‘Not that Young was a great theologian, or even a great poet,’ the Archdeacon went on hastily. ‘Much of the Night Thoughts consists of platitudes expressed in that over-elaborate and turgid style, which the minor eighteenth-century poets mistakenly associated with Milton.’
‘Oh, yes, the style is certainly rather flowery,’ said Belinda, doing the best she could, for she was beginning to be uneasily conscious of Harriet waiting for her tea, the hot scones getting cold and Miss Beard, that excellent church worker and indefatigable gossip, passing by on the other side of the road.
‘That may be, but I do find in it a little of the wonder and awe which is generally supposed to be absent from the literature of that age.’ The Archdeacon stood looking at Belinda with his head on one side, as if he expected her to agree with him.
But Belinda said nothing, for she was thinking how handsome he still was. His long pointed nose only added to the general distinction of his features. There was quite a long pause until the clock struck a quarter past four.
‘Tea,’ said the Archdeacon, suddenly human once more. ‘I’m all by myself,’ he said rather pathetically. ‘Won’t you come and share my solitary meal? I don’t know if there will be any cake,’ he added doubtfully.
Belinda started. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, drawing back a little, and then remembering her manners, she added: ‘Thank you very much but Harriet will be expecting me.’ She did not dare to invite him to share their undoubtedly more appetizing meal and almost smiled when she pictured what Harriet’s reaction would be were she to bring him home unexpectedly. All the same it would have been very nice to have had tea with him, she thought regretfully, quite like old times. Perhaps he would ask her again, though it was the kind of spontaneous invitation that comes perhaps only once in a lifetime. ‘You must come to tea with us some time,’ she said, doing her best to assume a light, social manner. ‘I will ask Harriet what is the best day, though,’ she added hastily, ‘I expect you are very busy.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he sighed, ‘nobody can possibly know how busy.’
‘Then I mustn’t keep you any longer,’ said Belinda, moving away.
‘Well, the tombs are always with us,’ he replied enigmatically, raising his hat with a sweeping gesture.
Belinda could think of nothing to say to this, so she smiled and walked home very quickly. As she had expected, Harriet was waiting impatiently in the drawing-room. The tea was already in, and the hot scones stood in a little covered dish in the fireplace.
‘Oh, Belinda, when will you learn to be punctual,’ she said, in a despairing voice.’
‘I’m so sorry, dear,’ said Belinda humbly. ‘I should have been here by four, but I met the Archdeacon.’ She looked about her rather helplessly for a place to put her coat. ‘I’m sorry you waited tea for me.’
‘Well, I was rather hungry,’ said Harriet nobly, ‘but having to wait will make me enjoy it all the more. What meat did you order?’
‘Mutton,’ said Belinda absently.
‘But we haven’t any red-currant jelly,’ said Harriet. ‘One of us will have to go out tomorrow morning and get some. Mutton’s so uninteresting without it.’
Belinda sat down by the fire and began to pour out the tea.
‘Where did you see the Archdeacon?’ asked Harriet.
‘In the churchyard,’ said Belinda. ‘He was walking about among the tombs.’
Harriet snorted.
‘But, Harriet,’ Belinda leaned forward eagerly, ‘he asked me to go to tea with him, but of course I couldn’t very well have gone.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Harriet. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t want to.’
‘No, it wasn’t exactly that,’ said Belinda slowly. ‘I didn’t really mind one way or the other,’ she lied, ‘but I knew you would be expecting me back and I thought you might wonder where I was. And then Florrie and the cook might have thought it funny if I went there the minute Agatha was out of the house. You know how servants gossip, especially in a small place like this. I don’t want to be silly in any way, of course there would have been nothing in it, but I decided it would be better if I didn’t go.’ She put the rest of her scone into her mouth with an air of finality.
Harriet was obviously disappointed. ‘I do wish you’d gone,’ she lamented. ‘So little of interest happens here and one may as well make the most of life. Besides, dear,’ she added gently, ‘I don’t think anybody would be likely to gossip about you in that old tweed coat.’
‘No, you’re quite right. I suppose it will have to go to Mrs Ramage next time she comes.’ She got up and rang the bell for Emily to clear away the tea things. When she was going out with the tray, Emily turned to Harriet rather nervously and said, ‘Excuse me, m’m, but would you mind if I just slip out to the post?’
‘Oh, no, Emily,’ said Harriet firmly, ‘there’s no need for that. I shall be writing some letters myself, so I can take yours as well. There is plenty for you to do here.’
Emily went out of the room with a sulky expression on her face, and was heard to bang the tray rather heavily on the table in the passage.
‘She only wants to go and gossip with the vicarage Florrie,’ said Harriet, triumphant at having frustrated her. ‘And we can’t have that, can we?’ she said turning to Belinda for support.
But Belinda was not listening. She was wondering what they would have talked about if she had gone to tea, or rather what Henry would have talked about. It had started to rain outside, and the soft patter of the rain in the leaves, combined with the rapidly falling darkness, made her feel pleasantly melancholy. She wondered if Henry were looking at the twilight, missing Agatha, she thought dutifully, or even regretting that she had not stayed to tea. It would have been nice to go … Belinda put down her knitting and sat dreaming. Of course there was a certain pleasure in not doing something; it was impossible that one’s high expectations should be disappointed by the reality. To Belinda’s imaginative but contented mind this seemed a happy state, with no emptiness or bitterness about it. She was fortunate in needing very little to make her happy.
She was still sitting idly with her knitting in her lap, when the front door-bell rang, and Miss Liversidge and Miss Aspinall were shown into the room.
‘We were just passing and thought we’d drop in,’ Edith explained.
They stood in the doorway, a tall drooping figure and a short stout one, both wearing mackintoshes, and that wet-weather headgear so unbecoming to middle-aged ladies and so incongruously known as a ‘pixie hood’.
‘Do take off your wet things,’ said Belinda rousing herself.
‘You had better stay to supper,’ said Harriet rather too bluntly. ‘It won’t be very much but we shall be having it soon.’
Why yes, it will be a good chance to repay the baked beans, thought Belinda. She wondered whether they ought perhaps to open a tin of tongue and get Emily to make a potato salad. Or would a macaroni cheese be better? With some bottled fruit and coffee to follow that should really be enough.
‘I think I’ll just go and tell Emily about supper,’ she said.
‘Oh, please don’t trouble to make any difference for us,’ said Connie. ‘Bread and cheese or whatever you’re having will do for us, won’t it, Edith?’
Edith gave a short bark of laughter. ‘Well, I must say that I should like to feel an effort was being made, even if only a small one,’ she said in a jocular tone. ‘I think we all like to feel that.’
‘But we only came to see you,’ said Connie. Her eyes brightened a little and she said in a low voice, ‘We think we have a piece of news.’
‘News? What kind of news?’ asked Harriet rather sharply.
‘We have heard that Mr Donne is engaged,’ said Edith, in a loud triumphant tone.
‘To a niece of Mrs Hoccleve’s, a Miss Berry,’ chimed in Connie.
‘Miss Berridge, I think, if it’s the niece who’s doing research,’ said Belinda, looking rather fearfully at her sister.
‘Oh, I d
on’t think that can be true,’ declared Harriet indignantly. ‘She has made him a pair of socks, but I don’t think there is anything more than that between them.’
‘Miss Prior told us,’ persisted Edith, ‘and she is usually very accurate. She has been a good deal at the vicarage lately, getting Mrs Hoccleve’s clothes ready to go away. She may very well have heard something.’
‘But Miss Berridge is some years older than Mr Donne,’ said Harriet, equally persistent. ‘It would be a most unsuitable marriage. Besides,’ she added, her tone taking on a note of disgust, ‘she’s doing some research or something like that, isn’t she, Belinda.’
‘Yes, on some doubtful reading in The Owl and the Nightingale. It doesn’t seem a very good training for a wife,’ said Belinda uncertainly, thinking of Agatha and her inability to darn. ‘Still, if she has knitted him a pair of socks perhaps she is not entirely lacking in the feminine arts.’
Edith gave a snort. ‘I believe some of these old poems are very coarse, so she may not be such a bluestocking as we think.’
There was a short silence during which the front-door bell rang again and Mr Donne was shown into the room carrying a bundle of parish magazines.
‘Miss Jenner couldn’t manage to deliver them this month,’ he explained, ‘so I am doing it.’
‘Just the person we wanted to see,’ said Harriet. ‘Now, you can surely tell us. Is it true that you are engaged to be married?’ The words rang out as a challenge.
‘I – engaged?’ Mr Donne made a kind of bleating noise and a movement with his arms which scattered the parish magazines all over the floor. ‘It’s certainly the first I’ve heard of it,’ he went on, recovering something of his usual manner. ‘Who is the fortunate lady?’
‘Miss Berridge,’ said Edith Liversidge firmly.
‘Miss Berridge?’ he echoed in a puzzled tone. ‘Well, of course, she’s a very good sort, and I like her very much …’ he hesitated, perhaps feeling that he was being ungallant.
‘But you think of her more as an elder sister, I expect,’ prompted Harriet with determination.
‘Well, yes, I suppose I do,’ he agreed gratefully. ‘Anyway she’s much too clever to look at anyone like me.’
‘Is she beautiful?’ persisted Edith.
‘Well, not exactly beautiful,’ he said, looking embarrassed, ‘but very nice and so kind.’
Ah, had she been more beauteous and less kind,
She might have found me of another mind.
thought Belinda, but decided it might be better not to quote the lines.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Harriet. ‘There is no truth in the rumour. Isn’t it amazing how people will gossip?’
‘I never thought there was,’ said Connie to Belinda. ‘I think Mr Donne will marry some pretty young thing.’ She sighed and her eyes bulged sentimentally.
‘I may not get married at all,’ said Mr Donne almost defiantly. ‘Many clergymen do not.’
‘No, a single curate is in many ways more suitable,’ said Belinda thoughtfully. ‘More in the tradition, if you see what I mean. And then of course there’s the celibacy of the clergy isn’t there?’ she added quickly.
‘Is there?’ said Edith scornfully. ‘I thought St Paul said it was better to marry than burn.’
‘Well, it is hardly a question of that,’ said Belinda in a confused way. ‘I mean, of burning. One would hardly expect it to be.’ She felt rather annoyed with Edith, who must surely know less than anybody about what St Paul had said, for introducing this unsuitable aspect of the question.
Fortunately, Harriet, who had disappeared from the room while she was speaking, now came back with the news that supper was ready.
‘You will stay, won’t you, Mr Donne?’ she asked, turning to him with a beaming smile. ‘I’m afraid it won’t be much of a meal …’ she waved her hands deprecatingly.
Edith Liversidge moved into the dining-room with a confident step. They would all benefit from Mr Donne’s presence, she knew, and noted with sardonic approval that there was a large bowl of fruit salad on the table and a jug of cream as well as a choice of cold meats.
Oh dear, thought Belinda, recognizing tomorrow’s luncheon, surely the tin of tongue would have been enough?
‘Let’s all have a glass of sherry,’ said Harriet, going over to the sideboard, where a decanter and glasses had been set out on a tray. ‘After all, we might have been going to drink to Mr Donne’s engagement.’
CHAPTER NINE
‘I suppose they really have come,’ said Harriet doubtfully. ‘Emily is usually quite accurate in her information and she had this from the vicarage Florrie, who ought to know if anyone does. She told her that two gentlemen had arrived to stay at the vicarage last night, but of course we have no proof that it is Dr Parnell and Mr Mold. It might be two clergymen coming to see the Archdeacon about something.’
‘Yes, I suppose it might be,’ said Belinda, ‘but somehow clergymen don’t come to see him about things, do they? I don’t know why.’
‘They came by night,’ declared Harriet, ‘like Nicodemus. Isn’t Mr Mold called Nicodemus?’
‘Oh, no, Harriet, his name is Nathaniel.’
‘Nathaniel Mold,’ said Harriet, trying it. ‘Nat Mold. I think that sounds rather common, doesn’t it?’
‘Well, we shall just call him Mr Mold,’ said Belinda, ‘so I don’t think we need worry. I believe Nicholas always calls him Nathaniel. He hates abbreviations.’ She got up from the table and went to the window. ‘It seems quite a nice morning after all that heavy rain,’ she said. ‘I think I shall go out into the village a little later on. I expect Nicholas will be taking a stroll and I am so looking forward to seeing him. Perhaps we shall meet.’
‘I won’t come with you,’ said Harriet nobly. ‘After all, he is really your friend, not mine, and I expect you will have a lot to talk about.’ Privately, Harriet thought him rather a boring little man, but she hoped for great things from Mr Mold, who was reputed to be something of a ‘one for the ladies’. This piece of information had also been gleaned from the vicarage Florrie, but Harriet had thought it wiser not to tell her sister. She wondered how Florrie, a plain, lumpish girl, had managed to find it out in so short a time.
Belinda was fortunate enough to come face to face with Dr Parnell before she had gone very far, and as they were just outside the Old Refectory, a tea shop run by gentlewomen, it seemed a good idea to go inside and have a cup of coffee. Dear Nicholas looked rather cold and peevish, she thought, wondering if he had had an adequate breakfast at the vicarage.
‘I don’t suppose you are really in need of anything,’ she said, as they sat down, ‘but morning coffee is a pleasant, idle habit, I always think.’
‘Good morning, Miss Bede.’ Mrs Wilton, a pleasant-faced woman with rather prominent teeth, and wearing a smock patterned with a herbaceous border, stood before them. She stared at Dr Parnell with frank interest and then at Belinda. Nicholas Parnell was small and bearded and did not somehow look the kind of person one would marry, Belinda realized. All the same, she felt proud of his distinction and could not resist introducing him to Mrs Wilton, who was, after all, a canon’s widow.
‘Oh, the Library,’ said Mrs Wilton in a reverent tone. ‘My husband used to read there when he was an undergraduate. I’ve heard so much about it.’
‘Of course we have central heating there now,’ said Dr Parnell. ‘There have been great improvements in the last ten years or so. We also have a Ladies’ Cloakroom in the main building now,’ he added, his voice rising to a clear, ringing tone. ‘That is a very great convenience.’ He chuckled into his beard as Mrs Wilton went away to fetch their coffee. ‘I do not approve of this hushed and reverent attitude towards our great Library. After all, it is a place for human beings, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Belinda doubtfully, for she was remembering some of the strange people who used to work there in her undergraduate days, many of whom could hardly have been called human bein
gs if one were to judge by their looks.
‘These are excellent cakes,’ said Dr Parnell, eating heartily, ‘although I had such a late breakfast that I can hardly do them justice. I must say I was surprised that dear Henry was not up before me. I had quite expected that there would be a Daily Celebration. Now that I come to think of it, I distinctly remember seeing ‘D’ against the church in Mowbray’s Guide. I hope I shall not have to write and correct them.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Belinda, always anxious to defend the Archdeacon. ‘There is always a Daily Celebration but I expect Mr Donne – he’s the curate – would be taking it. Probably Henry thought it would be more courteous to breakfast with you on your first morning here.’
‘Ah, Belinda, I see you have not changed. We did not breakfast until half past nine, so your argument falls to pieces. I left poor Henry in the churchyard, as I came out just now. He said the tombs put him in mind of his own mortality.’
‘And did he quote Young’s Night Thoughts to you?’ asked Belinda, suddenly disloyal.
‘Indeed, he did. I left him because he was so tiresomely melancholy. And then he has been trying to make me subscribe to some fund for the church roof,’ said Dr Parnell.
… but perforated sore,
And drill’d in holes the solid oak is found
By worms voracious, eating through and through …
he quoted solemnly, so that Belinda could hardly help smiling, although she knew it was very naughty of her. As they walked out of the Old Refectory towards the church she tried to remember what it was that Father Plowman had told her about the death-watch beetle and its habits, as if to make amends for her lapse. But before she had got very far, they had reached the churchyard wall and Belinda could see that the Archdeacon was sitting in his favourite seat under the yew trees. She felt a faint irritation to see him sitting there in the middle of the morning when so many people, women mostly, were going about their household duties and shopping. She supposed that men would be working too, but somehow their work seemed less important and exhausting.