‘You mean beauty of character, ah, yes. That is something we all like to see.’
‘No, I mean beauty of person,’ said Belinda obstinately.
The Bishop smiled. ‘Then perhaps you will not be so ready to accept what I have to offer,’ he said, though it was obvious that he really thought quite otherwise.
‘Offer?’ said Belinda in a startled tone. ‘I don’t think I understand.’ The man on the doorstep opening his suitcase was simpler and less alarming than this. She hardly dared to let herself guess what the Bishop meant; it was too fantastic and terrible to be thought of.
‘Perhaps you are not accustomed to receiving such offers?’ he went on. ‘Or perhaps it is some time since you last had one? After all, this is a quiet country village; it is unlikely that you would meet many strangers.’
‘That may be,’ said Belinda feeling very angry, ‘but I think I can say that I have had my share, in the past, that is. Naturally not lately,’ she fumbled, her natural honesty getting the better of her.
‘I think I had better speak more plainly,’ the Bishop went on. ‘I am asking you to marry me.’
There was a short but awkward silence, and then Belinda heard herself stammering out the first words that came into her head, ‘Oh, but I couldn’t …’
‘My dear, you are equal to being the wife of a bishop,’ he said kindly, making a movement towards her. ‘You need have no fears on that account. When I was a younger man I held views about the celibacy of the clergy, young curates often do, you know,’ he smiled indulgently, ‘it is a kind of protection, if you see what I mean. But a man does need a helpmeet, you remember in Paradise Lost …’
Belinda interrupted him with a startled exclamation. ‘Paradise Lost!’ she echoed in horror. ‘Milton …’
‘I think when one has reached er – riper years,’ the Bishop continued, ‘things are different, aren’t they?’
A man needs a woman to help him into his grave, thought Belinda, remembering a remark Dr Parnell had made. Well, there would be plenty who would be willing to do that.
‘I’m afraid I can’t marry you,’ she said, looking down at her floury hands. ‘I don’t love you.’
‘But you respect and like me,’ said the Bishop, as if that went without saying. ‘We need not speak of love – one would hardly expect that now.’
‘No,’ said Belinda miserably, ‘I suppose one would not expect it. But you see,’ she went on, ‘I did love somebody once and perhaps I still do.’
‘Ah …’ the Bishop shook his head, ‘he died, perhaps? A very sad thing.’
They were both silent. He died, yes, it was better that the Bishop should think that, it sounded more suitable; there was even something a little noble about it. She never marred … Belinda began to see herself as a romantically tragic figure.
‘Of course, as Lord Byron says,’ began the Bishop, and then paused.
Could Lord Byron have said anything at all suitable? Belinda wondered. When we two parted in silence and tears? Possibly, though the poem was not really applicable. ‘Do tell me,’ she said, her literary curiosity driving other thoughts from her mind. ‘What did Lord Byron say?’
But the Bishop was standing up now and saying that he did not think he would be able to stay for tea, although Belinda was not conscious of having offered it. ‘I think it is perhaps a little early for tea, Miss Bede, and I have still another call to make.’
‘Oh, I expect you will get tea there,’ said Belinda in a full, relieved tone. ‘Now that I come to think of it, we have only very little cake, just a small piece of gingerbread, I believe. When one has guests one likes to have rather more than that to offer them.’ She frowned, wishing she had not used the word ‘offer’, but the Bishop did not seem to be at all upset, or even, indeed, to have noticed. ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Belinda ambiguously. ‘I am really most honoured that you should have felt … but I’m sure you will understand how it is.’
‘Do not give it another thought, Miss Bede,’ he said briskly, ‘I assure you that I shall not. After all, we must remember that God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.’
‘Yes, certainly,’ agreed Belinda, feeling a little annoyed that he should quote her favourite hymn. But perhaps it was presumptuous to suppose that God would be more likely to reveal His ways to her than to the Bishop. She did not quite see how the lines applied here, no doubt he had something else in mind. Perhaps he would come another day and ask Harriet? At all events he was not going to give her refusal another thought, so he could not care very much. It was not very flattering to her, though she supposed that as she was not fair to outward view she could hardly expect anything else.
It was not until they were in the hall that she realized that she had been offered and refused something that Agatha wanted, or that she may have wanted, for the hint she had given had been very slight. She wondered if the Bishop had any idea of it.
‘It is nice that you have been able to stay so long here,’ she said, with unaccustomed guile. ‘I expect the Archdeacon and Mrs Hoccleve will miss you when you go back.’
‘Yes, I think I can say that they will.’ The Bishop smiled to himself. ‘I have been able to give the Archdeacon a few tips, although a small country parish hardly presents the same problems as a large African diocese.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Belinda. ‘Nobody would imagine that it did.’
‘Mrs Hoccleve has been most kind in helping me to buy various things that I need to take back to Africa with me. She has also knitted me some socks.’
‘Oh, how kind!’ exclaimed Belinda. ‘There is nothing like hand-knitted socks.’
‘No, indeed, there isn’t. Particularly when they are not quite long enough in the foot.’ The Bishop laughed with a silly, bleating noise. ‘Quite between ourselves, of course,’ he added.
‘Of course,’ repeated Belinda, closing the front door behind him. She felt that she could almost love Agatha as a sister now. The pullover that she might have made for the Archdeacon would surely have been wrong somewhere, but as it had never even been started, it lacked the pathos of the socks not quite long enough in the foot. To think of Agatha as pathetic was something so new that Belinda had to sit down on a chair in the hall, quite overcome by the sensation. She began to find ways of making things better and more bearable. Agatha couldn’t really have meant that she cared for the Bishop; nobody could love a man like that. She almost longed to see Agatha and to be crushed by one of her sharp retorts, to know that she was still the same.
At last she remembered the ravioli, and was almost glad of an excuse to stop thinking about these disturbing matters. She paused for a moment by the looking-glass and studied her wispy hair, flushed face smeared with flour and faded blue overall. Looking like that one could not feel even a romantic figure whose lover had died.
The sound of raised, almost angry, voices came from behind the closed door of the dining-room. It was a clash of wills between Harriet and Mrs Ramage, but Harriet would win in the end. It was known that the Misses Bede had ‘good’ things – though hardly of the same standard as Mrs Hoccleve – and Mrs Ramage would be unwilling to leave without buying them.
Belinda went quietly back to the kitchen and sat down. She wished Harriet would come, so that she could tell her all about it. After all, she supposed, it was something to have been considered worthy to be the wife of a bishop, even if only a colonial one. There was something rather sad about the kitchen now. It was beginning to get dark, and the greyish mass of dough on the table reminded Belinda of the unfinished ravioli. Twenty minutes more kneading, and perhaps it would be of the consistency of the finest chamois leather.
The trivial round, the common task – did it furnish quite all we needed to ask? Had Keble really understood? Sometimes one almost doubted it. Belinda imagined him writing the lines in a Gothic study, panelled in pitch-pine and well dusted that morning by an efficient servant. Not at all the same thing as standing at the sink with aching back and hands plunged
into the washing-up water.
‘Three pounds, fifteen and six!’ Harriet came triumphant into the kitchen, waving the notes in her hand. ‘She was pleased with your green dress, but she wondered how you could ever have worn it. “Not at all Miss Bede’s colour”, she said.’
‘No, I begin to wonder now myself how I could ever have worn it,’ said Belinda. ‘Perhaps it is hardly surprising that Bishop Grote does not think me fair to outward view, though I think I was wearing my blue marocain that evening at the vicarage, and I always think I look quite nice in that.’
‘Oh, was it Theo who called just now?’ asked Harriet. ‘What did he want?’
‘He wanted me to be his wife,’ said Belinda, enjoying the dramatic simplicity of her announcement.
‘No!’ Harriet’s surprise was a little uncomplimentary, but her joy and relief at having her sister spared to her more than made up for it. ‘What a pity you and Agatha can’t change, though,’ she lamented. ‘But of course he can’t really care for her very much or he wouldn’t have asked you, would he?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Belinda, who was beginning to think that she did not understand anything any more. ‘Anyway I don’t suppose Agatha really cares for him. I ought not to have told you what she said.’ She felt that she could not tell even Harriet about the socks and was glad when she left the subject and came out with a piece of news of her own. Mrs Ramage, in the intervals of bargaining, had told her that she had heard that Mr Donne had been offered a ‘post’ at his old University – chaplain in the college or something like that.
‘How suitable,’ said Belinda, ‘but of course it will mean him leaving here, won’t it?’
‘Oh, yes, of course,’ said Harriet casually. ‘But don’t you see, we shall get a new curate? The Archdeacon will never be able to manage by himself.’
‘No, of course not,’ agreed Belinda fervently, ‘he couldn’t possibly manage by himself. He will certainly have to get a new curate.’
‘This is really a place for a young man,’ said Harriet.
‘Well, I don’t know. A young man might want more scope, a more active parish with young people. Something in the East End of London, perhaps,’ Belinda suggested. ‘I should think this curacy might very well suit an older man.’
‘Oh, I can’t imagine that,’ said Harriet in disgust. ‘And anyway, curates are nearly always young.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Belinda, feeling that she ought to help her sister to face up to the problem from every possible angle. ‘Sometimes a man in middle life suddenly feels called upon to take Holy Orders. I always feel it must be so awkward and upsetting for his family.’
‘Oh, dear,’ Harriet’s face clouded. ‘I do hope it won’t be anyone like that.’
‘I’m not saying it will be, but it could be,’ said Belinda. ‘I think the Archdeacon would prefer a young man, though.’
‘Yes, working with the Archdeacon must be a great experience,’ said Harriet obscurely. ‘A young man of good family, just ordained, that’s what we really want. Do you suppose the Archdeacon will advertise in the Church Times?’
‘He could hardly advertise for somebody of good family,’ said Belinda smiling.
‘They sometimes say “genuine Catholic” or “prayer-book Catholic”,’ mused Harriet, ‘but of course we should hardly want that here.’
‘Oh, Harriet, look!’ Belinda held up the sheet of ravioli she had been rolling.
‘But, Belinda, it’s just like a piece of leather. I’m sure that can’t be right,’ protested Harriet.
‘It is,’ said Belinda joyfully, ‘it’s even finer than the finest chamois leather.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The next few weeks were entirely taken up with preparations for the curate’s wedding. It may be said without exaggeration that it was the only topic of conversation in the village at this time, and many a church worker’s dingy life had been brightened by the silver and white invitation card, which was prominently displayed on many mantelpieces. The marriage of their dear Mr Donne was something in which all could share, for had he not at some time or another been to meals at all their houses? Many were the chickens which had been stuffed and roasted or boiled and smothered in white sauce in his honour.
One afternoon, a few days before the wedding, there was a gathering at the parish hall, the object of which was to make a presentation to Mr Donne and his fiancée. Miss Berridge was to stay at the vicarage and be married from there, as her parents were dead and Mrs Hoccleve, perhaps because of her niece’s substantial contribution to Middle English studies, had always been particularly fond of her.
There was great excitement in the hall for nobody had yet seen Miss Berridge, though Edith Liversidge had caught a glimpse of her coming from the station the previous evening. As it had been a very dark night she had not been able to give a satisfactory description, except to say that she had been wearing a fur coat, a dark, rather bushy fur, musquash, she thought, and that she was very tall, perhaps taller than Mr Donne, who was only of middle height for a man.
‘Taller than he is,’ said Harriet in a disgusted tone, as they sat waiting for the proceedings to begin. ‘What a pity! I always think it looks so bad.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Belinda, ‘but of course it can’t be helped. I mean, there are other things more important.’
‘Tall women always droop,’ said Edith sharply. ‘I’m always telling Connie to hold herself up. It never had any effect until Bishop Grote said something about liking tall women – she’s been better since then.’
‘Did he say that?’ asked Belinda, interested. ‘I didn’t think he really minded what people looked like – or expected much from people of our age, anyway.’
‘Bishops ought not to mind or expect,’ said Edith, ‘but I suppose they’re human. Besides, don’t forget all those native women …’ she paused darkly. ‘He was describing their costume or lack of it when he came to tea with us the other day. Poor Connie was quite embarrassed.’
‘Well, he’s gone now,’ said Belinda comfortably, ‘and he’ll probably be quite glad to be back among those dear, good fellows.’
‘Agatha was sorry to see him go,’ said Harriet. ‘That was obvious. Ah, quotiens illum doluit properare Calypso – Ah, how many times did Calypso grieve at his hastening.’
‘Connie was sorry too,’ said Edith. ‘If it hadn’t been that she was due for her annual visit to Belgrave Square she would have been very low.’
‘I do hope she will be back in time for Mr Donne’s presentation,’ said Harriet, ‘she wouldn’t want to miss his speech, I’m sure.’
‘Her train is due in at a quarter to three, so I suppose she should be here for most of it – in at the death, you know.’
‘Poor Mr Donne,’ sighed Harriet, ‘one almost feels that it is a death.’
At this moment there was a stir among the rows of waiting women, and the door on to the platform opened. Agatha Hoccleve, in a black tailored costume of good cut, came in, followed by a tall, pleasant-looking woman in the early or middle thirties, in a blue tweed costume of rather less good cut. She had a pale, rather long face and wore spectacles. Her hair was neatly arranged at the back of her head, though this was rather difficult to see as her navy felt hat was pulled down at a sensible angle.
Long, English gentlewoman’s feet, thought Belinda noticing her shoes and good, heavy silk stockings.
Miss Berridge was followed by Mr Donne, looking rather sheepish, Father Plowman, whose parish had wished to join in the presentation, and, finally, the Archdeacon, smiling sardonically and bearing in his arms a large square object shrouded in a cloth which he placed on a small table at one side of the platform.
‘She is taller than he is,’ whispered Harriet, ‘and she looks much older. What a pity! She’s rather plain, too, isn’t she? Why doesn’t she use lipstick?’
‘Ladies and Gentlemen …’ Agatha Hoccleve’s clear voice rang out. She was a confident public speaker and this afternoon’s audience of pari
sh women with a few churchwardens and choirmen held no terrors for her. ‘It gives me great pleasure to introduce my niece, Miss Berridge, soon to be Mrs Donne, to you all. I only wish she were going to stay longer with us, but we must not – I am sure we do not – grudge her to Mr Donne and I am equally sure that he’ – she gave a sideways glance to where the curate was sitting looking down at his shoes – ‘will not grudge us the opportunity of getting to know her while she is here. Of course I know her already,’ she added with a little laugh, and sat down amid the mild clapping which followed.
By this time the Archdeacon had got up and moved over to the side of the platform where the shrouded object stood and seemed about to uncover it, but he was prevented by an agitated gesture from Father Plowman. The situation was saved by Agatha stepping forward and saying in a loud voice, ‘Before the Archdeacon makes the presentation, I think Mr Plowman has something to say.
‘Father Plowman,’ giggled Harriet.
‘Yes, indeed I have,’ said that clergyman with a grateful glance at Agatha and a rather baleful one at the Archdeacon. ‘My parishioners and I felt that we could not let this opportunity pass without adding our good wishes and our widow’s mite, as it were, towards this gift. I think we shall not soon forget Father Donne’s gifts to us. I mean,’ he added, sensing a faint bewilderment among his hearers, ‘his Sunday evening sermons. I can see him now, walking across the fields in the evening sunshine, his cassock and surplice over his arm …’ Mr Donne himself now looked a little startled as Father Plowman’s church was some seven or eight miles away and he had always gone over on his bicycle … ‘pausing perhaps to drink in the beauty of our old church seen in that gracious evening light, pondering his message to us that evening, the gift he was bringing us.’ Father Plowman paused, a little overcome by his eloquence. ‘May he, with the help of Miss Berridge, go on from strength to strength, as I am sure he will. From glory to glory advancing, we praise Thee, O Lord.’ He bowed his head. ‘And now a prayer, Prevent us O Lord in all our doings …’