Lucia made no allusion whatever to her athletic triumph in the afternoon
when Georgie appeared. That was not her way: she just triumphed, and
left other people to talk about it. But her principles did not prevent
her speaking about golf in the abstract.
“We must get more businesslike when you and I are on the Committee,
Georgie,” she said. “We must have competitions and handicaps, and I will
give a small silver cup, the President’s cup, to be competed for.
There’s no organization at present, you see: great fun, but no
organization. We shall have to put our heads together over that. And
foursomes: I have been reading about foursomes, when two people on one
side hit the ball in turn. Pepino, I’m sure, would give a little cup for
foursomes, the Lucas cup.... And you’ve brought the planchette? You must
teach me how to use it. What a good employment for winter evenings,
Georgie. And we must have some bridge tournaments. Wet afternoons, you
know, and then tea, and then some more bridge. But we will talk about
all that presently, only I warn you I shall expect you to get up all
sorts of diversions for Pepino.”
Lucia gave a little sigh.
“Pepino adored London,” she said, “and we must cheer him up, Georgie,
and not let him feel dull. You must think of lots of little diversions:
little pleasant bustling things for these long evenings: music, and
bridge, and some planchette. Then I shall get up some Shakespeare
readings, selections from plays, with a small part for Pepino and
another for poor Daisy. I foresee already that I shall have a very busy
autumn. But you must all be very kind and come here for our little
entertainments. Madness for Pepino to go out after sunset. Now let us
get to our planchette. How I do chatter, Georgie!”
Georgie explained the technique of planchette, how important it was not
to push, but on the other hand not to resist its independent motions. As
he spoke Lucia glanced over the directions for planchette which he had
brought with him.
“We may not get anything,” he said. “Abfou was very disappointing
sometimes. We can go on talking: indeed, it is better not to attend to
what it does.”
“I see,” said Lucia, “let us go on talking then. How late you are,
Georgie. I expected you half an hour ago. Oh, you said you might be
detained by a Museum Committee meeting.”
“Yes, we settled to shut the Museum up for the winter,” he said. “Just
an oil-stove or two to keep it dry. I wanted--and so did Mrs. Boucher, I
know--to ask you----”
He stopped, for Planchette had already begun to throb in a very
extraordinary manner.
“I believe something is going to happen,” he said.
“No! How interesting!” said Lucia. “What do we do?”
“Nothing,” said Georgie. “Just let it do what it likes. Let’s
concentrate: that means thinking of nothing at all.”
Georgie of course had noticed and inwardly applauded the lofty reticence
which Lucia had shown about Daisy’s disaster this afternoon. But he had
the strongest suspicion of her wish to weedj, and he fully expected that
if Abfou “came through” and talked anything but Arabic, he would express
his scorn of Daisy’s golf. There would be scathing remarks,
corresponding to “snob” and those rude things about Lucia’s shingling
of her hair, and then he would feel that Lucia had pushed. She might say
she hadn’t, just as Daisy said she hadn’t, but it would be very
unconvincing if Abfou talked about golf. He hoped it wouldn’t happen,
for the very appositeness of Abfou’s remarks before had strangely shaken
his faith in Abfou. He had been willing to believe that it was Daisy’s
subconscious self that had inspired Abfou--or at any rate he tried to
believe it--but it had been impossible to dissociate the complete Daisy
from these violent criticisms.
Planchette began to move.
“Probably it’s Arabic,” said Georgie. “You never quite know. Empty your
mind of everything, Lucia.”
She did not answer, and he looked up at her. She had that far-away
expression which he associated with renderings of the Moonlight Sonata.
Then her eyes closed.
Planchette was moving quietly and steadily along. When it came near the
edge of the paper, it ran back and began again, and Georgie felt quite
sure he wasn’t pushing: he only wanted it not to waste its energy on the
tablecloth. Once he felt almost certain that it traced out the word
“drive,” but one couldn’t be sure. And was that “committee”? His heart
rather sank: it would be such a pity if Abfou was only talking about the
golf club which no doubt was filling Lucia’s subconscious as well as
conscious mind.... Then suddenly he got rather alarmed, for Lucia’s head
was sunk forward, and she breathed with strange rapidity.
“Lucia!” he said sharply.
Lucia lifted her head, and Planchette stopped.
“Dear me, I felt quite dreamy,” she said. “Let us go on talking,
Georgie. Lady Ambermere this morning: I wish you could have seen her.”
“Planchette has been writing,” said Georgie.
“No!” said Lucia. “Has it? May we look?”
Georgie lifted the machine. There was no Arabic at all, nor was it
Abfou’s writing, which in quaint little ways resembled Daisy’s when he
wrote quickly.
“Vittoria,” he read. “I am Vittoria.”
“Georgie, how silly,” said Lucia, “or is it the Queen?”
“Let’s see what she says,” said Georgie. “I am Vittoria. I come to
Riseholme. For proof, there is a dog and a Vecchia----”
“That’s Italian,” said Lucia excitedly. “You see, Vittoria is Italian.
Vecchia means--let me see; yes, of course, it means ‘old woman.’ ‘A dog,
and an old woman who is angry.’ O Georgie, you did that! You were
thinking about Pug and Lady Ambermere.”
“I swear I wasn’t,” said Georgie. “It never entered my head. Let’s see
what else. ‘And Vittoria comes to tell you of fire and water, of fire
and water. The strong elements that burn and soak. Fire and water and
moonlight.’”
“O Georgie, what gibberish,” said Lucia. “It’s as silly as Abfou. What
does it mean? Moonlight! I suppose you would say I pushed and was
thinking of the Moonlight Sonata.”
That base thought had occurred to Georgie’s mind, but where did fire and
water come in? Suddenly a stupendous interpretation struck him.
“It’s most extraordinary!” he said. “We had a Museum Committee meeting
just now, and Mrs. Boucher said the place was streaming wet. We settled
to get some oil-stoves to keep it dry. There’s fire and water for you!”
Georgie had mentioned this fact about the Museum Committee, but so
casually that he had quite forgotten he had done so. Lucia did not
remind him of it.
“Well, I do call that remarkable!” she said. “But I daresay it’s only a
coincidence.”
“I don’t think so at all,” said Georgie. “I think it’s most curious, for
I wasn’t thinking about that a bit. What else does it say? ‘Vittoria
bids you keep love and loyalty alive in your hearts. Vittoria has
suffered, and bids you be kind to the suffering.’”
“That’s curious!” said Lucia. “That might apply to Pepino, mightn’t
it?... O Georgie, why, of course, that was in both of our minds: we had
just been talking about it. I don’t say you pushed intentionally, and
you mustn’t say I did, but that might easily have come from us.”
“I think it’s very strange,” said Georgie. “And then, what came over
you, Lucia? You looked only half conscious. I believe it was what the
planchette directions call light hypnosis.”
“No!” said Lucia. “Light hypnosis, that means half-asleep, doesn’t it? I
did feel drowsy.”
“It’s a condition of trance,” said Georgie. “Let’s try again.”
Lucia seemed reluctant.
“I think I won’t, Georgie,” she said. “It is so strange. I’m not sure
that I like it.”
“It can’t hurt you if you approach it in the right spirit,” said
Georgie, quoting from the directions.
“Not again this evening, Georgie,” she said. “To-morrow perhaps. It is
interesting, it is curious, and somehow I don’t think Vittoria would
hurt us. She seemed kind. There’s something noble, indeed, about her
message.”
“Much nobler than Abfou,” said Georgie, “and much more powerful. Why,
she came through at once, without pages of scribbles first! I never felt
quite certain that Abfou’s scribbles were Arabic.”
Lucia gave a little indulgent smile.
“There didn’t seem much evidence for it from what you told me,” she
said. “All you could be certain of was that they weren’t English.”
Georgie left his planchette with Lucia, in case she would consent to sit
again to-morrow, and hurried back, it is unnecessary to state, not to
his own house, but to Daisy’s. Vittoria was worth two of Abfou, he
thought ... that communication about fire and water, that kindness to
the suffering, and, hardly less, the keeping of loyalty alive. That made
him feel rather guilty, for certainly loyalty to Lucia had flickered
somewhat in consequence of her behaviour during the summer.
He gave a short account of these remarkable proceedings (omitting the
loyalty) to Daisy, who took a superior and scornful attitude.
“Vittoria, indeed!” she said, “and Vecchia. Isn’t that Lucia all over,
lugging in easy Italian like that? And Pug and the angry old lady.
Glorifying herself, I call it. Why, that wasn’t even subconscious: her
mind was full of it.”
“But how about the fire and water?” asked Georgie. “It does apply to the
damp in the Museum and the oil-stoves.”
Daisy knew that her position as priestess of Abfou was tottering. It was
true that she had not celebrated the mysteries of late, for Riseholme
(and she) had got rather tired of Abfou, but it was gall and wormwood to
think that Lucia should steal (steal was the word) her invention and
bring it out under the patronage of Vittoria as something quite new.
“A pure fluke,” said Daisy. “If she’d written mutton and music, you
would have found some interpretation for it. Such far-fetched nonsense!”
Georgie was getting rather heated. He remembered how when Abfou had
written “death” it was held to apply to the mulberry-tree which Daisy
believed she had killed by amateur root-pruning, so if it came to
talking about far-fetched nonsense, he could have something to say.
Besides, the mulberry-tree hadn’t died at all, so that if Abfou meant
that he was wrong. But there was no good in indulging in recriminations
with Daisy, not only for the sake of peace and quietness, but because
Georgie could guess very well all she was feeling.
“But she didn’t write about mutton and music,” he observed, “so we
needn’t discuss that. Then there was moonlight. I don’t know what that
means.”
“I should call it moonshine,” said Daisy brightly.
“Well, it wrote moonlight,” said Georgie. “Of course there’s the
Moonlight Sonata which might have been in Lucia’s mind, but it’s all
curious. And I believe Lucia was in a condition of light hypnosis----”
“Light fiddlesticks!” said Daisy.... (Why hadn’t she thought of going
into a condition of light hypnosis when she was Abfouing? So much more
impressive!) “We can all shut our eyes and droop our heads.”
“Well, I think it was light hypnosis,” said Georgie firmly. “It was very
curious to see. I hope she’ll consent to sit again. She didn’t much want
to.”
Daisy profoundly hoped that Lucia would not consent to sit again, for
she felt Abfouism slipping out of her fingers. In any case, she would
instantly resuscitate Abfou, for Vittoria shouldn’t have it all her own
way. She got up.
“Georgie, why shouldn’t we see if Abfou has anything to say about it?”
she asked. “After all, Abfou told us to make a museum, and that hasn’t
turned out so badly. Abfou was practical; what he suggested led to
something.”
Though the notion that Daisy had thought of the Museum and pushed
flitted through Georgie’s mind, there was something in what she said,
for certainly Abfou had written museum (if it wasn’t “mouse”) and there
was the Museum which had turned out so profitably for the Committee.
“We might try,” he said.
Daisy instantly got out her planchette, which sadly wanted dusting, and
it began to move almost as soon as they laid their hands on it: Abfou
was in a rather inartistic hurry. And it really wasn’t very wise of
Daisy to close her eyes and snort: it was indeed light fiddlesticks to
do that. It was a sheer unconvincing plagiarism from Lucia, and his
distrust of Daisy and of Abfou immeasurably deepened. Furiously the
pencil scribbled, going off the paper occasionally and writing on the
table till Georgie could insert the paper under it: it was evident that
Abfou was very indignant about something, and there was no need to
inquire what that was. For some time the writing seemed to feel to
Georgie like Arabic, but presently the pencil slowed down, and he
thought some English was coming through. Finally Abfou gave a great
scrawl, as he usually did when the message was complete, and Daisy
looked dreamily up.
“Anything?” she said.
“It’s been writing hard,” said Georgie.
They examined the script. It began, as he had expected, with quantities
of Arabic, and then (as he had expected) dropped into English, which was
quite legible.
“Beware of charlatans,” wrote Abfou, “beware of Southern charlatans. All
spirits are not true and faithful like Abfou, who instituted your
Museum. False guides deceive. A warning from Abfou.”
“Well, if that isn’t convincing, I don’t know what is,” said Daisy.
Georgie thought it convincing too.
The din of battle began to rise. It was known that very evening, for
Colonel and Mrs. Boucher dined with Georgie, that he and Lucia (for
Georgie did not give all the credit to Lucia) had received that
remarkable message from Vittoria about fire and water and the dog and
the angry old woman, and it was agreed that Abfou cut a very poor
figure, and had a jealous temper. Why hadn’t Abfou done something
better than merely warn them against Southern Charlatans?
“If it comes to that,” said Mrs. Boucher, “Egypt is in the south, and
charlatans can come from Egypt as much as from Italy. Fire and water!
Very remarkable. There’s the water there now, plenty of it, and the fire
will be there to-morrow. I must get out my planchette again, for I put
it away. I got sick of writing nothing but Arabic, even if it was
Arabic. I call it very strange. And not a word about golf from Vittoria.
I consider that’s most important. If Lucia had been pushing, she’d have
written about her golf with Daisy. Abfou and Vittoria! I wonder which
will win.”
That summed it up pretty well, for it was felt that Abfou and Vittoria
could not both direct the affairs of Riseholme from the other world,
unless they acted jointly; and Abfou’s remarks about the Southern
charlatan and false spirits put the idea of a coalition out of the
question. All the time, firm in the consciousness of Riseholme, but
never under any circumstances spoken of, was the feeling that Abfou and
Vittoria (as well as standing for themselves) were pseudonyms: they
stood also for Daisy and Lucia. And how much finer and bigger, how much
more gifted of the two in every way was Vittoria-Lucia. Lucia quickly
got over her disinclination to weedj, and messages, not very definite,
but of high moral significance, came from this exalted spirit. There was
never a word about golf, and there was never a word about Abfou, nor any
ravings concerning inferior and untrustworthy spirits. Vittoria was
clearly above all that (indeed, she was probably in some sphere miles
away above Abfou), whereas Abfou’s pages (Daisy sat with her planchette
morning after morning and obtained sheets of the most voluble English)
were blistered with denunciations of low and earth-born intelligences
and dark with awful warnings for those who trusted them.
Riseholme, in fact, had never been at a higher pitch of excited
activity; even the arrival of the _Evening Gazette_ during those weeks
when Hermione had recorded so much about Mrs. Philip Lucas hadn’t roused
such emotions as the reception of a new message from Abfou or Vittoria.
And it was Lucia again who was the cause of it all: No one for months
had cared what Abfou said, till Lucia became the recipient of Vittoria’s
messages. She had invested planchette with the interest that attached to
all she did. On the other hand it was felt that Abfou (though certainly
he lowered himself by these pointed recriminations) had done something.
Abfou-Daisy had invented the Museum, whereas Vittoria-Lucia, apart from
giving utterance to high moral sentiments, had invented nothing (high
moral sentiments couldn’t count as an invention). To be sure there was
the remarkable piece about Pug and angry Lady Ambermere, but the facts
of that were already known to Lucia, and as for the communication about
fire, water, and moonlight, though there were new oil-stoves in the damp
Museum, that was not as remarkable as inventing the Museum, and
moonlight unless it meant the Sonata was quite unexplained. Over this
cavilling objection, rather timidly put forward by Georgie, who longed
for some striking vindication of Vittoria, Lucia was superb.
“Yes, Georgie, I can’t tell you what it means,” she said. “I am only the
humble scribe. It is quite mysterious to me. For myself, I am content to
be Vittoria’s medium. I feel it a high honour. Perhaps some day it will
be explained, and we shall see.”
They saw.
Meanwhile, since no one can live entirely on messages from the unseen,
other interests were not neglected. There were bridge parties at The
Hurst, there was much music, there was a reading of Hamlet at which
Lucia doubled several of the principal parts and Daisy declined to be
the Ghost. The new Committee of the golf club was formed, and at the
first meeting Lucia announced her gift of the President’s Cup, and
Pepino’s of the Lucas Cup for foursomes. Notice of these was duly put up
in the Club-house, and Daisy’s face was of such a grimness when she read
them that something very savage from Abfou might be confidently
expected. She went out for a round soon after with Colonel Boucher, who
wore a scared and worried look when he returned. Daisy had got into a
bunker, and had simply hewed her ball to pieces.... Pepino’s
convalescence proceeded well; Lucia laid down the law a good deal at
auction bridge, and the oil stoves at the Museum were satisfactory. They
were certainly making headway against the large patches of damp on the
walls, and Daisy, one evening, recollecting that she had not made a
personal inspection of them, went in just before dinner to look at them.
The boy in charge of them had put them out, for they only burned during
the day, and certainly they were doing their work well. Daisy felt she
would not be able to bring forward any objection to them at the next
Committee meeting, as she had rather hoped to do. In order to hurry on
the drying process, she filled them both up and lit them so that they
should burn all night. She spilt a little paraffin, but that would soon
evaporate. Georgie was tripping back across the Green from a visit to
Mrs. Boucher, and they walked homeward together.
* * * * *
Georgie had dined at home that night, and working at a cross-word puzzle
was amazed to see how late it was. He had pored long over a map of South
America, trying to find a river of seven letters with P T in the middle,
but he determined to do no more at it to-night.
“The tarsome thing,” he said, “if I could get that, I’m sure it would
give me thirty-one across.”
He strolled to the window and pushed aside the blind. It was a moonlight
night with a high wind and a few scudding clouds. Just as he was about
to let the blind drop again he saw a reddish light in the sky,
immediately above his tall yew-hedge, and wondered what it was. His
curiosity combined with the fact that a breath of air was always
pleasant before going to bed, led him to open the front door and look
out. He gave a wild gasp of dismay and horror.
The windows of the Museum were vividly illuminated by a red glow. Smoke
poured out of one which apparently was broken, and across the smoke shot
tongues of flame. He bounded to his telephone, and with great presence
of mind rang up the fire-station at Blitton. “Riseholme,” he called.
“House on fire: send engine at once.” He ran into his garden again, and
seeing a light still in the drawing-room next door (Daisy was getting
some sulphurous expressions from Abfou) tapped at the pane. “The
Museum’s burning,” he cried, and set off across the Green to the scene
of the fire.
By this time others had seen it too, and were coming out of their
houses, looking like little black ants on a red table-cloth. The fire
had evidently caught strong hold, and now a piece of the roof fell in,
and the flames roared upward. In the building itself there was no
apparatus for extinguishing fire, nor, if there had been, could any one
have reached it. A hose was fetched from the Ambermere Arms, but that
was not long enough, and there was nothing to be done except wait for
the arrival of the fire-engine from Blitton. Luckily the Museum stood
well apart from other houses, and there seemed little danger of the fire
spreading.
Soon the bell of the approaching engine was heard, but already it was
clear that nothing could be saved. The rest of the roof crashed in, a
wall tottered and fell. The longer hose was adjusted, and the stream of
water directed through the windows, now here, now there, where the fire
was fiercest, and clouds of steam mingled with the smoke. But all
efforts to save anything were absolutely vain: all that could be done,
as the fire burned itself out, was to quench the glowing embers of the
conflagration.... As he watched, three words suddenly repeated
themselves in Georgie’s mind. “Fire, water, moonlight,” he said aloud in
an awed tone.... Victorious Vittoria!
The Committee, of course, met next morning, and Robert as financial
adviser was specially asked to attend. Georgie arrived at Mrs. Boucher’s
house where the meeting was held before Daisy and Robert got there, and
Mrs. Boucher could hardly greet him, so excited was she.
“I call it most remarkable,” she said. “Dog and angry old woman never
convinced me, but this is beyond anything. Fire, water, moonlight! It’s
prophecy, nothing less than prophecy. I shall believe anything Vittoria
says, for the future. As for Abfou--well----”
She tactfully broke off at Daisy’s and Robert’s entrance.
“Good morning,” she said. “And good morning, Mr. Robert. This is a
disaster, indeed. All Mr. Georgie’s sketches, and the walking-sticks,
and the mittens and the spit. Nothing left at all.”
Robert seemed amazingly cheerful.
“I don’t see it as such a disaster,” he said. “Lucky I had those
insurances executed. We get two thousand pounds from the Company, of
which five hundred goes to Colonel Boucher for his barn--I mean the
Museum.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Mrs. Boucher. “And the rest? I never
could understand about insurances. They’ve always been a sealed book to
me.”
“Well, the rest belongs to those who put the money up to equip the
Museum,” he said. “In proportion, of course, to the sums they advanced.
Altogether four hundred and fifty pounds was put up, you and Daisy and
Georgie each put in fifty. The rest; well, I advanced the rest.”
There were some rapid and silent calculations made. It seemed rather
hard that Robert should get such a lot. Business always seemed to favour
the rich. But Robert didn’t seem the least ashamed of that. He treated
it as a perfect matter of course.
“The--the treasures in the Museum almost all belonged to the Committee,”
he went on. “They were given to the Museum, which was the property of
the Committee. Quite simple. If it had been a loan collection now--well,
we shouldn’t be finding quite such a bright lining to our cloud. I’ll
manage the insurance business for you, and pay you pleasant little
cheques all round. The Company, no doubt, will ask a few questions as to
the origin of the fire.”
“Ah, there’s a mystery for you,” said Mrs. Boucher. “The oil stoves were
always put out in the evening, after burning all day, and how a fire
broke out in the middle of the night beats me.”
Daisy’s mouth twitched. Then she pulled herself together.
“Most mysterious,” she said, and looked carelessly out of the window to
where the debris of the Museum was still steaming. Simultaneously,
Georgie gave a little start, and instantly changed the subject, rapping
on the table.
“There’s one thing we’ve forgotten,” said he. “It wasn’t entirely our
property. Queen Charlotte’s mittens were only a loan.”
The faces of the Committee fell slightly.
“A shilling or two,” said Mrs. Boucher hopefully. “I’m only glad we
didn’t have Pug as well. Lucia got us out of that!”
Instantly the words of Vittoria about the dog and the angry old woman,
and fire and water and moonlight occurred to everybody. Most of all
they occurred to Daisy, and there was a slight pause, which might have
become awkward if it had continued. It was broken by the entry of Mrs.
Boucher’s parlour-maid, who carried a letter in a large square envelope
with a deep mourning border, and a huge coronet on the flap.
“Addressed to the Museum Committee, ma’am,” she said.
Mrs. Boucher opened it, and her face flushed.
“Well, she’s lost no time,” she said. “Lady Ambermere. I think I had
better read it.”
“Please,” said everybody in rather strained voices. Mrs. Boucher read:
LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE COMMITTEE OF RISEHOLME
MUSEUM--
Your little Museum, I hear, has been totally destroyed with all its
contents by fire. I have to remind you therefore that the mittens
of her late Majesty Queen Charlotte were there on loan, as lent by
me. No equivalent in money can really make up for the loss of so
irreplaceable a relic, but I should be glad to know, as soon as
possible, what compensation you propose to offer me.
The figure that has been suggested to me is £50, and an early
cheque would oblige.
Faithfully yours,
CORNELIA AMBERMERE.
A dead silence succeeded, broken by Mrs. Boucher as soon as her
indignation allowed her to speak.
“I would sooner,” she said, “go to law about it, and appeal if it went
against us, and carry it up to the House of Lords, than pay £50 for
those rubbishy things. Why the whole contents of the Museum weren’t
worth more than--well, leave it at that.”
The figure at which the contents of the Museum had been insured floated
into everybody’s mind, and it was more dignified to “leave it at that,”
and not let the imagination play over the probable end of Mrs. Boucher’s
sentence.
The meeting entirely concurred, but nobody, not even Robert, knew what
to do next.
“I propose offering her £10,” said Georgie at last, “and I call that
handsome.”
“Five,” said Daisy, like an auction reversed.
Robert rubbed the top of his head, as was his custom in perplexity.
“Difficult to know what to do,” he said. “I don’t know of any standard
of valuation for the old clothes of deceased queens.”
“Two,” said Mrs. Boucher, continuing the auction, “and that’s a fancy
price. What would Pug have been, I wonder, if we’re asked fifty pounds
for two old mittens. A pound each, I say, and that’s a monstrous price.
And if you want to know who suggested to Lady Ambermere to ask fifty, I
can tell you, and her name was Cornelia Ambermere.”
This proposal of Lady Ambermere’s rather damped the secret exaltation of
the Committee, though it stirred a pleasant feeling of rage. Fifty
pounds was a paltry sum compared to what they would receive from the
Insurance Company, but the sense of the attempt to impose on them caused
laudable resentment. They broke up, to consider separately what was to
be done, and to poke about the ashes of the Museum, all feeling very
rich. The rest of Riseholme were there, of course, also poking about,
Piggy and Goosie skipping over smouldering heaps of ash, and Mrs.
Antrobus, and the Vicar and the Curate, and Mr. Stratton. Only Lucia was
absent, and Georgie, after satisfying himself that nothing whatever
remained of his sketches, popped in to The Hurst.
Lucia was in the music room reading the paper. She had heard, of course,
about the total destruction of the Museum, that ridiculous invention of
Daisy and Abfou, but not a shadow of exultation betrayed itself.
“My dear, too sad about the Museum,” she said. “All your beautiful
things. Poor Daisy, too, her idea.”
Georgie explained about the silver lining to the cloud.
“But what’s so marvellous,” he said, “is Vittoria. Fire, water,
moonlight. I never heard of anything so extraordinary, and I thought it
only meant the damp on the walls, and the new oil stoves. It was
prophetical, Lucia, and Mrs. Boucher thinks so too.”
Lucia still showed no elation. Oddly enough, she had thought it meant
damp and oil stoves, too, for she did remember what Georgie had
forgotten that he had told her just before the epiphany of Vittoria. But
now this stupendous fulfilment of Vittoria’s communication of which she
had never dreamed, had happened. As for Abfou, it was a mere waste of
time to give another thought to poor dear malicious Abfou. She sighed.
“Yes, Georgie, it was strange,” she said. “That was our first sitting,
wasn’t it? When I got so drowsy and felt so queer. Very strange indeed:
convincing, I think. But whether I shall go on sitting now, I hardly
know.”
“Oh, but you must,” said Georgie. “After all the rubbish----”
Lucia held up her finger.
“Now, Georgie, don’t be unkind,” she said. “Let us say, ‘Poor Daisy,’
and leave it there. That’s all. Any other news?”
Georgie retailed the monstrous demand of Lady Ambermere.
“And, as Robert says, it’s so hard to know what to offer her,” he
concluded.
Lucia gave the gayest of laughs.
“Georgie, what would poor Riseholme do without me?” she said. “I seem to
be made to pull you all out of difficulties. That mismanaged
golf-club-Pug, and now there’s this. Well, shall I be kind and help you
once more?”
She turned over the leaves of her paper.
“Ah, that’s it,” she said. “Listen, Georgie. Sale at Pemberton’s
auction-rooms in Knightsbridge yesterday. Various items. Autograph of
Crippen the murderer. Dear me, what horrid minds people have!
Mother-of-pearl brooch belonging to the wife of the poet Mr. Robert
Montgomery; a pair of razors belonging to Carlyle, all odds and ends of
trumpery, you see.... Ah yes, here it is. Pair of riding gaiters, in
good condition, belonging to His Majesty King George the Fourth. That
seems a sort of guide, doesn’t it, to the value of Queen Charlotte’s
mittens. And what do you think they fetched? A terrific sum, Georgie;
fifty pounds is nowhere near it. They fetched ten shillings and
sixpence.”
“No!” said Georgie. “And Lady Ambermere asked fifty pounds!”
Lucia laughed again.
“Well, Georgie, I suppose I must be good-natured,” she said. “I’ll draft
a little letter for your committee to Lady Ambermere. How you all bully
me and work me to death! Why, only yesterday I said to Pepino that those
months we spent in London seemed a holiday compared to what I have to do
here. Dear old Riseholme! I’m sure I’m very glad to help it out of its
little holes.”
Georgie gave a gasp of admiration. It was but a month or two ago that
all Riseholme rejoiced when Abfou called her a snob, and now here they
all were again (with the exception of Daisy) going to her for help and
guidance in all those employments and excitements in which Riseholme
revelled. Golf-competitions and bridge tournament, and duets, and real
séances, and deliverance from Lady Ambermere, and above all, the
excitement supplied by her personality.
“You’re too wonderful,” he said, “indeed, I don’t know what we should do
without you.”
Lucia got up.
“Well, I’ll scribble a little letter for you,” she said, “bringing in
the price of George the Fourth’s gaiters in good condition. What shall
we--I mean what shall you offer? I think you must be generous, Georgie,
and not calculate the exact difference between the value of a pair of
gaiters in good condition belonging to a king, and that of a pair of
moth-eaten mittens belonging to a queen consort. Offer her the same; in
fact, I think I should enclose a treasury note for ten shillings and six
stamps. That will be more than generous, it will be munificent.”
Lucia sat down at her writing-table, and after a few minutes’ thought,
scribbled a couple of sides of notepaper in that neat handwriting that
bore no resemblance to Vittoria’s. She read them through, and approved.
“I think that will settle it,” she said. “If there is any further bother
with the Vecchia, let me know. There’s one more thing, Georgie, and then
let us have a little music. How do you think the fire broke out?”
Georgie felt her penetrating eye was on him. She had not asked that
question quite idly. He tried to answer it quite idly.
“It’s most mysterious,” he said. “The oil stoves are always put out
quite early in the evening, and lit again next morning. The boy says he
put them out as usual.”
Lucia’s eye was still on him.
“Georgie, how do you think the fire broke out?” she repeated.
This time Georgie felt thoroughly uncomfortable. Had Lucia the power of
divination?...
“I don’t know,” he said. “Have you any idea about it?”
“Yes,” said Lucia. “And so have you. I’ll tell you my idea if you like.
I saw our poor misguided Daisy coming out of the Museum close on seven
o’clock last night.”
“So did I,” said Georgie in a whisper.
“Well, the oil stoves must have been put out long before that,” said
Lucia. “Mustn’t they?”
“Yes,” said Georgie.
“Then how was it that there was a light coming out of the Museum
windows? Not much of a light, but a little light, I saw it. What do you
make of that?”
“I don’t know,” said Georgie.
Lucia held up a censuring finger.
“Georgie, you must be very dull this morning,” she said. “What I make of
it is that our poor Daisy lit the oil stoves again. And then probably in
her fumbling way, she spilt some oil. Something of the sort, anyhow. In
fact, I’m afraid Daisy burned down the Museum.”
There was a terrible pause.
“What are we to do?” said Georgie.
Lucia laughed.
“Do?” she said. “Nothing, except never know anything about it. We know
quite well that poor Daisy didn’t do it on purpose. She hasn’t got the
pluck or the invention to be an incendiary. It was only her muddling,
meddling ways.”
“But the insurance money?” said Georgie.
“What about it? The fire was an accident, whether Daisy confessed what
she had done or not. Poor Daisy! We must be nice to Daisy, Georgie. Her
golf, her Abfou! Such disappointments. I think I will ask her to be my
partner in the foursome for the Lucas Cup. And perhaps if there was
another place on the golf committee, we might propose her for it.”
Lucia sighed, smiling wistfully.
“A pity she is not a little wiser,” she said.
Lucia sat looking wistful for a moment. Then to Georgie’s immense
surprise she burst out into peals of laughter.
“My dear, what is the matter?” said Georgie.
Lucia was helpless for a little, but she gasped and recovered and wiped
her eyes.
“Georgie, you _are_ dull this morning!” she said. “Don’t you see? Poor
Daisy’s meddling has made the reputation of Vittoria and crumpled up
Abfou. Fire, water, moonlight: Vittoria’s prophecy. Vittoria owes it all
to poor dear Daisy!”
Georgie’s laughter set Lucia off again, and Pepino coming in found both
at it.
“Good morning, Georgie,” he said. “Terrible about the Museum. A sad
loss. What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing, _caro_,” said Lucia. “Just a little joke of Daisy’s. Not worth
repeating, but it amused Georgie and me. Come, Georgie, half an hour’s
good practice of celestial Mozartino. We have been lazy lately.”
THE END
Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber:
his beside=> his bedside {pg 11}
Riseholm was quite=> Riseholme was quite {pg 30}
whose pre-ence=> whose presence {pg 64}
Mouse or Risehome=> Mouse or Riseholme {pg 74}
not the silghtest=> not the slightest {pg 145}
she askd for=> she asked for {pg 178}
creditably placed=> creditably played {pg 221}
a wanderful talk=> a wonderful talk {pg 231}
Abfou’s scribbes=> Abfou’s scribbles {pg 257}
contining the auction=> continuing the auction {pg 268}
to ask fify=> to ask fifty {pg 268}