Arcadian Adventures With the Idle Rich (19 page)

“Exactly; especially as Tom’s uncles occupy the position they do with regard to –” Mr. Furlong jerked his head backwards and pointed with his thumb over his shoulder in a way that his son knew was meant to indicate St. Osoph’s Church.

The Overend brothers, who were Tom’s uncles (his name being Tom Overend) were, as everybody knew, among the principal supporters of St. Osoph’s. Not that they were, by origin, presbyterians. But they were self-made men, which
put them once and for all out of sympathy with such a place as St. Asaph’s. “We made ourselves,” the two brothers used to repeat, in defiance of the catechism of the Anglican Church. They never wearied of explaining how Mr. Dick, the senior brother, had worked overtime by day to send Mr. George, the junior brother, to school by night, and how Mr. George had then worked overtime by night to send Mr. Dick to school by day. Thus they had come up the business ladder hand over hand, landing later on in life on the platform of success like two corpulent acrobats, panting with the strain of it. “For years,” Mr. George would explain, “we had father and mother to keep as well; then they died, and Dick and me saw daylight.” By which he meant no harm at all, but only stated a fact, and concealed the virtue of it.

And being self-made men they made it a point to do what they could to lessen the importance of such an institution as St. Asaph’s Church. By the same contrariety of nature the two Overend brothers (their business name was Overend Brothers, Limited) were supporters of the dissentient Young Men’s Guild, and the second or rival University Settlement, and of anything or everything that showed a likelihood of making trouble. On this principle they were warm supporters and friends of the Rev. Dr. McTeague. The minister had even gone so far as to present to the brothers a copy of his philosophical work, “McTeague’s Exposition of the Kantian Hypothesis,” and the two brothers had read it through in the office, devoting each of them a whole morning to it. Mr. Dick, the senior brother, had said that he had never seen anything like it, and Mr. George, the junior, had declared that a man who could write that was capable of anything.

On the whole it was evident that the relations between the Overend family and the presbyterian religion were too
intimate to allow Mrs. Tom Overend, formerly Miss Philippa Furlong, to sit anywhere else of a Sunday than under Dr. McTeague.

“Philippa writes,” continued Mr. Furlong, “that under the circumstances she and Tom would like to do something for your church. She would like – yes, I have the letter here – to give you, as a surprise, of course, either a new font or a carved pulpit; or perhaps a cheque; she wishes me on no account to mention it to you directly, but to ascertain indirectly from you, what would be the better surprise.”

“Oh, a cheque, I think,” said the rector; “one can do so much more with it, after all.”

“Precisely,” said his father; he was well aware of many things that can be done with a cheque that cannot possibly be done with a font.

“That’s settled then,” resumed Mr. Furlong; “and now I suppose you want me to run my eye over your quarterly statements, do you not, before we send them in to the trustees? That is what you’ve come for, is it not?”

“Yes,” said the rector, drawing a bundle of blue and white papers from his pocket. “I have everything with me. Our shewing is, I believe, excellent, though I fear I fail to present it as clearly as it might be done.”

Mr. Furlong senior spread the papers on the table before him and adjusted his spectacles to a more convenient angle. He smiled indulgently as he looked at the documents before him.

“I am afraid you would never make an accountant, Edward,” he said.

“I fear not,” said the rector.

“Your items,” said his father, “are entered wrongly. Here, for example, in the general statement, you put down
Distribution of Coals to the Poor to your credit. In the same way, Bibles and Prizes to the Sunday School you again mark to your credit. Why? Don’t you see, my boy, that these things are debits? When you give out Bibles or distribute fuel to the poor you give out something for which you get no return. It is a debit. On the other hand, such items as Church Offertory, Scholars’ Pennies, etc., are pure profit. Surely the principle is clear.”

“I think I see it better now,” said the Rev. Edward.

“Perfectly plain, isn’t it?” his father went on. “And here again, Paupers’ Burial Fund, a loss; enter it as such. Christmas Gift to Verger and Sexton, an absolute loss – you get nothing in return. Widow’s Mite, Fines inflicted in Sunday School, etc., these are profit; write them down as such. By this method, you see, in ordinary business we can tell exactly where we stand: anything which we give out without return or reward we count as a debit; all that we take from others without giving in return we count as so much to our credit.”

“Ah, yes,” murmured the rector. “I begin to understand.”

“Very good. But after all, Edward, I mustn’t quarrel with the mere form of your accounts; the statement is really a splendid shewing. I see that not only is our mortgage and debenture interest all paid to date, but that a number of our enterprises are making a handsome return. I notice, for example, that the Girls’ Friendly Society of the church not only pays for itself, but that you are able to take something out of its funds and transfer it to the Men’s Book Club. Excellent! And I observe that you have been able to take a large portion of the Soup Kitchen Fund and put it into the Rector’s Picnic Account. Very good indeed. In this respect your figures are a model for church accounts anywhere.”

Mr. Furlong continued his scrutiny of the accounts. “Excellent,” he murmured, “and on the whole an annual surplus, I see, of several thousands. But stop a bit,” he continued, checking himself; “what’s this? Are you aware, Edward, that you are losing money on your Foreign Missions Account?”

“I feared as much,” said Edward.

“It’s incontestable. Look at the figures for yourself: missionary’s salary so much, clothes and books to converts so much – why, you’re losing on it, Edward!” exclaimed Mr. Furlong, and he shook his head dubiously at the accounts before him.

“I thought,” protested his son, “that in view of the character of the work itself –”

“Quite so,” answered his father, “quite so. I fully admit the force of that. I am only asking you, is it worth it? Mind you, I am not speaking now as a Christian, but as a business man. Is it worth it?”

“I thought that perhaps, in view of the fact of our large surplus in other directions –”

“Exactly,” said his father, “a heavy surplus. It is precisely on that point that I wished to speak to you this morning. You have at present a large annual surplus, and there is every prospect under Providence – in fact, I think in any case – of it continuing for years to come. If I may speak very frankly I should say that as long as our reverend friend Dr. McTeague continues in his charge of St. Osoph’s – and I trust that he may be spared for many years to come – you are likely to enjoy the present prosperity of your church. Very good. The question arises, what disposition are we to make of our accumulating funds?”

“Yes,” said the rector, hesitating.

“I am speaking to you now,” said his father, “not as the secretary of your church, but as president of the Hymnal Supply Company which I represent here. Now please understand, Edward, I don’t want in any way to force or control your judgment. I merely wish to shew you certain – shall I say certain opportunities that present themselves for the disposal of our funds? The matter can be taken up later, formally, by yourself and the trustees of the church. As a matter of fact, I have already written to myself as secretary in the matter, and I have received what I consider a quite encouraging answer. Let me explain what I propose.”

Mr. Furlong senior rose, and opening the door of the office,

“Everett,” he said to the ancient clerk, “kindly give me a Bible.”

It was given to him.

Mr. Furlong stood with the Bible poised in his hand.

“Now we,” he went on, “I mean the Hymnal Supply Corporation, have an idea for bringing out an entirely new Bible.”

A look of dismay appeared on the saintly face of the rector.

“A new Bible!” he gasped.

“Precisely!” said his father, “a new Bible! This one – and we find it every day in our business – is all wrong.”

“All wrong!” said the rector with horror in his face.

“My dear boy,” exclaimed his father, “pray, pray, do not misunderstand me. Don’t imagine for a moment that I mean wrong in a religious sense. Such a thought could never, I hope, enter my mind. All that I mean is that this Bible is badly made up.”

“Badly made up!” repeated his son, as mystified as ever.

“I see that you do not understand me. What I mean is this. Let me try to make myself quite clear. For the market of to-day this Bible” – and he poised it again on his hand, as if to test its weight, “is too heavy. The people of to-day want something lighter, something easier to get hold of. Now if –”

But what Mr. Furlong was about to say was lost forever to the world.

For just at this juncture something occurred calculated to divert not only Mr. Furlong’s sentence, but the fortunes and the surplus of St. Asaph’s itself. At the very moment when Mr. Furlong was speaking a newspaper delivery man in the street outside handed to the sanctified boy the office copy of the noonday paper. And the boy had no sooner looked at its headlines than he said, “How dreadful!” Being sanctified, he had no stronger form of speech than that. But he handed the paper forthwith to one of the stenographers with hair like the daffodils of Sheba, and when she looked at it she exclaimed, “How awful!” And she knocked at once at the door of the ancient clerk and gave the paper to him; and when he looked at it and saw the headline the ancient clerk murmured, “Ah!” in the gentle tone in which very old people greet the news of catastrophe or sudden death.

But in his turn he opened Mr. Furlong’s door and put down the paper, laying his finger on the column for a moment without a word.

Mr. Furlong stopped short in his sentence. “Dear me!” he said as his eyes caught the item of news. “How very dreadful!”

“What is it?” said the rector.

“Dr. McTeague,” answered his father. “He has been stricken with paralysis!”

“How shocking!” said the rector, aghast. “But when? I saw him only this morning.”

“It has just happened,” said his father, following down the column of the newspaper as he spoke, “this morning at the university, in his classroom, at a lecture. Dear me, how dreadful! I must go and see the president at once.”

Mr. Furlong was about to reach for his hat and stick when at that moment the aged clerk knocked at the door.

“Dr. Boomer,” he announced in a tone of solemnity suited to the occasion.

Dr. Boomer entered, shook hands in silence and sat down.

“You have heard our sad news, I suppose?” he said. He used the word “our” as between the university president and his honorary treasurer.

“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Furlong.

“Most distressing,” said the president. “Dr. McTeague, it seems had just entered his ten o’clock class (the hour was about ten-twenty) and was about to open his lecture, when one of his students rose in his seat and asked a question. It is a practice,” continued Dr. Boomer, “which, I need hardly say, we do not encourage; the young man, I believe, was a newcomer in the philosophy class. At any rate, he asked Dr. McTeague, quite suddenly it appears, how he could reconcile his theory of transcendental immaterialism with a scheme of rigid moral determinism. Dr. McTeague stared for a moment, his mouth, so the class assert, painfully open. The student repeated the question, and poor McTeague fell forward over his desk, paralysed.”

“Is he dead?” gasped Mr. Furlong.

“No,” said the president. “But we expect his death at any moment. Dr. Slyder, I may say, is with him now and is doing all he can.”

“In any case, I suppose, he could hardly recover enough to continue his college duties,” said the young rector.

“Out of the question,” said the president. “I should not like to state that of itself mere paralysis need incapacitate a professor. Dr. Thrum, our professor of the theory of music, is, as you know, paralysed in his ears, and Mr. Slant, our professor of optics, is paralysed in his right eye. But this is a case of paralysis of the brain. I fear it is incompatible with professorial work.”

“Then, I suppose,” said Mr. Furlong senior, “we shall have to think of the question of a successor.”

They had both
been
thinking of it for at least three minutes.

“We must,” said the president. “For the moment I feel too stunned by the sad news to act. I have merely telegraphed to two or three leading colleges for a
locum tenens
and sent out a few advertisements announcing the chair as vacant. But it will be difficult to replace McTeague. He was a man,” added Dr. Boomer, rehearsing in advance, unconsciously, no doubt, his forthcoming oration over Dr. McTeague’s death, “of a singular grasp, a breadth of culture, and he was able, as few men are, to instil what I might call a spirit of religion into his teaching. His lectures, indeed, were suffused with moral instruction, and exercised over his students an influence second only to that of the pulpit itself.”

He paused.

“Ah yes, the pulpit,” said Mr. Furlong, “there indeed you will miss him.”

“That,” said Dr. Boomer very reverently, “is our real loss, deep, irreparable. I suppose, indeed I am certain, we shall never again see such a man in the pulpit of St. Osoph’s. Which reminds me,” he added more briskly, “I must ask the
newspaper people to let it be known that there will be service as usual the day after to-morrow, and that Dr. McTeague’s death will, of course, make no difference – that is to say – I must see the newspaper people at once.”

That afternoon all the newspaper editors in the City were busy getting their obituary notices ready for the demise of Dr. McTeague.

“The death of Dr. McTeague,” wrote the editor of the
Commercial and Financial Undertone
, a paper which had almost openly advocated the minister’s dismissal for five years back, “comes upon us as an irreparable loss. His place will be difficult, nay, impossible, to fill. Whether as a philosopher or a divine he cannot be replaced.”