But he knew that before very long he would have to tell his
wife of the changes that hung over their lives; it would be
shabby to let the
avalanche fall without giving the longest
possible
warning; and before they parted that night he took her
hands in his and said: "There is much I have to tell you, dear.
Things change, the whole world changes. The church must not live
in a dream....
"No," she whispered. "I hope you will sleep to-night," and held
up her grave sweet face to be kissed.
(6)
But he did not sleep
perfectly that night.
He did not sleep indeed very badly, but he lay for some time
thinking, thinking not
onward but as if he pressed his mind
against very strong barriers that had closed again. His
vision of
God which had filled the heavens, had become now gem-like, a
minute, hard, clear-cut
conviction in his mind that he had to
disentangle himself from the
enormous complications of symbolism
and statement and organization and
misunderstanding in the church
and
achieve again a simple and living
worship of a simple and
living God. Likeman had puzzled and silenced him, only upon
reflection to
convince him that
amidst such intricacies of
explanation the spirit cannot live. Creeds may be symbolical, but
symbols must not prevaricate. A church that can symbolize
everything and anything means nothing.
It followed from this that he ought to leave the church. But
there came the other side of this perplexing situation. His
feelings as he lay in his bed were exactly like those one has in
a dream when one wishes to run or leap or shout and one can
achieve no
movement, no sound. He could not
conceive how he could
possibly leave the church.
His wife became as it were the representative of all that held
him
helpless. She and he had never kept secret from one another
any plan of action, any
motive, that
affected the other. It was
clear to him that any
movement towards the disavowal of doctrinal
Christianity and the renunciation of his see must be first
discussed with her. He must tell her before he told the world.
And he could not imagine his telling her except as an
incredibly shattering act.
So he left things from day to day, and went about his
episcopalroutines. He preached and delivered addresses in such phrases as
he knew people expected, and wondered
profoundly why it was that
it should be impossible for him to discuss
theological points
with Lady Ella. And one afternoon he went for a walk with Eleanor
along the banks of the Prin, and found himself, in
response to
certain openings of hers, talking to her in almost exactly the
same terms as Likeman had used to him.
Then suddenly the problem of this
theological eclaircissement
was
complicated in an
unexpected fashion.
He had just been
taking his Every Second Thursday Talk with
Diocesan Men Helpers. He had been
trying to be plain and simple
upon the
needless narrowness of
enthusiastic laymen. He was still
in the Bishop Andrews cap and
purple cassock he
affected on these
occasions; the Men Helpers loved
purple; and he was disentangling
himself from two or three
resolute bores--for our loyal laymen
can be at times quite superlative bores--when Miriam came to
him.
"Mummy says, 'Come to the drawing-room if you can.' There is a
Lady Sunderbund who seems particularly to want to see you."
He hesitated for a moment, and then
decided that this was a
conversation he ought to control.
He found Lady Sunderbund looking very tall and radiantly
beautiful in a sheathlike dress of bright
crimson trimmed with
snow-white fur and a white fur toque. She held out a long
white-gloved hand to him and cried in a tone of comradeship and
profound understanding: "I've come, Bishop!"
"You've come to see me?" he said without any
sincerity in his
polite pleasure.
"I've come to P'inchesta to stay!" she cried with a bright
triumphant rising note.
She
evidently considered Lady Ella a mere conversational
stop-gap, to be dropped now that the real business could be
commenced. She turned her pretty
profile to that lady, and
obliged the
bishop with a
compactsummary of all that had
preceded his
arrival. "I have been telling Lady Ella," she said,
"I've taken a house, fu'nitua and all! Hea. In P'inchesta! I've
made up my mind to sit unda you--as they say in Clapham. I've