, and I am not a saint. Is it milk you drink?” And when she raised his head, her hands lingered as they had not done before on her husband's.

“Are you really dying?” She sat down and looked at him, her head between her hands. “You and I are, at least, able to face the situation.”

“Yes, without doubt; but I am not a martyr to overwork, or anything else; my death is not a sentimental tragedy; do not let any one speak of me in that fashion: I simply caught a cold and did not take care; it's quite commonplace.” When he smiled his face was at its best, the dark blue eyes having a roguish look as of a boy.

Mrs. Arkwright leant back on her chair and bit her lower lip.

“This is good-bye, then, and our friendship--six years long, isn't it?--is over. Had I known it was to be so short--well, we had not quarrelled.”

“Not over,” and he looked wistfully at her; “this life does not end all.”

“Ah, you have the old romantic faith, and one would like to share it, but no one knows; this life is the only certainty.”

“In a few hours,” he went on, “I shall know, and I expect to see my friend Jacob Arkwright, whom I loved, although we only knew one another for three years, and he... will ask for you.” Mrs. Arkwright regarded Egerton with amazement.

“He will ask how I kept my trust, and I... will be ashamed, unless you hear my confession and forgive me. For I... have sinned against you and your husband.”

“In what?” she asked, with a hard voice.

“God knows that I had no thought of you he might not have read while he was here. And afterwards for a year I was in heart your brother; and then--oh, how can I say it and look you in the face, who thought me a good and faithful minister of Christ?” and his eyes were large with pain and sorrow.

“Say it,” she whispered, “say it plain; you must,” and she stretched out her hand in commandment.

“I loved you as... a man loves a woman whom he would make his wife, till it came to pass that I made excuses to visit you, till I watched you on the street, till I longed for the touch of your hand, till I... oh, the sin and shame--thought of you in the service and... at my prayers; yet I had been left your guardian and had promised to be as a brother to you; besides, nor was this the least of my shame, you were rich.”

“And now?” She had risen to her feet “I have finally overcome, but only within these few months, and my heart is at last single. You are to me again my friend's wife, and I shall meet him... in peace, if you forgive me.”

For a few seconds nothing was heard but his rapid breathing, and then she spoke with low, passionate voice.

“Your love needs no forgiveness; your silence... I can never forgive.”

He lived for two hours, and he spoke twice. Once he thanked his nurse for her attentions, and just before he passed away she caught the words, “through much tribulation... enter the Kingdom... God.”

A PROBATIONER

One winter I forsook the cottage at Drumtochty, in spite of the pure white snow and the snell, bracing wind from Ben Urtach, and took rooms in Edinburgh. It was a poor exchange, for the talk of professors and advocates, although good enough in its way, was not to be compared with the wisdom of James Soutar; but there were more books in Edinburgh than in the Glen, and it was there that I met my probationer. From time to time we passed upon the stair, when he would shrink into a landing and apologise for his obstruction, and if in sheer forgetfulness I said “Fine day,” with the rain beating on the windows, he nervously agreed. With his suspicion of clerical attire, and his deferential manner, he suggested some helot of the ecclesiastical world, whose chiefs live in purple and fine linen, and whose subordinates share with tramway men and sempstresses the honour of working harder and receiving less pay than any other body in the commonwealth. By his step I had identified him as the tenant of a single room above my sitting-room, and one wondered how any man could move so little and so gently. If he shifted a chair, it was by stealth, and if in poking his fire a coal dropped on the hearth, he abandoned the audacious attempt.

One grew so accustomed to these mouse-like movements that it came as a shock when my neighbour burst into activity. It was on a Friday afternoon that he seemed to be rearranging his furniture so as to leave a clear passage from end to end of the room, and then, after he had adjusted the chairs and table to his satisfaction, he began a wonderful exercise. Sometimes he would pace swiftly backwards and forwards with a murmuring sound as one repeating passages by rote, with occasional sudden pauses, when he refreshed his memory from some quarter. Sometimes he stood before the table and spoke aloud, rising to a pitch, when one could catch a word or two, and then he would strike a book, quite fiercely for him, and once or twice he stamped his foot almost as hard as a child could. After this outbreak he would rest a while, and then begin again on the lower key, and one knew when he reached the height by the refrain, “Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus.” It was an amazing development, and stimulated thought.

“No,” explained our excellent landlady, “he's no daft, though ye micht think sae. He's a minister without a kirk, an' he's juist learnin' his sermon; but, Losh keep us, he's by ordinar' the day.

“He's my cousin's son, ye see”--and Mrs. Macfarlane settled to historical detail--“an' his mother's a weedow. She focht to get him through St. Andrew's, an' hoo she managed passes me. Noo he's what is called a probationer, an', eh, but he earns his livin' hard.

“His business,” continued Mrs. Macfarlane, “is to tak' the pulpit when a minister is awa' at a Sacrament or on his holiday, and any Sabbath he micht be at Peterhead and the next at Wigtown. He gets his orders on Friday, an' he sets aff wi' his bit bag on Saturday, an' a weary body he is on Monday nicht An' it's little he maks for a' he does, bare twenty shillin' a week clear; but naebody can stand this colie-shangie, (disturbance).” For above the landlady's exposition rose the probationer's voice: “Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus.”

What she said to her cousin once removed I know not, but it was not in vain, for in the evening this was brought by the servant:--

“Dear Sir,--

“It affords me sincere regret to learn that you have been disturbed in the midst of your literary avocations by sounds and movements emanating from my room. They are unfortunately and unavoidably connected with a new method of professional work which I have been advised to adopt by experienced friends. It would, however, be unrighteous that one man should hinder another in his daily labour, and I would be greatly obliged if you could indicate any time of absence during which I might be free to speak aloud and move with energy in my chamber without offence. Apologising for my unwitting annoyance,

“I am,

“Yours respectfully,

“Hiram Clunas.”

It was written on poor paper and a single sheet, but the handwriting was that of a scholar, a man accustomed to form Hebrew and Greek characters, and the very flavour of pedantry was attractive, so that one wanted to know the writer, and I seized the excuse of a personal answer.

He was quite unprepared for my coming, and upset a Hebrew lexicon and four German books on the Prophets before he could get a chair in his single room below the slates; nor had he any small talk to offer, but he was ready enough to speak about his own work, and seemed anxious to explain his recent departure. It also occurred to me that he wanted my judgment.

“My work, let me explain,” he said, hesitatingly, “is not pastoral or... devoted to a particular sphere, since my gifts have not yet... commended themselves to a congregation after such a fashion that they were inclined to... in short, wished to have me as their minister. Mine is a vagum ministerium. I am what is called a probationer, that is, I have been duly educated in profane and sacred learning for the holy ministry, and have passed certain examinations... without discredit.”

“Of that I am sure,” I interpolated with sincerity, whereat the probationer ought to have bowed and replied, “It is very good of you to say so,” but as it was he only blushed and looked as if he had been caught boasting.

“And then?” I suggested.

“It remains to discover whether I am... fit for the practical work of my calling--if it be, indeed, I am called at all.. And here the little man came to a halt.

“You are examined again,” I inquired, tentatively, “or placed under a chief for a little?”

“Well, no, although the latter would be an excellent way--but it is not for me to criticise the rules of my Church; if any congregation has lost its minister, then such as I, that is, persons in a state of probation, are sent each Sabbath to... preach, and then the people choose the one who... And again Mr. Clunas came to a stand for want of fitting words.

“Who comes out first in the preaching competition,” I added, and in an instant was sorry.

“It would ill become me to put the matter... in such a form, and if I have done so it has been an inadvertence, and indeed I did not mean to complain, but rather to explain the reason of... the noise.”

“Please tell me whatever you please, but it was not noise, for I heard some words...

“The rivers of Damascus? I feared so, sir; that was the climax or point of repetition--but I will relate the matter in order, with your permission.

“It has been my habit, after I have duly examined a passage in the original language and the light of competent scholars, and verified its lessons by my own reason and conscience--collected the raw material, if I may so say--to commit the same to writing according to my ability, using language that can be understood of the people, and yet conforming as far as may be to the Elizabethan standard.”

In my opinion, I indicated, he had done well. “I judged that I would have your approval so far, but hereafter comes in a grave question of expediency, on which I should like your mind as a neutral person and one given to literary pursuits. My habit is further to read to the people what I have written in a clear voice, and with such animation as is natural to me, in the faith that whatsoever may have been given me by the Spirit of Truth may be witnessed to the hearers by the same Spirit.”

This appeared to me a very reasonable method and a just hope.

“Others, however, acting according to their nature, commit their message to memory, and deliver it to the people with many lively and engaging gestures, which pleases the people and wins their hearts.”

“And so the groundlings prefer the windbags,” I interrupted, “and elect them to be their minister.”

“It is not so that I wished you to infer,” and the probationer's voice was full of reproof, “for I trust my desire is not to obtain a church, but the confirmation of my calling through the voice of the people; yet who knoweth his heart?” And the probationer was much distressed.

It was only my foolish thought, I hastened to explain, and besought him to continue.

“A friend of... much shrewdness and, I am sure, of good intention, has spoken to me at length on my... want of favour with the people, and has pointed out that the Word must be placed before them after a winsome fashion.”

“And so?”

“He urged me to choose texts which could be frequently repeated with effect, and so lodge their idea in the mind of the people, and that I should not use any manuscript, but should employ certain arts of oratory, such as beginning low and raising the voice up to a climax where it would be good to repeat the text with emphasis.

“As an example and... inducement he dwelt upon the case of one probationer who had taken for his text, 'And there shall be no more sea,' whereon he composed a single sermon, to which he devoted much pains. This he delivered daily for some hours in his chamber, and at the end of each paragraph said in a loud voice, 'And there shall be no more sea.' He was elected to three churches within a short space,” concluded Mr. Clunas.

“You have therefore thought it desirable to amend your habit.”

“Well, so far,” and the probationer was much embarrassed, “it was impossible for me to handle what my adviser called 'repeaters,' such as that I have mentioned, for my mind does not incline to them; but as I had been labouring the tendency to prefer meretricious and sensational religion to that which is austere and pure from the text, 'Are not Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus, better than all the waters of Israel? * it seemed to me that I might for once... make trial... that is, use the words Abana and Pharpar as a symbol to... fix the truth, as it were. It is very laborious and... not grateful to me. Do you think that... I am doing right?” and my probationer fixed me with an anxious eye.

“Quite so, sir, I understand perfectly,” as I was making a blundering effort to suggest that Providence hardly intended that my probationer should go round the country like a showman with “repeaters.”

“You have confirmed my own idea and... delivered my feet from falling, for I had come nearly to unreality in a holy thing, besides ridding me from an irksome task,” and he regarded the sheets--the “rivers” standing out in half text--with strong dislike.

“There is another matter,” he continued, “on which I would fain have your mind, since you have shown so much sympathy. It is now, I regret to say, the custom for a person in my position, that is, on probation, to print a number of certificates from influential persons and send them to... the authorities in a vacant church. This I have refused to do; but there is a special reason why I strongly desire to be settled... not quite unworthy, I hope,” and a faint flush came to the probationer's face.

“I understand”--for it was natural to suppose that he was engaged, as many in his circumstances are, which grows into a pathetic tragedy as a girl waits for long years till her betrothed is approved in his work and can offer her a home--“and you have got your certificates.”

“A few, and it may be that I could secure more; here is one which... I value deeply... count above gold. It's from Prof. Carphin; you know what he has done, of course.

“Hebrew scholar”--the probationer rose from his chair and paced the floor--“that is inadequate, quite inadequate; there are many Hebrew scholars, thank God, but Prof. Carphin has gone deeper. Why, sir, he has made a race of scholars, and changed the face of theological thought in Scotland; he is the modern Erasmus of our land,” and the probationer was very warm.

“This is what he has written of me, and it is superfluous to say that from such a man this testimony is the highest praise; I ought hardly to show such words, but you will not misjudge me.”

“I beg to certify that Mr. Hiram Clunas, Master of Arts and Bachelor of Divinity, late Fellow of this College, is in my judgment fully competent to expound the Hebrew Scriptures after an accurate and spiritual fashion to any body of intelligent people.

“Zechariah Carphin,

“D.D., LL.D.

“Calvin College, Edinburgh.”

“Pardon me, it is my foolishness, but you notice 'fully'; this extremity of language is, I need not say, undeserved, but that Dr. Carphin should have written it is... a compensation for many little disappointments,” and the probationer's voice trembled.

“No, it will not be of material service in the way of gaining me a hearing, for it is a... moral disgrace to my Church that the word of this eminent man carries little weight with... committees and such like, and that many people in this University city do not know his face when he walks along Princes Street.

“This is from another kind of man, who is very... acceptable as a preacher, and has much influence... in vacancies; it was an indiscretion, I fear, to have asked him for... a certificate, as he has only seen me once; but when one is pressed he is not always wise.”

“I have had the pleasure of knowing the Rev. Hiram Clunas for a considerable time, and have much satisfaction in recommending him to the favourable consideration of selection committees of vacant congregations, He is a ripe scholar, a profound divine, an eloquent preacher, a faithful pastor, an experienced Christian, with an attractive and popular manner, and general knowledge of a varied and rich character. Any congregation securing Mr. Clunas is certain to increase both in number and finance, and I anticipate for this talented young minister a future of remarkable and rapid success.

“MacDuff MacLeear, D.D.”

“Yes, it is a curious name, and I believe was, so to say, adopted. Originally he was James MacLeear--MacLeear is his own--and some years ago he inserted MacDuff, I am credibly informed, and now he has dropped his Christian name.

“The reason for the change, it is understood, is for purposes of advertisement in the public prints, where, I am informed, ordinary names such as James or John are less... striking, so that preachers who desire to appeal to the people use two surnames, as it were; it seems to me doubtful in ethics, but one must not be ready to judge his neighbour in such straits.

“No, his degree is not from a Scots University, but from a seat of learning in a Western State of America--Auroraville, I think it is called, but I am not sure. Yes, he wrote a little book on the _Maidens of the Bible_ of a popular cast.

“You agree with me that no one could use such a testimony with... self-respect, and I have resolved to print no certificates or make any personal appeal; but I do not regret the effort I made, for it has gained me the Professor's letter,” and the probationer folded up the letter carefully and placed it in his desk.

“I fear that you must think me charged with vain ambition, but... it is not for my own sake.”

From time to time we spent an hour together, and he told me of his journeys, many and toilsome.

“Of course I am not sent to supply in cities, for they require men of greater... experience; my allotment is always in the country, and I like that better.

“When my station comes near I begin to look out of the window and see whether the district is level or hilly--for though climbing tries one a little, one has a fair view to refresh the soul, and I like woods because of the mystery and the rustling of the leaves.

“Sometimes a farmer will meet me with a dogcart--and there are no men so kind as farmers--but mostly I walk, and that is nothing unless the distance be far and it be raining heavily. No, it may be a weakness of the flesh, but I do not like a night walk, and yet to see the squares of light in the cottage windows, flashing across a glen or breaking out of a wood, is very pleasing.”

One snowy morning in February he came into my room in evident excitement, with a letter in his hand.

“You have taken such an interest in my affairs that I thought you would like to know... I have received a letter informing me that I am on the short leet for Tilliegask... just two, and I am one... and I am to preach next Sabbath... and the farmer with whom I stayed has sent a very encouraging letter.”

During the week the probationer was much tried on a question of conscience, whether he ought to act on a suggestion of his friend at Tilliegask.

“It happens,” he explained to me, “that the people at Tilliegask are very conservative in their views of the Bible, while, as you are aware, I have been led to accept certain modern conclusions regarding the history of the books, and my good friend desires that I should... make no allusion to them in my discourse.

“Now,” went on the probationer, “it was not my intention to do so, but after this advice am I not bound in conscience to indicate, simply to indicate, my position, that they may not be deceived, and that I may not obtain a church by guile?” And he read to me the sentence, which I make no doubt no one understood, but which was to Mr. Clunas a great relief. He came home from Tilliegask in high spirits, and speculated every evening on his chances as against the other man who was to preach on Sabbath.

“No, he was not what you would call a scholar,” and then the probationer laughed aloud--a rare occurrence; “well, it was a translation in the Latin class; he rendered _adhuc juvenis_ as 'a still youth,' which was much tasted, and others, too, as remarkable; but it is not generous to remember such... failings.”

The good man was indeed so distressed by this disparaging allusion to his rival that he searched his heart for the sins of pride and jealousy, which with envy and worldliness, he confessed to me, constantly beset him. He also impressed upon me that although Mr. Tosh might not be a scholar in the academic sense, yet he had such gifts of speech that he would be an excellent minister for Tilliegask if the choice of that secluded place should fall on Tosh. But the probationer waited anxiously for the first post on Tuesday, which would give the result, and I was only less anxious.

When he did not come down with tidings, and only the faintest sound came from his room as of a chair occasionally shifted before the fire, I went up, and found my friend very low and two open letters on the table.

“It has not been... God's will,” and he signed that I should read the letters. One was from the ecclesiastical functionary who presides over elections and church courts, and who is called by the suggestive name of “moderator”; that the vote had been fifty-two for Mr. Clunas and ninety-three for Mr. Tosh; that Mr. Tosh had been elected; that on his, the moderator's appeal, the minority had “fallen in”; that he, the moderator, was sure that Mr. Clunas would be pleased to know that his supporters had shown so good a spirit, and that there was no doubt that the Great Head of the Church had something in store for His servant; and that in the event of Mr. Clunas applying in another vacancy he, the moderator, would be willing to give him a strong certificate as to the impression he, Mr. Clunas, had produced on the congregation of Tilliegask. The second letter was from Wester Tilliegask, my friend's host, who was full of genuine regret that Mr. Clunas had not won the poll, who explained that up to Sabbath his chance was excellent, but that Mr. Tosh had carried all before him by a sermon on “A Rainbow round about the Throne,” with very fetching illustrations and quotations--Mr. Tosh had also won several votes by shaking hands with the people at the door, and ingeniously giving it to be understood that his idea of pastoral duty was to visit his congregation four times a year; that, notwithstanding all these Tosh attractions, he, Wester Tilliegask, would have preferred Mr. Clunas; and that as there was a rumour that the minister of Ballengeich would soon need a colleague, he would arrange through his, Wester Tilliegask's, wife's brother that Mr. Clunas should have a hearing. He added that a certificate from MacDuff MacLeear, placing Mr. Tosh a little lower than St Paul, had told.

The probationer was very brave and generous, blaming no one, and acknowledging that Tosh would be a more suitable man for Tilliegask, but it was evident he was hardly hit.

“It was not to escape the unrest of this life,” he said, “nor for the position, nor even for the sanction of my work; it was for the sake of one who... has waited long to see me an ordained minister. She may not... be spared much longer; my mother is now nearly seventy.” So it was no sweetheart, but his mother of whom he thought.

“If I had been elected, I had purposed to start this forenoon and carry the news myself, and I imagined the scene. I never could reach the cottage unseen, for there is a window in the gable which commands the road, so that mother is ever waiting at the garden gate for me.

“Do not count me foolish, but I was to pretend that I had just come to visit her for a day, and then ask her how she would like to leave the cottage and live in a manse.

“By this time she would jalouse something--'tis her word--but I would tell nothing, only expatiate on the manse and her room in it, and... and... she would suddenly throw her arms round my neck.... Excuse me, sir; I will come down in the evening, if you please.”

Before evening he was hurrying down to the cottage, for after all he had to go to his mother, and when he came back next Monday she was dead and buried.

“Your sympathy is very grateful,” as we sat together, “and it helps me, but I think my heart is... broken; although I had to live in Edinburgh in order to accomplish my railway journeys, and we only saw one another at intervals, we were all in all to one another....

“There were things passed between us I cannot tell, for it seems to me that a mother's death-bed is a holy place; but she knew that I had lost Tilliegask, and... she was not cast down, as I was for her sake.

“'Dinna lose heart, Hiram,' she said, her hand in mine, 'for my faith will be justified; when I gave ye to the Lord the day your father died I was sure, a' through the fecht o' education I was sure, an' when you got your honours I was sure, an' when you got no kirk I was still as sure, and now my eyes are clear, an' I see that God has savit you for a work that hath not entered into my heart,' and she blessed me....”

From that day he began to fail, and although he struggled to fulfil preaching engagements, he had at last to give up public work. But he toiled harder than ever at the Semitic languages.

“It is not that I am deceiving myself with vain hopes,” he explained to me one day, “for I know full well that I am dying, but it seemeth good that whatsoever talent I have should be cultivated to the end.

“The future life is veiled, and speculation is vain, but language must be used, and they who have mastered the ancient roots will be of some service; it is all I can offer, and I must give of my best.”

The morning he died I looked over his few affairs and balanced his accounts, which were kept in a small pass-book, his poor fees on one side and his slender expenses on the other to a halfpenny.

“The expenditure may seem heavy the last few journeys, but my strength failed by the way, and I was unable to walk to my destination, but there may still be enough at the end of the week for what has to be done.

“There will be £9 15s. 6d. when all is paid.

“With the sale of my books it will suffice, for I have carefully enquired, to buy a grave and defray the cost of burial. It is not possible to be buried beside my mother, for our ground is full, so let me lie where the sun is shining on the Grange Cemetery.”

Soon after his mind wandered, and I gathered he was in the vestry of Tilliegask Kirk.

“Lord, be merciful to me and remember my infirmities... deliver Thy servant from the fear of man and all doubleness of heart... give me grace to declare Thy truth and to set Thee before me... bless my mother and hear her prayers....”

After a little while he began to preach, but we could make nothing of the words till he suddenly stopped and raised himself in the bed.

“Thou, Lord,” he cried, with great astonishment, “hearing me... Forgive... I am not worthy to declare Thy Gospel....” What was said by the Master none of us heard, but the astonishment passed into joy, and the light thereof still touched and made beautiful his face as the probationer fell on sleep.

It was a spring day when we laid his body to rest, and any one who cares can find his grave because a weeping willow hangs over it, and this is the inscription on the stone:

Hiram Clunas,

Probationer.

“It is a very small thing that I should be judged of man's judgment.”

A GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL

Never had I met any man so methodical in his habits, so neat in his dress, so accurate in speech, so precise in manner as my fellow-lodger. When he took his bath in the morning I knew it was half-past seven, and when he rang for hot water that it was a quarter to eight Until a quarter-past he moved about the room in his slow, careful dressing, and then everything was quiet next door till half-past eight, when the low murmur of the Lord's Prayer concluded his devotions. Two minutes later he went downstairs--if he met a servant one could hear him say “Good morning”--and read his newspaper--he seldom had letters--till nine, when he rang for breakfast. Twenty-past nine he went upstairs and changed his coat, and he spent five minutes in the lobby selecting a pair of gloves, brushing his hat, and making a last survey for a speck of dust One glove he put on opposite the hat-stand, and the second on the doorstep, and when he touched the pavement you might have set your watch by nine-thirty. Once he was in the lobby at five and twenty minutes to ten, distressed and flurried.

“I cut my chin slightly when shaving,” he explained, “and the wound persists in bleeding. It has an untidy appearance, and a drop of blood might fall on a letter.”

The walk that morning was quite broken, and before reaching the corner, he had twice examined his chin with a handkerchief, and shaken his head as one whose position in life was now uncertain.

“It is nothing in itself,” he said afterwards, with an apologetic allusion to his anxiety, “and might not matter to another man. But any little misadventure--a yesterday's collar or a razor cut, or even an inky finger--would render me helpless in dealing with people. They would simply look at the weak spot, and one would lose all authority. Some of the juniors smile when I impress on them to be very careful about their dress--quiet, of course, as becomes their situation, but unobjectionable. With more responsibility they will see the necessity of such details. I will remember your transparent sticking-plaster--a most valuable suggestion.”

His name was Frederick Augustus Perkins; so ran the card he left on my table a week after I settled in the next rooms, and the problem of his calling gradually became a standing vexation. It fell under the class of conundrums, and one remembered from childhood that it is mean to be told the answer, so I might not say to Mister Perkins--for it was characteristic of the prim little man that no properly constituted person could have said Perkins--“By the way, what is your line of things?” or any more decorous rendering of my curiosity.

Mrs. Holmes, who was as a mother to Mr. Perkins and myself, as well as two younger men of literary pursuits and irregular habits, had a gift of charming irrelevance, and was able to combine allusions to Mr. Perkins' orderly life and the amatory tendencies of a new cook in a mosaic of enthralling interest.

“No, Betsy Jane has 'ad her notice and goes this day week; not that her cookin's bad, but her brothers don't know when to leave. One was 'ere no later than last night, though if he was her born brother, 'e 'ad a different father and mother, or my name ain't 'Olmes. 'Your brother, Betsy Jane,' says I, 'ought not to talk in a strange 'ouse on family affairs till eleven o'clock.'

“'E left at 'alf-past ten punctual,' says she, looking as hinnocent as a child, 'for I 'eard Mr. Perkins go up to 'is room as I was lettin' Jim out.

“'Betsy Jane,' I says, quite calm, 'where do you expeck to go to as doesn't know wot truth is?' for Mr. Perkins leaves 'is room has the 'all clock starts on eleven, and e's in 'is bedroom at the last stroke. If she 'adn't brought in Mr. Perkins she might'ave deceived me, gettin' old and not bein' so quick in my hearing as I was; but that settled her.

“'Alf-past,” went on Mrs. Holmes, scornfully; “and 'im never varied two minutes the last ten years, except one night 'e fell asleep in 'is chair, being bad with hinfluenza.

“For a regular single gentleman as rises in the morning and goes out, and comes in and takes 'is dinner, and goes to bed like the Medes and Persians, I've never seen 'is equal; an' it's five-and-twenty years since 'Olmes died, 'avin' a bad liver through takin' gin for rheumatics; an' Liz-beth Peevey says to me, 'Take lodgers, Jemima; not that they pays for the trouble, but it 'ill keep an 'ouse.'...

“Mr. Perkins' business;” it was shabby, but the temptation came as a way of escape from the flow of Mrs. Holmes' autobiography; “now that I couldn't put a name on, for why, 'e never speaks about 'is affairs; just 'Good evening, Mrs.'Olmes; I'll take fish for breakfast to-morrow;' no more than that, or another blanket on 'is bed on the first of November, for it's by days, not cold, 'e goes....”

It was evident that I must solve the problem for myself.

Mr. Perkins could not be a city man, for in the hottest June he never wore a white waistcoat, nor had he the swelling gait of one who made an occasional _coup_ in mines, and it went without saying that he did not write; a man who went to bed at eleven, and whose hair made no claim to distinction. One's mind fell back on the idea of law--conveyancing seemed probable--but his face lacked sharpness, and the alternative of confidential clerk to a firm of drysalters was contradicted by an air of authority that raised observations on the weather to the level of a state document The truth came upon me--a flash of inspiration--as I saw Mr. Perkins coming home one evening. The black frock-coat and waistcoat, dark grey trousers, spotless linen, high, old-fashioned collar, and stiff stock, were a symbol, and could only mean one profession.

“By the way, Mr. Perkins,” for this was all one now required to know, “are you Income Tax or Stamps?”

“Neither, although my duty makes me familiar with every department in the Civil Service. I have the honour to be,” and he cleared his throat with dignity, “a first-class clerk in the Schedule Office.”

“Our work,” he explained to me, “is very important, and in fact... vital to the administration of affairs. The efficiency of practical government depends on the accuracy of the forms issued, and every one is composed in our office.

“No, that is a common mistake,” in reply to my shallow remark; “the departments do not draw up their own forms, and in fact they are not fit for such work. They send us a memorandum of what their officials wish to ask, and we put it into shape.

“It requires long experience and, I may say, some... ability to compose a really creditable schedule, one that will bring out every point clearly and exhaustively--in fact, I have ventured to call it a science”--here Mr. Perkins allowed himself to smile--“and it might be defined Schedulology.

“Yes, to see a double sheet of foolscap divided up into some twenty-four compartments, each with a question and a blank, space for the answer, is pleasing to the eye, very pleasing indeed.

“What annoys one,” and Mr. Perkins became quite irritable, “is to examine a schedule after it has been filled and to discover how it has been misused--simply mangled.

“It is not the public simply who are to blame; they are, of course, quite hopeless, and have an insane desire to write their names all over the paper, with family details; but members of the Civil Service abuse the most admirable forms that ever came out of our office.

“Numerous? Yes, naturally so; and as governmental machinery turns on schedules they will increase every year. Could you guess, now, the number of different schedules under our charge?”

“Several hundred, perhaps.”

Mr. Perkins smiled with much complacency. “Sixteen thousand four hundred and four, besides temporary ones that are only used in emergencies. One department has now reached twelve hundred and two; it has been admirably organised, and its secretary could tell you the subject of every form.

“Well, it does not become me to boast, but I have had the honour of contributing two hundred and twenty myself, and have composed forty-two more that have not yet been accepted.

“Well, yes,” he admitted, with much modesty, “I have kept copies of the original drafts,” and he showed me a bound volume of his works.

“An author? It is very good of you to say so,” and Mr. Perkins seemed much pleased with the idea, twice smiling to himself during the evening, and saying as we parted, “It's my good fortune to have a large and permanent circulation.”

All November Mr. Perkins was engaged with what he hoped would be one of his greatest successes.

“It's a sanitation schedule for the Education Department, and is, I dare to say, nearly perfect It has eighty-three questions on every point, from temperature to drains, and will present a complete view of the physical condition of primary schools.

“You have no idea,” he continued, “what a fight I have had with our Head to get it through--eight drafts, each one costing three days' labour--but now he has passed it.

“'Perkins,' he said, 'this is the most exhaustive schedule you have ever drawn up, and I'm proud it's come through the hands of the drafting sub-department Whether I can approve it as Head of the publishing sub-department is very doubtful.'”

“Do you mean that the same man would approve your paper in one department to-day and...

“Quite so. It's a little difficult for an outsider to appreciate the perfect order--perhaps I might say symmetry--of the Civil Service,” and Mr. Perkins spoke with a tone of condescension as to a little child. “The Head goes himself to the one sub-department in the morning and to the other in the afternoon, and he acts with absolute impartiality.

“Why, sir,”--Mr. Perkins began to warm and grow enthusiastic,--“I have received a letter from the other sub-department, severely criticising a draft he had highly commended in ours two days before, and I saw his hand in the letter... distinctly; an able review, too, very able indeed.

“'Very well put, Perkins,' he said to me himself; 'they've found the weak points; we must send an amended draft;' and so we did, and got a very satisfactory reply. It was a schedule about swine fever, 972 in the department of Agriculture. I have had the pleasure of reading it in public circulation when on my holidays.”

“Does your Head sign the letters addressed to himself?”

“Certainly; letters between departments are always signed by the chief officer.” Mr. Perkins seemed to have found another illustration of public ignorance, and recognised his duty as a missionary of officialism. “It would afford me much pleasure to give you any information regarding our excellent system, which has been slowly built up and will repay study; but you will excuse me this evening, as I am indisposed--a tendency to shiver which annoyed me in the office to-day.”

Next morning I rose half an hour late, as Mr. Perkins did not take his bath, and was not surprised when Mrs. Holmes came to my room, overflowing with concern and disconnected speech.

“'E's that regular in 'is ways, that when 'Annah Mariar says 'is water's at 'is door at eight o'clock, I went up that 'urried that I couldn't speak; and I 'ears him speaking to 'isself, which is not what you would expect of him, he being the quietest gentleman as ever...”

“Is Mr. Perkins ill, do you mean?” for Mrs. Holmes seemed now in fair breath, and was always given to comparative reviews.

“So I knocks and says, 'Mr. Perkins, 'ow are you feeling?' and all I could 'ear was 'temperance'; it's little as he needs of that, for excepting a glass of wine at his dinner, and it might be something 'ot before going to bed in winter....

“So I goes in,” resumed Mrs. Holmes, “an' there 'e was sittin' up in'is bed, with 'is face as red as fire, an' not knowing me from Adam. If it wasn't for 'is 'abits an' a-catching of 'is breath you wud 'ave said drink, for 'e says, 'How often have the drains been sluiced last year?'” After which I went up to Mr. Perkins' room without ceremony.

He was explaining, with much cogency, as it seemed to me, that unless the statistics of temperature embraced the whole year, they would afford no reliable conclusions regarding the sanitary condition of Board Schools; but when I addressed him by name with emphasis, he came to himself with a start:

“Excuse me, sir; I must apologise... I really did not hear... in fact,” and then, as he realised his situation, Mr. Perkins was greatly embarrassed.

“Did I forget myself so far as... to send for you?... I was not feeling well. I have a slight difficulty in breathing, but I am quite able to go to the office... in a cab.

“You are most kind and obliging, but the schedule I am... it just comes and goes... thank you, no more water... is important and... intricate; no one... can complete it... except myself.

“With your permission I will rise... in a few minutes... ten o'clock, dear me... this is most unfortunate... not get down till eleven... I must really insist...” But the doctor had come, and Mr. Perkins obeyed on one condition.

“Yes, doctor, I prefer, if you please, to know; you see I am not a young person... nor nervous... thank you very much... quite so; pneumonia is serious... and double pneumonia dangerous, I understand... no, it is not that... one is not alarmed at my age, but... yes, I'll lie down... letter must go to office... dictate it to my friend... certain form... leave of absence, in fact... trouble you too much... medical certificate.”

He was greatly relieved after this letter was sent by special messenger with the key of his desk, and quite refreshed when a clerk came up with the chiefs condolences.

“My compliments to Mr. Lighthead... an excellent young official, very promising indeed... and would he step upstairs for a minute... will excuse this undress in circumstances... really I will not speak any more.

“Those notes, Mr. Lighthead, will make my idea quite plain... and I hope to revise final draft... if God will... my dutiful respect to the Board, and kind regards to the chief clerk... it was kind of you to come, most thoughtful.”

This young gentleman came into my room to learn the state of the case, and was much impressed.

“Really this kind of thing--Perkins gasping in bed and talking in his old-fashioned way--knocks one out of time, don't you know? If he had gone on much longer I should have bolted.

“Like him in the office? I should think so. You should have seen the young fellows to-day when they heard he was so ill. Of course we laugh a bit at him--Schedule Perkins he's called--because he's so dry and formal; but that's nothing.

“With all his little cranks, he knows his business better than any man in the department; and then he's a gentleman, d'y see? could not say a rude word or do a mean thing to save his life--not made that way, in fact.

“Let me just give you one instance--show you his sort Every one knew that he ought to have been chief clerk, and that Rodway's appointment was sheer influence. The staff was mad, and some one said Rodway need not expect to have a particularly good time.

“Perkins overheard him, and chipped in at once. 'Mr. Rodway'--you know his dry manner, wagging his eyeglass all the time--'is our superior officer, and we are bound to render him every assistance in our power, or,' and then he was splendid, 'resign our commissions.' Rodway, they say, has retired; but the worst of it is that as Perkins has been once passed over he 'ill not succeed.

“Perhaps it won't matter, poor chap. I say,” said Lighthead, hurriedly, turning his back and examining a pipe on the mantel-piece, “do you think he is going to... I mean, has he a chance?”

“Just a chance, I believe. Have you been long with him?”

“That's not it--it's what he's done for a... for fellows. Strangers don't know Perkins. You might talk to him for a year, and never hear anything but shop. Then one day you get into a hole, and you would find out another Perkins.

“Stand by you?” and he wheeled round. “Rather, and no palaver either: with money and with time and with... other things that do a fellow more good than the whole concern, and no airs. There's more than one man in our office has cause to... bless Schedule Perkins.

“Let me tell you how he got... one chap out of the biggest scrape he'll ever fall into. Do you mind me smoking?” And then he made himself busy with matches and a pipe that was ever going out for the rest of the story.

“Well, you see, this man, clerk in our office, had not been long up from the country, and he was young. Wasn't quite bad, but he couldn't hold his own with older fellows.

“He got among a set that had suppers in their rooms, and gambled a bit, and he lost and borrowed, and... in fact, was stone broke.

“It's not very pleasant for a fellow to sit in his room a week before Christmas, and know that he may be cashiered before the holidays, and all through his own fault.

“If it were only himself, why, he might take his licking and go to the Colonies; but it was hard... on his mother--it's always going out, this pipe--when he was her only son, and she rather... believed in him.

“Didn't sleep much that night--told me himself afterwards--and he concluded that the best way out was to buy opium in the City next day, and take it--pretty stiff dose, you know--next night.

“Cowardly rather, of course, but it might be easier for the mater down in Devon--his mother, I mean--did I say he was Devon?--same county as myself--affair would be hushed up, and she would have... his memory clean.

“As it happened, though, he didn't buy any opium next day--didn't get the chance; for Perkins came round to his desk, and asked this young chap to have a bit of dinner with him--aye, and made him come.

“He had the jolliest little dinner ready you ever saw, and he insisted on the fellow smoking, though Perkins hates the very smell of 'baccy, and--well, he got the whole trouble out of him, except the opium.

“D'y think he lectured and scolded? Not a bit--that's not Perkins--he left the fool to do his own lecturing, and he did it stiff. I'll tell you what he said: 'Your health must have been much tried by this anxiety, so you must go down and spend Christmas with your mother, and I would venture to suggest that you take her a suitable gift.

“With regard to your debt, you will allow me,' and Perkins spoke as if he had been explaining a schedule, 'to take it over, on two conditions--that you repay me by instalments every quarter, and dine with me every Saturday evening for six months.

“See what he was after? Wanted to keep... the fellow straight, and cheer him up; and you've no idea how Perkins came out those Saturdays--capital stories as ever you heard--and he declared that it was a pleasure to him.

“'I am rather lonely,' he used to say, 'and it is most kind of a young man to sit with me.' Kind!”

“What was the upshot with your friend? Did he turn over a new leaf?”

“He 'ill never be the man that Perkins expects, but he's doing his level best, and... is rising in the office. Perkins swears by him, and that's made a man of the fellow.

“He's paid up the cash now, but... he can never pay up the kindness--confound those wax matches, they never strike--he told his mother last summer the whole story.

“She wrote to Perkins--of course I don't know what was in the letter--but Perkins had the fellow into his room. 'You ought to have regarded our transaction as confidential. I am grieved you mentioned my name;' and then as I--I mean, as the fellow--was going out, 'I'll keep that letter beside my commission,' said Perkins.

“If Perkins dies”--young men don't do that kind of thing, or else one would have thought--“it'ill be... a beastly shame,” which was a terrible collapse, and Mr. Geoffrey Light-head, of the Schedule Department, left the house without further remark or even shaking hands..

That was Wednesday, and on Friday morning he appeared, flourishing a large blue envelope, sealed with an imposing device, marked “On Her Majesty's Service,” and addressed to--

“Frederick Augustus Perkins, Esq.,

“First Class Clerk in the Schedule Department,

“Somerset House,

“London,”

An envelope any man might be proud to receive, and try to live up to for a week.

“Rodway has retired,” he shouted, “and we can't be sure in the office, but the betting is four to one--I'm ten myself--that the Board has appointed Perkins Chief Clerk,” and Lighthead did some steps of a triumphal character.

“The Secretary appeared this morning after the Board had met 'There's a letter their Honours wish taken at once to Mr. Perkins. Can any of you deliver it at his residence?' Then the other men looked at me, because--well, Perkins has been friendly with me; and that hansom came very creditably indeed.

“Very low, eh? Doctors afraid not last over the night--that's hard lines... but I say, they did not reckon on this letter. Could not you read it to him? You see this was his one ambition. He could never be Secretary, not able enough, but he was made for Chief Clerk. Now he's got it, or I would not have been sent out skimming with this letter. Read it to him, and the dear old chap will be on his legs in a week.”

It seemed good advice, and this was what I read, while Perkins lay very still and did his best to breathe:--

“Dear Mr. Perkins,--

“I have the pleasure to inform you that the Board have appointed you Chief Clerk in the Schedule Department in succession to Gustavus Rodway, Esq., who retires, and their Honours desire me further to express their appreciation of your long and valuable service, and their earnest hope that you may be speedily restored to health. I am,

“Your obedient servant,

“Arthur Wraxhall,

“Secretary.”

For a little time it was too much for Mr. Perkins, and then he whispered:--

“The one thing on earth I wished, and... more than I deserved... not usual, personal references in Board letters... perhaps hardly regular... but most gratifying... and... strengthening.

“I feel better already... some words I would like to hear again... thank you, where I can reach it... nurse will be so good as to read it”

Mr. Perkins revived from that hour, having his tonic administered at intervals, and astonished the doctors. On Christmas Eve he had made such progress that Lighthead was allowed to see him for five minutes.

“Heard about your calling three times a day... far too kind with all your work... and the messages from the staff... touched me to heart... never thought had so many friends... wished been more friendly myself.

“My promotion, too... hope may be fit for duty... can't speak much, but think I'll be spared... Almighty very good to me... Chief Clerk of Schedule Department... would you mind saying Lord's Prayer together... it sums up everything.”

So we knelt one on each side of Perkins' bed, and I led with “Our Father”--the other two being once or twice quite audible. The choir of a neighbouring church were singing a Christmas carol in the street, and the Christ came into our hearts as a little child.

THE RIGHT HAND OF SAMUEL DODSON