BELINDA DID NOT KEEP to her bed for very long, and was soon about again. The Bishop stayed on at the vicarage, though it was evident that he and the Archdeacon disliked each other. Agatha, however, seemed to prefer his company to that of her husband, and Belinda could not help noticing the way she beamed at him when beaming was certainly not one of her normal expressions. Perhaps she felt naturally more at ease with bishops, as her father had been one, and it may have been a disappointment to her that her husband was only an archdeacon. Certainly she and Bishop Grote made a very suitable couple, if only because there was something slightly unpleasant about each of them. Belinda began to weave a little fantasy in which they somehow ‘came together’ and the Archdeacon was left alone and in need of comfort. How this was to come about she did not know, as divorce was against her principles and the Archdeacon’s too, she imagined, and she would hardly have wished the Archdeacon to be removed by death and so put beyond the reach of her comfort. It was somehow out of the question, even in a fantasy, that Agatha should die. People like Agatha didn’t die. It might of course be discovered that the marriage of Henry and Agatha had not been legal, but that happened only in the novels of Mrs. Henry Wood. And supposing Henry were to be left alone and apparently in need of comfort, and did not turn to Belinda? How was that to be borne? It might well be that he would find Agatha’s absence comfort enough. When she got to this point, Belinda was firm with herself and set to work helping Emily with the mincemeat and Christmas puddings, for it was already December and it was even rumoured that the Bishop was to spend Christmas at the vicarage.
Soon Christmas cards began to arrive and every post brought something.
‘A Happy, Holy Christmass,’ said Harriet, reading from Father Plowman’s card. ‘Very nice wording, and such a pretty picture of the Nativity. I think Christmass is rather nice, Belinda. The Archdeacon’s card is very ordinary, just A Happy Christmas and a Bright New Year, from Agatha and Henry Hoccleve, and no picture at all.’
‘I expect Agatha had them done,’ said Belinda. ‘I imagine Henry would have wanted some quotation, but it was probably cheaper without. Of course Christmass is rather High, isn’t it, I mean, the use of the word mass. It always looks like a mis-spelling to me.’
‘I wonder what Mr. Donne’s will be like,’ said Harriet anxiously. ‘I hope he will remember us.’
‘Oh, surely,’ said Belinda, indignant not so much for herself as for her sister and the many delicacies she had prepared for him. ‘He has been here so much.’
‘He might even send a calendar,’ mused Harriet. ‘That’s one degree better than a card.’
‘Yes, one of those with a quotation from Shakespeare or a Great Thought for every day. I always think it’s nice to have one in some convenient place so that you can read it at the beginning of the day. And yet the thoughts they choose are often so depressing, aren’t they, as if Great Thinkers were never cheerful.’
‘Well, Mr. Donne’s calendar certainly won’t go there,’ said Harriet, bristling. ‘It shall go in the dining-room, where we can read it at breakfast.’
‘Yes, dear, that’s what I mean.’
But Mr. Donne upset their plans by calling round in person with his present, or rather presents, an expensive looking box of chocolates with a coloured picture of Hampton Court on the lid which the sisters felt he could ill afford, and a photograph of himself which he gave to them rather shyly, obviously embarrassed by Harriet’s cries of joy.
‘Oh, how lovely! And how good of you! Belinda, isn’t it good of Mr. Donne?’ She thrust the photograph at Belinda, who was rather at a loss, as it looked so exactly like any of the other photographs of curates in Harriet’s collection upstairs that she could hardly think what to say.
‘The lighting is very good,’ she ventured, noticing it on his nose and clerical collar. ‘So often a photograph is spoiled by bad lighting. You look very serious,’ she added, with what was for her a forced note of playfulness. ‘Almost as if you were thinking out a sermon.’
‘Oh, we shall have you for tomorrow morning, shan’t we,’ said Harriet, for the Archdeacon, contrary to his normal practice, had been trying out a course of sermons on the evening congregation, sermons written in so-called ‘simple language’ and full of sentiments to which every bosom might be expected to return an echo, though he had not, of course, mentioned Harriet’s Apes of Brazil. Some of his hearers had found the sermons almost too simple and were even beginning to wonder whether the Archdeacon himself were not returning to his second childhood.
‘Oh, no, Bishop Grote is to preach on Sunday morning,’ said the curate.
‘Well, I suppose he must keep his hand in,’ said Belinda. ‘I expect it will be about Christmas as it’s so near.’
‘Yes, on Tuesday,’ said the curate. ‘I can hardly believe it myself, the weather’s so mild.’
‘They say a green Christmas means a full churchyard,’ declared Harriet with satisfaction. ‘I dare say some old people will be taken.’
‘Taken?’ The curate looked puzzled. ‘Ah, yes, I see. I suppose we must expect that.’
They were silent for a moment, until Belinda, not liking to see his young face clouded over, said, ‘I really can’t think of any old people who are likely to die at the moment. Besides, it’s the weather after Christmas that we have to fear, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes, if it’s mild at Christmas it will be cold afterwards,’ agreed Harriet. ‘It makes one feel very anxious.’
Belinda, looking at Harriet’s sturdy figure, could hardly help smiling.
When Sunday came it occurred to Belinda that perhaps the Bishop had his uses after all. For when the Archdeacon came to give out the notices of the Christmas Services it appeared that Bishop Grote and Mr. Donne were to take the seven and eight o’clock Celebrations of Holy Communion, while the Archdeacon himself was to preach at Mattins and conduct the Celebration afterwards at twelve, for the benefit of the elderly and lazy. He took the opportunity to say a few words of warning to those who intended to go to Midnight Mass at Father Plowman’s church, dwelling darkly on the dangers they might meet there and pronouncing the word Rome with such horrifying emphasis that many of his hearers were quite alarmed, and those who had thought of doing such a thing began to tell themselves that perhaps the parish church was more convenient after all.
The Bishop’s sermon, when it came, was not particularly suited to the season, being very much like his lecture suitably adapted for the pulpit. He had chosen for his text a verse from the psalms, In them hath he set a tabernacle for the sun, which cometh forth as a bridegroom out of his chamber, and rejoiceth as a giant to run his course.
Belinda hoped that Harriet would not be upset by the reference to bridegrooms, but she appeared to be quite unmoved and it was evident that she had very sensibly put away any hopes she might once have had. She even whispered to Belinda that he certainly wasn’t the preacher he used to be, though he still had that same way of gripping the edge of the pulpit when he wished to emphasize a point.
The text seemed to have little reference to the sermon, although the more intelligent of the congregation saw it as referring to the Bishop himself. He was the giant and his course was the Mission Field. Belinda noticed, however, that when he prayed for his flock he gave the impression that they were so entirely heathen that she began to wonder whether dear Theo had done such wonderful work among them after all. What if the whole of his life had been so taken up with avoiding designing spinsters and widows that no other work had been possible? It was an interesting idea and one which she was able to follow up that evening, when she and Harriet were invited to supper at the vicarage.
Belinda was not sure why they had been asked, but it seemed as if Agatha had decided to dispose of several people to whom she owed invitations, for the company included, besides themselves, the Bishop, Father Plowman, Mr. Donne and Miss Aspinall, who had been asked at the last minute instead of Lady Clara Boulding, who had suddenly decided to spend Christmas in Switzerland with her married daughter. Miss Aspinall was radiant, or as near it as she could be, glittering with beads and chains and agreeing rapturously with everything that everybody said. This was rather difficult with four clergymen present, as, with the exception of the curate who hardly ventured an opinion on anything, they tended to disagree with each other wherever they could.
It was such a pity, Belinda reflected, that clergymen were so apt to bring out the worst in each other, especially with the season of Peace and Goodwill so near. As a species they did not get on, and being in a small country village made things even more difficult. These embarrassments would not arise in London where the clergy kept themselves to themselves in their own little sets, High, Broad and Low, as it were. It was so odd to hear Father Plowman calling the curate Father Donne, though the curate himself did not appear to think it so. On the contrary, he had that evening preached a most successful sermon in Father Plowman’s church on the text We heard of the same at Ephrata and found it in the wood, and had been very much impressed by the elaborate service. He would discuss it with Olivia Berridge some time; she was always so sensible and would be sure to give him good advice. He would be seeing her in the New Year as he had been invited to stay for a few days with the chaplain of his old college, in whose rowing he still took a very keen interest. When there was a suitable pause in the conversation, he ventured to mention this visit.
‘Oh, if you should see Mr. Mold, do give him my very kindest regards,’ said Harriet, fingering her long rope of cultured pearls.
‘Do you think that is wise?’ said the Archdeacon. ‘Even kindest regards are a poor substitute for the deeper feelings. I hear that the poor fellow is in quite a bad way as it is.’
The Bishop looked a little alarmed and Agatha, frowning at her husband, hastened to turn the conversation to Olivia, and how glad she would be to see Mr. Donne. ‘She is generally up during the vacation, you know,’ she explained. ‘She does a good deal of reading then.’
Mr. Donne looked rather embarrassed. ‘Oh, yes, it will be jolly to see Olivia again,’ he said heartily. ‘I expect we shall go for some walks together. She’s very keen on walking.’
‘Has she made you any more socks?’ asked Belinda innocently.
‘Yes, indeed, and a pullover too,’ said Mr. Donne. ‘She’s really awfully good.’
‘Well, I hope she knows how to graft a toe by now,’ said Harriet bluntly. ‘Belinda could show her.’
‘Olivia is a very clever girl,’ said Agatha. ‘I’m sure she is quite equal to it.’
‘I should hardly call her a girl,’ said the Archdeacon spitefully. ‘But I suppose women like to think of themselves as girls long after they are thirty.’
‘Oh, Olivia is only thirty-one or two,’ said Agatha impatiently, ‘and her work on The Owl and the Nightingale has really been a most substantial contribution to Middle English studies.’
‘All the same, it is important to know how to graft a toe,’ persisted Harriet. ‘What is it, Belinda, knit and slip off, then purl and keep on? I never can remember.’
Just as Belinda was thinking of a tactful answer, the Bishop broke in, saying with a reminiscent sigh, ‘Ah, the socks I had knitted for me when I was a curate!’
‘I know,’ agreed Father Plowman, ‘some small, some large, some short, some long, but all acceptable because of the goodwill that inspired the knitters.’
‘I should have thought a sock was very little use unless it was the right size,’ said the Archdeacon sourly.
When she heard this, Belinda was thankful that she had decided against knitting him a pullover and went cold with horror at the thought of what she had escaped. For there would surely have been something wrong with it. She attended to her soup, straight out of a tin with no subtle additions, she decided. Perhaps only one tin among so many, watered down or with potato water added. It certainly had very little taste.
‘What delicious soup, Mrs. Hoccleve,’ said Miss Aspinall timidly. ‘Such a delicate flavour.’
‘It reminds me of our native fermented porridge,’ said the Bishop. ‘The flavour is somewhat similar.’
‘Oh, how interesting,’ said Connie. ‘How is it made?’
‘My dear Bishop, I hope you will remember that we are at the dinner table and spare us a detailed description,’ broke in the Archdeacon.
‘Yes, I suppose these natives are very disgusting,’ said Harriet complacently. ‘It is better not to know too much about them.’
‘Many of them will be celebrating the festival of Christmas on Tuesday, just as we shall be doing,’ said the Bishop on a faint note of reproach. ‘Perhaps it will not be exactly the same in detail, but their feelings will be as ours.’
‘I suppose it is because of your work there that they will be able to,’ said the curate.
The Bishop smiled and was about to answer when the Archdeacon gave a short bark of laughter and exclaimed, ‘Ah, no, that’s where you’re wrong. The Romans were there first. Father Vigilio of the Padua Fathers, I believe.’
‘Yes, certainly, but I had the honour of starting the first Church of England Mission among the Mbawawa,’ said the Bishop, ‘though the Roman Catholics were there before me.’
‘What a shame,’ said Harriet indignantly, but Belinda felt that her wrath was directed not so much towards the Church of Rome as the rather dry-looking rissoles, cabbage and boiled potatoes which were now set before them. Rissoles! Belinda could imagine her sister’s disgusted comments later. At least one would have expected a bird of some kind, especially when there was a bishop present, when indeed all the gentlemen were in Holy Orders.
‘I suppose the African’s leaning towards ritual would make him a ready convert to Roman Catholicism,’ Belinda ventured. ‘I mean, one knows their love of bright, gaudy things,’ she added rather unfortunately. ‘The Church of England might seem rather plain to them.’
‘Bright and gaudy?’ said Father Plowman, on a pained note. ‘Oh, Miss Bede, surely you cannot mean that?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Belinda, in confusion, ‘naturally I didn’t mean to imply …’
‘Well, Plowman is still with us, you know,’ said the Archdeacon almost jovially. ‘I don’t think he need take your remarks so personally.’
Belinda chewed her stringy cabbage and listened gratefully to dear Henry talking about Frazer and The Golden Bough, which he thought remarkably fine.
‘At one time I had the idea of giving a course of sermons based on it,’ he said, ‘but I came to the conclusion, regretfully I must admit, that with a congregation of limited intelligence it would be too dangerous.’
Belinda liked the sound of this and could almost have imagined them all back in Victorian days, when a father might forbid a book ‘inimical to the faith of the day’ to be read in his house.
‘How debased anthropology has become since Frazer’s day,’ sighed the Bishop, ‘a mere matter of genealogies, meaningless definitions and jargon, words, words, words, as Hamlet has it; lineage, sib, kindred, extended family, ramage—one doesn’t know where one is. Even the good old term clan is suspect.’
‘What is a sib?’ asked Harriet. ‘It sounds a nice, friendly kind of thing, or it might be something to eat, a biscuit, perhaps.’
The Bishop shook his head and said nothing, either because he did not deign to be associated with present-day anthropological terminology or because he did not really know what a sib was.
The Archdeacon recalled the Anglo-Saxon meaning of the word, and talked for some minutes about the double meaning of peace and relationship, but Harriet had lost interest and soon they were all in the drawing-room, drinking coffee made with coffee essence. When the gentlemen joined them it was suggested that Harriet should play the piano and she gave a showy performance of Manuel de Falla’s Pantomime. Then the Bishop sang an unaccompanied Mbawawa Christmas carol, which everyone agreed was very moving. When he had finished, Father Plowman suggested with admirable good manners that the Archdeacon should read aloud to them.
The Archdeacon was so surprised at this that for some minutes he could not even think of anything to read.
‘Let it be something that all can understand,’ suggested Father Plowman, thinking of an occasion when the Archdeacon had insisted on reading Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales with an attempt at the original pronunciation.
There was a pause, nobody liking or perhaps wishing to make any suggestion, until Miss Aspinall timidly ventured the observation that Keats had written some very lovely poems. She was, of course, remembering Lady Grudge’s ‘evenings’ in Belgrave Square, when Canon Kendrick used to read aloud to them.
‘Ah, yes, we will have Hyperion,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘Remarkably fine.’
There was a murmur of assent, during which Harriet could be heard asking the curate if Hyperion were a very long poem; she had quite forgotten.
Belinda turned to the Bishop and made a chatty remark about always having liked the lines about Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty’s self.
The Bishop nodded and gave her what Belinda thought was rather an intimate smile. ‘I am sure that any poem you admire must be very fine,’ he said in a low voice.
Belinda was so startled that she wondered whether she could have heard correctly. ‘I’m afraid I like what I remember from my student days,’ she said. ‘I hardly ever read anything new.’ Hyperion had no memories for her, as the Archdeacon had never read it to her then, so that she was able to listen to it quite dispassionately and join with the polite murmurs that followed his performance.
‘And yet I think I prefer the earlier Keats,’ she said rather boldly, ‘I was always very fond of Isabella when I was a young girl.’
The Archdeacon smiled indulgently and Agatha said quite kindly, ‘Well, of course, Isabella is rather a young girl’s poem, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, yes, completely,’ agreed Belinda. ‘It is many years since I read it.’ It would indeed be an ominous sign if she felt drawn to it at her time of life, she felt.
‘What a fine poem Young’s Night Thoughts is,’ said the Bishop. ‘I have been reading it every night myself. I have a most interesting collection of books in my room,’ he went on. ‘There is an Icelandic grammar among them and I have been comparing that language with the Mbawawa.’
‘But do you find any similarity?’ asked Agatha doubtfully.
‘Oh, none whatever,’ said the Bishop almost gaily, ‘but it is a fascinating study, fascinating …’ his voice trailed off on a bleating note.
‘I am surprised and gratified that you find the books interesting,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I made the selection myself, but I had no idea of your tastes.’
The evening ended with a song from the curate. Harriet, who accompanied him, was anxious that he should try an Elizabethan love song, and after a rather faltering beginning he sang quite charmingly, Belinda thought, but without much conviction.
Love is a fancie,
Love is a frenzie,
Let not a toy then breed thee such annoy.…
Perhaps there was no frenzy in his feeling for Miss Berridge, and love was hardly a toy. Surely Count Bianco’s affection for Harriet could not be so described, or Belinda’s for the Archdeacon? And yet tonight she had the feeling that there might be some truth in what the poet said. It was excellent advice to those of riper years, especially when the imagination became too active. That intimate note in the Bishop’s voice, for example, and the way he had seemed to look at her during the reading of the poem. It might just as easily have been Connie Aspinall he was looking at. Belinda had been forced to mention the fact that the chrysanthemums he had sent her were still lasting very well. She almost wished that they might die, and noticed with relief when she got home that some of the foliage was tinged with brown. Suddenly she took them out of their vase and, although it was dark, went out with them to the dustbin. They were dead really and one did not like to feel that flowers from the wrong person might be everlasting.