A prompt reply from the Bishop's secretary granted him an appointment.
Scrupulously attired in his tail-coat and silk hat, Gissing proceeded
toward the rendezvous. To tell the truth, he was nervous: his mind
flitted uneasily among possible embarrassments. Suppose Mr. Poodle had
written to the Bishop to prejudice his application? Another, but more
absurd, idea troubled him. One of the problems in visiting the houses
of the Great (he had learned in his brief career in Big Business) is
to find the door-bell. It is usually mysteriously concealed. Suppose he
should have to peer hopelessly about the vestibule, in a shameful and
suspicious manner, until some flunky came out to chide? In the sunny
park below the Cathedral he saw nurses sitting by their puppy-carriages;
for an instant he almost envied their gross tranquillity. THEY have not
got (he said to himself) to call on a Bishop!
He was early, so he strolled for a few minutes in the park that lies
underneath that rocky scarp. On the summit, clear-surging against the
blue, the great church rode like a ship on a long ridge of sea. The
angel with a trumpet on the jut of the roof was like a valiant seaman in
the crow's nest. His agitation was calmed by this noble sight. Yes, he
said, the Church is a ship behind whose bulwarks I will find rest. She
sails an unworldly sea: her crew are exempt from earthly ambition and
fallacy.
He ran nimbly up the long steps that scale the cliff, and approached
the episcopal residence. The bell was plainly visible. He rang, and
presently came a tidy little housemaid. He had meditated a form of
words. It would be absurd to say “Is the Bishop in?” for he knew the
Bishop WAS in. So he said “This is Mr. Gissing. I think the Bishop is
expecting me.”
Bishop Borzoi was an impressive figure--immensely tall and slender,
with long, narrow ascetic face and curly white hair. He was surprisingly
cordial.
“Ah, Mr. Gissing?” he said. “Sit down, sir. I know Beagle and Company
very well. Too well, in fact-Mrs. Borzoi has an account there.”
Gissing, feeling rather aghast and tentative, had no comment ready. He
was still worrying a little as to the proper mode of address.
“It is very pleasant to find you Influential Merchants interested in the
Church,” continued the Bishop. “I often thought of approaching the late
Mr. Beagle on the subject of a small contribution to the cathedral.
Indeed, I have spent so much in your store that it would be only a fair
return. Mr. Collie, of Greyhound, Collie and Company, has been very
handsome with us: he has just provided for repaving the choir.”
Gissing began to fear that the object of his visit had perhaps been
misunderstood, but the prelate's eyes were bright with benignant
enthusiasm and he dared not interrupt.
“You inquired most kindly in your letter as to a possible vacancy in the
Church. Indeed there is a niche in the transept that I should be happy
to see filled. It is intended for some kind of memorial statue, and
perhaps, in honour of the late Mr. Beagle--”
“I must explain, Sir Bishop,” said Gissing, very much disturbed, “that
I have left Beagle and Company. The contribution I wish to make to the
Church is not a decorative one, I fear. It is myself.”
“Yourself?” queried the Bishop, politely puzzled.
“Yes,” stammered Gissing, “I--in fact, I am hoping to--to enter the
ministry.”
The Bishop was plainly amazed, and his long, aristocratic nose seemed
longer than ever as he gazed keenly at his caller.
“But have you had any formal training in theology?”
“None, right reverend Bishop,” said Gissing, “But it's this way,” and,
incoherently at first, but with increasing energy and copious eloquence,
he poured out the story of his mental struggles.
“This is singularly interesting,” said the Bishop at length. “I can
see that you are wholly lacking in the rudiments of divinity. Of modern
exegesis and criticism you are quite innocent. But you evidently have
something which is much rarer--what the Quakers call a CONCERN. Of
course you should really go to the theological seminary and establish
this naif intuitive mysticism upon a disciplined basis. You will realize
that we churchmen can only meet modern rationalism by a rationalism of
our own--by a philosophical scholarship which is unshakable. I do not
suppose that you can even harmonize the Gospels?”
Gissing ruefully admitted his ignorance.
“Well, at least I must make sure of a few fundamentals,” said the
Bishop. “Of course a symbological latitude is permissible, but there are
some essentials of dogma and creed that may not be foregone.”
He subjected the candidate to a rapid catechism. Gissing, in a state of
mind curiously mingled of excitement and awe, found himself assenting to
much that, in a calmer moment, he would hardly have admitted; but
having plunged so deep into the affair he felt it would be the height of
discourtesy to give negative answers to any of the Bishop's queries.
By dint of hasty mental adjustments and symbolic interpretations, he
satisfied his conscience.
“It is very irregular,” the Bishop admitted, “but I must confess
that your case interests me greatly. Of course I cannot admit you
to ordination until you have passed through the regular theological
curriculum. Yet I find you singularly apt for one without proper
training.”
He brooded a while, fixing the candidate with a clear darkly burning
eye.
“It struck me that you were a trifle vague upon some of the Articles of
Religion, and the Table of Kindred and Affinity. You must remember that
these articles are not to be subjected to your own sense or comment, but
must be taken in the literal and grammatical meaning. However, you
show outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual grace. It so
happens that I know of a small chapel, in the country, that has been
closed for lack of a minister. I can put you in charge there as lay
reader.”
Gissing's face showed his elation.
“And wear a cassock?” he cried.
“Certainly not,” said the Bishop sternly. “Not even a surplice. You must
remember you have not been ordained. If you are serious in your zeal,
you must work your way up gradually, beginning at the bottom.”
“I have seen some of your cloth with a little purple dickey which looks
very well in the aperture of the waistcoat,” said Gissing humbly. “How
long would it take me to work up to that?”
Bishop Borzoi, who had a sense of humour, laughed genially.
“Look here,” he said. “It's a fine afternoon: I'll order my car and
we'll drive out to Dalmatian Heights. I'll show you your chapel, and
tell you exactly what your duties will be.”
Gissing was startled. Dalmatian Heights was only a few miles from the
Canine Estates. If the news should reach Mr. Poodle...
“Sir Bishop,” he said nervously, “I begin to fear that perhaps after all
I am unworthy. Now about those Articles of Religion: I may perhaps have
given some of them a conjectural and commentating assent. Possibly I
have presumed too far--”
The Bishop was already looking forward to a ride into the country with
his unusual novice.
“Not at all, not at all,” he said cheerily. “In a mere lay reader, a
slight laxity is allowable. You understand, of course, that you are
expressly restricted from the pulpit. You will have to read the lessons,
conduct the service, and may address the congregation upon matters not
homiletic nor doctrinal; preaching and actual entry into the pulpit are
defended. But I see excellent possibility in you. Perform the duties
punctually in this very lowly office, and high ranks of service in the
church militant will be open.”
He put on a very fine shovel-hat, and led the way to his large touring
car.
It was a very uncomfortable ride for Gissing. A silk hat is the least
stable apparel for swift motoring, and the chauffeur drove at high
speed. The Bishop, leaning back in the open tonneau, crossed one
delicately slender shank over another, gazed in a kind of ecstasy at the
countryside, and talked gaily about his days as a young curate. Gissing
sat holding his hat on. He saw only too well that, by the humiliating
oddity of chance, they were going to take the road that led exactly
past his own house. He could only hope that Mrs. Spaniel and the
various children would not be visible, for explanations would be too
complicated. Desperately he praised the view to be obtained on another
road, but Bishop Borzoi was too interested in his own topic to pay much
attention.
“By the way,” said the latter, as they drew near the familiar region, “I
must introduce you to Miss Airedale. She lives in the big place on the
hill over there. Her family always used to attend what I will now call
YOUR chapel; she is a very ardent churchgoer, and it was a sincere grief
to her when the place had to be closed. You will find her a great aid
and comfort; not only that, she is--what one does not always find in the
devouter members of her sex--young and beautiful. I think I understood
you to say you are a bachelor?”
They were approaching the last turning at which it was still possible to
avoid the fatal road, and Gissing's attention was divided.
“Yes, after a fashion,” he replied. “Bishop, do you know that road down
into the valley? The view is really superb--Yes, that road--Oh, no, I am
a bachelor--”
It was too late. The chauffeur, unconscious of this private crisis, was
spinning along the homeward way. With a tender emotion Gissing saw
the spires of the poplar trees, the hemlocks down beyond the pond, the
fringe of woods that concealed the house until you were quite upon it--
The car swerved suddenly and the driver only saved it by a quick and
canny manoeuvre from going down the bank. He came to a stop, and almost
from underneath the rear wheels appeared a scuffling dusty group of
youngsters who had been playing in the road. There they were--Bunks,
Groups, and Yelpers (inordinately grown!) and two of the Spaniels. Their
clothes were deplorable, their faces grimed, their legs covered with
burrs, their whole demeanour was ragamuffin and wild: yet Gissing felt
a pang of pride to see his godchildren's keen, independent bearing
contrasted with the rowdier, disreputable look of the young Spaniels.
Quickly he averted his head to escape recognition. But the urchins were
all gaping at the Bishop's shovel hat.
“Hot dog!” cried Yelpers “Some hat!”
To his horror, Gissing now saw Mrs. Spaniel, hastening in alarm
down from the house, spilling potatoes from her apron as she ran. He
hurriedly urged the driver to proceed.
“What terrible looking children,” observed the Bishop, who seemed
fascinated by their stare. “Really, my good sister,” he said to Mrs.
Spaniel, who was now panting by the running board; “you must keep them
off the road or someone will get hurt.”
Gissing was looking for an imaginary object on the floor of the car. To
his great relief he heard the roar of the motor as they started again.
But he sat up a little too soon. A simultaneous roar of “Daddy!” burst
from the trio.
“What was that they were shouting at us?” inquired the Bishop, looking
back.
Gissing shook his head. He was too overcome to speak.