It was a buffet across the Bishop’s face, making Newbold instantly protest, “It is not the mere money. It is the deep unpopularity of such missions as the Southside with such congregations as St. John’s. Am I to go against my vestry and retain my position? Am I to be a Dr. Judd?”
“You are afraid?”
“Afraid! Impossible! For a man of my make-up,” he smiled in honest amusement, wetting his lips, “I merely have the sense not to become voluntarily unpopular. What can a man do in the face of unpopularity? His hands are tied. He is helpless.”
The room and the man before him sank like a picture curtained from the Bishop’s sight. With wide strange eyes he saw another picture. He was unconscious of his words, “His hands were tied, in the face of unpopularity! Yet He preached the Gospel to the poor,—and to the rich, to the poor rich!”
There was a long uncomfortable silence, during which the Bishop rested his head against the chair-back, waxen eyelids closed. Newbold studied the silent, sculptured face so long that at last for pure uneasiness he faltered, “I own, Bishop, that I’m no idealist.”
The Bishop opened far, clear eyes, “What are you?”
There was a long pause, then still in that far, clear voice, speaking quite to himself the Bishop said, “Yet you will be—”
The room, embrowned, closed against the Christmas sun, dusky with many books, held the two men, who faced each other as once in a lifetime men may.
The Bishop completed his own sentence, “You will be—my successor!”
It was quite silent now, for the bells had ceased and the chat of church-goers. The chancel of St. John’s was only a stone’s throw from the chair where the Bishop sat, yet it was far from him, the chancel with its peace. But he could still get to church, although late, in time for the communion. One more Christmas sacrament was before him, if only he could hold his brain clear and his body taut, through one short hour more, against the sudden blurring pain in his head.