CHAPTER XLI.
WHAT THE BISHOP REMEMBERED Symon, Bishop of Worcester, sat in his library, in the cool of the day.
He was weary, with a weariness which surpassed all his previous experience of weariness, all his imaginings as to how weary, in body and spirit, a man could be, yet continue to breathe and think.
With some, extreme fatigue leads to restlessness of body.

Not so with the Bishop.

The more tired he was, the more perfectly still he sat; his knees crossed, his elbows on the arms of his chair, the fingers of both hands pressed lightly together, his head resting against the high back of the chair, his gaze fixed upon the view across the river.
As he looked with unseeing eyes upon the wide stretch of meadow, the distant woods and the soft outline of the Malvern hills, he was thinking how good it would be never again to leave this quiet room; never to move from this chair; never again to see a human being; never to have to smile when he was heart-sick, or to bow when he felt ungracious! Those who knew the Bishop best, often spoke together of his wondrous vitality and energy, their favourite remark being: that he was never tired.

They might with more truth have said that they had never known him to appear tired.
It had long been a rule in the Bishop's private code, that weariness, either of body or spirit, must not be shewn to others.

The more tired he was, the more ready grew his smile, the more alert his movements, the more gracious his response to any call upon his sympathy or interest.
He never sighed in company, as did Father Peter when, having supped too well off jolly of salmon, roast venison, and raisin pie, he was fain to let indigestion pass muster for melancholy.
He never yawned in Council, either gracefully behind his hand, as did the lean Spanish Cardinal; or openly and unashamed, as did the round and rosy Abbot of Evesham, displaying to the fascinated gaze of the brethren in stalls opposite, a cavernous throat, a red and healthy tongue, and a particularly fine set of teeth.
Moreover the Bishop would as soon have thought of carrying a garment from the body of a plague-stricken patient into the midst of a family of healthy children, as of entering an assemblage with a jaded countenance or a languorous manner.
Therefore: "He is never weary," said his friends.
"He knoweth not the meaning of fatigue," agreed his acquaintances.
"There is no merit in labour which is not in anywise a burden, but, rather, a delight," pronounced those who envied his powers.
"He is possessed," sneered his enemies, "by a most energetic demon! Were that demon exorcised, the Bishop would collapse, exhausted." "He is filled," said his admirers, "by the Spirit of God, and is thus so energized that he can work incessantly, without experiencing ordinary human weakness." And none knew that it was a part of his religion to Symon of Worcester, to hide his weariness from others.
Yet once when, in her chamber, he sat talking with the Prioress, she had risen, of a sudden, saying: "You are tired, Father.