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.’
‘Yes, Harriet, it’s Theo Grote,’ said Belinda. ‘I knew you would be interested to hear that.’
‘Oh ho,’ said Dr. Parnell, seeing that Harriet had gone quite pink in the face. ‘I believe we are going to see some old broth being warmed up. I like to see that.’
‘Agatha talks of bringing him to stay here,’ said the Archdeacon distastefully. He disliked other members of his calling.
Clean sheets on the spare bed and a tin of biscuits on the little table in case he should feel hungry in the night, thought Belinda irrelevantly.
‘He must be about fifty-seven or fifty-eight,’ said Harriet, who seemed to have been doing a little calculation. ‘It will be nice to see dear Theo again.’
‘On the threshold of sixty,’ mused Dr. Parnell. ‘That’s a good age for a man to marry. He needs a woman to help him into his grave.’
‘But that’s just the Prime of Life,’ said Harriet indignantly. ‘I’m sure we shan’t find Theo at all doddery.’
Belinda began to suspect that Harriet regarded the Bishop as a possible husband. She had certainly been very much in love with him when she was a schoolgirl and he a willowy curate in the early twenties. Belinda had often thought that the reason why Harriet made so much of Mr. Donne was because he reminded her of dear Theo Grote. And then Belinda had often heard her say that a bishop needed a wife to help him with certain intimate problems in his diocese, things which a woman could deal with better than a man. It seemed a little hard, Belinda thought, that this new menace should appear, just when she was so relieved at having escaped Mr. Mold, but she would just have to leave Harriet to her schemes. Belinda trembled for the unmarried Bishop of Mbawawa if he did not feel inclined to enter into that blessed state.
‘Shall I read aloud to you?’ suggested the Archdeacon hopefully. He went over to the bookshelves and invited requests for what anyone would like. But Dr. Parnell suddenly got up from his chair and announced that he thought he had better do his packing. It was so tiresome to have a rush at the last minute. Harriet, too, had suddenly remembered that she was to deliver some parish magazines and was already half way out of the door, thanking the Archdeacon for a delightful tea party, and inviting him to drop in at four o’clock any afternoon. She and Dr. Parnell hurried out of the room together, the latter remarking that he wondered Henry could spare the time from his parochial duties to listen to the sound of his own voice.
‘We should all have time to improve our minds,’ said Belinda smiling happily.
The Archdeacon turned towards her with a volume of Spenser in his hand. ‘I think it would be pleasant to have something from the Faerie Queene,’ he declared.
The clock struck half-past five. Belinda settled herself comfortably in her chair. She felt rather drowsy and the Faerie Queene was such a soothing poem. It just went on and on.
At six o’clock the Archdeacon suggested a little Wordsworth. Belinda agreed that this would be very nice. She had always been so fond of The Prelude.
At half-past six Belinda began to murmur something about being sure that she was disturbing the Archdeacon, who must have a great deal to do.
Well, yes, he supposed that she was disturbing him really, but it was very pleasant to be disturbed occasionally, especially when there were so many tiresome things to do.
‘Do you know,’ he said suddenly, with the air of one who has made an important discovery, ‘this reminds me of the old days. I used to read aloud to you then. Does it remind you?’
Belinda was speechless, as she considered this proof of man’s oddness. Whatever did he imagine that it reminded her of? ‘Oh, yes, it’s quite like the old days,’ she said at last, and then tried to think of something more intelligent to continue the conversation.
Silences were awkward things, especially when one’s mind was only too apt to wander back into the past and remember it so vividly that it became more real than the present. Unless she fixed her attention on something definite, she might find herself saying the wrong thing. Her eyes lighted on a set of Bible commentaries. Well, nobody could expect her to talk about them. She must try again. The mantelpiece is dusty, she thought. Florrie needs keeping up to the mark, and I don’t believe she’s used the Hoover on this carpet since Agatha went away. Agatha. There was something definite. There was nothing vague or nebulous about an archdeacon’s wife, even when she wasn’t there. I loved you more than Agatha did, thought Belinda, but all I can do now is to keep silent. I can’t even speak to Florrie about the dusty mantelpiece, because it’s nothing to do with me. It never was and it never will be.
‘Florrie never bothers to dust my study when Agatha’s away,’ said the Archdeacon, seeing where Belinda was looking.
‘No, things always go wrong in a house when there’s no woman at the head of things,’ agreed Belinda. ‘I mean, it’s different when Agatha’s away.’
The Archdeacon sighed. ‘Yes, it is different,’ he agreed. ‘But there it is. We can’t alter things, can we?’
Belinda did not know what to say to this, as she was not quite sure what he meant. She was just wondering what would happen if she led the conversation round to more personal things than dusty mantelpieces, when the door opened and in came Dr. Parnell, complaining that he was hungry and asking if they were never going to have anything to eat.
‘Why, yes, it must be nearly supper-time,’ said Belinda, starting to put on her gloves. ‘I must go.’
‘Oh, but I insist that you stay,’ protested the Archdeacon.
‘I really couldn’t,’ said Belinda mechanically. ‘Harriet will be expecting me.’
‘Please, dear Belinda,’ he said coaxingly. ‘You know I asked you to tea the other day and you wouldn’t come. The least you can do is to stay now. For the sake of old times,’ he added, with uncharacteristic heartiness.
‘Really, Henry, I think you might have put it better,’ said Dr. Parnell. ‘I should hardly imagine that poor Belinda can really wish to be reminded of old times.’
But Belinda only smiled. ‘All right, I will stay,’ she said.
‘I shall never understand women,’ said Dr. Parnell complacently.