The Bell

CHAPTER 20

THE wind was blowing. Large piles of bulbous golden cloud passed quickly along the sky, obscuring and revealing the sun at short intervals. It was the sort of day which is gay in March but tiring in September. Dora was struggling with a white ribbon.

A sleepless night together with anxieties about the, it now seemed to her, colossal enterprise on which she had so rashly embarked had reduced Dora to a distracted state. The way in which, as she put it to herself, Toby had jumped upon her in the barn would at any other time have delighted her. The memory of his passionate childish kisses, still clear in her mind, moved her to tenderness, and she realized that she had not been unaware of the charms of that hard adolescent body and fresh uncertain face. But the excitement of Toby’s brief embrace was swallowed up in her larger concern about the bell. She felt herself to be a priestess, dedicated now to a rite which made mere personal relations unimportant.

The scuffle in the barn had ended abruptly at the intervention of the bell. Neither of them could make out, having been absorbed in their activities of the moment before, how loud the sound had been. They decided it was probably not very loud, a mere murmur, and not to be compared with the full voice of the bell. All the same, a murmur from such a source was noise enough, and they waited anxiously in ths silence that followed for any sound from the direction of the Court. As none came, they set to work at once on the next part of the operation which was carried out with a speed and efficiency which did Toby great credit. His only regret, which he expressed to Dora, was that she could have no idea how difficult what they had just successfully done had been. Ths bell now hung suspended by the second hawser a few feet from the ground. The hawser passed over the beam, out of the barn door, and its ringed end, pierced by a crowbar, was secured in the fork of a beech tree. The two conspirators had disguised the scene as best they could with twigs and creepers, and prepared to return to their beds. As they went, together this time, along the concrete road towards the Court Dora had taken Toby’s hand in hers. Parting at the edge of the wood they faced each other in the moonlight. Trembling with nervous exultation, Toby took Dora by the shoulders and turned her until the moon shone upon her face. Amazed and delighted by her consenting passivity he contemplated her, and then took her in his arms, twisting her violently to receive his kiss and almost falling with her to the ground.

After these romantic adventures the next day had dawned somewhat soberly for Dora. Paul, who had searched for her in vain, and got his hand full of prickles from a gorse bush in the process, was not pleased with her when he returned to find her in bed; nor was he pleased when, after a brief sleep, they awoke at morning. He knew his wife’s tastes well enough to suspect that she was not normally given to solitary communion with nature, especially at night, and he made no secret of finding her story of a moonlight ramble unconvincing. Nor did he hesitate to mention names in framing an alternative theory. Browbeaten before breakfast, Dora was in tears, genuinely sorry for Paul’s distress, feeling herself for once unjustly accused, but unable to explain. More upsetting still, Paul then insisted on spending the morning with her: took her out for a walk which was a torment to both of them, and generally behaved to her as if she were his prisoner. This made it impossible for Dora to make contact with Toby, with whom, in the sweetness of their farewell last night, she had fqrgotten to make a precise rendezvous for the night to come. It also made it impossible for her to visit the bell, which she had intended to devote part of the day to cleaning, in readiness for its forthcoming dramatic appearance. The only time during the morning when Dora was left alone was for ten minutes when Paul was having a thorn removed from his finger by Mark Straf-ford. But Dora did not dare to look for Toby in that brief interval, and sat dejectedly in the common-room until Paul returned, still black with irritation and smelling strongly of Dettol.

Lunch went drearily. Everyone seemed to be on edge. Toby, who had clearly become aware of the waves of suppressed fury emanating from Dora’s husband, looked subdued and avoided everyone’s eye. Mrs Mark was fretting about the bishop’s arrival. Michael looked ill. Mark Strafford had been cast into a melancholy by the announcement of the auditor’s visit, to take place next week. Catherine seemed more nervy than usual, and Patchway was cross because the wind had blown down all the runner beans. Only James lifted to the company a serene and cheerful face, diffused an atmosphere of robust and energetic confidence, listened with devout attention to Mrs Mark’s reading from François de Sales, and seemed quite unaware that everyone else was not as carefree as himself.

After lunch Paul continued with maniac alertness to supervise his wife. Dora was by now thoroughly anxious about the night’s arrangements. Retiring to the lavatory, she contrived to write a short note to Toby, which she put in a plain envelope and concealed in her pocket, saying: Sorry I didn’t make a date with you. Meet near the Lodge at 2 a.m. This she trusted she would be able somehow to convey to the boy, pinning her hopes to Paul’s well-known inability to spend more than a certain number of hours away from his work. Towards three she was glad to see him becoming restive; and half an hour later he made off in the direction of the parlours, having handed his captive over to Mrs Mark who had requested her help in the task of attiring the new bell.

This they were now engaged in doing. The new bell, set upon its trolley, was standing on the gravel outside the refectory. The refectory doors stood open, revealing the tables, decked for once with cloths, and laid for the buffet tea which the uncertain weather made it impossible to have, as Mrs Mark had originally pictured it, out of doors. With the help of members of what James called Patchway’s village harem quite a creditable spread was toward. The bell had by this time been inspected and admired by everyone. Parked in the middle of the terrace, its smooth and highly polished bronze glowing in the intermittent sunshine like gold, it looked extremely strange, and yet charged with authority and significance. Its surface was plain, except for a band of arabesques which circled it a little above the rim, and the inscription, contributed by that zealous antiquarian, the Bishop: Defunctos ploro, vivos voco, fulmina frango. Upon the shoulder of the bell there was also written, and it gave Dora a curious feeling to see it, Gabriel vocor.

Over the bell, fitting it fairly close, was a garment of white silk. This garment had been fashioned by Mrs Mark out of some remnants of war surplus parachute material which she had in what she called her rag bag, a miscellany of vast dimensions. The material was heavy and slightly shiny. A cotton fringe, now frilled out upon the trolley, had been tacked to its lower end. At the top of the bell the white canopy, meeting at a point, turned out again and cascaded back down the sides of the bell in innumerable white ribbons which were to be tacked down, in a series of generous loops, and finally tied to each other at the bottom to form a scalloped border. Thus was simulated a bridal or first communion dress. If indeed the bell was being thought of as a postulant entering the Abbey, it was by modern standards somewhat overdressed; but at least it was customary for postulants to wear white. Dora, who thought Mrs Mark’s confection had the coy demureness of a smart nightdress, noticed with relief that the garment was all of one piece and could easily be pulled off without disturbing its frills and flounces. Beside the bell stood a table with a damask cloth, to serve as an impromptu altar. Heavy stones kept the cloth in place. A considerable quantity of white wild flowers, collected by the village children, and which no one had had time to make into garlands, lay in a pile nearby, ready to be heaped onto the trolley at the last moment, their petals meanwhile being whisked off by the wind.

The ribbons were proving more troublesome than Mrs Mark had foreseen. The weather was partly to blame. The strands of satin, attached so far at the top only, streamed gaily away, flapping against themselves and each other with almost whip-like cracks, and gave to the bell more the appearance of a maypole than of a bride. Gradually the recalcitrant ribbons were being attached to the silk, following the design of tiny crosses inscribed the night before in pencil by Mrs Mark, but even when attached the fluttering loops gave so much purchase to the wind that hasty tacking, especially if it was the work of Dora, was often pulled undone again. James had suggested pushing the trolley into the stable yard where it would be more sheltered, but Mrs Mark, now thoroughly in a panic and expecting the Bishop to arrive at any moment, preferred to have it left where it was, well in view upon the terrace.

Dora, more than usually butter-fingered with anxiety, fumbled with a ribbon. She had already had to undo it once all the way up to the top because of having inadvertently got it twisted. The ribbon was becoming slightly grey in her perspiring hands. The letter for Toby was still in her pocket and she would have excused herself from Mrs Mark for a moment in order to deliver it if she could have found out where Toby was; but this, in the hurly-burly, no one seemed to know. There was no sign of the boy. Dora trusted that he would surely turn up for the baptism service; and trusted equally that Paul, immersed in his studies, forgetting the time, would not, or at least would be late. As Dora kept looking up from her work to watch for Toby and Mrs Mark kept looking up to watch for the Bishop, things went ahead pretty slowly.

As they worked Mrs Mark was talking to Dora. It did not take Dora long, little as she attended to what was being said, to realize that she was being got at. Mrs Mark, on her own account or put up to it by somebody, was set to deliver a series of admonitions, and after a rather indirect beginning was now becoming positively frank. At another time Dora would have been furious. At present, however, the heavy responsibilities of her vatic role sufficiently distracted her, and a consciousness of innocence lent her detachment. It was true that she had let Toby embrace her, but the embrace had been incidental to a larger enterprise; and the implied charge of having actually pursued the young man did little justice to Dora’s concern with higher matters. Virtuously indignant, Dora lent half an ear to Mrs Mark’s clumsy and rather arch attempts, to make a moral point.

“I hope you won’t mind my saying these things,” said Mrs Mark. “After all, it isn’t as if we were all just on holiday here. I know you aren’t used to this sort of atmosphere. But one must remember that little escapades which would be quite harmless in another place do matter here because, well, we do try to live a certain rather special sort of life, with certain special standards, you know. We live by rules ourselves and if our guests just don’t there’ll be chaos, won’t there? It stands to reason. I know this sounds awfully dull and sober – and I’m sure your London friends would think we were a very stuffy lot. But trying to live up to ideals does often make one look ridiculous. And what I mean is this, that an inexperienced person may be quite upset by a sort of companionate friendliness in a member of the other sex, if he isn’t used to that sort of thing. So we must be very careful, mustn’t we? Oh dear, am I being terribly solemn?”

“Here’s the Bishop!” said Dora, delighted to be able to terminate these rambling admonishments by the news that would throw Mrs Mark finally into a tizzy. A car had swung round out of the avenue and was to be seen speeding along the drive on the other side of the lake.

“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mrs Mark, not sure whether to go on tacking ribbons or to rush back to take a final glance at the refectory. She dithered in the doorway, took off her overall, threw it under a chair, and then hurried through to call up the stairs to James who didn’t appear to be there.

Dora stood by the bell, hands on hips, watching the car as it slowed down to cross the three bridges at the end of the lake. The car looked vaguely familiar. She supposed it was a common make. In the background she could hear Mrs Mark calling, and then moaning that just at the crucial moment everybody had disappeared. Dora watched the car serenely. She carried no responsibility for the success of the ensuing ceremonies, and indeed felt towards them much as Elijah must have felt when watching the efforts of the prophets of Baal.

The car was now coming towards them head on along the last section of the drive leading toward the house. Mrs Mark, still twittering, had emerged again onto the terrace. The car came up the slight slope towards them and stopped about thirty yards away. A figure got out. It was Noel Spens.

Dora’s hands dropped to her side. “Oh good Lord!”she said.

“It’s not the Bishop after all!” said Mrs Mark.

“No, it’s a friend of mine,” said Dora, “a journalist. Oh God.” She set off at a run towards Noel.

Noel stood beside the car, one hand on the roof, smiling as if he had just called to take Dora out to dinner. She reached him, slithering to a standstill on the gravel, abrupt and savage as a small bull.

“Go away!” said Dora. “Go away at once. Get into the car, for God’s sake, before someone sees you, and go. I can’t think what’s possessed you to come here. I told you not to come. You’ll ruin everything.”

“What a charming welcome,” said Noel. “Keep your hair on, darling. I’ve no intention of going. I’ve come to do a job of work. I’m going to do a feature on this bell business. Don’t you think it’s an amusing idea?”

“No, I don’t,” said Dora. “Noel, use yourmind. Paul’s here. If he sees you he’ll think I asked you, and he’ll make the most beastly scene. Please, darling, go away. You’ll only make awful trouble for me if you don’t.”

“Look, sweetie,” said Noel. “As you know, I usually behave with angelic tolerance where you’re concerned. You may even have got it into your head that old uncle Noel doesn’t mind what you do. You can just pop over to see him if you want to be consoled and pop off again when it suits you and he’ll always be there waiting for you with a gin and martini. Well, that isn’t altogether untrue; but somehow just lately I’ve found this role doesn’t suit me quite so well as it used to. I’ve always acknowledged responsibilities where you are concerned; perhaps I’ve got some rights too. As you know, I was damn glad to see you the other day; and I was more than somewhat peeved when you cleared off. I don’t usually yearn for what is not, I’m not the type. But I did feel I wanted to see you again soon – and I felt a little anxious about your curious state of mind. I thought those nuns might have been getting inside you. Then, oddly enough, my editor who knows the old Bishop who’s coming down to bless your bell, got wind of this business quite independently and asked me to come. So I felt that in the circumstances it would be positively frivolous not to!”

“Oh, to hell with all that,” said Dora. “The point is Paul”s here. Can’t you get it into your head? For Christ’s sake go away before he sees you.”

“I’m fed up with hearing about Paul,” said Noel.“Paul treats you disgustingly and you never really cared for him anyway. I think a little plain dealing with Paul wouldn’t be a bad idea. I’m not sure that I won’t give Paul a piece of my mind.”

“You can’t be serious!” moaned Dora, distracted.“You don’t know what he’s like. You’ve only seen him at parties. The Bishop will arrive any moment and then everyone will come and Paul will make a scene and I couldn’t bear it!”

“You’re a dreadful girl,” said Noel. “You placate Paul until you can’t stand it any longer and then you run away and then you get frightened and then you start placating him again. You must either knuckle under completely or else fight him. Quite apart from anything else, your present policy isn’t fair to Paul. You won’t really know whether you want to stay with him until you’ve fought him openly on equal terms, and not just by running away. And my guess is that once you start to fight you’ll know you can’t stay with Paul. And this is where I begin to get interested. You’re unreliable and untidy and ignorant and totally exasperating but somehow I’d like to see you around the place again.”

“Gosh, you aren’t falling in lave with me?”cried Dora, horrified.

“I don’t use that terminology,” said Noel, “so let’s just say that I miss you. It’s not out of sight out of mind any more, my girl.”

“Oh Lord!” said Dora. “Look, Noel, I just haven’t time for this just now. I’m terribly sorry, I do appreciate it and all that, and I know you’re serious and I will explain, but the fact is I’ve got a plan on just now, nothing to do with Paul, and if things blow up over you it’ll spoil it all – so do be an angel and go away. I will tell you all about it, only it’s so terribly complicated. Do go, Noel, before something happens.”

“Sorry Dora,” said Noel. “Just this once uncle Noel is going to do what he wants and not what youwant. Where shall I put my car? I suppose I’d better leave the way clear for the Bish’s Rolls Royce.”

“Now you”re bullying me!” said Dora, almost in tears.

“Well, really,” said Noel. “You call it bullying when I carry out my plan instead of yours. I almost sympathize with Paul. I think I’ll drive into this yard, it looks a suitable place.” He got into the car, switched the engine on, and began to crawl round and through the open doors of the stable yard.

Dora watched him, despairing. She knew from his manner that he was quite determined to stay. It was no use pleading any further. This being so she must take some other steps to avoid an explosion. As it was, Paul would certainly be wanting to quarrel with her all night. But her immediate concern was to prevent a scene of open violence. Her own rites were after all to be the climax of the ceremony, and although a certain amount of chaos and failure in the preliminaries would not displease her she didn’t want the thing to break down too badly; and in any case quite simply she feared the hideousness of Paul’s anger exposed to the public view. She turned back along the gravel. There was the bell and there was Mrs Mark still tacking down ribbons, only two or three of which still streamed like banners. Dora’s mind, attuned by brief practice to the exigencies of generalship, functioned. It was no good spending more time disputing with Noel. What time remained must be spent otherwise. How?

Dora’s first instinct was to rush straight to Paul and tell him herself before he found out in some other way. Perhaps she could break it to him gently, calm him down, explain. She began to run along the terrace, passing Mrs Mark who looked at her inquiringly and started to say something. But before she got to the steps she was vividly picturing the scene and had changed her mind. As soon as Paul knew that Noel was here he would be deaf to any further commentary from her. Incoherent with rage and jealousy he would charge straight past her. She could never control him. Who could? She ran back again, once more passing Mrs Mark, who once more looked at her inquiringly and started to say something, and began to ascend the steps to the balcony. Noel, who had emerged from the stable yard, came across and began to pursue her up the steps, calling, “Dora, can we fix somewhere to meet later on?” Dora paid no attention, rushed in through the hall and out into the corridor. She had decided to go and see Michael. It was just possible that Michael might make Paul see that, for the sake of the brotherhood, no public scene must be made on this day of all days.

Dora had never visited Michael’s office, but she knew roughly where it was. When she found the door she knocked and bounded in without further ceremony. Her entry was so rapid that she had time to witness a little of the previous scene before its participants realized it had come to an end. Michael was sitting in a chair, leaning well forward, his elbows on his knees, his two hands extended. Toby was sitting on the floor just in front of him, one leg curled under, the other crooked up at the knee. One hand clasped his raised leg while the other was in process of making some gesture in Michael’s direction. As Dora entered they both scrambled hastily to their feet.

“Oh hello, Toby,” said Dora, “that’s where you are, is it. I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Michael, but something awful has happened.”

Michael looked appalled. “What?” he said.

“Someone I used to know has turned up, a journalist, to write about the bell. But when Paul finds out he’s here he’ll tear the place up. You must go and tell him not to.” This seemed to state the case.

Michael looked relieved. Then he looked at Toby. Toby mumbled something about “Better be off now.” Dora began to say something to him but he went off without looking at her. Michael made to follow him, got as far as the door, and then came back looking confused and distracted. Dora was firm. Generalship was beginning to come to her. She said to Michael, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, no,” said Michael. “This man, this reporter is here now and you think Paul will make a jealous scene? Can’t you persuade him to go?”

“He won’t go,” said Dora, “and it’s no use your telling him to. What I want you to do is to prevent Paul from exploding. I’m going to tell Paul about it straight away.” She turned and set off again at a run. She could hear Michael’s footsteps following her. They clattered down the uncarpeted stairs and out through the hall.

On the terrace, Noel was talking to Mrs Mark. They stopped to stare at the spectacle of Michael and Dora.

Noel said, “Everyone seems to be in a terrible hurry today.”

Mrs Mark said, “Oh Michael, don’t go away, the Bishop will be here any moment!”

Michael who was down on the grass by now, ran back to reassure Mrs Mark. Dora kept on in the direction of the causeway. By the time she had reached the middle of the causeway and was almost out of breath she saw Paul emerge from the end door of the parlours. She started to wave to him frantically. As she neared the end of the causeway she saw a dark Rolls Royce coming slowly down the avenue from the Lodge gates.

Dora rushed up to Paul, who had quickened his pace when he saw her waving. She could see his frown from a long way off. “Noel is here!” she cried.

“Who?” said Paul.

“Noel Spens,” said Dora. “You know.”

Paul was tense and cool. “You say”, he said, “that Noel Spens is here. You yell this at me as if it were good news. He came to see you?”

“He came to report the bell business,” said Dora.“Paul darling, don’t get into a rage!”

“He came to see you,” said Paul. “You invited him?”

“Of course I didn’t invite him!” shouted Dora. “Do you think I’m mad? He just came to interview people for his paper.”

“Well, I’m going to interview him,” said Paul. “I’m going to give him an interview he won’t forget!” He began to walk quickly across the causeway.

Dora followed, still talking and trying to hold onto his arm. The causeway was not quite wide enough for two people to walk side by side when disputing. The bishop’s car could now be seen in the distance crossing the bridges at the far end of the lake. Paul began to run.

At the end of the causeway Dora, who had been outdistanced, made a spurt and caught him up. As she did so she could see Michael running towards them down the grass slope from the house. Dora seized hold of Paul’s hand violently and tried to pull him back, crying, “Paul, it’s not my fault, I didn’t want him to come! Don’t spoil everything for the others by being furious now!”

Paul turned on her. He detached her hand from his with the other hand, and said to her quietly but baring his teeth,“There are moments when I hate you!” Then he gave her a push which sent her flying back into the long grass.

Paul went on running. Michael converged on him, his arms spread out like someone who wants to prevent an animal from charging out of a field. Dora got up from where she had fallen in the grass, found her shoe which had come off, and began to run too in the direction to the terrace. The Bishop’s car was just approaching the house. She passed Michael and Paul who had now met and came to a standstill. They both seemed to be talking at once. Dora did not think they needed her assistance.

The Rolls Royce came onto the terrace with the dignified condescension of a very large car moving slowly. It stopped at the foot of the steps, quite near to the bell. Mrs Mark, who had after all been left to hold the fort alone, rushed forward. James appeared a moment later on the balcony and began to hurry down the steps, falling over his feet. Noel lounged out of the refectory, eating a bun. Dora arrived panting and had to double up immediately because of an agonizing stitch.

The Bishop, who had apparently been driving himself, got slowly out of the car with the affable leisureliness of the great personage who knows that whenever and wherever he arrives he is immediately the centre of the scene. He was a big portly man with frizzy hair and rimless glasses, dressed in a plain black cassock and purple stock. His large fleshy face turned slowly, glowing with friendliness. He pulled a stick out of the car on which he leaned lightly while shaking hands with Mrs Mark, James, and Noel, and then with Dora, whom he was anxious not to exclude although she was hovering uncertainly in the background. Dora decided he took her for one of the maids.

“Well, here I am!” said the Bishop. “I hope I’m not late? My charming chauffeur has abandoned me – a lady, I hasten to say, and also my secretary. The exigencies of motherhood called her to a higher task. She has three children to look after, that is not counting myself! So at much wear and tear to my own nerves and those of my fellow motorists I have driven myself to Imber!”

“We’re so glad you’ve managed to come, sir,” said James, beaming. “We know how busy you are. It means a lot to us to have you at our little ceremony.”

“Well, I think it’s all most exciting,” said the Bishop. “And is this exhibit A?” He pointed with his stick to the white ribbony mound of the bell.

“Yes,” said Mrs Mark, blushing with excitement. “We just thought we’d deck it up a little.”

“Very pretty too,” said the Bishop. “You are Mrs Strafford I believe? And you are Mr Meade?” he said to James. “I’ve heard so much about you from the Abbess, bless her.”

“Oh no,” said James. “I’m James Tayper Pace.”

“Ah!” said the Bishop. “You are the man who is so sorely missed in Stepney! I was there only a few weeks ago at the opening of a new youth centre, and your name was often taken in vain. Or rather, not in vain. What an absurd expression that is, to be sure! Your name was mentioned, most fruitfully I’ve no doubt, and with positively devout enthusiasm!”

It was James’s turn to blush. He said, “We ought to have introduced ourselves. I’m afraid we make you a very poor reception committee, sir. This is indeed Mrs Strafford. This is Mrs Greenfield. Michael Meade is just coming across the grass with Dr Greenfield. And I’m afraid I don’t know this gentleman.”

“Noel Spens, from the office of the Daily Record,” said Noel. “I’m afraid I’m what they call a reporter.”

“Why, splendid!” said the Bishop. “I hoped some gentlemen of the press might be present. Did you say the Daily Record? You must excuse me, I’m such a deaf old codger now, practically incommunicado on this side. May I ask if you were put on my track by my old crony Holroyd? I believe he now edits your distinguished rag.”

“That’s correct,” said Noel. “Mr Holroyd got wind of this picturesque ceremony and sent me along. He sends you his greetings, sir.”

“An excellent fellow,” said the Bishop, “in the best traditions of British journalism. I have always thought the Church was foolish to shun publicity. What we need is more publicity, of the right kind, of course. Perhaps I may say of this kind. What’s that? No, I won’t eat anything now, thank you. I’ll just have the good old English cup of tea, if I may. Since my trip to America I value it more than ever. Then we might proceed perhaps to our little service, if the clans have mustered? And have the feasting afterwards. I see a board or two groaning with goodies in there.”

Michael and Paul had stopped again, just below the steps to the terrace, still talking. They began to walk back towards the causeway. Mrs Mark watched them with a look of despair, Dora with one of appalled apprehension. The Bishop was given a cup of tea. Noel chatted to him affably about members of the Athenaeum known to both of them. James stood beside them, smiling and rather shy. Father Bob Joyce, bearing with undignified haste what later turned out to be a stoup of holy water, placed it upon the table, and fussed round the bell, waving to the great man with the distant familiarity of one of the elect determined to let lesser men have their chance to be presented. Mrs Mark made little dashes into the refectory, keeping one eye on Michael, and keeping up an agitated discussion with Father Bob. Peter Topglass arrived with his camera, and joined the conversation with the Bishop, with whom it appeared he was already acquainted. Dora stood gloomily picking at one of the white ribbons on the bell. Her nervous plucking undid the tacking threads and the ribbon streamed out in the wind, which had not abated. Toby emerged, looking sulky, from the stable yard and was seized by Mrs Mark and introduced. James asked Mrs Mark for a cup of tea and was told in a whisper that they had better not start using the cups now as there were only just enough to go round once and no time to wash them up after the service. Patchway appeared and started complaining to James about the depredations of the pigeons until called to order by Mrs Mark and told to remove his hat. Catherine came down the steps from the house. She was wearing one of her London dresses and seemed to have taken some trouble with her appearance. A neat tight bun was fixed high at the back of her head and the curly locks which usually straggled over her brow had been cut short. Her face now seemed abnormally long and pale, and her smile, when she was presented to the Bishop, though sweet, was brief. She stepped quickly back and leaned against the balustrade, seeming to fall into a reverie, forgetting where she was.

“Well, dear friends,” said the Bishop, “perhaps we could begin our little baptism ceremony. I gather you approved of my suggestions about the order of the service. I’m glad you didn’t think I was being too archaic and popish! I think we might end with psalm a hundred and fifty, by the way. And I propose to leave out the Collect. I must say, I don’t trust this sky not to pepper us with hailstones at any moment – so let us proceed at once. As my unfortunate congregation will have to kneel I suggest we descend from the gravel to the grass. I’m afraid my leech has prohibited genuflexion for me TFO, as we used to say in the army. Might I ask which of you are going to act as sponsors, or shall I say godparents, to the bell?”

“That will be Michael and Catherine,” said Mrs Mark.“Please excuse me one moment and I’ll fetch Michael.” She ran down the steps from the terrace.

Michael and Paul, still deep in conversation, were now walking back again from the causeway. Dora watched them anxiously. She avoided looking at Noel who was trying to catch her eye. They all descended the steps and stood about on the slope rhat led down to the ferry.

Mrs Mark was coming back with Michael and Paul. Dora disposed herself on the other side of the group from where Noel was standing. Michael was brought forward and could be heard apologizing to the Bishop. Catherine was ushered to the front. Mrs Mark was hastily attaching two very long extra ribbons to the bell. Then she hurried down and stood near Dora. Paul came up to Dora, looked her savagely in the eyes, his face screwed up to a point of suppressed fury, and then stood beside her, staring straight in front of him. The company disposed itself in two straggling rows with Michael and Catherine standing alone in front like a bridal pair. The Bishop mounted to the terrace. He took in one hand the two long ribbons which led to the bell. In the other he held an object, unfamiliar to Dora, which he dipped into the stoup of holy water. At a signal from Father Bob, the voices of James, Catherine, and the Straffords joined in the chant. Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo et mundabor. Lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor. The Bishop began to cast the holy water onto the bell, making long dark streaks upon its white dress.

Dora observed with horror that Noel had come across and had somehow got himself next to her on her other side. She dared not look at Paul. She gazed glassily ahead, aware of the bell high above them on the terrace, its tent-like canopy audibly flapping. The sun came and went on the grass like a signal flash, and the wind tore at the Bishop’s cassock, revealing a pair of smart black trousers beneath. The chant was ended, and the Bishop leaned forward to address Michael and Catherine. He said, “What name do you desire to put upon this bell?”

After a pause, in a high and nervous voice, Catherine replied, “Gabriel”.

The Bishop descended two steps and gave the ends of the white ribbons, one each, to Michael and Catherine to hold. Then he said, still speaking to them, “Let as remember that the voice of Christ calls us at times to forsake earthly cares to sit at His feet and learn of higher things. Let this sign be consecrated and sanctified in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, Amen.” He ascended the steps again and faced his small congregation. “The name of this bell is Gabriel. Now let us pray.”Everyone knelt down on the grass.

Paul reached out and took Dora’s hand. He held it close, masterfully, pressing it without tenderness. Dora suffered this pressure for a while. Then it began to be hateful to her. She tried quietly to withdraw her hand. Paul held on. She began to pull. Paul gripped harder and twisted her wrist. Dora began to shake. A fou rire had got hold of her. She pressed her lips together so as not to laugh aloud. The Bishop’s voice droned on. Tears of suppressed half hysterical mirth began to course from her eyes. With her other hand she reached into her pocket and pulled out her handkerchief.

With the handkerchief there fluttered out onto the grass the plain envelope containing the note to Toby. Dora saw it, was paralysed with horror, but could not stop laughing. She let go of her handkerchief which was immediately carried away by the wind. Paul, looking grimly ahead and still twisting her wrist, had not seen the envelope. With her free hand Dora spread out her skirt and petticoat to cover it. Then questing beneath them she tried to pick the envelope up to convey it back to her pocket. Her hand, involved in the fluttering folds of her petticoat, encountered another hand. It was Noel’s. Noel’s hand reached the envelope first and quietly removed it. For a moment, his face serenely lifted towards the Bishop, he held it at his side. Then he transferred it to his pocket.

Paul still stared ahead, oblivious. The rest of the community seemed to have their eyes closed. The Bishop with unfaltering voice looked down benignly, observing the byplay with the letter. He had seen odder things. Dora rearranged her skirt and clapped her hand over her mouth. It began to rain.