The obvious prayer, of course, thought Belinda, who had noted with anxiety the expression of irritation on the Archdeacon’s face. Perhaps Father Plowman ought not to have said a prayer at all – it should have been left to the last speaker – the Archdeacon – who was now advancing once more towards the shrouded object.
As if in deliberate contrast, he adopted a more ominous tone, and dwelt, not so much on the parish’s loss, though he did mention that Mr Donne’s going would mean a great deal of extra work for him, as on the difficulties that Mr Donne might be expected to encounter in his new life. ‘The University is a stony and barren soil,’ he declared in a warning tone, ‘one might almost say that the labourers are too many for the scanty harvest that is to be reaped there. The undergraduates are as in Anthony à Wood’s day, much given over to drinking and gaming and vain brutish pleasures.’ He looked as if he were warming to his subject, and Belinda began to fear that he might quote other and more unsuitable passages from that crabbed antiquary, but after a short pause he left the subject and went on. ‘It is to be hoped that Mr Donne may succeed where others have failed. Indeed, with the help of Miss Berridge’ – he gave her a most charming smile – one feels that he may. I am certain too that with her considerable linguistic gift, she will be a great help to him if ever he feels called upon to labour in the Mission Field.’
There was a visible stir in the audience at these words and some indignant whispering.
From Greenland’s icy mountains
From India’s coral strand …
‘It is not so very long since we were singing Bishop Heber’s fine hymn in our fine old church.’ The Archdeacon paused as if to let the significance of his words sink in and then began to fumble with the cloth which shrouded the square object.
‘Isn’t it the table cloth out of the morning-room at the vicarage?’ whispered Harriet. ‘How unsuitable!’
We take no note of time but from its loss.
To give it then a tongue is wise in man …
The Archdeacon paused – ‘Edward Young, the eighteenth-century poet and divine wrote those words nearly two hundred years ago. Not a great poet, you may say, no, one would hardly call him that, but I think his words are still true today. That is why we are giving this chiming clock to Mr Donne and Miss Berridge as a wedding present.’ He flung aside the cloth with a dramatic gesture that Belinda thought very fine, if a little too theatrical for the occasion. ‘May it do something to ease the burdens they will be called upon to bear in their new life.’
‘I should think Mr Donne’s burdens will be infinitely lighter in his new life than they have been here,’ murmured Edith, ‘but I suppose the Archdeacon cannot bear to think of anybody without some kind of burden.’
‘Well, we know that life is never without them,’ said Belinda loyally. ‘It is perhaps just as well to remember that. And even if we appear to have none we really ought to have …’ her voice trailed off obscurely, for Miss Berridge had come forward and was making a speech of thanks. Her voice was clear and ringing, as if she were used to giving lectures or addressing meetings. What an excellent clergyman’s wife she would make with this splendid gift!
‘Edgar and I are simply delighted …’ there was comfort in the words, as if she were protecting Mr Donne in a sensible tweed coat or even woollen underwear. It was obvious that she would take care of him, not letting him cast a clout too soon. She would probably help with his sermons too, and embellish them with quotations rarer than her husband, with his Third Class in Theology, could be expected to know. A helpmeet indeed.
‘Rather toothy when she smiles, isn’t she,’ whispered Harriet. ‘I wonder what he will say.’
Mr Donne’s speech was very short. ‘Olivia has said exactly what I would have said,’ he began. Here again the use of Christian names gave a cosy, intimate feeling. Agatha and Father Plowman were smiling and even the Archdeacon was looking benevolent.
Mr Donne concluded on a serious note. ‘I think we shall both remember what the Archdeacon has said about the burdens we may have to bear in our new life. I hope we may not be found wanting at the testing time. And now, let us pray…’
Belinda wondered whether he would be able to think of another suitable prayer when Father Plowman had rather unfairly used the obvious one already. But she had to admit that his choice was an admirable one. Lord, we pray Thee that Thy grace may always prevent and follow us, and make us continually to be given to all good works … She bowed her head and could see out of the corner of her eye Miss Prior and Miss Jenner, creeping in through a side door carrying a tea-urn. When they realized that a prayer was being said, they stood stiffly with the urn, like children playing a game of ‘statues’.
The prayer ended, and after a decent pause Miss Berridge and Mr Donne – or Olivia and Edgar as they had now become in the minds of their hearers – came down from the platform and moved among the audience, shaking hands and chatting.
Belinda found herself talking to Miss Berridge and offering her a cake from a plate which seemed to have got into her hand. She felt a glow of warm friendliness towards her, perhaps because of her rather plain, good-humoured face, her sensible felt hat, her not particularly well-cut tweed suit and her low-heeled shoes. Nothing from the ‘best houses’ here – all was as it should be in a clergyman’s wife.
‘Where will you live?’ Belinda asked. ‘I suppose suitable accommodation is provided for married chaplains even in a place that is in other ways as old-fashioned as our University.’
‘Oh, we’ve already taken a very nice house, rather Gothic in style, but I think it will be comfortable and it has a large garden,’ said Olivia. ‘And Edgar will have rooms in college as well, of course. I hope you and your sister will come and see us when we are settled in. Edgar tells me you have been so good to him.’
Belinda managed to stop herself saying, ‘Oh, it was really Harriet, my sister, she dotes on curates,’ and asked instead whether it was decided who should come in place of Mr Donne. ‘Will he be a young man or an older one who needs the quiet and country air of a little place like this?’ she asked.
‘Both, in a way,’ said Olivia. ‘He is young, but he has recently been ill – I think you’ll like him very much. I believe he’s a Balliol man and he’s certainly very handsome, dark and rather Italian-looking, really. Edgar looks quite plain beside him.’ She laughed affectionately. ‘Anyway, you’ll see him at our wedding.’
‘How splendid! My sister will be delighted,’ said Belinda with unguarded enthusiasm. ‘She has such a respect for Balliol men,’ she added hastily.
‘Yes, it still maintains its great tradition of scholarship,’ agreed Olivia. ‘I had an idea that Archdeacon Hoccleve was a Balliol man.’
‘No, he isn’t, as a matter of fact,’ said Belinda, ‘but he is a very fine preacher. His knowledge of English literature is quite remarkable for a clergyman.’
‘His sermons are full of quotations,’ said Harriet bluntly. ‘I consider Mr Donne a much better preacher.’
‘I think that English Literature and Theology can be very happily combined,’ said Olivia gracefully. ‘I daresay I shall find myself encouraging Edgar to write more literary sermons.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said her fiancé, ‘I expect Olivia will help me to outdo even the Archdeacon with obscure quotations from the Ormulum.’
‘Whatever is that?’ asked Harriet. ‘It sounds very learned.’
‘A kind of moral treatise, I believe.’
‘Oh, well, I hope you won’t listen to her,’ said Harriet. ‘I suppose people liked things like that in the old days.’
‘And I hope that we in these days may still be said to like “things like that”,’ said Father Plowman, smiling indulgently at Harriet, as if she were a naughty child.
‘Perhaps we would like them better if we could understand them,’ said Belinda. ‘I mean the language, of course.’ She spoke rather hastily as she could see the Archdeacon approaching and thought it might be as well to change the subjec
t before he came. ‘I wish somebody would have another cake,’ she said, offering the plate which she was still holding. Harriet took it from her and began to encourage Mr Donne to eat a cake with pink icing, much to the amusement of Olivia, who did not appear to mind Harriet’s proprietary attitude in the very least.
Belinda, feeling that she had monopolized the young couple for quite long enough, withdrew quietly and found herself near the tea-urn over which Miss Prior and Miss Jenner were presiding.
‘Would you like another cup, Miss Bede?’ asked Miss Prior. ‘I know you’re one for tea, like I am.’
‘Yes, please, I would,’ said Belinda, feeling this to be a comfortable classification. ‘I’m sure we need plenty of tea after all this excitement.’
‘We certainly do,’ agreed Miss Prior. ‘Miss Aspinall, too! That news was a surprise, I can tell you. A shock, you might almost say.’
‘Oh, I always thought he had his eye on her,’ said Miss Jenner in her shrill, arch voice. ‘I said to mother only the other day that something would come of it.’
‘Come of it?’ asked Belinda, looking over to where, as she now realized, Connie Aspinall, fresh from Belgravia, was standing in the centre of a little crowd. She looked almost happy and was talking with unusual animation. Even Belgrave Square could hardly have made such a change in her. ‘I don’t quite understand,’ Belinda went on, ‘has something happened to Miss Aspinall? Is she getting married as well?’
‘Didn’t you know?’ Miss Jenner almost shrieked. ‘Miss Aspinall’s got engaged to Bishop Grote. You remember, Miss Bede, he was staying at the vicarage not so long ago.’
Belinda had taken a large gulp of tea and narrowly escaped choking, but she was able to indicate that she did remember Bishop Grote. ‘But this is amazing, wonderful,’ she emended, ‘news. I must go and congratulate her immediately.’ She put down her cup and made her way over to Miss Aspinall’s corner.
‘My dear Connie,’ she said, ‘I’ve just heard your wonderful news. I am glad.’
‘Yes, I’m so happy,’ said Connie. ‘Theodore told me that as soon as he came here he felt that he was destined to find happiness, and that when he saw me he knew it was to be.’ She gave a mysterious emphasis to these last words.
Belinda was silent for a moment in thankfulness and wonder. She did not now resent the Bishop’s quoting of her favourite hymn God moves in a mysterious way. It was manifest that He did.
‘But how did you come to meet again?’ she asked, curiosity taking the place of wonder. ‘Did he visit you in Belgrave Square?’
‘No, we met one afternoon in the Army and Navy Stores,’ said Connie. ‘That was the wonderful part of it. I had gone into the garden-furniture department to buy a trowel and I was standing looking at a sweet little bird bath – you know they have such pretty carved stone ones – when I heard footsteps behind me – the place was quite deserted – I happened to look round and there was Theodore.’
‘How extraordinary!’ said Belinda, imagining the shock she herself would have felt.
‘Yes, it seemed he had lost his way. He wanted to buy a new tin trunk to take back to Africa and found himself in the garden-furniture department by mistake. The man he asked had misdirected him or the department had been moved, I believe.’
‘How extraordinary life is,’ Belinda interposed. ‘To think that the moving of a department, if it had been moved…’
‘And so then he asked me to go and have tea with him and luckily there was a Fuller’s teashop quite near and he proposed to me over tea.’
‘Did you have that lovely walnut cake?’ asked Harriet, who had now joined them.
‘I don’t suppose Connie noticed what she was eating,’ said Belinda. ‘My dear, I’m so glad for you. I hope you will be very happy. I’m sure you will,’ she added, feeling that she may have sounded doubtful.
‘Well, I think we shall be,’ said Connie. ‘At first I naturally felt rather nervous – the importance of the position, you see – but Theodore assured me that I was quite equal to being a bishop’s wife.’
‘Yes, I am sure he did,’ said Belinda, remembering. ‘Are you to be married here or in London?’
‘Oh, from Belgrave Square. Lady Grudge insisted on it. She’s been so very kind and is most interested in the splendid work Theodore’s been doing.’
‘I feel that Connie’s cup is almost too full,’ said Belinda, as she and Harriet walked home together, ‘but I’m very glad she’s so happy. Perhaps they really do love each other, though he may have told her not to expect that. But perhaps it was only I who was not to expect love,’ she added rather sadly.
‘And being married from Belgrave Square!’ said Harriet, who was in high spirits. ‘One feels that is almost the best thing about it. Hymen Io!’ she chanted, producing a most appropriate leftover fragment of her classical education. ‘That is suitable for weddings isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Belinda, who had not had the same advantages. ‘Of course there are many beautiful Epithalamia in the English language, but one reels somehow that they are more for young people.’
But Harriet had lost interest in Connie and the Bishop. She was remembering Olivia Berridge’s description of the new curate. ‘Balliol and rather Italian-looking,’ she breathed, ‘and just recovered from an illness. Oh, Belinda, he will need such special care!’ Later that evening she could be seen studying a book of Invalid Cookery, and was quite annoyed when Belinda pointed out that he would probably be eating with a normal appetite by the time he came to them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Fortunately the wedding day was fine, one of those unexpected spring days that come too soon and deceive one into thinking that the winter is over. Belinda had great difficulty in restraining Harriet from casting off her woollen vest, and was only successful after she had pointed out, with great seriousness, that the curate would surely not be so foolish as to leave off his winter combinations in February.
‘Oh, I suppose Miss Berridge would see to that,’ said Harriet sulkily. ‘It’s quite obvious that she’s going to fuss over him and turn him into a molly-coddle.’
Belinda could think of no answer to make to this, but could only wonder at the shortness of Harriet’s memory. It seemed such a little time since she had thought of nothing but knitting and cooking special dishes for Mr Donne.
By many deeds of shame
We learn that love grows cold,
thought Belinda. Did the author of that fine hymn realize how often his lines had been frivolously applied? She turned to her prayer-book and saw that he had died in 1905: so he was beyond the realization. No doubt we are more frivolous now than we were then, she thought, feeling in her jewel-box for her little seed-pearl brooch The neck of her new dress – a soft shade of blue that could not possibly make her look yellow – needed something to relieve its severity. Miss Prior had really made it very well; it even fitted quite closely as a result of Belinda’s timid and carefully phrased request for something a little less shapeless than usual. Harriet had ordered a creation from Gorringe’s which Belinda considered an unnecessary expense. She had not, however, mentioned this to her sister as she realized that the loss of a dear curate was something of an occasion and this was, as far as she could remember, the first time one had been lost by marriage. Usually it was the Mission Field or the East End of London that claimed them, or, more rarely, a comfortable living in the gift of a distant relative…
‘Belinda! Are you ready?’ Harriet stood in the room, magnificent in furs and veiled hat.
‘Oh, yes, I just have to put on my hat and coat. There! You do look nice, Harriet. I wonder if a veil would suit me? One feels that it’s kinder somehow – not that your complexion needs to be hidden, of course, but I sometimes think that for me … and yet, I don’t know …’ she broke off, wondering whether it would really make any difference now if she were to appear with her face softened by clouds of veiling. Henry knew the face underneath and would not be deceived and that was all that really
mattered.
‘Yes, I think it’s one of my most successful hats,’ said Harriet. ‘Yours is nice too,’ she added kindly. ‘I think I should wear it just a little further back, though.’
Belinda adjusted it without looking in the mirror and they went downstairs.
‘It’s really a perfect day,’ said Harriet, ‘amazingly mild.’
‘But I’m glad you kept on your vest,’ said Belinda, ‘it would have been most unwise to leave it off. It’s certainly mild compared with what it has been, but it may be colder tonight.’
As they passed the vicarage she drew Harriet’s attention to an almond tree in full blossom.
‘Look, the almond tree’s out,’ she said. ‘I always feel it looks lovelier every year, so beautiful that one can hardly bear it.’
Harriet looked at her sister apprehensively. She hoped Belinda wasn’t going to cry too much at the wedding. They did not have many weddings in the village and it would hardly be surprising if Belinda began to distress herself by remembering that if Fate had willed otherwise she herself might have married the Archdeacon thirty years ago. She was relieved when Belinda went on to talk about ordinary things, whether it would be wise to take more than one glass of champagne at the reception, always assuming it were offered, what Agatha would be wearing and whether the new curate would be at the church.
The sisters arrived in good time so that they could choose their place carefully. Harriet looked round quite unashamedly to watch people coming into the church. Belinda occasionally turned her head, but most of the time she sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap, though she could not help showing her interest and even whispering to Harriet when Agatha came in, very elegant in dark red, with a fur coat and wide-brimmed hat. A group of nondescript-looking women – possibly relatives or friends of the bride, fellow workers in the field of Middle English studies – came behind Agatha and they sat together in one of the front pews.