THE INSIDE OF THE CUP

By Winston Churchill

Volume 8.

XXVII.  RETRIBUTION XXVIII.  LIGHT

CHAPTER XXVII

RETRIBUTION

I

The Bishop’s House was a comfortable, double dwelling of a smooth, bright red brick and large, plate-glass windows, situated in a plot at the western end of Waverley Place.  It had been bought by the Diocese in the nineties, and was representative of that transitional period in American architecture when the mansard roof had been repudiated, when as yet no definite types had emerged to take its place.  The house had pointed gables, and a tiny and utterly useless porch that served only to darken 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 and was shown into the ample study which he had entered on other and less vital occasions.  He found difficulty in realizing that this pleasant room, lined with well-worn books and overlooking a back lawn where the clothes of the episcopal family hung in the yellow autumn sun, was to be his judgment seat, whence he might be committed to trial for heresy.

And this was the twentieth century!  The full force of the preposterous fact smote him, and a consciousness of the distance he himself had travelled since the comparatively recent days of his own orthodoxy.  And suddenly he was full again of a resentful impatience, not only that he should be called away from his labours, his cares, the strangers who were 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 permitted to drive him out thus easily?

The old bishop came in, walking by the aid of a cane.  He smiled at Hodder, who greeted him respectfully, and bidding him sit down, took a chair himself behind his writing table, from whence he gazed awhile earnestly and contemplatively at the rugged features and strong shoulders of the rector of St. John’s.  The effect of the look was that of a visual effort to harmonize the man with the deed he had done, the stir he had created 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 little gesture three bundles of envelopes, bound by rubber bands, on the corner of his blotter.

“Hodder,” he said, “see what a lot of trouble you have made for me in my old age!  All those are about you.”

The rector’s expression could not have been deemed stern, but it had met the bishop’s look unflinchingly.  Now it relaxed into a responding smile, which was not without seriousness.