"Very well, then. I think this morning, contrary to our usual custom, we
will record our votes on paper. 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."
Brandon was on his feet. His body trembled like a tree tottering. He flung
out his hands.
"No.... No.... Stop one moment. You must. You--all of you----
"Mr. Dean--all of you.... Oh, God, help me now!...You have been
influenced by your feelings about myself. Forget me, turn me away, send me
from the town, anything, anything.... I beseech you to think only of the
good of the Cathedral in this affair. If you admit this man it is the
beginning of the end. Slowly it will all be undermined. Belief in Christ,
belief in God Himself.... Think of the future and your responsibility to
the unborn children when they come to you and say: 'Where is our faith?
Why did you take it from us? Give it back to us!' Oh, stop for a moment!
Postpone this for only a little while.
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