Miss Mole

by E. H. Young

  Robert Corder let down the window to see if the other cab was following, the wheels crunched the Spenser-Smiths gravel, and Lilia stood in the porch, surrounded by gigantic chrysanthemums.

  It was he who led the procession into the drawing-room, with Ethel at his heels: Ruth tried to get behind Miss Mole but she kept her place in front of Uncle Jim and had the pleasure of watching Lilia’s greeting of the minister and his daughters before she stepped forward for her own welcome. This was an extended hand and a half-puzzled glance, quickly changing to one of recognition.

  ‘Oh, it’s Miss Mole,’ Lilia said.

  ‘How sweet of you to remember me,’ Hannah replied.

  Valiantly Lilia restrained a frown and her quick eye saw the lace, the brooch and the moire silk before Hannah felt her hand grasped in Ernest’s and knew that only his duty to his other guests and the instructions he had received from Lilia prevented him from taking her into a corner and having a good cousinly chat.

  Hannah found a corner for herself. She asked for nothing better than a point of vantage from which she could watch Lilia so skilfully varying the warmth of her smile for each newcomer and, by the slight changes in her cordiality, Hannah thought she could judge the worldly position or soundness of doctrine of each arrival. Lilia was perfectly dressed for her part; richly enough to do honour to her guests and remind them of their privileges, but with due consideration for the shabbily clad, and of these there was a good number, and Uncle Jim’s was not the only blue serge suit. Hannah recognized many faces she had seen in the chapel, faces of matrons, of spinsters and of young men with thin necks. It was surprising to see so many young men with thin necks and large Adam’s apples; it had something to do with Non-conformity, she supposed: perhaps Mr. Corder would be able to explain their association, but at the moment he was engaged by a gloomy deacon who could not forget the chapel in the party, and indeed, the party was the chapel on its lighter side, and Robert Corder, trying to get away from the deacon, was as anxious as anyone else to emphasize that side and to encourage the liveliness with which Mrs. Spenser-Smith’s parties always went from the beginning. Already Ruth was biting her pencil as she earnestly took part in a competition, and Ethel was being very bright with the young men whose placarded backs she had to examine. Uncle Jim, to whom self-consciousness was unknown, was prowling round the room and volunteering advice about the competitions to people he had never seen before, and enjoying himself more than he had expected. It was easy to distinguish Margery Spenser-Smith, like a more sophisticated Lilia at that age, and to recognize sons of the house in a youth who had something of Ernest’s quiet kindness in his manner, and a younger boy who looked more bored than any guest would have dared to be. These were Hannah’s cousins and, if she knew her Lilia, they had not heard of her existence. As far as they, and most of the other people in the room, were concerned, Hannah was invisible, though Miss Patsy Withers had given her a sweet smile, and she was tiring a little of this advantage when she saw Mr. Blenkinsop approaching. There was an empty chair beside her and she pointed to it, hoping Lilia or Robert Corder would see this airy gesture, while she smiled up at him, a radiant Miss Mole, her face transfigured by the laughter behind it. Yet there was nothing comic in Mr. Blenkinsop’s appearance. He looked very clean and his dinner-jacket was well cut; the little black tie and the winged collar became him; he seemed slimmer in the waist and broader in the shoulders; his neck was not thin and he had no convulsively working Adam’s apple.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ she said. ‘You’re a black sheep, but perhaps Mrs. Spenser-Smith doesn’t know it. Thank you for the books, Mr. Blenkinsop. I’ve used up a lot of Mr. Corder’s candles, reading them when I should have been asleep.’

  ‘You mustn’t do that,’ he said, with a little frown.

  ‘Dishonest?’

  ‘No. Tiring. As for dishonesty, I was going to telephone to Mrs. Spenser-Smith and say I’d got a cold –’

  ‘I’m glad someone else can tell lies,’ Hannah interjected.

  ‘And then Mrs. Gibson told me you’d be here, so I came too.’

  ‘Well, tell me all about it, quick! You’ll be dragged away to play one of those idiotic games in a minute. What’s been happening?’

  ‘I spent Christmas Day with a sister of my mother’s.

  ‘And when you got home – ?’

  ‘And when I got home, I felt worn out,’ Mr. Blenkinsop said simply. ‘Sitting in a stuffy room, after a heavy meal, and trying to keep up a pleasant conversation.’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’ Hannah said feelingly. ‘I’ve spent years of my life doing that – years! At about fourpence halfpenny an hour. It’s grim, isn’t it? I’d rather have a suicidal husband. There’s some excitement about that and the hope of ultimate release.’

  ‘Not if people insist on being as resourceful as you were, Mr. Blenkinsop said incisively.

  ‘No,’ Hannah said penitently. ‘And yet you sent me those books! But go on, Mr. Blenkinsop. When you got home, worn out, in no state to deal with a difficult situation – what happened?’

  ‘I went to bed, of course.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Hannah groaned. ‘If I laugh out loud, Mrs. Spenser-Smith will hear me and take you from me, and I can’t spare you, but I’m longing to laugh! It hurts.’

  He turned his mild, spectacled gaze on her. ‘What’s the joke?’

  ‘Oh, nothing, nothing! I was prepared to hear the story of another rescue, and you merely went to bed.

  ‘I don’t see anything funny in that.’

  ‘Perhaps there isn’t,’ Hannah said amiably, and her lips twitched as she imagined his methodical retirement for the night; she saw him winding his watch, laying his clothes aside neatly, getting out a clean collar for the next day and examining the buttons about which he was so nervous, and Mr. Blenkinsop’s voice, more intense, reached her just as he was getting into bed.

  ‘But there’ll have to be a rescue, of another kind, sooner or later,’ he said, and Hannah told herself that he had come to the party to talk to her about Mrs. Ridding.

  ‘I’m afraid to offer to help,’ she said, ‘in case I do the wrong thing again, but if I can, I will.’

  ‘The ridiculous part of it,’ he confided, ‘is that I believe he’d be just as happy without her.’

  ‘Well, that’s a comfort, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think it makes it worse.’

  ‘You’re the best judge of that, Mr. Blenkinsop, but I should call it an extenuating circumstance.’

  ‘These people simply suck the strength out of their relations – like vampires,’ Mr. Blenkinsop said, becoming fanciful under emotion. ‘I believe he’d be better if he had a thorough change.’

  ‘Of wives?’ Hannah asked flippantly.

  ‘I shouldn’t care to offer anybody the position,’ he said bitterly.

  ‘I may be wanting a job myself, before long,’ Hannah said. ‘I suppose you don’t know any respectable old gentleman – but not too respectable – with a competency – and not an annuity – who would suit me?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mr. Blenkinsop and, when he looked at her, he missed the mocking curve of her lips.

  ‘I’m proud to say I’ve never asked anyone for help yet,’ she said, ‘but the day may come. Yes, the day may come,’ she repeated, and now he saw that she was smiling again, but not mockingly and not at him. ‘Mrs. Spenser-Smith has got her eye on you,’ she said, ‘but stay here for a little longer if you can. It doesn’t do to boast. You see, I’m asking you for help already.’

  ‘Just sitting here?’

  ‘Just sitting here,’ she said, and Mr. Blenkinsop settled himself in his chair with an adhesive pressure.

  He was observant, as far as he went, which was no further than the person who held his interest at the moment. He had not the power to watch another group of people at the same time, to see the development of a situation or to feel slight differences in the atmosphere, which was Hannah’s by nature and b
y training, and he had no clue to her strained look which quickly changed to one of quivering, half-merry determination. Mentally lost, Mr. Blenkinsop was firm in his seat. He knew not why he had to stay there, but stay there he would and, indifferent to everything but this duty, he endured the confusion of voices and laughter, the danger to his patent leather toes from all these young people pushing past him, carefully avoided the eye of Mrs. Spenser-Smith, and calculated that Robert Corder – now talking to another minister who had just arrived and who also wore a frock-coat and had a sleek black head – would ignore the presence of his deserter.

  ‘Can’t you talk about something?’ Hannah asked sharply.

  ‘Yes,’ he said obediently. ‘I was going to tell you that I’m looking for a little house in the country.’

  ‘Good gracious! Are you going to start farming too?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I want a little house with a bit of land.’

  ‘And do you expect me to tell you where to find it? Are you going to live in it yourself?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he repeated, and though he looked embarrassed, his confidences continued. ‘You see, the present state of things can’t last.’

  ‘Which?’ Hannah asked perversely.

  Mr. Blenkinsop frowned again. ‘With the Riddings. But we don’t want to talk about it till things are settled.’

  ‘They’re never settled,’ Hannah warned him. ‘Take my word for it. If you want to be comfortable, don’t do anything.’

  ‘Not what I think is right?’

  ‘That’s the very worst thing you can do. What other people think right, if you like, Mr. Blenkinsop, but not what you do. That’s the advice I give you out of my own experience.’

  ‘Well, I’ve been doing nothing in particular for forty years and now that I’ve started I’m going my own way, and it was you who laughed at me for living behind the gilded bars, you know.’

  ‘Oh, don’t blame me!’ she cried.

  ‘But it’s no good being off with the old love before you are on with the new.’

  ‘But aren’t you on with it?’

  ‘Getting towards it,’ Mr. Blenkinsop said, smiling slyly. ‘But first I want to find the little house.’

  ‘And if you do,’ she said, speaking slowly because she was thinking of two things at once and watching the owner of the sleek black head making towards her deviously but surely, ‘it will bother you for the rest of your days – I know all about these little houses – for when it comes to hard tacks, Mr. Blenkinsop, if you know what they are, for I don’t – but then, you’ve got what they call an independent income, haven’t you?’

  ‘I shouldn’t do it if I couldn’t afford it,’ he said, a little stiffly.

  ‘And that,’ she said, ‘is just the difference between you and me,’ and Mr. Blenkinsop turned from her, who had spoken the last words on an upward and then a descending breath, to the man at whom she was looking with a little questioning lift of the brows.

  This was the minister with the black head, and Mr. Blenkinsop took a great dislike to him. He was interrupting an important conversation, and he was objectionable in himself and in his unctuous smile as he addressed Miss Mole, saying he thought they had met before.

  Miss Mole shook her head. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I have a very good memory for faces, but if I’ve seen yours before I’ve quite forgotten it.’

  ‘But you’re Miss Mole, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Miss Mole.’ Then she smiled with the vividness which always startled Mr. Blenkinsop. ‘I wonder if you’re thinking of my cousin,’ she said. ‘Another Mole.’

  ‘Is her name Hannah?’

  ‘No, Hilda. There’s supposed to be a strong family likeness. Oh, don’t go, Mr. Blenkinsop!’

  ‘But we’re going to play Clumps,’ said the voice of Mrs. Spenser-Smith, ‘and I want Mr. Blenkinsop to be one of those to go outside. Mr. Corder will be one, of course, and Mr. Pilgrim, perhaps you’ll be another.’

  She swept them both away and it was some time before Mr. Blenkinsop could see more of Miss Mole, for they were in different clumps, than a small steady head among many other heads, like those of bathers, bobbing above a sea of coloured dresses.

  Chapter 29

  After supper, one of those little rumours, which start mysteriously and surprise no one so much as the people to whom they refer, began running about Mrs. Spenser-Smith’s drawing-room. For a skilfully long time she pretended not to hear it, but the moment arrived, and it was hastened by Ernest’s clumsy kindness; when it was impossible to resist the knowledge that Mr. Pilgrim could recite. Solo performances were against her rule. She knew what sort of talent the members of the chapel possessed, its devastating effect on the gaiety of her parties and the little jealousies that could arise, but Mr. Pilgrim was a newcomer, invited, as a lonely bachelor, at Ernest’s particular desire, and though she doubted his ability and disliked singling him out for honour, she could not refuse the eager requests of those ladies, of all ages, who were thrilled by the presence of another and a new minister and begged her to let him recite, nor could she ignore Ernest’s open persuasions of the apparently reluctant Mr. Pilgrim. It was noticeable that no other male voice joined in the solicitations, and that even the thinnest-necked of the young men, to whom a minister was a natural object of veneration, put his back against the wall and settled his features into an expression he hoped they would be able to maintain.

  Hannah longed for Wilfrid, but, lacking him, she found some consolation in watching Uncle Jim’s unguarded look of amazement and Robert Corder’s earnestness to do as he would be done by, and when she met the eyes of Samuel Blenkinsop, who stood among the other young men against the opposite wall, she felt that she was more than compensated for the loss of Wilfrid. Mr. Blenkinsop was looking at her with a solemn dismay, as though she was his only hope in this calamity, and though she had not much time to give to anyone, being anxious not to miss a word or a gesture of Mr. Pilgrim’s performance, or to lose one drop of her revenge for his persistence in dogging her with glances all the evening, it was very pleasant to know that it was her eye Mr. Blenkinsop had sought.

  Mr. Pilgrim was a tragedian and he did not spare himself. The long poem he recited was all too short for the enraptured Hannah, and if the clapping at the end did not express a correspondence with her own feelings, Mr. Pilgrim was not a prey to doubts. He wiped his face with the freedom of the man who has obviously done his utmost, and Mrs. Spenser-Smith managed, with great adroitness, to start another game as she went forward to thank him. Ethel was thanking him already; she had no doubts either, but, for the first time in the history of Mrs. Spenser-Smith’s parties, there were no charades. The games went merrily on until Miss Patsy Withers’s elder sister was whispered towards the piano and the opening bars of Sir Roger de Coverley were played. Robert Corder partnered Mrs. Spenser-Smith. Ernest tucked the hand of the shabbiest of the spinsters under his kind arm and seemed to regret that he could not take care of all the other women who were not wanted, and Hannah, smiling gaily at him as he passed and trying to look as though she did not want to dance, saw Ethel beaming in her place opposite to Mr. Pilgrim and Ruth happy with her Uncle Jim.

  ‘Could you bear it?’ Mr. Blenkinsop asked her crossly. ‘I should love it.’

  ‘I generally get away before this begins, I feel such a fool, capering down the room with my hands out.’

  ‘From Capra, a goat,’ Hannah murmured to herself. ‘But if we’re capering together –’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ he admitted gloomily. ‘Is there any chance of walking home with you? It would do me good to talk to somebody about that recitation.’

  ‘Somebody?’ Hannah said sharply. ‘Try Mrs. Ridding. Yes, try her as a sort of test. There ought to be a preliminary examination for every vocation, you know, and if she fails in the subject of Mr. Pilgrim, I should plough her altogether.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Mr. Blenkinsop said with a trace of sulkines
s, as they took their places for the dance.

  ‘And anyhow,’ Hannah bent towards him to whisper, ‘Mr. Corder doesn’t approve of followers. It would embarrass me to be escorted across the Downs by a single gent. I have to pay for my pleasures, Mr. Blenkinsop!’

  There was more annoyance than amusement in his smile. Apparently this sort of banter was not to his taste and, either in expression of his disapproval, or in deference to her wish, there was no sign of him when the Beresford Road party started across the Downs followed by Mrs. Spenser-Smith’s regret that, for some unexplained reason, she could not send them in the car.

  They went in pairs, like a girls’ school; Uncle Jim with Howard, and Ethel and Ruth in an accidental companionship which left their father with Miss Mole.

  ‘This is the first time we have not had charades,’ he burst out, like a disappointed child. ‘I can’t remember one of Mrs. Spenser-Smith’s parties when we haven’t had charades after supper. We choose a word, Miss Mole, and as I am always expected to be the leader of one of the sides, I’d given a little thought to the matter, to save time. I don’t grudge that and the whole thing is of no importance, but I must say I think the party was not quite so successful this year.’

  ‘Mrs. Spenser-Smith is a clever woman,’ Hannah said.

  ‘Certainly. Yes. But I think she showed less cleverness than usual.’

  ‘Clever – and considerate, to us and to Mr. Pilgrim. He would have expected to be the leader of the other side. We had seen him as a tragedian; we might have had to listen to him being funny. Considerate to all of us, but more considerate to him,’ she added in a slow, droll tone, and Mr. Corder laughed so suddenly and loudly that his daughters looked round as they walked in front, and Howard and Uncle Jim, still further ahead, slackened their pace and turned to see who had joined the little company and made Robert Corder laugh as he seldom laughed in the family.

  ‘So you didn’t enjoy the recitation?’ he asked with some eagerness.