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It ran as follows: "MY DEAR DORNAL: It was like you to write to me, and with such kindness and delicacy. But even to you I can only say what I say to other questioners of a very different sort. The story to which you refer is untrue. But owing to peculiar circumstances it is impossible for me to defend myself in the ordinary way, and my lips are sealed with regard to it.
She remembers saying good-bye to Canon France and his sister in the drawing-room and two or three others and immediately afterward she went into the green drawing-room to lock up the coins. There were two missing." "She doesn't remember who had been in the room?" "She vaguely remembers seeing two or three people go in and out the Bishop! Canon Dornal!" They both laughed.
The hopes of the Archdeacon, for one set of reasons, and of Dornal, for another, that some bridge of retreat might be provided by the interview, died away. The Dean had never hoped anything, and Mr. Brathay sat open-mouthed and aghast, while Meynell's voice and personality drove home ideas and audacities which on the printed page were but dim to him.
"And as to the Creeds," the other resumed, after another pause "Do you think that one per cent of the Christians that you and I know believe in the Descent into Hell, or the Resurrection of the Body?" Dornal made no reply. Cyril Fenton also walked home with a young priest just ordained.
The Professor looked at the ceiling, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth. The green shade concealed the Dean's expression. He also knew no German, but it did not seem necessary to say so. Canon Dornal looked uncomfortable. "Do you see who it was that protected Darwen from the roughs outside his church?" he said presently. Brathay looked up. "A party of Wesleyans? class-leaders? Yes, I saw.
On the Dean's right hand sat Canon Dornal, a man barely forty, who owed his canonry to the herculean work he had done for fourteen years in a South London parish, work that he would never have relinquished for the comparative ease of the Markborough precincts but for a sudden failure in health which had pulled him up in mid-career, and obliged him to think of his wife and children.
He leaned across the table as though addressing him alone. "To us too the Resurrection is vital the transposition of it, I mean from the natural, or physical to the spiritual order." Dornal did not of course attempt to argue.
But if the Church allows a Socinian to be put over her, she must take the consequences!" "What can the Church do?" said the Dean, shrugging his shoulders. "If we had accepted Disestablishment years ago, Dunchester would never have been a bishop. And now we may have missed our chance." "Of what?" Canon Dornal looked up "of Disestablishment?" The Dean nodded.
As Dornal left the Palace, on his way past the Cathedral, he met young Fenton, the High Churchman who some months earlier had refused to recognize Meynell after the first Modernist meeting in Markborough. Fenton was walking slowly and reading the local newspaper the same which contained the anonymous letter.
The Bishop led the way, and as soon as the door was shut he turned eagerly on his companion: "Do you know anything of these abominable stories that are being spread about Richard Meynell?" Dornal looked at him sadly. "They are all over Markborough and there is actually a copy of one of the anonymous letters with dashes for the names in the Post to-day?"
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