by E. F. Benson
“Delicious,” said Georgie, “but how about the plain living? Oh I see: that’ll be after you become Mayor . . . Good morning, Padre.”
The Reverend Kenneth Bartlett stepped out of a shop in front. He always talked a mixture of faulty Scots and spurious Elizabethan English. It had been a playful diversion at first, but now it had become a habit, and unless carried away by the conversation he seldom spoke the current tongue.
“Guid morrow, richt worshipful leddy,” he said. “Well met, indeed, for there’s a sair curiosity abroad, and ’tis you who can still it. Who’s the happy wumman whom ye’ll hae for your Mayoress?”
“That’s the second time I’ve been asked that this morning,” said Lucia. “I’ve had no official information that I must have one.”
“A’weel. It’s early days yet. A month still before you need her. But ye mun have one: Mayor and Mayoress, ’tis the law o’ the land. I was thinking—”
He dropped his voice to a whisper.
“There’s that helpmate of mine,” he said. “Not that there’s been any colloquy betune us. She just passed the remark this morning: ‘I wonder who Mistress Pillson will select for her Mayoress,’ and I said I dinna ken and left it there.”
“Very wise,” said Lucia encouragingly.
The Padre’s language grew almost Anglicized.
“But it put an idea into my head, that my Evie might be willing to help you in any way she could. She’d keep you in touch with all Church matters which I know you have at heart, and Sunday Schools and all that. Mind. I don’t promise that she’d consent, but I think ’tis likely, though I wouldn’t encourage false hopes. All confidential, of course; and I must be stepping.”
He looked furtively round as if engaged in some dark conspiracy and stepped.
“Georgie, I wonder if there can be any truth in it,” said Lucia. “Of course, nothing would induce me to have poor dear little Evie as Mayoress. I would as soon have a mouse. Oh, there’s Major Benjy: he’ll be asking me next who my Mayoress is to be. Quick, into the poulterer’s.”
They hurried into the shop. Mr. Rice gave her a low bow. “Good-morning, your worship—” he began.
“No, not yet, Mr. Rice,” said Lucia. “Not for a month yet. Partridges. I shall very likely want two brace of partridges to-morrow evening.”
“I’ve got some prime young birds, your worsh — ma’am,” said Mr. Rice.
“Very well. Please earmark four birds for me. I will let you know the first thing to-morrow morning, if I require them.”
“Earmarked they are, ma’am,” said Mr. Rice enthusiastically.
Lucia peeped cautiously out. Major Benjy had evidently seen them taking cover, and was regarding electric heaters in the shop next door with an absent eye. He saw her look out and made a military salute.
“Good-morning,” he said cordially. “Lovely day isn’t it? October’s my favourite month. Chill October, what? I was wondering, Mrs. Pillson, as I strolled along, if you had yet selected the fortunate lady who will have the honour of being your Mayoress.”
“Good morning, Major. Oddly enough somebody else asked me that very thing a moment ago.”
“Ha! I bet five to one I know who that was. I had a word or two with the Padre just now, and the subject came on the tapis, as they say in France. I fancy he’s got some notion that that good little wife of his — but that would be too ridiculous—”
“I’ve settled nothing yet,” said Lucia. “So overwhelmed with work lately. Certainly it shall receive my attention. Elizabeth quite well? That’s good.”
She hurried away with Georgie.
“The question of the Mayoress is in the air like influenza, Georgie,” she said. “I must ring up the Town Hall as soon as I get in, and find out if I must have one. I see no necessity. There’s Susan Wyse beckoning again.”
Susan let down the window of her car.
“Just going home again,” she said. “Shall I give you a lift up the hill?”
“No, a thousand thanks,” said Lucia. “It’s only a hundred yards.”
Susan shook her head sadly.
“Don’t overdo it, dear,” she said. “As we get on in life we must be careful about hills.”
“This Mayoress business is worrying me, Georgie,” said Lucia when Susan had driven off. “If it’s all too true, and I must have one, who on earth shall I get? Everyone I can think of seems so totally unfit for it. I believe, do you know, that it must have been in Major Benjy’s mind to recommend me to ask Elizabeth.”
“Impossible!” said Georgie. “I might as well recommend you to ask Foljambe.”
CHAPTER II.
Lucia found on her return to Mallards that Mrs. Simpson had got through the laborious task of typing three identical dinner invitations for next day to Mrs. Wyse, Mrs. Bartlett and Mrs. Mapp-Flint with husbands. She filled up in autograph “Dearest Susan, Evie and Elizabeth” and was affectionately theirs. Rack her brains as she would she could think of no further task for her secretary, so Mrs. Simpson took these letters to deliver them by hand, thus saving time and postage. “And could you be here at nine-thirty to-morrow morning,” said Lucia, “instead of ten in case there is a stress of work? Things turn up so suddenly, and it would never do to fall into arrears.”
Lucia looked at her engagement book. Its fair white pages satisfied her that there were none at present.
“I shall be glad of a few days’ quiet, dear,” she said to Georgie. “I shall have a holiday of painting and music and reading. When once the rush begins there will be little time for such pursuits. Yet I know there was something very urgent that required my attention. Ah, yes! I must find out for certain whether I must have a Mayoress. And I must get a telephone extension into the garden-room, to save running in and out of the house for calls.”
Lucia went in and rang up the clerk at the Town Hall. Yes: he was quite sure that every Mayor had a Mayoress, whom the Mayor invited to fill the post. She turned to Georgie with a corrugated brow.
“Yes, it is so,” she said. “I shall have to find some capable obliging woman with whom I can work harmoniously. But who?”
The metallic clang of the flap of the letter-box on the front door caused her to look out of the window. There was Diva going quickly away with her scudding, birdlike walk. Lucia opened the note she had left, and read it. Though Diva was telegraphic in conversation, her epistolary style was flowing.
DEAREST LUCIA,
I felt quite shy of speaking to you about it to-day, for writing is always the best, don’t you think, when it’s difficult to find the right words or to get them out when you have, so this is to tell you that I am quite at your disposal, and shall [Note: Line missing in scanned copy] much longer in Tilling than you, dear, that perhaps I can be of some use in all your entertainments and other functions. Not that I would ask you to choose me as your Mayoress, for I shouldn’t think of such a thing. So pushing! So I just want to say that I am quite at your service, as you may feel rather diffident about asking me, for it would be awkward for me to refuse, being such an old friend, if I didn’t feel like it. But I should positively enjoy helping you, quite apart from my duty as a friend.
Ever yours,
DIVA.
“Poor dear, ridiculous little Diva!” said Lucia, handing Georgie this artless epistle. “So ambitious and so pathetic! And now I shall hurry off to begin my sketch of the dahlias. I will not be interrupted by any further public business this morning. I must have a little time to myself — What’s that?”
Again the metallic clang from the letter box, and Lucia, consumed with curiosity, again peeped out from a corner of the window and saw Mr. Wyse with his malacca cane and his Panama hat and his black velveteen coat, walking briskly away.
“Just an answer to my invitation for to-morrow, I expect,” she said. “Susan probably doesn’t feel up to writing after the loss of her budgerigar. She had a sodden and battered look this morning, didn’t you think, like a cardboard box that has been out in the rain. Flaccid. N
o resilience.”
Lucia had taken Mr. Wyse’s letter from the post-box, as she made these tonic remarks. She glanced through it, her mouth falling wider and wider open.
“Listen, Georgie!” she said:
DEAR AND WORSHIPFUL MAYOR-ELECT,
It has reached my ears (Dame Rumour) that during the coming year, when you have so self-sacrificingly consented to fill the highest office which our dear little Tilling can bestow, thereby honouring itself so far more than you, you will need some partner to assist you in your arduous duties. From little unconscious signs, little involuntary self-betrayals that I have observed in my dear Susan, I think I may encourage you to hope that she might be persuaded to honour herself and you by accepting the onerous post which I hear is yet unfilled. I have not had any word with her on the subject. Nor is she aware that I am writing to you. As you know, she has sustained a severe bereavement in the sudden death of her little winged companion. But I have ventured to say to her, “Carissima sposa, you must buck up. You must not let a dead bird, however dear, stand between you and the duties and opportunities of life which may present themselves to you.” And she answered (whether she guessed the purport of my exhortation, I cannot say), “I will make an effort, Algernon.” I augur favourably from that.
Of the distinction which renders her so suitable for the post of Mayoress I need not speak, for you know her character so well. I might remind you, however, that our late beloved Sovereign himself bestowed on her the insignia of the Order of Member of the British Empire, and that she would therefore bring to her new office a cachet unshared by any of the otherwise estimable ladies of Tilling. And in this distressing estrangement which now exists between the kingdoms of England and Italy, the fact that my dear Susan is sister-in-law to my dear sister Amelia, Contessa di Faraglione, might help to heal the differences between the countries. In conclusion, dear lady, I do not think you could do better than to offer my Susan the post for which her distinction and abilities so eminently fit her, and you may be sure that I shall use my influence with her to get her to accept it.
A rivederci, illustrissima Signora, ed anche presto!
ALGERNON WYSE.
P.S.: I will come round at any moment to confer with you.
P.P.S.: I reopen this to add that Susan has just received your amiable invitation for to-morrow, which we shall both be honoured to accept.
Lucia and Georgie looked at each other in silence at the end of the reading of this elegant epistle.
“Beautifully expressed, I must allow,” she said. “Oh, Georgie, it is a frightful responsibility to have patronage of this crucial kind in one’s gift! It is mine to confer not only an honour but an influence for good of a most far-reaching sort. A line from me and Susan is my Mayoress. But good Susan has not the energy, the decision which I should look for. I could not rely on her judgment.”
“She put Algernon up to writing that lovely letter,” said Georgie. “How they’re all struggling to be Mayoress!”
“I am not surprised, dear, at that,” said Lucia, with dignity. “No doubt also Evie got the Padre to recommend her—”
“And Diva recommended herself,” remarked Georgie, “as she hadn’t got anyone to do it for her.”
“And Major Benjy was certainly going to say a word for Elizabeth, if I hadn’t cut him short,” said Lucia. “I find it all rather ugly, though, poor things, I sympathise with their ambitions which in themselves are noble. I shall have to draft two very tactful letters to Diva and Mr. Wyse, before Mrs. Simpson comes to-morrow. What a good thing I told her to come at half-past nine. But just for the present I shall dismiss it all from my mind, and seek an hour’s peace with my paint-box and my belli fiori. What are you going to do till lunch?”
“It’s my day for cleaning my bibelots,” said Georgie. “What a rush it all is!”
Georgie went to his sitting-room and got busy. Soon he thought he heard another metallic clang from the post-box, and hurrying to the window, he saw Major Benjy walking briskly away from the door.
“That’ll be another formal application, I expect,” he said to himself, and went downstairs to see, with his wash-leather in his hand. There was a letter in the post-box, but to his surprise it was addressed not to Lucia, but himself. It ran:
MY DEAR PILLSON,
My wife has just received Her Worship’s most amiable invitation that we should dine chez vous to-morrow. I was on the point of writing to you in any case, so she begs me to say we shall be charmed.
Now, my dear old man (if you’ll permit me to call you so) I’ve a word to say to you. Best always, isn’t it, to be frank and open. At least that’s my experience in my twenty-five years of service in the King’s (God bless him) army. So listen. Re Mayoress. It will be a tremendous asset to your wife’s success in her most distinguished post, if she can get a wise and level-headed woman to assist her. A woman of commanding character, big-minded enough to disregard the little flurries and disturbances of her office, and above all one who has tact, and would never make mischief. Some of our mutual friends — I mention no names — are only too apt to scheme and intrigue and indulge in gossip and tittle-tattle. I can only put my finger on one who is entirely free from such failings, and that is my dear Elizabeth. I can’t answer for her accepting the post. It’s a lot to ask of any woman, but in my private opinion, if your wife approached Elizabeth in a proper spirit, making it clear how inestimable a help she (Elizabeth) would be to her, (the Mayor), I think we might hope for a favourable reply. Perhaps to-morrow evening I might have a quiet word with you. Sincerely yours,
BENJAMIN MAPP-FLINT (Major).
Georgie with his wash-leather hurried out to the giardino segreto where Lucia was drawing dahlias. He held the letter out to her, but she scarcely turned her head.
“No need to tell me, dear, that your letter is on behalf of another applicant. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, I believe. Read it me while I go on drawing. Such exquisite shapes: we do not look at flowers closely enough.”
As Georgie read it she plied a steady pencil, but when he came to the sentence about approaching Elizabeth in a proper spirit, her hand gave a violent jerk.
“Georgie, it isn’t true!” she cried. “Show me. . . . Yes. My india-rubber? Ah, there it is.”
Georgie finished the letter, and Lucia, having rubbed out the random line her pencil had made, continued to draw dahlias with concentrated attention.
“Lucia, it’s too ridiculous of you to pretend to be absorbed in your sketch,” he said impatiently. “What are you going to do?”
Lucia appeared to recall herself from the realms of peace and beauty.
“Elizabeth will be my Mayoress,” she said calmly. “Don’t you see, dear, she would be infinitely more tiresome if she wasn’t? As Mayoress, she will be muzzled, so to speak. Officially, she will have to perform the tasks I allot to her. She will come to heel, and that will be very good for her. Besides, who else is there? Diva with her tea-shop? Poor Susan? Little mouse-like Evie Bartlett?”
“But can you see yourself approaching Elizabeth in a proper spirit?” he asked.
Lucia gave a gay trill of laughter.
“Certainly I cannot. I shall wait for her to approach me. She will have to come and implore me. I shall do nothing till then.”
Georgie pondered on this extraordinary decision.
“I think you’re being very rash,” he said. “And you and Elizabeth hate each other like poison—”
“Emphatically no,” said Lucia. “I have had occasion sometimes to take her down a peg or two. I have sometimes felt it necessary to thwart her. But hate? Never. Dismiss that from your mind. And don’t be afraid that I shall approach her in any spirit at all.”
“But what am I to say to Benjy when he asks me for a few private words to-morrow night?”
Lucia laughed again.
“My dear, they’ll all ask you for a few private words to-morrow night. There’s the Padre running poor little Evie. There’s Mr. Wyse running Susan. They’ll all want to
know whom I’m likely to choose, and to secure your influence with me. Be like Mr. Baldwin and say your lips are sealed, or like some other Prime Minister, wasn’t it? who said ‘Wait and see.’ Counting Diva, there are four applicants now — remind me to tell Mrs. Simpson to enter them all — and I think the list may be considered closed. Leave it to me; be discreet . . . And the more I think of it, the more clearly I perceive that Elizabeth Mapp-Flint must be my Mayoress. It is far better to have her on a lead, bound to me by ties of gratitude than skulking about like a pariah dog, snapping at me. True, she may not be capable of gratitude, but I always prefer to look for the best in people, like Mr. Somerset Maugham in his delightful stories.”
Mrs. Simpson arriving at half-past nine next morning had to wait a considerable time for Lucia’s tactful letters to Diva and Mr. Wyse; she and Georgie sat long after breakfast scribbling and erasing on half-sheets and envelopes turned inside out till they got thoroughly tactful drafts. Lucia did not want to tell Diva point-blank that she could not dream of asking her to be Mayoress, but she did not want to raise false hopes. All she could do was to thank her warmly for her offers of help (“So like you, dear Diva!”) and to assure her that she would not hesitate to take advantage of them should occasion arise. To Mr. Wyse she said that no one had a keener appreciation of Susan’s great gifts (so rightly recognised by the King) than she; no one more deplored the unhappy international relations between England and Italy . . . Georgie briefly acknowledged Major Benjy’s letter and said he had communicated its contents to his wife, who was greatly touched. Lucia thought that these letters had better not reach their recipients till after her party, and Mrs. Simpson posted them later in the day.
Lucia was quite right about the husbands of expectant Mayoresses wanting a private word with Georgie that evening. Major Benjy and Elizabeth arrived first, a full ten minutes before dinner-time and explained to Foljambe that their clocks were fast, while Georgie in his new red velvet suit was putting the menu-cards which Mrs. Simpson had typed on the dinner-table. He incautiously put his head out of the dining-room door, while this explanation was going on, and Benjy spied him.