‘These humble people remind me of Gray’s Elegy,’ he said affectedly with his head on one side.
Neither Belinda nor Agatha had heard his conversation with Harriet, so that they listened with respectful interest while he quoted the appropriate verse. Nor were they in a hurry to be gone, as Harriet had been, and so did not say ‘Oh, quite’ when he had finished but enlarged intelligently on the charming theme. Agatha was reminded of Piers Plowman, Belinda of the poetry of Crabbe, which she could not remember very exactly, but she felt she had to be reminded of something out of self-defence, for Agatha had got a First and knew all about Piers Plowman. Indeed, she seemed about to quote from it and would probably have done so had not the Archdeacon suddenly been reminded of Wordsworth and some suitable lines in The Excursion. Then he began to read from The Prelude. Belinda thought Agatha looked rather bored and fidgety, but she herself was delighted and lived happily in the past until the entry of Mr Donne brought her back into the present.
‘Your sister brought me some delicious plums this afternoon,’ he said, addressing Belinda, ‘and some homemade cake and jelly. I’m afraid I’m getting quite spoilt.’
The Archdeacon looked envious. The plums in their garden hadn’t done particularly well this year and Agatha was always too busy with parochial work to make jelly or cakes or even to ask the cook to make them.
‘Ah, well, you won’t always be a curate,’ said Belinda indulgently.
‘That doesn’t follow at all,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘Look at Plowman and all the gifts he gets. I suppose it has something to do with celibacy.’
Agatha smiled complacently. ‘Well, dear, people know that you are not in need of these things,’ she said.
‘I will bring you some of the plums tomorrow,’ said the curate nobly.
‘Now, you see, I have given Donne a chance to be unselfish,’ said the Archdeacon, ‘so good comes out of everything.’
Belinda was silent, wondering if by any chance there were any plums left and whether she would have the courage to bring the Archdeacon a pot of the blackberry jelly which she herself had made a week or two ago. Perhaps when Agatha went away … a cake, too, perhaps with coffee icing and filling and chopped nuts on the top, or a really rich fruit cake…
‘We really must do something about the Harvest Festival,’ said the Archdeacon wearily. ‘I suppose I shall have to get Plowman to preach. A pity Canon Harvey is such a difficult man, he’s really a better preacher.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Agatha nodded sympathetically.
Belinda did not join in the conversation. She remembered that the Archdeacon and Canon Harvey had a long-standing quarrel about the use of Songs of Praise in church, which the latter considered ‘savoured of Pantheism in many instances’. They had had a heated correspondence about it in the local paper.
‘Of course Plowman knows a good deal about the technical side of farming,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘That is some advantage.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said the curate earnestly. ‘He believes that digging is a kind of worship and that we get nearer to God by digging. At least, it may not be exactly that,’ he stammered in confusion, ‘but of course one does feel that the countryman is nearer God, in a way.’
‘Nature’s cathedral,’ retorted the Archdeacon scornfully. ‘One sees what you mean, of course.’
‘I think Mr Donne was remembering the Latin colere, which has the double meaning of dig and worship, as in cult and agriculture,’ said Agatha helpfully. ‘You explained it so well in your sermon about the spiritual meaning of harvest time,’ she added, turning to her husband. ‘It would be nice to hear that again.’
The Archdeacon nodded and looked pleased. ‘Yes, I think that may be the solution,’ he said. ‘I felt at the time that it was perhaps too subtle for some of the congregation.’
Belinda was silent with admiration. What a splendid wife Agatha was! She could never have dealt with him half so cleverly herself, she thought humbly. She remembered the sermon, of course, but it had been so obscure, that even she had been forced to abandon all efforts to understand it.
‘Oh, Mrs Hoccleve,’ burst out the curate eagerly, ‘I nearly forgot to tell you, I had a pair of hand-knitted socks from Olivia Berridge. Wasn’t it nice of her?’
‘Yes, she mentioned you the last time I heard from her,’ said Agatha thoughtfully, and then began to explain to Belinda that Olivia Berridge was a niece of hers whom Mr Donne had met when he was an undergraduate.
‘We both used to sing in the Bach Choir,’ explained the curate, making the acquaintance sound respectable, even dull, Belinda thought.
‘She’s a very clever girl,’ Agatha went on, ‘and she’s doing some really excellent work on certain doubtful readings in The Owl and The Nightingale.’ She sighed, and looked down at the sock she was mending. ‘I envy her that opportunity.’
‘Well, my dear, there is no reason why you shouldn’t get down to something like that yourself,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I am sure you have more time to spare than I have.’
‘I do so admire people who do obscure research,’ said Belinda. ‘I’m sure I wish I could.’
‘Of course I have done a good deal of work on Middle English texts myself in the past,’ said Agatha, smiling.
‘Now, Agatha, Belinda does not wish to be forced to admire you,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘After all, academic research is not everything. We must remember George Herbert’s lines:
A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine,
Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws,
Makes that and the action fine.
‘Yes, they are comforting,’ Belinda agreed. ‘And yet,’ she went on unhappily, ‘I don’t sweep rooms, Emily does that. The things I do seem rather useless, but I suppose it could be applied to any action of everyday life, really.’
‘Oh, certainly, Miss Bede,’ said Mr Donne, with curately heartiness. ‘We cannot all have the same gifts,’ he added, with what Belinda felt was an insufferably patronizing air.
‘Olivia is a very forceful young woman,’ said the Archdeacon, ‘and rather a bluestocking in appearance. What do you think, Donne?’
‘Well, I can’t say that I’ve really noticed,’ said the curate. ‘I mean, it’s what a person is that matters most, isn’t it?’
‘Ah, yes, the clergy at any rate should feel that,’ said the Archdeacon sardonically. ‘It might be an idea for one of your sermons, Donne. You could take the lilies of the field text and work it out quite simply. I’m not sure that I won’t take it myself, though. It might be a way of reaching the evening congregations, they like something of that kind. Never waste your erudite quotations on them, they don’t appreciate or understand them.’
The curate murmured something about not really knowing any erudite quotations, at which the Archdeacon nodded and looked satisfied.
Agatha rolled up the last pair of socks, and there was a pleasant silence, during which Belinda became rather sentimental as she contemplated the cosy domestic scene. Agatha, surrounded by the socks and her affectionate husband, dear Agatha, almost; it was very seldom that Belinda was able to think of her like that. We really ought to love one another, she thought warmly, it was a pity it was often so difficult. But as she walked home, her thoughts took a more definite and interesting turn. She began to wonder if perhaps Mr Donne loved Olivia Berridge. By the time she had reached her own house, however, she had decided that the whole idea was so upsetting that it could not possibly be so. In any case, he would not have the chance of seeing her very often, and a few pairs of socks through the post could not really do very much.
CHAPTER SEVEN
When the day came for Agatha to go away, Belinda and Harriet watched her departure out of Belinda’s bedroom window. From here there was an excellent view of the vicarage drive and gate. Belinda had brought some brass with her to clean and in the intervals when she stopped her vigorous rubbing to look out of the window, was careful to display the duster in her hand. Harriet stared
out quite unashamedly, with nothing in her hand to excuse her presence there. She even had a pair of binoculars, which she was now trying to focus.
The sisters had said goodbye to Agatha the day before. Belinda was sure that she would rather be alone on her last morning to say goodbye to her husband, and there were always so many last-minute things to see to that the presence of strangers could be nothing but a hindrance, she thought. She really felt quite unhappy to think of Agatha and the Archdeacon being parted, for the cosy domestic scene which she had witnessed on her last visit to the vicarage had made a deep impression, and she felt that she ought to keep reminding herself of it. Of course they did have their little differences, there was no denying that, but it was equally certain that they were devoted to each other and that Agatha was an admirable wife.
Belinda and Harriet had been at their posts by the window for about ten minutes before there was any sign of life at the vicarage. Harriet had suggested that they should be there early, as, according to her calculations, Agatha would have to start for the station at least twenty minutes before the train went at half-past eleven. To watch anyone coming or going in the village was a real delight to them, so that they had looked forward to this morning with an almost childish excitement. And yet it was understandable, for there were so many interesting things about a departure, if one could watch it without any feeling of sorrow or regret. What would Agatha wear? Would she have a great deal of luggage or just a suitcase and a hat-box? Would the Archdeacon go with her to the station in the taxi, or would he be too busy to spare the time? If he did not go to the station would he kiss Agatha goodbye before she got into the taxi, or would he already have done that in the house? Belinda and Harriet were busy discussing these interesting questions when Harriet gave a little cry of pleasure and amusement.
‘Oh, look,’ she exclaimed, ‘the curate in his shirt-sleeves!’
Belinda looked. It was indeed the curate, wearing no coat and carrying a large round hat-box. As far as she could see he looked flushed and dishevelled.
‘I do hope they didn’t make him carry the trunk downstairs,’ she said, peering anxiously through the field-glasses. ‘He looks rather tired.’
The next person to appear in the drive was the Archdeacon. He was carrying a suitcase and looking round him uncertainly, as if he did not know what to do with it. But at this moment a taxi appeared, so he advanced towards it with a threatening air.
‘That old car of Palmer’s!’ exclaimed Harriet in disgust. ‘All the stuffing’s coming out of the seats! I suppose the Archdeacon was too mean to order Haines.’
‘Oh, Harriet, I’m sure it wasn’t that,’ said Belinda loyally. ‘Probably Haines was engaged for this morning, and anyway, I don’t think Palmer is any cheaper.’
‘They’ve got plenty of time,’ said Harriet, looking at her watch, ‘but I expect the Archdeacon wants to make quite sure she doesn’t miss the train. I expect they’ll be glad to get away from each other for a bit,’ she added.
Belinda was about to contradict her sister and remind her of what a devoted couple the Hoccleves were, when Agatha herself appeared, carrying a fur coat over her arm and a small dressing-case.
‘Oh, that’s the case with gold fittings, isn’t it?’ said Harriet. ‘I always think it must be so heavy, though. I don’t like her hat very much, it makes her face look too sharp.’
Belinda suddenly felt that there was something indecent about their curiosity and turned away to clean the brass candlesticks on the mantelpiece. But nothing would move Harriet from the window. She kept up a flow of comments on Agatha’s clothes, the behaviour of the Archdeacon and the curate. Belinda only hoped nobody could see her, with the field-glasses glued to her eyes. It would look so bad, somehow, though she did not doubt that others in the village were doing exactly the same thing.
Belinda went downstairs, humming God moves in a mysterious way, and telling herself that it was not right that she should feel relieved because Agatha was going away. Of course she was glad that Agatha was to have a well-deserved holiday and the waters would undoubtedly help her rheumatism, so there was room for gladness, but she ought not to have to tell herself this after the first thought that came into her mind had been how nice it would be to be able to ask Henry in to tea or supper without having to ask Agatha as well.
She went into the kitchen with a rather firmer step than usual and quite startled Emily, who was reading the Daily Mirror over her mid-morning cup of tea.
‘Oh, Emily, I hoped you would have got on to the silver by now,’ she said. ‘Miss Harriet and I have done the bedrooms’ – she paused guiltily – ‘and I think I will see to the lunch myself. I am going to make a risotto out of the chicken that was left over.’
‘Yes, Miss Bede.’ Emily began to assemble the materials for silver cleaning. ‘I see Mrs Hoccleve’s gone,’ she remarked.
‘Oh, yes, it was today she was going,’ said Belinda casually.
‘I hope she won’t come to any harm, you never know with foreigners, do you?’ said Emily.
‘An English gentlewoman can never come to any harm,’ said Belinda, more to herself than to Emily.
‘But you do hear of people having nasty things happen to them,’ persisted Emily. ‘I’ve read it in the papers. But of course Mrs Hoccleve’s elderly, really, isn’t she, so its different?’
Belinda was silent. She felt she could hardly agree that Agatha was elderly when she herself was a year older and thought of herself as only middle-aged. And yet, middle-aged or elderly, what was the difference really? Calm of mind, all passion spent … she had known that before she was thirty. ‘Don’t waste the Silvo like that, Emily,’ she said with unaccustomed sharpness, ‘you won’t get a better polish. It’s the rubbing that does it.’
The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs told Belinda that Harriet had finished her business there, and as the kettle was boiling, she made a pot of tea and took it into the dining-room.
‘I think I shall see if I can alter my black coat and make the sleeves like Agatha’s,’ Harriet was saying, half to herself. ‘Do you think there is anything to let out on the seams?’
‘Your coat is so nice as it is,’ said Belinda doubtfully, for she had had experience of Harriet’s attempts at alteration. ‘Altering a coat is so much more difficult than a dress.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Harriet gravely, ‘I think you’re right. I might buy some of that leopard-skin trimming though and put it on the cuffs and pockets. That would be a change, and sleeves are going to be important this winter, I believe.’
‘Have they got Agatha away safely?’ asked Belinda casually.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Harriet, in a more cheerful tone of voice. ‘Mr Donne went in the taxi with her. I suppose he would see her off at the station. And do you know,’ she leaned forward eagerly, ‘the Archdeacon didn’t even kiss her. He just waved his hand, like this.’ Harriet gave a rather improbable imitation of how the Archdeacon had said goodbye to his wife.
‘I expect they said their real goodbyes in the house,’ said Belinda. ‘After all it’s rather upsetting, isn’t it, a parting like that?’
‘The Archdeacon didn’t look in the least bit upset,’ said Harriet. ‘After the taxi had gone he stood in the drive grinning and rubbing his hands, looking as pleased as Punch.’
‘Oh, no, Harriet, I can’t believe that,’ said Belinda, and so, comfortably arguing, they drank their tea and were just finishing it when there was a cry from Harriet, who pointed in the direction of the window.
‘Look,’ she cried, for she had been so absorbed in her task of ‘strengthening’ a pair of corsets with elastic thread that she had not noticed the Archdeacon creeping up the drive. Neither had Belinda, but she was less observant and sharp.
‘I thought I would take you by surprise,’ he said. ‘I am glad to find you both engaged in the trivial round, the common task.’
Belinda was too agitated to think of any clever reply, while Harriet was bundling the corsets under a cushio
n in one of the armchairs. Belinda noticed to her horror that they were imperfectly hidden and planted herself firmly in front of the chair. It was too bad of Harriet to make these little embarrassments. The two cats were curled up in the basket-chair on the other side of the fire, so it was quite a problem to know where to seat the Archdeacon. But Harriet recovered her composure more quickly than Belinda, turned out the cats with a quick movement and offered him the chair.
‘I’m afraid we have annoyed them,’ said the Archdeacon, ‘they are looking positively baleful. And yet I feel that I need rest more than they do.’ He sighed and stretched out his hands to the warmth of the fire.
‘We always call them the brethren dwelling in unity,’ said Harriet. ‘Behold how good and joyful a thing it is, brethren, to dwell together in unity,’ she quoted, as if by way of explanation. ‘The psalm, you know…’
‘Of course he knows,’ said Belinda rather sharply, and yet it was odd how one sometimes felt that he might not. She began to wonder why he had come; it was unusual for him to call in the morning.
‘I expect you know Agatha has just gone,’ said the Archdeacon, in answer to her thoughts. ‘Such a business getting her to the station, I really feel quite exhausted. These departures are always more tiring for those who are left behind.’
‘Oh, dear, we should have offered you some tea,’ said Belinda reflecting that it was in fact Mr Donne who had gone to the station with Agatha. ‘We had ours some time ago so it won’t be very nice. I’ll get Emily to make you some more.’
‘Well, that is kind of you, but I had some refreshment at the vicarage,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I really felt justified in having something.’