Georgie had only just come down to breakfast and had not yet opened his
_Times_, one morning at the end of this hectic week, when the telephone
bell rang. Lucia had not been seen at all the day before and he had a
distinct premonition, though he had not time to write it down, that this
was she. It was: and her voice sounded very brisk and playful.
“Is that Georgino?” she said. “Zat oo, Georgie?”
Georgie had another premonition, stronger than the first.
“Yes, it’s me,” he said.
“Georgie, is oo coming round to say Ta-ta to poor Lucia and Pepino?” she
said.
(“I knew it,” thought Georgie.)
“What, are you going away?” he asked.
“Yes, I told you the other night,” said Lucia in a great hurry, “when
you were doing cross-words, you and Pepino. Sure I did. Perhaps you
weren’t attending. But----”
“No, you never told me,” said Georgie firmly.
“How cwoss oo sounds. But come round, Georgie, about eleven and have
’ickle chat. We’re going to be very stravvy and motor up, and perhaps
keep the motor for a day or two.”
“And when are you coming back?” asked Georgie.
“Not quite settled,” said Lucia brightly. “There’s a lot of bizz-bizz
for poor Pepino. Can’t quite tell how long it will take. Eleven, then?”
Georgie had hardly replaced the receiver when there came a series of
bangs and rings at his front door, and Foljambe coming from the kitchen
with his dish of bacon in one hand, turned to open it. It was only de
Vere with a copy of the _Times_ in her hand.
“With Mrs. Quantock’s compliments,” said de Vere, “and would Mr. Pillson
look at the paragraph she has marked, and send it back? Mrs. Quantock
will see him whenever he comes round.”
“That all?” said Foljambe rather crossly. “What did you want to knock
the house down for then?”
De Vere vouchsafed no reply, but turned slowly in her high-heeled shoes
and regarded the prospect.
Georgie also had come into the hall at this battering summons, and
Foljambe gave him the paper. There were a large blue pencil mark and
several notes of exclamation opposite a short paragraph.
“Mr. and Mrs. Philip Lucas will arrive to-day from The Hurst, Riseholme,
at 25 Brompton Square.”
“No!” said Georgie. “Tell Mrs. Quantock I’ll look in after breakfast,”
and he hurried back, and opened his copy of the _Times_ to see if it
were the same there. It was: there was no misprint, nor could any other
interpretation be attached to it. Though he knew the fact already, print
seemed to bring it home. Print also disclosed the further fact that
Lucia must have settled everything at least before the morning post
yesterday, or this paragraph could never have appeared to-day. He
gobbled up his breakfast, burning his tongue terribly with his tea....
“It isn’t only deception,” said Daisy the moment he appeared without
even greeting him, “for that we knew already, but it’s funk as well. She
didn’t dare tell us.”
“She’s going to motor up,” said Georgie, “starting soon after eleven.
She’s just asked me to come and say good-bye.”
“That’s more deception then,” said Daisy, “for naturally, having read
that, we should have imagined she was going up by the afternoon train,
and gone round to say good-bye after lunch, and found her gone. If I
were you, I shouldn’t dream of going to say good-bye to her after this.
She’s shaking the dust of Riseholme off her London shoes.... But we’ll
have no May-Day revels if I’ve got anything to do with it.”
“Nor me,” said Georgie. “But it’s no use being cross with her. Besides,
it’s so terribly interesting. I shouldn’t wonder if she was writing some
invitations on the cards you saw----”
“No, I never saw the cards,” said Daisy, scrupulously. “Only the plate.”
“It’s the same thing. She may be writing invitations now, to post in
London.”
“Go a little before eleven then, and see,” said Daisy. “Even if she’s
not writing them then, there’ll be envelopes lying about perhaps.”
“Come too,” said Georgie.
“Certainly not,” said Daisy. “If Lucia doesn’t choose to tell me she’s
going away, the only dignified thing to do is to behave as if I knew
nothing whatever about it. I’m sure I hope she’ll have a very pleasant
drive. That’s all I can say about it; I take no further interest in her
movements. Besides, I’m very busy: I’ve got to finish weeding my garden,
for I’ve not been able to touch it these last days, and then my
Planchette arrived this morning. And a Ouija board.”
“What’s that?” said Georgie.
“A sort of Planchette, but much more--much more powerful. Only it takes
longer, as it points at letters instead of writing,” said Daisy. “I
shall begin with Planchette and take it up seriously, because I know I’m
very psychic, and there’ll be a little time for it now that we sha’n’t
be trapesing round all day in ruffs and stomachers over those May-Day
revels. Perhaps there’ll be May-Day revels in Brompton Square for a
change. I shouldn’t wonder: nothing would surprise me about Lucia now.
And it’s my opinion we shall get on very well without her.”
Georgie felt he must stick up for her: she was catching it so
frightfully hot all round.
“After all, it isn’t criminal to spend a few weeks in London,” he
observed.
“Whoever said it was?” said Daisy. “I’m all for everybody doing exactly
as they like. I just shrug my shoulders.”
She heaved up her round little shoulders with an effort.
“Georgie, how do you think she’ll begin up there?” she said. “There’s
that cousin of hers with whom she stayed sometimes, Aggie Sandeman, and
then, of course, there’s Olga Bracely. Will she just pick up
acquaintances, and pick up more from them, like one of those charity
snowballs? Will she be presented? Not that I take the slightest interest
in it.”
Georgie looked at his watch and rose.
“I do,” he said. “I’m thrilled about it. I expect she’ll manage. After
all, we none of us wanted to have May-Day revels last year but she got
us to. She’s got drive.”
“I should call it push,” said Daisy. “Come back and tell me exactly
what’s happened.”
“Any message?” asked Georgie.
“Certainly not,” said Daisy again, and began untying the string of the
parcel that held the instruments of divination.
Georgie went quickly down the road (for he saw Lucia’s motor already at
the door) and up the paved walk that led past the sundial, round which
was the circular flower-border known as Perdita’s border, for it
contained only the flowers that Perdita gathered. To-day it was all
a-bloom with daffodils and violets and primroses, and it was strange to
think that Lucia would not go gassing on about Perdita’s border, as she
always did at this time of the year, but would have to be content with
whatever flowers there happened to be in Brompton Square: a few sooty
crocuses perhaps and a periwinkle.... She was waiting for him, kissed
her hand through the window, and opened the door.
“Now for a little chat,” she said, adjusting a very smart hat, which
Georgie was sure he had never seen before. There was no trace of
mourning about it: it looked in the highest spirits. So, too, did Lucia.
“Sit down, Georgie,” she said, “and cheer me up. Poor Lucia feels ever
so sad at going away.”
“It is rather sudden,” he said. “Nobody dreamed you were off to-day, at
least until they saw the _Times_ this morning.”
Lucia gave a little sigh.
“I know,” she said, “but Pepino thought that was the best plan. He said
that if Riseholme knew when I was going, you’d all have had little
dinners and lunches for us, and I should have been completely worn out
with your kindness and hospitality. And there was so much to do, and we
weren’t feeling much like gaiety. Seen anybody this morning? Any news?”
“I saw Daisy,” said Georgie.
“And told her?”
“No, it was she who saw it in the _Times_ first, and sent it round to
me,” said Georgie. “She’s got a Ouija board, by the way. It came this
morning.”
“That’s nice,” said Lucia. “I shall think of Riseholme as being ever so
busy. And everybody must come up and stay with me, and you first of all.
When will you be able to come?”
“Whenever you ask me,” said Georgie.
“Then you must give me a day or two to settle down, and I’ll write to
you. You’ll be popping across though every moment of the day to see
Olga.”
“She’s in Paris,” said Georgie.
“No! What a disappointment! I had already written her a card, asking her
to dine with us the day after to-morrow, which I was taking up to London
to post there.”
“She may be back by then,” said Georgie.
Lucia rose and went to her writing table, on which, as Georgie was
thrilled to observe, was a whole pile of stamped and directed envelopes.
“I think I won’t chance it,” said Lucia, “for I had enclosed another
card for Signor Cortese which I wanted her to forward, asking him for
the same night. He composed ‘Lucrezia’ you know, which I see is coming
out in London in the first week of the Opera Season, with her, of
course, in the name-part. But it will be safer to ask them when I know
she is back.”
Georgie longed to know to whom all the other invitations were addressed.
He saw that the top one was directed to an M.P., and guessed that it was
for the member for the Riseholme district, who had lunched at The Hurst
during the last election.
“And what are you going to do to-night?” he asked.
“Dining with dear Aggie Sandeman. I threw myself on her mercy, for the
servants won’t have settled in, and I hoped we should have just a little
quiet evening with her. But it seems that she’s got a large dinner-party
on. Not what I should have chosen, but there’s no help for it now. Oh,
Georgie, to think of you in dear old quiet Riseholme and poor Pepino and
me gabbling and gobbling at a huge dinner-party.”
She looked wistfully round the room.
“Good-bye, dear music-room,” she said, kissing her hand in all
directions. “How glad I shall be to get back! Oh, Georgie, your Manual
on Auction Bridge got packed by mistake. So sorry. I’ll send it back.
Come in and play the piano sometimes, and then it won’t feel lonely. We
must be off, or Pepino will get fussing. Say good-bye to everyone for
us, and explain. And Perdita’s border! Will sweet Perdita forgive me
for leaving all her lovely flowers and running away to London? After
all, Georgie, Shakespeare wrote ‘The Winter’s Tale’ in London, did he
not? Lovely daffies! And violets dim. Let me give you ’ickle violet,
Georgie, to remind you of poor Lucia tramping about in long unlovely
streets, as Tennyson said.”
Lucia, so Georgie felt, wanted no more comments or questions about her
departure, and went on drivelling like this till she was safely in the
motor. She had expected Pepino to be waiting for her and beginning to
fuss, but so far from his fussing he was not there at all. So she got in
a fuss instead.
“Georgino, will you run back and shout for Pepino?” she said. “We shall
be so late, and tell him that I am sitting in the motor waiting. Ah,
there he is! Pepino, where have you been? Do get in and let us start,
for there are Piggy and Goosie running across the green, and we shall
never get off if we have to begin kissing everybody. Give them my love,
Georgie, and say how sorry we were just to miss them. Shut the door
quickly, Pepino, and tell him to drive on.”
The motor purred and started. Lucia was gone. “She had a bad conscience
too,” thought Georgie, as Piggy and Goosie gambolled up rather out of
breath with pretty playful cries, “and I’m sure I don’t wonder.”
The news that she had gone of course now spread rapidly, and by lunch
time Riseholme had made up its mind what to do, and that was
hermetically to close its lips for ever on the subject of Lucia. You
might think what you pleased, for it was a free country, but silence was
best. But this counsel of perfection was not easy to practise next day
when the evening paper came. There, for all the world to read were two
quite long paragraphs, in “Five o’clock Chit-Chat,” over the renowned
signature of Hermione, entirely about Lucia and 25 Brompton Square, and
there for all the world to see was the reproduction of one of her most
elegant photographs, in which she gazed dreamily outward and a little
upward, with her fingers still pressed on the last chord of (probably)
the Moonlight Sonata.... She had come up, so Hermione told countless
readers, from her Elizabethan country seat at Riseholme (where she was a
neighbour of Miss Olga Bracely) and was settling for the season in the
beautiful little house in Brompton Square, which was the freehold
property of her husband, and had just come to him on the death of his
aunt. It was a veritable treasure house of exquisite furniture, with a
charming music-room where Lucia had given Hermione a cup of tea from her
marvellous Worcester tea service.... (At this point Daisy, whose hands
were trembling with passion, exclaimed in a loud and injured voice, “The
very day she arrived!”) Mrs. Lucas (one of the Warwickshire Smythes by
birth) was, as all the world knew, a most accomplished musician and
Shakespearean scholar, and had made Riseholme a centre of culture and
art. But nobody would suspect the blue stocking in the brilliant,
beautiful and witty hostess whose presence would lend an added gaiety to
the London season.
Daisy was beginning to feel physically unwell. She hurried over the few
remaining lines, and then ejaculating “Witty! Beautiful!” sent de Vere
across to Georgie’s with the paper, bidding him to return it, as she
hadn’t finished with it. But she thought he ought to know.... Georgie
read it through, and with admirable self restraint, sent Foljambe back
with it and a message of thanks--nothing more--to Mrs. Quantock for the
loan of it. Daisy, by this time feeling better, memorized the whole of
it.
Life under the new conditions was not easy, for a mere glance at the
paper might send any true Riseholmite into a paroxysm of chattering rage
or a deep disgusted melancholy. The _Times_ again recorded the fact
that Mr. and Mrs. Philip Lucas had arrived at 25 Brompton Square, there
was another terrible paragraph headed “Dinner,” stating that Mrs.
Sandeman entertained the following to dinner. There were an Ambassador,
a Marquis, a Countess (dowager), two Viscounts with wives, a Baronet, a
quantity of Honourables and Knights, and Mr. and Mrs. Philip Lucas.
Every single person except Mr. and Mrs. Philip Lucas had a title. The
list was too much for Mrs. Boucher, who, reading it at breakfast,
suddenly exclaimed:
“I didn’t think it of them. And it’s a poor consolation to know that
they must have gone in last.”
Then she hermetically sealed her lips again on this painful subject, and
when she had finished her breakfast (her appetite had quite gone) she
looked up every member of that degrading party in Colonel Boucher’s
“Who’s Who.”
* * * * *
The announcement that Mr. and Mrs. Philip Lucas had arrived at 25
Brompton Square was repeated once more, in case anybody had missed it
(Riseholme had not), and Robert Quantock observed that at this rate the
three thousand pounds a year would soon be gone, with nothing to show
for it except a few press-cuttings. That was very clever and very
withering, but anyone could be withering over such a subject. It roused,
it is true, a faint and unexpressed hope that the arrival of Lucia in
London had not spontaneously produced the desired effect, or why should
she cause it to be repeated so often? But that brought no real comfort,
and a few days afterward, there fell a further staggering blow. There
was a Court, and Mrs. Agnes Sandeman presented Mrs. Philip Lucas. Worse
yet, her gown was minutely described, and her ornaments were diamonds
and pearls.
The vow of silence could no longer be observed: human nature was human
nature, and Riseholme would have burst unless it had spoken. Georgie
sitting in his little back parlour overlooking the garden, and lost in
exasperated meditation, was roused by his name being loudly called from
Daisy’s garden next door, and looking out, saw the unprecedented sight
of Mrs. Boucher’s bath-chair planted on Daisy’s lawn.
“She must have come in along the gravel path by the back door,” he
thought to himself. “I shouldn’t have thought it was wide enough.” He
looked to see if his tie was straight, and then leaned out to answer.
“Georgie, come round a minute,” called Daisy. “Have you seen it?”
“Yes,” said Georgie, “I have. And I’ll come.”
Mrs. Boucher was talking in her loud emphatic voice, when he arrived.
“As for pearls,” she said, “I can’t say anything about them, not having
seen them. But as for diamonds, the only diamonds she ever had was two
or three little chips on the back of her wrist-watch. That I’ll swear
to.”
The two ladies took no notice of him: Daisy referred to the description
of Lucia’s dress again.
“I believe it was her last dinner-gown with a train added,” she said.
“It was a sort of brocade.”
“Yes, and plush is a sort of velvet,” said Mrs. Boucher. “I’ve a good
mind to write to the _Times_, and say they’re mistaken. Brocade! Bunkum!
It’s pushing and shoving instead of diamonds and pearls. But I’ve had my
say, and that’s all. I shouldn’t a bit wonder if we saw the King and
Queen had gone to lunch quite quietly at Brompton Square.”
“That’s all very well,” said Daisy, “but what are we to do?”
“Do?” said Mrs. Boucher. “There’s plenty to do in Riseholme, isn’t
there? I’m sure I never suffered from lack of employment, and I should
be sorry to think that I had less interests now than I had before last
Wednesday week. Wednesday, or was it Thursday, when they slipped away
like that? Whichever it was, it makes no difference to me, and if you’re
both disengaged this evening, you and Mr. Georgie, the Colonel and I
would be very glad if you would come and take your bit of dinner with
us. And Mr. Quantock too, of course. But as for diamonds and pearls,
well, let’s leave that alone. I shall wear my emerald tiara to-night and
my ruby necklace. My sapphires have gone to be cleaned.”
But though Riseholme was justifiably incensed over Lucia’s worldliness
and all this pushing and shoving and this self-advertising publicity, it
had seldom been so wildly interested. Also, after the first pangs of
shame had lost their fierceness, a very different sort of emotion began
to soothe the wounded hearts: it was possible to see Lucia in another
light. She had stepped straight from the sheltered and cultured life of
Riseholme into the great busy feverish world, and already she was making
her splendid mark there. Though it might have been she who had told
Hermione what to say in those fashionable paragraphs of hers (and those
who knew Lucia best were surely best competent to form just conclusions
about that) still Hermione had said it, and the public now knew how
witty and beautiful Lucia was, and what a wonderful house she had. Then
on the very night of her arrival she had been a guest at an obviously
superb dinner-party, and had since been presented at Court. All this, to
look at it fairly, reflected glory on Riseholme, and if it was
impossible in one mood not to be ashamed of her, it was even more
impossible in other moods not to be proud of her. She had come, and
almost before she had seen, she was conquering. She could be viewed as a
sort of ambassadress, and her conquests in that light were Riseholme’s
conquests. But pride did not oust shame, nor shame pride, and
shuddering anticipations as to what new enormity the daily papers might
reveal were mingled with secret and delighted conjectures as to what
Riseholme’s next triumph would be.
It was not till the day after her presentation that any news came to
Riseholme direct from the ambassadress’s headquarters. Every day Georgie
had been expecting to hear, and in anticipation of her summons to come
up and stay in the bedroom with the bathroom and sitting-room attached,
had been carefully through his wardrobe, and was satisfied that he would
present a creditable appearance. His small portmanteau, Foljambe
declared, would be ample to hold all that he wanted, including the suit
with the Oxford trousers, and his cloth-topped boots. When the long
expected letter came, he therefore felt prepared to start that very
afternoon, and tore it open with the most eager haste and propped it
against his teapot.
GEORGINO MIO,
Such a whirl ever since we left, that I haven’t had a moment. But
to-night (Oh such a relief) Pepino and I have dined alone, quite à
la Riseholme, and for the first time I have had half an hour’s
quiet practice in my music-room, and now sit down to write to you.
(You’d have scolded me if you’d heard me play, so stiff and rusty
have I become.)
Well, now for my little chronicles. The very first evening we were
here, we went out to a big dinner at dearest Aggie’s. Some
interesting people: I enjoyed a pleasant talk with the Italian
Ambassador, and called on them the day after, but I had no long
conversation with anyone, for Aggie kept bringing up fresh people
to introduce me to, and your poor Lucia got quite confused with so
many, till Pepino and I sorted them out afterward. Everyone seemed
to have heard of our coming up to town, and I assure you that ever
since the tiresome telephone has been a perfect nuisance, though
all so kind. Would we go to lunch one day, or would we go to dinner
another, and there was a private view here, and a little music in
the afternoon there: I assure you I have never been so petted and
made so much of.
We have done a little entertaining too, already, just a few old
friends like our member of Parliament, Mr. Garroby-Ashton. (“She
met him once,” thought Georgie in parenthesis.) He insisted also
on our going to tea with him at the House of Commons. I knew that
would interest Pepino, for he’s becoming quite a politician, and so
we went. Tea on the terrace, and a pleasant little chat with the
Prime Minister who came and sat at our table for ever so long. How
I wanted you to be there and make a sketch of the Thames; just the
sort of view you do so beautifully! Wonderful river, and I repeated
to myself “Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.” Then such
a scurry to get back to dine somewhere or other and go to a play.
Then dearest Aggie (such a good soul) had set her heart on
presenting me and I couldn’t disappoint her. Did you see the
description of my dress? How annoyed I was that it appeared in the
papers! So vulgar all that sort of thing, and you know how I hate
publicity, but they tell me I must just put up with it and not
mind.
The house is getting into order, but there are lots of little
changes and furbishings up to be done before I venture to show it
to anyone as critical as you, Georgino. How you would scream at the
carpet in the dining-room! I know it would give you indigestion.
But when I get the house straight, I shall insist on your coming,
whatever your engagements are, and staying a long, long time. We
will fix a date when I come down for some week-end.
Your beloved Olga is back, but I haven’t seen her yet. I asked
Signor Cortese to dine and meet her one night, and I asked her to
meet him. I thought that would make a pleasant little party, but
they were both engaged. I hope they have not quarrelled. Her house,
just opposite mine, looks very tiny, but I daresay it is quite
large enough for her and her husband. She sings at the opening
night of the Opera next week, in “Lucrezia.” I must manage to go
even if I can only look in for an act or two. Pepino (so
extravagant of him) has taken a box for two nights in the week. It
is his birthday present to me, so I couldn’t scold the dear! And
after all, we shall give a great deal of pleasure to friends, by
letting them have it when we do not want it ourselves.
Love to everybody at dear Riseholme. I feel quite like an exile,
and sometimes I long for its sweet peace and quietness. But there
is no doubt that London suits Pepino very well, and I must make the
best of this incessant hustle. I had hoped to get down for next
Sunday, but Mrs. Garroby-Ashton (I hear he will certainly be raised
to the peerage when the birthday honours come out) has made a point
of our spending it with them.... Good-night, dear Georgino. Me so
so sleepy.
LUCIA.
Georgie swallowed this letter at a gulp, and then, beginning again, took
it in sips. At first it gave him an impression of someone wholly unlike
her, but when sipped, every sentence seemed wonderfully characteristic.
She was not adapting herself to new circumstances, she was adapting new
circumstances to herself with all her old ingenuity and success, and
with all her invincible energy. True, you had sometimes to read between
the lines, and divide everything by about three in order to allow for
exaggerations, and when Lucia spoke of not disappointing dearest Aggie,
who had set her heart on presenting her at Court, or of Mrs.
Garroby-Ashton making a point of her going down for the week-end which
she had intended to spend at Riseholme, Georgie only had to remember how
she had been forced (so she said) to be Queen at those May Day revels.
By sheer power of will she had made each of them become a Robin Hood or
a Maid Marian, or whatever it was, and then, when she had got them all
at work she said it was she who was being worked to death over _their_
May Day revels. They had forced her to organize them, they had insisted
that she should be Queen, and lead the dances and sing louder than
anybody, and be crowned and curtsied to. They had been wax in her hands,
and now in new circumstances, Georgie felt sure that dearest Aggie had
been positively forced to present her, and no doubt Mrs. Garroby-Ashton,
cornered on that terrace of the House of Commons, while sweet Thames
flowed softly, had had no choice but to ask her down for a Sunday.
Willpower, indomitable perseverance now, as always, was getting her just
precisely what she had wanted: by it she had become Queen of Riseholme,
and by it she was firmly climbing away in London, and already she was
saying that everybody was insisting on her dining and lunching with
them, whereas it was her moral force that made them powerless in her
grip. Riseholme she had no use for now: she was busy with something
else; she did not care to be bothered with Georgie, and so she said it
was the dining-room carpet.
“Very well,” said Georgie bitterly. “And if she doesn’t want me, I won’t
want her. So that’s that.”
He briskly put the letter away, and began to consider what he should do
with himself all day. It was warm enough to sit out and paint: in fact,
he had already begun a sketch of the front of his house from the Green
opposite; there was his piano if he settled to have a morning of music;
there was the paper to read, there was news to collect, there was Daisy
Quantock next door who would be delighted to have a sitting with the
planchette, which was really beginning to write whole words instead of
making meaningless dashes and scribbles, and yet none of these things
which, together with plenty of conversation and a little housekeeping
and manicuring, had long made life such a busy and strenuous
performance, seemed to offer an adequate stimulus. And he knew well
enough what rendered them devoid of tonic: it was that Lucia was not
here, and however much he told himself he did not want her, he like all
the rest of Riseholme was beginning to miss her dreadfully. She
aggravated and exasperated them: she was a hypocrite (all that pretence
of not having read the Mozart duet, and desolation at Auntie’s death), a
poseuse, a sham and a snob, but there was something about her that
stirred you into violent though protesting activity, and though she
might infuriate you, she prevented your being dull. Georgie enjoyed
painting, but he knew that the fact that he would show his sketch to
Lucia gave spice to his enjoyment, and that she, though knowing no more
about it than a rhinoceros, would hold it at arm’s length with her head
a little on one side and her eyes slightly closed, and say:
“Yes, Georgie, very nice, very nice. But have you got the value of your
middle-distance quite right? And a little more depth in your distance,
do you think?”
Or if he played his piano, he knew that what inspired his nimbleness
would be the prospect of playing his piece to her, and if he was
practising on the sly a duet for performance with her, the knowledge
that he was stealing a march on her and would astonish her (though she
might suspect the cause of his facility). And as for conversation, it
was useless to deny that conversation languished in Riseholme if the
subject of Lucia, her feats and her frailties was tabooed.
“We’ve got to pull ourselves together,” thought Georgie, “and start
again. We must get going and learn to do without her, as she’s getting
on so nicely without us. I shall go and see how the planchette is
progressing.”
Daisy was already at it, and the pencil was getting up steam. A day or
two ago it had written not once only but many times a strange sort of
hieroglyphic, which might easily be interpreted to be the mystic word
Abfou. Daisy had therefore settled (what could be more obvious?) that
the name of the control who guided these strange gyrations was Abfou,
which sounded very Egyptian and antique. Therefore, she powerfully
reasoned, the scribbles which could not be made to fit any known
configuration of English letters might easily be Arabic. Why Abfou
should write his name in English characters and his communications in
Arabic was not Daisy’s concern, for who knew what were the conditions on
the other side? A sheet was finished just as Georgie came in, and though
it presented nothing but Arabic script, the movements of the planchette
had been so swift and eager that Daisy quite forgot to ask if there was
any news.
“Abfou is getting in more direct touch with me every time I sit,” said
Daisy. “I feel sure we shall have something of great importance before
long. Put your hand on the planchette too, Georgie, for I have always
believed that you have mediumistic powers. Concentrate first: that means
you must put everything else out of your head. Let us sit for a minute
or two with our eyes shut. Breathe deeply. Relax. Sometimes slight
hypnosis comes on, so the book says, which means you get very drowsy.”
There was silence for a few moments: Georgie wanted to tell Daisy about
Lucia’s letter, but that would certainly interrupt Abfou, so he drew up
a chair, and after laying his hand on Daisy’s, closed his eyes and
breathed deeply. And then suddenly the most extraordinary things began
to happen.
The planchette trembled: it vibrated like a kettle on the boil, and
began to skate about the paper. He had no idea what its antic motions
meant: he only knew that it was writing something, Arabic perhaps, but
something firm and decided. It seemed to him that so far from aiding its
movement, he almost, to be on the safe side, checked it. He opened his
eyes, for it was impossible not to want to watch this manifestation of
psychic force, and also he wished to be sure (though he had no real
suspicions on the subject) that his collaborator was not, to put it
coarsely, pushing. Exactly the same train of thought was passing in
Daisy’s mind, and she opened her eyes too.
“Georgie, my hand is positively being dragged about,” she said
excitedly. “If anything, I try to resist.”
“Mine too; so do I,” said Georgie. “It’s too wonderful. Do you suppose
it’s Arabic still?”
The pencil gave a great dash, and stopped.
“It is Arabic,” said Daisy as she examined the message, “at least,
there’s heaps of English too.”
“No!” said Georgie, putting on his spectacles in his excitement, and not
caring whether Daisy knew he wore them or not. “I can see it looks like
English, but what a difficult handwriting! Look, that’s ‘Abfou,’ isn’t
it? And that is ‘Abfou’ again there.”
They bent their heads over the script.
“There’s an ‘L,’” cried Daisy, “and there it is again. And then there’s
‘L from L.’ And then there’s ‘Dead’ repeated twice. It can’t mean that
Abfou is dead, because this is positive proof that he’s alive. And then
I can see ‘Mouse’?”
“Where?” said Georgie eagerly. “And what would ‘dead mouse’ mean?”
“There!” said Daisy pointing. “No: it isn’t ‘dead mouse.’ It’s ‘dead’
and then a lot of Arabic, and then ‘mouse.’”
“I don’t believe it is ‘mouse,’” said Georgie, “though of course, you
know Abfou’s handwriting much better than I do. It looks to me far more
like ‘Museum.’”
“Perhaps he wants me to send all the Arabic he’s written up to the
British Museum,” said Daisy with a flash of genius, “so that they can
read it and say what it means.”
“But then there’s ‘Museum’ or ‘Mouse’ again there,” said Georgie, “and
surely that word in front of it--It is! It’s Riseholme! Riseholme Mouse
or Riseholme Museum! I don’t know what either would mean.”
“You may depend upon it that it means something,” said Daisy, “and
there’s another capital ‘L.’ Does it mean Lucia, do you think? But
‘dead’....”
“No: dead’s got nothing to do with the ‘L,’” said Georgie. “‘Museum’
comes in between, and quantities of Arabic.”
“I think I’ll just record the exact time; it would be more scientific,”
said Daisy. “A quarter to eleven. No, that clock’s three minutes fast by
the church time.”
“No, the church time is slow,” said Georgie.
Suddenly he jumped up.
“I’ve got it,” he said. “Look! ‘L from L.’ That means a letter from
Lucia. And it’s quite true. I heard this morning, and it’s in my pocket
now.”
“No!” said Daisy, “that’s just a sign Abfou is giving us, that he
really is with us, and knows what is going on. Very evidential.”
The absorption of them both in this script may be faintly appreciated by
the fact that neither Daisy evinced the slightest curiosity as to what
Lucia said, nor Georgie the least desire to communicate it.
“And then there’s ‘dead,’” said Georgie, looking out of the window. “I
wonder what that means.”
“I’m sure I hope it’s not Lucia,” said Daisy with stoical calmness, “but
I can’t think of anybody else.”
Georgie’s eyes wandered over the Green; Mrs. Boucher was speeding round
in her bath-chair, pushed by her husband, and there was the Vicar
walking very fast, and Mrs. Antrobus and Piggy and Goosie ... nobody
else seemed to be dead. Then his eye came back to the foreground of
Daisy’s front garden.
“What has happened to your mulberry-tree?” he said parenthetically. “Its
leaves are all drooping. You ought never to have pruned its roots
without knowing how to do it.”
Daisy jumped up.
“Georgie, you’ve got it!” she said. “It’s the mulberry-tree that’s dead.
Isn’t that wonderful?”
Georgie was suitably impressed.
“That’s very curious: very curious indeed,” he said. “Letter from Lucia,
and the dead mulberry tree. I do believe there’s something in it. But
let’s go on studying the script. Now I look at it again I feel certain
it is Riseholme Museum, not Riseholme Mouse. The only difficulty is that
there isn’t a Museum in Riseholme.”
“There are plenty of mice,” observed Daisy, who had had some trouble
with these little creatures. “Abfou may be wanting to give me advice
about some kind of ancient Egyptian trap.... But if you aren’t very busy
this morning, Georgie, we might have another sitting and see if we get
anything more definite. Let us attain collectedness as the directions
advise.”
“What’s collectedness?” asked Georgie.
Daisy gave him the directions. Collectedness seemed to be a sort of
mixture of intense concentration and complete vacuity of mind.
“You seem to have to concentrate your mind upon nothing at all,” said he
after reading it.
“That’s just it,” said Daisy. “You put all thoughts out of your head,
and then focus your mind. We have to be only the instrument through
which Abfou functions.”
They sat down again after a little deep breathing and relaxation, and
almost immediately the planchette began to move across the paper with a
firm and steady progression. It stopped sometimes for a few minutes,
which was proof of the authenticity of the controlling force, for in
spite of all efforts at collectedness, both Daisy’s and Georgie’s minds
were full of things which they longed for Abfou to communicate, and if
either of them was consciously directing those movements, there could
have been no pause at all. When finally it gave that great dash across
the paper again, indicating that the communication was finished, they
found the most remarkable results.
Abfou had written two pages of foolscap in a tall upright hand, which
was quite unlike either Daisy’s or Georgie’s ordinary script, and this
was another proof (if proof were wanted) of authenticity. It was
comparatively easy to read, and, except for a long passage at the end in
Arabic, was written almost entirely in English.
“Look, there’s Lucia written out in full four times,” said Daisy
eagerly. “And ‘Pepper.’ What’s Pepper?”
Georgie gasped.
“Why Pepino, of course,” he said. “I do call that odd. And see how it
goes on--‘Muck company,’ no ‘Much company, much grand company, higher
and higher.’”
“Poor Lucia!” said Daisy. “How sarcastic! That’s what Abfou thinks about
it all. By the way, you haven’t told me what she says yet; never mind,
this is far more interesting.... Then there’s a little Arabic, at least
I think it’s Arabic, for I can’t make anything out of it, and then--why,
I believe those next words are ‘From Olga.’ Have you heard from Olga?”
“No,” said Georgie, “but there’s something about her in Lucia’s letter.
Perhaps that’s it.”
“Very likely. And then I can make out Riseholme, and it isn’t ‘mouse,’
it’s quite clearly ‘Museum,’ and then--I can’t read that, but it looks
English, and then ‘opera,’ that’s Olga again, and ‘dead,’ which is the
mulberry tree. And then ‘It is better to work than to be idle. Think
not----’ something----”
“‘Bark,’” said Georgie. “No, ‘hard.’”
“Yes. ‘Think not hard thoughts of any, but turn thy mind to improving
work.’--Georgie, isn’t that wonderful?--and then it goes off into
Arabic, what a pity! It might have been more about the museum. I shall
certainly send all the first Arabic scripts to the British Museum.”
Georgie considered this.
“Somehow I don’t believe that is what Abfou means,” said he. “He says
Riseholme Museum, not British Museum. You can’t possibly get ‘British’
out of that word.”
Georgie left Daisy still attempting to detect more English among Arabic
passages and engaged himself to come in again after tea for fresh
investigation. Within a minute of his departure Daisy’s telephone rang.
“How tiresome these interruptions are,” said Daisy to herself, as she
hurried to the instrument. “Yes, yes. Who is it?”
Georgie’s voice had the composure of terrific excitement.
“It’s me,” he said. “The second post has just come in, and a letter from
Olga. ‘From Olga,’ you remember.”
“No!” said Daisy. “Do tell me if she says anything about----”
But Georgie had already rung off. He wanted to read his letter from
Olga, and Daisy sat down again quite awestruck at this further
revelation. The future clearly was known to Abfou as well as the past,
for Georgie knew nothing about Olga’s letter when the words “From Olga”
occurred in the script. And if in it she said anything about “opera”
(which really was on the cards) it would be more wonderful still.
The morning was nearly over, so Daisy observed to her prodigious
surprise, for it had really gone like a flash (a flash of the highest
illuminative power), and she hurried out with a trowel and a rake to get
half an hour in the garden before lunch. It was rather disconcerting to
find that though she spent the entire day in the garden, often not
sitting down to her planchette till dusk rendered it impossible to see
the mazes of cotton threads she had stretched over newly-sown beds, to
keep off sparrows (she had on one occasion shattered with a couple of
hasty steps the whole of those defensive fortifications) she seemed, in
spite of blistered hands and aching back, to be falling more and more
into arrears over her horticulture. Whereas that ruffian Simkinson, whom
she had dismissed for laziness when she found him smoking a pipe in the
potting-shed and doing a cross-word puzzle when he ought to have been
working, really kept her garden in very good order by slouching about it
for three half-days in the week. To be sure, she had pruned the roots of
the mulberry tree, which had taken a whole day (and so incidentally had
killed the mulberry tree) and though the death of that antique vegetable
had given Abfou a fine opportunity for proving himself, evidence now
was getting so abundant that Daisy almost wished it hadn’t happened.
Then, too, she was beginning to have secret qualms that she had torn up
as weeds a quantity of seedlings which the indolent Simkinson had just
pricked out, for though the beds were now certainly weedless, there was
no sign of any other growth there. And either Daisy’s little wooden
labels had got mixed, or she had sown Brussels sprouts in the circular
bed just outside the dining-room window instead of Phlox Drummondi. She
thought she had attached the appropriate label to the seed she had sown,
but it was very dark at the time, and in the morning the label certainly
said “Brussels sprouts.” In which case there would be a bed of Phlox at
the far end of the little strip of kitchen garden. The seeds in both
places were sprouting now, so she would know the worst or the best
before long.
Then, again, there was the rockery she had told Simkinson to build,
which he had neglected for cross-word puzzles, and though Daisy had been
working six or eight hours a day in her garden ever since, she had not
found time to touch a stone of it, and the fragments lying like a
moraine on the path by the potting-shed still rendered any approach to
the latter a mountaineering feat. They consisted of fragments of
mediæval masonry, from the site of the ancient abbey, finials and
crockets and pieces of mullioned windows which had been turned up when a
new siding of the railway had been made, and everyone almost had got
some with the exception of Mrs. Boucher, who called them rubbish. Then
there were some fossils, ammonites and spar and curious flints with
holes in them and bits of talc, for Lucia one year had commandeered them
all into the study of geology and they had got hammers and whacked away
at the face of an old quarry, detaching these petrified relics and
hitting themselves over the fingers in the process. It was that year
that the Roman camp outside the village had been put under the plough
and Riseholme had followed it like a bevy of rooks, and Georgie had got
several trays full of fragments of iridescent glass, and Colonel Boucher
had collected bits of Samian ware, and Mrs. Antrobus had found a bronze
fibula or safety-pin. Daisy had got some chunks of Roman brickwork, and
a section of Roman drainpipe, which now figured among the materials for
her rockery; and she had bought, for about their weight in gold, quite a
dozen bronze coins. These, of course, would not be placed in the
rockery, but she had put them somewhere very carefully, and had
subsequently forgotten where that was. Now as these archæological
associations came into her mind from the contemplation of the materials
for the rockery, she suddenly thought she remembered that she had put
them at the back of the drawer in her card-table.
The sight of these antique fragments disgusted Daisy; they littered the
path, and she could not imagine them built up into a rockery that should
have the smallest claim to be an attractive object. How could the
juxtaposition of a stone mullion, a drain-pipe and an ammonite present a
pleasant appearance? Besides, who was to juxtapose them? She could not
keep pace with the other needs of the garden, let alone a rockery, and
where, after all, was the rockery to stand? The asparagus-bed seemed the
only place, and she preferred asparagus.
Robert was bawling out from the dining-room window that lunch was ready,
and as she retraced her steps to the house, she thought that perhaps it
would be better to eat humble pie and get Simkinson to return. It was
clear to Daisy that if she was to do her duty as medium between ancient
Egypt and the world of to-day, the garden would deteriorate even more
rapidly than it was doing already, and no doubt Robert would consent to
eat the humble pie for her, and tell Simkinson that they couldn’t get on
without him, and that when she had said he was lazy, she had meant
industrious, or whatever else was necessary.
Robert was in a very good temper that day because Roumanian oils which
were the main source of his fortunes had announced a higher dividend
than usual, and he promised to seek out Simkinson and explain what lazy
meant, and if he didn’t understand to soothe his injured feelings with a
small tip.
“And tell him he needn’t make a rockery at all,” said Daisy. “He always
hated the idea of a rockery. He can dig a pit and bury the fossils and
the architectural fragments and everything. That will be the easiest way
of disposing of them.”
“And what is he to do with the earth he takes out of the pit, my dear?”
asked Robert.
“Put it back, I suppose,” said Daisy rather sharply. Robert was so
pleased at having “caught” her, that he did not even explain that she
had been caught....
* * * * *
After lunch Daisy found the coins; it was odd that, having forgotten
where she had put them for so long, she should suddenly remember, and
she was inclined to attribute this inspiration to Abfou. The difficulty
was to know what, having found them, to do with them next. Some of them
obviously bore signs of once having had profiles of Roman emperors
stamped on them, and she was sure she had heard that some Roman coins
were of great value, and probably these were the ones. Perhaps when she
sent the Arabic script to the British Museum she might send these too
for identification.... And then she dropped them all on the floor as the
great idea struck her.
She flew into the garden, calling to Georgie, who was putting up
croquet-hoops.
“Georgie, I’ve got it!” she said. “It’s as plain as plain. What Abfou
wants us to do is to start a Riseholme Museum. He wrote Riseholme Museum
quite distinctly. Think how it would pay too, when we’re overrun with
American tourists in the summer! They would all come to see it. A
shilling admission I should put it at, and sixpence for the catalogue.”
“I wonder if Abfou meant that,” said Georgie.
“He said it,” said Daisy. “You can’t deny that!”
“But what should we put in the Museum?” asked he.
“My dear, we should fill it with antiquities and things which none of us
want in our houses. There are those beautiful fragments of the Abbey
which I’ve got, and which are simply wasted in my garden with no one to
see them, and my drainpipe. I would present them all to the Museum, and
the fossils, and perhaps some of my coins. And my Roman brick-work.”
Georgie paused with a hoop in his hand.
“That is an idea,” he said. “And I’ve got all those lovely pieces of
iridescent glass, which are always tumbling about. I would give them.”
“And Colonel Boucher’s Samian ware,” cried Daisy. “He was saying only
the other day how he hated it, but didn’t quite want to throw it away.
It will be a question of what we leave out, not of what we put in.
Besides, I’m sure that’s what Abfou meant. We must form a committee at
once. You and Mrs. Boucher and I, I should think, would be enough. Large
committees are a great mistake.”
“Not Lucia?” asked Georgie, with lingering loyalty.
“No. Certainly not,” said Daisy. “She would only send us orders from
London, as to what we were to do and want us to undo all we had done
when she came back, besides saying she had thought of it, and making
herself President!”
“There’s something in that,” said Georgie.
“Of course there is, there’s sense,” said Daisy. “Now I shall go
straight and see Mrs. Boucher.”
Georgie dealt a few smart blows with his mallet to the hoop he was
putting in place.
“I shall come too,” he said. “Riseholme Museum! I believe Abfou did mean
that. We _shall_ be busy again.”