been delighted to put him up – the archdeacon unlocked his three-room bungalow, and spent the night awake and upon his knees. Such was his custom and pleasure on return from
all the soul-deadening administrative problems of a tour. He looked forward to the long act of worship just as the district commissioner he might so easily have been would have looked forward to
his bath and the ice that tinkled in long glasses.
The Archdeacon of the Sultanates had much to occupy the long hours of self-questioning, for he knew what was said of him: that he was discouraging to missionaries, that he was a politician, that
he cared more for his few, powerful white rams than his uncounted flock of black sheep. He admitted that the accusations were true, and hoped that the motives ascribed to him were wrong. He was not
a snob; but certainly he was convinced that no missionary, if it came to the mere measurement of good works, could surpass the utter devotion and Christian selflessness of such administrators as
Lee-Armour, and that it was through them he should work.
He arose refreshed, weary only in body, and at breakfast turned to his timetable of work and engagements – an optimistic schedule which he was never allowed to fulfill. It was so that
morning. With the toast and marmalade came a message from the governor, begging him to drop in as soon as possible for a private chat. His imperial self was flattered by so urgent a request, while
his other self indulgently smiled at such boyishness.
Governor and archdeacon, as they sat side by side in easy chairs at a significant distance from the official desk, seemed to form the nucleus of a club. They were of the same physical structure,
though sedentary life had diverted their bodies, once hard and lean, in two opposite directions. The dark-haired governor was very thin and tall, with an almost professorial stoop; the archdeacon
was fairer and smoother and rounder, as if decorously to fill out the apron which he never wore. He had not avoided those worries which contracted the stomach of the governor; he merely placed them
in the hands of higher Authority than the Colonial Secretary.
“Toby,” said the governor – for they were on terms of Christian names – “you traveled down with Mark Lee-Armour. What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” the archdeacon answered. “I wish I did.”
“Then look at that and tell me what you think,” the governor appealed, handing him a letter.
It was an urgent private note from Lee-Armour’s successor. It told the governor that the accounts of the Bagai Agricultural Development Fund were twelve hundred pounds short when
Lee-Armour handed over, that he had quite calmly admitted the deficit and that he had been unwilling to explain why there were neither vouchers nor receipts. The new commissioner, jealous for the
honor of his service, had written unofficially to the governor in the hope that the loss could be adjusted or hushed up before any official cognizance had to be taken of it.
“It
can’t
be true!” the governor exclaimed, exasperated by the certainty that it was.
“He was moved unexpectedly?” Archdeacon Toby asked.
“Yes. They’ve got a high commissionership for him when he gets home, and he only had a few weeks’ notice. That’s the damnable part of it. It looks as if he had been
caught short with his fingers in the kitty, and didn’t have time to pay the money back. But I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Lee-Armour of all people!”
The district commissioner’s reticence during the journey down was convincingly explained. The archdeacon remembered, too, that when he had watched Lee-Armour saying good-by to his
successor, there had been a tension between them which could not wholly be explained by the inevitable feeling of one that his work would henceforth be in less loving hands, and of the other that
he had been given too hard, too individual an example to follow.
“This letter was in
all the soul-deadening administrative problems of a tour. He looked forward to the long act of worship just as the district commissioner he might so easily have been would have looked forward to
his bath and the ice that tinkled in long glasses.
The Archdeacon of the Sultanates had much to occupy the long hours of self-questioning, for he knew what was said of him: that he was discouraging to missionaries, that he was a politician, that
he cared more for his few, powerful white rams than his uncounted flock of black sheep. He admitted that the accusations were true, and hoped that the motives ascribed to him were wrong. He was not
a snob; but certainly he was convinced that no missionary, if it came to the mere measurement of good works, could surpass the utter devotion and Christian selflessness of such administrators as
Lee-Armour, and that it was through them he should work.
He arose refreshed, weary only in body, and at breakfast turned to his timetable of work and engagements – an optimistic schedule which he was never allowed to fulfill. It was so that
morning. With the toast and marmalade came a message from the governor, begging him to drop in as soon as possible for a private chat. His imperial self was flattered by so urgent a request, while
his other self indulgently smiled at such boyishness.
Governor and archdeacon, as they sat side by side in easy chairs at a significant distance from the official desk, seemed to form the nucleus of a club. They were of the same physical structure,
though sedentary life had diverted their bodies, once hard and lean, in two opposite directions. The dark-haired governor was very thin and tall, with an almost professorial stoop; the archdeacon
was fairer and smoother and rounder, as if decorously to fill out the apron which he never wore. He had not avoided those worries which contracted the stomach of the governor; he merely placed them
in the hands of higher Authority than the Colonial Secretary.
“Toby,” said the governor – for they were on terms of Christian names – “you traveled down with Mark Lee-Armour. What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know,” the archdeacon answered. “I wish I did.”
“Then look at that and tell me what you think,” the governor appealed, handing him a letter.
It was an urgent private note from Lee-Armour’s successor. It told the governor that the accounts of the Bagai Agricultural Development Fund were twelve hundred pounds short when
Lee-Armour handed over, that he had quite calmly admitted the deficit and that he had been unwilling to explain why there were neither vouchers nor receipts. The new commissioner, jealous for the
honor of his service, had written unofficially to the governor in the hope that the loss could be adjusted or hushed up before any official cognizance had to be taken of it.
“It
can’t
be true!” the governor exclaimed, exasperated by the certainty that it was.
“He was moved unexpectedly?” Archdeacon Toby asked.
“Yes. They’ve got a high commissionership for him when he gets home, and he only had a few weeks’ notice. That’s the damnable part of it. It looks as if he had been
caught short with his fingers in the kitty, and didn’t have time to pay the money back. But I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Lee-Armour of all people!”
The district commissioner’s reticence during the journey down was convincingly explained. The archdeacon remembered, too, that when he had watched Lee-Armour saying good-by to his
successor, there had been a tension between them which could not wholly be explained by the inevitable feeling of one that his work would henceforth be in less loving hands, and of the other that
he had been given too hard, too individual an example to follow.
“This letter was in
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