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.‘It is many years since I read it.’ It would indeed be an ominous sign if she felt drawn to it at her time of life, she felt.‘What a fine poem Young’s Night Thoughts is,’ said the Bishop.‘I have been reading it every night myself.I have a most interesting collection of books in my room,’ he went on.‘There is an Icelandic grammar among them and I have been comparing that language with the Mbawawa.’‘But do you find any similarity?’ asked Agatha doubtfully.‘Oh, none whatever,’ said the Bishop almost gaily, ‘but it is a fascinating study, fascinating …’ his voice trailed off on a bleating note.‘I am surprised and gratified that you find the books interesting,’ said the Archdeacon.‘I made the selection myself, but I had no idea of your tastes.’The evening ended with a song from the curate.Harriet, who accompanied him, was anxious that he should try an Elizabethan love song, and after a rather faltering beginning he sang quite charmingly, Belinda thought, but without much conviction.Love is a fancie,Love is a frenzie,Let not a toy then breed thee such annoy …Perhaps there was no frenzy in his feeling for Miss Berridge, and love was hardly a toy.Surely Count Bianco’s affection for Harriet could not be so described, or Belinda’s for the Archdeacon? And yet tonight she had the feeling that there might be some truth in what the poet said.It was excellent advice to those of riper years, especially when the imagination became too active.That intimate note in the Bishop’s voice, for example, and the way he had seemed to look at her during the reading of the poem.It might just as easily have been Connie Aspinall he was looking at.Belinda had been forced to mention the fact that the chrysanthemums he had sent her were still lasting very well.She almost wished that they might die, and noticed with relief when she got home that some of the foliage was tinged with brown.Suddenly she took them out of their vase and, although it was dark, went out with them to the dustbin.They were dead really and one did not like to feel that flowers from the wrong person might be everlasting.CHAPTER NINETEEN‘I must go and see Ricardo,’ declared Belinda, one morning early in the New Year.‘Edith tells me that he has a slight attack of gout which keeps him in the house.It’s rather difficult to know what to take him, though.’‘Yes, you have to be very careful with gout,’ said Harriet.‘No beef or strawberries or port wine.Do you think I ought to go as well?’‘That would certainly do him more good than anything, but you mustn’t come with me.I’m sure he’d prefer to see you alone.’‘Yes, I really will go,’ said Harriet.‘You may tell him to expect me,’ she added graciously.Now that Harriet’s plans about the Bishop were clearly not likely to come to anything, Belinda was determined to bring Count Bianco and her sister together as much as possible.She felt this to be her duty, and although she was not particularly anxious that Harriet should marry and leave her alone, she thought that if a marriage had been arranged in heaven she would prefer Ricardo to be the happy man.He was devoted to Harriet and they had many tastes in common: he came of an ancient Italian family and was very comfortable financially.The only thing that might possibly be against him was that he was not in the Church, but even this was not as great a drawback as might at first appear, for would there not always be tender curates in need of sympathetic attention and perfectly baked cakes?So Belinda reasoned within herself as she walked up the drive to Ricardo’s house.She walked slowly, for she was thinking rather sentimentally of how Ricardo had loved her sister well and faithfully for many years.Surely he deserved some reward for his constancy? She herself had loved the Archdeacon even longer, but naturally there was no hope of any reward for her now, at least not in this world, she reflected piously, and we are given to understand that we shall be purged of all earthly passions in that other life.The Count was in and would be delighted to see her.Belinda had been careful to announce herself as Miss Belinda Bede, with special emphasis on the Christian name, for she did not want Ricardo to expect Harriet and then be disappointed.He was in the library, reading a little here and there in his many books.His gouty foot was bound up and rested on a low stool.Beside him on a little table was a pile of letters, which Belinda guessed to be those of his friend, the late John Akenside.There was also a Serbo-Croatian dictionary and the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson.The Count greeted Belinda with a sad smile.‘It is indeed kind of you to call,’ he said, attempting to get up, but Belinda put her hand on his arm and said how sorry she had been to hear about his gout.‘It is an inconvenience,’ he said, ‘but I am accustomed to it.’Touched by his patience and resignation, Belinda wondered how she could show her sympathy.She found it a little difficult to make conversation with Ricardo at the best of times, and could do no more than touch on various matters of general interest.It was inevitable that they should find themselves talking about the Bishop, who showed no signs of moving from the vicarage, where he had now been for nearly two months.‘I hear that he is to be married soon,’ said Ricardo, in a calm, patient tone.‘Oh, surely not!’ exclaimed Belinda, wondering how it was possible that Ricardo should come out with a piece of news that she and Harriet knew nothing of.‘We haven’t heard anything, and I can’t really imagine that anybody would want to marry him.’‘I heard that your sister was to marry him,’ said Ricardo pathetically.Belinda now laughed aloud for joy, all the more because it might so nearly have happened.In fact, she told herself soberly, there was still time; but she could at least reassure Ricardo.‘It certainly isn’t true at the moment,’ she said, ‘and I think it most unlikely that it ever will be.Wherever did you hear such a thing?’Ricardo could not remember exactly; perhaps his manservant had heard it somewhere, or it may have been the Archdeacon who had told him when he called a few days ago.Yes, he was sure now that it must have been the Archdeacon.He had seemed quite certain that he was not misinformed.The wicked liar, thought Belinda angrily.An archdeacon making mischief and spreading false rumours, that was what it amounted to.Although, she told herself hastily, it was possible that Ricardo had misunderstood him, had read too much into a hint or taken a joke too seriously.‘There is no truth in it whatever,’ she declared positively, hoping as she did so that the Bishop was not at this moment in their drawing-room asking Harriet to be his wife.‘Harriet does not really care for him at all,’ she went on boldly.Ricardo smiled and looked almost happy, but then his face clouded as he asked if the Bishop were still at the vicarage?‘Yes, he is still there,’ said Belinda, ‘but I do not think he will stay much longer.He will have to be getting back to his diocese.’‘Then there is still time,’ said Ricardo despondently.‘Even now he may be asking her.’Belinda shifted uneasily in her chair.Of course one never knew for certain what Harriet might be up to, or the Bishop, for that matter.She was grateful when Ricardo’s manservant appeared with sherry and biscuits on a silver tray.‘Have you been working on the letters this morning?’ she asked, indicating the pile on the table.‘Yes, I have been reading them before you came
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