by E. F. Benson
“Dear Lucia is a little slack in these ways,” said Elizabeth regretfully. “But she gives us to understand that they’re all old friends.”
“The older the better,” said Miss Leg epigrammatically, and they all laughed very much.
“Tell me more about your Lucia,” she ordered, when their mirth subsided.
“I don’t fancy you would find very much in common with her,” said Elizabeth thoughtfully. “Rather prone we think, to plot and intrigue in a way we regret. And a little superior at times.”
“It seems to have gone to her head to be Mayor,” put in Benjy. “She’d have made a sad mess of things without you to steady her, Liz.”
“I do my best,” sighed Elizabeth, “though it’s uphill work sometimes. I am her Mayoress and a Councillor, Miss Leg, and she does need assistance and support. Oh, her dear, funny little ways! She’s got a curious delusion that she can play the piano, and she gives us a treat sometimes, and one doesn’t know which way to look. And not long ago — how you’ll scream, Miss Leg, she told us all, several times over, that she was going to stay with the Duchess of Sheffield, and when she came back she showed us quantities of photographs of the Castle to prove she had been there—”
“I went to a Charity Concert of the Duchess’s in her mansion in Grosvenor Square not long ago,” said Miss Leg. “Five-guinea seats. Does she live near here?”
“No, many miles away. There’s the cream of it. It turned out that Worship only went to tea. A three hours’ drive each way to get a cup of tea! So odd. I almost suspect that she was never asked at all really; some mistake. And she always alludes to her as Poppy; whether she calls her that to her face is another question.”
“Evidently a snob,” said Miss Leg. “If there’s one thing I hate it’s snobbishness.”
“Oh, you mustn’t call her a snob,” cried Elizabeth. “I should be so vexed with myself if I had conveyed that impression.”
“And is that a family house of her husband’s where I left my card to-day?” asked Miss Leg.
Elizabeth sighed.
“Oh, what a tragic question!” she said. “No, they’re quite parvenus in Tilling; that beautiful house — such a garden — belonged to my family. I couldn’t afford to live there, and I had to sell it. Lucia gave me a pitiful price for it, but beggars can’t be choosers. A cruel moment!”
“What a shame,” said Miss Leg. “All the old homes of England are going to upstarts and interlopers. I hope you never set foot in it.”
“It’s a struggle to do so,” said Elizabeth, “but I feel that both as Mayoress and as a friend of Lucia, I must be neighbourly. Neither officially nor socially must I fail to stand by her.”
They made plans for next day. Elizabeth was very sarcastic and amusing about the morning shopping of her friends.
“Such fun!” she said. “Quite a feature of life here, you must not miss it. You’ll see Diva bolting in and out of shops like a rabbit, Benjy says, when a ferret’s after it, and Susan Wyse perhaps on a tricycle, and Lucia and quaint Irene Coles who painted the picture of the year, which is in our exhibition here; you must see that. Then we could pop in at the Town Hall, and I would show you our ancient charters and our wonderful Elizabethan plate. And would you honour us by signing your name in the Mayor’s book for distinguished visitors?”
“Certainly, very glad,” said Miss Leg, “though I don’t often give my autograph.”
“Oh, that is kind. I would be ready for you at ten — not too early? — and take you round. Must you really be going? Benjy, see if Miss Leg’s beautiful Daimler is here. Au reservoir!”
“O what?” asked Miss Leg.
“Some of the dear folk here say ‘au reservoir’ instead of ‘au revoir’,” explained Elizabeth.
“Why do they do that?” asked Miss Leg.
Lucia, as she dined alone, had been thinking over the hostilities which she felt were imminent. She was quite determined to annex Miss Leg with a view to being the central figure in her next best-seller, but Elizabeth was determined to annex her too, and Lucia was aware that she and her Mayoress could not run in harness over this job; the feat was impossible. Her pride forbade her to get hold of Miss Leg through Elizabeth, and Elizabeth, somehow or other, must be detached. She sat long that night meditating in the garden-room, and when next morning the Mayoress rang her up as usual at breakfast time, she went to the telephone ready for anything.
“Good morning, dear Worship,” said that cooing voice. “What a beautiful day.”
“Lovely!” said Lucia.
“Nothing I can do for you, dear?”
“Nothing, thanks,” said Lucia, and waited.
“I’m taking Miss Leg—”
“Who?” asked Lucia.
“Susan Leg: Rudolph da Vinci: my tenant,” explained Elizabeth.
“Oh, yes. She left a card on me yesterday, Foljambe told me. So kind. I hope she will enjoy her visit.”
“I’m taking her to the Town Hall this morning. So would you be a very sweet Worship and tell the Serjeant to get out the Corporation plate, which she would like to see. We shall be there by half-past ten, so if it is ready by a quarter past there’ll be no delay. And though she seldom gives her autograph, she’s promised to sign her name in Worship’s book.”
Lucia gave a happy sigh. She had not dared to hope for such a rash move.
“My dear, how very awkward,” she said. “You see, the Corporation plate is always on view to the public on Tuesdays at three p.m. — or it may be two p.m.; you had better make certain — and it is such a business to get it out. One cannot do that for any casual visitor. And the privilege of signing the Mayor’s book is reserved for really distinguished strangers, whose visit it is an honour to record. Olga, for instance.”
“But, dear Worship,” said Elizabeth. “I’ve already promised to show her the plate.”
“Nothing simpler. At two p.m. or three p.m., whichever it is, on Tuesday afternoon.”
“And the Mayor’s book: I’ve asked her to sign it.”
Lucia laughed gaily.
“Start a Mayoress’s book, dear,” she said. “You can get anybody you like to sign that.”
Lucia remained a moment in thought after ringing off. Then she rang up the Town Hall.
“Is that the Serjeant?” she said. “The Mayor speaking. Serjeant, do not get out the Corporation plate or produce my visitors’ book without direct orders from me. At present I have given none. What a lovely morning.”
Lucia gave Mrs. Simpson a holiday, as there was nothing for her to do, and went down to the High Street for her marketing. Her mind resembled a modern army attended by an air force and all appliances. It was ready to scout and skirmish, to lay an ambush, to defend or to attack an enemy with explosives from its aircraft or poison gas (which would be only a reprisal, for she was certain it had been used against her). Diva was watching at her window, evidently waiting for her, and threw it open.
“Have you seen her?” she asked.
There was only one “her” just now.
“Only her hand,” said Lucia. “She put it out of her motor — a podgy sort of hand — yesterday afternoon. She left a card on me, or rather her footman popped it into my letterbox, without asking if I was in. Elizabeth was with her. They drove on.”
“Well, I do call that rude,” said Diva, warmly. “High and lofty, that’s what she is. She told me her chef would send me a recipe for cream-wafers. I tried it. Muck. I gave one to Paddy, and he was sick. And she rang me up just now to go to tea with her this afternoon. Did she think I was going out to Grebe, just when I was busiest, to eat more muck? Not I. She dined at Elizabeth’s last night, and Janet heard from Elizabeth’s parlour-maid what they had. Tomato soup, middle-cut of Salmon sent over from Hornbridge, a brace of grouse from Rice’s, Melba peaches, but only bottled with custard instead of cream, and tinned caviare. And Elizabeth called it pot-luck! I never had such luck there, pot or unpot. Elizabeth’s meaning to run her, that’s what it is. Let ’em run
! I’ll come out with you and do my shopping. Just see how Paddy is, but I think he’s got rid of it. Cream-wafers, indeed! Wait a sec.”
While Lucia waited a sec., Susan’s Wyse’s Royce, with her husband and herself inside, hooted its ponderous way into the High Street. As it drew up at the fishmonger’s, Lucia’s eagle eye spied Elizabeth and a round, fat little woman, of whose identity there could be no doubt, walking towards it. Mr. Wyse had got out and Elizabeth clearly introduced him to her companion. He stood hatless, as was his polite habit when he talked to ladies under God’s blue sky, or even in the rain, and then led her towards the open door of the Royce, where Elizabeth was chatting to Susan.
Lucia strolled towards them, but the moment Elizabeth saw her, she wheeled round without smile or greeting, and, detaching Miss Leg, moved away up the street to where Irene in her usual shorts and scarlet pullover, had just set up her easel at the edge of the pavement.
“Good morning, dear Susan,” called Lucia. “Oh, Mr. Wyse, pray put your hat on; such a hot sun. Who was that odd little woman with my Mayoress, who spoke to you just now?”
“I think your Mayoress said Miss Leg,” observed Mr. Wyse. “And she told my Susan that if she asked Miss Leg to dine to-night she would probably accept. Did you ask her, dear? If so, we must order more fish.”
“Certainly I didn’t,” said Susan. “Who is this Leg? Why should Elizabeth foist her friends on me? Most unheard of.”
“Leg? Leg?” said Lucia vaguely. “Ah, of course. Elizabeth’s tenant. The novelist. Does she not call herself Rudolph da Vinci?”
“A very self-satisfied little woman, whatever she calls herself,” said Susan with unusual severity, “and she’s not going to dine with me. She can dine with Elizabeth.”
Diva had trundled up and overheard this.
“She did. Last night,” she said. “All most sumptuous and grand. But fancy her leaving a card on Lucia without even asking whether she was at home! So rude.”
“Did she indeed?” asked Mr. Wyse in a shocked voice. “We are not accustomed to such want of manners in Tilling. You were very right, Susan, not to ask her to dine. Your intuition served you well.”
“I thought it strange,” said Lucia, “but I daresay she’s a very decent, homely little woman, when left to herself. Elizabeth was with her, when she honoured me with her card.”
“That accounts for it,” interrupted Diva and Susan simultaneously.
“ — and Elizabeth rang me up at breakfast and asked to give orders that the Corporation plate should be ready for her little friend’s inspection this morning at 10.30. And the Mayor’s book for her to sign.”
“Well, I never!” said Diva. “And the church-bells ringing, I suppose. And the Town Band playing the Italian National Anthem for Rudolph da Vinci. What did you say?”
“Very polite regrets.”
Irene’s voice from a few yards away, loud and emphatic, broke in on their conversation.
“No, Mapp!” she cried. “I will not come to the Exhibition to show you and your friend — I didn’t catch her name — my pictures. And I can’t bear being looked over when I’m sketching. Trot along.”
There seemed nothing else for them to do, and Lucia walked on to Irene.
“Did you hear?” asked Irene. “I sent Mapp and her friend about their business. Who is the little guy?”
“A Miss Leg, I am told,” said Lucia. “She writes novels under some foreign name. Elizabeth’s tenant: she seems to have taken her up with great warmth.”
“Poor wretch. Mapp-kissed, like raisins. But the most exciting news, beloved. The directors of the Carlton Gallery in Bond Street have asked me if I will let them have my Venus for their autumn exhibition. Also an enquiry from an American collector, if it’s for sale. I’m asking a thumping price for it. But I shall show it at the Carlton first, and I shall certainly put back Mapp’s rouge and her cocotte smile. May I come up presently to Mallards?”
“Do dear. I have a little leisure this morning.”
Lucia passed on with that ever-recurring sense of regret that Irene had not painted her on the oyster-shell and Georgie in the clouds, and, having finished her shopping, strolled home by the Town Hall. The Serjeant was standing on the steps, looking a little flushed.
“The Mayoress and a friend have just been here, your Worship,” he said. “She told me to get out the Corporation plate and your Worship’s book. I said I couldn’t without direct orders from you. She was a bit threatening.”
“You did quite right, Serjeant,” said Lucia very graciously. “The same reply always, please.”
Meantime Elizabeth and Miss Leg, having been thwarted at the Town Hall, passed on to the Exhibition where Elizabeth demanded free admittance for her as a distinguished visitor. But the door-keeper was as firm as the Serjeant had been, and Elizabeth produced a sixpence and six coppers. They went first to look at the Venus, and Elizabeth had a most disagreeable surprise, for the eminent novelist highly disapproved of it.
“An irreverent parody of that great Italian picture by Botticello,” she said. “And look at that old hag on the oyster shell and that boozy navvy in a top-hat. Most shocking! I am astonished that you allowed it to be exhibited. And by that rude unsexed girl in shorts? Her manners and her painting are on a par.”
After this pronouncement Elizabeth did not feel equal to disclosing that she was the hag and Benjy the navvy, but she was pleased that Miss Leg was so severe on the art of the rude girl in shorts, and took her to the portrait of Lucia.
“There’s another picture of Miss Coles’s,” she said, “which is much worse that the other. Look: it reminds me of an auctioneer at a jumble sale. Bicycle, piano, old packs of cards, paint-box—”
Miss Leg burst into loud cries of pleasure and admiration.
“A magnificent work!” she said. “That’s something to look at. Glorious colour, wonderful composition. And what an interesting face. Who is it?”
“Our Mayor: our dear Lucia whom we chatted about last night,” said Elizabeth.
“Your chat misled me. That woman has great character. Please ask her to meet me, and the artist too. She has real talent in spite of her other picture. I could dine with you this evening: just a plain little meal as we had last night. I never mind what I eat. Or tea. Tea would suit me as well.”
Agitated thoughts darted through the Mayoress’s mind. She was still desperately anxious to retain her proprietary rights over Miss Leg, but another plain little meal could not be managed. Moreover it could not be expected that even the most exalted Christian should forgive, to the extent of asking Lucia to dinner, her monstrous rudeness about the Corporation plate and the Mayor’s book, and it would take a very good Christian to forgive Irene. Tea was as far as she could go, and there was always the hope that they would refuse.
“Alas, Benjy and I are both engaged to-night,” she said. “But I’ll ask them to tea as soon as I get home.”
They strayed round the rest of the gallery: the misty morning on the marsh, Elizabeth thought, looked very full of poetry.
“The usual little local daubs,” observed Miss Leg, walking by it without a glance. “But the hollyhocks are charming, and so are the dahlias. By Miss Coles, too, I suppose.”
Elizabeth simply could not bear that she should know who the artist was.
“She does exquisite flower-studies,” she said.
Irene was in the garden-room with Lucia when Elizabeth’s call came through.
“Just been to the Exhibition, dear Worship, with Miss Leg. She’s so anxious to know you and quaint Irene. Would you pop in for a cup of tea this afternoon? She will be there.”
“So kind!” said Lucia. “I must consult my engagement book.”
She covered the receiver with her hand, and thought intensely for a moment.
“Irene,” she whispered. “Elizabeth asks us both to go to tea with her and meet Miss Leg. I think I won’t. I don’t want to get at her via Elizabeth. What about you?”
“I don’t want to
get at Leg via anybody” said Irene.
Lucia uncovered the receiver.
“Alas!” she said. “As I feared I am engaged. And Irene is with me and regrets she can’t come either. Such a pity. Goodbye.”
“Why my regrets?” asked Irene. “And what’s it all about?”
Lucia sighed. “All very tiresome,” she said, “but Elizabeth forces me, in mere self-defence, to descend to little schemings and intrigues. How it bores me!”
“Darling, it’s the breath of your life!” said Irene, “and you do it so beautifully!”
In the course of that day and the next Miss Leg found that she was not penetrating far into the life of Tilling. She attended shopping parade next morning by herself. Diva and the Wyses were talking together, but gave her no more than cold polite smiles, and when she had passed, Irene joined them and there was laughter. Further on Lucia, whom she recognised from Irene’s portrait was walking with a tall man with a Vandyck beard, whom she guessed to be the truant husband returned. Elizabeth was approaching, all smiles; surely they would have a few words together, and she would introduce them, but Lucia and the tall man instantly crossed the road. It was all very odd: Lucia and Irene would not come to tea at the Mapp-Flints, and the Wyses had not asked her to dinner, and Diva had refused to go to tea at Grebe, and Elizabeth had not produced the Corporation plate and the Mayor’s book. She began to wonder whether the Mapp-Flints were not some species of pariah whom nobody would know. This was a dreadful thought; perhaps she had got into wrong hands, and, while they clutched her, Tilling held aloof. She remembered quite a large percentage of Elizabeth’s disparaging remarks about Lucia at the plain little meal, and of Benjy’s comments on Georgie, and now they assumed a different aspect. Were they prompted by malice and jealousy and impotence to climb into Tilling society? “I’ve not got any copy at present,” thought Miss Leg. “I must do something. Perhaps Mrs. Mapp-Flint has had a past, though it doesn’t look likely.”
It was a very hot day, and Georgie and Lucia settled to go bicycling after tea. The garden-room, till then, was the coolest place and after lunch they played the piano and sat in the window overlooking the street. He had had two lovely days at Riseholme, and enlarged on them with more enthusiasm than tact.
