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.