by E. F. Benson
The justice of this conclusion was soon proved, for Lucia had hardly disengaged herself from the group of her subjects, and traversed the green on her way back to her house, when a motor passed Georgie's bathroom window, closely followed by a second. Both drew up at the entrance to the Ambermere Arms. With the speed of a practised optician, Georgie put his opera-glass together again, and after looking through the wrong end of it in his agitation, was in time to see a man – valet-like – get out of the second car, and hold the carriage-door open for the occupants of the first. A woman got out first, tall and boyish in figure, who stood there unwinding her motor-veil. Then she turned round again, and with a thump of his heart that surprised Georgie with its violence, he beheld the well-remembered features of his Brünnhilde.
Swiftly he passed into his bedroom next door, and arrayed himself in his summer Hitums: a fresh (almost pearly) suit of white duck, a mauve tie with an amethyst pin in it, socks, tightly braced up, of precisely the same colour as the tie, so that an imaginative beholder might have conjectured that on this warm day the end of his tie had melted and run down his legs, and buckskin shoes with tall slim heels: a straw hat completed his pretty Hitum. He had meant to wear it for the first time at Lucia's party to-morrow, but now, after her meanness, she deserved to be punished. All Riseholme should see it before she did.
The group round Mrs Weston's chair was still engaged in conversation when Georgie came up, and he casually let slip what a bore it was to pay calls on such a lovely day; but he had promised to visit Miss Olga Bracely, who had just arrived. So there was another nasty one for Lucia, since now all Riseholme would know of her actual arrival before she did.
‘And who, Mr Georgie,’ asked Mrs Antrobus, presenting her trumpet to him in the manner in which an elephant presents its trunk to receive a bun, ‘who was that with her?’
‘Oh, her husband, Mr Shuttleworth,’ said Georgie. ‘They have just been married, and are on their honeymoon.’
And if that was not another staggerer for Lucia, it is ‘diffy’, as Georgie would say, to know what a staggerer is. For Lucia would be last of all to know that this was not Mr Bracely.
‘And will they be at Mrs Lucas's party to-morrow?’ asked Mrs Weston.
‘Oh, does she know them?’ asked Georgie.
‘Haw! hum! by Jove!’ began Colonel Boucher. ‘Very handsome woman. Envy you, my boy. Pity it's their honeymoon. Haw!’
Mrs Antrobus's trumpet was turned in his direction at this moment, and she heard these sprightly remarks.
‘Naughty!’ she said, and Georgie, the envied, passed on into the inn.
He sent in his card, on which he had thought it prudent to write, ‘From Lady Ambermere’, and was presently led through into the garden behind the building. There she was, tall and lovely and welcoming, and held out a most cordial hand.
‘How kind of you to come and see us,’ she said. ‘Georgie, this is Mr Pillson. My husband.’
‘How do you do, Mr Shuttleworth?’ said Georgie, to show he knew, though his own Christian name had given him quite a start. For the moment he had almost thought she was speaking to him.
‘And so Lady Ambermere asked you to come and see us?’ Olga went on. ‘I think that was much kinder of her than to ask us to dinner. I hate going out to dinner in the country almost as much as I hate not going out to dinner in town. Besides, with that great hook nose of hers, I'm always afraid that in an absent moment I might scratch her on the head and say “Pretty Polly”. Is she a great friend of yours, Mr Pillson? I hope so, because everyone likes his best friends being laughed at.’
Up till that moment Georgie was prepared to indicate that Lady Ambermere was the hand and he the glove. But evidently that would not impress Olga in the least, and he laughed in a most irreverent manner instead.
‘Don't let us go,’ she went on. ‘Georgie, can't you send a telegram saying that we have just made a subsequent engagement, and then we‘ll ask Mr Pillson to show us round this utterly adorable place and dine with us afterwards? That would be so much nicer. Fancy living here! Oh, and do tell me something, Mr Pillson. I found a note when I arrived half an hour ago from Mrs Lucas, asking me and Mr Bracely to go to a garden-party to-morrow. She said she didn't even hope that I should remember her, but would we come. Who is she? Really, I don't think she can remember me very well, if she thinks I am Mrs Bracely. Georgie says I must have been married before, and that I have caused him to commit bigamy. That's pleasant conversation for a honeymoon, isn't it? Who is she?’
‘Oh, she's quite an old friend of mine,’ said Georgie, ‘though I never knew she had met you before. I'm devoted to her.’
‘Extremely proper. But now tell me this, and look straight in my face, so that I shall know if you're speaking the truth. Should I enjoy myself more wandering about this heavenly place than at her garden-party?’
Georgie felt that poor Lucia was really punished enough by this time.
‘You will give her a great deal of pleasure if you go –’ he began.
‘Ah, that's not fair: it is hitting below the belt to appeal to unselfish motives. I have come here simply to enjoy myself. Go on; eyes front.’
The candour and friendliness of that beautiful face gave Georgie an impulse of courage. Besides, though no doubt in fun, she had already suggested that it would be much nicer to wander about with him and dine together than spend the evening among the splendours of The Hall.
‘I've got a suggestion,’ he said. ‘Will you come and lunch with me first, and we‘ll stroll about, and then you can go to the garden-party, and if you don't like it I'll take you away again.’
‘Done!’ she said. ‘Now don't you try to get out of it, because my husband is a witness. Georgie, give me a cigarette.’
In a moment Riseholme-Georgie had his cigarette case open.
‘Do take one of mine,’ he said. ‘I'm Georgie, too.’
‘You don't say so! Let's send it to the Psychical Research, or whoever those people are who collect coincidences and say it's spooks. And a match, please, one of you Georgies. Oh, how I should like never to see the inside of an opera-house again. Why mayn't I grow on the walls of a garden like this, or better still, why shouldn't I have a house and garden of my own here, and sing on the village green, and ask for halfpennies? Tell me what happens here! I've always lived in towns since the time a hook-nosed Hebrew, rather like Lady Ambermere, took me out of the gutter.’
‘My dear!’ said Mr Shuttleworth.
‘Well, out of an orphan-school at Brixton, and I would much prefer the gutter. That's all about my early life just now, because I am keeping it for my memoirs, which I shall write when my voice becomes a little more like a steam-whistle. But don't tell Lady Ambermere, for she would have a fit, but say you happen to know that I belong to the Surrey Bracelys. So I do. Brixton is behaving like the best sort of Claude. Heile Sonne!’
‘I heard you do that last May,’ said Georgie.
‘Then you heard a most second-rate performance,’ said she. ‘But really, being unlaced by that Thing, that great fat profligate Peruvian, was almost too much for me. And the duet! But it was very polite of you to come, and we'll do better next time. Siegfried! Brünnhilde! Siegfried! Miaou! Bring on the next lot of cats! Darling Georgie, wasn't it awful? And you had proposed to me only the day before!’
‘I was absolutely enchanted,’ said Riseholme-Georgie.
‘Yes, but then you didn't have that Thing breathing beer into your innocent face.’
Georgie rose: the first call on a stranger in Riseholme was never supposed to last more than half an hour, however much you were enjoying it, and never less, however bored you might be, and he felt sure he had already exceeded this.
‘I must be off,’ he said. ‘Too delightful to think that you and Mr Shuttleworth will come to lunch with me to-morrow. Half-past one, shall we say?’
‘Excellent! But where do you live?’
‘Just across the green. Shall I call for you?’ he asked.
�
��Certainly not. Why should you have that bother?’ she said. ‘Ah, let me come with you to the inn door, and perhaps you will show me from there.’
She passed through the hall with him, and they stood together in the sight of all Riseholme, that strolled about the green at this as at most other hours. Instantly all faces turned round in their direction, like so many sunflowers following the sun, while Georgie pointed out his particular mulberry-tree. When everybody had had a good look, he raised his hat.
‘A domani, then,’ she said. ‘So many thanks.’
And quite distinctly she kissed her hand to him as he turned away…
‘So she talks Italian, too,’ thought Georgie, as he dropped little crumbs of information to his friends on his way to his house. ‘Domani – yes, that means to-morrow. Oh, yes: lunch!’
It is hardly necessary to add that on the table in his hall there was one of Lucia's commoner kinds of note, merely a half-sheet folded together in her own manner. Georgie felt that it was scarcely worth while to read it, for he felt quite sure that it contained some excuse for not coming to his house at six in order to call on Mr and Mrs Bracely. But he gave a glance at it before he rolled it up in a ball for Tipsipoozie to play with, and found its contents to be precisely what he expected, the excuse being that she had not done her practising. But the postscript was interesting, for it told him that she had asked Foljambe to give her messenger his copy of Siegfried…
Georgie strolled down past The Hurst before dinner. Mozart was silent now, but there came out of the open windows the most amazing hash of sound, which he could just recognize as being the piano arrangement of the duet between Brünnhilde and Siegfried in the last act. He would have been dull indeed if he had not instantly guessed what that signified.
7
A fresh thrill went through an atmosphere already supersaturated with excitement, when next morning, all Lucia's friends who had been bidden to her garden-party (Titum) were rung up on the telephone, and informed that the party was Hitum. That caused a good deal of extra work, because the Titum robes had to be put away again, and the Hitums aired and brushed and valeted. But it was well worth it, for Rise-holme had not the slightest difficulty in conjecturing that Olga Bracely was to be among the guests. For a cultured and artistic centre the presence of a star that blazed so royally in the very zenith of the firmament of Art absolutely demanded the Hitum, which the presence of poor Lady Ambermere (though she would not have liked that at all) had been powerless to bring out of their cupboards. All these delightful anticipations concentrated themselves with one rose-coloured point of joy, when no less than two independent observers, without collusion, saw the piano-tuner either entering or leaving The Hurst, while a third, an ear-witness, unmistakably heard the tuning of the piano actually going on. It was thus practically certain that Olga Bracely was going to sing. It was further known that something was going on between her and Georgie, for she had been heard by Miss Antrobus to ask for Georgie's number at the telephone in the Ambermere Arms. Etiquette forbade her actually to listen to what passed, but she could not help hearing Olga laugh at something (presumably) that Georgie said. He himself took no part in the green-parliament that morning, but had been seen to dash into the fruiterer's and out again, before he went in a great hurry to The Hurst, shortly after twelve-thirty. Classes on Eastern philosophy under the tuition of Mrs Quantock's Indian were already beginning to be hinted at, but to-day, in the breathless excitement about the prima-donna, nobody cared about that: they might all have been taking lessons in cannibalism. Finally, about one o'clock, one of the motors in which the party had arrived yesterday drew up at the door of the Ambermere Arms, and presently Mr Bracely – no, dear, Mr Shuttleworth – got in and drove off alone. That was very odd conduct in a lately-married bridegroom, and it was hoped that there had been no quarrel.
Olga had, of course, been given no directions as to Hitum and Titum, and when she walked across to Georgie's house shortly after half-past one only Mrs Weston, who was going back home to lunch at top speed, was aware that she was dressed in a very simple dark blue morning frock, that would almost have passed for Scrub. It is true that it was exceedingly well cut, and had not the look of having been rolled up in a ball and hastily ironed out again, that usually distinguished Scrub, and she also wore a string of particularly fine pearls round her neck, the sort of ornament that in Riseholme would only be seen in an evening Hitum, even if anybody in Rise-holme had owned such things. Lucia, not long ago, had expressed the opinion that ‘jewels were vulgar except at night’, and for her part she wore none at all, preferring one Greek cameo of uncertain authenticity.
Georgie received her alone, for Hermy and Ursy were not yet back from their golf.
‘It is good of you to let me come without my husband,’ she said. ‘His excuse is toothache, and he has driven into Brinton –’
‘I'm very sorry,’ said Georgie.
‘You needn't be, for now I'll tell you his real reason. He thought that if he lunched with you he would have to come on to the garden-party, and that he was absolutely determined not to do. You were the thin end of the wedge, in fact. My dear, what a delicious house! All panelled, with that lovely garden behind. And croquet – May we play croquet after lunch? I always try to cheat, and if I'm found out I lose my temper. Georgie won't play with me, so I play with my maid.’
‘This Georgie will,’ said he.
‘How nice of him. And do you know what we did this morning, before the toothache didn't begin? We went all over that house three doors away, which is being done up. It belongs to the proprietor of the Ambermere Arms. And – oh, I wonder if you can keep a secret?’
‘Yes,’ said Georgie. He probably had never kept one yet, but there was no reason why he shouldn't begin now.
‘Well, I'm absolutely determined to buy it, only I daren't tell my husband until I've done it. He has an odd nature. When a thing is done, settled, and there's no help for it, he finds it adorable, but he also finds fatal objections to doing it at all, if he is consulted about it before it is done. So, not a word! I shall buy it, make the garden, furnish it, down to the minutest detail, and engage the servants, and then he'll give it me for a birthday present – I had to tell somebody or I should have burst.’
Georgie nearly swooned with fervour and admiration.
‘But what a perfect plan!’ he said. ‘You really like our little Riseholme?’
‘It's not a question of liking: it's a mere detail of not being able to do without it. I don't like breathing, but I should die if I didn't. I want some delicious, hole-in-the-corner, lazy backwater sort of place, where nothing ever happens, and nobody ever does anything. I've been observing all the morning, and your habits are adorable. Nothing ever happens here, and that will precisely suit me, when I get away from my work.’
Georgie was nearer swooning than ever at this. He could hardly believe his ears when she talked of Riseholme being a lazy backwater, and almost thought she must have been speaking of London, where, as Lucia had acutely observed, people sat in the Park all morning and talked of each other's affairs, and spent the afternoon at picture galleries, and danced all night. There was a flippant, lazy existence.
But she was far too much absorbed in her project to notice his stupefaction.
‘But if you breathe a word,’ she said, ‘everything will be spoilt. It has to burst on Georgie – Oh, and there's another mulberry-tree in your garden, as well as the one in front. It's too much!’
Her eyes followed Foljambe out of the door.
‘And I know your parlourmaid is called Paravicini or Grosvenor,’ she said.
‘No, she is Foljambe,’ said Georgie.
She laughed.
‘I knew I was right,’ she said. ‘It's practically the same thing. Oh, and last night! I never had such an awful evening. Why didn't you warn me, and my husband should have had toothache then instead of this morning.’
‘What happened?’ asked he.
‘But the woman's insane, that Am
bermere parrot, I mean. Georgie and I were ten minutes late, and she had a jet tiara on, and why did she ask us to dine at a quarter to eight, if she meant a quarter to eight, instead of saying half-past seven? They were actually going in to dinner when we came, a mournful procession of three moth-eaten men and three whiskered women. Upon which the procession broke up, as if we had been the Riot Act, and was arranged again as a funeral procession, and Georgie with Lady Ambermere was the hearse. We dined in the family vault, and talked about Lady Ambermere's pug. She talked about you, too, and said you were of county family, and that Mrs Lucas was a very decent sort of woman, and that she herself was going to look in on her garden-party to-day. Then she looked at my pearls, and asked if they were genuine. So I looked at her teeth, and there was no need to ask about them.’
‘Don't miss out a moment,’ said Georgie greedily.
‘Whenever Lady Ambermere spoke, everybody else was silent. I didn't grasp that at first for no one had explained the rules. So she stopped in the middle of a sentence, and waited till I had finished. Then she went on again, precisely where she had left off. No rebukes, mind you, no scoldings, but I knew… Then, when we came into the drawing-room, the whiskered ladies and I, there was a little woman like a mouse sitting there, and nobody introduced her. So naturally I wanted to talk to her. Upon which the great parrot said, “Will you kindly fetch my woolwork, Miss Lyall?” and Miss Lyall took a sack out of the corner, and inside was the sacred carpet. And then I waited for some coffee and cigarettes, and I waited and I waited, and I am waiting still. The Parrot said that coffee always kept her awake, and that was why. And then Georgie came in with the others, and I could see by his face that he hadn't had a cigarette either. It was then half-past nine. And then each man sat down between two women, and Pug sat in the middle and looked for fleas. Then Lady Ambermere got up, and came across the charmed circle to me. She said, “I hope you have brought your music, Mrs Shuttleworth. Kindly open the piano, Miss Lyall. It was always considered a remarkably fine instrument!”’