We passed out together into the sunlit air, fresh and vigorous after the dull vault-like gloom of the little church, with its ivy-hung windows. Lady Naselton held my arm.
“My dear,” she said, “the Bishop is lunching with us to-day, and staying all night. I have spoken to him about your father. He remembers him quite well, and he is coming to service this evening on purpose to hear him preach.”
“The Bishop,” I repeated, vaguely. “Do you mean our Bishop? The Bishop of Exchester?”
“Yea. I am not supposed, of course, to say anything about it, as his visit has nothing whatever to do with diocesan affairs, but I should be disappointed if your father did not make an impression upon him.”
She looked around to be sure that no one was listening. It was quite a needless precaution.
“You see, dear, I happen to know that there are two vacant stalls at the cathedral, and the Bishop wants a preacher badly. It is owing to what I have told him about your father that he is coming over to-day. I do hope that he will be at his best this evening.”
“I am afraid that there is very little chance of it,” I answered, blankly. “He is really very ill. He will not admit it, but you can see for yourself.”
“He must make an effort,” Lady Naselton said, firmly. “Will you tell him this from me? Say that we shall all be there, and if only he can make a good impression—well, it is the chance of a lifetime. Of course, we shall all be terribly sorry to lose you, but Exchester is not very far off, and we really could not expect to keep a man with your father’s gifts very long. Try and rouse him up, won’t you? Goodbye, dear.”
She drove off, and I waited at the vestry door for my father. He came out with half-closed eyes, and seemed scarcely to see me. I walked by his side, and repeated what Lady Naselton had told me. Contrary to my expectations, the news was sufficient to rouse him from his apathy.