Some Tame Gazelle (19 page)

‘Bright and gaudy?’ said Father Plowman, on a pained note. ‘Oh, Miss Bede, surely you cannot mean that?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Belinda, in confusion, ‘naturally I didn’t mean to imply…’

‘Well, Plowman is still with us, you know,’ said the Archdeacon almost jovially. ‘I don’t think he need take your remarks so personally.’

Belinda chewed her stringy cabbage and listened gratefully to dear Henry talking about Frazer and
The Golden Bough
, which he thought remarkably fine.

‘At one time I had the idea of giving a course of sermons based on it,’ he said, ‘but I came to the conclusion, regretfully I must admit, that with a congregation of limited intelligence it would be
too dangerous
.’

Belinda liked the sound of this and could almost have imagined them all back in Victorian days, when a father might forbid a book ‘inimical to the faith of the day’ to be read in his house.

‘How debased anthropology has become since Frazer’s day,’ sighed the Bishop, ‘a mere matter of genealogies, meaningless definitions and jargon,
words, words, words
, as Hamlet has it; lineage, sib, kindred, extended family, ramage – one doesn’t know where one is. Even the good old term
clan is
suspect.’

‘What is a sib?’ asked Harriet. ‘It sounds a nice, friendly kind of thing, or it might be something to eat, a biscuit, perhaps.’

The Bishop shook his head and said nothing, either because he did not deign to be associated with present-day anthropological terminology or because he did not really know what a sib was.

The Archdeacon recalled the Anglo-Saxon meaning of the word, and talked for some minutes about the double meaning of peace and relationship, but Harriet had lost interest and soon they were all in the drawing-room, drinking coffee made with coffee essence. When the gentlemen joined them it was suggested that Harriet should play the piano and she gave a showy performance of Manuel de Falla’s
Pantomime
. Then the Bishop sang an unaccompanied Mbawawa Christmas carol, which everyone agreed was very moving. When he had finished, Father Plowman suggested with admirable good manners that the Archdeacon should read aloud to them.

The Archdeacon was so surprised at this that for some minutes he could not even think of anything to read.

‘Let it be something that all can understand,’ suggested Father Plowman, thinking of an occasion when the Archdeacon had insisted on reading Chaucer’s
Canterbury Tales
with an attempt at the original pronunciation.

There was a pause, nobody liking or perhaps wishing to make any suggestion, until Miss Aspinall timidly ventured the observation that Keats had written some very lovely poems. She was, of course, remembering Lady Grudge’s ‘evenings’ in Belgrave Square, when Canon Kendrick used to read aloud to them.

‘Ah, yes, we will have
Hyperion
,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘
Remarkably
fine.’

There was a murmur of assent, during which Harriet could be heard asking the curate if
Hyperion
were a very
long
poem; she had quite forgotten.

Belinda turned to the Bishop and made a chatty remark about always having liked the lines about
Sorrow more beautiful than Beauty’s self
.

The Bishop nodded and gave her what Belinda thought was rather an intimate smile. ‘I am sure that any poem you admire must be very fine,’ he said in a low voice.

Belinda was so startled that she wondered whether she could have heard correctly. ‘I’m afraid I like what I remember from my student days,’ she said. ‘I hardly ever read anything new.’
Hyperion
had no memories for her, as the Archdeacon had never read it to her then, so that she was able to listen to it quite dispassionately and join with the polite murmurs that followed his performance.

‘And yet I think I prefer the earlier Keats,’ she said rather boldly, ‘I was always very fond of
Isabella
when I was a young girl.’

The Archdeacon smiled indulgently and Agatha said quite kindly, ‘Well, of course,
Isabella
is rather a young girl’s poem, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes, completely,’ agreed Belinda. ‘It is many years since I read it.’ It would indeed be an ominous sign if she felt drawn to it at her time of life, she felt.

‘What a fine poem Young’s
Night Thoughts
is,’ said the Bishop. ‘I have been reading it every night myself. I have a most interesting collection of books in my room,’ he went on. ‘There is an Icelandic grammar among them and I have been comparing that language with the Mbawawa.’

‘But do you find any similarity?’ asked Agatha doubtfully.

‘Oh, none whatever,’ said the Bishop almost gaily, ‘but it is a fascinating study,
fascinating
…’ his voice trailed off on a bleating note.

‘I am surprised and gratified that you find the books interesting,’ said the Archdeacon. ‘I made the selection myself, but I had no idea of your tastes.’

The evening ended with a song from the curate. Harriet, who accompanied him, was anxious that he should try an Elizabethan love song, and after a rather faltering beginning he sang quite charmingly, Belinda thought, but without much conviction.

Love is a fancie,

Love is a frenzie,

Let not a toy then breed thee such annoy
…

Perhaps there was no frenzy in his feeling for Miss Berridge, and love was hardly a
toy
. Surely Count Bianco’s affection for Harriet could not be so described, or Belinda’s for the Archdeacon? And yet tonight she had the feeling that there might be some truth in what the poet said. It was excellent advice to those of riper years, especially when the imagination became too active. That intimate note in the Bishop’s voice, for example, and the way he had seemed to look at her during the reading of the poem. It might just as easily have been Connie Aspinall he was looking at. Belinda had been forced to mention the fact that the chrysanthemums he had sent her were still lasting very well. She almost wished that they might die, and noticed with relief when she got home that some of the foliage was tinged with brown. Suddenly she took them out of their vase and, although it was dark, went out with them to the dustbin. They
were
dead really and one did not like to feel that flowers from the wrong person might be everlasting.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

‘I must go and see Ricardo,’ declared Belinda, one morning early in the New Year. ‘Edith tells me that he has a slight attack of gout which keeps him in the house. It’s rather difficult to know what to take him, though.’

‘Yes, you have to be very careful with gout,’ said Harriet. ‘No beef or strawberries or port wine. Do you think I ought to go as well?’

‘That would certainly do him more good than anything, but you mustn’t come with me. I’m sure he’d prefer to see you
alone
.’

‘Yes, I really will go,’ said Harriet. ‘You may tell him to expect me,’ she added graciously.

Now that Harriet’s plans about the Bishop were clearly not likely to come to anything, Belinda was determined to bring Count Bianco and her sister together as much as possible. She felt this to be her duty, and although she was not particularly anxious that Harriet should marry and leave her alone, she thought that if a marriage had been arranged in heaven she would prefer Ricardo to be the happy man. He was devoted to Harriet and they had many tastes in common: he came of an ancient Italian family and was very comfortable financially. The only thing that might possibly be against him was that he was not in the Church, but even this was not as great a drawback as might at first appear, for would there not always be tender curates in need of sympathetic attention and perfectly baked cakes?

So Belinda reasoned within herself as she walked up the drive to Ricardo’s house. She walked slowly, for she was thinking rather sentimentally of how Ricardo had loved her sister well and faithfully for many years. Surely he deserved some reward for his constancy? She herself had loved the Archdeacon even longer, but naturally there was no hope of any reward for her now, at least not in
this
world, she reflected piously, and we are given to understand that we shall be purged of all earthly passions in that
other
life.

The Count was in and would be delighted to see her. Belinda had been careful to announce herself as Miss
Belinda
Bede, with special emphasis on the Christian name, for she did not want Ricardo to expect Harriet and then be disappointed.

He was in the library, reading a little here and there in his many books. His gouty foot was bound up and rested on a low stool. Beside him on a little table was a pile of letters, which Belinda guessed to be those of his friend, the late John Akenside. There was also a Serbo-Croatian dictionary and the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

The Count greeted Belinda with a sad smile. ‘It is indeed kind of you to call,’ he said, attempting to get up, but Belinda put her hand on his arm and said how sorry she had been to hear about his gout.

‘It is an inconvenience,’ he said, ‘but I am accustomed to it.’

Touched by his patience and resignation, Belinda wondered how she could show her sympathy. She found it a little difficult to make conversation with Ricardo at the best of times, and could do no more than touch on various matters of general interest. It was inevitable that they should find themselves talking about the Bishop, who showed no signs of moving from the vicarage, where he had now been for nearly two months.

‘I hear that he is to be married soon,’ said Ricardo, in a calm, patient tone.

‘Oh, surely not!’ exclaimed Belinda, wondering how it was possible that Ricardo should come out with a piece of news that she and Harriet knew nothing of. ‘We haven’t heard anything, and I can’t really imagine that anybody would want to marry him.’

‘I heard that your sister was to marry him,’ said Ricardo pathetically.

Belinda now laughed aloud for joy, all the more because it might so nearly have happened. In fact, she told herself soberly, there was still time; but she could at least reassure Ricardo.

‘It certainly isn’t true at the moment,’ she said, ‘and I think it most unlikely that it ever will be. Wherever did you hear such a thing?’

Ricardo could not remember exactly; perhaps his manservant had heard it somewhere, or it may have been the Archdeacon who had told him when he called a few days ago. Yes, he was sure now that it must have been the Archdeacon. He had seemed quite certain that he was not misinformed.

The wicked
liar
, thought Belinda angrily. An archdeacon making mischief and spreading false rumours, that was what it amounted to. Although, she told herself hastily, it was possible that Ricardo had misunderstood him, had read too much into a hint or taken a joke too seriously.

‘There is no truth in it whatever,’ she declared positively, hoping as she did so that the Bishop was not at this moment in their drawing-room asking Harriet to be his wife. ‘Harriet does not really care for him at all,’ she went on boldly.

Ricardo smiled and looked almost happy, but then his face clouded as he asked if the Bishop were still at the vicarage?

‘Yes, he is still there,’ said Belinda, ‘but I do not think he will stay much longer. He will have to be getting back to his diocese.’

‘Then there is still time,’ said Ricardo despondently. ‘Even now he may be asking her.’

Belinda shifted uneasily in her chair. Of course one never knew for certain what Harriet might be up to, or the Bishop, for that matter. She was grateful when Ricardo’s manservant appeared with sherry and biscuits on a silver tray.

‘Have you been working on the letters this morning?’ she asked, indicating the pile on the table.

‘Yes, I have been reading them before you came. How wise he was! He knew what would happen there; no man understood the Balkan mind as he did.’

‘No, I’m sure they didn’t,’ said Belinda inadequately, for she was never quite clear as to what
had
happened there except that poor John had been killed in a riot.

There was a silence, during which Belinda racked her brains for something intelligent to say. But she was too late to stop Ricardo from getting back on to the subject of Harriet.

‘It is many days since I have seen your sister,’ he said. ‘It may be that there is something she does not wish to tell me.’

The warmth of the room and the unaccustomed effect of sherry in the morning were beginning to make Belinda feel a little vague and carefree, in the mood to make rash promises.

‘Harriet is coming to see you very soon,’ she said. ‘I can promise you that.’

‘She will never marry me, she does not love me,’ said Ricardo as if speaking his thoughts aloud.

‘Now, Ricardo, you mustn’t lose hope,’ said Belinda comfortably. ‘I know she is fond of you and even if she will not love you, always remember’ – her eyes lighted on the works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson – ‘that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I always think those lines are such a great comfort; so many of us have loved and lost.’ She frowned: nobody wanted to be one of many, and she did not like this picture of herself, only one of a great crowd of dreary women. Perhaps Tennyson was rather hackneyed after all.

But Ricardo did not appear to think so. ‘You are so kind and understanding,’ he said. ‘I feel that there is a great bond between us.’

Belinda did not quite know what to say, so she merely smiled and said that she was sure that some day everything would be just as Ricardo wished.

‘Then I shall ask her again,’ he declared, fired with fresh courage and looking as if he were about to quote Dante or Tacitus at any moment; probably the former, Belinda thought, for it seemed unlikely that there would be anything suitable in Tacitus.

‘Yes, Ricardo, do,’ she said, ‘but not yet. Wait until the spring, when the daffodils are out in your meadow.’

‘If I am spared till then,’ said Ricardo sadly, looking down at his bandaged foot. He then went on to talk of the fine new bulbs that he had planted in the meadow and to calculate when they would be at their best.

Belinda left the house feeling that she had done good, and with a picture of daffodils and scyllas in her mind. She saw Harriet, the radiant Countess, picking grapes in the conservatory, adorning the head of Ricardo’s dinner table, opening a garden fete or bazaar. But all this was in the distant future. For the present Belinda was glad that she had been able to cheer Ricardo and to give him a little hope. What a good thing it was that hope sprang eternal in the human breast! What would she herself have done without hope? Even if nothing came of it, she thought obscurely, for she could not have said exactly what it was that she hoped for
now
. It would be enough if things could return to normal and be as they were before Mr Mold and the Bishop had appeared in the village. They could get on very well without them.

Belinda took out her shopping list and stopped for a moment, deep in contemplation of it. Coffee, rice, steel wool, kitchen soap, written in her own hand and then, in Harriet’s, tinned peaches, sponge cakes, sherry (
not
cooking), set of no. 14 knitting needles (
steel
) … Belinda frowned. They had plenty of knitting needles of all sizes and did they really
need
sherry or peaches or sponge cakes? Perhaps Mr Donne was coming to supper again.

‘Good morning!’ said a bright, cheerful voice, which Belinda did not at first recognize as Agatha’s, calling to her from the other side of the narrow street.

‘Good morning,’ Belinda called back, and was just moving on when she saw that Agatha was hurrying across to speak to her.

‘Isn’t it a lovely morning?’ she said, beaming with such unusual good humour that Belinda stared at her quite curiously, wondering what could have happened to bring about this change.

‘Yes, isn’t it. Really quite mild,’ murmured Belinda expectantly.

‘I have some great news for you,’ said Agatha, smiling.

‘News? For me?’ All kinds of wild ideas rushed through Belinda’s head, most of which she rejected hastily. Henry had been made a dean or a bishop, that was it. It seemed unlikely, in a way, and yet what else could it be?

‘I had a letter from my niece Olivia this morning,’ went on Agatha. ‘She and Edgar are to be married – quite soon.’ She paused and peered so intently and beamingly at Belinda that the latter drew back, a little embarrassed.

‘Edgar?’ said Belinda stupidly. ‘Do I know him?’

‘Why, of course you do! Our curate, Mr Donne,’ said Agatha with some of her usual impatience which made Belinda feel more at home. ‘Such a suitable thing altogether, I’ve been hoping all along that it would happen like this.’

‘But isn’t she a lot older than he is,’ said Belinda tactlessly.

‘Oh, well, a year or two, but Mr Donne needs an older woman. Besides, he’s rather shy and an older woman can often help things along, you know.’

‘How do you mean?’ asked Belinda. ‘I suppose if young people want to marry, they will. I mean if they both do.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Agatha, ‘but there is often a natural hesitation on the part of the man, especially if he feels, as I know Edgar does, that a woman is far superior to him intellectually.’

And older too, thought Belinda perversely. ‘Yes, I suppose a young man might well hesitate in those circumstances,’ she said aloud.

‘He who hesitates is lost,’ said Agatha briskly. ‘I told Edgar that and I dropped a hint to Olivia.’

‘Oh, did
she
propose to
him?
’ asked Belinda in a loud, interested tone. ‘I’ve often wondered if it was done very much. I suppose it must be done a good deal more than one realizes.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Agatha casually, ‘it is not at all unusual. Men are understandably shy about offering what seems to them very little and when a woman realizes this she is perfectly justified in helping him on a bit, as it were.’

At this moment an idea came into Belinda’s head. At first it seemed fantastic, then quite likely, and finally almost a certainty. Agatha had proposed to Henry. Why had this never occurred to her before? And now that it had, what was the use of it? Belinda could not answer this, but she knew that she could put it away in her mind and take it out again when she was feeling in need of comfort.

‘Yes, I suppose it can happen like that,’ she agreed calmly. ‘There is no reason why it shouldn’t. And yet,’ she ventured, ‘I don’t think I should ever feel certain enough to take on that responsibility myself. I know men have to take it, but supposing one met somebody else afterwards …’ she stopped in confusion.

‘Ah, yes,’ Agatha’s face seemed to soften for a moment, ‘That can happen too. One wonders how often it
does
happen when one knows that it
can
.’

Belinda hurried home in a great turmoil. So many exciting things to tell Harriet and somehow the curate’s engagement seemed to be the least exciting of them all. Nevertheless, she could not help wondering how her sister would take the news. Not that one could say it had really been a ‘disappointment’ to Harriet in the usual sense, but what would she do without a curate to dote upon? It was unlikely that Miss Berridge – perhaps they would soon be calling her Olivia – would approve of anybody else doting on her husband, for Harriet would not like it to be suggested that she was too old and unattractive for there to be any danger, which led Belinda to speculate upon the age at which a single woman could safely have a curate to live with her without fear of scandal. She feared that whatever the age might be, seventy-five or even eighty, it would be many years before Harriet would attain it. What a solution it would be! Belinda sighed as she walked through the gate, fearful of what might happen.

But Harriet had already heard the news and although it was obvious that she was rather upset, her attitude was rather one of indignation and pity for Mr Donne.

‘
Poor
young man,’ she said, ‘I could hardly believe it when I heard the news. Of course it’s obvious that she’s been after him for a long time. I expect
she
proposed to
him
.’

‘Why, yes,’ said Belinda eagerly, ‘Agatha as good as told me so. And I think
she
proposed to Henry, and now she finds that she prefers the Bishop. At least,’ she added, feeling that she had gone rather too far, ‘she might not necessarily have meant that, but she did hint at it.’