“Perhaps so. And yet, when I said to him to-day that, next to Divine Providence, I owed my thanks to Sir Lionel Bodkin, he replied, rather testily, I thought, ‘Thank Providence, my dear doctor, and not me.’”
“It is only his brusque manner, dear; under a rough exterior he hides the kindest heart.”
“It must be so. It must be so,” slowly repeated the aged divine, in a tone which did not argue absolute conviction.
Meanwhile, Montagu, at Christ Church, was zealously preparing himself for the holy office to which he would soon be called. And a year after the installation of the new rector he received a letter which, neither in its subject-matter nor in its tone, was one which a pious father should have despatched to a boy about to become a light of the Establishment. The letter read:—
“My Dear Monty,—My plans about the living have been all upset. Before offering it to the present incumbent, I made the most thorough inquiries of his medical man, and found that he could not possibly live more than two or three years. In fact, when I brought him down here he was little better than a corpse—and a corpse with a daughter as old-looking as your mother. But thanks to the change, the light duties, and the damned air of Grigsby, the old doctor seems to have taken a new lease of life, and, upon my soul, I see no reason in the world why he shouldn’t live to be a hundred. It is impossible for me to explain to the old idiot the reasons why I placed him in the position. Besides, I don’t believe that even then he would resign. I see no immediate chance of your having the living. But, of course, he may die. At all events, we must hope for the best.—Your affectionate father,
“L. de S. B.”
The above letter was written twenty-four years ago. The Rev. Montagu Bodkin is curate in a fashionable church in London. He has grey hairs on his head now. He is married to a sister of Lady Ashminton, and is greatly blessed with progeny. The living which lies in the gift of the Bodkin family, is still held by the Rev. Dionysius Shotter, D.D., a hale old man of ninety-five, who is never tired of singing the praises of his lately deceased patron, or of extolling the qualities of the air of Grigsby.
VI.
RES EST SACRA MISER.
“You refuse absolutely to give up the papers. You decline to comply with the order of the Court. Then, sir, I shall commit you for contempt. In prison you will have leisure in which to reflect on the enormity of your conduct.”
“But, my lord—”
“Not another word, sir. Your duty is to respect the Court, not to argue with it. Officer, remove your prisoner!”