Some Tame Gazelle (22 page)

‘Ah, yes,’ said her fiancé, ‘I expect Olivia will help me to outdo even the Archdeacon with obscure quotations from the
Ormulum
.’

‘Whatever is that?’ asked Harriet. ‘It sounds very learned.’

‘A kind of moral treatise, I believe.’

‘Oh, well, I hope you won’t listen to her,’ said Harriet. ‘I suppose people liked things like that in the old days.’

‘And I hope that we in these days may still be said to like “things like that”,’ said Father Plowman, smiling indulgently at Harriet, as if she were a naughty child.

‘Perhaps we would like them better if we could understand them,’ said Belinda. ‘I mean the language, of course.’ She spoke rather hastily as she could see the Archdeacon approaching and thought it might be as well to change the subject before he came. ‘I wish somebody would have another cake,’ she said, offering the plate which she was still holding. Harriet took it from her and began to encourage Mr Donne to eat a cake with pink icing, much to the amusement of Olivia, who did not appear to mind Harriet’s proprietary attitude in the very least.

Belinda, feeling that she had monopolized the young couple for quite long enough, withdrew quietly and found herself near the tea-urn over which Miss Prior and Miss Jenner were presiding.

‘Would you like another cup, Miss Bede?’ asked Miss Prior. ‘I know you’re one for tea, like I am.’

‘Yes, please, I would,’ said Belinda, feeling this to be a comfortable classification. ‘I’m sure we need plenty of tea after all this excitement.’

‘We certainly do,’ agreed Miss Prior. ‘Miss Aspinall, too!
That
news was a surprise, I can tell you. A shock, you might almost say.’

‘Oh, I always thought he had his eye on her,’ said Miss Jenner in her shrill, arch voice. ‘I said to mother only the other day that something would come of it.’

‘Come of it?’ asked Belinda, looking over to where, as she now realized, Connie Aspinall, fresh from Belgravia, was standing in the centre of a little crowd. She looked almost happy and was talking with unusual animation. Even Belgrave Square could hardly have made such a change in her. ‘I don’t quite understand,’ Belinda went on, ‘has something happened to Miss Aspinall? Is
she
getting married as well?’

‘Didn’t you know?’ Miss Jenner almost shrieked. ‘Miss Aspinall’s got engaged to Bishop Grote. You remember, Miss Bede, he was staying at the vicarage not so long ago.’

Belinda had taken a large gulp of tea and narrowly escaped choking, but she was able to indicate that she did remember Bishop Grote. ‘But this is amazing, wonderful,’ she emended, ‘news. I must go and congratulate her immediately.’ She put down her cup and made her way over to Miss Aspinall’s corner.

‘My
dear
Connie,’ she said, ‘I’ve just heard your wonderful news. I
am
glad.’

‘Yes, I’m so happy,’ said Connie. ‘Theodore told me that as soon as he came here he felt that he was destined to find happiness, and that when he saw me he knew it was to
be
.’ She gave a mysterious emphasis to these last words.

Belinda was silent for a moment in thankfulness and wonder. She did not now resent the Bishop’s quoting of her favourite hymn
God moves in a mysterious way
. It was manifest that He did.

‘But how did you come to meet again?’ she asked, curiosity taking the place of wonder. ‘Did he visit you in Belgrave Square?’

‘No, we met one afternoon in the Army and Navy Stores,’ said Connie. ‘That was the wonderful part of it. I had gone into the garden-furniture department to buy a trowel and I was standing looking at a sweet little bird bath – you know they have such pretty carved stone ones – when I heard footsteps behind me – the place was
quite
deserted – I happened to look round and there was Theodore.’

‘How extraordinary!’ said Belinda, imagining the shock she herself would have felt.

‘Yes, it seemed he had lost his way. He wanted to buy a new tin trunk to take back to Africa and found himself in the garden-furniture department by mistake. The man he asked had misdirected him or the department had been moved, I believe.’

‘How extraordinary life is,’ Belinda interposed. ‘To think that the moving of a department, if it
had
been moved…’

‘And so then he asked me to go and have tea with him and luckily there was a Fuller’s teashop quite near and he proposed to me over tea.’

‘Did you have that lovely walnut cake?’ asked Harriet, who had now joined them.

‘I don’t suppose Connie noticed what she was eating,’ said Belinda. ‘My dear, I’m so glad for you. I hope you will be very happy. I’m
sure
you will,’ she added, feeling that she may have sounded doubtful.

‘Well, I think we shall be,’ said Connie. ‘At first I naturally felt rather nervous – the importance of the position, you see – but Theodore assured me that I was quite equal to being a bishop’s wife.’

‘Yes, I am
sure
he did,’ said Belinda, remembering. ‘Are you to be married here or in London?’

‘Oh, from Belgrave Square. Lady Grudge insisted on it. She’s been so
very
kind and is most interested in the splendid work Theodore’s been doing.’

‘I feel that Connie’s cup is almost too full,’ said Belinda, as she and Harriet walked home together, ‘but I’m very glad she’s so happy. Perhaps they really do love each other, though he may have told her not to expect that. But perhaps it was only
I
who was not to expect love,’ she added rather sadly.

‘And being married from Belgrave Square!’ said Harriet, who was in high spirits. ‘One feels that is almost the best thing about it.
Hymen Io!
’ she chanted, producing a most appropriate leftover fragment of her classical education. ‘That is suitable for weddings isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Belinda, who had not had the same advantages. ‘Of course there are many beautiful Epithalamia in the English language, but one reels somehow that they are more for young people.’

But Harriet had lost interest in Connie and the Bishop. She was remembering Olivia Berridge’s description of the new curate. ‘Balliol and rather Italian-looking,’ she breathed, ‘and just recovered from an illness. Oh, Belinda, he will need such special care!’ Later that evening she could be seen studying a book of Invalid Cookery, and was quite annoyed when Belinda pointed out that he would probably be eating with a normal appetite by the time he came to them.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Fortunately the wedding day was fine, one of those unexpected spring days that come too soon and deceive one into thinking that the winter is over. Belinda had great difficulty in restraining Harriet from casting off her woollen vest, and was only successful after she had pointed out, with great seriousness, that the curate would surely not be so foolish as to leave off his winter combinations in February.

‘Oh, I suppose Miss Berridge would see to that,’ said Harriet sulkily. ‘It’s quite obvious that she’s going to fuss over him and turn him into a molly-coddle.’

Belinda could think of no answer to make to this, but could only wonder at the shortness of Harriet’s memory. It seemed such a little time since she had thought of nothing but knitting and cooking special dishes for Mr Donne.

By many deeds of shame

We learn that love grows cold,

thought Belinda. Did the author of that fine hymn realize how often his lines had been frivolously applied? She turned to her prayer-book and saw that he had died in 1905: so he was beyond the realization. No doubt we are more frivolous now than we were then, she thought, feeling in her jewel-box for her little seed-pearl brooch The neck of her new dress – a soft shade of blue that could not possibly make her look yellow – needed something to relieve its severity. Miss Prior had really made it very well; it even fitted quite closely as a result of Belinda’s timid and carefully phrased request for something a little less shapeless than usual. Harriet had ordered a creation from Gorringe’s which Belinda considered an unnecessary expense. She had not, however, mentioned this to her sister as she realized that the loss of a dear curate was something of an occasion and this was, as far as she could remember, the first time one had been lost by marriage. Usually it was the Mission Field or the East End of London that claimed them, or, more rarely, a comfortable living in the gift of a distant relative…

‘Belinda! Are you ready?’ Harriet stood in the room, magnificent in furs and veiled hat.

‘Oh, yes, I just have to put on my hat and coat. There! You
do
look nice, Harriet. I wonder if a veil would suit me? One feels that it’s
kinder
somehow – not that your complexion needs to be hidden, of course, but I sometimes think that for me … and yet, I don’t know …’ she broke off, wondering whether it would really make any difference now if she were to appear with her face softened by clouds of veiling. Henry knew the face underneath and would not be deceived and that was all that really mattered.

‘Yes, I think it’s one of my most successful hats,’ said Harriet. ‘Yours is nice too,’ she added kindly. ‘I think I should wear it just a
little
further back, though.’

Belinda adjusted it without looking in the mirror and they went downstairs.

‘It’s really a perfect day,’ said Harriet, ‘amazingly mild.’

‘But I’m glad you kept on your vest,’ said Belinda, ‘it would have been most unwise to leave it off. It’s certainly mild compared with what it has been, but it may be colder tonight.’

As they passed the vicarage she drew Harriet’s attention to an almond tree in full blossom.

‘Look, the almond tree’s out,’ she said. ‘I always feel it looks lovelier every year, so beautiful that one can hardly bear it.’

Harriet looked at her sister apprehensively. She hoped Belinda wasn’t going to cry too much at the wedding. They did not have many weddings in the village and it would hardly be surprising if Belinda began to distress herself by remembering that if Fate had willed otherwise she herself might have married the Archdeacon thirty years ago. She was relieved when Belinda went on to talk about ordinary things, whether it would be wise to take more than one glass of champagne at the reception, always assuming it were offered, what Agatha would be wearing and whether the new curate would be at the church.

The sisters arrived in good time so that they could choose their place carefully. Harriet looked round quite unashamedly to watch people coming into the church. Belinda occasionally turned her head, but most of the time she sat quietly with her hands folded in her lap, though she could not help showing her interest and even whispering to Harriet when Agatha came in, very elegant in dark red, with a fur coat and wide-brimmed hat. A group of nondescript-looking women – possibly relatives or friends of the bride, fellow workers in the field of Middle English studies – came behind Agatha and they sat together in one of the front pews.

Dr Nicholas Parnell had unfortunately not been able to come down for the wedding as he had to welcome to the Library some distinguished Russian visitors who were bringing with them a number of interesting relics. Mr Mold had recently left for China, where he was to make a tour of libraries and a special study of the heating systems employed in them. There was, however, to be one distinguished visitor, the University Professor of Middle English, who was to give the bride away.

‘Perhaps he wanted Miss Berridge too,’ Harriet had suggested, ‘but hadn’t the courage to speak.’

‘Oh surely not,’ said Belinda, ‘or how could he bear to come to the wedding?’ She could certainly not have attended Agatha and Henry’s.

In the meantime the church was filling up. Count Bianco, whose gout was well enough now to allow him to go out, had chosen his seat carefully so that he could have a good view of Harriet. Edith Liversidge came in alone, for Connie Aspinall was in Belgravia, preparing for her own wedding in a few weeks time. Edith had honoured the occasion by wearing her best purple dress, and a kind of toque on her head, a little like a tea-cosy but dignified for all that. How dear John would have loved to see her, thought Belinda sadly. Being in church often made her think of John and his tragic death in Prague. They said it was a golden city, but how much more golden must it be from its associations with him.

She began to study the white and silver leaflet, announcing the marriage of Olivia Mary Berridge with Edgar Bernard Amberley Donne. The young couple had not chosen
God moves in a mysterious way
among the hymns, indeed, Belinda had hardly hoped for that. Their selection, except for a Middle English lyric to a setting by a relative of the bride’s, was conventional.
Gracious Spirit, Holy Ghost
and
The voice that breathed o’er Eden
were very suitable. It was true that the latter was often sung to the tune of
Brief life is here our portion
, but it did no harm to be reminded of that. Brief life
was
here our portion … Belinda’s eyes strayed to the rows of memorial tablets to past vicars. She could hardly bear to think that one day Henry’s would be among them and that she might be there to see it.

At this moment there was a stir of excitement as the curate appeared with his best man, a stocky, red-haired young clergyman, a typical rowing man, as Harriet whispered to Belinda.

Shortly afterwards the bride entered on the arm of the Professor of Middle English, a tall, thin man, ill at ease in his formal clothes. Belinda wondered whether Henry and Agatha were remembering their own wedding day. She had heard that people did on these occasions unless they were in a position to look forward rather than back. Count Bianco might be looking forward, but more quietly and with less rapture than a younger man. Was there anybody in the church without some romantic thought? Possibly Miss Prior, sitting with her old mother, was more interested in the bride’s dress which, Belinda noticed with approval, was not white but sapphire-blue velvet, the kind of thing that would ‘come in’ afterwards and could if necessary be dyed and worn for years. She really looked very nice, almost pretty and not as tall as she had seemed to be at the presentation.

‘If I’m ever married I shall certainly have
a fully
choral ceremony,’ said Harriet enthusiastically as they filed out of the church. ‘Or is there a special one for those of riper years?’

Belinda said nothing because she had been crying a little and could not trust herself to speak yet.

‘No, that’s only baptism,’ said Edith cheerfully. ‘I believe Connie and the Bishop are having quite an elaborate affair. You will be getting your invitations soon. She’s having a dress made at Marshall’s – embossed chenille velvet – though goodness knows what use that will be in the tropics,’ she snorted.

‘No, it doesn’t seem as if it would be much use,’ Belinda agreed. ‘But of course he won’t be Bishop of Mbawawa all his life. I suppose he may retire and write a book about his experiences. They often do, don’t they?’

‘With cassock and surplice in Mbawawa-land,’ retorted Edith. ‘Yes, one knows the kind of thing only too well.’

‘What a beautiful day,’ said a gentle voice behind them. ‘It is quite like Naples.’

‘My dear Ricardo,’ said Edith, looking round, ‘where in Naples would you see such a very odd-looking crowd of people as are now coming out of this church?’

‘I don’t see the new curate among them.’ said Harriet, looking worried. ‘It can’t be the best man, can it? Nobody would call him Italian-looking. Ricardo, Italians don’t ever have red hair, do they?’

The Count considered the question seriously. ‘Red hair is certainly not unknown in Italy,’ he pronounced at length, ‘but I do not think you would say that it is characteristic of the Italians. In the north of course it is sometimes found, but,’ he paused impressively, ‘I do not remember that I ever saw a red-haired man in Naples.’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ said Harriet perfunctorily, ‘it can’t be him then. But I did hope he was going to be at the wedding.’

‘I daresay there was some difficulty about the trains,’ suggested Belinda. ‘We shall probably find that he is at the reception.’

This was to be held at the parish hall. The curate had invited all the village, so that the vicarage drawing-room would hardly have contained them. The bride and bridegroom were in the doorway to shake hands with the guests as they filed in.

Belinda murmured what she hoped was a suitable greeting and passed on but she heard Harriet laughing loudly with Mr Donne, so that she wondered rather fearfully what her sister could have said. She found herself standing by Agatha and confronted by a tray of glasses of champagne which one of the hired waiters was holding in front of her.

‘I must just have a sip, to drink their health, you know,’ she said apologetically, feeling Agatha’s eyes on her.

‘Oh, certainly,’ said Agatha. ‘It is quite the thing.’

‘I’m not really very used to drinking champagne,’ Belinda admitted.

‘Aren’t you?’ Agatha gave a little social laugh, which would normally have crushed Belinda and made her feel very gauche and inferior. But today she did not mind. She was almost glad to be able to see Agatha as her old self again. The socks not quite long enough in the foot, which the Bishop had so unkindly mentioned, had been worrying Belinda. She had suddenly seen Agatha as pathetic and the picture was disturbing. Now she knew that there could never be anything pathetic about Agatha. Poised and well-dressed, used to drinking champagne, the daughter of a bishop and the wife of an archdeacon – that was Agatha Hoccleve. It was Belinda Bede who was the pathetic one and it was so much easier to bear the burden of one’s own pathos than that of somebody else. Indeed, perhaps the very recognition of it in oneself meant that it didn’t really exist. Belinda took a rather large sip of champagne and looked round the hall with renewed courage.

Most of the guests were known to her, although some people from neighbouring villages had been invited. She noticed Father Plowman, near the food and with a well-filled glass, Lady Clara Boulding, putting a small
vol-au-vent
whole into her mouth, and a group of Sunday School teachers, Miss Beard, Miss Smiley and Miss Jenner, standing in a corner by themselves and looking suspiciously into their glasses. Agatha had left her now and was greeting some of the guests, so Belinda moved over to where Miss Prior and her mother were standing.

‘Very nice, isn’t it?’ she said inadequately, nodding and smiling in their direction.

‘Oh, yes, it’s quite nice,’ said Mrs Prior. ‘It’s nice to see everyone enjoying themselves. I like to see that.’

‘Mother was saying she wished there was a cup of tea,’ said Miss Prior in a low voice, ‘but we’ll have one when we get home. You see, Miss Bede, we’re not really used to drinking champagne. It’s different for you of course.’

‘Well, I don’t often have it,’ Belinda admitted, feeling that she must stand midway between Agatha and the Priors in this matter, ‘but of course we all want to drink the health of the bride and bridegroom in it.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Miss Prior agreed. ‘She looks very sweet, doesn’t she? That
Vogue
pattern makes up well in velvet, it was in the December book. Your dress has turned out quite nicely, too, Miss Bede. I had such trouble with the sleeves, you wouldn’t believe it. I found I’d put them in the wrong way round!’ Miss Prior laughed rather shrilly and took a gulp of champagne.

‘Are they the right way round now?’ asked Belinda.

‘Oh, of course, Miss Bede. I took them out again. I couldn’t let you wear a dress with the sleeves in the wrong way round.’

‘No,’ said Belinda, feeling all the same that this kind of thing might very well happen to her. ‘Mrs Hoccleve’s dress is very smart, isn’t it?’ she ventured, feeling that it was not at all the thing to discuss the guests’ clothes with Miss Prior but being unable to resist the temptation. Perhaps, she thought, Miss Prior’s profession will excuse me.

‘Smart, yes, that’s what I would call it too,’ said Miss Prior. ‘But red’s not her colour. The material’s good, I can see that, but you take a look at the seams inside – you won’t find them finished off like mine are.’

‘No, I dare say not,’ said Belinda, realizing that she would certainly never have the opportunity of examining the dress so minutely, but feeling, none the less, that Agatha’s splendour was considerably diminished.

‘Oh, look, the Archdeacon’s going to make a speech,’ said Miss Prior. ‘Pray silence for the Venerable Hoccleve,’ she giggled.