There were other things too which Henry only half-understood but which he disliked even more. He knew for instance that Ashfair’s rooms often had an odd look, but he did not see that this was because the mirrors in Strange’s house were as likely as not to be reflecting the light of half an hour ago, or a hundred years ago. And in the morning, when he awoke, and at night, just before he fell asleep, he heard the sound of a distant bell – a sad sound, like the bell of a drowned city heard across a waste of ocean. He never really thought of the bell, or indeed remembered any thing about it, but its melancholy influence stayed with him through the day.

He found relief for all his various disappointments and dissatisfactions in drawing numerous comparisons between the way things were done in Great Hitherden and the way they were done in Shropshire (much to the detriment of Shropshire), and in wondering aloud that Strange should study so hard – “quite as if he had no estate of his own and all his fortune was still to make.” These remarks were generally addressed to Arabella, but Strange was often in earshot and pretty soon Arabella found herself in the unenviable position of trying to keep the peace between the two of them.

“When I want Henry’s advice,” said Strange, “I shall ask for it. What business is it of his, I should like to know, where I chuse to build my stables? Or how I spend my time?”

“It is very aggravating, my love,” agreed Arabella, “and no one should wonder if it put you out of temper, but only consider …”

“My temper! It is he who keeps quarrelling with me!”

“Hush! Hush! He will hear you. You have been very sorely tried and any one would say that you have borne it like an angel. But, you know, I think he means to be kind. It is just that he does not express himself very well, and for all his faults we shall miss him greatly when he is gone.”

Upon this last point Strange did not perhaps look as convinced as she could have wished. So she added, “Be kind to Henry? For my sake?”

“Of course! Of course! I am patience itself. You know that! There used to be a proverb – quite defunct now – something about priests sowing wheat and magicians sowing rye, all in the same field. The meaning is that priests and magicians will never agree.4 I never found it so until now. I believe I was on friendly terms with the London clergy. The Dean of Westminster Abbey and the Prince Regent’s chaplain are excellent fellows. But Henry irks me.”