“Mr. Dorward is saying Mass,” he told her, and poor Miss Hatchett must pretend with a forced smile that her blank look had been caused by the prospect of being deprived of Mass when really. . . .

But Mark was not paying any more attention to Miss Hatchett.  He was standing under the bell, gazing up at the long rope and wondering what manner of sound he should evoke.  He took a breath and pulled; the rope quivered with such an effect of life that he recoiled from the new force he had conjured into being, afraid of his handiwork, timid of the clamour that would resound.  No louder noise ensued than might have been given forth by a can kicked into the gutter.  Mark pulled again more strongly, and the bell began to chime, irregularly at first with alternations of sonorous and feeble note; at last, however, when the rhythm was established with such command and such insistence that the ringer, looking over his shoulder to the south door, half expected to see a stream of perturbed Christians hurrying to obey its summons.  But there was only poor Miss Hatchett sitting in the porch and fanning herself with a handkerchief.

Mark went on ringing. . . .

Clang—­clang—­clang!  All the holy Virgins were waving their palms.  Clang—­clang—­clang!  All the blessed Doctors and Confessors were twanging their harps to the clanging.  Clang—­clang—­clang!  All the holy Saints and Martyrs were tossing their haloes in the air as schoolboys toss their caps.  Clang—­clang—­clang!  Angels, Archangels, and Principalities with faces that shone like brass and with forms that quivered like flames thronged the noise.  Clang—­clang—­clang!  Virtues, Powers, and Dominations bade the morning stars sing to the ringing.  Clang—­clang—­clang!  The ringing reached up to the green-winged Thrones who sustain the seat of the Most High.  Clang—­clang—­clang!  The azure Cherubs heard the bells within their contemplation:  the scarlet Seraphs felt them within their love.  Clang—­clang—­clang!  The lidless Eye of God looked down, and Miss Hatchett supposing it to be the sun crossed over to the other side of the porch.

Clang—­clang—­clang—­clang—­clang—­clang—­clang—­clang. . . .

“Hasn’t Dorward come in yet?  It’s five past eight already.  Go on ringing for a little while.  I’ll go and see how long he’ll be.”

Mark in the absorption of ringing the bell had not noticed the Vicar’s approach, and he was gone again before he remembered that he wanted to borrow a cassock and a cotta.  Had he been rude?  Would Mr. Ogilvie think it cheek to ring the bell without asking his permission first?  But before these unanswered questions had had time to spoil the rhythm of his ringing, the Vicar came back with Mr. Dorward, and the congregation, that is to say Miss Hatchett and Miss Ogilvie, was already kneeling in its place.