Produced by David Widger
By Winston Churchill
The Bishop's House was a comfortable, double dwelling of a smooth,bright red brick and large, plate-glass windows, situated in a plotat the western end of Waverley Place. It had been bought by the Diocesein the nineties, and was representative of that transitional period inAmerican architecture when the mansard roof had been repudiated, whenas yet no definite types had emerged to take its place. The house hadpointed gables, and a tiny and utterly useless porch that served only todarken the front door, made of heavy pieces of wood fantastically curved.
It was precisely ten o'clock in the morning when Hodder rang the bell andwas shown into the ample study which he had entered on other and lessvital occasions. He found difficulty in realizing that this pleasantroom, lined with well-worn books and overlooking a back lawn where theclothes of the episcopal family hung in the yellow autumn sun, was to behis judgment seat, whence he might be committed to trial for heresy.
And this was the twentieth century! The full force of the preposterousfact smote him, and a consciousness of the distance he himself hadtravelled since the comparatively recent days of his own orthodoxy.And suddenly he was full again of a resentful impatience, not only thathe should be called away from his labours, his cares, the strangers whowere craving his help, to answer charges of such an absurd triviality,but that the performance of the great task to which he had set his hand,with God's help, should depend upon it. Would his enemies be permittedto drive him out thus easily?
The old bishop came in, walking by the aid of a cane. He smiled atHodder, who greeted him respectfully, and bidding him sit down, took achair himself behind his writing table, from whence he gazed awhileearnestly and contemplatively at the rugged features and strong shouldersof the rector of St. John's. The effect of the look was that of a visualeffort to harmonize the man with the deed he had done, the stir he hadcreated in the city and the diocese; to readjust impressions.
A hint of humour crept into the bishop's blue eyes, which were watery,yet strong, with heavy creases in the corners. He indicated by a littlegesture three bundles of envelopes, bound by rubber bands, on the cornerof his blotter.
"Hodder," he said, "see what a lot of trouble you have made for me in myold age! All those are about you."
The rector's expression could not have been deemed stern, but it had metthe bishop's look unflinchingly. Now it relaxed into a responding smile,which was not without seriousness.
"I am sorry, sir," Hodder answered, "to have caused you any worry—orinconvenience."
"Perhaps," said the bishop, "I have had too much smooth sailing for aservant of Christ. Indeed, I have come to that conclusion."
Hodder did not reply. He was moved, even more by the bishop's mannerand voice than his words. And the opening to their conversation wasunexpected. The old man put on his spectacles, and drew from the topof one of the bundles a letter.
"This is from one of your vestrymen, Mr. Gordon Atterbury," he said, andproceeded to read it, slowly. When he had finished he laid it down.
"Is that, according to your recollection, Mr. Hod