by E. F. Benson
‘Sheffield Castle speaking. Is that the Mayor of Tilling.’
‘Yes,’
‘Her Grace’s maid speaking, Your Worship. Her Grace partook of her usual luncheon to-day –’
‘Dressed crab?’ asked Lucia in parenthesis.
‘Yes, Your Worship, and was taken with internal pains.’
‘I am terribly sorry,’ said Lucia. ‘Was it tinned?’
‘Fresh, I understand, and the party is put off.’
Lucia gave a hollow moan into the receiver, and Her Grace’s maid offered consolation.
‘No anxiety at all, Your Worship,’ she said, ‘but she thought she wouldn’t feel up to a party.’
The disaster evoked in Lucia the exercise of her utmost brilliance. There was such a fearful lot at stake over this petty indigestion.
‘I don’t mind an atom about the dislocation of my plans,’ she said, ‘but I am a little anxious about Her dear Grace. I quite understand about the party being put off; so wise to spare her fatigue. It would be such a relief if I might come just to reassure myself. I was on the point of starting, my maid, my luggage all ready. I would not be any trouble. My maid would bring me a tray instead of dinner. Is it possible?’
‘I’ll see,’ said her Grace’s maid, touched by this devotion. ‘Hold on.’
She held on; she held on, it seemed, as for life itself, till, after an interminable interval the reply came.
‘Her Grace would be very happy to see the Mayor of Tilling, but she’s putting off the rest of the party,’ said the angelic voice.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ called Lucia. ‘So good of her. I will start at once.’
She picked up ‘Slum Clearance’ and went into the house only to be met by a fresh ringing of the telephone in the hall. A panic seized her lest Poppy should have changed her mind.
‘Let it ring, Grosvenor,’ she said. ‘Don’t answer it at all. Get in, Foljambe. Be quick.’
She leaped into the car.
‘Drive on, Cadman,’ she called.
The car rocked its way down to the High Street, and Lucia let down the window and looked out, in case there were any friends about. There was Diva at the corner, and she stopped the car.
‘Just off, Diva,’ she said. ‘Duchess Poppy not very well, so I’ve just heard.’
‘No! Crab?’ asked Diva.
‘Apparently, but not tinned, and there is no need for me to feel anxious. She insisted on my coming just the same. Such a lovely drive in front of me. Taking some work with me.’
Lucia pulled up the window again and pinched her finger but she hardly regarded that for there was so much to think about. Olga at Riseholme, for instance, must have been informed by now that the party was off, and yet Georgie had not rung up to say that he would be returning to Tilling to-day. A disagreeable notion flitted through her mind that, having got leave to go to Sheffield Castle, he now meant to stay another night with Olga, without telling her, and it was with a certain relief that she remembered the disregarded telephone-call which had hurried her departure. Very likely that was Georgie ringing up to tell her that he was coming back to Tilling to-day. It would be a sad surprise for him not to find her there.
Her route lay through Riseholme, and passing along the edge of the village green, she kept a sharp look-out for familar figures. She saw Piggie and Goosie with Mrs Antrobus: they were all three gesticulating with their hands in a manner that seemed very odd until she remembered that they must be speaking in deaf and dumb alphabet: she saw a very slim elegant young woman whom she conjectured to be Daisy Quantock’s atheistic French maid, but there was no sign of Georgie or Olga. She debated a moment as to whether she should call at Olga’s to find out for certain that he had gone, but dismissed the idea as implying a groundless suspicion. Beyond doubt the telephone-call which she had so narrowly evaded was to say that he had done so, and she steadily backed away from the familiar scene in order to avoid seeing him if he was still here … Then came less familiar country, a belt of woods, a stretch of heathery upland glowing in the afternoon sun, positively demanding to be sketched in water-colours, and presently a turning with a sign-post ‘To Sheffield Bottom’. Trees again, a small village of grey stone houses, and facing her a great castellated wall with a tower above a gateway and a bridge over a moat leading to it. Lucia stopped the car and got out, camera in hand.
‘What a noble façade,’ she said to herself. ‘I wonder if my room will be in that tower.’
She took a couple of photographs, and getting back into the car, she passed over the bridge and through the gateway.
Inside lay a paved courtyard in a state of indescribable neglect. Weeds sprouted between the stones, a jungle of neglected flower-beds lay below the windows, here and there were moss-covered stone seats. On one of these close beside the huge discoloured door of blistered paint sat Poppy with her mouth open, fast asleep. As Lucia stepped out, she awoke, and looked at her with a dazed expression of strong disfavour.
‘Who are you?’ asked Poppy.
‘Dear Duchess, so good of you to let me come,’ said Lucia, thinking that she was only half-awake. ‘Lucia Pillson, the Mayor of Tilling.’
‘That you aren’t,’ said Poppy. ‘It’s a man, and he’s got a beard.’
Lucia laughed brightly.
‘Ah, you’re thinking of my husband,’ she said. ‘Such a vivid description of him. It fits him exactly. But I’m the Mayor. We met at dear Olga’s opera-box, and at the Ritz next day.’
Poppy gave a great yawn, and sat silent, assimilating this information.
‘I’m afraid there’s been a complete muddle,’ she said. ‘I thought it was he who was coming. You see I was much flattered at his eagerness to spend a quiet evening with me and my stomach-ache, and so I said yes. No designs on him of any kind I assure you. All clean as a whistle: he’d have been as safe with me as with his grandmother, if she’s still alive. My husband’s away, and I just wanted a pleasant companion. And to think that it was you all the while. That never entered my head. Fancy!’
It did not require a mind of Lucia’s penetrative power to perceive that Poppy did not want her, and did not intend that she should stop. Her next remarks removed any possibility of doubt.
‘But you’ll have some tea first, won’t you?’ she asked. ‘Indeed I insist on your having some tea unless you prefer coffee. If you ring the door-bell, somebody will probably come. Oh, I see you’ve got a camera. Do take some photographs. Would you like to begin with me, though I’m not looking my best.’
In spite of the nightmarish quality of the situation, Lucia kept her head, and it was something to be given tea and to take photographs. Perhaps there was a scoop here, if she handled it properly, and first she photographed Poppy and the dismal courtyard, and then went to Poppy’s bedroom to tidy herself for tea and snapped her washing-stand and the corner of her Elizabethan bed. After tea Poppy took her to the dining-room and the gaunt picture-gallery and through a series of decayed drawing-rooms, and all the time Lucia babbled rapturous comments.
‘Magnificent tapestry,’ she said, ‘ah, and a glimpse of the Park from the window. Would you stand there, Duchess, looking out with your dog on the window-seat? What a little love! Perfect. And this noble hall: the panelling by that lovely oriel window would make a lovely picture. And that refectory-table.’
But now Poppy had had enough, and she walked firmly to the front door and shook hands.
‘Charmed to have seen you,’ she said, ‘though I’ve no head for names. You will have a pleasant drive home on this lovely evening. Good-bye, or perhaps au revoir.’
‘That would be much nicer,’ said Lucia, cordial to the last.
She drove out of the gateway she had entered three-quarters of an hour before, and stopped the car to think out her plans. Her first idea was to spend the night at the Ambermere Arms at Riseholme, and return to Tilling next morning laden with undeveloped photographs of Sheffield Castle and Poppy, having presumably spent the night there. But that was risk
y: it could hardly help leaking out through Foljambe that she had done nothing of the sort, and the exposure, coupled with the loss of prestige, would be infinitely painful. ‘I must think of something better that that,’ she said to herself, and suddenly a great illumination shone on her. ‘I shall tell the truth,’ she heroically determined, ‘in all essentials. I shall say that Poppy’s maid told me that I, the Mayor of Tilling was expected. That, though the party was abandoned, she still wanted me to come. That I found her asleep in a weedy courtyard, looking ghastly. That she evidently didn’t feel up to entertaining me, but insisted that I should have tea. That I took photographs all over the place. All gospel truth, and no necessity for saying anything about that incredible mistake of hers in thinking that Georgie was the Mayor of Tilling.’
She tapped on the window.
‘We’ll just have dinner at the Ambermere Arms, at Riseholme, Cadman,’ she called, ‘and then go back to Tilling.’
It was about half-past ten when Lucia’s car drew up at the door of Mallards. She could scarcely believe that it was still the same day as that on which she had awoken here, regretful that she had fled from Riseholme on a false alarm, had swanked about Georgie staying at Sheffield Castle, had shirked the Council meeting to which duty had called her, had wangled an invitation to the Castle herself, had stayed there for quite three-quarters of an hour, and had dined at Riseholme. ‘Quite like that huge horrid book by Mr James Joyce, which all happens in one day,’ she reflected, as she stepped out of the car.
Looking up, she saw that the garden-room was lit, and simultaneously she heard the piano: Georgie therefore must have come home. Surely (this time) she recognized the tune: it was the prayer in Lucrezia. He was playing that stormy introduction with absolute mastery, and he must be playing it by heart, for he could not have the score, nor, if he had, could he have read it. And then that unmistakable soprano voice (though a little forced in the top register) began to sing. The wireless? Was Olga singing Lucrezia in London to-night? Impossible; for only a few hours ago during this interminable day, she was engaged to dine and sleep at Poppy’s Castle. Besides, if this was relayed from Covent Garden, the orchestra, not the piano, would be accompanying her. Olga must be singing in the garden-room, and Georgie must be here, and nobody else could be here … There seemed to be material for another huge horrid book by Mr James Joyce before the day was done.
‘I shall be perfectly calm and lady-like whatever happens,’ thought Lucia, and concentrating all her power on this genteel feat she passed through the hall and went out to the garden-room. But before entering, she paused, for in her reverence for Art, she felt she could not interrupt so superb a performance: Olga had never sung so gloriously as now when she was singing to Georgie all alone … She perched on the final note pianissimo. She held it with gradual crescendo till she was singing fortissimo. She ceased, and it was as if a great white flame had been blown out.
Lucia opened the door. Georgie was sitting in the window: his piece of needlework had dropped from his hand, and he was gazing at the singer. ‘Too marvellous,’ he began, thinking that Grosvenor was coming in with drinks. Then, by some sixth sense, he knew it wasn’t Grosvenor, and turning, he saw his wife.
In that moment he went through a selection of emotions that fully equalled hers. The first was blank consternation. A sense of baffled gallantry succeeded, and was followed by an overwhelming thankfulness that it was baffled. All evening he had been imagining himself delightfully in love with Olga, but had been tormented by the uneasy thought that any man of spirit would make some slight allusion to her magnetic charm. That would be a most perilous proceeding. He revelled in the feeling that he was in love with her, but to inform her of that might be supposed to lead to some small practical demonstration of his passion, and the thought made him feel cold with apprehension. She might respond (it was not likely but it was possible, for he had lately been reading a book by a very clever writer, which showed how lightly ladies in artistic professions take an adorer’s caresses), and he was quite convinced that he was no good at that sort of thing. On the other hand she might snub him, and that would wound his tenderest sensibilities. Whatever happened, in fact, it would entirely mar their lovely evening. Taking it all in all, he had never been so glad to see Lucia.
Having pierced him with her eye, she turned her head calmly and gracefully towards Olga.
‘Such a surprise!’ she said. ‘A delightful one, of course. And you, no doubt, are equally surprised to see me.’
Lucia was being such a perfect lady that Olga quaked and quivered with suppressed laughter.
‘Georgie, explain at once,’ she said. ‘It’s the most wonderful muddle that ever happened.’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ said Georgie carefully. ‘As I telephoned you this morning, we were all invited to go to Poppy’s for the night. Then she was taken ill after lunch and put us off. So I rang up in order to tell you that I was coming back here and bringing Olga. You told her to propose herself whenever she felt inclined, and just start –’
Lucia bestowed a polite bow on Olga.
‘Quite true,’ she said. ‘But I never received that message. Oh –’
‘I know you didn’t,’ said Georgie. ‘I couldn’t get any answer. But I knew you would be delighted to see her, and when we got here not long before dinner, Grosvenor said you’d gone to dine and sleep at Poppy’s. Why didn’t you answer my telephone? And why didn’t you tell us you were going away? In fact, what about you?’
During this brief but convincing narrative, the thwarted Muse of Tragedy picked up her skirts and fled. Lucia gave a little trill of happy laughter.
‘Too extraordinary,’ she said. ‘A comedy of errors. Georgie, you told me this morning, very distinctly, that Poppy had invited the Mayor of Tilling. Very well. I found that there was nothing that required my presence at the Council meeting, and I rang up Sheffield Castle to say I could manage to get away. I was told that I was expected. Then just as I was starting there came a message that poor Poppy was ill and the party was off.’
Lucia paused a moment to review her facts as already rehearsed, and resumed in her superior, drawling voice.
‘I felt a little uneasy about her,’ she said, ‘and as I had no further engagement this afternoon, I suggested that though the party was off, I would run over – the motor was actually at the door – and stay the night. She said she would be so happy to see me. She gave me such a pleasant welcome, but evidently she was far from well, and I saw she was not up to entertaining me. So I just had tea; she insisted on that, and she took me round the Castle and made me snap a quantity of photographs. Herself, her bedroom, the gallery, that noble oriel window in the hall. I must remember to send her prints. A delicious hour or two, and then I left her. I think my visit had done her good. She seemed brighter. Then a snack at the Ambermere Arms; I saw your house was dark, dear Olga, or I should have popped in. And here we are. That lovely prayer from Lucrezia to welcome me. I waited entranced on the doorstep till it was over.’
It was only by strong and sustained effort that Olga restrained herself from howling with laughter. She hadn’t been singing the prayer from Lucrezia this time, but ‘Les feux magiques’, by Berlioz; Lucia seemed quite unable – though of course she had been an agitated listener – to recognize the prayer when she heard it. But she was really a wonderful woman. Who but she would have had the genius to take advantage of Poppy’s delusion that Georgie was the Mayor of Tilling? Then what about Lucia’s swift return from the Castle? Without doubt Poppy had sent her away when she saw her female, beardless guest, and the clever creature had made out that it was she who had withdrawn as Poppy was so unwell, with a gallery of photographs to prove she had been there. Then she recalled Lucia’s face when she entered the garden-room a few minutes ago, the face of a perfect lady who, unexpectedly returns home to find a wanton woman, bent on seduction, alone with her husband. Or was Georgie’s evident relief at her advent funnier still? Impossible to decide, but she must not l
augh till she could bury her face in her pillow. Lucia had a few sandwiches to refresh her after her drive, and they went up to bed. The two women kissed each other affectionately. Nobody kissed Georgie.
Tilling next morning, unaware of Lucia’s return, soon began to sprout with a crop of conjectures which, like mushrooms, sprang up all over the High Street. Before doing any shopping at all, Elizabeth rushed into Diva’s tea-shop to obtain confirmation that Diva had actually seen Lucia driving away with Foljambe and luggage on the previous afternoon en route for Sheffield Castle.
‘Certainly I did,’ said Diva. ‘Why?’
Elizabeth contracted her brows in a spasm of moral anguish.
‘I wish I could believe,’ she said, ‘that it was all a blind, and that Worship didn’t go to Sheffield Castle at all, but only wanted to make us think so, and returned home after a short drive by another route. Deceitful though that would be, it would be far, far better than what I fear may have happened.’
‘I suppose you’re nosing out some false scent as usual,’ said Diva. ‘Get on.’
Elizabeth made a feint of walking towards the door at this rude speech, but gave it up.
‘It’s too terrible, Diva,’ she said. ‘Yesterday evening, it might have been about half-past six, I was walking up the street towards Mallards. A motor passed me, laden with luggage, and it stopped there.’
‘So I suppose you stopped, too,’ said Diva.
‘– and out of it got Mr Georgie and a big, handsome – yes, she was very handsome – woman, though, oh, so common. She stood on the doorstep a minute looking round, and sang out, “Georgino! How divino!” Such a screech! I judge so much by voice. In they went, and the luggage was taken in after them, and the door shut. Bang. And Worship, you tell me, had gone away.’
‘Gracious me!’ said Diva.
‘You may well say that. And you may well say that I stopped. I did, for I was rooted to the spot. It was enough to root anybody. At that moment the Padre had come round the corner, and he was rooted too. As I didn’t know then for certain whether Worship had actually gone – it might only have been one of her grand plans of which one hears no more – I said nothing to him, because it is so wicked to start any breath of scandal, until one has one’s facts. It looks to me very black, and I shouldn’t have thought it of Mr Georgie. Whatever his faults – we all have faults – I did think he was a man of clean life. I still hope it may be so, for he has always conducted himself with propriety, as far as I know, to the ladies of Tilling, but I don’t see how it possibly can.’