Author: Barbara Pym
Category: Humorous
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‘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 cou
ld 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.
‘Unfortunately my work demands that I should go back this afternoon, or tomorrow at the latest,’ he said, gaining courage from her manner. ‘But before I went I hoped I should be able to have a talk with you.’ He looked at her plump, handsome profile expectantly.
Very much what I expected, thought Harriet complacently, but she was pleased and flattered to discover that she had been right. It was gratifying to feel that such a Man of the World as Mr Mold obviously was should want to marry her. But should she accept him? When it came to the point, Harriet found herself surprisingly undecided, considering how well she had spoken of Mr Mold to Belinda. She began to see that there were many reasons why she should refuse his offer when it came. To begin with she had known him for such a short time; indeed, this morning was only their third meeting. Harriet was not the kind of person to believe with Marlowe that
Where both deliberate, the love is slight:
Whoever loved, that loved not at first sight?
Obviously that was quite ridiculous. How could one possibly know all the things that had to be known about a person at first sight? Belinda had said she believed Mr Mold had a very nice house, but then poor Belinda was so vague, and for all that the house might be semi-detached and not at all in an advantageous position. If Mr Mold were very much in love with her it might be unkind to hurt his feelings – Harriet did not stop to consider how many times she must have hurt the feelings of her faithful admirer Count Bianco – but a smart and floridly handsome admirer in the Prime of Life would be much more acceptable to her than a husband of the same description. In her girlhood imagini
ngs Harriet had always visualized a tall, pale man for her husband, hence her partiality for the clergy. People of Mr Mold’s type could never look well in a pulpit. And finally, who would change a comfortable life of spinsterhood in a country parish, which always had its pale curate to be cherished, for the unknown trials of matrimony? Harriet remembered Belinda once saying something about people preferring to bear those ills they had, rather than flying to others that they knew not of, or something like that. It had been quite one of Belinda’s most sensible observations.
Thus Harriet’s mind was practically made up to refuse Mr Mold’s offer when it came. In the meantime, she waited for him to declare himself. He was nearly as slow as poor Ricardo, who always took so long to come to the point that Harriet sometimes found herself helping him out.
There was a pause. Harriet sighed. Perhaps even Mr Mold needed to be helped a little; she had thought he might be better at coming to the point than Ricardo.
‘How I envy you living in that lovely town,’ she said, looking at him rather intensely. ‘Your house is in the Woodbury road, isn’t it? I always think that’s the very nicest part.’
‘Yes, it is pleasant. My house is on a corner, so it has a rather larger garden than the others.’ Again there was a short pause, then Mr Mold burst out with rather forced joviality, ‘You know, I feel that you and I have so much in common…’
Harriet said nothing. She was going rapidly over her own interests and comparing them with those that Mr Mold might be supposed to have. A certain standard of living, comfort, good food, all these they might share, but as before her mind went back to what was undoubtedly her greatest interest – curates. Perhaps she did not define it in that one simple word, but the idea was there, and with it the suspicion that Mr Mold was the kind of person who was not entirely at his ease with the clergy.