The Bishop looked up.
"There can be no question, Meynell, of any personal enmity between yourself and me," he said gravely. "I shall act in the matter entirely as the responsibilities of my office dictate—that you know. But I have owed you much in the past—much help—much affection. This diocese owes you much. I felt I must make one last appeal to you—terrible as the situation has grown. You could not have foreseen that meeting of yesterday!" he added impetuously, raising his head.
Meynell hesitated.
"No, I had no idea we were so strong. But it might have been foreseen. The forces that brought it about have been rising steadily for many years."
There was no answer for a moment. The Bishop sat with clasped hands, his legs stretched out before him, his white head bent. At last, without moving, he said:
"There are grave times coming on this diocese, Meynell—there are grave times coming on the Church!"
"Does any living church escape them?" said Meynell, watching him—with a heavy heart.
The Bishop shook his head.
"I am a man of peace. Where you see a hope of victory for what you think, no doubt, a great cause, I see above the mêlée, Strife and Confusion and Fate—"red with the blood of men." What can you—and those who were at that meeting yesterday—hope to gain by these proceedings? If you could succeed, you would break up the Church, the strongest weapon that exists in this country against sin and selfishness—and who would be the better?"
"Believe me—we sha'n't break it up."