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Updated: June 17, 2025
They are a mystery to him. But, my dear Dornal, how can they be?" The Bishop faced round with energy on his companion. "He must at least have talked incautiously before some one!" Dornal agreed, but could put forward no suggestion of his own. He sat drooping by the Bishop's fire, his aspect expressing the deep distress he did not shape in words.
For in truth the plague of anonymous letters was rather increasing than abating. Flaxman had had news that day of the arrival of two more among their own country-house acquaintance of the neighbourhood. He sat down, in obedience to a letter from Dornal, to write a doleful report of the meeting to the Bishop.
They two across the commission table as accuser and accused had recognized, each in the other, the man of faith. The same forces played on both, mysteriously linking them, as the same sea links the headland which throws back its waves with the harbour which receives them. Meynell too was conscious of Dornal as somewhere near him in the still, beautiful place, but only vaguely.
"My answer, of course, is Sir Wilfrid's. We have the Creeds." They walked on in silence a moment. Then the first speaker said: "A generation ago would you not have said what also Sir Wilfrid carefully avoided saying 'We have the Scriptures." "Perhaps," said Dornal despondently.
At the parting with Dornal, Meynell turned a corner and saw in front of him, walking alone, a portly gentleman, with a broad and substantial back. A start ran through him. After a moment's hesitation, he began to quicken his steps, and soon overtook the man in question. Barron for it was he stopped in some astonishment, some confusion even, which he endeavoured to hide.
Dornal looked at him with distaste. The speaker's light tone, the note of relish in it, as of one delighting in the drama of life, revolted him. On coming out of the Cathedral Library, Dornal walked across to the Cathedral and entered. He found his way to a little chapel of St. Oswald on the north side, where he was often wont to sit or kneel for ten minutes' quiet in a busy day.
His thin, finely modelled face, which in a few years would resemble the Houdon statue of St. Bruno, expressed an eager excitement that was not unlike jubilation. Dornal was practically certain that he was reading the paragraph that concerned Meynell, and certain also that it gave him pleasure. He hurriedly passed over to the other side of the street, that Fenton might not accost him.
But I don't know whether to send for him. I don't think I can send for him. The fact is one feels the whole thing an outrage!" Dornal looked up. "That's the word!" he said gratefully. Then he added hesitating "I ought perhaps to tell you that I have written to Meynell I wrote when the first report of the thing reached me.
When he had done it, sitting by the table in his library, he threw it from him with indignation, called for his coat, and hurried across his garden to the Cathedral for matins. After service, as with a troubled countenance he was emerging from the transept door, he saw Dornal in the Close and beckoned to him. "Come into the library for ten minutes. I very much want to speak to you."
Canon Dornal frowned and fidgeted. "We must remember," he said, "that unfortunately they have the greater part of European theology behind them." "European theology!" cried the Archdeacon. "I suppose you mean German theology?" "The same thing almost," said the Canon, smiling a little sadly. "And what on earth does German theology matter to us?" retorted the Archdeacon.
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