Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Mr. Kemp became materialistic for a moment.

  “Oh, everyone does that,” he said. “It’s the brine.”

  Mrs. Bliss of course knew that this buoyancy was the effect of right thought and reliance on Mind, and assured Mr. Kemp that he would very soon get to know that too. Then, as all the others seemed to think they were lame, or were afraid of getting wet, though getting wet could not possibly hurt anybody, she grasped her sticks, and with a loving smile at the black and menacing clouds limped slowly away. The omnibus whizzed up the hill to Wentworth, and just as they arrived, there burst a glacial storm of sleet, and it was decided to send the omnibus back instantly to pick up Mrs. Bliss, who, if she ever got to the top of the hill at all, would be soaked and frozen. But it had hardly started when she drove up in a taxi and came radiantly into the lounge.

  “I was having such a lovely walk,” she said, “quite free from any false claim of pain, and so much enjoying the freshness, when a taxi drove by. The man stopped and asked if I would not take him, as he had had no fare all the morning. So I popped in just to please him. A sweet little drive: so cosy.”

  The patients dispersed to their rooms for the prescribed hour’s rest after their baths. Though Mrs. Bliss said that she was not going to rest at all, but just lie quiet on her bed and do an hour’s strenuous work denying illness and pain, there was a superficial resemblance between her procedure and that of the others, for they all lay on bed or sofa, and kept quiet. . . . Mrs. Holders rather acidly remarked that Mrs. Bliss would soon deny having had a bath at all.

  Miss Howard equally scorned the idea of rest. She ran through the improvisation again in order to fix one or two of the more elusive passages in her mind, and then began the work of selection for her exhibition. There were several fat portfolios full of sketches to choose from, and the difficulty at first seemed to be to know what to reject rather than what to choose, for they were all up to the same standard of execution. As she spread them out on her bed and her washing-stand and her table and her chimney-piece and finally, such was their profusion, on her carpet, other difficulties presented themselves, especially when she considered her catalogue. There were for instance nine pictures of St. Giles’s Church, of which the famous “Evening Bells” was one: should she group them together under the collective title of “Some aspects of St. Giles’s Church?” That was prosaic, but on the other hand if she called them “Evening Bells”, and “Lengthening Shadows”, and “Morning Sunshine”, and “Reflections” (alluding to the river) and “God’s Acre” (alluding to the churchyard) people might, in a carping spirit, say that they all represented the same thing. It would be better not to have so many pictures of St. Giles’s Church, but it was hard to know which to reject. A similar question arose with regard to the various views of the town. They were chiefly painted from the garden at Wentworth, and in some the mist lay over the town, while the hills beyond were in sunshine, in others the hills were in mist and the town in sunshine, but ‘Mist on the Hills’, and ‘Mist in the Valley’ would make pretty titles for the two main types. Then there was ‘Healing Springs’ which was a representation of the front of the bath-establishment, and ‘Bethesda’ would be a good title for the same building from the garden at the back. A quantity of country lanes and pools of water and harvest moons must be thinned out, and she weeded diligently among these and then found that those she had rejected had peculiar effects of beauty in them and that some of those she had chosen were practically identical. It was a relief to come to Mrs. Oxney’s cat, and the tree on the Colonel’s golf links (now prone, which gave a certain historical value to the picture,) and a bed of geraniums, for these were wholly unlike each other, and nobody could say that a cat was another aspect of a geranium. . . . Then there came the question of framing. Miss Howard saw at once that she could not have forty or fifty pictures framed in the style of ‘Evening Bells’ at five shillings and sixpence, for no bonuses of textile shares would run to that. She must consult the Town Councillor on the subject and obtain definite figures. Something neat, something glazed, was all that was required, without a final touching up of the gilding by his hands. If the public appreciated her pictures they could buy them without that.

  Then there came the question of the price she was to put on the exhibits, and instantly Miss Howard felt as if she was dealing with problems quite unknown, for she had not the smallest idea what to ask for them. ‘Evening Bells’ was undoubtedly the gem of the collection, but when she looked at Mrs. Oxney’s cat (which her mistress had often declared she could hear purring) she wondered if she was not positively giving it away, if she charged any smaller sum for it. But what was that sum to be? She knew that pictures had no absolute value, like the price of gold and silver (and even that varied): they were worth neither more nor less than what anybody chose to pay for them. But she had to start the bidding, though she also concluded it, and since ‘Evening Bells’ was clearly not worth a hundred pounds, and just as clearly worth more than one pound, she started the bidding by putting it in a class by itself at three guineas. ‘Puss-cat’ and ‘Tree on golf links’, and perhaps ‘Healing Springs’ should by this standard be two guineas, and everything else one guinea. . . . Or should she price everything at one guinea, and hope to dispose of a fair number of them, or should she price them all at half a guinea, and hope to dispose of most? So perplexing was the whole question that if at this moment, anybody had offered her five shillings apiece for the whole contents of the portfolios, she would have ecstatically accepted this meagre proposal, and have foregone the Green Salon altogether. Yet the notion of an exhibition was dear to her: it was not everybody who came before the world like that, and, besides, nobody had as yet offered her five shillings for the most accomplished of her efforts. In any case such a sum was a derisory price to ask for the fruit of so much trouble, for each sketch had taken her at least two mornings’ work, and many much more, and there was such a thing as a living wage even if you had a little place in Kent. The immediate urgency was to find out from the Town Councillor at what figure he would frame forty or fifty sketches neatly, but on an economical scale. She must also go into the price to be charged for administration. The idea of season tickets at a reduced cost was not practical if the exhibition was to remain open for a fortnight at most, and the idea of having a private view first could not be entertained for a moment, since Miss Howard would have to send complimentary tickets to everyone at Wentworth, who were precisely the people whom the decencies of friendship would compel to pay for admission. She put the selected masterpieces into one of the portfolios, and with rather a haggard face went down to lunch.

  The storm which had burst with such violence just as Mrs. Bliss caught the taxi, had caught Colonel Chase a good three miles outside Bolton, on a peculiarly bleak piece of road, and he said damn. Luckily there was a barn standing in a field a few hundred yards away, and finding it locked, he took shelter under its eaves, lit a pipe, and with difficulty reminded himself that he was an old campaigner. Half an hour’s waiting in this exiguous protection made him feel very chilly, but the weather, no doubt accepting his challenge of being an old campaigner, showed what it was capable of, and continued to pour forth windy sleet with incredible violence. The eaves began to drip heavily upon him, the wind played about his skirts in a sportive and changeable manner, and after some more damns the old campaigner thought it was better to get wet quickly and then be able to change his clothes and have a hot lunch, rather than get wet slowly and be too late for it. He faced the blast, and with the pedometer ticking briskly in his pocket marched homewards. It should certainly register seven miles before he reached Wentworth which would be a pretty sturdy performance on so vile a day, and the congratulations would be well earned.

  Even as that vainglorious thought entered his mind the hook of his pedometer slipped, and it slid unnoticed through a hole in his waistcoat pocket on to the muddy road. His mackintosh flapped, his knees became extremely wet, the rain ran off the back of his cap down his neck, a
nd off its peak on to the end of his nose, and after an hour’s odious pilgrimage he came dripping into the lounge where everyone, lunch being over, was sitting comfortably round the fire. Cries of admiration greeted him, but he would sooner have felt less chilly and have foregone this enthusiastic reception.

  Mrs. Oxney hurried off to the kitchen to see if there was still any Irish stew in existence, which could be heated up, and be ready for him when he had changed his clothes: the dish was snatched from the very jaws of the parlour-maid, who was about to devour it, and who had to be content with cold mutton instead. Already Colonel Chase had symptoms of a cold coming on: his throat was hot and dry, and a series of prodigious sneezings more than once interrupted his discussion of the Irish stew. What made the malignancy of the weather more marked was that he had no sooner got home than the rain stopped, and there was promise of a bright afternoon, but he thought it would be wiser, with these ominous symptoms, not to go out again, but sit warm in the smoking-room and allow three guests to have a rubber of bridge with him. Of these Mrs. Holders should certainly not be one unless he found it absolutely impossible to get a fourth without her, for it was only right that she should be punished for her revolutionary behaviour last night: even if he was forced to ask her, he would be very cold and polite to her, and not give her any advice at all, nor explain how she might have won ever so many more tricks.

  The cheerful group he had left in the lounge had broken up when he came back after his lunch, only Mrs. Bliss with Mr. Kemp and Florence were left. Mrs. Bliss had a book lying open on her lap and all three were seated bolt upright in a row and smiling. Their eyes were shut which looked as if they might be enjoying a sociable nap, but their upright carriage argued against repose. A fresh explosion of sneezing seized him as he approached, at which they all opened their eyes but smiled as before. This was very strange and he could not understand what they were doing with themselves.

  “I’m afraid I’ve caught a fearful cold,” he said. “I got wet through in my walk and chilled to the bone.”

  Mrs. Bliss looked at Mr. Kemp, then at Florence, and finally at Colonel Chase.

  “No, Colonel,” she said with great sweetness of manner, “you haven’t got a cold at all. Error.”

  “I wish it was,” he said, “but there’s no error about it. Shiverings, sneezings, sore throat. That spells cold.”

  “Error!” said Mrs. Bliss again tenderly.

  This odd situation was broken in upon by warblings descending the stairs, and Miss Howard tripped lightly down, dressed for walking with a bulky portfolio under her arm and quite unconscious of the presence of other people.

  “La donn ‘e mobile,” sang Miss Howard. “Oh, Colonel Chase! I never saw you! Not coming out again on this beautiful afternoon.”

  “Not I. I’ve got a cold coming on and I shall stop in and nurse it. Are you going into the town?”

  “Yes. I’ve got to see about my little pickies being framed. Just fancy! I’m going to hold a little teeny picture-exhibition of some of my rubbishy sketches. So rash! But nobody would give me any peace until I promised to.”

  This was approximately though not precisely true: Miss Howard had told the group in the lounge that Mrs. Bowen had said that everyone was longing for her to do so, and the group in the lounge had all said “Oh, you must!” again and again and again. She had to yield.

  “So frightened about it,” said Miss Howard, “I shall certainly leave Bolton the day before it opens, so as not to hear all the unkind things you say about it.”

  “Dear girl,” said Mrs. Bliss, “you know how we shall all enjoy it. Such a refreshment!”

  Miss Howard kissed her fingers and dropped the portfolio of sketches. The Colonel stooped to pick it up for her, but long before he got down, the sharpest sort of pain shot through the small of his back, and he recovered the erect position with difficulty.

  “Attack of lumbago, too, I’m afraid,” he said, and Florence, Mr. Kemp and Mrs. Bliss all muttered ‘Error’.

  “Dear me, I hope not,” said Miss Howard, for the social tranquilities of Wentworth were sorely disquieted when the Colonel had lumbago. “Can’t I get you something for it in the town?”

  “A bottle of quinine if you’d be so good,” he said, “and a packet of thermogene. Please tell the chemist to send them up at once.”

  Miss Howard went gaily off breaking into song again just before she closed the front door. She had every graceful gift, thought Florence, whose eyes followed her as she tripped down the drive.

  “And the rest of our party?” asked Colonel Chase.

  “In the smoking-room I think,” said Mr. Kemp, wishing the Colonel would not stand so close to him with that bad cold coming on. Of course it was Error, but he did not like Error in such immediate proximity. “They talked of playing bridge.”

  The Colonel took himself and his error off. Of course there was no reason why four people should not play bridge if they felt inclined to, but if there was bridge in the air it was usually round him that it condensed. A sound of laughter came forth from the smoking-room as he opened the door, and he knew the sort of bridge which that meant: chatty, pleasant bridge unworthy of the name. There they were, Mrs. Oxney, Mrs. Bertram and Mrs. Holders and Mr. Bullingdon all very gay, and unconscious for the moment of his entrance.

  “Oh, pick it up, Mrs. Oxney,” said Tim, “and put it back in your lily-white hand. We don’t mind: but if you play any more cards out of turn, I shall trump them as they lie on the table.”

  “Most kind, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Oxney. “I will take it back if no one minds. Such a beautiful card too. Oh there’s Colonel Chase. We’re just playing a rubber, Colonel, to pass the time till tea. We’ll be finished presently, and then you must cut in and show us how.”

  Colonel Chase pulled up a chair between Tim Bullingdon and Mrs. Oxney. Such a position, at the utmost possible distance from Mrs. Holders compatible with seeing the game, was most marked. But she being a woman of no perception and blandly ignorant that she was in disgrace, greeted him cordially.

  “Yes, do, Colonel,” she said, “and win back a bit of the fortune you lost last night. Why go to Monte Carlo when we can play bridge at Wentworth?”

  Colonel Chase from being able to see two hands, while the third was on the table seemed to have an almost uncanny knowledge of where the other cards were and made useful comments to Mrs. Oxney when she finessed or refused to finesse, or trumped or refrained.

  “Yes, you should have taken the finesse then,” he said. “Pretty certain that the king was on your right, from the way the cards fell. . . . Ah, you ought to have trumped that: the remaining club was sure to be on your left.”

  “You always seem to know just where every card is before anything is played at all,” said Mrs. Oxney admiringly. “I call it magic.”

  The magician drew his chair closer to the fire. If only Mrs. Holders had joined Mrs. Oxney in agreeing that he was a magician he might have forgiven her, but she only looked very much surprised and dealt in silence. He felt chilly and cross and grumpy.

  “I hear Miss Howard’s intending to open a palace of art next week,” he observed. “I call it real blackmail, as I suppose we shall all be expected to go and buy something. Blackmail. Bless me, where’s my pedometer?”

  He felt in pocket after pocket without result.

  “Dear me whatever can have happened to it?” said Mrs. Oxney. “That would be your walking pedometer would it?”

  “Naturally, as I didn’t bicycle this morning,” said he. “And I know I took it out with me, for I remember hearing it ticking as I started to come home.”

  “I warrant it was ticking pretty briskly then,” said Mrs. Oxney, pleasantly but absently, for she was sorting her hand and trying to find something above an eight. “I’ve never seen anyone walk your pace, Colonel.”

  He got up without acknowledging this compliment.

  “I must go and see if I’ve left it upstairs,” he said. “Odd thing if I have, for I usually carr
y it about with me all day.”

  Mrs. Holders waited till the door was closed.

  “And puts it in his pyjama pocket when he goes to bed,” she remarked, “in case he turns over in the night. I pass.”

  “Two hearts,” said Tim Bullingdon, who had heard about the sensational affair yesterday; “and when I say two hearts I’ve got a reason for it, partner.”

  “Oh for shame!” said Mrs. Oxney.

  “Well, I have a reason for it: it means I’ve got a lot. I hope he’s lost his pedometer: I’m sick and tired of hearing how far he’s been. I shall get one I think, and tell you all if I walk more than fifty yards.”

  “Gracious me, I hope he hasn’t lost it,” said Mrs. Oxney. “He’ll turn the house upside down to find it.”

  “I stole it,” said Mrs. Holders, “and ate it for lunch. I double your two hearts, Tim. Whenever I double two hearts I’ve got a good reason for it.”

  The reason must have been that she was tired of this particular rubber, for this ill-advised manœuvre finished it.

  “Cut again, quick,” she said, “and then we’ll begin another before he gets back. It’s perfect heaven playing without him.”

  “Oh, pray wait a minute,” said Mrs. Oxney.

  “Why? We’ll pretend it’s the same one. You and me, Tim. Do try to remember when the ace of trumps is played.”

  They had got well on in the next rubber before Colonel Chase came back with an agitated and anxious face.

  “Not a sign of it in my bedroom,” he said. “But I find there was a hole in the pocket where I carry it, and it may have fallen on the carpet somewhere. I trust everyone will be very careful how they walk about the house till it’s found. Valuable instrument, well travelled too, all over India. Do you think you can trust your servants, Mrs. Oxney, not to have — ha — misappropriated it?”