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Updated: June 8, 2025
Wistons had come to Polchester for a night to see his friend Foster. It was an entirely private visit, unknown to anybody save two or three of his friends among the clergy. He had asked whether Ronder could spare him half an hour. Ronder was delighted to spare it.... Ronder was in the liveliest spirits.
Martin looked round upon them all, his eyes glowing. "There isn't a man in England " He broke off. It's incredible!" "Incredible!" burst in Foster. "Not a bit of it! Do you suppose Brandon I beg pardon for mentioning his name, as we're all so particular do you suppose Brandon wouldn't fight just such a man? He regards him as dangerous, modern, subversive, heretical, anything you please. Wistons!
I believe that Wistons is the man for this place and for the religious life here. I believe that you will none of you regret it if you bring him to this appointment. I can say nothing more." What had happened to Foster? They had, one and all, expected a fighting speech. The discomfort and uneasiness that was already in the room was now greatly increased. The Dean asked Ronder to say something.
I have Archdeacon Witheram's letter here advising me of his wishes in this matter." Paper and pens were before every one. The votes were recorded and sent up to the Dean. He opened the little pieces of paper slowly. At last he said: "One vote has been recorded in favour of Mr. Forsyth, the rest for Mr. Wistons. Mr. Wistons is therefore appointed to the living of Pybus St. Anthony."
"I expect," said Miss Stiles, "that he played with the little Lambeth children when he was small" but no one really knew... The two men sat down facing one another, and Wistons looked strange indeed with his shoulders hunched up, his thin little legs like two cross-bones, one over the other, his black hair and pale face. "I feel rather like a thief in the night," he said, "stealing down here.
And if to form a new creed or to abandon an old one leads to men's deeper religious happiness, well, then...." He waved his hands. Wistons, speaking again as it were to himself, answered, "I care only for Jesus Christ. He is overshadowed now by all the great buildings that men have raised for Him. He is lost to our view; we must recover Him. Him! Him! Only Him!
The first of these two gentlemen is known to all of us personally, the second we know chiefly through his writings. We will first, I think, consider Mr. Wistons. You, Canon Foster, are, I know, a personal friend of his, and can tell us why, in your opinion, his would be a suitable appointment."
"I assure you that that is not so. There has been intrigue here owing to the old politics of the party who governed the Cathedral. But that is, I hope and pray, over and done with. It is because so many of us want to have no more of it that we are asking you to come here. Believe me, believe me, that is so." "I should not have said what I did," continued Wistons quietly.
"What! is Morrison dead?" said Foster eagerly. "No, but very ill, I believe." "Well, there's only one possible appointment for that place, and that is Wistons." "Wistons?" repeated Ronder. "Yes, yes," said Foster impatiently, "the author of The New Apocalypse the rector of St. Edward's, Hawston." Ronder remembered. "A stranger?" he said.
"I don't know quite where I am yet," said Ronder, "but I think you'll find me a friend rather than an enemy, Foster." "I don't care what you are," said Foster. "So far as my feelings or happiness go, nothing matters. But to have Wistons here in this place.... Oh, what we could do! What we could do!" He seemed to be lost in a dream. Five minutes later he roused himself to say good-bye.
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