Author: Barbara Pym
Category: Humorous
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Encouraged by her silence Mr Mold went on: ‘What I mean to say is, that I think we should be very happy if we married. My house is large and comfortable and my financial position is sound … and,’ he added, rather as an afterthought, ‘I loved you the moment I saw you.’
Harriet almost laughed when she remembered their first meeting in the village, when she had been wearing that awful old tweed coat, too! It was really amazing how blind love made people. Nevertheless, she was disappointed. Proposals from Ricardo several times a year had accustomed her to passionate pleadings, interspersed with fine phrases from the greater Italian poets. Besides, Ricardo never proposed sitting down. Always standing or even kneeling, indeed, his courtly manners had often caused Harriet some amusement. Compared with Ricardo, Mr Mold sounded so prosaic and casual. He didn’t sound as if he really cared at all. She glanced at him hastily; little beads of sweat were glistening on his forehead and his face was crimson. Harriet could not help remembering that Ricardo always looked pale, and although these differences were rather trivial, they seemed somehow to add themselves to the list of reasons why she should not accept Mr Mold’s proposal.
‘Dear Mr Mold,’ she began, not quite as certain of herself as usual, for she was not yet used to rejecting him, and did not know how he would take it. ‘It is really charming of you to say such kind things, and I am deeply honoured by your proposal, but I feel I cannot accept it. It would not be fair to you,’ she added hastily, not wishing to appear unkind.
Mr Mold looked genuinely disappointed. ‘Of course I know this must be a shock to you,’ he ventured. ‘Perhaps you would like to wait a few days and decide after thinking it over?’
But Harriet didn’t think she would like to do that. Thinking things over was so tiring, and really there was nothing to think about. The more she considered it, the less attractive the prospect of this marriage seemed to be. He had been so jolly last night, that was what she had liked. Perhaps that was because he had been a little drunk? And somehow he didn’t look so handsome at close quarters. Was it possible that he was just past the Prime of Life? she wondered.
So she smiled at him very charmingly and repeated that although she was flattered and deeply touched by his proposal she thought it would be kinder to give him his answer now.
‘I’m afraid my sister and I are very confirmed spinsters,’ she added, in a lighter vein.
Mr Mold felt like saying that he had not intended to marry her sister as well, for he was now annoyed rather than hurt at her refusal, and did not consider that she had sufficiently realized the compliment he had paid her in asking her to be his wife. He muttered something about it being a great pity, and then Harriet said she hoped that he would have a pleasant journey back; the afternoon train was a very convenient one and she believed there was a restaurant car on it. Dr Parnell would be staying a little longer, perhaps? It was such a real pleasure for them to see visitors as they lived such uneventful lives in this quiet village. She did hope that Mr Mold would come and see them again next time he was in the neighbourhood.
As he stood on the front doorstep, Mr Mold extended a cordial invitation to her to come and visit him some time. ‘You’ll always find me in the Library,’ he added jovially, almost his old self again.
‘Reading Stitchcraft, I suppose,’ said Harriet, on a teasing note.
As he went out of the gate, he even waved one of his new gloves at her. Perhaps after all the Librarian was right when he said that marriage was a tiresome business and that he and Mold were lucky not to have been caught. He looked at his watch. There would be plenty of time for a chat with the landlord of the Crownwheel and Pinion before lunch. Marriage might put a stop to all that kind of thing.
While Mr Mold’s proposal was being rejected in the drawing-room, Belinda was in the dining-room, writing a letter to Agatha. ‘We have had remarkably mild weather lately,’ she wrote, ‘and I have been able to do a lot of gardening, in fact I have just been putting in the last of the bulbs. I have noticed your pink chrysanthemums showing buds, which is very early for them, isn’t it?
‘The Archdeacon preached a very fine sermon on Sunday, about the Judgment Day. We were all very much impressed by it. You will be glad to hear that he is looking well and has a good appetite.’
Here Belinda paused and laid down her pen. Was this last sentence perhaps a little presumptuous? Ought an archdeacon to be looking well and eating with a good appetite when his wife was away? And ought Belinda to write as if she knew about his appetite?
She turned to the letter again and added ‘as far as I know’ to the sentence about the appetite.
‘It was so nice to see Nicholas Parnell again, and I think he enjoys coming here for a quiet holiday. He brought the deputy Librarian, Mr Mold, with him. I don’t know whether you have met him? Personally, his type does not appeal to me very much. He is supposed to be a great ladies’ man, and is too fond of making jokes not always in the best of taste. Harriet saw him coming out of the Crownwheel and Pinion in the morning, which I thought a pity.’
Here Belinda laid down her pen again. Was she being quite fair to Mr Mold? She had allowed herself to get so carried away by her own feelings about him that she had rather forgotten she was writing to Agatha, in whom she did not normally confide.
‘Still, I daresay he is a very nice man,’ she went on, ‘when one really knows him.’
This last sentence reminded Belinda that he had now been closeted in the drawing-room with Harriet for some considerable time. Belinda had not yet been able to decide why he had come, indeed, she had rather forgotten about the whole thing. Nothing was further from her mind than a proposal of marriage, and had she known what was going on, she would probably have rushed into the drawing-room, even if she had still been wearing her old gardening mackintosh and galoshes, and tried her best to stop it, for one was never quite sure what Harriet would do. Especially after her apparent admiration of Mr Mold and her continual harping on the Prime of Life. Belinda went so far as to go into the hall, but could not bring herself to listen at the drawing-room door. From where she stood she could hear a low murmur of voices. It was no use being impatient, and the last thing she wanted was to see Mr Mold herself, so she went back to her letter. Writing to Agatha was not easy, more of a duty than a pleasure, but Belinda felt that she might like to hear some of the details of the parish life which the Archdeacon probably would not give her, so she wrote about the autumn leaves and berries they had used to decorate the church, the organist’s illness and Miss Smiley’s brave attempt to play at Evensong, the success of the Scouts’ Jumble Sale and other homely matters.
At last she heard the sound of a door opening, then conversation and laughter. Harriet and Mr Mold had come out of the drawing-room. Belinda waited until she judged him safely out of the front door and then went eagerly into the hall to hear the result of his visit.
She found Harriet standing in front of the mirror, rubbing her hands together and looking pleased with herself. Her face was rather red and she looked more elegant than was usual at such an early hour of the day.
‘Well,’ she said, with a hint of triumph in her voice, ‘that’s that.’
‘Yes,’ said Belinda, ‘but what? I hope you didn’t promise him anything for the Library Extension Fund. There are far more deserving causes in the parish.’
‘But, Belinda, surely you guessed why he had come?’ said Harriet patiently, for really her sister was very stupid. ‘He came to ask me to marry him,’ she declared, smiling.
‘Oh, Harriet …’ Belinda was quite speechless. She might have known that something dreadful like this would happen. As if he would bother to come and ask for a subscription to the Library funds! Her supposition seemed very vain and feeble now. Still, as Belinda would not have to live with them, perhaps she need not see very much of her over-jovial brother-in-law – that would be some consolation, though it would hardly make up for the loss of her sister. Of course, she supposed, she could always have a companion to live with her
, some deserving poor relation like Connie Aspinall, or she might advertise in the Church Times; somebody with literary interests and fond of gardening, a churchwoman, of course. Belinda shuddered as she thought of the applications and the task of interviewing them; she was sure she would never have the strength to reject anyone, however unsuitable. Perhaps, after all, it would be better to live alone.
‘Of course, I couldn’t accept him,’ said Harriet, rather loudly, for she had expected Belinda to show real interest, instead of just standing and staring at the floor.
The look of relief that brightened Belinda’s face was pathetic in its intensity.
‘Oh, Harriet …’ again she was speechless. However could she have thought for a moment that her sister would do such a thing?
‘Indeed I couldn’t,’ said Harriet calmly. ‘Why I hardly know him, and you remember what Shakespeare said about when lovely woman stoops to folly …’ she made a significant gesture with her hand.
Belinda frowned. ‘I don’t think it was Shakespeare, dear,’ she said absently. ‘I must ask Henry. I have an idea it may be Pope.’ But what did it matter? Belinda was so overcome with joy and relief at Harriet’s news that she kissed her impulsively and suggested that they should have some meringues for tea, as Harriet was so fond of them.
Together they went into the dining-room, where Harriet with many ludicrous and exaggerated imitations, gave a demonstration of how Mr Mold had proposed to her.
‘Oh, Harriet, you mustn’t be so unkind!’ protested Belinda, in the intervals of laughing, for her sister was really much funnier than Mr Mold could possibly have been. They laughed even more when the corsets were discovered under a cushion.
‘Just imagine if Emily had brought him in here and he had discovered them while he was waiting. Or if the Archdeacon had when he came the other day,’ chortled Harriet.
‘Oh, Harriet,’ said Belinda faintly. There was a vulgar, musichall touch about it all that one could associate with Mr Mold but hardly with the Archdeacon.
‘I expect he’s consoling himself in the Crownwheel and Pinion,’ said Harriet, ‘so we needn’t really pity him.’
She was perfectly right; so much so that, when he arrived at the vicarage rather late for lunch, Dr Parnell was constrained to whisper to his friend the Archdeacon, ‘I fear poor Nathaniel is not entirely sober.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Mr Mold settled himself comfortably in his first-class corner seat he decided that he had probably had a lucky escape. And indeed, he reflected, Love is only one of many passions and it has no great influence on the sum of life, as the Librarian was so fond of quoting.
A few days later Belinda and Harriet were invited to tea at the vicarage. It was hardly surprising that Mr Mold’s proposal, which appeared to be known to the Archdeacon and Dr Parnell, should be the chief topic of conversation.
Dr Parnell was inclined to think it a pity that Harriet had refused his colleague, for although he had always been of the opinion that it must be very tiresome to be married, he did not deny that it was an interesting state. Indeed, he often regretted that the Archdeacon was the only one of his friends who had a wife. As a young man Dr Parnell had looked forward to the time when Belinda would come to him for advice on the trials of matrimony. In those days he had hoped that she might marry the Archdeacon, and was almost as disappointed as she had been at her failure to captivate him. He had never liked Agatha, but he could not help admiring her skill, and when by her powers her husband was raised to the dignity of archdeacon, Mr Parnell, as he then was, had aptly remarked that Henry was indeed fortunate in having won the love of a good woman. Nevertheless, he considered himself almost equally fortunate in not having done so, and often used to remark to John Akenside that he did not think poor Henry was quite as free as he had been.
But there was no denying that Harriet and Mr Mold would have made an admirable couple. They had both reached an age when temperament and character were settled, and instead of one dominating the other they would have been able to live in comfortable harmony. Besides, there would be plenty of money, so that if there had been love, which Dr Parnell rather doubted, it would have been less likely to fly out of the window, as he had been told it did when poverty came in at the door.
Sitting round the fire in the Archdeacon’s study, they considered the problem.
‘Of course I never advise anyone to enter into that state without long and careful thought,’ said Dr Parnell, ‘but I should be the last to admit impediments to the marriage of true minds, and it seems to me that you and Nathaniel have a great many tastes in common.’
Harriet denied this indignantly: perhaps she was still thinking of curates. ‘The only thing we have in common is a love of good food,’ she said, thinking that Dr Parnell was being more than usually interfering. ‘I could never marry Mr Mold.’
‘But surely liking the same things for dinner is one of the deepest and most lasting things you could possibly have in common with anyone,’ argued Dr Parnell. ‘After all, the emotions of the heart are very transitory, or so I believe; I should think it makes one much happier to be well-fed than well-loved.’
Belinda did not trouble to contradict this statement, romantic and sentimental though she was. She was feeling much too happy and peaceful to indulge in any argument. For here she was sitting on the sofa with the person she had loved well and faithfully for thirty years, and whom she still saw as the beautiful young man he had been then, although he was now married and an archdeacon. And as if this were not enough, had she not just escaped having a brother-in-law who was not really a gentleman, and made jokes not always in the best of taste? When one reached middle age it was even more true that all change is of itself an evil and ought not to be hazarded but for evident advantage. She smiled at Dr Parnell indulgently, but said nothing. The Archdeacon in his turn smiled affectionately at her, and thought what a nice peaceful creature she was, so different from his own admirable wife, with her busy schemes for his preferment.
Dr Parnell was still regretting Harriet’s hasty action, and suggested that she might write Mr Mold a letter giving him some hope for he had heard that even hope was better than nothing.
But Harriet, who knew she was being teased, merely listened with a smile on her face and said with dignity that she believed she could do a great deal better for herself. She looked at the three of them rather mysteriously, and Belinda wondered whether she could be making plans to captivate Dr Parnell.
‘You would have kept poor Nathaniel out of mischief,’ he said, still harping on the same subject.
‘I daresay,’ remarked Harriet, ‘and I expect he needs it. Do you know,’ she leaned forward confidentially, ‘I believe he drinks …’ she said, pronouncing this last word in a suitably hushed whisper.
‘Oh, Harriet,’ protested Belinda, for she could now afford to feel kindly towards Mr Mold, ‘I don’t think you should say that. We all like to take something occasionally, a drink can be a great comfort at times.’
‘I am glad to hear that you are so broad-minded,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I remember Agatha being quite shocked when I said something of the kind to the Mothers’ Union once.’
‘Well, I suppose it is a dangerous thing to say,’ said Dr Parnell. ‘They might abuse the comfort of drink.’
‘Whereas we know how to be moderate,’ said Harriet primly.
‘I cannot imagine Agatha taking too much,’ said Dr Parnell. He chuckled. ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t.’
Belinda gave him a shocked glance. ‘Have you heard from Agatha again?’ she asked the Archdeacon brightly.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I had a letter by the lunch-time post,’ he said. ‘You can read it if you want to,’ he added, taking a letter out of his pocket and handing it to her.
Belinda took the letter rather gingerly, thinking it odd that he should hand it to her so willingly. But when she came to read Agatha’s neat handwriting, she saw that the letter contained nothing private. It seemed to be a long list
of things he must not forget to do. It was admirably practical, but unromantic. And yet, after so many years of being married to a charming but difficult man like the Archdeacon, perhaps it was rather too much to expect that Agatha should dwell on the desolation of life without him. All the same, Belinda could not help remembering her own letters, and she was sure that even now she could have found something a little more tender to write about than Florrie’s and cook’s wages and the Mothers’ Union tea. She was just going to hand the letter back when she noticed that there was a postscript over the page.
‘I forgot to tell you that among the people staying here is the Bishop of Mbawawa. I believe the Bedes know him. He is a delightful man, so friendly, and he tells many interesting stories about the splendid work he has been doing among the natives. I am trying to persuade him to come home with me, as I am sure everyone would be interested to meet him.’
Belinda stopped short in amazement as she read these words. ‘Harriet,’ she said, ‘who do you think is there?’
Harriet, who was quietly enjoying a substantial tea, looked up and asked who was where.
‘In Karlsbad,’ said Belinda.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, not very interested. ‘It’s the sort of place where King Edward VII might be, only of course it could hardly be him.’
‘It’s an old friend of yours,’ said Belinda.
‘Is he an old friend?’ asked the Archdeacon.
‘I should like to number bishops among my friends,’ said Dr Parnell.
Harriet seemed to brighten up at this. ‘Bishops? Well, of course I know quite a number,’ she mused. This was not really surprising, for after all every bishop has once been a curate. ‘It couldn’t be Willie Amery, I suppose or Oliver Opobo and Calabar – isn’t that a lovely title? – no, he’s in Nigeria, I believe. Of course it might be Theo Grote, Theodore Mbawawa, as he signs himself,’ she smiled to herself. ‘That would be the nicest of all.’