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.