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.
Pages:
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139