Grigsby is in Kent, and although, in respect of its hops and cherry-orchards, it is called upon to pay extraordinary tithes, its inhabitants seem comfortable and contented. An occasional agitator happening upon Grigsby endeavours to arouse the farmers as to the iniquity of the landowners. But these political missionaries receive but scant welcome, and packing up their carpet-bags depart by early trains.

Much of the neglect bestowed upon the disciples of those who consider that land should be let at prairie rates may be traced to the fact that for ten generations the Bodkins have been established in the vicinity. And the present baronet, Sir Lionel de Stacy Bodkin, is as popular with his tenants and with the country-side generally, as anyone of his predecessors. The Bodkins were good landlords and stuck by the farmers. And the farmers, with a fine bucolic sentiment of reciprocity, stuck by the Bodkins.

One of the Bodkins always went into the Church, and was presented with the Grigsby living. Here he ministered to the living Bodkins and delivered his sage platitudes to the unheeding ears of the Bodkin effigies that lay in the chancel

“—staring right on
With calm eternal eyes.”

Twenty-five years ago a curious break occurred in this apostolic succession of Bodkins. Montagu being the baronet’s third son, and being, into the bargain, “the mildest-mannered man” of whom it is possible to form any adequate conception, had been destined for the Grigsby living, and for the emoluments therefrom accruing, including tithes ordinary and extraordinary.

Montagu had passed just a year at Christ Church, Oxford, when his uncle, who then had the living, died suddenly. And although Montagu was not a man of very brilliant parts, he knew that by no process of selection or patronage understood even by the Church, could his ordination be so hurried as to permit of his stepping into the shoes of his deceased uncle, and he further felt that the inhabitants of Grigsby, being presumably possessed of immortal souls—the said souls standing in weekly need of saving—the living must be temporarily held by someone outside the pale of the family.

During the first weeks following the death of the Rev. Reginald de Stacy Bodkin, M.A., the subject was not broached in the family. But when after a reasonable time grief had become ameliorated, and nothing so demonstrative as a paroxysm permissible, the son approached his father and observed, with his peculiar drawl,—

“The situation is decidedly awkward and complicated—don’t you know.”

“Not at all—not at all,” replied the parent, with decision. “I’ll see that it’s all right. Go back to Oxford. By the time you’re ordained, Grigsby living will be ready for you.”Montagu was still doubtful, and said hesitatingly,—

“Don’t you think that I’d better study for the Bar?”

Notwithstanding the general gloom, the baronet smiled as he answered,—

“My dear boy, when you are ordained I can present you with a living. If you go to the Bar, I think it quite unlikely that you will be able to pick one up. No. Leave everything to me and go back to Oxford.”

So he left everything to his father and went back to Oxford.

* * * * *

Five-and-twenty miles from Grigsby is Limpus-on-the-Wold, which is, I believe, one of the very poorest parishes in all England. It is not only poor, but it is wide-spread. Its inhabitants are dense, and the work of its rector somewhat wearing. At the time of this unvarnished tale the rector of Limpus was Dr. Shotter, one of the most learned and pious clergymen in the Church. But care, ill-health, anxiety, and the death of his wife, had told on him. Moreover, he was an old man. He had completed his seventieth year, and now calmly waited an early call to the land of shadows, whither his wife had preceded him.

Worn to a mere skeleton, with a small hectic spot burning on his cheek and a hacking cough racking his frame, he sat at the open casement inhaling the heavy perfumes of a hot July afternoon. He was tended by his daughter, a staid woman of forty, who placed her hand on his forehead when the fit of coughing came, and handed him his draught, or spoke words of hope and encouragement, when the old man gave it as his opinion that the end was very near.

Then was heard the rattle of a heavy vehicle on the road, and presently a drag and four steaming greys drew up before the door of the rectory. A man of about fifty years of age descended from the box seat, entered the rectory garden, and in a few moments Dr. Shotter’s daughter was reading from a card the name of Sir Lionel de Stacy Bodkin, Bart.

The baronet was admitted, and by his fine, genial, hearty manner soon found his way into the good graces of the rector.“Badly-drained unhealthy hole this,” he remarked with candour, alluding not to the house in particular but to Limpus generally.

The Doctor of Divinity nodded assent, and had a terrible fit of coughing.

“You must get out of it, my dear sir. The place is killing you. Limpus-on-the-Wold wants a young man with an iron constitution. You are an old man, but with many years of useful work before you.”

Dr. Shotter shook his head and avowed that he had but little interest in the life that now is, and made touching reference to another and a better country, an allusion which caused his daughter to weep.

“Tut, tut,” said the baronet; “the beastly vapours of this place have depressed you. Now, what would you think of Grigsby?”

“A paradise,” sighed the old pastor.

“Then, sir, enter that paradise. It is mine to give. Genius like yours, sir, should be taken care of in its old age. My dear madam,” he continued, turning to the daughter, “add your solicitations to mine. There is no hard work, there is the most charming air in Kent, and there is a stipend which will permit the purchase of those luxuries to which an invalid is entitled.”

“It is like a dream, sir; it seems too good to believe,” said the daughter. Nevertheless, she argued with her father, and urged him till he was beaten down to a solitary argument, which was that he was too weak to be moved with safety. The kindly-hearted baronet, however, speedily dispelled that difficulty. When the time came he would arrange that the man of God should be removed by easy stages and in the most comfortable of vehicles.

And that is the manner in which the Rev. Dionysius Shotter, D.D., was appointed to the Grigsby living five-and-twenty years ago.

* * * * *

When Sir Lionel had praised the air of Grigsby he had not done it more than justice. Compared with Limpus it was indeed a paradise, and, to the great delight of his daughter Rachel, Dr. Shotter lost his cough before he had been two months in the new place. He began absolutely to put on flesh, found himself capable of walking a mile without inconvenience, and displayed a vigour in his pulpit discourses which would have roused feelings of envy, malice, hatred, and all un-charitableness in the breast of his curate—had that divine been capable of such worldly emotions.

If the prayers of a righteous man avail much, then should Sir Lionel Bodkin have been one of the most blessed of mortals; for the revivified minister prayed night and day for his benefactor, and called frequently at Bodkin Towers to return his personal thanks and to exhibit the beneficial results of the air of Grigsby on a constitution which he had regarded as shattered beyond hope of remedy.

“I don’t know how it is, Rachel,” he observed, after one of these visits, “but it seems to me that Sir Lionel does not seem to exhibit much joy and thankfulness at my marvellous recovery and daily access of strength.”

“Your fancy, pa dear,” replied his daughter.

“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.