Things were gloomy at the palace. It has already been said that for may days after Dr Tempest's visit to Barchester the intercourse between the bishop and Mrs Proudie had not been of a pleasant nature. He had become so silent, so sullen, and so solitary in his ways, that even her courage had been almost cowed, and for a while she had condescended to use gentler methods, with the hope that she might thus bring her lord round to his usual state of active submission; or perhaps, if we strive to do her full justice, we may say of her that her effort was made conscientiously, with the idea of inducing him to do his duty with proper activity. For she was a woman not without a conscience, and by no means indifferent to the real service which her husband, as bishop of the diocese, was bound to render to the affairs of the Church around her. Of her own struggles after personal dominion she was herself unconscious; and no doubt they gave her, when recognised and acknowledged by herself, many stabs to her inner self, of which no single being in the world knew anything. And now, as after a while she failed in producing any amelioration in the bishop's mood, her temper also gave way, and things were becoming very gloomy and unpleasant.
The bishop and his wife were at present alone in the palace. Their married daughter and her husband had left them, and the unmarried daughter was also away. How far the bishop's mood may have produced this solitude in the vast house I will not say. Probably Mrs Proudie's state of mind may have prevented her from having other guests in the place of those who had gone. She felt herself to be almost disgraced in the eyes of all those around her by her husband's long absence from the common rooms of the house and by his dogged silence at meals. It was better, she thought, that they two should be alone in the palace.
Her own efforts to bring him back to something like life, to some activity of mind if not body, were made constantly; and when she failed, as she did fail day after day, she would go slowly to her own room, and lock her door, and look back in solitude at all the days of her life.
She had agonies in these minutes of which no one near her knew anything.
She would seize with her arm the part of the bed near which she would stand, and hold by it, grasping it, as though she were afraid to fall;and then, when it was at the worst with her, she would go to her closet--a closet that no eyes ever saw unlocked but her own--and fill for herself and swallow some draught and then she would sit down with the Bible before her, and read it sedulously. She spent hours every day with her Bible before her, repeating to herself whole chapters, which she knew almost by heart.
It cannot be said that she was a bad woman, though she had in her time done an indescribable amount of evil. She had endeavoured to do good, failing partly by ignorance and partly from the effects of an unbridled, ambitious temper. And now, even amidst her keenest sufferings, her ambition was by no means dead. She still longed to rule the diocese by means of her husband, but was made to pause and hesitate by the unwonted mood that had fallen upon him. Before this, on more than one occasion, and on one very memorable occasion, he had endeavoured to combat her. He had fought with her, striving to put her down. He had failed, and given up the hope of any escape fro himself in that direction. On those occasions her courage had never quailed for a moment. While he openly struggled to be master, she could openly struggle to be mistress--and could enjoy the struggle. But nothing like this had ever come upon him before.
She had yielded to it for many days, striving to coax him by little softnesses of which she herself had been ashamed as she practised them.
They had served her nothing, and at last she determined that something else must be done. If only for his sake, to keep some life in him, something else must be done. Were he to continue as he was now, he must give up the diocese, or, at any rate, declare himself too ill to keep up the working of it in his own hands. How she hated Mr Crawley for all the sorrow that he had brought upon her and her house!
And it was still the affair of Mr Crawley which urged her on to further action. When the bishop received Mr Crawley's letter he said nothing of it to her; but he handed it over to his chaplain. The chaplain, fearing to act upon it himself, handed it to Mr Thumble, who he knew to be one of the bishop's commission, and Mr Thumble, equally fearing responsibility in the present state of affairs at the palace, found himself obliged to consult Mrs Proudie. Mrs Proudie had no doubt as to what should be done. The man had abdicated his living, and of course some provision must be made for the services. She would again make an attempt upon her husband, and therefore she went into his room holding Mr Crawley's letter in her hand.
'My dear,' she said, 'here is Mr Crawley's letter. I suppose you have read it.'
'Yes,' said the bishop; 'I have read it.'
'And what will you do about it? Something must be done.'
'I don't know,' said he. He did not even look at her as he spoke. He had not turned his eyes upon her since she had entered the room.
'But, bishop, it is a letter that requires to be acted upon at once. We cannot doubt that the man is doing right at last. He is submitting himself where his submission is due; but his submission will be of no avail unless you take some action upon his letter. Do you not think that Mr Thumble had better go over?'
'No, I don't. I think Mr Thumble had better stay where he is,' said the irritated bishop.
'What, then, would you wish to be done?'
'Never mind,' said he.
'But, bishop, that is nonsense,' said Mrs Proudie, adding something of severity to the tone of her voice.