DURING the winter it became more and more certain that Bishop Godkin
was dying, and that Dr. Caiaphas would be chosen his successor.
The poor bishop had been sick for nearly a year past. Then the cause of
his illness was found to be an internal malignant disease.
At first, even after the nature of the trouble had been diagnosed,
he had battled against his mortal sickness, now feeling better and
now again more ill, and for a long time his family had hoped against
failing hope that it might not be what the physicians had decided it
to be. Then, at last, towards the end, came the time when it became
no longer possible to disguise the inevitable fact. Bishop Godkin
must die--the end was certain and was very near, and nothing, not
all the skill of modern surgery, could save him. It was dreadful for
Mrs. Godkin and the two Misses Godkin--both elderly spinsters--and
they fell, for a time, prostrate under the blow that the attendant
physicians had to administer. Then they somewhat rallied again from
that prostration, and, after a while, again began now and then to hope,
for there were times when there would be a respite in the ghastly
sickness.
Meantime the work upon the unfinished temple was being pushed forward
with a renewed vigor after the freezing cold of the winter. Stone by
stone, bit by bit, it grew towards its slow completion. It seemed to
those poor women, in these dark days of their trouble, to be peculiarly
tragic to look out of the broad, clear windows of the bishop's house,
across the open plazza-like square, and to see everything over there at
the towering structure so busy and full of life; to hear the ceaseless
clink-clicking of hammer and chisel, and now and then the creaking of
block-and-tackle; to see always the restless moving of the workmen
among the blocks of marble, and the débris scattered about under the
sheds in front of the south nave--to see all this and then to think of
the muffled stillness of the sick-room over yonder, where, maybe, the
physician sat listening patiently to the sick man as he maundered on
about his discomforts.
Everybody believed that Dr. Caiaphas would be the next bishop--that
is, everybody except Dr. Caiaphas himself. He desired the honor so much
that he did not dare let himself believe--hardly to let himself hope.
He used to go every day or two to visit the dying man. It was always
a distressing task to him, but he resolutely set himself to do it as
cheerfully as possible. He used to dread it very much; the sight of the
unpreventable squalor of a sick-room, even as comfortable as this, was
very revolting to him--the smell of the medicines and the sight of the
basins and towels, the half-drawn curtains, the silent, shadow-like
movements of the trained nurse, and always the sick man himself--the
centre of all this attention--sitting propped among the pillows in a
great arm-chair by the table. There were generally flowers in the tall
tumbler on the table; they only made everything seem still more ghastly
with their insistence of something sweet and pretty where nothing could
be sweet and pretty.
Dr. Caiaphas used to return from such visits with an ever-haunting
recollection of that pinched, haggard, eager face that had once been
so rosy; of the bent, lean figure that had once been so plump--its
helpless hands and its legs wrapped up in blankets--the lean brows
already gray with the shadow of approaching death; all these made
still more terrible by the attempted comforts of the sick-room.
At such times, after his return home, Dr. Caiaphas would look around
at his beautiful books, his little gems of art, his engravings, his
Eastern rugs, his soft, delectable surroundings, and wonder what was
the good of them all except to cover over the chasm of death so that
for a time he might not see it. That chasm of death! What was there
within it? Was there really another and a better life, or only the
blackness of oblivion? In a few days now the poor old man who was
dying over at the cathedral yonder would have solved the enigma--a few
days and he would either be alive again or else he would know nothing
at all. Dr. Caiaphas wondered why he had yesterday bought, at so
extravagant a price, the Aldine Virgil in its original pigskin binding.
How poor and foolish and petty was the joy of ownership of such a thing
when a man must die in the end!
Then, one morning while Dr. Caiaphas was busy writing at his book,
_The Great Religion of the World_, the serving-man brought him a note.
He tore it open and hastily read it. "Dear Dr. Caiaphas," it said,
"come as soon as you can to the bishop's house. The bishop is sinking
rapidly." It was signed by Dr. Willington.
"Where are you going, Theodore?" said Mrs. Caiaphas, as she met the
doctor hurrying down the stairs.
"My dear, the poor bishop is dying," he said, solemnly.
"Oh, Theodore!" she cried. The first thought that flashed through her
mind was of the relation of this coming event to herself--that maybe,
at last, her husband was upon the eve of becoming the head of the
Church. She put the thought away from her as quickly as she could. "Oh,
Theodore!" she cried again.
"Yes, my dear," he said. And then he kissed her and left her.
The bishop was, indeed, dying. There was no mistaking the signs--the
broken, irregular, strident breathing; the pale, filmy eyes, the
pinched nose, and the cavernous mouth. Dr. Willington and Dr. Clarkson
were both present. Dr. Clarkson sat by the bedside, his finger-tips
resting lightly upon the lean wrist of the unconscious hand that lay
limp upon the coverlet. The trained nurse stood on the other side
of the bed, her hands folded and a look as of patient waiting upon
her smooth, gentle face. Her cap and her apron added to that look of
patient gentleness.
Mr. Bonteen, the rector of the temple, and Mr. Goodman, his assistant,
were both present in the room. Mrs. Godkin and her two daughters had
been up nearly all night and were not then present. Dr. Willington had
just now sent them down to a broken, scrappy breakfast.
Dr. Caiaphas stood looking down into the face of the dying man. He
gazed solemnly and silently. In a little while he also would look like
that and be as that--then he turned away. Mr. Bonteen arose and shook
hands silently with him. There had been a long lull in the quick, harsh
breathing; suddenly it began again. The door opened and Mrs. Godkin
came into the room. Dr. Caiaphas arose; she gave him her hand. She
pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, and her body was shaken with
sobs. He pressed the helpless hand he held. "The Lord," said he, "will
temper the wind to the shorn lamb." And then it flashed upon him that
he was quoting secular and not sacred words. He looked around but no
one else seemed to notice the fact.
About noon Mr. Thomas and Mr. Algernon Godkin, the bishop's two
brothers, arrived, and then Dr. Caiaphas went home to lunch. Almost
never had he realized the littleness of man's life as now. He could not
enjoy the salmi of capon--hardly could he enjoy the Madeira.
At half-past two o'clock Bishop Godkin passed away.
* * * * *
Dr. Caiaphas was elected his successor. The day that he was chosen was,
perhaps, one of the happiest of his life. He went straight to his wife;
he seemed to be walking upon air. He found her in her own room, reading
a magazine. He took her face between his hands and looked into her
eyes. "Mary," he said, "will you wish me joy?"
"Oh, Theodore," she cried, rising and letting the magazine fall to the
floor, "have you got it?"
He nodded his head.
She flung her arms around his neck and drew him close to her. It was
almost exactly as it had been when, twenty-one years ago, he had told
her he had been invited to the living of the Church of the Advent.
There were tears in her eyes now as there had been then. They were both
of them very happy.
It was arranged that no immediate change as to residence was to be
made. Mrs. Godkin and her two daughters were to continue to live at
the bishop's house until the coming May, so that, in the mean time,
they might have an opportunity of finding another house to suit them.
Mrs. Godkin's brother-in-law wanted her to remove to the northern
metropolis, but she was too closely identified with her present home
and too deeply inrooted in its society to be willing to transplant her
life into other and newer ground.
The newly elected high-priest suggested Dr. Dayton, of the neighboring
city, as a fitting one to succeed himself as rector of the Church of
the Advent.
"Since we cannot any longer," said Mr. Dorman-Webster, "have Dr.
Caiaphas, under whom we have grown up into spiritual manhood through
all these years, and whom we love so dearly"--and he reached across
the table as he spoke and clasped the new bishop's hand--"I, for one,
advise that we shall do the next best thing, and take the man whom he
shall nominate."
Bishop Caiaphas wrung Mr. Dorman-Webster's hand in silence--he could
not trust himself to speak.
So Dr. Dayton was invited to come over and take the rectorship of the
Church of the Advent.