Asa Waring was about to rise, when he perceived that Hodder himself was on his feet.  And the eyes of every man, save one, were fixed on him irresistibly.  The rector seemed unaware of it.  It was Philip Goodrich who remarked to his father-in-law, as they walked home afterwards, of the sense he had had at that moment that there were just two men in the room,—­Hodder and Eldon Parr.  All the rest were ciphers; all had lost, momentarily, their feelings of partisanship and were conscious only of these two intense, radiating, opposing centres of force; and no man, oddly enough, could say which was the stronger.  They seemingly met on equal terms.  There could not be the slightest doubt that the rector did not mean to yield, and yet they might have been puzzled if they had asked themselves how they had read the fact in his face or manner.  For he betrayed neither anger nor impatience.

No more did the financier reveal his own feelings.  He still sat back in his chair, unmoved, in apparent contemplation.  The posture was familiar to Langmaid.

Would he destroy, too, this clergyman?  For the first time in his life, and as he looked at Hodder, the lawyer wondered.  Hodder did not defend himself, made no apologies.  Christianity was not a collection of doctrines, he reminded them,—­but a mode of life.  If anything were clear to him, it was that the present situation was not, with the majority of them, a matter of doctrines, but of unwillingness to accept the message and precept of Jesus Christ, and lead Christian lives.  They had made use of the doctrines as a stalking-horse.

There was a stir at this, and Hodder paused a moment and glanced around the table.  But no one interrupted.

He was fully aware of his rights, and he had no intention of resigning.  To resign would be to abandon the work for which he was responsible, not to them, but to God.  And he was perfectly willing—­nay, eager to defend his Christianity before any ecclesiastical court, should the bishop decide that a court was necessary.  The day of freedom, of a truer vision was at hand, the day of Christian unity on the vital truths, and no better proof of it could be brought forward than the change in him.  In his ignorance and blindness he had hitherto permitted compromise, but he would no longer allow those who made only an outward pretence of being Christians to direct the spiritual affairs of St. John’s, to say what should and what should not be preached.  This was to continue to paralyze the usefulness of the church, to set at naught her mission, to alienate those who most had need of her, who hungered and thirsted after righteousness, and went away unsatisfied.

He had hardly resumed his seat when Everett Constable got up again.  He remarked, somewhat unsteadily, that to prolong the controversy would be useless and painful to all concerned, and he infinitely regretted the necessity of putting his suggestion that the rector resign in the form of a resolution . . . .  The vote was taken.  Six men raised their hands in favour of his resignation—­Nelson Langmaid among them:  two, Asa Waring and Philip Goodrich, were against it.  After announcing the result, Hodder rose.