The bishop when he had heard of the tidings of his wife's death walked back to his seat over the fire, and Mrs Draper, the housekeeper came and stood over him without speaking. Thus she stood for ten minutes looking down at him and listening. But there was no sound; not a word, nor a moan, nor a sob. It was as though he also were dead, but that a slight irregular movement of his fingers on the top of his bald head, told her that his mind and body were still active. 'My lord,' she said at last, 'would you wish to see the doctor when he comes?' She spoke very low and he did not answer her. Then, after another minute of silence, she asked the same question again.
'What doctor?' he said.
'Dr Filgrave. We sent for him. Perhaps he is here now. Shall I go and see, my lord?' Mrs Draper found that her position there was weary and she wished to escape. Anything on his behalf requiring trouble or work she would have done willingly; but she could not stand there for ever, watching the motion of his fingers.
'I suppose I must see him,' said the bishop. Mrs Draper took this as an order for her departure, and crept silently out of the room, closing the door behind her with the long protracted elaborate click which is always produced by an attempt at silence on such occasions. He did not care for noise or for silence. Had she slammed the door he would not have regarded it. A wonderful silence had come upon him which for the time almost crushed him. He would never hear that well-known voice again!
He was free now. Even in his misery--for he was very miserable --he could not refrain from telling himself that. No once could now press uncalled-for into his study, contradict him in the presence of those before whom he was bound to be authoritative, and rob him of all his dignity. There was no one else of whom he was afraid. She had at least kept him out of the hands of other tyrants. He was now his own master, and there was the feeling--I may not call it of relief, for as yet there was more of pain in it than of satisfaction--a feeling as though he had escaped from an old trouble at a terrible cost of which he could not as yet calculate the amount. He knew that he might now give up all idea of writing to the archbishop.
She had in some ways, and at certain periods of his life, been very good to him. She had kept his money for him and made things go straight, when they had been poor. His interests had always been her interests. Without her he would never have been a bishop. So, at least, he told himself now, and so told himself probably with truth. She had been very careful of his children. She had never been idle. She had never been fond of pleasure. She had neglected no acknowledged duty. He did not doubt that she was now on her way to heaven. He took his hands from his head, and clasping them together, said a little prayer. It may be doubted whether he quite knew for what he was praying. The idea of giving up her soul, now that she was dead, would have scandalised him. He certainly was not praying for his own soul. I think that he was praying that God might save him from being glad that his wife was dead.
But she was dead--and, as it were, in a moment! He had not stirred out of that room since she had been there with him. Then there had been angry words between them--perhaps more determined enmity on his part than ever had existed; and they had parted for the last time with bitter animosity. But he told himself that he had certainly been right in what he had done then. He thought he had been right then. And so his mind went back to the Crawley and Thumble question, and he tried to alleviate the misery which the last interview with his wife now created by assuring himself that he at least been justified in what he had done.
But yet his thoughts were very tender to her. Nothing reopens the springs of love so fully as absence, and no absence so thoroughly as that which must needs be endless. We want that which we have not; and especially that which we never can have. She had told him in the very last moments of her presence with him that he was wishing she were dead, and he had made no reply. At the moment he had felt, with savage anger, that such was his wish. Her words had now come to pass, and he was a widower--and he assured himself that he would give all that he possessed in the world to bring her back again.
Yes, he was a widower, and he might do as he pleased. The tyrant was gone, and he was free. The tyrant was gone, and the tyranny had doubtless been very oppressive. Who had suffered as he had done? But in thus being left without his tyrant he was wretchedly desolate. Might it not be that the tyranny had been good for him?--that the Lord had known best what wife was fit for him? Then he thought of a story which he had read--and had well marked as he was reading--of some man who had been terribly afflicted by his wife, whose wife had starved him and beaten him and reviled him; and yet this man had been able to thank God for having mortified him in the flesh. Might it not be that the mortification which he himself had doubtless suffered in his flesh had been intended for his welfare, and had been very good for him? But if this were so, it might be that the mortification was now removed because the Lord knew that his servant had been sufficiently mortified. He had not been starved or beaten, but the mortification had been certainly severe. Then there came these words--into his mind, not into his mouth--'The Lord sent the thorn, and the Lord has taken it away. Blessed be the Lord.' After that he was very angry with himself, and tried to pray that he might be forgiven. While he was so striving there came a low knock at the door, and Mrs Draper again entered the room.
'Dr Filgrave, my lord, was not at home,' said Mrs Draper; 'but he will be sent the moment when he arrives.'
'Very well, Mrs Draper.'