Dr. Crawshay was at that time so ill that
he received the Chatsea Missioner in bed, and on hearing that he was
accompanied by a young man who hoped to take Holy Orders the Bishop sent
word for Mark to come up to his bedroom, where he gave him his blessing.
Mark never forgot the picture of the Bishop lying there under a
chequered coverlet looking like an old ivory chessman, a white bishop
that had been taken in the game and put off the board.
"And now, Mr. Rowley," Dr. Crawshay began when he had motioned Mark to a
chair. "To return to the subject under discussion between us. How can
you justify by any rubric of the Book of Common Prayer non-communicating
attendance?"
"I don't justify it by any rubric," the Missioner replied.
"Oh, you don't, don't you?"
"I justify it by the needs of human nature," the Missioner continued.
"In order to provide the necessary three communicants for the mid-day
Mass. . . ."
"One moment, Mr. Rowley," the Bishop interrupted. "I beg you most
earnestly to avoid that word. You know my old-fashioned Protestant
notions," he added, and his eyes so tired with pain twinkled for a
moment. "To me there is always something distasteful about that word."
"What shall I substitute, my lord?" the Missioner asked.
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