Lucia Rising

by E. F. Benson

  Miss Mapp had gone straight home from her visit to the Poppits just about eleven, and stationed herself in the window where she could keep an eye on the houses of the duellists. In her anxiety to outstrip Evie and be the first to tell the Poppits, she had not waited to hear that they had both come back and knew only of the challenge and that they had gone to the station. She had already formed a glorious idea of her own as to what the history of the duel (past or future) was, and intoxicated with emotion had retired from the worldly fray to think about it, and, as already mentioned, to keep an eye on the two houses just below. Then there appeared in sight the Padre, walking swiftly up the hill, and she had barely time under cover of the curtain to regain the table where her sweet chrysanthemums were pining for water when Withers announced him. He wore a furrowed brow and quite forgot to speak either Scotch or Elizabethan English. A few rapid words made it clear that they both had heard the main outlines.

  ‘A terrible situation,’ said the Padre. ‘Duelling is in direct contravention of all Christian principles, and, I believe, of the civil law. The discharge of a pistol, in unskilful hands, may lead to deplorable results. And Major Flint, so one has heard, is an experienced duellist… That, of course, makes it even more dangerous.’

  It was at this identical moment that Major Flint came out of his house and qui-hied cheerily to Puffin. Miss Mapp and the Padre, deep in these bloody possibilities, neither saw nor heard them. They passed together down the road and into the High Street, unconscious that their every look and action was being more commented on than the Epistle to the Hebrews. Inside the garden-room Miss Mapp sighed, and bent her eyes on her chrysanthemums.

  ‘Quite terrible!’ she said. ‘And in our peaceful, tranquil Tilling!’

  ‘Perhaps the duel has already taken place, and – and they've missed,’ said the Padre. ‘They were both seen to return to their houses early this morning.’

  ‘By whom?’ asked Miss Mapp jealously. She had not heard that.

  ‘By Hopkins,’ said he. ‘Hopkins saw them both return.’

  ‘I shouldn't trust that man too much,’ said Miss Mapp. ‘Hopkins may not be telling the truth. I have no great opinion of his moral standard.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  This was no time to discuss the nudity of Hopkins and Miss Mapp put the question aside.

  ‘That does not matter now, dear Padre,’ she said. ‘I only wish I thought the duel had taken place without accident. But Major Benjy's – I mean Major Flint's - portmanteau has not come back to his house. Of that I'm sure. What if they have sent it away to some place where they are unknown, full of pistols and things?’

  ‘Possible - terribly possible,’ said the Padre. ‘I wish I could see my duty clear. I should not hesitate to – well, to do the best I could to induce them to abandon this murderous project. And what do you imagine was the root of the quarrel?’

  ‘I couldn't say, I'm sure,’ said Miss Mapp. She bent her head over the chrysanthemums.

  ‘Your distracting sex,’ said he with a moment's gallantry, ‘is usually the cause of quarrel. I've noticed that they both seemed to admire Miss Irene very much.’

  Miss Mapp raised her head and spoke with great animation.

  ‘Dear, quaint Irene, I'm sure, has nothing whatever to do with it,’ she said with perfect truth. ‘Nothing whatever!’

  There was no mistaking the sincerity of this, and the Padre, Tillingite to the marrow, instantly concluded that Miss Mapp knew what (or who) was the cause of all this unique disturbance. And as she bent her head again over the chrysanthemums, and quite distinctly grew brick-red in the face, he felt that delicacy prevented his inquiring any further.

  ‘What are you going to do, dear Padre?’ she asked in a low voice, choking with emotion. ‘Whatever you decide will be wise and Christian. Oh, these violent men! Such babies, too!’

  The Padre was bursting with curiosity, but since his delicacy forbade him to ask any of the questions which effervesced like sherbet round his tongue, he propounded another plan.

  ‘I think my duty is to go straight to the Major,’ he said, ‘who seems to be the principal in the affair, and tell him that I know all – and guess the rest,’ he added.

  ‘Nothing that I have said,’ declared Miss Mapp in great confusion, ‘must have anything to do with your guesses. Promise me that, Padre.’

  This intimate and fruitful conversation was interrupted by the sound of two pairs of steps just outside, and before Withers had had time to say ‘Mrs Plaistow’, Diva burst in.

  ‘They have both taken the 11.20 tram,’ she said, and sank into the nearest chair.

  ‘Together?’ asked Miss Mapp, feeling a sudden chill of disappointment at the thought of a duel with pistols trailing off into one with golf-clubs.

  ‘Yes, but that's a blind,’ panted Diva. ‘They were talking and laughing together. Sheer blind! Duel among the sand-dunes!’

  ‘Padre, it is your duty to stop it,’ said Miss Mapp faintly.

  ‘But if the pistols are in a portmanteau –’ he began.

  ‘What portmanteau?’ screamed Diva, who hadn't heard about that.

  ‘Darling, I'll tell you presently,’ said Miss Mapp. ‘That was only a guess of mine, Padre. But there's no time to lose.’

  ‘But there's no tram to catch,’ said the Padre. ‘It has gone by this time.’

  ‘A taxi then, Padre! Oh, lose no time!’

  ‘Are you coming with me?’ he said in a low voice. ‘Your presence –’

  ‘Better not,’ she said. ‘It might – Better not,’ she repeated.

  He skipped down the steps and was observed running down the street.

  ‘What about the portmanteau?’ asked the greedy Diva.

  It was with strong misgivings that the Padre started on his Christian errand, and had not the sense of adventure spiced it, he would probably have returned to his sermon instead, which was Christian, too. To begin with, there was the ruinous expense of taking a taxi out to the golf-links, but by no other means could he hope to arrive in time to avert an encounter that might be fatal. It must be said to his credit that, though this was an errand distinctly due to his position as the spiritual head of Tilling, he rejected, as soon as it occurred to him, the idea of charging the hire of the taxi to Church Expenses, and as he whirled along the flat road across the marsh, the thing which chiefly buoyed up his drooping spirits and annealed his courage was the romantic nature of his mission. He no longer, thanks to what Miss Mapp had so clearly refrained from saying, had the slightest doubt that she, in some manner that scarcely needed conjecture, was the cause of the duel he was attempting to avert. For years it had been a matter of unwearied and confidential discussion as to whether and when she would marry either Major Flint or Captain Puffin, and it was superfluous to look for any other explanation. It was true that she, in popular parlance, was ‘getting on’, but so, too, and at exactly the same rate, were the representatives of the United Services, and the sooner that two out of the three of them ‘got on’, permanently, the better. No doubt some crisis had arisen, and inflamed with love… He intended to confide all this to his wife on his return.

  On his return! The unspoken words made his heart sink. What if he never did return? For he was about to place himself in a position of no common danger. His plan was to drive past the club-house, and then on foot, after discharging the taxi, to strike directly into the line of tumbled sand-dunes which, remote and undisturbed and full of large convenient hollows, stretched along the coast above the flat beach. Any of those hollows, he knew, might prove to contain the duellists in the very act of firing, and over the rim of each he had to pop his unprotected head. He (if in time) would have to separate the combatants, and who knew whether, in their very natural chagrin at being interrupted, they might not turn their combined pistols on him first, and settle with each other afterwards? One murder the more made little difference to desperate men. Other shocks, less deadly but extremely unnerving, might await him. He might be too late, and po
p his head over the edge of one of these craters only to discover it full of bleeding if not mangled bodies. Or there might be only one mangled body, and the other, unmangled, would pursue him through the sand-dunes and offer him life at the price of silence. That, he painfully reflected, would be a very difficult decision to make. Luckily, Captain Puffin (if he proved to be the survivor) was lame…

  With drawn face and agonized prayers on his lips, he began a systematic search of the sand-dunes. Often his nerve nearly failed him, and he would sink panting among the prickly bents before he dared to peer into the hollow up the sides of which he had climbed. His ears shuddered at the anticipation of hearing from near at hand the report of pistols, and once a back-fire from a motor passing along the road caused him to leap high in the air. The sides of these dunes were steep, and his shoes got so full of sand, that from time to time, in spite of the urgency of his errand, he was forced to pause in order to empty them out. He stumbled in rabbit holes, he caught his foot and once his trousers in strands of barbed wire, the remnant of coast defences in the Great War, he crashed among potsherds and abandoned kettles but with a thoroughness that did equal credit to his wind and his Christian spirit, he searched a mile of perilous dunes from end to end, and peered into every important hollow. Two hours later, jaded and torn and streaming with perspiration, he came, in the vicinity of the club-house, to the end of his fruitless search.

  He staggered round the corner of it and came in view of the eighteenth green. Two figures were occupying it, and one of these was in the act of putting. He missed. Then he saw who the figures were: it was Captain Puffin who had just missed his putt, it was Major Flint who now expressed elated sympathy.

  ‘Bad luck, old boy,’ he said. ‘Well, a jolly good match and we halve it. Why, there's the Padre. Been for a walk? Join us in a round this afternoon, Padre! Blow your sermon!’

  6

  The same delightful prospect at the end of the High Street, over the marsh, which had witnessed not so long ago the final encounter in the Wars of the Roses and the subsequent armistice, was, of course, found to be peculiarly attractive that morning to those who knew (and who did not?) that the combatants had left by the 11.20 steam-tram to fight among the sand-dunes, and that the intrepid Padre had rushed after them in a taxi. The Padre's taxi had returned empty, and the driver seemed to know nothing whatever about anything, so the only thing for everybody to do was to put off lunch and wait for the arrival of the next tram, which occurred at 1.37. In consequence, all the doors in Tilling flew open like those of cuckoo clocks at ten minutes before that hour, and this pleasant promenade was full of those who so keenly admired autumn tints.

  From here the progress of the tram across the plain was in full view; so, too, was the shed-like station across the river, which was the terminus of the line, and expectation, when the two-waggoned little train approached the end of its journey, was so tense that it was almost disagreeable. A couple of hours had elapsed since, like the fishers who sailed away into the West and were seen no more till the corpses lay out on the shining sand, the three had left for the sand-dunes, and a couple of hours, so reasoned the Cosmic Consciousness of Tilling, gave ample time for a duel to be fought, if the Padre was not in time to stop it, and for him to stop it if he was. No surgical assistance, as far as was known, had been summoned, but the reason for that might easily be that a surgeon's skill was no longer, alas! of any avail for one, if not both, of the combatants. But if such was the case, it was nice to hope that the Padre had been in time to supply spiritual aid to anyone whom first-aid and probes were powerless to succour.

  The variety of denouements which the approaching tram, that had now cut off steam, was capable of providing was positively bewildering. They whirled through Miss Mapp's head like the autumn leaves which she admired so much, and she tried in vain to catch them all, and, when caught, tick them off on her fingers. Each, moreover, furnished diverse and legitimate conclusions. For instance (taking the thumb).

  I. If nobody of the slightest importance arrived by the tram, that might be because

  (a) Nothing had happened, and they were all playing golf.

  (b) The worst had happened, and, as the Padre had feared, the duellists had first shot him and then each other.

  (c) The next worst had happened, and the Padre was arranging for the reverent removal of the corpse of

  (i) Major Benjy, or

  (ii) Captain Puffin, or those of

  (iii) Both.

  Miss Mapp let go of her thumb and lightly touched her forefinger.

  II. The Padre might arrive alone.

  In that case anything or nothing might have happened to either or both of the others, and the various contingencies hanging on this arrival were so numerous that there was not time to sort them out.

  III. The Padre might arrive with two limping figures whom he assisted.

  Here it must not be forgotten that Captain Puffin always limped, and the Major occasionally. Miss Mapp did not forget it.

  IV. The Padre might arrive with a stretcher. Query – Whose?

  V. The Padre might arrive with two stretchers.

  VI. Three stretchers might arrive from the shining sands, at the town where the women were weeping and wringing their hands.

  In that case Miss Mapp saw herself busily employed in strengthening poor Evie, who now was running about like a mouse from group to group picking up crumbs of Cosmic Consciousness.

  Miss Mapp had got as far as sixthly, though she was aware she had not exhausted the possibilities, when the tram stopped. She furtively took out from her pocket (she had focused them before she put them in) the opera-glasses through which she had watched the station-yard on a day which had been very much less exciting than this. After one glance she put them back again, feeling vexed and disappointed with herself, for the denouement which they had so unerringly disclosed was one that had not entered her mind at all. In that moment she had seen that out of the tram there stepped three figures and no stretcher. One figure, it is true, limped, but in a manner so natural, that she scorned to draw any deductions from that halting gait. They proceeded, side by side, across the bridge over the river towards the town.

  It is no use denying that the Cosmic Consciousness of the ladies of Tilling was aware of a disagreeable anticlimax to so many hopes and fears. It had, of course, hoped for the best, but it had not expected that the best would be quite as bad as this. The best, to put it frankly, would have been a bandaged arm, or something of that kind. There was still room for the more hardened optimist to hope that something of some sort had occurred, or that something of some sort had been averted, and that the whole affair was not, in the delicious new slang phrase of the Padre‘s, which was spreading like wildfire through Tilling, a ‘washout’. Pistols might have been innocuously discharged for all that was known to the contrary. But it looked bad.

  Miss Mapp was the first to recover from the blow, and took Diva's podgy hand.

  ‘Diva, darling,’ she said, ‘I feel so deeply thankful. What a wonderful and beautiful end to all our anxiety!’

  There was a subconscious regret with regard to the anxiety. The anxiety was, so to speak, a dear and beloved departed… And Diva did not feel so sure that the end was so beautiful and wonderful. Her grandfather, Miss Mapp had reason to know, had been a butcher, and probably some inherited indifference to slaughter lurked in her tainted blood.

  ‘There's the portmanteau still,’ she said hopefully. ‘Pistols in the portmanteau. Your idea, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ said Elizabeth; ‘but thank God I must have been very wrong about the portmanteau. The outside-porter told me that he brought it up from the station to Major Benjy's house half an hour ago. Fancy your not knowing that! I feel sure he is a truthful man, for he attends the Padre's confirmation class. If there had been pistols in it, Major Benjy and Captain Puffin would have gone away too. I am quite happy about that now. It went away and it has come back. That's all about the portmanteau.’

  S
he paused a moment.

  ‘But what does it contain, then?’ she said quickly, more as if she was thinking aloud than talking to Diva. ‘Why did Major Benjy pack it and send it to the station this morning? Where has it come back from? Why did it go there?’

  She felt that she was saying too much, and pressed her hand to her head.

  ‘Has all this happened this morning?’ she said. ‘What a full morning, dear! Lovely autumn leaves! I shall go home and have my lunch and rest. Au reservoir, Diva.’

  Miss Mapp's eternal reservoirs had begun to get on Diva's nerves, and as she lingered here a moment more a great idea occurred to her, which temporarily banished the disappointment about the duellists. Elizabeth, as all the world knew, had accumulated a great reservoir of provisions in the false bookcase in her garden-room, and Diva determined that, if she could think of a neat phrase, the very next time Elizabeth said au reservoir to her, she would work in an allusion to Elizabeth's own reservoir of corned beef, tongue, flour, Bovril, dried apricots and condensed milk. She would have to frame some stinging rejoinder which would ‘escape her’ when next Elizabeth used that stale old phrase: it would have to be short, swift and spontaneous, and therefore required careful thought. It would be good to bring ‘pop’ into it also. ‘Your reservoir in the garden-room hasn't gone “pop” again, I hope, darling?’ was the first draft that occurred to her, but that was not sufficiently condensed. ‘Pop goes the reservoir’, on the analogy of the weasel, was better. And, better than either, was there not some sort of corn called pop-corn, which Americans ate?… ‘Have you any pop-corn in your reservoir?’ That would be a nasty one…