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 his diocese, or, at any rate, declare himself too ill to keep 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, whom 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 have done?”
“Never mind,” said he.
“But, bishop, that is nonsense,” said Mrs. Proudie, adding something of severity to the tone of her voice.
“No, it isn’t nonsense,” said he. Still he did not look at her, nor had he done so for a moment since she had entered the room. Mrs. Proudie could not bear this, and as her anger became strong within her breast, she told herself that she would be wrong to bear it. She had tried what gentleness would do, and she had failed. It was now imperatively necessary that she should resort to sterner measures. She must make him understand that he must give her authority to send Mr. Thumble to Hogglestock.
“Why do you not turn round and speak to me properly?” she said.
“I do not want to speak to you at all,” the bishop answered.
This was very bad;—almost anything would be better than this. He was sitting now over the fire, with his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. She had gone round the room so as to face him, and was now standing almost over him, but still she could not see his countenance. “This will not do at all,” she said. “My dear, do you know that you are forgetting yourself altogether?”
“I wish I could forget myself.”
“That might be all very well if you were in a position in which you owed no service to anyone; or, rather, it would not be well then, but the evil would not be so manifest. You cannot do your duty in the diocese if you continue to sit there doing nothing, with your head upon your hands. Why do you not rally, and get to your work like a man?”
“I wish you would go away and leave me,” he said.
“No, bishop, I will not go away and leave you. You have brought yourself to such a condition that it is my duty as your wife to stay by you; and if you neglect your duty, I will not neglect mine.”
“It was you that brought me to it.”
“No, sir, that is not true. I did not bring you to it.”
“It is the truth.” And now he got up and looked at her. For a moment he stood upon his legs, and then again he sat down with his face turned towards her. “It is the truth. You have brought on me such disgrace that I cannot hold up my head. You have ruined me. I wish I were dead; and it is all through you that I am driven to wish it.”
Of all that she had suffered in her life this was the worst. She clasped both her hands to her side as she listened to him, and for a minute or two she made no reply. When he ceased from speaking he again put his
