The body was still resting on its legs, leaning against the end of the side of the bed, while one of the arms was close clasped round the bedpost. The mouth was rigidly closed, but the eyes were open as though staring at him. Nevertheless there could be no doubt from the first glance that the woman was dead. He went up close to it, but did not dare to touch it. There was no one as yet there but he and Mrs. Draper;—no one else knew what had happened.
“It’s her heart,” said Mrs. Draper.
“Did she suffer from heart complaint?” he asked.
“We suspected it, sir, though nobody knew it. She was very shy of talking about herself.”
“We must send for the doctor at once,” said Mr. Thumble. “We had better touch nothing till he is here.” Then they retreated and the door was locked.
In ten minutes everybody in the house knew it except the bishop; and in twenty minutes the nearest apothecary with his assistant were in the room, and the body had been properly laid upon the bed. Even then the husband had not been told—did not know either his relief or his loss. It was now past seven, which was the usual hour for dinner at the palace, and it was probable that he would come out of his room among the servants, if he were not summoned. When it was proposed to Mr. Thumble that he should go in to him and tell him, he positively declined, saying that the sight which he had just seen and the exertions of the day together, had so unnerved him, that he had not physical strength for the task. The apothecary, who had been summoned in a hurry, had escaped, probably being equally unwilling to be the bearer of such a communication. The duty therefore fell to Mrs. Draper, and under the pressing instance of the other servants she descended to her master’s room. Had it not been that the hour of dinner had come, so that the bishop could not have been left much longer to himself, the evil time would have been still postponed.
She went very slowly along the passage, and was just going to pause ere she reached the room, when the door was opened and the bishop stood close before her. It was easy to be seen that he was cross. His hands and face were unwashed and his face was haggard. In these days he would not even go through the ceremony of dressing himself before dinner. “Mrs. Draper,” he said, “why don’t they tell me that dinner is ready? Are they going to give me any dinner?” She stood a moment without answering him, while the tears streamed down her face. “What is the matter?” said he. “Has your mistress sent you here?”
“Oh, laws!” said Mrs. Draper—and she put out her hands to support him if such support should be necessary.
“What is the matter?” he demanded angrily.
“Oh, my lord;—bear it like a Christian. Mistress isn’t no more.” He leaned back against the doorpost, and she took hold of him by the arm. “It was the heart, my lord. Dr. Filgrave hisself has not been yet; but that’s what it was.” The bishop did not say a word, but walked back to his chair before the fire.
LXVII
In Memoriam
The bishop when he had heard 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 forever 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 one 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 a 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
