Then the bishop was left alone for an hour to write the letter which Mr Thumble was to carry over to Mr Crawley—­and after a while he did write it.  Before he commenced the task, however, he sat for some moments in his arm-chair close by the fire-side, asking himself whether it might not be possible for him to overcome his enemy in this matter.  How would it go with him suppose he were to leave the letter unwritten, and send in a message by his chaplain to Mrs Proudie, saying that as Mr Crawley was out on bail, the parish might be left for the present without episcopal interference?  She could not make him interfere.  She could not force him to write the letter.  So, at least, he said to himself.  But as he said it, he almost thought that she could do these things.  In the last thirty years, or more, she had ever contrived by some power latent in her to have her will effected.  But what would happen if now, even now, he were to rebel?  That he would personally become very uncomfortable, he was well aware, but he thought he could bear that.  The food would become bad—­mere ashes, between his teeth, the daily modicum of wine would lose its flavour, the chimneys would all smoke, the wind would come from the east, and the servants would not answer the bell.  Little miseries of that kind would crowd upon him.  He had arrived at a time in life in which such miseries make such men very miserable; but yet he thought that he could endure them.  And what other wretchedness would come to him?  She would scold him—­frightfully, loudly, scornfully, and worse than all, continually.  But of this he had so much habitually, that anything added might be borne also;—­if only he could be sure that the scoldings should go on in private, that the world of the palace should not be allowed to hear the revilings to which he would be subjected.  But to be scolded publicly was the great evil which he dreaded beyond all evils.  He was well aware that the palace would know his misfortune, that it was known, and freely discussed by all, from the examining chaplain down to the palace boot-boy;—­nay, that it was known to all the diocese; but yet he could smile upon those around him, and look as though he held his own like other men—­unless when open violence was displayed.  But when that voice was heard aloud along the corridors of the palace, and when he was summoned imperiously by the woman, calling for the bishop, so that all Barchester heard it, and when he was compelled to creep forth from his study, at the sound of that summons, with distressed face, and shaking hands, and short hurrying steps—­a being to be pitied even by a deacon—­not venturing to assume an air of masterdom should he chance to meet a housemaid on the stairs—­then, at such moments as that, he would feel that any submission was better than the misery which he suffered.  And he well knew that should he now rebel, the whole house would be in a turmoil.  He would be bishoped here, bishoped there, before the eyes of all palatial men and women, till life would be a burden to him.  So he got up from his seat over the fire, and went to his desk and wrote the letter.  The letter was as follows:—­