Chapter 8

ONE OF THEM NAMED CAIAPHAS BEING HIGH-PRIEST THAT SAME YEAR

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 d�bris 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.