Some Tame Gazelle (12 page)

‘Oh, yes, I can believe that,’ said Edith Liversidge, ‘John liked his glass of wine.’

‘But surely the intrigues of Balkan politics can hardly be compared with the true knowledge that comes from within?’ Dr Parnell protested. ‘I hardly think it is the same thing.’

Belinda too, thought Ricardo’s remarks hardly relevant, but one could not argue the point. Perhaps it was a mistake to have any kind of serious conversation when eating, or even anywhere at all in mixed company. Men took themselves so seriously and seemed to insist on arguing even the most trivial points. So, at the risk of seeming frivolous, she turned the conversation to something lighter.

‘I can never think of Belgrade without thinking of the public baths,’ she said.

Mr Mold looked across the table expectantly. Perhaps this would be more amusing than the knowledge that comes from within.

‘Why does it remind you of public baths?’ said the Archdeacon. ‘It seems most unlikely.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Belinda, who hadn’t really a story to tell, ‘I once heard somebody describing them and I thought it was rather funny. A lot of old men all swimming about in a pool of hot water,’ she concluded weakly, hoping that somebody would laugh.

Most of them did, especially the Archdeacon, who seemed to be in a good temper again.

‘I never heard of there being any hot springs in Belgrade,’ said Ricardo seriously.

‘Oh, I expect the water was artificially heated,’ explained the curate, turning earnestly to Belinda for further information on this interesting point.

Belinda felt rather flustered at the interest which everyone was taking in her silly little story. ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘I’ve never been to Belgrade myself, and even if I had I don’t suppose I should have visited the public baths.’

‘Not the ones with the old men in them, we hope,’ said Mr Mold, with almost a wink.

Belinda was rather taken aback. She didn’t think she liked Mr Mold very much. Of course one didn’t want to be snobbish, but it really was true that low origin always betrayed itself somewhere.

‘Oh, Belinda never remembers where she’s been,’ said Harriet, hardly improving the situation. ‘Now, Mr Mold, do have some more trifle,’ she said, favouring him with a brilliant smile.

‘Perhaps I may have some too,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘It really is delicious. I don’t know when I’ve tasted anything so good.’

But Belinda hardly noticed his praise. She was thinking indignantly that Nicholas had always encouraged Mr Mold too much as a boy, although one would have thought that moving in a cultured intellectual society would have cured him of any tendency to make jokes not quite in the best of taste. And yet, she thought doubtfully, the Library, great though it was, did not always attract to it cultured and intellectual persons. Nicholas himself, obsessed with central heating and conveniences, was perhaps not the best influence for a weak character like Mr Mold. Belinda began to wish that she were in Karlsbad with dear Agatha, helping her to get cured of her rheumatism. She imagined herself in the pump-room, if there was one, drinking unpleasant but salutary waters, and making conversation with elderly people. Perhaps taking a gentle walk in the cool of the evening with an old clergyman or a retired general…

All around her the conversation buzzed pleasantly. Mr Mold’s little lapse was quite forgotten, if indeed it had ever been noticed by anyone except Belinda. Harriet was asking Ricardo if it was true that the fleas on the Lido were so wonderful. She had heard that they bounced balls and drew little golden carriages.

‘Indeed, they are,’ said Ricardo gravely. ‘I have seen them myself.’

The curate leaned forward eagerly. ‘It is wonderful what things animals and even insects can be made to do if they are trained with kindness,’ he said, his face aglow with interest.

Everyone agreed with this very just remark. Dr Parnell even went so far as to observe that it was also true of people.

‘I should love to go to Venice,’ said Belinda. ‘I think there is something very special about Italy. It is so rich in literary associations.’

‘Ah …’ Ricardo put down his spoon and was obviously on the point of bursting into a flow of Dante, but the Archdeacon was too quick for him and got in first with Byron.

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs

A palace and a prison on each hand:

he quoted, and remarked that he had thought of visiting Italy in the spring, but that of course it was almost impossible for him to take a holiday however much he might need it.

‘Oh, but I don’t see why you shouldn’t,’ said Harriet, loudly and tactlessly. ‘It isn’t as if you had a frightful lot to do, and I’m sure Mr Donne could manage perfectly well when you were away.’

There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘You know, you really should take a holiday,’ said Edith Liversidge. ‘A change does everyone good. Everyone would benefit.’

‘You would feel you were doing good to others as well as yourself,’ said Dr Parnell, ‘so you would have a double satisfaction.’

‘I doubt whether I could allow myself that luxury,’ said the Archdeacon quite good humouredly. ‘Of course a change can sometimes be a good thing. I have often wondered whether I ought to have a town parish. There is more scope for preaching.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Connie Aspinall broke in eagerly. ‘I remember when Canon Kendrick was rector of St Ermin’s there wasn’t a vacant seat at Evensong – you had to be there half an hour before it started. He said some very shocking things.’

‘Well, of course people like that,’ said Dr Parnell. ‘Kendrick was a contemporary of mine. He got a very poor degree, I believe, but he found out what his line was and made a success of it.’

‘What a cynical way to talk,’ said Harriet indignantly. ‘He was probably a very sincere man.’

‘Oh, he was,’ said Connie, ‘but I suppose he thought it his duty to say those things, unpleasant though they were.’

‘Yes, there is evil even in Belgravia,’ said Dr Parnell.

‘There is evil everywhere,’ said the curate.

Belinda looked around her uncomfortably as if expecting to find the devil sitting at the table, but by the time they were drinking their coffee in the drawing-room that solemn subject had somehow been forgotten and Ricardo, talking about the picturesque costume of the ancient Etruscans, was the centre of the little group. Belinda marvelled at the way conversation rushed from one subject to another with such bewildering speed, but decided that this was one which could give offence to nobody and was therefore to be encouraged. So she appeared interested although she knew nothing whatever about the ancient Etruscans. It was hardly the kind of thing one would know about, unless one had had the advantage of a classical education, as Nicholas and Ricardo had.

‘Was their dress anything like that of the Germanic tribes?’ she asked. ‘I mean the ones Tacitus described in his
Germania
,’ she added vaguely, for it was a long time since she had taken her first University examination in which it had been one of the set books.

Ricardo paused and looked thoughtful, but before he had time to answer, Harriet let out a cry of joy, as if she had suddenly come upon something which she had long ago given up for lost.

Locupletissimi veste distinguuntur, non fluitante …

she paused appealingly, and waved her plump hands about, searching for the rest of the quotation. While she did so, Belinda and Dr Parnell began to laugh, the curate and Miss Aspinall looked amazed and expectant, while the Archdeacon smiled a little doubtfully, for he was not a very good Latinist, nor had he known his Tacitus very well as an undergraduate. Mr Mold looked frankly bored, although he could not help thinking that Harriet looked very attractive, waving her hands about in the air.

Ricardo was frowning, but only for a moment. How terrible it would be if he were to fail her! He cleared his throat…

non fluitante sed stricto et singulos artus exprimente,

he recited.

Really, reflected Belinda, Ricardo’s faculty for quoting Tacitus is quite frightening!

‘I suppose
veste
means vest,’ said the curate earnestly, with an expression of painful intelligence on his face.

‘Hardly in the modern sense, perhaps,’ said Ricardo thoughtfully, ‘although it was a tight-fitting garment, as you hear from the description.’

‘More like men’s long pants,’ said Edith Liversidge bluntly. ‘They must have looked rather comic.’

‘Yes, it is strange that the rich men should have been distinguished by the wearing of underclothes,’ said Belinda thinking that the conversation was getting more than usually silly. She was herself smiling, as she could not help thinking of the curate’s combinations. It was a good thing, she felt, when Ricardo suggested that Harriet might honour them by playing something on the piano.

‘How very talented your sister must be,’ said Mr Mold, who was sitting on the sofa by Belinda. ‘She would be an asset to any household,’ he declared pompously.

Belinda tried to think of something to say which would put him off, but could think of nothing without being disloyal to her sister. Certainly she looked very splendid sitting at the piano; it was not surprising that he should admire her.

The first chords of
The Harmonious Blacksmith
jangled forth. Belinda wondered why Harriet had chosen this particular piece, and began to be a little anxious about the later variations, which she knew were rather tricky. But Harriet avoided this difficulty by playing only the first two variations.

‘I don’t want to bore you with the whole lot,’ she said, and broke into a gay Chopin mazurka.

There was now an atmosphere of peace and contentment in the room. Everyone had eaten well, there was a good fire and comfortable chairs. The Archdeacon, in the best chair, was nodding now. Miss Aspinall had found a polite listener in the curate, who was asking her just the kind of questions she liked about the past glories of her life in Belgrave Square. Dr Parnell and Miss Liversidge were talking, but in a low voice, about the ‘improvements’ in the Library and what further ones could conveniently be made. Ricardo and Mr Mold were both admiring Harriet and vying for her attention. Only Belinda was unoccupied, but she was quite happy in the knowledge that the party had really been quite successful. Of course, if the Archdeacon had not been asleep, she could have had some conversation with him, but it was nice to know that he felt really at home, and she would not for the world have had him any different.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The next day Harriet could talk of nothing but Mr Mold. At breakfast she declared that he was remarkably young-looking for his age.

‘I suppose he must be in the early fifties, but that’s really the Prime of Life, isn’t it?’ she said to Belinda, who had not so far contributed anything to her sister’s eulogy apart from the observation that he certainly had rather a high colour. Harriet repeated ‘the Prime of Life’, and went on eating her sausage.

‘Yes, I suppose he is,’ agreed Belinda, but rather doubtfully, for she was not really sure what the Prime of Life was. She had always thought that her own prime was twenty-five, so that by her reckoning Mr Mold must be nearly thirty years past it. ‘Personally he isn’t a type that appeals to me very much,’ she added, remembering the joke about the public baths in Belgrade.

‘Oh, I know he isn’t always quoting Gray’s
Elegy
,’ said Harriet pointedly, ‘but he’s so amusing, such a Man of the World,’ she added naively. ‘I wonder how long he will be staying?’

‘I expect he will have to get back to the Library soon,’ said Belinda. ‘Old Mr Lydgate is in charge now, but I should think he is hardly up to the work really, though,’ she added irrelevantly, ‘he had some very interesting experiences in Ethopia.’

With that she went upstairs, thinking that it would really be a good thing when both the Librarian and Mr Mold went back. Although it was nice seeing different people, especially if they were old friends as dear Nicholas was, Belinda found it rather unsettling. The effort of trying to talk to so many people last night and keep them at peace with each other had quite exhausted her. But there was some satisfaction mixed with her tiredness, for she felt it had been quite a successful party. Edith and Connie had obviously enjoyed both the food and the company, and as inviting them had been something in the nature of a duty, one could feel special satisfaction there. Nicholas and Edith had had a very full conversation about conveniences and he had invited her to come for a personally conducted tour of the Library, where her advice on certain points would be much valued. The curate, Count Bianco and Mr Mold had seemed quite happy, though perhaps the word was scarcely applicable to the Count, who preferred his gentle state of melancholy which must have been enriched by Harriet’s attentions to Mr Mold and the curate. Belinda’s only fear was that the Archdeacon had been bored, though she had decided that his going to sleep showed rather that he felt at home in her house and she was determined to go on thinking so. As she dusted her dressing-table, she broke into Addison’s noble hymn,
The spacious firmament on high
.

In Reason’s ear they all rejoice
… How admirable that was! Belinda began to think rather confusedly about the eighteenth century, and what in her undergraduate essays she had called its ‘Rationalism’. Had not her favourite, Young, said something about his heart becoming the convert of his head? How useful that must have been! Belinda began to look back on her own life and came to the regretful conclusion that she had admired the great eighteenth-century poet without really taking his advice. She comforted herself by reflecting that it was now too late to do anything about it, but as she opened a drawer she came upon some skeins of grey wool, the wool she had bought to knit the Archdeacon a pullover. She knew now that she would never do it. She would make a jumper for herself, safe, dull and rather too thick. Surely this was proof that her heart had now become the convert of her head? Or was it just fear of Agatha?

She shut the drawer and turned her attention to other work, preparing to live this day as if her last. As it was a nice bright morning, she felt that it would be a good opportunity to do some gardening, and later, if she had time, she might write a letter to poor Agatha, who was probably feeling rather lonely all by herself in Karlsbad. It was quite a luxury to be able to think of her as ‘poor Agatha’; it showed that absence could do more than just make the heart grow fonder.

Belinda went downstairs and put on her galoshes and an old mackintosh. She decided to put some bulbs in the beds in the front garden and then move round to the back. If people came to the door it was more likely that they would come later, and by then she would be out of sight. She began to plant tulip bulbs in between the wall-flower plants. They would make a pretty show in the late spring. She noticed how splendidly the aubretias had done; they were spreading so much that they would soon have to be divided. Belinda remembered when she had put them in as little cuttings. They had had a particularly hard winter that year, so that she had been afraid the frost would kill them. But they had all lived and flourished. How wonderful it was, when one came to think of it, what a lot of hardships plants could stand! And people too. Here Belinda realised how well her own heart, broken at twenty-five, had mended with the passing of the years. Perhaps the slave had grown to love its chains, or whatever it was that the dear Earl of Rochester had said on that subject. Belinda was sure that our greater English poets had written much about unhappy lovers
not
dying of grief, although it was of course more romantic when they did. But there was always hope springing eternal in the human breast, which kept one alive, often unhappily … it would be an interesting subject on which to read a paper to the Literary Society, which the Archdeacon was always threatening to start in the village. Belinda began to collect material in her mind and then imagined the typical audience of clergy and female church workers, most of them unmarried. Perhaps after all it would hardly be suitable. She must consider, too, what was fitting to her
own
years and position.

By this time she had planted most of the bulbs, and her back was aching. She stood up to rest herself, and looked idly over the wall. The road was deserted and there was no sign of life at the vicarage, but of course it was barely half past ten, and in the village the best people did not appear till later, when they would start out to do their shopping or to meet a friend at the Old Refectory for coffee. Belinda leaned her arms on the wall, apparently lost in thought. It did not occur to her that she would look odd to anyone passing by. Absent-mindedly she scraped the moss off the wall with a trowel. She would rest for a few minutes and then put some scyllas in the rockery. It was nice to think that she had the whole morning before her. She must go into the cellar and see if the bulbs she had planted in bowls were showing any shoots yet. It would be fatal if they were left in the darkness too long…

She looked up from the moss and glanced in the direction of the vicarage, to see if anything had happened since she last looked. In the next instant she knew that a great deal had happened. Mr Mold had come out of the gate and was walking rapidly towards her.

He must be coming
here
, thought Belinda, in a flurry of agitation. For some seconds she wondered whether she ought to go and warn Harriet, but even now she could hear his step on the pavement. How quickly he walked! It would be as much as Belinda could do to hide herself before he came through the gate and walked up the drive.

She looked around frantically. There was no time to run back to the house, as he would see her, and even if he did not recognize her in her gardening clothes it would look so conspicuous. So Belinda concealed herself as best she could behind a large rhododendron bush, which grew on one side of the little drive leading up to the front door. She was fully aware how foolish she would feel if she were discovered in this undignified crouching position, but she could not imagine that Mr Mold would take the trouble to penetrate the thickness of the bush before he rang the bell and announced himself. She wished he would hurry, for it was very uncomfortable behind the bush and rather dirty. Also, Belinda felt like laughing and it would indeed be terrible if Mr Mold were startled on the doorstep by a sudden burst of laughter coming out of a bush.

The crunching of the gravel told Belinda that her ordeal was nearly over. From her hiding-place she could observe him quite well, and she noticed that he looked unusually smart. He seemed to be dressed all in grey and carried very new gloves and a walking-stick. Belinda could not see whether he had a flower in his buttonhole or not, but she thought it was not unlikely.

When he was safely in the house, Belinda took the opportunity to run as fast as she could into the back garden, where she arrived rather out of breath. She sat down on an upturned box in the toolshed and began to consider the situation.

What could bring him to their house so early in the day? It seemed unlikely that he was the kind of person who would call to thank them for the supper party. It was more probable that he had come to demand a subscription for the Library extensions. It might be that he was calling on several people for this purpose and had come to their house first because it was nearest. Belinda hoped Harriet was not going to be disappointed. She seemed to have taken quite a fancy to Mr Mold, and it would be so unfortunate if she got any
ideas
about him. For Belinda was sure that if Mr Mold ever did decide to marry he would choose for his bride some pretty, helpless young woman, perhaps a reader in the Library, who asked him in appealing tones where she could find the
Dictionary of National Biography
. In any case, he was certainly not good enough for Harriet, who would soon tire of his florid complexion and facetious humour. Also, he was not really a gentleman; that seemed to matter a great deal. All the same, it would be interesting to know why he had called.

Harriet, who had been sitting over the fire in the dining-room at her usual task of ‘strengthening corsets’ with elastic thread, had not been so slow in finding an answer to this important question. It was quite obvious that he had come to see
her
. She had no time to go into this question more deeply, for almost immediately after she had heard the front-door bell, Emily had come into the dining-room and announced Mr Nathaniel Mold.

‘Tell him I shall be with him in a minute,’ said Harriet, rolling up the corsets and putting them under a cushion. It would never do for him to see her with her face all flushed and shining from sitting over the fire. ‘Oh, and Emily, I hope you have switched on the electric fire in the drawing-room?’

Five minutes later she walked down the stairs looking considerably more elegant, her face rather heavily powdered and her hair neatly arranged. There was no need to hurry, she decided, as she paused for a moment in the hall to take a final look at herself in the mirror.

She opened the drawing-room door quietly. Mr Mold was standing with his back to her. At Harriet’s entry he turned round, rather startled. He was holding in his hand a copy of
Stitchcraft
, in which he had been reading how to make a table runner. It is always difficult to know how one ought to be occupied when waiting for a lady in her drawing-room, and he had resisted the temptation to probe into the pigeon holes of the large desk, which stood invitingly open.
Stitchcraft
was dull but safe, he felt.

‘Good morning,’ said Harriet, advancing towards him with hands outstretched in welcome and a brilliant smile on her face. ‘I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. I’m afraid you didn’t find anything very interesting to read, but it must be a change for you to look at a frivolous feminine paper.’

‘A very pleasant one,’ he said gallantly, ‘but of course we do take all these papers in the Library. I was in charge of cataloguing them at one time. I learnt quite a lot about needlework and beauty culture.’

‘How wonderful – to think that these papers are preserved,’ said Harriet, laughing. ‘But I suppose you would be much too important to have anything to do with them now.’

‘Oh, no!’ Mr Mold smiled and laughed and looked generally rather coltish.

‘Do sit down,’ said Harriet, sinking into the softness of the sofa. ‘It’s very nice of you to have called,’ she went on, hoping that he would soon give her some clue as to why he had come.

She was even more handsome in daylight than she had been in the evening, he decided, which was indeed very surprising. He had almost expected to be disappointed at their second meeting and had planned an alternate course of action should this happen.

‘It is a very great pleasure to see you again,’ he said rather stiffly. ‘I felt I wanted to call and thank you and your sister for the very delightful party last night. I enjoyed it immensely.’

‘Oh, I’m afraid my sister is out in the garden,’ said Harriet, half rising, ‘but I’m sure she would like to see you.’

‘Oh, well perhaps you could convey my thanks to her. I expect she is busy and I shouldn’t like to bother her,’ said Mr Mold quickly. He had not been at all taken with the sister, and the last thing he wanted was to have to sit making conversation with her.

There was quite a long pause. Mr Mold began to feel rather uncomfortable. This was not at all his usual style. Perhaps it would have been better if he’d had a whisky before he came out, though half past ten was a little early even for him. Still, it might have given him courage, though he could not help feeling that he might be more successful if there were a certain diffidence or nervousness about his bearing. He could not draw upon his experience in such matters because he had never before proposed marriage to anyone. His intrigues had been mostly with the kind of women who would hardly make suitable wives for the deputy Librarian of one of England’s greatest libraries; nor had they ever been considered as such.

What
is
the matter with him? Harriet was wondering. He was not at all like his usual self, in fact he seemed quite nervous, almost like poor Ricardo when he was about to propose to her. She determined to put him at his ease, so she said in a light joking way, ‘Now, I do hope you haven’t come to say goodbye. It will be very naughty of you to run off and leave us so soon.’ She found this way of talking very good with curates and it certainly seemed to make Mr Mold less shy.