Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  “Caro, how it takes one out of all petty carpings and schemings!” said Lucia at the end. “How all our smallnesses are swallowed up in that broad cosmic splendour! And how beautifully you played, dear. Inspired! I almost stopped in order to listen to you.”

  Georgie writhed under these compliments: he could hardly switch back to dark hints about séances and fire-pots after them. In strong rebellion against his kindlier feelings towards her, he made himself comfortable by the fire, while Lucia again tackled the catechism imposed on her by the Directors of the Southern Railway. Fatigued by his bicycle-ride, Georgie fell into a pleasant slumber.

  Presently Grosvenor entered, carrying a small packet, neatly wrapped up and sealed. Lucia put her finger to her lip with a glance at her sleeping husband, and Grosvenor withdrew in tiptoe silence. Lucia knew what this packet must contain; she could slip the reconstituted denture into her mouth in a moment, and there would be no more rabbit-nibbling at dinner. She opened the packet and took out of the cotton-wool wrapping what it contained.

  It was impossible to suppress a shrill exclamation, and Georgie awoke with a start. Beneath the light of Lucia’s reading-lamp there gleamed in her hand something dazzling, something familiar.

  “My dear, what have you got?” he cried. “Why, it’s Elizabeth’s front teeth! It’s Elizabeth’s widest smile without any of her face! But how? Why? Blue Birdie’s nothing to this.”

  Lucia made haste to wrap up the smile again.

  “Of course it is,” she said. “I knew it was familiar, and the moment you said ‘smile’ I recognised it. That explains Elizabeth’s shut mouth this morning. An accident to her smile, and now by some extraordinary mistake the dentist has sent it back to me. Me of all people! What are we to do?”

  “Send it back to Elizabeth,” suggested Georgie, “with a polite note saying it was addressed to you, and that you opened it. Serve her right, the deceitful woman! How often has she said that she never had any bother with her teeth, and hadn’t been to a dentist since she was a child, and didn’t know what toothache meant. No wonder; that kind doesn’t ache.”

  “Yes, that would serve her right—” began Lucia.

  She paused. She began to think intensely. If Elizabeth’s entire smile had been sent to her, where, except to Elizabeth, had her own more withdrawn aids to mastication been sent? Elizabeth could not possibly identify those four hinterland molars, unless she had been preternaturally observant, but the inference would be obvious if Lucia personally sent her back her smile.

  “No, Georgie; that wouldn’t be kind,” she said. “Poor Elizabeth would never dare to smile at me again, if she knew I knew. I don’t deny she richly deserves it for telling all those lies, but it would be an unworthy action. It is by a pure accident that we know, and we must not use it against her. I shall instantly send this box back to the dentist’s.”

  “But how do you know who her dentist is?” asked Georgie.

  “Mr. Fergus,” said Lucia, “who took my tooth so beautifully this morning; there was his card with the packet. I shall merely say that I am utterly at a loss to understand why this has been sent me, and not knowing what the intended destination was, I return it.”

  Grosvenor entered again. She bore a sealed packet precisely similar to that which now again contained Elizabeth’s smile.

  “With a note, ma’am,” she said. “And the boy is waiting for a packet left here by mistake.”

  “Oh, do open it,” said Georgie gaily. “Somebody else’s teeth, I expect. I wonder if we shall recognise them. Quite a new game, and most exciting.”

  Hardly were the words out of his mouth when he perceived what must have happened. How on earth could Lucia get out of such an awkward situation? But it took far more than that to disconcert the Mayor of Tilling. She gave Grosvenor the other packet.

  “A sample or two of tea that I was expecting,” she said in her most casual voice. “Yes, from Twistevant’s.” And she put the sample into a drawer of her table.

  Who could fail to admire, thought Georgie, this brazen composure?

  CHAPTER VI.

  Elizabeth’s relaxed throat had completely braced itself by next morning, and at shopping time she was profuse in her thanks to Diva.

  “I followed your advice, dear, and gargled well when I got home,” she said, “and not a trace of it this morning . . . Ah, here’s Worship and Mr. Georgie. I was just telling Diva how quickly her prescription cured my poor throat; I simply couldn’t speak yesterday. And I hope you’re better, Worship. It must be a horrid thing to have a tooth out.”

  Lucia and Georgie scrutinized her smile . . . There was no doubt about it.

  “Ah, you’re one of the lucky ones,” said Lucia in tones of fervent congratulation. “How I envied you your beautiful teeth when Mr. Fergus said he must take one of mine out.”

  “I envy you too,” said Georgie. “We all do.”

  These felicitations seemed to speed Elizabeth’s departure. She shut off her smile, and tripped across the street to tell the Padre that her throat was well again, and that she would be able to sing alto as usual in the choir on Sunday. With a slightly puzzled face he joined the group she had just left.

  “Queer doings indeed!” he said in a sarcastic voice. “Everything in Tilling seems to be vanishing. There’s Mistress Mapp-Flint’s relaxed throat, her as couldn’t open her mouth yesterday. And there’s Mistress Wyse’s little bird. Dematerialized, they say. Havers! And there’s Major Benjy’s riding-whip. Very strange indeed. I canna’ make nothing of it a’.”

  The subject did not lead to much. Lucia had nothing to say about Blue Birdie, nor Diva about the riding-whip. She turned to Georgie.

  “My tulip bulbs have just come for my garden,” she said. “Do spare a minute and tell me where and how to plant them. Doing it all myself. No gardener. Going to have an open-air tea-place in the Spring. Want it to be a bower.”

  The group dispersed. Lucia went to the bicycle shop to order machines for the afternoon. She thought it would be better to change the venue and appointed the broad, firm stretch of sands beyond the golf links, where she and Georgie could practise turning without dismounting, and where there would be no risk of encountering fire-pots. Georgie went with Diva into her back-garden.

  “Things,” explained Diva, “can be handed out of the kitchen window. So convenient. And where shall I have the tulips?”

  “All along that bed,” said Georgie. “Give me a trowel and the bulbs. I’ll show you.”

  Diva stood admiringly by.

  “What a neat hole!” she said.

  “Press the bulb firmly down, but without force,” said Georgie.

  “I see. And then you cover it up, and put the earth back again—”

  “And the next about three inches away—”

  “Oh dear, oh dear. What a quantity it will take!” said Diva. “And do you believe in Elizabeth’s relaxed throat. I don’t. I’ve been wondering—”

  Through the open window of the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of a kettle boiling over.

  “Shan’t be a minute,” she said. “Stupid Janet. Must have gone to do the rooms and left it on the fire.”

  She trundled indoors. Georgie dug another hole for a bulb, and the trowel brought up a small cylindrical object, blackish of hue, but of smooth, polished surface, and evidently no normal product of a loamy soil. It was metal, and a short stub of wood projected from it. He rubbed the soil off it, and engraved on it were two initials, B. F. Memory poised like a hawk and swooped.

  “It’s it!” he said to himself. “Not a doubt about it. Benjamin Flint.”

  He slipped it into his pocket while he considered what to do with it. No; it would never do to tell Diva what he had found. Relics did not bury themselves, and who but Diva could have buried this one? Evidently she wanted to get rid of it, and it would be heartless as well as unnecessary to let her know that she had not succeeded. Bury it again then? There are feats of which human nature is incapable, and Georgie dug a hole
for the next tulip.

  Diva whizzed out again, and went on talking exactly where she had left off before the kettle boiled over, but repeating the last word to give him the context.

  “ — wondering if it was not teeth in some way. She often says they’re so marvellous, but people who have really got marvellous teeth don’t speak about them. They let them talk for themselves. Or bite. Tilling’s full of conundrums as the Padre said. Especially since Lucia’s become Mayor. She’s more dynamic than ever and makes things happen all round her. What a gift! Oh, dear me, I’m talking to her husband. You don’t mind, Mr. Georgie? She’s so central.”

  Georgie longed to tell her how central Lucia had been about Elizabeth’s relaxed throat, but that wouldn’t be wise.

  “Mind? Not a bit,” he said. “And she would love to know that you feel that about her. Well, good luck to the tulips, and don’t dig them up to see how they’re getting on. It doesn’t help them.”

  “Of course not. Won’t it be a bower in the spring? And Irene is going to paint a signboard for me. Sure to be startling. But nothing nude, I said, except hands and faces.”

  Irene was doing physical jerks on her doorstep as Georgie passed her house on his way home.

  “Come in, King of my heart,” she called. “Oh, Georgie, you’re a public temptation, you are, when you’ve got on your mustard-coloured cape and your blue tam-o’-shanter. Come in, and let me adore you for five minutes — only five — or shall I show you the new design for my fresco?”

  “I should like that best,” said Georgie severely.

  Irene had painted a large sketch in oils to take the place of that which the Town Surveying Department had prohibited. Tilling, huddling up the hill and crowned by the church formed the background, and in front, skimming up the river was a huge oyster-shell, on which was poised a substantial Victorian figure in shawl and bonnet and striped skirt, instead of the nude, putty-coloured female. It reproduced on a large scale the snap-shot of Elizabeth which had appeared in the Hampshire Argus, and the face, unmistakably Elizabeth’s, wore a rapturous smile. One arm was advanced, and one leg hung out behind, as if she was skating. An equally solid gentleman, symbolizing wind, sprawled, in a frock-coat and top-hat, on a cloud behind her and with puffed cheeks propelled her upstream.

  “Dear me, most striking!” said Georgie. “But isn’t it very like that photograph of Elizabeth in the Argus? And won’t people say that it’s Major Benjy in the clouds?”

  “Why, of course they will, stupid, unless they’re blind,” cried Irene. I’ve never forgiven Mapp for being Mayoress and standing against you for the Town Council. This will take her down a peg, and all for the sake of Lucia.”

  “It’s most devoted of you, Irene,” he said, “and such fun, too, but do you think—”

  “I never think,” cried Irene. “I feel, and that’s how I feel. I’m the only person in this petty, scheming world of Tilling who acts on impulse. Even Lucia schemes sometimes. And as you’ve introduced the subject—”

  “I haven’t introduced any subject yet,” said Georgie.

  “Just like you. You wouldn’t. But Georgie, what a glorious picture, isn’t it? I almost think it has gained by being Victorianized; there a devilish reserved force about the Victorians which mere nudity lacks. A nude has all its cards on the table. I’ve a good mind to send it to the Royal Academy instead of making a fresco of it. Just to punish the lousy Grundys of Tilling.”

  “That would serve them right,” agreed Georgie.

  The afternoon bicycling along the shore was a great success. The tide was low, exposing a broad strip of firm, smooth sand. Chapman and the bicycle boy no longer ran behind, and, now that there was so much room for turning, neither of the athletes found the least difficulty in doing so, and their turns soon grew, as Lucia said, as sharp as a needle. The rocks and groins provided objects to be avoided, and they skimmed close by them without collision. They mounted and dismounted, masters of the arts of balance and direction; all those secret practisings suddenly flowered.

  “It’s time to get bicycles of our own,” said Lucia as they turned homewards. “We’ll order them to-day, and as soon as they come we’ll do our morning shopping on them.”

  “I shall be very nervous,” said Georgie.

  “No need, dear. I pass you as being able to ride through any traffic, and to dismount quickly and safely. Just remember not to look at anything you want to avoid. The head turned well away.”

  “I am aware of that,” said Georgie, much nettled by this patronage. “And about you. Remember about your brake and your bell. You confuse them sometimes. Ring your bell, dear! Now put on your brake. That’s better.”

  They joined the car and drove back along Fire-Pot Road. Work was still going on there, and Lucia, in a curious fit of absence of mind, pointed to the bubbling saucepan of tar.

  “And to think that only a few days ago,” she said, “I actually — My dear, I’ll confess, especially as I feel sure you’ve guessed. I upset that tar-pot. Twice.”

  “Oh, yes, I knew that,” said Georgie. “But I’m glad you’ve told me at last. I’ll tell you something, too. Look at this. Tell me what it is.”

  He took out of his pocket the silver top of Benjy’s riding-whip, which he had excavated this morning. Foljambe had polished it up. Lucia’s fine eyebrows knit themselves in recollective agony.

  “Familiar, somehow,” she mused. “Ah! Initials. B. F. Why, it’s Benjy’s! Newspaper Office! Riding-whip! Disappearance! Georgie, how did you come by it?”

  Georgie’s account was punctuated by comments from Lucia.

  “Only the depth of a tulip bulb . . . Not nearly deep enough, such want of thoroughness . . . Diva must have buried it herself, I think . . . So you were quite right not to have told her; very humiliating. But how did the top come to be snapped off? Do you suppose she broke it off, and buried the rest somewhere else, like murderers cutting up their victims? And look at the projecting end! It looks as if it had been bitten off, and why should Diva do that? If it had been Elizabeth with her beautiful teeth, it would have been easier to understand.”

  “All very baffling,” said Georgie, “but anyhow I’ve traced the disappearances a step further. I shall turn my attention to Blue Birdie next.”

  Lucia thought she had done enough confession for one day.

  “Yes, do look into it, Georgie,” she said. “Very baffling, too. But Mr. Wyse is most happy about the effect of my explanation upon Susan. She has accepted my theory that Blue Birdie has gone to a higher sphere.”

  “That seems to me a very bad sign,” said Georgie. “It looks as if she was seriously deranged. And, candidly, do you believe it yourself?”

  “So difficult, isn’t it,” said Lucia in a philosophical voice, “to draw hard and fast lines between what one rationally believes, and what one trusts is true, and what seems to admit of more than one explanation. We must have a talk about that some day. A wonderful sunset!”

  The bicycles arrived a week later, nickel-plated and belled and braked; Lucia’s had the Borough Arms of Tilling brilliantly painted on the tool-bag behind her saddle. They were brought up to Mallards after dark; and next morning, before breakfast, the two rode about the garden paths, easily passing up the narrow path into the kitchen garden, and making circles round the mulberry tree on the lawn (“Here we go round the mulberry tree” light-heartedly warbled Lucia) and proving themselves adepts. Lucia could not eat much breakfast with the first public appearance so close, and Georgie vainly hoped that tropical rain would begin. But the sun continued to shine, and at the shopping hour they mounted and bumped slowly down the cobbles of the steep street into the High Street, ready to ring their bells. Irene was the first to see them, and she ran by Lucia’s side.

  “Marvellous, perfect person,” she cried, putting out her hand as if to lay it on Lucia’s. “What is there you can’t do?”

  “Yes, dear, but don’t touch me,” screamed Lucia in panic. “So rough just here.” Then they turned
on to the smooth tarmac of the High Street.

  Evie saw them next.

  “Dear, oh, dear, you’ll both be killed!” she squealed. “There’s a motor coming at such a pace. Kenneth, they’re riding bicycles!”

  They passed superbly on. Lucia dismounted at the post-office; Georgie, applying his brake with exquisite delicacy, halted at the poulterer’s with one foot on the pavement. Elizabeth was in the shop and Diva came out of the post-office.

  “Good gracious me,” she cried. “Never knew you could. And all this traffic!”

  “Quite easy, dear,” said Lucia. “Order a chicken, Georgie, while I get some stamps.”

  She propped her bicycle against the kerb; Georgie remained sitting till Mr. Rice came out of the poulterer’s with Elizabeth.

  “What a pretty bicycle!” she said, green with jealousy. “Oh, there’s Worship, too. Well, this is a surprise! So accomplished!”

  They sailed on again. Georgie went to the lending library, and found that the book Lucia wanted had come, but he preferred to have it sent to Mallards: hands, after all, were meant to take hold of handles. Lucia went on to the grocer’s, and by the time he joined her there, the world of Tilling had collected: the Padre and Evie, Elizabeth and Benjy and Mr. Wyse, while Susan looked on from the Royce.

  “Such a saving of time,” said Lucia casually to the admiring assembly. “A little spin in the country, Georgie, for half an hour?”

  They went unerringly down the High Street, leaving an amazed group behind.

  “Well, there’s a leddy of pluck,” said the Padre. “See, how she glides along. A mistress of a’ she touches.”

  Elizabeth was unable to bear it, and gave an acid laugh.

  “Dear Padre!” she said. “What a fuss about nothing! When I was a girl I learned to ride a bicycle in ten minutes. The easiest thing in the world.”

  “Did ye, indeed, me’m,” said the Padre, “and that was very remarkable, for in those days, sure, there was only those great high machines, which you rode straddle.”