# A Clerical Error

* related authors: Arthur Rackham.
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From Cassell’s Magazine, Volume 31.
A Cricket Story by Horace Bleackley.
HE Rev. Samuel Cassock and the Rev. Athanasius Stole were rectors of adjacent parishes in the suburbs of a famous Midland town. The rivalry, which being interpreted into the priestly tongue signifieth emulation, between the reverend gentlemen was prodigious. The Rev. Samuel was an illustrious Evangelical, while the Rev. Athanasius was an Anglican of the first water. Their sermons were eloquent, their churches were always crowded by earnest congregations, their good deeds were plainly manifest before all men. And both were bachelors.
When Miss Dolly Temple, only child and heiress of the celebrated engineer, came to reside, after the death of her father, at Cranmer Lodge, situated on the borders of the two livings, each of the parsons made up his mind that he had gained an invaluable parishioner.
The Rev. Samuel soon hastened to call upon her, as he thought that his seniority entitled him to be first in the field.
“I fancy I am what you would call Broad Church,” observed Miss Temple, after the clergyman had been judiciously “pumping” her for some time concerning her religious convictions. “I do not care whether a man is High or Low Church, as long as he does his duty.”
The Rev. Samuel coughed, and eyed the pretty girl suspiciously. Here was a proselyte indeed for whom the Rev. Athanasius and himself would have much contention!
“And how would you define,” he remarked, slowly and with priestly ambiguity, “doing one’s duty?”
“Making people happy,” returned pretty Dolly readily. “To me it does not seem enough to be merely self-righteous. One may spend one’s whole life in church services without doing any actual good.”
“A—ha! I agree with you, young lady,” cried the Rev. Mr. Cassock heartily. “That is the mistake poor Mr. Stole makes. Matins and evensong every day! What time does it leave for solid parish work?”
“Or amusements,” quoth Miss Dolly.
“Eh!—a—I beg your pardon?” stammered the clergyman, puzzled.
“The ‘muscular Christianity’ of dear Charles Kingsley is what appeals to me most strongly,” Dolly went on earnestly. “My ideal clergyman is he who can not only instruct his parishioners in church, but who can take the lead in their field sports. I am sure that you help your people in their amusements, Mr. Cassock.”
Although the parson’s complexion was only a shade paler than his scarlet hood he actually flushed a deeper colour, for the remembrance that he had lately refused a valuable portion of the glebe for a Sunday-school cricket ground tickled his conscience.
“My dear young lady,” he replied, glancing dubiously at his well-distended waistcoat. “I fear that I am of neither the age nor the build for violent exercise.”
“Oh, I did not intend to be personal,” replied Dolly penitently, recognising her blunder. “But I mean that when a man is young and active he should help in every kind of sport. Mr. Armstrong, our clergyman in Dorsetshire, was a splendid all-round athlete, and I am sure he was the most popular man in the county—especially with the poor people. Of course, when he gets older he will have to be content with looking ​on and encouraging other people—like you.”
“I was considered a free, hard-hitting bat some few years ago,” exclaimed Mr. Cassock, suddenly remembering that in spite of his bulk he was only forty-five.
“It is a noble game,” answered Dolly. “Papa was mad on it. We’ve a cricket ground in the park here, you know. Don’t you agree with me, Mr. Cassock, that it is our duty to provide the people with healthy sports?”
“Undoubtedly, dear Miss Temple. Mens sana—” And the reverend gentleman dwelt lovingly upon the quotation, just as the fond mother exhibits an only child.
“An extraordinary girl!” thought Mr. Cassock, as he returned home, after obtaining the promise of many substantial subscriptions towards parochial charities. “But she’s very beautiful and very rich. That fellow Stole will be round there in a day or two. I’m glad I called first. After all, I think I’ll let those lads have their cricket field.”
In addition to being one of the most pious and charitably disposed of girls, Dolly Temple was a most vigorous sportswoman. Each morning before breakfast she went for an hour’s ride on horseback. Afterwards she rode on her bicycle round the parish to visit her “district.” During the afternoon she amused herself at golf or tennis, and in the evening she frequently had another spin on her bike through the country lanes.
Although the Rev. Athanasius Stole did call upon her at an early date, he did not apparently impress her very favourably, for she seemed to devote her whole attention to the parish of Mr. Cassock.
The astonishing change which came over the latter gentleman during the next few weeks was seen and admired of all men. Not only did the village boys obtain their cricket ground, but the rector himself frequently took part in their games. He even attempted to ride the useful animal that drew the rectory chaise, but after experiencing several awkward falls, and having heard, sub rosa, that his fair Puritan disapproved of horsemanship in the case of clergymen, he gladly renounced his steed in favour of a bicycle. Moreover, when a vacancy occurred for a curate he made up his mind, like another cleric of immortal renown, that “what the parish needed was a good fast bowler,” and made his selection accordingly. His new lieutenant, the Rev. John Trouncer, was an all-round cricketer of no mean order, and had lately left the ’Varsity, where he had just missed getting his blue.
“I regard Miss Temple,” explained Mr. Cassock to the young curate, “in virtue of her position, almost in the light of Squire of this parish, and I think it is our duty to please her as far as we can.”
“She’s a deu—— I mean, jolly pretty girl!” exclaimed the curate with enthusiasm. “I’d do anything in the world——”
“Ahem!” interrupted the rector, with a cough of disapproval, “I fear that sport does not flourish here as much as I should like. Hitherto I am afraid that my curates have been rather effeminate.”
“They all seem to have been rotters,” exclaimed the Rev. Johnny Trouncer.
“Eh? Ah, yes, I see—a cricketing term!” answered Mr. Cassock. “Now, Mr. Trouncer, candidly speaking, what sort of an eleven do you think we can raise in the parish?”
“Very fair indeed, sir. Billy Jones, the grocer’s boy, is an excellent slow bowler, and the schoolmaster, you know, was asked to qualify as a pro. for Devonshire the year before last. He tells me he has not touched a bat since he came here.”
“Dear me! And tell me, Mr. Trouncer, how do you think I shaped at the nets this evening?”
This was a question of much delicacy, but the curate was a man of tact.
“Well, sir, when you hit ’em they go.”
“Yes, yes, that was always my forte.”
“But, if you will allow me to suggest, sir, you shouldn’t always play at the pitch of the ball; you mustn’t run away when they’re on the leg stick; and you must keep a straight bat. But that’ll all come with practice.”
“He’s as much idea of the game as a fat old Frenchwoman,” thought the Rev. Mr. Trouncer, as he returned to his lodgings at the close of this interview; “and I believe the old Johnny is mashed on little Dolly Temple.”
“Poor Stole! I’ve got the better of him this time,” reflected Mr. Cassock, after the curate had departed. “Dear Dolly is quite right. It is a clergyman’s duty to take the lead in field sports as well as in spiritual matters.”
During divine service the following Sunday, while the Rev. Athanasius Stole was reading the first lesson he became conscious that a very pretty girl was sitting in the front pew. Such occurrences did not usually attract the attention of the devout Athanasius, but as he immediately realised that the fair worshipper was Miss Dolly Temple, and as this was her first visit to his church, the recognition at such a time must be pardoned. There sat beside her a bullet-headed schoolboy of healthy complexion, and about twelve years old.
​The Rev. Stole had a handsome, though a pale and melancholy countenance, recalling Mr. Forbes Robertson as Hamlet, and apart from this Dolly was very much impressed by his fine voice and his expressive rendering of the Scriptures. She began to wonder why she had never attended his services before. While she was thus wholly absorbed a sudden and embarrassing distraction took place.
“Bump! bump! thump! thump!” The noise resounded through the church, and as the Rev. Athanasius looked up from the lectern in astonishment, he saw a hard, round object roll slowly past him down the aisle towards the choir stalls. Following the direction from whence the missile had come, his eyes rested upon the crimson face of Miss Dolly’s young companion, and at the same time he saw the girl, who was also rosy with blushes, bend over towards the lad to expostulate with him. Evidently the boy was in some way responsible for the throwing of the ball, for ball it was. With a gentle sigh the clergyman plunged once more into the lesson and the service continued.
Afterwards, in the vestry, when the curate and the choir boys had departed, the old clerk came up to him, holding a black-looking object in his hand.
“Here’s profanity for you, sir,” exclaimed the old man dismally. “Now what would you believe this ’ere is?
The Rey. Athanasius Stole took the accursed thing in his hand.
“A cricket ball!”
Strange to relate, the clergyman did not speak in a very shocked voice, and at the same time he tossed the ball into the air with a nimble flick of his fingers, and caught it again. The spin as his hand closed around it sent a strange thrill down his arm and through his whole being.
The clerk looked on in consternation. Mr. Stole slipped the ball into his pocket, and went out into the dazzling June sunshine, which streamed through the rustling trees around the churchyard in green and golden floods of light.
A girl in a cool muslin dress, holding a white silk parasol in one hand and a small boy in the other, was waiting outside the vestry door. The Rev. Athanasius saw at once that it was Dolly, and he braced himself for the interview.
“Oh, Mr. Stole, I am so sorry that my little cousin did such a shocking thing in church,” she began, looking very red and confused. “He oughtn’t to have pulled the ball out of his pocket. I didn’t know he had it with him. You’re very sorry, aren’t you, Tommy?”
“Yes,” replied the boy, very shamefaced; then brightening at the excuse, added, “I was thinking of Ranji!”
The clergyman had raised his hat to the girl, but now, without replying to her, he bent over the young enthusiast.
“So you’re fond of cricket, my man, are you?” he inquired kindly.
“I can bowl round-arm!” cried the boy, with a confidential burst.
“Then you’ll be glad to have your ball back again,” said the Rev. Athanasius, taking it from his pocket. He tossed it a yard in the air, absent-mindedly, catching it as before.
“You do give it a twist,” remarked the boy admiringly. “I wish I could. Do you like cricket?”
“I used to once,” replied the Rev. Mr. Stole with a sigh.
“Oh! I wish you could play,” cried Dolly, eagerly because involuntarily.
“I did—once,” answered Mr. Stole sadly, looking down at the pretty, animated face.
“Mr. Cassock is beginning again,” Dolly continued.
“Indeed!” replied the Rev. Athanasius, with an amused smile.
“I’m sure you could play better than him,” remarked the boy emphatically. “I can bowl him out.”
“Well, good-morning, Mr. Stole,” observed Dolly, holding out a small white-gloved hand. “I enjoyed your service so much. I shall come again next Sunday.”
“I regret I am going away to-morrow for a holiday,” said the clergyman.
“Oh! then you will miss my great cricket match with Mr. Cassock next Saturday week,” answered the girl.
“Your match with Mr. Cassock!”
“Oh, I’m not playing. We’re each getting up an eleven, and I think my side will win. It’s stronger than I intended. But Mr. Trouncer, the new curate, is a splendid player, and, of course, he’s in Mr. Cassock’s team. If you played cricket I would have asked you. Good-morning.”
As the Rev. Athanasius Stole walked through the fields to his cold Sunday dinner, his thoughts were working in a new and unaccustomed direction.
The forthcoming cricket match between Miss Dolly Temple’s eleven and the Rev. Samuel Cassock’s parish club caused much interest and excitement in the district. Dolly’s young uncle, father of the irreverent Tommy, was intrusted with the task of raising her team. Unfortunately, volunteers had been so many and so talented that the side was a very formidable one. Every man in the neighbourhood who could handle a bat or bowl a ​ball was naturally anxious to come to the assistance of the pretty heiress. The Oxford captain and his brother, both down for the vac., were the first to enlist. Then followed one of the leading county amateurs, who for Dolly’s sake sacrificed an important match against Surrey. All the officers in the neighbouring barracks offered to play, and the major was mortally offended because he was the only one who was refused. Altogether, Dolly’s uncle, who was no mean performer himself, had got together a capital side.
“I couldn’t help it. The Johnnies would insist upon playing,” he remarked, in answer to Dolly’s expostulation that he had raised too strong a team. “Besides, it’s paying a compliment to old Cassock. It’ll make him buck up, and that’s what you want.”
The day before the match, while practising at the nets, the Rev. Mr. Cassock received a nasty knock on the knee-cap from one of the young grocer’s short-pitched balls, and to his great chagrin, for he had hoped to excel before the fair Dolly, he became too lame to play.
“We shall get well thrashed,” he remarked testily to his curate, as he limped home upon the young man’s arm.
“‘WHEEL ME TO THE REFRESHMENT TENT’” (p. 105).
“I’m not so sure about that, sir,” Johnny Trouncer remarked cheerfully. “Our schoolmaster is good for fifty runs every time he takes a bat in his hand in a match like this, and the grocer’s young hopeful is a demon when the wicket suits him.”
Mr. Cassock groaned at the remembrance.
“Besides,” continued the curate, “I’m not so bad myself!”
“That only makes three,” answered the rector.
“Ah, but I’ve got something up my sleeve, sir. A great surprise!” cried the Rev. Mr. Trouncer. “Old Hurdles is going to play for our team.”
“Hurdles!” said Mr. Cassock. “Who on earth is he?”
“Beg pardon, we used to call, him that at Rugby. Of course, he was there about fifteen years before me, but he came down every summer term to play for the old boys, so I knew him well. Why, he was the best all-round man in the Oxford eleven in his day! He played for the Gentlemen half-a-dozen times, and twice against the Australians ten years ago. He was a deuce of a fellow!”
​“Really, Mr. Trouncer——”
“I was awfully surprised to find him in this neighbourhood,” continued the curate vivaciously. “He made me promise to tell no one he was going to play. He says he has not touched a bat for ten years, but if he gets into form we shall have a rare old beano.”
“Mr. Trouncer,” remarked the rector severely. “I do not consider that these cricketing phrases sound at all well in the mouth of a clergyman.”
Great had been the preparations for the cricket match, and Dolly had done the thing really well. About five hundred parishioners of all ages had been invited to Cranmer Lodge, and a large refreshment marquee had been erected for their entertainment. The regimental band was in attendance, and in the evening a knife-and-fork tea was to be provided. The day’s amusement was to conclude with a display of fireworks.
The weather was perfect, and everybody except the Rev. Samuel Cassock was in the best of spirits. That unfortunate gentleman was wheeled on to the ground in a bath-chair, which, after all, was the best means he could have adopted under the circumstances of attracting attention. The grocer’s boy, being a cautious youth, took good care to keep out of his way. Dolly, however, taking pity upon him, remained by his side.
“You’ll be sorry to hear, sir,” cried the Rev. Johnny Trouncer, hurrying up to the bath-chair, and rolling up his shirt-sleeves, “that I’ve lost the toss.”
“Just what I expected,” retorted the pessimistic rector.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter who wins,” exclaimed Dolly. “As long as we give the poor people pleasure. Still, that naughty uncle of mine shouldn’t have got such a strong side.”
“We’d have a chance,” replied the Rev. John, “but Hurdles hasn’t turned up.”
“Who is Hurdles?" inquired Dolly, with evident curiosity.
“Why, ten years ago he was the best all-round man in England,” began the curate with a burst. “W. G. himself——”
“I’m tired of hearing about that man,” said the dismal Mr. Cassock rudely. “But I should like to see him.”
At that moment the umpires strolled into the field, and the curate hurried away.
The two Oxford men commenced the innings for Dolly’s side, and began in rare style. Johnny Trouncer kept a good length, and they were not able to score much off him, bat he could not bowl at both ends. It was soon evident that the wicket did not suit the grocer’s boy, or else nervousness prevented him from doing himself justice, for his bowling was slogged most unmercifully. Then the schoolmaster tried his hand, but sixes and fours still came in great numbers. In half-an-hour the score had reached fifty; at the end of the first hour the century was hoisted, and not a wicket had yet fallen.
“Ah! this must be Mr. Trouncer’s mysterious player,” remarked Dolly, who was sitting by the side of the bath-chair, as a tall, lithe figure came running from the pavilion. “This, I suppose, is Mr. Hurdles. I half expected he would come masked like ‘the Japs.’”
“It is impossible to see his face at this distance,” said Mr. Cassock. “But I don’t think I know him.”
The curate was seen to welcome the newcomer effusively, and at once put him on to bowl. He had an easy, natural action, and delivered the ball from a good height. His first two overs yielded ten runs, and then he found his length. After beating the Oxford captain with two successive deliveries he knocked his off stick out of the ground, and bowled the county crack middle stump with the next ball. The remainder of the innings was a mere procession of batsmen. The military men were hopelessly at sea with the bowling of Mr. Hurdles, and the Oxford captain’s brother played on in the first over he received from him. His share of the spoil was seven wickets for twenty-four runs, and the final score reached a hundred and fifty exactly. The Rev. John Trouncer, who bowled unchanged, captured the three remaining batsmen.
“Well, sir, what do you think of my man?” he exclaimed, with a broad grin, as he strolled up to the bath-chair.
“He has surpassed my expectations, I confess,” replied Mr. Cassock pompously. “But the match is nothing. It is a thing apart. My object, and Miss Temple’s, is to brighten the lives and arouse the interest of the parishioners.”
“Oh, do bring Mr. Hurdles and introduce him to me,” cried Dolly.
“My dear Miss Temple, I will as soon as out, but he’s just going in to bat now,” answered the curate.
A few moments later the redoubtable Hurdles, bat in hand, strolled out into the field together with the schoolmaster. He had handsome, clear-cut features, tanned by the sun, and now flushed with recent exercise. The bath-chair group, being some distance from the pavilion, did not have as good a view of him as they would have liked.
“Now perhaps we shall see some fun,” remarked the Rev. John. “He’s been practising every day for the last fortnight.”
​Hurdles commenced in very cautious style, but it could be seen at a glance that he was a player of the first rank. His bat seemed to be a portion of himself, while his long reach and quickness of foot helped him to deal as he liked with every ball. The schoolmaster, who belonged to the genus Albert Ward, plodded along at the other end, and appeared indifferent as to whether he made runs or not. There was really no need for him to score. Hurdles did quite enough of that. When he had once “got set”—and this process occupied about ten minutes—almost every time he touched the ball it glided to the boundary. Wherever the fielders were placed he found a passage between them, and though he seemed to put little force into his strokes, the ball flew from his bat like lightning. The schoolmaster had just scraped together twenty runs when Hurdles, with a mighty on-drive, reached his hundred.
“This is grand!” cried the enthusiastic Dolly. “They’ll never get him out. Run, Tommy, dear, and bring me my field-glasses.”
A smile flickered over the lips of the Rev. John Trouncer, who was standing near with his pads on still waiting for his innings.
“Do you know,” observed Dolly reflectively, when she had gazed for a long time through the field-glasses, which her little cousin had just brought, “I’m sure I’ve seen Mr. Hurdles somewhere before. Please look, Mr. Cassock, and tell me what you think.”
The rector took the glasses, and made a careful reconnaissance.
“No, no, Miss Temple,” grunted the rector, with the glasses still glued to his eyes; “it’s an utter impossibility.”
“Perhaps I can explain what you want to know,” suggested the curate.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Trouncer,” observed Dolly eagerly. “Now, don’t you think that Mr. Hurdles is very like the Rev. Mr. Stole?”
“Yes, yes,” said the rector. “Very like him, no doubt. But not the man himself. That's absurd!”
“Why, don’t you know,” remarked the curate impressively, “that Mr. Stole ten years ago was the best all-round man——”
“Oh, what fun!” Dolly interrupted in high glee. “I’m so glad! Let’s stroll round the ground, Mr. Trouncer.”
With grief it must be stated that the Rev. Samuel Cassock glanced after the pair with a bitter look of anger as they walked away.
“Boy,” said he hoarsely, addressing the bath-chair attendant, “wheel me to the refreshment tent.”
“You see, Miss Temple,” explained the curate, as they sauntered along, “Stole is an awfully conscientious chap, so as soon as he got a living he thought it was his duty to chuck cricket altogether. I never imagined I could have induced him to play, but I persuaded him quite easily.”
“Oh!” was all that Dolly replied; but she thought a great deal.
“I kept it quiet for a joke. Stole went away for his holidays, and has been practising hard. Jove, he’s out at last! I’m in next, Miss Temple, so I must say au revoir. Shall I tell old Hurdles you want to speak to him?”
“Yes,” replied Dolly; and though she tried not to, she was blushing terribly.
Although the schoolmaster was out the next over, and although the rest of the team did not stay long at the wickets, they stayed long enough to enable the Rev. Johnny Trouncer to knock off the runs.
At the dinner party that evening, which Dolly, with the assistance of her aunt, gave to some of the cricketers, the Rev. Athanasius Stole had the honour of taking in his hostess.
“The people here seemed to have entirely forgotten that you had been such a great cricketer,” she remarked to him.
“The memory of the public is proverbially short," he replied. “And ten years is a long time.”
“And why did you take it up again?” she inquired artlessly.
“Because I thought I ought to,” he answered, avoiding her gaze.
Then, as Dolly felt she had asked an indiscreet question, there was an awkward silence.
But later, as they strolled in the grounds together to watch the fireworks, while the envious soldiers were gnawing big cigars, they grew very friendly and confidential.
“Miss Temple,” said the clergyman earnestly, looking up at a rocket that was cleaving its way through the sky, “I never thought that my views of life would change as they have done, and it is you who have changed them!”
He did not pursue the subject any further that evening, but a few weeks later, when they were better acquainted, he did so, and with complete success.
The Rev. Athanasius has been married some years, and there are many little Stoles to whom Dolly is a most devoted mother. He is now a Dean. His face has lost the sad, ascetic expression that used to charm the ladies, but it is more benign and human. He has gained a rich, jovial laugh, which was never heard in the old days of fasting and tribulation, and though his figure, too, has lost its lines and he cannot play cricket as of old, he devotes his leisure to coaching a young Athanasius whom he expects to see some day making great scores at Lord’s.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1939, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 84 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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