“And now,” said Newbold bitterly, “where are the hopes?”
“Exactly where they were before. Don’t you know, lad, that we old men are incorrigible in hopes?”
“I know that you are, Bishop, incorrigible in hope,—and in patience.”
The Bishop’s eyes narrowed to fine scrutiny, “Have I then, do you feel, something to be patient about?”
Newbold shot a sharp glance, searching the Bishop’s meaning. They both waited. At last Newbold, leaning back in his chair lifted steady eyes. “Since we’re talking this morning, Bishop, about the things on my mind, there are, as you seem to guess, more things. I’d be glad to get them all clear with you this morning. It’s a relief to talk, no matter where we come out. I’m afraid, that perhaps you haven’t always understood, Bishop, my apparent opposition to your wishes on some occasions that perhaps we both remember.”
“We both remember, yes!”
At the tone Newbold started, grew more vehement, “Oh, if you could but understand, Bishop! Why, sometimes, as I have stood between your desires on the one hand and what I knew to be those of the majority of the clergy and laity on the other, what I knew to be necessary to the prosperity of the diocese and the church, I have verily felt myself between two fires.”
“Or between two masters?”
Nervous irritation fretted Newbold’s forehead. “Yes, I suppose, that, too, in a way, from your point of view, Bishop. The point of view of—well—of the apostles, perhaps!” He hesitated, but then grew defensive, “In practical application, Bishop, it is impossible that the policies of primitive Christianity should prevail in their pristine simplicity in the church to-day!”
The Bishop was long silent, the white profile of his far-away face clear before Newbold’s watching eyes. Newbold spoke at last in anxious apology. “You understand, therefore, I hope, Bishop, my policy, as I understand yours? I wanted you to understand.”