by E. F. Benson
And then suddenly a deadly hush fell on these discussions, and even those who were walking fastest in their indignation came to a halt, for out of the front door of The Hurst streamed the ‘exciting people’ and their hosts. There was Lucia, hatless and shingled and short-skirted, and the Bird-of-Paradise and Mrs. Garroby-Ashton, and Pepino and Lord Limpsfield and Mr. Merriall all talking shrilly together, with shrieks of hollow laughter. They came slowly across the Green towards the little pond round which Riseholme stood, and passed within fifty yards of it, and if Lucia had been the Gorgon, Riseholme could not more effectually have been turned into stone. She too, appeared not to notice them, so absorbed was she in conversation, and on they went straight towards the Museum. Just as they passed Colonel Boucher’s house, Mrs. Boucher came out in her bath-chair, and without pause was wheeled straight through the middle of them. She then drew up by the side of the Green below the large elm.
The party passed into the Museum. The windows were open, and from inside them came shrieks of laughter. This continued for about ten minutes, and then… they all came out again. Several of them carried catalogues, and Mr. Merriall was reading out of one in a loud voice.
“Pair of worsted mittens,” he announced, “belonging to Queen Charlotte, and presented by the Lady Ambermere.”
“Don’t,” said Lucia. “Don’t make fun of our dear little Museum, Stephen.”
As they retraced their way along the edge of the green, movement came back to Riseholme again. Lucia’s policy with regard to the Museum had declared itself. Georgie strolled up to Mrs. Boucher’s bath-chair. Mrs. Boucher was extremely red in the face, and her hands were trembling.
“Good evening, Mr. Georgie,” said she. “Another party of strangers, I see, visiting the Museum. They looked very odd people, and I hope we shan’t find anything missing. Any news?”
That was a very dignified way of taking it, and Georgie responded in the same spirit.
“Not a scrap that I know of,” he said, “except that Olga’s coming down to-morrow.”
“That will be nice,” said Mrs. Boucher. “Riseholme is always glad to see her.”
Daisy joined them.
“Good evening, Mrs. Quantock,” said Mrs. Boucher. “Any news?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Daisy rather breathlessly. “Didn’t you see them? Lucia and her party?”
“No,” said Mrs. Boucher firmly. “She is in London surely. Anything else?”
Daisy took the cue. Complete ignorance that Lucia was in Riseholme at all was a noble manœuvre.
“It must have been my mistake,” she said. “Oh, my mulberry tree has quite come round.”
“No!” said Mrs. Boucher in the Riseholme voice. “I am pleased. I daresay the pruning did it good. And Mr. Georgie’s just told me that our dear Olga, or I should say Mrs. Shuttleworth, is coming down to-morrow, but he hasn’t told me what time yet.”
“Two or three, she said,” answered Georgie. “She’s motoring down, and is going to have lunch with me whenever she gets here.”
“Indeed! Then I should advise you to have something cold that won’t spoil by waiting. A bit of cold lamb, for instance. Nothing so good on a hot day.”
“What an excellent idea!” said Georgie. “I was thinking of hot lamb. But the other’s much better. I’ll have it cooked to-night.”
“And a nice tomato salad,” said Mrs. Boucher, “and if you haven’t got any, I can give you some. Send your Foljambe round, and she’ll come back with half a dozen ripe tomatoes.”
Georgie hurried off to see to these new arrangements, and Colonel Boucher having strolled away with Piggie, his wife could talk freely to Mrs. Quantock… She did.
Lucia waking rather early next morning found she had rather an uneasy conscience as her bedfellow, and she used what seemed very reasonable arguments to quiet it. There would have been no point in writing to Georgie or any of them to say that she was bringing down some friends for the week-end and would be occupied with them all Sunday. She could not with all these guests play duets with Georgie, or get poor Daisy to give an exhibition of ouija, or have Mrs. Boucher in her bath-chair to tea, for she would give them all long histories of purely local interest, which could not conceivably amuse people like Lord Limpsfield or weird Sophy. She had been quite wise to keep Riseholme and Brompton Square apart, for they would not mix. Besides, her guests would go away on Monday morning, and she had determined to stop over till Tuesday and be extremely kind, and not the least condescending. She would have one or two of them to lunch, and one or two more to dinner, and give Georgie a full hour of duets as well. Naturally, if Olga had been here, she would have asked Olga on Sunday but Olga had been singing last night at the opera. Lucia had talked a good deal about her at dinner, and given the impression that they were never out of each other’s houses either in town or here, and had lamented her absence.
“Such a pity,” she had said. “For dearest Olga loves singing in my music-room. I shall never forget how she dropped in for some little garden-party and sang the awakening of Brunnhilde. Even you, dear Sophy, with your passion for the primitive, would have enjoyed that. She sang ‘Lucrezia’ here, too, before anyone had heard it. Cortese brought the score down the moment he had finished it—ah, I think that was in her house—there was just Pepino and me, and perhaps one or two others. We would have had dearest Olga here all day to-morrow if only she had been here…”
So Lucia felt fairly easy, having planned these treats for Riseholme on Monday, as to her aloofness to-day, and then her conscience brought up the question of the Museum. Here she stoutly defended herself: she knew nothing about the Museum (except what Pepino had seen through the window a few Sundays before); she had not been consulted about the Museum, she was not on the committee, and it was perfectly proper for her to take her party to see it. She could not prevent them bursting into shrieks of laughter at Queen Charlotte’s mittens and Daisy’s drain-pipes, nor could she possibly prevent herself from joining in those shrieks of laughter herself, for surely this was the most ridiculous collection of rubbish ever brought together. A glass case for Queen Charlotte’s mittens, a heap of fossils such as she had chipped out by the score from the old quarry, some fragments of glass (Georgie ought to have known better), some quilts, a dozen coins, lent, only lent, by poor Daisy! In fact the only object of the slightest interest was the pair of stocks which she and Pepino had bought and set up on the village green. She would see about that when she came down in August, and back they should go on to the village green. Then there was the catalogue: who could help laughing at the catalogue which described in most pompous language the contents of this dustbin? There was nothing to be uneasy about over that. And as for Mrs. Boucher having driven right through her party without a glance of recognition, what did that matter? On her own side also, Lucia had given no glance of recognition to Mrs. Boucher: if she had, Mrs. Boucher would have told them all about her asparagus or how her Elizabeth had broken a plate. It was odd, perhaps, that Mrs. Boucher hadn’t stopped… and was it rather odd also that, though from the corner of her eye she had seen all Riseholme standing about on the Green, no one had made the smallest sign of welcome? It was true that she had practically cut them (if a process conducted at the distance of fifty yards can be called a cut), but she was not quite sure that she enjoyed the same process herself. Probably it meant nothing; they saw she was engaged with her friends, and very properly had not thrust themselves forward.
Her guests mostly breakfasted upstairs, but by the middle of the morning they had all straggled down. Lucia had brought with her yesterday her portrait by Sigismund, which Sophy declared was a masterpiece of adagio. She was advising her to clear all other pictures out of the music-room and hang it there alone, like a wonderful slow movement, when Mr. Merriall came in with the Sunday paper.
“Ah, the paper has come,” said Lucia. “Is not that Riseholmish of us? We never get the Sunday paper till midday.”
“Better late than never,” said Mr. Merriall, who was
rather addicted to quoting proverbial sayings. “I see that Mrs. Shuttleworth’s coming down here to-day. Do ask her to dine and perhaps she’ll sing to us.”
Lucia paused for a single second, then clapped her hands.
“Oh, what fun that would be!” she said. “But I don’t think it can be true. Dearest Olga popped in—or did I pop in—yesterday morning in town, and she said nothing about it. No doubt she had not made up her mind then whether she was coming or not. Of course I’ll ring her up at once and scold her for not telling me.”
Lucia found from Olga’s caretaker that she and a friend were expected, but she knew they couldn’t come to lunch with her, as they were lunching with Mr. Pillson. She ‘couldn’t say, I’m sure’ who the friend was, but promised to give the message that Mrs. Lucas hoped they would both come and dine… The next thing was to ring up Georgie and be wonderfully cordial.
“Georgino mio, is it ‘oo?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Georgie. He did not have to ask who it was, nor did he feel inclined for baby-talk.
“Georgino, I never caught a glimpse of you yesterday,” she said. “Why didn’t ‘oo come round and see me?”
“Because you never asked me,” said Georgie firmly, “and because you never told me you were coming.”
“Me so sorry,” said Lucia. “But me was so fussed and busy in town. Delicious to be in Riseholme again.”
“Delicious,” said Georgie.
Lucia paused a moment.
“Is Georgino cross with me?” she asked.
“Not a bit,” said Georgie brightly. “Why?”
“I didn’t know. And I hear my Olga and a friend are lunching with you. I am hoping they will come and dine with me to-night. And do come in afterwards. We shall be eight already, or of course I should ask you.”
“Thanks so much, but I’m dining with her,” said Georgie.
A pause.
“Well, all of you come and dine here,” said Lucia. “Such amusing people, and I’ll squeeze you in.”
“I’m afraid I can’t accept for Olga,” said Georgie. “And I’m dining with her, you see.”
“Well, will you come across after lunch and bring them?” said Lucia. “Or tea?”
“I don’t know what they will feel inclined to do,” said Georgie. “But I’ll tell them.”
“Do, and I’ll ring up at lunch-time again, and have ickle talk to my Olga. Who is her friend?”
Georgie hesitated: he thought he would not give that away just yet. Lucia would know in heaps of time.
“Oh, just somebody whom she’s possibly bringing down,” he said, and rang off.
Lucia began to suspect a slight mystery, and she disliked mysteries, except when she made them herself. Olga’s caretaker was ‘sure she couldn’t say,’ and Georgie (Lucia was sure) wouldn’t. So she went back to her guests, and very prudently said that Olga had not arrived at present, and then gave them a wonderful account of her little intime dinner with Olga and Princess Isabel. Such a delightful amusing woman: they must all come and meet Princess Isabel some day soon in town.
Lucia and her guests, with the exception of Sophy Alingsby who continued to play primitive tunes with one finger on the piano, went for a stroll on the Green before lunch. Mrs. Quantock hurried by with averted face, and naturally everybody wanted to know how the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland was. Lucia amused them by a bright version of poor Daisy’s ouija-board and the story of the mulberry tree.
“Such dears they all are,” she said. “But too killing. And then she planted broccoli instead of phlox. It’s only in Riseholme that such things happen. You must all come and stay with me in August, and we’ll enter into the life of the place. I adore it, simply adore it. We are always wildly excited about something… . And next door is Georgie Pillson’s house. A lamb! I’m devoted to him. He does embroidery, and gave those broken bits of glass to the Museum. And that’s dear Olga’s house at the end of the road…”
Just as Lucia was kissing her hand to Olga’s house, her eagle eye had seen a motor approaching, and it drew up at Georgie’s house. Two women got out, and there was no doubt whatever who either of them were. They went in at the gate, and he came out of his front door like the cuckoo out of a clock and made a low bow. All this Lucia saw, and though for the moment petrified, she quickly recovered, and turned sharply round.
“Well, we must be getting home again,” she said, in a rather strangled voice. “It is lunch-time.”
Mr. Merriall did not turn so quickly, but watched the three figures at Georgie’s door.
“Appearances are deceptive,” he said. “But isn’t that Olga Shuttleworth and Princess Isabel?”
“No! Where?” said Lucia looking in the opposite direction.
“Just gone into that house; Georgie Pillson’s, didn’t you say?”
“No, really?” said Lucia. “How stupid of me not to have seen them. Shall I pop in now? No, I think I will ring them up presently, unless we find that they have already rung me up.”
Lucia was putting a brave face on it, but she was far from easy. It looked like a plot: it did indeed, for Olga had never told her she was coming to Riseholme, and Georgie had never told her that Princess Isabel was the friend she was bringing with her. However, there was lunch-time in which to think over what was to be done. But though she talked incessantly and rather satirically about Riseholme, she said no more about the prima donna and the princess…
Lucia might have been gratified (or again she might not) if she had known how vivacious a subject of conversation she afforded at Georgie’s select little luncheon party. Princess Isabel (with her mouth now full of Mrs. Boucher’s tomatoes) had been subjected during this last week to an incessant bombardment from Lucia, and had heard on quite good authority that she alluded to her as “Isabel, dear Princess Isabel.”
“And I will not go to her house,” she said. “It is a free country, and I do not choose to go to her kind house. No doubt she is a very good woman. But I want to hear more of her, for she thrills me. So does your Riseholme. You were talking of the Museum.”
“Georgie, go on about the Museum,” said Olga.
“Well,” said Georgie, “there it was. They all went in, and then they all came out again, and one of them was reading my catalogue—I made it—aloud, and they all screamed with laughter.”
“But I daresay it was a very funny catalogue, Georgie,” said Olga.
“I don’t think so. Mr. Merriall read out about Queen Charlotte’s mittens presented by Lady Ambermere.”
“No!” said Olga.
“Most interesting!” said the Princess. “She was my aunt, big aunt, is it? No, great-aunt—that is it. Afterwards we will go to the Museum and see her mittens. Also, I must see the lady who kills mulberry trees. Olga, can’t you ask her to bring her planchette and prophesy?”
“Georgie, ring up Daisy, and ask her to come to tea with me,” said Olga. “We must have a weedj.”
“And I must go for a drive, and I must walk on the Green, and I must have some more delicious apple pie,” began the Princess.
Georgie had just risen to ring up Daisy, when Foljambe entered with the news that Mrs. Lucas was on the telephone and would like to speak to Olga.
“Oh, say we’re still at lunch, please, Foljambe,” said she. “Can she send a message? And you say Stephen Merriall is there, Georgie?”
“No, you said he was there,” said Georgie. “I only described him.”
“Well, I’m pretty sure it is he, but you will have to go sometime this afternoon and find out. If it is, he’s Hermione, who’s always writing about Lucia in the Evening Gazette. Priceless! So you must go across for a few minutes, Georgie, and make certain.”
Foljambe came back to ask if Mrs. Lucas might pop in to pay her respects to Princess Isabel.
“So kind of her, but she must not dream of troubling herself,” said the Princess.
Foljambe retired and appeared for the third time with a faint, firm smile.
“
Mrs. Lucas will ring up Mrs. Shuttleworth in a quarter of an hour,” she said.
The Princess finished her apple-tart.
“And now let us go and see the Museum,” she said.
Georgie remained behind to ring up Daisy, to explain when Lucia telephoned next that Olga had gone out, and to pay his visit to The Hurst. To pretend that he did not enjoy that, would be to misunderstand him altogether. Lucia had come down here with her smart party and had taken no notice of Riseholme, and now two people a million times smarter had by a clearly providential dealing come down at the same time and were taking no notice of her. Instead they were hobnobbing with people like himself and Daisy whom Lucia had slighted. Then she had laughed at the Museum, and especially at the catalogue and the mittens, and now the great-niece of the owner of the mittens had gone to see them. That was a stinger, in fact it was all a stinger, and well Lucia deserved it.
He was shown into the music-room, and he had just time to observe that there was a printed envelope on the writing-table addressed to the Evening Gazette, when Lucia and Mr. Merriall came hurrying in.
“Georgino mio,” said Lucia effusively. “How nice of you to come in. But you’ve not brought your ladies? Oh, this is Mr. Merriall.”
(Hermione, of the Evening Gazette, it’s proved, thought Georgie.) “They thought they wouldn’t add to your big party,” said Georgie sumptuously. (That was another stinger).
“And was it Princess Isabel I saw at your door?” asked Mr. Merriall with an involuntary glance at the writing-table. (Lucia had not mentioned her since.) “Oh yes. They just motored down and took pot-luck with me.”
“What did you give them?” asked Lucia, forgetting her anxieties for a moment.
“Oh, just cold lamb and apple tart,” said Georgie.
“No!” said Lucia. “You ought to have brought them to lunch here. O Georgie, my picture, look. By Sigismund.”
“Oh yes,” said Georgie. “What’s it of?”
“Cattivo!” said Lucia. “Why, it’s a portrait of me. Sigismund, you know, he’s the great rage in London just now. Everyone is crazy to be painted by him.”
