The Soul of a Bishop. Герберт Уэллс

moved, and it had softened her voice.

      Now, when presently she stood in the study, she showed a new circumspection in her treatment of her husband. She surveyed the tray before him.

      “You ought not to drink that Burgundy,” she said. “I can see you are dog-tired. It was uncorked yesterday, and anyhow it is not very digestible. This cold meat is bad enough. You ought to have one of those quarter bottles of champagne you got for my last convalescence. There’s more than a dozen left over.”

      The bishop felt that this was a pretty return of his own kindly thoughts “after many days,” and soon Dunk, his valet-butler, was pouring out the precious and refreshing glassful…

      “And now, dear?” said the bishop, feeling already much better.

      Lady Ella had come round to the marble fireplace. The mantel-piece was a handsome work by a Princhester artist in the Gill style – with contemplative ascetics as supporters.

      “I am worried about Eleanor,” said Lady Ella.

      “She is in the dining-room now,” she said, “having some dinner. She came in about a quarter past eight, half way through dinner.”

      “Where had she been?” asked the bishop.

      “Her dress was torn – in two places. Her wrist had been twisted and a little sprained.”

      “My dear!”

      “Her face – Grubby! And she had been crying.”

      “But, my dear, what had happened to her? You don’t mean – ?”

      Husband and wife stared at one another aghast. Neither of them said the horrid word that flamed between them.

      “Merciful heaven!” said the bishop, and assumed an attitude of despair.

      “I didn’t know she knew any of them. But it seems it is the second Walshingham girl – Phoebe. It’s impossible to trace a girl’s thoughts and friends. She persuaded her to go.”

      “But did she understand?”

      “That’s the serious thing,” said Lady Ella.

      She seemed to consider whether he could bear the blow.

      “She understands all sorts of things. She argues… I am quite unable to argue with her.”

      “About this vote business?”

      “About all sorts of things. Things I didn’t imagine she had heard of. I knew she had been reading books. But I never imagined that she could have understood…”

      The bishop laid down his knife and fork.

      “One may read in books, one may even talk of things, without fully understanding,” he said.

      Lady Ella tried to entertain this comforting thought. “It isn’t like that,” she said at last. “She talks like a grown-up person. This – this escapade is just an accident. But things have gone further than that. She seems to think – that she is not being educated properly here, that she ought to go to a College. As if we were keeping things from her…”

      The bishop reconsidered his plate.

      “But what things?” he said.

      “She says we get all round her,” said Lady Ella, and left the implications of that phrase to unfold.

(9)

      For a time the bishop said very little.

      Lady Ella had found it necessary to make her first announcement standing behind him upon the hearthrug, but now she sat upon the arm of the great armchair as close to him as possible, and spoke in a more familiar tone.

      The thing, she said, had come to her as a complete surprise. Everything had seemed so safe. Eleanor had been thoughtful, it was true, but it had never occurred to her mother that she had really been thinking – about such things as she had been thinking about. She had ranged in the library, and displayed a disposition to read the weekly papers and the monthly reviews. But never a sign of discontent.

      “But I don’t understand,” said the bishop. “Why is she discontented? What is there that she wants different?”

      “Exactly,” said Lady Ella.

      “She has got this idea that life here is secluded in some way,” she expanded. “She used words like ‘secluded’ and ‘artificial’ and – what was it? – ‘cloistered.’ And she said – ”

      Lady Ella paused with an effect of exact retrospection.

      “‘Out there,’ she said, ‘things are alive. Real things are happening.’ It is almost as if she did not fully believe – ”

      Lady Ella paused again.

      The bishop sat with his arm over the back of his chair, and his face downcast.

      “The ferment of youth,” he said at last. “The ferment of youth. Who has given her these ideas?”

      Lady Ella did not know. She could have thought a school like St. Aubyns would have been safe, but nowadays nothing was safe. It was clear the girls who went there talked as girls a generation ago did not talk. Their people at home encouraged them to talk and profess opinions about everything. It seemed that Phoebe Walshingham and Lady Kitty Kingdom were the leaders in these premature mental excursions. Phoebe aired religious doubts.

      “But little Phoebe!” said the bishop.

      “Kitty,” said Lady Ella, “has written a novel.”

      “Already!”

      “With elopements in it – and all sorts of things. She’s had it typed. You’d think Mary Crosshampton would know better than to let her daughter go flourishing the family imagination about in that way.”

      “Eleanor told you?”

      “By way of showing that they think of – things in general.”

      The bishop reflected. “She wants to go to College.”

      “They want to go in a set.”

      “I wonder if college can be much worse than school… She’s eighteen – ? But I will talk to her…”

(10)

      All our children are changelings. They are perpetually fresh strangers. Every day they vanish and a new person masquerades as yesterday’s child until some unexpected development betrays the cheat.

      The bishop had still to learn this perennial newness of the young. He learnt it in half an hour at the end of a fatiguing day.

      He went into the dining-room. He went in as carelessly as possible and smoking a cigarette. He had an honourable dread of being portentous in his family; almost ostentatiously he laid the bishop aside. Eleanor had finished her meal, and was sitting in the arm-chair by the fire with one hand holding her sprained wrist.

      “Well,” he said, and strolled to the hearthrug. He had had an odd idea that he would find her still dirty, torn, and tearful, as her mother had described her, a little girl in a scrape. But she had changed into her best white evening frock and put up her hair, and became in the firelight more of a lady, a very young lady but still a lady, than she had ever been to him before. She was dark like her mother, but not of the same willowy type; she had more of her father’s sturdy build, and she had developed her shoulders at hockey and tennis. The firelight brought out the gracious reposeful lines of a body that ripened in adolescence. And though there was a vibration of resolution in her voice she spoke like one who is under her own control.

      “Mother has told you that I have disgraced myself,” she began.

      “No,” said the bishop, weighing it. “No. But you seem to have been indiscreet, little Norah.”

      “I got excited,” she said. “They began turning out the other women – roughly. I was indignant.”

      “You didn’t go to interrupt?” he asked.

      She considered. “No,” she said. “But I went.”

      He liked her disposition to get it right. “On