he wouldn’t be able to get his head through it. Belinda went hot and cold, imagining her humiliation. She would have to practise on Harriet, whose head was fully as big as the Archdeacon’s. And yet, in a way, it would be better if Harriet didn’t know about it, she might so easily blurt out something … Obviously the enterprise was too fraught with dangers to be attempted and Belinda determined to think no more about it. God moves in a mysterious way , she thought, without irreverence. It was wonderful how He did, even in small things. No doubt she would know what to do with the wool as time went on.
This afternoon Belinda had naturally hoped that she might meet the Archdeacon, but it was now nearly teatime, and although she had been through the main street and all the most likely side streets, Fate had not brought them together. She decided that there was nothing for it but to go home; after all, there would be many more opportunities.
But when she had got as far as the church, she saw a familiar figure wandering about among the tombstones, with his hands clasped behind his back and an expression of melancholy on his face. It was, of course, the Archdeacon. But what was he doing in the churchyard when it was nearly tea-time? Belinda wondered. This would hardly be a suitable time to interrupt his meditations by telling him that she had had a letter from Nicholas Parnell and that she did hope they would both come to supper when he came to stay. She began to walk rather more slowly, uncertain what to do. She looked in her shopping basket to see if she had forgotten anything. She remembered now that the careful list she had made was lying on top of the bureau in the dining-room, so she could hardly expect to check things very satisfactorily. There was no reason why she should not hurry home to tea.
‘These yew trees are remarkably fine,’ said a voice quite close to her, ‘they must be hundreds of years old.’
Belinda looked up from her basket. The Archdeacon had now come to the wall.
‘Oh, good afternoon,’ she said, hoping that he had not noticed her obvious reluctance to go home. ‘You quite startled me. I didn’t see you,’ she added, hoping that she might be forgiven or at least not found out, in this obvious lie.
The Archdeacon smiled. ‘I was thinking out my sermon for Sunday,’ he said. ‘I find the atmosphere so helpful. Looking at these tombs, I am reminded of my own mortality.’
Belinda contemplated a design of cherubs’ heads with a worn inscription underneath it. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said, hoping that the gentle melancholy of her tone would make amends for her trite reply.
‘I have lately been reading Young’s Night Thoughts ,’ went on the Archdeacon, in his pulpit voice. ‘There are some magnificent lines in it that I had forgotten.’
Belinda waited. She doubted now whether it would be possible to be back for tea at four o’clock. She could hardly break away when the Archdeacon was about to deliver an address on the mortality of man.
He began to quote:
We take no note of time
But from its loss. To give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright
It is the knell of my departed hours …
‘I thought of those lines when I heard the clock strike just now,’ he explained.
‘It must be wonderful, and unusual too, to think of time like that,’ said Belinda shyly, realizing that when she heard the clock strike her thoughts were on a much lower level. She suspected that even dear Henry was guilty of more mundane thoughts occasionally. At four o’clock in the afternoon, surely the most saintly person would think rather of tea than of his departed hours? She stood silent, looking into her basket.
‘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
This afternoon Belinda had naturally hoped that she might meet the Archdeacon, but it was now nearly teatime, and although she had been through the main street and all the most likely side streets, Fate had not brought them together. She decided that there was nothing for it but to go home; after all, there would be many more opportunities.
But when she had got as far as the church, she saw a familiar figure wandering about among the tombstones, with his hands clasped behind his back and an expression of melancholy on his face. It was, of course, the Archdeacon. But what was he doing in the churchyard when it was nearly tea-time? Belinda wondered. This would hardly be a suitable time to interrupt his meditations by telling him that she had had a letter from Nicholas Parnell and that she did hope they would both come to supper when he came to stay. She began to walk rather more slowly, uncertain what to do. She looked in her shopping basket to see if she had forgotten anything. She remembered now that the careful list she had made was lying on top of the bureau in the dining-room, so she could hardly expect to check things very satisfactorily. There was no reason why she should not hurry home to tea.
‘These yew trees are remarkably fine,’ said a voice quite close to her, ‘they must be hundreds of years old.’
Belinda looked up from her basket. The Archdeacon had now come to the wall.
‘Oh, good afternoon,’ she said, hoping that he had not noticed her obvious reluctance to go home. ‘You quite startled me. I didn’t see you,’ she added, hoping that she might be forgiven or at least not found out, in this obvious lie.
The Archdeacon smiled. ‘I was thinking out my sermon for Sunday,’ he said. ‘I find the atmosphere so helpful. Looking at these tombs, I am reminded of my own mortality.’
Belinda contemplated a design of cherubs’ heads with a worn inscription underneath it. ‘Yes, indeed,’ she said, hoping that the gentle melancholy of her tone would make amends for her trite reply.
‘I have lately been reading Young’s Night Thoughts ,’ went on the Archdeacon, in his pulpit voice. ‘There are some magnificent lines in it that I had forgotten.’
Belinda waited. She doubted now whether it would be possible to be back for tea at four o’clock. She could hardly break away when the Archdeacon was about to deliver an address on the mortality of man.
He began to quote:
We take no note of time
But from its loss. To give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright
It is the knell of my departed hours …
‘I thought of those lines when I heard the clock strike just now,’ he explained.
‘It must be wonderful, and unusual too, to think of time like that,’ said Belinda shyly, realizing that when she heard the clock strike her thoughts were on a much lower level. She suspected that even dear Henry was guilty of more mundane thoughts occasionally. At four o’clock in the afternoon, surely the most saintly person would think rather of tea than of his departed hours? She stood silent, looking into her basket.
‘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
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