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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 episcopal

routines. 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






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