The Henson Journals

[10]

Wednesday, June 2nd, 1920.

A fine morning. I reflected sadly as I looked out over the garden from my dressing–room, that in a few weeks, perhaps four at the most, I must leave this house for ever. It will not be without a very genuine regret. There is a strange sense of unreality, almost of insincerity, about everything that I do or say while the secret of my impending departure remains locked in my breast. This afternoon I felt a woeful imposter in pressing on the gathering of farmers their duty to support the Hospital. The notion of giving a garden–party to the farmers & their wives was suggested by the Hospital authorities, and was on the whole well taken up. Sixty or seventy farmers accepted the invitation, & I harangued them in the garden.

Then I took Ella in the motor, & we went as far as Bridstow just in order to see more of the glorious beauty of the country, which stretches in a grand panorama from the road to Ross. K. was out in the parish, but we saw his wife. I did not think it well to reveal my secret to her, though to him I was prepared to make it known. These waiting days between the decision and its official announcement are enormously trying. For one is bound to silence, & yet the course of one's life is continually raising questions which cannot really be answered on the supposition which one's silence suggests. How can I make arrangements, appoint to livings, determine this or that issue in the diocese, when I know that I have no real title to do any of these things? My successor will hardly thank me for anticipating decisions which he ought to take, since he must face their consequences!

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