by E. F. Benson
Though the sun was hot on this July morning Mrs Lucas preferred to
cover the half-mile that lay between the station and her house on her
own brisk feet, and sent on her maid and her luggage in the fly that
her husband had ordered to meet her. After those four hours in the
train a short walk would be pleasant, but, though she veiled it from
her conscious mind, another motive, sub-consciously engineered,
prompted her action. It would, of course, be universally known to all
her friends in Riseholme that she was arriving today by the 12.26, and
at that hour the village street would be sure to be full of them. They
would see the fly with luggage draw up at the door of The Hurst, and
nobody except her maid would get out.
That would be an interesting thing for them: it would cause one of
those little thrills of pleasant excitement and conjectural exercise
which supplied Riseholme with its emotional daily bread. They would all
wonder what had happened to her, whether she had been taken ill at the
very last moment before leaving town and with her well-known fortitude
and consideration for the feelings of others, had sent her maid on to
assure her husband that he need not be anxious. That would clearly be
Mrs Quantock's suggestion, for Mrs Quantock's mind, devoted as it was
now to the study of Christian Science, and the determination to deny
the existence of pain, disease and death as regards herself, was always
full of the gloomiest views as regards her friends, and on the
slightest excuse, pictured that they, poor blind things, were suffering
from false claims. Indeed, given that the fly had already arrived at
The Hurst, and that its arrival had at this moment been seen by or
reported to Daisy Quantock, the chances were vastly in favour of that
lady's having already started in to give Mrs Lucas absent treatment.
Very likely Georgie Pillson had also seen the anticlimax of the fly's
arrival, but he would hazard a much more probable though erroneous
solution of her absence. He would certainly guess that she had sent on
her maid with her luggage to the station in order to take a seat for
her, while she herself, oblivious of the passage of time, was spending
her last half hour in contemplation of the Italian masterpieces at the
National Gallery, or the Greek bronzes at the British Museum. Certainly
she would not be at the Royal Academy, for the culture of Riseholme,
led by herself, rejected as valueless all artistic efforts later than
the death of Sir Joshua Reynolds, and a great deal of what went before.
Her husband with his firm grasp of the obvious, on the other hand,
would be disappointingly capable even before her maid confirmed his
conjecture, of concluding that she had merely walked from the station.
The motive, then, that made her send her cab on, though
subconsciously generated, soon penetrated into her consciousness, and
these guesses at what other people would think when they saw it arrive
without her, sprang from the dramatic element that formed so large a
part of her mentality, and made her always take, as by right divine,
the leading part in the histrionic entertainments with which the
cultured of Riseholme beguiled or rather strenuously occupied such
moments as could be spared from their studies of art and literature,
and their social engagements. Indeed she did not usually stop at taking
the leading part, but, if possible, doubled another character with it,
as well as being stage-manager and adapter, if not designer of scenery.
Whatever she did—and really she did an incredible deal—she did it
with all the might of her dramatic perception, did it in fact with such
earnestness that she had no time to have an eye to the gallery at all,
she simply contemplated herself and her own vigorous accomplishment.
When she played the piano as she frequently did, (reserving an hour for
practice every day), she cared not in the smallest degree for what
anybody who passed down the road outside her house might be thinking of
the roulades that poured from her open window: she was simply Emmeline
Lucas, absorbed in glorious Bach or dainty Scarletti, or noble
Beethoven. The latter perhaps was her favorite composer, and many were
the evenings when with lights quenched and only the soft effulgence of
the moon pouring in through the uncurtained windows, she sat with her
profile, cameo-like (or like perhaps to the head on a postage stamp)
against the dark oak walls of her music-room, and entranced herself and
her listeners, if there were people to dinner, with the exquisite
pathos of the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata. Devotedly as she
worshipped the Master, whose picture hung above her Steinway Grand, she
could never bring herself to believe that the two succeeding movements
were on the same sublime level as the first, and besides they “went"
very much faster. But she had seriously thought, as she came down in
the train today and planned her fresh activities at home of trying to
master them, so that she could get through their intricacies with
tolerable accuracy. Until then, she would assuredly stop at the end of
the first movement in these moonlit seances, and say that the other two
were more like morning and afternoon. Then with a sigh she would softly
shut the piano lid, and perhaps wiping a little genuine moisture from
her eyes, would turn on the electric light and taking up a book from
the table, in which a paper-knife marked the extent of her penetration,
“Georgie, you must really promise me to read this life of Antonino
Caporelli the moment I have finished it. I never understood the rise of
the Venetian School before. As I read I can smell the salt tide
creeping up over the lagoon, and see the campanile of dear Torcello.”
And Georgie would put down the tambour on which he was working his
copy of an Italian cope and sigh too.
“You are too wonderful!” he would say. “How do you find time for
She rejoined with the apophthegm that made the rounds of Riseholme
“My dear, it is just busy people that have time for everything.”
It might be thought that even such activities as have here been
indicated would be enough to occupy anyone so busily that he would
positively not have time for more, but such was far from being the case
with Mrs Lucas. Just as the painter Rubens amused himself with being
the ambassador to the Court of St. James—a sufficient career in itself
for most busy men—so Mrs Lucas amused herself, in the intervals of her
pursuit of Art for Art's sake, with being not only an ambassador but a
monarch. Riseholme might perhaps according to the crude materialism of
maps, be included in the kingdom of Great Britain, but in a more real
and inward sense it formed a complete kingdom of its own, and its queen
was undoubtedly Mrs Lucas, who ruled it with a secure autocracy
pleasant to contemplate at a time when thrones were toppling, and
imperial crowns whirling like dead leaves down the autumn winds. The
ruler of Riseholme, happier than he of Russia, had no need to fear the
finger of Bolshevism writing on the wall, for there was not in the
whole of that vat which seethed so pleasantly with culture, one bubble
of revolutionary ferment. Here there was neither poverty nor discontent
nor muttered menace of any upheaval: Mrs Lucas, busy and serene, worked
harder than any of her subjects, and exercised an autocratic control
over a nominal democracy.
Something of the consciousness of her sovereignty was in her mind,
as she turned the last hot corner of the road and came in sight of the
village street that constituted her kingdom. Indeed it belonged to her,
as treasure trove belongs to the Crown, for it was she who had been the
first to begin the transformation of this remote Elizabethan village
into the palace of culture that was now reared on the spot where ten
years ago an agricultural population had led bovine and unilluminated
lives in their cottages of grey stone or brick and timber. Before that,
while her husband was amassing a fortune, comfortable in amount and
respectable in origin, at the Bar, she had merely held up a small dim
lamp of culture in Onslow Gardens. But both her ambition and his had
been to bask and be busy in artistic realms of their own when the
materialistic needs were provided for by sound investments, and so when
there were the requisite thousands of pounds in secure securities she
had easily persuaded him to buy three of these cottages that stood
together in a low two-storied block. Then, by judicious removal of
partition-walls, she had, with the aid of a sympathetic architect,
transmuted them into a most comfortable dwelling, subsequently building
on to them a new wing, that ran at right angles at the back, which was,
if anything, a shade more inexorably Elizabethan than the stem onto
which it was grafted, for here was situated the famous smoking-parlour,
with rushes on the floor, and a dresser ranged with pewter tankards,
and leaded lattice-windows of glass so antique that it was practically
impossible to see out of them. It had a huge open fireplace framed in
oak-beams with a seat on each side of the iron-backed hearth within the
chimney, and a genuine spit hung over the middle of the fire. Here,
though in the rest of the house she had for the sake of convenience
allowed the installation of electric light, there was no such
concession made, and sconces on the walls held dim iron lamps, so that
only those of the most acute vision were able to read. Even then
reading was difficult, for the book-stand on the table contained
nothing but a few crabbed black-letter volumes dating from not later
than the early seventeenth century, and you had to be in a frantically
Elizabethan frame of mind to be at ease there. But Mrs Lucas often
spent some of her rare leisure moments in the smoking-parlour, playing
on the virginal that stood in the window, or kippering herself in the
fumes of the wood-fire as with streaming eyes she deciphered an Elzevir
Horace rather late for inclusion under the rule, but an undoubted
The house stood at the end of the village that was nearest the
station, and thus, when the panorama of her kingdom opened before her,
she had but a few steps further to go. A yew-hedge, bought entire from
a neighboring farm, and transplanted with solid lumps of earth and
indignant snails around its roots, separated the small oblong of garden
from the road, and cast monstrous shadows of the shapes into which it
was cut, across the little lawns inside. Here, as was only right and
proper, there was not a flower to be found save such as were mentioned
in the plays of Shakespeare; indeed it was called Shakespeare's garden,
and the bed that ran below the windows of the dining room was Ophelia's
border, for it consisted solely of those flowers which that distraught
maiden distributed to her friends when she should have been in a
lunatic asylum. Mrs Lucas often reflected how lucky it was that such
institutions were unknown in Elizabeth's day, or that, if known,
Shakespeare artistically ignored their existence. Pansies, naturally,
formed the chief decoration—though there were some very flourishing
plants of rue. Mrs Lucas always wore a little bunch of them when in
flower, to inspire her thoughts, and found them wonderfully
efficacious. Round the sundial, which was set in the middle of one of
the squares of grass between which a path of broken paving-stone led to
the front door, was a circular border, now, in July, sadly vacant, for
it harboured only the spring-flowers enumerated by Perdita. But the
first day every year when Perdita's border put forth its earliest
blossom was a delicious anniversary, and the news of it spread like
wild-fire through Mrs Lucas's kingdom, and her subjects were very
joyful, and came to salute the violet or daffodil, or whatever it was.
The three cottages dexterously transformed into The Hurst, presented
a charmingly irregular and picturesque front. Two were of the grey
stone of the district and the middle one, to the door of which led the
paved path, of brick and timber; latticed windows with stone mullions
gave little light to the room within, and certain new windows had been
added; these could be detected by the observant eye for they had a
markedly older appearance than the rest. The front-door, similarly,
seemed as if it must have been made years before the house, the fact
being that the one which Mrs Lucas had found there was too dilapidated
to be of the slightest service in keeping out wind or wet or undesired
callers. She had therefore caused to be constructed an even older one
made from the oak-planks of a dismantled barn, and had it studded with
large iron nails of antique pattern made by the village blacksmith. He
had arranged some of them to look as if they spelled A.D. 1603. Over
the door hung an inn-sign, and into the space where once the sign had
swung was now inserted a lantern, in which was ensconced, well hidden
from view by its patinated glass sides, an electric light. This was one
of the necessary concessions to modern convenience, for no lamp
nurtured on oil would pierce those genuinely opaque panes, and
illuminate the path to the gate. Better to have an electric light than
cause your guests to plunge into Perdita's border. By the side of this
fortress-door hung a heavy iron bell-pull, ending in a mermaid. When
first Mrs Lucas had that installed, it was a bell-pull in the sense
that an extremely athletic man could, if he used both hands and planted
his feet firmly, cause it to move, so that a huge bronze bell swung in
the servants' passage and eventually gave tongue (if the athlete
continued pulling) with vibrations so sonorous that the white-wash from
the ceiling fell down in flakes. She had therefore made another
concession to the frailty of the present generation and the
inconveniences of having whitewash falling into salads and puddings on
their way to the dining room, and now at the back of the mermaid's tail
was a potent little bone button, coloured black and practically
invisible, and thus the bell-pull had been converted into an electric
bell-push. In this way visitors could make their advent known without
violent exertion, the mermaid lost no visible whit of her Elizabethan
virginity, and the spirit of Shakespeare wandering in his garden would
not notice any anachronism. He could not in fact, for there was none to
Though Mrs Lucas's parents had bestowed the name of Emmeline on her,
it was not to be wondered at that she was always known among the more
intimate of her subjects as Lucia, pronounced, of course, in the
Italian mode—La Lucia, the wife of Lucas; and it was as “Lucia mia"
that her husband hailed her as he met her at the door of The Hurst.
He had been watching for her arrival from the panes of the parlour
while he meditated upon one of the little prose poems which formed so
delectable a contribution to the culture of Riseholme, for though, as
had been hinted, he had in practical life a firm grasp of the obvious,
there were windows in his soul which looked out onto vague and ethereal
prospects which so far from being obvious were only dimly intelligible.
In form these odes were cast in the loose rhythms of Walt Whitman, but
their smooth suavity and their contents bore no resemblance whatever to
the productions of that barbaric bard, whose works were quite unknown
in Riseholme. Already a couple of volumes of these prose-poems had been
published, not of course in the hard business-like establishment of
London, but at “Ye Sign of ye Daffodil,” on the village green, where
type was set up by hand, and very little, but that of the best, was
printed. The press had only been recently started at Mr Lucas's
expense, but it had put forth a reprint of Shakespeare's sonnets
already, as well as his own poems. They were printed in blunt type on
thick yellowish paper, the edges of which seemed as if they had been
cut by the forefinger of an impatient reader, so ragged and irregular
were they, and they were bound in vellum, the titles of these two slim
flowers of poetry, “Flotsam” and “Jetsam,” were printed in black letter
type and the covers were further adorned with a sort of embossed seal
and with antique looking tapes so that you could tie it all up with two
bows when you had finished with Mr Lucas's “Flotsam” for the time
being, and turned to untie the “Jetsam.”
Today the prose-poem of “Loneliness” had not been getting on very
well, and Philip Lucas was glad to hear the click of the garden-gate,
which showed that his loneliness was over for the present, and looking
up he saw his wife's figure waveringly presented to his eyes through
the twisted and knotty glass of the parlour window, which had taken so
long to collect, but which now completely replaced the plain,
commonplace unrefracting stuff which was there before. He jumped up
with an alacrity remarkable in so solid and well-furnished a person,
and had thrown open the nail-studded front-door before Lucia had
traversed the path of broken paving-stones, for she had lingered for a
sad moment at Perdita's empty border.
“Lucia mia!” he exclaimed. “Ben arrivata! So you
walked from the station?”
“Si, Peppino, mio caro,” she said. “Sta bene?”
He kissed her and relapsed into Shakespeare's tongue, for their
Italian, though firm and perfect as far as it went, could not be
considered as going far, and was useless for conversational purposes,
unless they merely wanted to greet each other, or to know the time. But
it was interesting to talk Italian, however little way it went.
“Molto bene,” said he, “and it's delightful to have you home
again. And how was London?” he asked in the sort of tone in which he
might have enquired after the health of a poor relation, who was not
likely to recover. She smiled rather sadly.
“Terrifically busy about nothing,” she said. “All this fortnight I
have scarcely had a moment to myself. Lunches, dinners, parties of all
kinds; I could not go to half the gatherings I was bidden to. Dear good
South Kensington! Chelsea too!”
“Carissima, when London does manage to catch you, it is no
wonder it makes the most of you,” he said. “You mustn't blame London
“No, dear, I don't. Everyone was tremendously kind and hospitable;
they all did their best. If I blame anyone, I blame myself. But I think
this Riseholme life with its finish and its exquisiteness spoils one
for other places. London is like a railway-junction: it has no true
life of its own. There is no delicacy, no appreciation of fine shades.
Individualism has no existence there; everyone gabbles together,
gabbles and gobbles: am not I naughty? If there is a concert in a
private house—you know my views about music and the impossibility of
hearing music at all if you are stuck in the middle of a row of
people—even then, the moment it is over you are whisked away to
supper, or somebody wants to have a few words. There is always a crowd,
there is always food, you cannot be alone, and it is only in
loneliness, as Goethe says, that your perceptions put forth their
flowers. No one in London has time to listen: they are all thinking
about who is there and who isn't there, and what is the next thing. The
exquisite present, as you put it in one of your poems, has no existence
there: it is always the feverish future.”
“Delicious phrase! I should have stolen that gem for my poor poems,
if you had discovered it before.”
She was too much used to this incense to do more than sniff it in
unconsciously, and she went on with her tremendous indictment.
“It isn't that I find fault with London for being so busy,” she said
with strict impartiality, “for if being busy was a crime, I am sure
there are few of us here who would escape hanging. But take my life
here, or yours for that matter. Well, mine if you like. Often and often
I am alone from breakfast till lunch-time, but in those hours I get
through more that is worth doing than London gets through in a day and
a night. I have an hour at my music not looking about and wondering who
my neighbours are, but learning, studying, drinking in divine melody.
Then I have my letters to write, and you know what that means, and I
still have time for an hour's reading so that when you come to tell me
lunch is ready, you will find that I have been wandering through
Venetian churches or sitting in that little dark room at Weimar, or was
it Leipsic? How would those same hours have passed in London?
“Sitting perhaps for half an hour in the Park, with dearest Aggie
pointing out to me, with thrills of breathless excitement, a woman who
was in the divorce court, or a coroneted bankrupt. Then she would drag
me off to some terrible private view full of the same people all
staring at and gabbling to each other, or looking at pictures that made
poor me gasp and shudder. No, I am thankful to be back at my own sweet
Riseholme again. I can work and think here.”
She looked round the panelled entrance-hall with a glow of warm
content at toeing at home again that quite eclipsed the mere physical
heat produced by her walk from the station. Wherever her eyes fell,
those sharp dark eyes that resembled buttons covered with shiny
American cloth, they saw nothing that jarred, as so much in London
jarred. There were bright brass jugs on the window sill, a bowl of
pot-pourri on the black table in the centre, an oak settee by the open
fireplace, a couple of Persian rugs on the polished floor. The room had
its quaintness, too, such as she had alluded to in her memorable essay
read before the Riseholme Literary Society, called “Humour in
Furniture,” and a brass milkcan served as a receptacle for sticks and
umbrellas. Equally quaint was the dish of highly realistic stone fruit
that stood beside the pot-pourri and the furry Japanese spider that
sprawled in a silk web over the window.
Such was the fearful verisimilitude of this that Lucia's new
housemaid had once fled from her duties in the early morning, to seek
the assistance of the gardener in killing it. The dish of stone fruit
had scored a similar success, for once she had said to Georgie Pillson,
“Ah, my gardener has sent in some early apples and pears, won't you
take one home with you?” It was not till the weight of the pear (he
swiftly selected the largest) betrayed the joke that he had any notion
that they were not real ones. But then Georgie had had his revenge, for
waiting his opportunity he had inserted a real pear among those stony
specimens and again passing through with Lucia, he picked it out, and
with lips drawn back had snapped at it with all the force of his jaws.
For the moment she had felt quite faint at the thought of his teeth
crashing into fragments.... These humorous touches were altered from
time to time; the spider for instance might be taken down and replaced
by a china canary in a Chippendale cage, and the selection of the
entrance hall for those whimsicalities was intentional, for guests
found something to smile at, as they took off their cloaks and entered
the drawing room with a topic on their lips, something light, something
amusing about what they had seen. For the gong similarly was sometimes
substituted a set of bells that had once decked the collar of the
leading horse in a waggoner's team somewhere in Flanders; in fact when
Lucia was at home there was often a new little quaintness for quite a
sequence of days, and she had held out hopes to the Literary Society
that perhaps some day, when she was not so rushed, she would jot down
material for a sequel to her essay, or write another covering a rather
larger field on “The Gambits of Conversation Derived from Furniture.”
On the table there was a pile of letters waiting for Mrs Lucas, for
yesterday's post had not been forwarded her, for fear of its missing
her—London postmen were probably very careless and untrustworthy—and
she gave a little cry of dismay as she saw the volume of her
“But I shall be very naughty,” she said “and not look at one of them
till after lunch. Take them away, Caro, and promise me to lock
them up till then, and not give them me however much I beg. Then I will
get into the saddle again, such a dear saddle, too, and tackle them. I
shall have a stroll in the garden till the bell rings. What is it that
Nietzsche says about the necessity to mediterranizer yourself
every now and then? I must Riseholme myself.”
Peppino remembered the quotation, which had occurreded in a review
of some work of that celebrated author, where Lucia had also seen it,
and went back, with the force of contrast to aid him, to his prose-poem
of “Loneliness,” while his wife went through the smoking-parlour into
the garden, in order to soak herself once more in the cultured
In this garden behind the house there was no attempt to construct a
Shakespearian plot, for, as she so rightly observed, Shakespeare, who
loved flowers so well, would wish her to enjoy every conceivable
horticultural treasure. But furniture played a prominent part in the
place, and there were statues and sundials and stone-seats scattered
about with almost too profuse a hand. Mottos also were in great
evidence, and while a sundial reminded you that “Tempus fugit,“
an enticing resting-place somewhat bewilderingly bade you to “Bide a
wee.” But then again the rustic seat in the pleached alley of laburnums
had carved on its back, “Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,”
so that, meditating on Keats, you could bide a wee with a clear
conscience. Indeed so copious was the wealth of familiar and
stimulating quotations that one of her subjects had once said that to
stroll in Lucia's garden was not only to enjoy her lovely flowers, but
to spend a simultaneous half hour with the best authors. There was a
dovecote of course, but since the cats always killed the doves, Mrs
Lucas had put up round the desecrated home several pigeons of
Copenhagen china, which were both imperishable as regards cats, and
also carried out the suggestion of humour in furniture. The humour had
attained the highest point of felicity when Peppino concealed a
mechanical nightingale in a bush, which sang “Jug-jug” in the most
realistic manner when you pulled a string. Georgie had not yet seen the
Copenhagen pigeons, or being rather short-sighted thought they were
real. Then, oh then, Peppino pulled the string, and for quite a long
time Georgie listened entranced to their melodious cooings. That served
him out for his “trap” about the real pear introduced among the stone
specimens. For in spite of the rarefied atmosphere of culture at
Riseholme, Riseholme knew how to “desipere in loco,” and its
strenuous culture was often refreshed by these light refined touches.
Mrs Lucas walked quickly and decisively up and down the paths as she
waited for the summons to lunch, for the activity of her mind reacted
on her body, making her brisk in movement. On each side of her forehead
were hard neat undulations of black hair that concealed the tips of her
ears. She had laid aside her London hat, and carried a red cotton
Contadina's umbrella, which threw a rosy glow onto the oval of her thin
face and its colourless complexion. She bore the weight of her forty
years extremely lightly, and but for the droop of skin at the corners
of her mouth, she might have passed as a much younger woman. Her face
was otherwise unlined and bore no trace of the ravages of emotional
living, which both ages and softens. Certainly there was nothing soft
about her, and very little of the signs of age, and it would have been
reasonable to conjecture that twenty years later she would look but
little older than she did today. For such emotions as she was victim of
were the sterile and ageless emotions of art; such desires as beset her
were not connected with her affections, but her ambitions. Dynasty she
had none, for she was childless, and thus her ambitions were limited to
the permanence and security of her own throne as queen of Riseholme.
She really asked nothing more of life than the continuance of such
harvests as she had so plenteously reaped for these last ten years. As
long as she directed the life of Riseholme, took the lead in its
culture and entertainment, and was the undisputed fountain-head of all
its inspirations, and from time to time refreshed her memory as to the
utter inferiority of London she wanted nothing more. But to secure that
she dedicated all that she had of ease, leisure and income. Being
practically indefatigable the loss of ease and leisure troubled her but
little and being in extremely comfortable circumstances, she had no
need to economise in her hospitalities. She might easily look forward
to enjoying an unchanging middle-aged activity, while generations of
youth withered round her, and no star, remotely rising, had as yet
threatened to dim her unrivalled effulgence. Though essentially
autocratic, her subjects were allowed and even encouraged to develop
their own minds on their own lines, provided always that those lines
met at the junction where she was station-master. With regard to
religion finally, it may be briefly said that she believed in God in
much the same way as she believed in Australia, for she had no doubt
whatever as to the existence of either, and she went to church on
Sunday in much the same spirit as she would look at a kangaroo in the
Zoological Gardens, for kangaroos come from Australia.
A low wall separated the far end of her garden from the meadow
outside; beyond that lay the stream which flowed into the Avon, and it
often seemed wonderful to her that the water which wimpled by would
(unless a cow happened to drink it) soon be stealing along past the
church at Stratford where Shakespeare lay. Peppino had written a very
moving little prose-poem about it, for she had royally presented him
with the idea, and had suggested a beautiful analogy between the
earthly dew that refreshed the grasses, and was drawn up into the fire
of the Sun, and Thought the spiritual dew that refreshed the mind and
thereafter, rather vaguely, was drawn up into the Full-Orbed Soul of
At that moment Lucia's eye was attracted by an apparition on the
road which lay adjacent to the further side of the happy stream which
flowed into the Avon. There was no mistaking the identity of the stout
figure of Mrs Quantock with its short steps and its gesticulations, but
why in the name of wonder should that Christian Scientist be walking
with the draped and turbaned figure of a man with a tropical complexion
and a black beard? His robe of saffron yellow with a violently green
girdle was hitched up for ease in walking, and unless he had chocolate
coloured stockings on, Mrs Lucas saw human legs of the same shade. Next
moment that debatable point was set at rest for she caught sight of
short pink socks in red slippers. Even as she looked Mrs Quantock saw
her (for owing to Christian Science she had recaptured the quick vision
of youth) and waggled her hand and kissed it, and evidently called her
companion's attention, for the next moment he was salaaming to her in
some stately Oriental manner. There was nothing to be done for the
moment except return these salutations, as she could not yell an aside
to Mrs Quantock, screaming out “Who is that Indian”? for if Mrs
Quantock heard the Indian would hear too, but as soon as she could, she
turned back towards the house again, and when once the lilac bushes
were between her and the road she walked with more than her usual
speed, in order to learn with the shortest possible delay from Peppino
who this fresh subject of hers could be. She knew there were some
Indian princes in London; perhaps it was one of them, in which case it
would be necessary to read up Benares or Delhi in the Encyclopaedia
without loss of time.
As she traversed the smoking-parlour the cheerful sounds that had
once tinkled from the collar of a Flemish horse chimed through the
house, and simultaneously she became aware that there would be
macaroni au gratin for lunch, which was very dear and remembering
of Peppino. But before setting fork to her piled-up plate, she had to
question him, for her mental craving for information was far keener
than her appetite for food.
“Caro, who is an Indian,” she said, “whom I saw just now with
Daisy Quantock? They were the other side of il piccolo Avon.”
Peppino had already begun his macaroni and must pause to shovel the
outlying strings of it into his mouth. But the haste with which he did
so was sufficient guaranty for his eagerness to reply as soon as it was
humanly possible to do so.
“Indian, my dear?” he asked with the greatest interest.
“Yes; turban and burnous and calves and slippers,” she said rather
impatiently, for what was the good of Peppino having remained in
Riseholme if he could not give her precise and certain information on
local news when she returned. His prose-poems were all very well, but
as prince-consort he had other duties of state which must not be
neglected for the calls of Art.
This slight asperity on her part seemed to sharpen his wits.
“Really, I don't know for certain, Lucia,” he said, “for I have not
set my eyes on him. But putting two and two together, I might make a
“Two and two make four,” she said with that irony for which she was
feared and famous. “Now for your guess. I hope it is equally accurate.”
“Well, as I told you in one of my letters,” said he, “Mrs Quantock
showed signs of being a little off with Christian Science. She had a
cold, and though she recited the True Statement of Being just as
frequently as before, her cold got no better. But when I saw her on
Tuesday last, unless it was Wednesday, no, it couldn't have been
Wednesday, so it must have been Tuesday—”
“Whenever it was then,” interrupted his wife, brilliantly summing up
“Yes; whenever it was, as you say, on that occasion Mrs Quantock was
very full of some Indian philosophy which made you quite well at once.
What did she call it now? Yoga! Yes, that was it!”
“And then?” asked Lucia.
“Well, it appears you must have a teacher in Yoga or else you may
injure yourself. You have to breathe deeply and say 'Om'——”
“Om. I understand the ejaculation to be Om. And there are very
curious physical exercises; you have to hold your ear with one hand and
your toes with the other, and you may strain yourself unless you do it
properly. That was the general gist of it.”
“And shall we come to the Indian soon?” said Lucia.
“Carissima, you have come to him already. I suggest that Mrs
Quantock has applied for a teacher and got him. Ecco!“
Mrs Lucas wore a heavily corrugated forehead at this news. Peppino
had a wonderful flair in explaining unusual circumstances in the
life of Riseholme and his conjectures were generally correct. But if he
was right in this instance, it struck Lucia as being a very irregular
thing that anyone should have imported a mystical Indian into Riseholme
without consulting her. It is true that she had been away, but still
there was the medium of the post.
“Ecco indeed!” she said. “It puts me in rather a difficult
position, for I must send out my invitations to my garden-party today,
and I really don't know whether I ought to be officially aware of this
man's existence or not. I can't write to Daisy Quantock and say 'Pray
bring your black friend Om or whatever his names proves to be, and on
the other hand, if he is the sort of person whom one would be sorry to
miss, I should not like to have passed over him.”
“After all, my dear, you have only been back in Riseholme half an
hour,” said her husband. “It would have been difficult for Mrs Quantock
to have told you yet.”
Her face cleared.
“Perhaps Daisy has written to me about him,” she said. “I may find a
full account of it all when I open my letters.”
“Depend upon it you will. She would hardly have been so wanting in
proper feeling as not to have told you. I think, too, that her visitor
must only have just arrived, or I should have been sure to see him
“Well, we will see,” she said. “Now I shall be very busy all
afternoon, but by tea-time I shall be ready to see anyone who calls.
Give me my letters, Caro, and I will find out if Daisy has
written to me.”
She turned them over as she went to her room, and there among them
was a bulky envelope addressed in Mrs Quantock's great sprawling hand,
which looked at first sight so large and legible, but on closer
examination turned out to be so baffling. You had to hold it at some
distance off to make anything out of it, and look at it in an
abstracted general manner much as you would look at a view. Treated
thus, scattered words began to leap into being, and when you had got a
sufficiency of these, like glimpses of the country seen by flashes of
lightning, you could hope to get a collective idea of it all. The
procedure led to the most promising results as Mrs Lucas sat with the
sheets at arm's length, occasionally altering the range to try the
effect of a different focus. “Benares” blinked at her, also “Brahmin”;
also “highest caste”; “extraordinary sanctity,” and “Guru.” And when
the meaning of this latter was ascertained from the article on “Yoga"
in her Encyclopaedia, she progressed very swiftly towards a complete
comprehension of the letter.
When fully pieced together it was certainly enough to rivet her
whole attention, and make her leave unopened the rest of the
correspondence, for such a prelude to adventure had seldom sounded in
Riseholme. It appeared, even as her husband had told her at lunch, that
Mrs Quantock found her cold too obstinate for all the precepts of Mrs
Eddy; the True Statement of Being, however often repeated, only seemed
to inflame it further, and one day, when confined to the house, she had
taken a book “quite at random” from the shelves in her library, under,
she supposed, the influence of some interior compulsion. This then was
clearly a “leading.”
Mrs Lucas paused a moment as she pieced together these first
sentences. She seemed to remember that Mrs Quantock had experienced a
similar leading when first she took up Christian Science. It was a
leading from the sight of a new church off Sloane Street that day; Mrs
Quantock had entered (she scarcely knew why) and had found herself in a
Testimony Meeting, where witness after witness declared the miraculous
healings they had experienced. One had had a cough, another cancer,
another a fractured bone, but all had been cured by the blessed truths
conveyed in the Gospel according to Mrs Eddy. However, her memories on
this subject were not to the point now; she burned to arrive at the
story of the new leading.
Well, the book that Mrs Quantock had taken down in obedience to the
last leading proved to be a little handbook of Oriental Philosophies,
and it opened, “all of its own accord,” at a chapter called Yoga.
Instantly she perceived, as by the unclosing of an inward eye, that
Yoga was what she wanted and she instantly wrote to the address from
which this book was issued asking for any guidance on the subject. She
had read in “Oriental Philosophies” that for the successful practice of
Yoga, it was necessary to have a teacher, and did they know of any
teacher who could give her instruction? A wonderful answer came to
that, for two days afterwards her maid came to her and said that an
Indian gentleman would like to see her. He was ushered in, and with a
profound obeisance said: “Beloved lady, I am the teacher you asked for;
I am your Guru. Peace be to this house! Om!”
Mrs Lucas had by this time got her view of Mrs Quantock's letter
into perfect focus, and she read on without missing a word. “Is it not
wonderful, dearest Lucia,” it ran, “that my desire for light should
have been so instantly answered? And yet my Guru tells me that it
always happens so. I was sent to him, and he was sent to me, just like
that! He had been expecting some call when my letter asking for
guidance came, and he started at once because he knew he was sent.
Fancy! I don't even know his name, and his religion forbids him to tell
it me. He is just my Guru, my guide, and he is going to be with me as
long as he knows I need him to show me the True Path. He has the spare
bedroom and the little room adjoining where he meditates and does
Postures and Pranyama which is breathing. If you persevere in them
under instruction, you have perfect health and youth, and my cold is
gone already. He is a Brahmin of the very highest caste, indeed caste
means nothing to him any longer, just as a Baronet and an Honourable
must seem about the same thing to the King. He comes from Benares where
he used to meditate all day by the Ganges, and I can see for myself
that he is a person of the most extraordinary sanctity. But he can
meditate just as well in my little room, for he says he was never in
any house that had such a wonderful atmosphere. He has no money at all
which is so beautiful of him, and looked so pained and disappointed
when I asked him if I might not give him some. He doesn't even know how
he got here from London; he doesn't think he came by train, so perhaps
he was wafted here in some astral manner. He looked so bewildered too
when I said the word 'money,' and evidently he had to think what it
was, because it is so long since it has meant anything to him. So if he
wants anything, I have told him to go into any shop and ask that it
shall be put down to me. He has often been without food or sleep for
days together when he is meditating. Just think!
“Shall I bring him to see you, or will you come here? He wants to
meet you, because he feels you have a beautiful soul and may help him
in that way, as well as his helping you. I am helping him too he says,
which seems more wonderful than I can believe. Send me a line as soon
as you get back. Tante salute!
The voluminous sheets had taken long in reading and Mrs Lucas folded
them up slowly and thoughtfully. She felt that she had to make a swift
decision that called into play all her mental powers. On the one hand
it was “up to her” to return a frigid reply, conveying, without making
any bones about the matter, that she had no interest in nameless Gurus
who might or might not be Brahmins from Benares and presented
themselves at Daisy's doors in a penniless condition without clear
knowledge whether they had come by train or not. In favour of such
prudent measures was the truly Athenian character of Daisy's mind, for
she was always enquiring into “some new thing,” which was the secret of
life when first discovered, and got speedily relegated to the
dust-heap. But against such a course was the undoubted fact that Daisy
did occasionally get hold of somebody who subsequently proved to be of
interest, and Lucia would never forget to her dying day the advent in
Riseholme of a little Welsh attorney, in whom Daisy had discovered a
wonderful mentality. Lucia had refused to extend her queenly
hospitality to him, or to recognise his existence in any way during the
fortnight when he stayed with Daisy, and she was naturally very much
annoyed to find him in a prominent position in the Government not many
years later. Indeed she had snubbed him so markedly on his first
appearance at Riseholme that he had refused on subsequent visits to
come to her house at all, though he several times visited Mrs Quantock
again, and told her all sorts of political secrets (so she said) which
she would not divulge for anything in the world. There must never be a
repetition of so fatal an error.
Another thing inclined the wavering balance. She distinctly wanted
some fresh element at her court, that should make Riseholme know that
she was in residence again. August would soon be here with its languors
and absence of stimulus, when it was really rather difficult in the
drowsy windless weather to keep the flag of culture flying strongly
from her own palace. The Guru had already said that he felt sure she
had a beautiful soul, and—The outline of the scheme flashed upon her.
She would have Yoga evenings in the hot August weather, at which, as
the heat of the day abated, graceful groups should assemble among the
mottos in the garden and listen to high talk on spiritual subjects.
They would adjourn to delicious moonlit suppers in the pergola, or if
the moon was indisposed—she could not be expected to regulate the
affairs of the moon as well as of Riseholme—there would be dim seances
and sandwiches In the smoking-parlour. The humorous furniture should be
put in cupboards, and as they drifted towards the front hall again,
when the clocks struck an unexpectedly late hour, little whispered
colloquies of “How wonderful he was tonight” would be heard, and there
would be faraway looks and sighs, and the notings down of the titles of
books that conducted the pilgrim on the Way. Perhaps as they softly
assembled for departure, a little music would be suggested to round off
the evening, and she saw herself putting down the soft pedal as people
rustled into their places, for the first movement of the “Moonlight
Sonata.” Then at the end there would be silence, and she would get up
with a sigh, and someone would say “Lucia mia”! and somebody else
“Heavenly Music,” and perhaps the Guru would say “Beloved lady,” as he
had apparently said to poor Daisy Quantock. Flowers, music,
addresses from the Guru, soft partings, sense of refreshment.... With
the memory of the Welsh attorney in her mind, it seemed clearly wiser
to annex rather than to repudiate the Guru. She seized a pen and drew a
pile of postcards towards her, on the top of which was printed her name
“Too wonderful,” she wrote, “pray bring him yourself to my little
garden-party on Friday. There will be only a few. Let me know if he
wants a quiet room ready for him.”
All this had taken time, and she had but scribbled a dozen postcards
to friends bidding them come to her garden party on Friday, when tea
was announced. These invitations had the mystic word “Hightum” written
at the bottom left hand corner, which conveyed to the enlightened
recipient what sort of party it was to be, and denoted the standard of
dress. For one of Lucia's quaint ideas was to divide dresses into three
classes, “Hightum,” “Tightum” and “Scrub.” “Hightum” was your very best
dress, the smartest and newest of all, and when “Hightum” was written
on a card of invitation, it implied that the party was a very
resplendent one. “Tightum” similarly indicated a moderately smart
party, “Scrub” carried its own significance on the surface. These terms
applied to men's dress as well and as regards evening parties: a dinner
party “Hightum” would indicate a white tie and a tail coat; a dinner
party “Tightum” a black tie and a short coat, and a dinner “Scrub"
would mean morning clothes.
With tea was announced also the advent of Georgie Pillson who was
her gentleman-in-waiting when she was at home, and her watch-dog when
she was not. In order to save subsequent disappointment, it may be at
once stated that there never has been, was, or ever would be the
smallest approach to a flirtation between them. Neither of them, she
with her forty respectable years and he with his blameless forty-five
years, had ever flirted, with anybody at all. But it was one of the
polite and pleasant fictions of Riseholme that Georgie was passionately
attached to her and that it was for her sake that he had settled in
Riseholme now some seven years ago, and that for her sake he remained
still unmarried. She never, to do her justice, had affirmed anything of
the sort, but it is a fact that sometimes when Georgie's name came up
in conversation, her eyes wore that “far-away” look that only the
masterpieces of art could otherwise call up, and she would sigh and
murmur “Dear Georgie”! and change the subject, with the tact that
characterized her. In fact their mutual relations were among the most
Beautiful Things of Riseholme, and hardly less beautiful was Peppino's
attitude towards it all. That large hearted man trusted them both, and
his trust was perfectly justified. Georgie was in and out of the house
all day, chiefly in; and not only did scandal never rear its hissing
head, but it positively had not a head to hiss with, or a foot to stand
on. On his side again Georgie had never said that he was in love with
her (nor would it have been true if he had), but by his complete
silence on the subject coupled with his constancy he seemed to admit
the truth of this bloodless idyll. They talked and walked and read the
masterpieces of literature and played duets on the piano together.
Sometimes (for he was the more brilliant performer, though as he said
“terribly lazy about practising,” for which she scolded him) he would
gently slap the back of her hand, if she played a wrong note, and say
“Naughty!” And she would reply in baby language “Me vewy sowwy! Oo
naughty too to hurt Lucia!” That was the utmost extent of their carnal
familiarities, and with bright eyes fixed on the music they would break
into peals of girlish laughter, until the beauty of the music sobered
Georgie (he was Georgie or Mr Georgie, never Pillson to the whole of
Riseholme) was not an obtrusively masculine sort of person. Such
masculinity as he was possessed of was boyish rather than adult, and
the most important ingredients in his nature were womanish. He had, in
common with the rest of Riseholme, strong artistic tastes, and in
addition to playing the piano, made charming little water-colour
sketches, many of which he framed at his own expense and gave to
friends, with slightly sentimental titles, neatly printed in gilt
letters on the mount. “Golden Autumn Woodland,” “Bleak December,”
“Yellow Daffodils,” “Roses of Summer” were perhaps his most notable
series, and these he had given to Lucia, on the occasion of four
successive birthdays. He did portraits as well in pastel; these were of
two types, elderly ladies in lace caps with a row of pearls, and boys
in cricket shirts with their sleeves rolled up. He was not very good at
eyes, so his sitters always were looking down, but he was excellent at
smiles, and the old ladies smiled patiently and sweetly, and the boys
gaily. But his finest accomplishment was needlework and his house was
full of the creations of his needle, wool-work curtains, petit-point
chair seats, and silk embroideries framed and glazed. Next to Lucia he
was the hardest worked inhabitant of Riseholme but not being so strong
as the Queen, he had often to go away for little rests by the sea-side.
Travelling by train fussed him a good deal, for he might not be able to
get a corner seat, or somebody with a pipe or a baby might get into his
carriage, or the porter might be rough with his luggage, so he always
went in his car to some neighbouring watering-place where they knew
him. Dicky, his handsome young chauffeur, drove him, and by Dicky's
side sat Foljambe, his very pretty parlour-maid who valetted him. If
Dicky took the wrong turn his master called “Naughty boy” through the
tube, and Foljambe smiled respectfully. For the month of August, his
two plain strapping sisters (Hermione and Ursula alas!) always came to
stay with him. They liked pigs and dogs and otter-hunting and
mutton-chops, and were rather a discordant element in Riseholme. But
Georgie had a kind heart, and never even debated whether he should ask
Hermy and Ursy or not, though he had to do a great deal of tidying up
after they had gone.
There was always a playful touch between the meetings of these two
when either of them had been away from Riseholme that very prettily
concealed the depth of Georgie's supposed devotion, and when she came
out into the garden where her Cavalier and her husband were waiting for
their tea under the pergola, Georgie jumped up very nimbly and took a
few chassee-ing steps towards her with both hands outstretched in
welcome. She caught at his humour, made him a curtsey, and next moment
they were treading a little improvised minuet together with hands held
high, and pointed toes. Georgie had very small feet, and it was a
really elegant toe that he pointed, encased in cloth-topped boots. He
had on a suit of fresh white flannels and over his shoulders, for fear
of the evening air being chilly after this hot day, he had a little
cape of a military cut, like those in which young ladies at music-halls
enact the part of colonels. He had a straw-hat on, with a blue riband,
a pink shirt and a red tie, rather loose and billowy. His face was pink
and round, with blue eyes, a short nose and very red lips. An almost
complete absence of eyebrow was made up for by a firm little brown
moustache clipped very short, and brushed upwards at its extremities.
Contrary to expectation he was quite tall and fitted very neatly into
The dance came to an end with a low curtsey on Lucia's part, an
obeisance hat in hand from Georgie (this exposure shewing a crop of
hair grown on one side of his head and brushed smoothly over the top
until it joined the hair on the other side) and a clapping of the hands
“Bravo, bravo,” he cried from the tea-table. “Capital!”
Mrs Lucas blew him a kiss in acknowledgment of this compliment and
smiled on her partner. “Amico!” she said. “It is nice to see you
again. How goes it?”
“Va bene,” said Georgie to show he could talk Italian too. “
Va very bene now that you've come back.”
“Grazie! Now tell us all the news. We'll have a good gossip.”
Georgie's face beamed with a “solemn gladness” at the word, like a
drunkard's when brandy is mentioned.
“Where shall we begin?” he said. “Such a lot to tell you. I think we
must begin with a great bit of news. Something really mysterious.”
Lucia smiled inwardly. She felt that she knew for dead certain what
the mysterious news was, and also that she knew far more about it than
Georgie. This superiority she completely concealed. Nobody could have
“Presto, presto!” she said. “You excite me.”
“Yesterday morning I was in Rush's,” said Georgie, “seeing about
some Creme de menthe, which ought to have been sent the day
before. Rush is very negligent sometimes—and I was just saying a sharp
word about it, when suddenly I saw that Rush was not attending at all,
but was looking at something behind my back, and so I looked round.
“Don't be tantalising, amico,” said she. “How can I guess? A
pink elephant with blue spots!”
“No, guess again!”
“A red Indian in full war paint.”
“Certainly not! Guess again,” said Georgie, with a little sigh of
relief. (It would have been awful if she had guessed.) At this moment
Peppino suddenly became aware that Lucia had guessed and was up to some
“Give me your hand, Georgie,” she said, “and look at me. I'm going
to read your thoughts. Think of what you saw when you turned round.”
She took his hand and pressed it to her forehead, closing her eyes.
“But I do seem to see an Indian,” she said. “Ah, not red Indian,
other Indian. And—and he has slippers on and brown stockings—no, not
brown stockings; it's legs. And there's a beard, and a turban.”
She gave a sigh.
“That's all I can see,” she said.
“My dear, you're marvellous,” said he. “You're quite right.”
A slight bubbling sound came from Peppino, and Georgie began to
“I believe you've seen him!” he said. “How tarsome you are....”
When they had all laughed a great deal, and Georgie had been assured
that Lucia really, word of honour, had no idea what happened next, the
narrative was resumed.
“So there stood the Indian, bowing and salaaming most politely and
when Rush had promised me he would send my Creme de menthe that
very morning, I just looked through a wine list for a moment, and the
Indian with quantities more bows came up to the counter and said, 'If
you will have the great goodness to give me a little brandy bottle.' So
Rush gave it him, and instead of paying for it, what do you think he
Mrs Lucas rose with the air of Lady Macbeth and pointed her finger
“He said 'Put it down to Mrs Quantock's account,'“ she hissed.
Of course the explanation came now, and Lucia told the two men the
contents of Mrs Quantock's letter. With that her cards were on the
table, and though the fact of the Brahmin from Benares was news to
Georgie, he had got many interesting things to tell her, for his house
adjoined Mrs Quantock's and there were plenty of things which Mrs
Quantock had not mentioned in her letter, so that Georgie was soon in
the position of informant again. His windows overlooked Mrs Quantock's
garden, and since he could not keep his eyes shut all day, it followed
that the happenings there were quite common property. Indeed that was a
general rule in Riseholme: anyone in an adjoining property could say,
“What an exciting game of lawn-tennis you had this afternoon!” having
followed it from his bedroom. That was part of the charm of Riseholme;
it was as if it contained just one happy family with common interests
and pursuits. What happened in the house was a more private matter, and
Mrs Quantock, for instance, would never look from the rising ground at
the end of her garden into Georgie's dining-room or, if she did she
would never tell anyone how many places were laid at table on that
particular day when she had asked if he could give her lunch, and he
had replied that to his great regret his table was full. But nobody
could help seeing into gardens from back windows: the “view” belonged
Georgie had had wonderful views.
“That very day,” he said, “soon after lunch, I was looking for a
letter I thought I had left in my bedroom, and happening to glance out,
I saw the Indian sitting under Mrs Quantock's pear-tree. He was swaying
a little backwards and forwards.”
“The brandy!” said Lucia excitedly. “He has his meals in his own
“No, amica, it was not the brandy. In fact I don't suppose
the brandy had gone to Mrs Quantock's then, for he did not take it from
Rush's, but asked that it should be sent....” He paused a moment—“Or
did he take it away? I declare I can't remember. But anyhow when he
swayed backwards and forwards, he wasn't drunk, for presently he stood
on one leg, and crooked the other behind it, and remained there with
his hands up, as if he was praying, for quite a long time without
swaying at all. So he couldn't have been tipsy. And then he sat down
again, and took off his slippers, and held his toes with one hand,
while his legs were quite straight out, and put his other hand round
behind his head, and grasped his other ear with it. I tried to do it on
my bedroom floor, but I couldn't get near it. Then he sat up again and
called 'Chela! Chela!' and Mrs Quantock came running out.”
“Why did he say 'Chela'?” asked Lucia.
“I wondered too. But I knew I had some clue to it, so I looked
through some books by Rudyard Kipling, and found that Chela meant
'Disciple.' What you have told me just now about 'Guru' being
'teacher,' seems to piece the whole thing together.”
“And what did Daisy do?” asked Mrs Lucas breathlessly.
“She sat down too, and put her legs out straight in front of her
like the Guru, and tried to hold the toe of her shoe in her fingers,
and naturally she couldn't get within yards of it. I got nearer than
she did. And he said, 'Beloved lady, not too far at first.'“
“So you could hear too,” said Lucia.
“Naturally, for my window was open, and as you know Mrs Quantock's
pear-tree is quite close to the house. And then he told her to stop up
one nostril with her finger and inhale through the other, and then hold
her breath, while he counted six. Then she breathed it all out again,
and started with the other side. She repeated that several times and he
was very much pleased with her. Then she said, 'It is quite wonderful;
I feel so light and vigorous.'“
“It would be very wonderful indeed if dear Daisy felt light,”
remarked Lucia. “What next?”
“Then they sat and swayed backwards and forwards again and muttered
something that sounded like Pom!”
“That would be 'Om', and then?”
“I couldn't wait any longer for I had some letters to write.”
She smiled at him.
“I shall give you another cup of tea to reward you for your report,”
she said. “It has all been most interesting. Tell me again about the
breathing in and holding your breath.”
Georgie did so, and illustrated in his own person what had happened.
Next moment Lucia was imitating him, and Peppino came round in order to
get a better view of what Georgie was doing. Then they all sat,
inhaling through one nostril, holding their breath, and then expelling
“Very interesting,” said Lucia at the end. “Upon my word, it does
give one a sort of feeling of vigour and lightness. I wonder if there
is something in it.”
Though “The Hurst” was, as befitted its Chatelaine, the most
Elizabethanly complete abode in Riseholme, the rest of the village in
its due degree, fell very little short of perfection. It had but its
one street some half mile in length but that street was a gem of
mediaeval domestic architecture. For the most part the houses that
lined it were blocks of contiguous cottages, which had been converted
either singly or by twos and threes into dwellings containing the
comforts demanded by the twentieth century, but externally they
preserved the antiquity which, though it might be restored or
supplemented by bathrooms or other conveniences, presented a truly
Elizabethan appearance. There were, of course, accretions such as old
inn signs above front-doors and old bell-pulls at their sides, but the
doors were uniformly of inconveniently low stature, roofs were of stone
slabs or old brick, in which a suspiciously abundant crop of
antirrhinums and stone crops had anchored themselves, and there was
hardly a garden that did not contain a path of old paving-stones, a
mulberry-tree and some yews cut into shape.
Nothing in the place was more blatantly mediaeval than the village
green, across which Georgie took his tripping steps after leaving the
presence of his queen. Round it stood a row of great elms, and in its
centre was the ducking-pond, according to Riseholme tradition, though
perhaps in less classical villages it might have passed merely for a
duck-pond. But in Riseholme it would have been rank heresy to dream,
even in the most pessimistic moments, of its being anything but a
ducking-pond. Close by it stood a pair of stocks, about which there was
no doubt whatever, for Mr Lucas had purchased them from a neighbouring
iconoclastic village, where they were going to be broken up, and, after
having them repaired, had presented them to the village-green, and
chosen their site close to the ducking pond. Round the green were
grouped the shops of the village, slightly apart from the residential
street, and at the far end of it was that undoubtedly Elizabethan
hostelry, the Ambermere Arms, full to overflowing of ancient tables and
bible-boxes, and fire-dogs and fire-backs, and bottles and chests and
settles. These were purchased in large quantities by the American
tourists who swarmed there during the summer months, at a high profit
to the nimble proprietor, who thereupon purchased fresh antiquities to
take their places. The Ambermere Arms in fact was the antique furniture
shop of the place, and did a thriving trade, for it was much more
interesting to buy objects out of a real old Elizabethan inn, than out
of a shop.
Georgie had put his smart military cape over his arm for his walk,
and at intervals applied his slim forefinger to one nostril, while he
breathed in through the other, continuing the practice which he had
observed going on in Mrs Quantock's garden. Though it made him a little
dizzy, it certainly produced a sort of lightness, but soon he
remembered the letter from Mrs Quantock which Lucia had read out,
warning her that these exercises ought to be taken under instruction,
and so desisted. He was going to deliver Lucia's answer at Mrs
Quantock's house, and with a view to possibly meeting the Guru, and
being introduced to him, he said over to himself “Guru, Guru, Guru"
instead of doing deep breathing, in order to accustom himself to the
It would, of course, have been very strange and un-Riseholme-like to
have gone to a friend's door, even though the errand was so impersonal
a one as bearing somebody else's note, without enquiring whether the
friend was in, and being instantly admitted if she was, and as a matter
of fact, Georgie caught a glimpse, when the knocker was answered (Mrs
Quantock did not have a bell at all), through the open door of the
hall, of Mrs Quantock standing in the middle of the lawn on one leg.
Naturally, therefore, he ran out into the garden without any further
formality. She looked like a little round fat stork, whose legs had not
grown, but who preserved the habits of her kind.
“Dear lady, I've brought a note for you,” he said, “it's from
The other leg went down, and she turned on him the wide firm smile
that she had learned in the vanished days of Christian Science.
“Om,” said Mrs Quantock, expelling the remainder of her breath.
“Thank you, my dear Georgie. It's extraordinary what Yoga has done for
me already. Cold quite gone. If ever you feel out of sorts, or
depressed or cross you can cure yourself at once. I've got a visitor
staying with me.”
“Have you indeed?” asked Georgie, without alluding to the thrilling
excitements which had trodden so close on each other's heels since
yesterday morning when he had seen the Guru in Rush's shop.
“Yes; and as you've just come from dear Lucia's perhaps she may have
said something to you about him, for I wrote to her about him. He's a
Guru of extraordinary sanctity from Benares, and he's teaching me the
Way. You shall see him too, unless he's meditating. I will call to him;
if he's meditating he won't hear me, so we shan't be interrupting him.
He wouldn't hear a railway accident if he was meditating.”
She turned round towards the house.
“Guru, dear!” she called.
There was a moment's pause, and the Indian's face appeared at a
“Beloved lady!” he said.
“Guru dear, I want to introduce a friend of mine to you,” she said.
“This is Mr Pillson, and when you know him a little better you will
call him Georgie.”
“Beloved lady, I know him very well indeed. I see into his clear
white soul. Peace be unto you, my friend.”
“Isn't he marvellous? Fancy!” said Mrs Quantock, in an aside.
Georgie raised his hat very politely.
“How do you do?” he said. (After his quiet practice he would have
said “How do you do Guru?” but it rhymed in a ridiculous manner and his
red lips could not frame the word.)
“I am always well,” said the Guru, “I am always young and well
because I follow the Way.”
“Sixty at least he tells me,” said Mrs Quantock in a hissing aside,
probably audible across the channel, “and he thinks more, but the years
make no difference to him. He is like a boy. Call him 'Guru.'“
“Guru,—” began Georgie.
“Yes, my friend.”
“I am very glad you are well,” said Georgie wildly. He was greatly
impressed, but much embarrassed. Also it was so hard to talk at a
second-story window with any sense of ease, especially when you had to
address a total stranger of extraordinary sanctity from Benares.
Luckily Mrs Quantock came to the assistance of his embarrassment.
“Guru dear, are you coming down to see us?” she asked.
“Beloved lady, no!” said the level voice. “It is laid on me to wait
here. It is the time of calm and prayer when it is good to be alone. I
will come down when the guides bid me. But teach our dear friend what I
have taught you. Surely before long I will grasp his earthly hand, but
not now. Peace! Peace! and Light!”
“Have you got some Guides as well?” asked Georgie when the Guru
disappeared from the window. “And are they Indians too?”
“Oh, those are his spiritual guides,” said Mrs Quantock, “He sees
them and talks to them, but they are not in the body.”
She gave a happy sigh.
“I never have felt anything like it,” she said. “He has brought such
an atmosphere into the house that even Robert feels it, and doesn't
mind being turned out of his dressing-room. There, he has shut the
window. Isn't it all marvellous?”
Georgie had not seen anything particularly marvellous yet, except
the phenomenon of Mrs Quantock standing on one leg in the middle of the
lawn, but presumably her emotion communicated itself to him by the
subtle infection of the spirit.
“And what does he do?” he asked.
“My dear, it is not what he does, but what he is,” said she. “Why,
even my little bald account of him to Lucia has made her ask him to her
garden-party. Of course I can't tell whether he will go or not. He
seems so very much—how shall I say it?—so very much sent to Me. But I
shall of course ask him whether he will consent. Trances and meditation
all day! And in the intervals such serenity and sweetness. You know,
for instance, how tiresome Robert is about his food. Well, last night
the mutton, I am bound to say, was a little underdone, and Robert was
beginning to throw it about his plate in the way he has. Well, my Guru
got up and just said, 'Show me the way to kitchen'—he leaves out
little words sometimes, because they don't matter—and I took him down,
and he said 'Peace!' He told me to leave him there, and in ten minutes
he was up again with a little plate of curry and rice and what had been
underdone mutton, and you never ate anything so good. Robert had most
of it and I had the rest, and my Guru was so pleased at seeing Robert
pleased. He said Robert had a pure white soul, just like you, only I
wasn't to tell him, because for him the Way ordained that he must find
it out for himself. And today before lunch again, the Guru went down in
the kitchen, and my cook told me he only took a pinch of pepper and a
tomato and a little bit of mutton fat and a sardine and a bit of
cheese, and he brought up a dish that you never saw equalled.
Delicious! I shouldn't a bit wonder if Robert began breathing-exercises
soon. There is one that makes you lean and young and exercises the
This sounded very entrancing.
“Can't you teach me that?” asked Georgie eagerly. He had been rather
distressed about his increasing plumpness for a year past, and about
his increasing age for longer than that. As for his liver he always had
to be careful.
She shook her head.
“You cannot practise it except under tuition from an expert,” she
Georgie rapidly considered what Hermy's and Ursy's comments would be
if, when they arrived tomorrow, he was found doing exercises under the
tuition of a Guru. Hermy, when she was not otter-hunting, could be very
sarcastic, and he had a clear month of Hermy in front of him, without
any otter-hunting, which, so she had informed him, was not possible in
August. This was mysterious to Georgie, because it did not seem likely
that all otters died in August, and a fresh brood came in like
caterpillars. If Hermy was here in October, she would otter-hunt all
morning and snore all afternoon, and be in the best of tempers, but the
August visit required more careful steering. Yet the prospect of being
lean and young and internally untroubled was wonderfully tempting.
“But couldn't he be my Guru as well?” he asked.
Quite suddenly and by some demoniac possession, a desire that had
been only intermittently present in Mrs Quantock's consciousness took
full possession of her, a red revolutionary insurgence hoisted its
banner. Why with this stupendous novelty in the shape of a Guru
shouldn't she lead and direct Riseholme instead of Lucia? She had long
wondered why darling Lucia should be Queen of Riseholme, and had, by
momentary illumination, seen herself thus equipped as far more capable
of exercising supremacy. After all, everybody in Riseholme knew Lucia's
old tune by now, and was in his secret consciousness quite aware that
she did not play the second and third movements of the Moonlight
Sonata, simply because they “went faster,” however much she might cloak
the omission by saying that they resembled eleven o'clock in the
morning and 3 p.m. And Mrs Quantock had often suspected that she did
not read one quarter of the books she talked about, and that she got up
subjects in the Encyclopaedia, in order to make a brave show that
covered essential ignorance. Certainly she spent a good deal of money
over entertaining, but Robert had lately made twenty times daily what
Lucia spent annually, over Roumanian oils. As for her acting, had she
not completely forgotten her words as Lady Macbeth in the middle of the
But here was Lucia, as proved by her note, and her A. D. C. Georgie,
wildly interested in the Guru. Mrs Quantock conjectured that Lucia's
plan was to launch the Guru at her August parties, as her own
discovery. He would be a novelty, and it would be Lucia who gave
Om-parties and breathing-parties and standing-on-one-leg parties, while
she herself, Daisy Quantock, would be bidden to these as a humble
guest, and Lucia would get all the credit, and, as likely as not,
invite the discoverer, the inventress, just now and then. Mrs
Quantock's Guru would become Lucia's Guru and all Riseholme would flock
hungrily for light and leading to The Hurst. She had written to Lucia
in all sincerity, hoping that she would extend the hospitality of her
garden-parties to the Guru, but now the very warmth of Lucia's reply
caused her to suspect this ulterior motive. She had been too
precipitate, too rash, too ill-advised, too sudden, as Lucia would say.
She ought to have known that Lucia, with her August parties coming on,
would have jumped at a Guru, and withheld him for her own parties,
taking the wind out of Lucia's August sails. Lucia had already suborned
Georgie to leave this note, and begin to filch the Guru away. Mrs
Quantock saw it all now, and clearly this was not to be borne. Before
she answered, she steeled herself with the triumph she had once scored
in the matter of the Welsh attorney.
“Dear Georgie,” she said, “no one would be more delighted than I if
my Guru consented to take you as a pupil. But you can't tell what he
will do, as he said to me today, apropos of myself, 'I cannot come
unless I'm sent.' Was not that wonderful? He knew at once he had been
sent to me.”
By this time Georgie was quite determined to have the Guru. The
measure of his determination may be gauged from the fact that he forgot
all about Lucia's garden-party.
“But he called me his friend,” he said. “He told me I had a clean
“Yes; but that is his attitude towards everybody,” said Mrs
Quantock. “His religion makes it impossible for him to think ill of
“But he didn't say that to Rush,” cried Georgie, “when he asked for
some brandy, to be put down to you.”
Mrs Quantock's expression changed for a moment, but that moment was
too short for Georgie to notice it. Her face instantly cleared again.
“Naturally he cannot go about saying that sort of thing,” she
observed. “Common people—he is of the highest caste—would not
Georgie made the direct appeal.
“Please ask him to teach me,” he said.
For a moment Mrs Quantock did not answer, but cocked her head
sideways in the direction of the pear-tree where a thrush was singing.
It fluted a couple of repeated phrases and then was silent again.
Mrs Quantock gave a great smile to the pear-tree.
“Thank you, little brother,” she said.
She turned to Georgie again.
“That comes out of St. Francis,” she said, “but Yoga embraces all
that is true in every religion. Well, I will ask my Guru whether he
will take you as a pupil, but I can't answer for what he will say.”
“What does he—what does he charge for his lesson?” asked Georgie.
The Christian Science smile illuminated her face again.
“The word 'money' never passes his lips,” she said. “I don't think
he really knows what it means. He proposed to sit on the green with a
beggar's bowl but of course I would not permit that, and for the
present I just give him all he wants. No doubt when he goes away, which
I hope will not be for many weeks yet, though no one can tell when he
will have another call, I shall slip something suitably generous into
his hand, but I don't think about that. Must you be going? Good night,
dear Georgie. Peace! Om!”
His last backward glance as he went out of the front door revealed
her standing on one leg again, just as he had seen her first. He
remembered a print of a fakir at Benares, standing in that attitude;
and if the stream that flowed into the Avon could be combined with the
Ganges, and the garden into the burning ghaut, and the swooping
swallows into the kites, and the neat parlour-maid who showed him out,
into a Brahmin, and the Chinese gong that was so prominent an object in
the hall into a piece of Benares brassware, he could almost have
fancied himself as standing on the brink of the sacred river. The
marigolds in the garden required no transmutation....
Georgie had quite “to pull himself together,” as he stepped round
Mrs Quantock's mulberry tree, and ten paces later round his own, before
he could recapture his normal evening mood, on those occasions when he
was going to dine alone. Usually these evenings were very pleasant and
much occupied, for they did not occur very often in this whirl of
Riseholme life, and it was not more than once a week that he spent a
solitary evening, and then, if he got tired of his own company, there
were half a dozen houses, easy of access where he could betake himself
in his military cloak, and spend a post-prandial hour. But oftener than
not when these occasions occurred, he would be quite busy at home,
dusting a little china, and rearranging ornaments on his shelves, and,
after putting his rings and handkerchief in the candle-bracket of the
piano, spending a serious hour (with the soft pedal down, for fear of
irritating Robert) in reading his share of such duets as he would be
likely to be called upon to play with Lucia during the next day or two.
Though he read music much better than she did, he used to “go over” the
part alone first, and let it be understood that he had not seen it
before. But then he was sure that she had done precisely the same, so
they started fair. Such things whiled away very pleasantly the hours
till eleven, when he went to bed, and it was seldom that he had to set
out Patience-cards to tide him over the slow minutes.
But every now and then—and tonight was one of those
occasions—there occurred evenings when he never went out to dinner
even if he was asked, because he “was busy indoors.” They occurred
about once a month (these evenings that he was “busy indoors")—and
even an invitation from Lucia would not succeed in disturbing them.
Ages ago Riseholme had decided what made Georgie “busy indoors” once a
month, and so none of his friends chatted about the nature of his
engagements to anyone else, simply because everybody else knew. His
business indoors, in fact, was a perfect secret, from having been
public property for so long.
June had been a very busy time, not “indoors,” but with other
engagements, and as Georgie went up to his bedroom, having been told by
Foljambe that the hair-dresser was waiting for him, and had been
waiting “this last ten minutes,” he glanced at his hair in the
Cromwellian mirror that hung on the stairs, and was quite aware that it
was time he submitted himself to Mr Holroyd's ministrations. There was
certainly an undergrowth of grey hair visible beneath his chestnut
crop, that should have been attended to at least a fortnight ago. Also
there was a growing thinness in the locks that crossed his head; Mr
Holroyd had attended to that before, and had suggested a certain
remedy, not in the least inconvenient, unless Georgie proposed to be
athletic without a cap, in a high wind, and even then not necessarily
so. But as he had no intention of being athletic anywhere, with or
without a cap, he determined as he went up the stairs that he would
follow Mr Holroyd's advice. Mr Holroyd's procedure, without this added
formula, entailed sitting “till it dried,” and after that he would have
dinner, and then Mr Holroyd would begin again. He was a very clever
person with regard to the face and the hands and the feet. Georgie had
been conscious of walking a little lamely lately; he had been even more
conscious of the need of hot towels on his face and the “tap-tap” of Mr
Holroyd's fingers, and the stretchings of Mr Holroyd's thumb across
rather slack surfaces of cheek and chin. In the interval between the
hair and the face, Mr Holroyd should have a good supper downstairs with
Foljambe and the cook. And tomorrow morning, when he met Hermy and
Ursy, Georgie would be just as spick and span and young as ever, if not
Georgie (happy innocent!) was completely unaware that the whole of
Riseholme knew that the smooth chestnut locks which covered the top of
his head, were trained like the tendrils of a grapevine from the roots,
and flowed like a river over a bare head, and consequently when Mr
Holroyd explained the proposed innovation, a little central wig, the
edges of which would mingle in the most natural manner with his own
hair, it seemed to Georgie that nobody would know the difference. In
addition he would be spared those risky moments when he had to take off
his hat to a friend in a high wind, for there was always the danger of
his hair blowing away from the top of his head, and hanging down, like
the tresses of a Rhine-maiden over one shoulder. So Mr Holroyd was
commissioned to put that little affair in hand at once, and when the
greyness had been attended to, and Georgie had had his dinner, there
came hot towels and tappings on his face, and other ministrations. All
was done about half past ten, and when he came downstairs again for a
short practice at the bass part of Beethoven's fifth symphony,
ingeniously arranged for two performers on the piano, he looked with
sincere satisfaction at his rosy face in the Cromwellian mirror, and
his shoes felt quite comfortable again, and his nails shone like pink
stars, as his hands dashed wildly about the piano in the quicker
passages. But all the time the thought of the Guru next door, under
whose tuition he might be able to regain his youth without recourse to
those expensive subterfuges (for the price of the undetectable
toupet astonished him) rang in his head with a melody more haunting
than Beethoven's. What he would have liked best of all would have been
to have the Guru all to himself, so that he should remain perpetually
young, while all the rest of Riseholme, including Hermy and Ursy, grew
old. Then, indeed, he would be king of the place, instead of serving
the interests of its queen.
He rose with a little sigh, and after adjusting the strip of flannel
over the keys, shut his piano and busied himself for a little with a
soft duster over his cabinet of bibelots which not even Foljambe was
allowed to touch. It was generally understood that he had inherited
them, though the inheritance had chiefly passed to him through the
medium of curiosity shops, and there were several pieces of
considerable value among them. There were a gold Louis XVI snuff box, a
miniature by Karl Huth, a silver toy porringer of the time of Queen
Anne, a piece of Bow china, an enamelled cigarette case by Faberge. But
tonight his handling of them was not so dainty and delicate as usual,
and he actually dropped the porringer on the floor as he was dusting
it, for his mind still occupied itself with the Guru and the practices
that led to permanent youth. How quick Lucia had been to snap him up
for her garden-party. Yet perhaps she would not get him, for he might
say he was not sent. But surely he would be sent to Georgie, whom he
knew, the moment he set eyes on him to have a clean white soul....
The clock struck eleven, and, as usual on warm nights Georgie opened
the glass door into his garden and drew in a breath of the night air.
There was a slip of moon in the sky which he most punctiliously
saluted, wondering (though he did not seriously believe in its
superstition) how Lucia could be so foolhardy as to cut the new moon.
She had seen it yesterday, she told him, in London, and had taken no
notice whatever of it.... The heavens were quickly peppered with pretty
stars, which Georgie after his busy interesting day enjoyed looking at,
though if he had had the arrangement of them, he would certainly have
put them into more definite patterns. Among them was a very red planet,
and Georgie with recollections of his classical education, easily
remembered that Mars, the God of War, was symbolized in the heavens by
a red star. Could that mean anything to peaceful Riseholme? Was
internal warfare, were revolutionary movements possible in so serene a
Pink irascible Robert, prone to throw his food about his plate, if
it did not commend itself to him, felt in an extremely good natured
mood that same night after dinner, for the Guru had again made a visit
to the kitchen with the result that instead of a slab of pale dead
codfish being put before him after he had eaten some tepid soup, there
appeared a delicious little fish-curry. The Guru had behaved with great
tact; he had seen the storm gathering on poor Robert's face, as he
sipped the cool effete concoction and put down his spoon again with a
splash in his soup plate, and thereupon had bowed and smiled and
scurried away to the kitchen to intercept the next abomination. Then
returning with the little curry he explained that it was entirely for
Robert, since those who sought the Way did not indulge in hot sharp
foods, and so he had gobbled it up to the very last morsel.
In consequence when the Guru salaamed very humbly, and said that
with gracious permission of beloved lady and kind master he would go
and meditate in his room, and had shambled away in his red slippers,
the discussion which Robert had felt himself obliged to open with his
wife, on the subject of having an unknown Indian staying with them for
an indefinite period, was opened in a much more amicable key than it
would have been on a slice of codfish.
“Well, now, about this Golliwog—haha—I should say Guru, my dear,”
he began, “what's going to happen?”
Daisy Quantock drew in her breath sharply and winced at this
irreverence, but quickly remembered that she must always be sending out
messages of love, north, east, south, and west. So she sent a rather
spiky one in the direction of her husband who was sitting due east, so
that it probably got to him at once, and smiled the particular hard
firm smile which was an heirloom inherited from her last rule of life.
“No one knows,” she said brightly. “Even the Guides can't tell where
and when a Guru may he called.”
“Then do you propose he should stop here till he's called somewhere
She continued smiling.
“I don't propose anything,” she said. “It's not in my hands.”
Under the calming influence of the fish curry, Robert remained still
“He's a first-rate cook anyhow,” he said. “Can't you engage him as
that? Call to the kitchen, you know.”
“Darling!” said Mrs Quantock, sending out more love. But she had a
quick temper, and indeed the two were outpoured together, like hot and
cold taps turned on in a bath. The pellucid stream of love served to
keep her temper moderately cool.
“Well, ask him,” suggested Mr Quantock, “as you say, you never can
tell where a Guru may be called. Give him forty pounds a year and beer
“Beer!” began Mrs Quantock, when she suddenly remembered Georgie's
story about Rush and the Guru and the brandy-bottle, and stopped.
“Yes, dear, I said 'beer,'“ remarked Robert a little irritably, “and
in any case I insist that you dismiss your present cook. You only took
her because she was a Christian Scientist, and you've left that little
sheep-fold now. You used to talk about false claims I remember. Well
her claim to be a cook is the falsest I ever heard of. I'd sooner take
my chance with an itinerant organ grinder. But that fish-curry tonight
and that other thing last night, that's what I mean by good eating.”
The thought even of good food always calmed Robert's savage breast;
it blew upon him as the wind on an AEolian harp hung in the trees,
evoking faint sweet sounds.
“I'm sure, my dear,” he said, “that I shall be willing to fall in
with any pleasant arrangement about your Guru, but it really isn't
unreasonable in me to ask what sort of arrangement you propose. I
haven't a word to say against him, especially when he goes to the
kitchen; I only want to know if he is going to stop here a night or two
or a year or two. Talk to him about it tomorrow with my love. I wonder
if he can make bisque soup.”
Daisy Quantock carried quite a quantity of material for reflection
upstairs with her, then she went to bed, pausing a moment opposite the
Guru's door, from inside of which came sounds of breathing so deep that
it sounded almost like snoring. But she seemed to detect a timbre of
spirituality about it which convinced her that he was holding high
communion with the Guides. It was round him that her thoughts centred,
he was the tree through the branches of which they scampered
Her first and main interest in him was sheer Guruism, for she was
one of those intensely happy people who pass through life in ecstatic
pursuit of some idea which those who do not share it call a fad. Well
might poor Robert remember the devastation of his home when Daisy,
after the perusal of a little pamphlet which she picked up on a
book-stall called “The Uric Acid Monthly,” came to the shattering
conclusion that her buxom frame consisted almost entirely of
waste-products which must be eliminated. For a greedy man the situation
was frankly intolerable, for when he continued his ordinary diet (this
was before the cursed advent of the Christian Science cook) she kept
pointing to his well-furnished plate, and told him that every atom of
that beef or mutton and potatoes, turned from the moment he swallowed
it into chromogens and toxins, and that his apparent appetite was
merely the result of fermentation. For herself her platter was an
abominable mess of cheese and protein-powder and apples and salad-oil,
while round her, like saucers of specimen seeds were ranged little
piles of nuts and pine-branches, which supplied body-building material,
and which she weighed out with scrupulous accuracy, in accordance with
the directions of the “Uric Acid Monthly.” Tea and coffee were taboo,
since they flooded the blood with purins, and the kitchen boiler
rumbled day and night to supply the rivers of boiling water with which
(taken in sips) she inundated her system. Strange gaunt females used to
come down from London, with small parcels full of tough food that
tasted of travelling-bags and contained so much nutrition that a
port-manteau full of it would furnish the daily rations of any army.
Luckily even her iron constitution could not stand the strain of such
ideal living for long, and her growing anaemia threatened to undermine
a constitution seriously impaired by the precepts of perfect health. A
course of beef-steaks and other substantial viands loaded with uric
acid restored her to her former vigour.
Thus reinforced, she plunged with the same energy as she had devoted
to repelling uric acid into the embrace of Christian Science. The
inhumanity of that sect towards both herself and others took complete
possession of her, and when her husband complained on a bitter January
morning that his smoking-room was like an icehouse, because the
housemaid had forgotten to light the fire, she had no touch of pity for
him, since she knew that there was no such thing as cold or heat or
pain, and therefore you could not feel cold. But now, since, according
to the new creed, such things as uric acid, chromogens and purins had
no existence, she could safely indulge in decent viands again. But her
unhappy husband was not a real gainer in this respect, for while he
ate, she tirelessly discoursed to him on the new creed, and asked him
to recite with her the True Statement of Being. And on the top of that
she dismissed the admirable cook, and engaged the miscreant from whom
he suffered still, though Christian Science, which had allowed her cold
to make so long a false claim on her, had followed the uric-acid fad
into the limbo of her discarded beliefs.
But now once more she had temporarily discovered the secret of life
in the teachings of the Guru, and it was, as has been mentioned, sheer
Guruism that constituted the main attraction of the new creed. That
then being taken for granted, she turned her mind to certain
side-issues, which to a true Riseholmite were of entrancing interest.
She felt a strong suspicion that Lucia contemplated annexing her Guru
altogether, for otherwise she would not have returned so enthusiastic a
response to her note, nor have sent Georgie to deliver it, nor have
professed so violent an interest in the Guru. What then was the
correctly diabolical policy to pursue? Should Daisy Quantock refuse to
take him to Mrs Lucas altogether, with a message of regret that he did
not feel himself sent? Even if she did this, did she feel herself
strong enough to throw down the gauntlet (in the shape of the Guru)
and, using him as the attraction, challenge darling Lucia to mutual
combat, in order to decide who should be the leader of all that was
advanced and cultured in Riseholme society? Still following that
ramification of this policy, should she bribe Georgie over to her own
revolutionary camp, by promising him instruction from the Guru? Or
following a less dashing line, should she take darling Lucia and
Georgie into the charmed circle, and while retaining her own right of
treasure trove, yet share it with them in some inner ring, dispensing
the Guru to them, if they were good, in small doses?
Mrs Quantock's mind resembled in its workings the manoeuvres of a
moth distracted by the glory of several bright lights. It dashed at
one, got slightly singed, and forgetting all about that turned its
attention to the second, and the third, taking headers into each in
turn, without deciding which, on the whole, was the most enchanting of
those luminaries. So, in order to curb the exuberance of these frenzied
excursions she got a half sheet of paper, and noted down the
alternatives that she must choose from.
“(I) Shall I keep him entirely to myself?
“(II) Shall I run him for all he is worth, and leave out L?
“(III) Shall I get G on my side?
“(IV) Shall I give L and G bits?”
She paused a moment: then remembering that he had voluntarily helped
her very pretty housemaid to make the beds that morning, saying that
his business (like the Prince of Wales's) was to serve, she added:
“(V) Shall I ask him to be my cook?”
For a few seconds the brightness of her eager interest was dimmed as
the unworthy suspicion occurred to her that perhaps the prettiness of
her housemaid had something to do with his usefulness in the bedrooms,
but she instantly dismissed it. There was the bottle of brandy, too,
which he had ordered from Rush's. When she had begged him to order
anything he wanted and cause it to be put down to her account, she had
not actually contemplated brandy. Then remembering that one of the most
necessary conditions for progress in Yoga, was that the disciple should
have complete confidence in the Guru, she chased that also out of her
mind. But still, even when the lines of all possible policies were
written down, she could come to no decision, and putting her paper by
her bed, decided to sleep over it. The rhythmical sounds of hallowed
breathing came steadily from next door, and she murmured “Om, Om,” in
time with them.
The hours of the morning between breakfast and lunch were the time
which the inhabitants of Riseholme chiefly devoted to spying on each
other. They went about from shop to shop on household businesses,
occasionally making purchases which they carried away with them in
little paper parcels with convenient loops of string, but the real
object of these excursions was to see what everybody else was doing,
and learn what fresh interests had sprung up like mushrooms during the
night. Georgie would be matching silks at the draper's, and very
naturally he would carry them from the obscurity of the interior to the
door in order to be certain about the shades, and keep his eye on the
comings and goings in the street, and very naturally Mr Lucas on his
way to the market gardener's to enquire whether he had yet received the
bulbs from Holland, would tell him that Lucia had received the
piano-arrangement of the Mozart trio. Georgie for his part would
mention that Hermy and Ursy were expected that evening, and Peppino
enriched by this item would “toddle on,” as his phrase went, to meet
and exchange confidences with the next spy. He had noticed incidentally
that Georgie carried a small oblong box with hard corners, which,
perfectly correctly, he conjectured to be cigarettes for Hermy and
Ursy, since Georgie never smoked.
“Well, I must be toddling on,” he said, after identifying Georgie's
box of cigarettes, and being rather puzzled by a bulge in Georgie's
pocket. “You'll be looking in some time this morning, perhaps.”
Georgie had not been quite sure that he would (for he was very busy
owing to the arrival of his sisters, and the necessity of going to Mr
Holroyd's, in order that that artist might accurately match the shade
of his hair with a view to the expensive toupet), but the mention of
the arrival of the Mozart now decided him. He intended anyhow before he
went home for lunch to stroll past The Hurst, and see if he did not
hear—to adopt a mixed metaphor—the sound of the diligent practice of
that classical morsel going on inside. Probably the soft pedal would be
down, but he had marvellously acute hearing, and he would be very much
surprised if he did not hear the recognisable chords, and even more
surprised if, when they came to practise the piece together, Lucia did
not give him to understand that she was reading it for the first time.
He had already got a copy, and had practised his part last night, but
then he was in the superior position of not having a husband who would
inadvertently tell on him! Meantime it was of the first importance to
get that particular shade of purple silk that had none of that
“tarsome” magenta-tint in it. Meantime also, it was of even greater
importance to observe the movements of Riseholme.
Just opposite was the village green, and as nobody was quite close
to him Georgie put on his spectacles, which he could whisk off in a
moment. It was these which formed that bulge in his pocket which
Peppino had noticed, but the fact of his using spectacles at all was a
secret that would have to be profoundly kept for several years yet. But
as there was no one at all near him, he stealthily adjusted them on his
small straight nose. The morning train from town had evidently come in,
for there was a bustle of cabs about the door of the Ambermere Arms,
and a thing that thrilled him to the marrow was the fact that Lady
Ambermere's motor was undoubtedly among them. That must surely mean
that Lady Ambermere herself was here, for when poor thin Miss Lyall,
her companion, came in to Riseholme to do shopping, or transact such
business as the majestic life at The Hall required, she always came on
foot, or in very inclement weather in a small two-wheeled cart like a
hip-bath. At this moment, steeped in conjecture, who should appear,
walking stiffly, with her nose in the air, as if suspecting, and not
choosing to verify, some faint unpleasant odour, but Lady Ambermere
herself, coming from the direction of The Hurst.... Clearly she must
have got there after Peppino had left, or he would surely have
mentioned the fact that Lady Ambermere had been at The Hurst, if she
had been at The Hurst. It is true that she was only coming from the
direction of The Hurst, but Georgie put into practice, in his mental
processes Darwin's principle, that in order to observe usefully, you
must have a theory. Georgie's theory was that Lady Ambermere had been
at The Hurst just for a minute or two, and hastily put his spectacles
in his pocket. With the precision of a trained mind he also formed the
theory that some business had brought Lady Ambermere into Riseholme,
and that taking advantage of her presence there, she had probably
returned a verbal answer to Lucia's invitation to her garden-party,
which she would have received by the first post this morning. He was
quite ready to put his theory to the test when Lady Ambermere had
arrived at the suitable distance for his conveniently observing her,
and for taking off his hat. She always treated him like a boy, which he
liked. The usual salutation passed.
“I don't know where my people are,” said Lady Ambermere
majestically. “Have you seen my motor?”
“Yes, dear lady, it's in at your own arms,” said Georgie brightly.
If Lady Ambermere unbent to anybody, she unbent to Georgie. He was
of quite good family, because his mother had been a Bartlett and a
second cousin of her deceased husband. Sometimes when she talked to
Georgie she said “we,” implying thereby his connection with the
aristocracy, and this gratified Georgie nearly as much as did her
treatment of him as being quite a boy still. It was to him, as a boy
still, that she answered.
“Well, the happy motor, you little rascal, must come to my arms
instead of being at them,” she said with the quick wit for which
Riseholme pronounced her famous. “Fancy being able to see my motor at
that distance. Young eyes!”
It was really young spectacles, but Georgie did not mind that. In
fact, he would not have corrected the mistake for the world.
“Shall I run across and fetch it for you?” he asked.
“In a minute. Or whistle on your fingers like a vulgar street boy,”
said Lady Ambermere. “I'm sure you know how to.”
Georgie had not the slightest idea, but with the courage of youth,
presuming, with the prudence of middle-age, that he would not really be
called upon to perform so unimaginable a feat, he put two fingers up to
“Here goes then!” he said, greatly daring. (He knew perfectly well
that the dignity of Lady Ambermere would not permit rude vulgar
whistling, of which he was hopelessly incapable, to summon her motor.
She made a feint of stopping her ears with her hands.)
“Don't do anything of the kind,” she said. “In a minute you shall
walk with me across to the Arms, but tell me this first. I have just
been to say to our good Mrs Lucas that very likely I will look in at
her garden-party on Friday, if I have nothing else to do. But who is
this wonderful creature she is expecting? Is it an Indian conjurer? If
so, I should like to see him, because when Ambermere was in Madras I
remember one coming to the Residency who had cobras and that sort of
thing. I told her I didn't like snakes, and she said there shouldn't be
any. In fact, it was all rather mysterious, and she didn't at present
know if he was coming or not. I only said, 'No snakes: I insist on no
Georgie relieved her mind about the chance of there being snakes,
and gave a short precis of the ascertained habits of the Guru,
laying special stress on his high-caste.
“Yes, some of these Brahmins are of very decent family,” admitted
Lady Ambermere. “I was always against lumping all dark-skinned people
together and calling them niggers. When we were at Madras I was famed
for my discrimination.”
They were walking across the green as Lady Ambermere gave vent to
these liberal sentiments, and Georgie even without the need of his
spectacles could see Peppino, who had spied Lady Ambermere from the
door of the market-gardener's, hurrying down the street, in order to
get a word with her before “her people” drove her back to The Hall.
“I came into Riseholme today to get rooms at the Arms for Olga
Bracely,” she observed.
“The prima-donna?” asked Georgie breathless with excitement.
“Yes; she is coming to stay at the Arms for two nights with Mr
“Surely—” began Georgie.
“No, it is all right, he is her husband, they were married last
week,” said Lady Ambermere. “I should have thought that Shuttleworth
was a good enough name, as the Shuttleworths are cousins of the late
lord, but she prefers to call herself Miss Bracely. I don't dispute her
right to call herself what she pleases: far from it, though who the
Bracelys were, I have never been able to discover. But when George
Shuttleworth wrote to me saying that he and his wife were intending to
stay here for a couple of days, and proposing to come over to The Hall
to see me, I thought I would just look in at the Arms myself, and see
that they were promised proper accommodation. They will dine with me
tomorrow. I have a few people staying, and no doubt Miss Bracely will
sing afterwards. My Broadwood was always considered a remarkably fine
instrument. It was very proper of George Shuttleworth to say that he
would be in the neighbourhood, and I daresay she is a very decent sort
They had come to the motor by this time—the rich, the noble motor,
as Mr Pepys would have described it—and there was poor Miss Lyall hung
with parcels, and wearing a faint sycophantic smile. This miserable
spinster, of age so obvious as to be called not the least uncertain,
was Lady Ambermere's companion, and shared with her the glories of The
Hall, which had been left to Lady Ambermere for life. She was provided
with food and lodging and the use of the cart like a hip-bath when Lady
Ambermere had errands for her to do in Riseholme, so what could a woman
want more? In return for these bounties, her only duty was to devote
herself body and mind to her patroness, to read the paper aloud, to set
Lady Ambermere's patterns for needlework, to carry the little Chinese
dog under her arm, and wash him once a week, to accompany Lady
Ambermere to church, and never to have a fire in her bedroom. She had a
melancholy wistful little face: her head was inclined with a backward
slope on her neck, and her mouth was invariably a little open shewing
long front teeth, so that she looked rather like a roast hare sent up
to table with its head on. Georgie always had a joke ready for Miss
Lyall, of the sort that made her say, “Oh, Mr Pillson!” and caused her
to blush. She thought him remarkably pleasant.
Georgie had his joke ready on this occasion.
“Why, here's Miss Lyall!” he said. “And what has Miss Lyall been
doing while her ladyship and I have been talking? Better not ask,
“Oh, Mr Pillson!” said Miss Lyall, as punctually as a cuckoo clock
when the hands point to the hour.
Lady Ambermere put half her weight onto the step of the motor,
causing it to creak and sway.
“Call on the Shuttleworths, Georgie,” she said. “Say I told you to.
Miss Lyall effaced herself on the front seat of the motor, like a
mouse hiding in a corner, after Lady Ambermere had got in, and the
footman mounted onto the box. At that moment Peppino with his bag of
bulbs, a little out of breath, squeezed his way between two cabs by the
side of the motor. He was just too late, and the motor moved off. It
was very improbable that Lady Ambermere saw him at all.
Georgie felt very much like a dog with a bone in his mouth, who only
wants to get away from all the other dogs and discuss it quietly. It is
safe to say that never in twenty-four hours had so many exciting things
happened to him. He had ordered a toupet, he had been looked on with
favour by a Guru, all Riseholme knew that he had had quite a long
conversation with Lady Ambermere and nobody in Riseholme, except
himself, knew that Olga Bracely was going to spend two nights here.
Well he remembered her marvellous appearance last year at Covent Garden
in the part of Brunnhilde. He had gone to town for a rejuvenating visit
to his dentist, and the tarsomeness of being betwixt and between had
been quite forgotten by him when he saw her awake to Siegfried's line
on the mountain-top. “Das ist keine mann,” Siegfried had said,
and, to be sure, that was very clever of him, for she looked like some
slim beardless boy, and not in the least like those great fat Fraus at
Baireuth, whom nobody could have mistaken for a man as they bulged and
heaved even before the strings of the breastplate were uncut by his
sword. And then she sat up and hailed the sun, and Georgie felt for a
moment that he had quite taken the wrong turn in life, when he settled
to spend his years in this boyish, maidenly manner with his embroidery
and his china-dusting at Riseholme. He ought to have been Siegfried....
He had brought a photograph of her in her cuirass and helmet, and often
looked at it when he was not too busy with something else. He had even
championed his goddess against Lucia, when she pronounced that Wagner
was totally lacking in knowledge of dramatic effects. To be sure she
had never seen any Wagner opera, but she had heard the overture to
Tristram performed at the Queen's Hall, and if that was Wagner,
Already, though Lady Ambermere's motor had not yet completely
vanished up the street, Riseholme was gently closing in round him, in
order to discover by discreet questions (as in the game of Clumps) what
he and she had been talking about. There was Colonel Boucher with his
two snorting bull-dogs closing in from one side, and Mrs Weston in her
bath-chair being wheeled relentlessly towards him from another, and the
two Miss Antrobuses sitting playfully in the stocks, on the third, and
Peppino at close range on the fourth. Everyone knew, too, that he did
not lunch till half past one, and there was really no reason why he
should not stop and chat as usual. But with the eye of the true
general, he saw that he could most easily break the surrounding cordon
by going off in the direction of Colonel Boucher, because Colonel
Boucher always said “Haw, hum, by Jove,” before he descended into
coherent speech, and thus Georgie could forestall him with “Good
morning, Colonel,” and pass on before he got to business. He did not
like passing close to those slobbering bull-dogs, but something had to
be done ... Next moment he was clear and saw that the other spies by
their original impetus were still converging on each other and walked
briskly down towards Lucia's house, to listen for any familiar noises
out of the Mozart trio. The noises were there, and the soft pedal was
down just as he expected, so, that business being off his mind, he
continued his walk for a few hundred yards more, meaning to make a
short circuit through fields, cross the bridge, over the happy stream
that flowed into the Avon, and regain his house by the door at the
bottom of the garden. Then he would sit and think ... the Guru, Olga
Bracely ... What if he asked Olga Bracely and her husband to dine, and
persuaded Mrs Quantock to let the Guru come? That would be three men
and one woman, and Hermy and Ursy would make all square. Six for dinner
was the utmost that Foljambe permitted.
He had come to the stile that led into the fields, and sat there for
a moment. Lucia's tentative melodies were still faintly audible, but
soon they stopped, and he guessed that she was looking out of the
window. She was too great to take part in the morning spying that went
on round about the Green, but she often saw a good deal from her
window. He wondered what Mrs Quantock was meaning to do. Apparently she
had not promised the Guru for the garden-party, or else Lady Ambermere
would not have said that Lucia did not know whether he was coming or
not. Perhaps Mrs Quantock was going to run him herself, and grant him
neither to Lucia nor Georgie. In that case he would certainly ask Olga
Bracely and her husband to dine, and should he or should he not ask
The red star had risen in Riseholme: Bolshevism was treading in its
peaceful air, and if Mrs Quantock was going to secrete her Guru, and
set up her own standard on the strength of him, Georgie felt much
inclined to ask Olga Bracely to dinner, without saying anything
whatever to Lucia about it, and just see what would happen next.
Georgie was a Bartlett on his mother's side, and he played the piano
better than Lucia, and he had twenty-four hours' leisure every day,
which he could devote to being king of Riseholme.... His nature flared
up, burning with a red revolutionary flame, that was fed by his secret
knowledge about Olga Bracely. Why should Lucia rule everyone with her
rod of iron? Why, and again why?
Suddenly he heard his name called in the familiar alto, and there
was Lucia in her Shakespeare's garden.
“Georgino! Georgino mio!” she cried. “Gino!”
Out of mere habit Georgie got down from his stile, and tripped up
the road towards her. The manly seething of his soul's insurrection
rebuked him, but unfortunately his legs and his voice surrendered.
Habit was strong....
“Amica!” he answered. “Buon Giorno.” (“And why do I say it in
Italian?” he vainly asked himself.)
“Geordie, come and have ickle talk,” she said. “Me want 'oo wise man
to advise ickle Lucia.”
“What 'oo want?” asked Georgie, now quite quelled for the moment.
“Lots-things. Here's pwetty flower for button-holie. Now tell me
about black man. Him no snakes have? Why Mrs Quantock say she thinks he
no come to poo' Lucia's party-garden?”
“Oh, did she?” asked Georgie relapsing into the vernacular.
“Yes, oh, and by the way there's a parcel come which I think must be
the Mozart trio. Will you come over tomorrow morning and read it with
me? Yes? About half-past eleven, then. But never mind that.”
She fixed him with her ready, birdy eye.
“Daisy asked me to ask him,” she said, “and so to oblige poor Daisy
I did. And now she says she doesn't know if he'll come. What does that
mean? Is it possible that she wants to keep him to herself? She has
done that sort of thing before, you know.”
This probably represented Lucia's statement of the said case about
the Welsh attorney, and Georgie taking it as such felt rather
embarrassed. Also that bird-like eye seemed to gimlet its way into his
very soul, and divine the secret disloyalty that he had been
contemplating. If she had continued to look into him, he might not only
have confessed to the gloomiest suspicions about Mrs Quantock, but have
let go of his secret about Olga Bracely also, and suggested the
possibility of her and her husband being brought to the garden-party.
But the eye at this moment unscrewed itself from him again and
travelled up the road.
“There's the Guru,” she said. “Now we will see!”
Georgie, faint with emotion, peered out between the form of the
peacock and the pine-apple on the yew-hedge, and saw what followed.
Lucia went straight up to the Guru, bowed and smiled and clearly
introduced herself. In another moment he was showing his white teeth
and salaaming, and together they walked back to The Hurst, where
Georgie palpitated behind the yew-hedge. Together they entered and
Lucia's eye wore its most benignant aspect.
“I want to introduce to you, Guru,” she said without a stumble, “a
great friend of mine. This is Mr Pillson, Guru; Guru, Mr Pillson. The
Guru is coming to tiffin with me, Georgie. Cannot I persuade you to
“Delighted!” said Georgie. “We met before in a sort of way, didn't
“Yes, indeed. So pleased,” said the Guru.
“Let us go in,” said Lucia, “It is close on lunch-time.”
Georgie followed, after a great many bowings and politenesses from
the Guru. He was not sure if he had the makings of a Bolshevist. Lucia
was so marvellously efficient.
One of Lucia's greatnesses lay in the fact that when she found
anybody out in some act of atrocious meanness, she never indulged in
any idle threats of revenge: it was sufficient that she knew, and would
take suitable steps on the earliest occasion. Consequently when it
appeared, from the artless conversation of the Guru at lunch that the
perfidious Mrs Quantock had not even asked him whether he would like to
go to Lucia's garden party or not (pending her own decision as to what
she was meaning to do with him) Lucia received the information with the
utmost good-humour, merely saying, “No doubt dear Mrs Quantock forgot
to tell you,” and did not announce acts of reprisal, such as striking
Daisy off the list of her habitual guests for a week or two, just to
give her a lesson. She even, before they sat down to lunch, telephoned
over to that thwarted woman to say that she had met the Guru in the
street, and they had both felt that there was some wonderful bond of
sympathy between them, so he had come back with her, and they were just
sitting down to tiffin. She was pleased with the word “tiffin,” and
also liked explaining to Daisy what it meant.
Tiffin was a great success, and there was no need for the Guru to
visit the kitchen in order to make something that could be eaten
without struggle. He talked quite freely about his mission here, and
Lucia and Georgie and Peppino who had come in rather late, for he had
been obliged to go back to the market-gardener's about the bulbs,
“Yes, it was when I went to my friend who keeps the book-shop,” he
said, “that I knew there was English lady who wanted Guru, and I knew I
was called to her. No luggage, no anything at all: as I am. Such a kind
lady, too, and she will get on well, but she will find some of the
postures difficult, for she is what you call globe, round.”
“Was that postures when I saw her standing on one leg in the
garden?” asked Georgie, “and when she sat down and tried to hold her
“Yes, indeed, quite so, and difficult for globe. But she has white
He looked round with a smile.
“I see many white souls here,” he said. “It is happy place, when
there are white souls, for to them I am sent.”
This was sufficient: in another minute Lucia, Georgie and Peppino
were all accepted as pupils, and presently they went out into the
garden, where the Guru sat on the ground in a most complicated attitude
which was obviously quite out of reach of Mrs Quantock.
“One foot on one thigh, other foot on other thigh,” he explained.
“And the head and back straight: it is good to meditate so.”
Lucia tried to imagine meditating so, but felt that any meditation
so would certainly be on the subject of broken bones.
“Shall I be able to do that?” she asked. “And what will be the
“You will be light and active, dear lady, and ah—here is other dear
lady come to join us.”
Mrs Quantock had certainly made one of her diplomatic errors on this
occasion. She had acquiesced on the telephone in her Guru going to
tiffin with Lucia, but about the middle of her lunch, she had been
unable to resist the desire to know what was happening at The Hurst.
She could not bear the thought that Lucia and her Guru were together
now, and her own note, saying that it was uncertain whether the Guru
would come to the garden party or not filled her with the most uneasy
apprehensions. She would sooner have acquiesced in her Guru going to
fifty garden-parties, where all was public, and she could keep an eye
and a control on him, rather than that Lucia should have “enticed him
in,”—that was her phrase—like this to tiffin. The only consolation
was that her own lunch had been practically inedible, and Robert had
languished lamentably for the Guru to return, and save his stomach. She
had left him glowering over a little mud and water called coffee.
Robert, at any rate, would welcome the return of the Guru.
She waddled across the lawn to where this harmonious party was
sitting, and at that moment Lucia began to feel vindictive. The calm of
victory which had permeated her when she brought the Guru in to lunch,
without any bother at all, was troubled and broken up, and darling
Daisy's note, containing the outrageous falsity that the Guru would not
certainly accept an invitation which had never been permitted to reach
him at all, assumed a more sinister aspect. Clearly now Daisy had
intended to keep him to herself, a fact that she already suspected and
had made a hostile invasion.
“Guru, dear, you naughty thing,” said Mrs Quantock playfully, after
the usual salutations had passed, “why did you not tell your Chela you
would not be home for tiffin?”
The Guru had unwound his legs, and stood up.
“But see, beloved lady,” he said, “how pleasant we all are! Take not
too much thought, when it is only white souls who are together.”
Mrs Quantock patted his shoulder.
“It is all good and kind Om,” she said. “I send out my message of
It was necessary to descend from these high altitudes, and Lucia
proceeded to do so, as in a parachute that dropped swiftly at first,
and then floated in still air.
“And we're making such a lovely plan, dear Daisy,” she said. “The
Guru is going to teach us all. Classes! Aren't you?”
He held his hands up to his head, palms outwards, and closed his
“I seem to feel call,” he said. “I am sent. Surely the Guides tell
me there is a sending of me. What you call classes? Yes? I teach: you
learn. We all learn.... I leave all to you. I will walk a little way
off to arbour, and meditate, and then when you have arranged, you will
tell Guru, who is your servant. Salaam! Om!”
With the Guru in her own house, and with every intention to annex
him, it was no wonder that Lucia took the part of chairman in this
meeting that was to settle the details of the esoteric brotherhood that
was to be formed in Riseholme. Had not Mrs Quantock been actually
present, Lucia in revenge for her outrageous conduct about the
garden-party invitation would probably have left her out of the classes
altogether, but with her sitting firm and square in a basket chair,
that creaked querulously as she moved, she could not be completely
ignored. But Lucia took the lead throughout, and suggested straightaway
that the smoking-parlour would be the most convenient place to hold the
“I should not think of invading your house, dear Daisy,” she said,
“and here is the smoking-parlour which no one ever sits in, so quiet
and peaceful. Yes. Shall we consider that settled, then?”
She turned briskly to Mrs Quantock.
“And now where shall the Guru stay?” she said. “It would be too bad,
dear Daisy, if we are all to profit by his classes, that you should
have all the trouble and expense of entertaining him, for in your sweet
little house he must be a great inconvenience, and I think you said
that your husband had given up his dressing room to him.”
Mrs Quantock made a desperate effort to retain her property.
“No inconvenience at all,” she said, “quite the contrary in fact,
dear. It is delightful having him, and Robert regards him as a most
Lucia pressed her hand feelingly.
“You and your husband are too unselfish,” she said. “Often have I
said, 'Daisy and Mr Robert are the most unselfish people I know.'
Haven't I, Georgie? But we can't permit you to be so crowded. Your only
spare room, you know, and your husband's dressing room! Georgie,
I know you agree with me; we must not permit dear Daisy to be so
The bird-like eye produced its compelling effect on Georgie. So
short a time ago he had indulged in revolutionary ideas, and had
contemplated having the Guru and Olga Bracely to dinner, without even
asking Lucia: now the faint stirrings of revolt faded like snow in
summer. He knew quite well what Lucia's next proposition would be: he
knew, too, that he would agree to it.
“No, that would never do,” he said. “It is simply trespassing on Mrs
Quantock's good-nature, if she is to board and lodge him, while he
teaches all of us. I wish I could take him in, but with Hermy and Ursy
coming tonight, I have as little room as Mrs Quantock.”
“He shall come here,” said Lucia brightly, as if she had just that
moment thought of it. “There are Hamlet and Othello vacant”—all her
rooms were named after Shakespearian plays—“and it will not be the
least inconvenient. Will it, Peppino? I shall really like having him
here. Shall we consider that settled, then?”
Daisy made a perfectly futile effort to send forth a message of love
to all quarters of the compass. Bitterly she repented of having ever
mentioned her Guru to Lucia: it had never occurred to her that she
would annex him like this. While she was cudgelling her brains as to
how she could arrest this powerful offensive, Lucia went sublimely on.
“Then there's the question of what we shall pay him,” she said.
“Dear Daisy tells us that he scarcely knows what money is, but I for
one could never dream of profiting by his wisdom, if I was to pay
nothing for it. The labourer is worthy of his hire, and so I suppose
the teacher is. What if we pay him five shillings each a lesson: that
will make a pound a lesson. Dear me! I shall be busy this August. Now
how many classes shall we ask him to give us? I should say six to begin
with, if everybody agrees. One every day for the next week except
Sunday. That is what you all wish? Yes? Then shall we consider that
Mrs Quantock, still impotently rebelling, resorted to the most dire
weapon in her armoury, namely, sarcasm.
“Perhaps, darling Lucia,” she said, “it would be well to ask my Guru
if he has anything to say to your settlings. England is a free country
still, even if you happen to have come from India.”
Lucia had a deadlier weapon than sarcasm, which was the apparent
unconsciousness of there having been any. For it is no use plunging a
dagger into your enemy's heart, if it produces no effect whatever on
him. She clapped her hands together, and gave her peal of silvery
“What a good idea!” she said. “Then you would like me to go and tell
him what we propose? Just as you like. I will trot away, shall I, and
see if he agrees. Don't think of stirring, dear Daisy, I know how you
feel the heat. Sit quiet in the shade. As you know, I am a real
salamander, the sun is never troppo caldo for me.”
She tripped off to where the Guru was sitting in that wonderful
position. She had read the article in the encyclopaedia about Yoga
right through again this morning, and had quite made up her mind, as
indeed her proceedings had just shown, that Yoga was, to put it
irreverently, to be her August stunt. He was still so deep in
meditation that he could only look dreamily in her direction as she
approached, but then with a long sigh he got up.
“This is beautiful place,” he said. “It is full of sweet influences
and I have had high talk with Guides.”
Lucia felt thrilled.
“Ah, do tell me what they said to you,” she exclaimed.
“They told me to follow where I was led: they said they would settle
everything for me in wisdom and love.”
This was most encouraging, for decidedly Lucia had been settling for
him, and the opinion of the Guides was thus a direct personal
testimonial. Any faint twitchings of conscience (they were of the very
faintest) that she had grabbed dear Daisy's property were once and for
ever quieted, and she proceeded confidently to unfold the settlements
of wisdom and love, which met with the Guru's entire approval. He shut
his eyes a moment and breathed deeply.
“They give peace and blessing,” he said. “It is they who ordered
that it should be so. Om!”
He seemed to sink into profound depths of meditation, and Lucia
hurried back to the group she had left.
“It is all too wonderful,” she said. “The Guides have told him that
they were settling everything for him in wisdom and love, so we may be
sure we were right in our plans. How lovely to think that we have been
guided by them! Dear Daisy, how wonderful he is! I will send across for
his things, shall I, and I will have Hamlet and Othello made ready for
Bitter though it was to part with her Guru, it was impious to rebel
against the ordinances of the Guides, but there was a trace of human
resentment in Daisy's answer.
“Things!” she exclaimed. “He hasn't got a thing in the world. Every
material possession chains us down to earth. You will soon come to
that, darling Lucia.”
It occurred to Georgie that the Guru had certainly got a bottle of
brandy, but there was no use in introducing a topic that might lead to
discord, and indeed, even as Lucia went indoors to see about Hamlet and
Othello, the Guru himself having emerged from meditation, joined them
and sat down by Mrs Quantock.
“Beloved lady,” he said, “all is peace and happiness. The Guides
have spoken to me so lovingly of you, and they say it is best your Guru
should come here. Perhaps I shall return later to your kind house. They
smiled when I asked that. But just now they send me here: there is more
need of me here, for already you have so much light.”
Certainly the Guides were very tactful people, for nothing could
have soothed Mrs Quantock so effectually as a message of that kind,
which she would certainly report to Lucia when she returned from seeing
about Hamlet and Othello.
“Oh, do they say I have much light already, Guru, dear?” she asked.
“That is nice of them.”
“Surely they said it, and now I shall go back to your house, and
leave sweet thoughts there for you. And shall I send sweet thoughts to
the home of the kind gentleman next door?”
Georgie eagerly welcomed this proposition, for with Hermy and Ursy
coming that evening, he felt that he would have plenty of use for sweet
thoughts. He even forebore to complete in his own mind the conjecture
that was forming itself there, namely, that though the Guru would be
leaving sweet thoughts for Mrs Quantock, he would probably be taking
away the brandy bottle for himself. But Georgie knew he was only too
apt to indulge In secret cynicisms and perhaps there was no brandy to
take away by this time ... and lo and behold, he was being cynical
The sun was still hot when, half an hour afterwards, he got into the
open cab which he had ordered to take him to the station to meet Hermy
and Ursy, and he put up his umbrella with its white linen cover, to
shield him from it. He did not take the motor, because either Hermy or
Ursy would have insisted on driving it, and he did not choose to put
himself in their charge. In all the years that he had lived at
Riseholme, he never remembered a time when social events—“work,” he
called it—had been so exciting and varied. There were Hermy and Ursy
coming this evening, and Olga Bracely and her husband (Olga Bracely and
Mr Shuttleworth sounded vaguely improper: Georgie rather liked that)
were coming tomorrow, and there was Lucia's garden-party the day after,
and every day there was to be a lesson from the Guru, so that God alone
knew when Georgie would have a moment to himself for his embroidery or
to practise the Mozart trio. But with his hair chestnut-coloured to the
very roots, and his shining nails, and his comfortable boots, he felt
extremely young and fit for anything. Soon, under the influence of the
new creed with its postures and breathings, he would feel younger and
more vigorous yet.
But he wished that it had been he who had found this pamphlet on
Eastern philosophies, which had led Mrs Quantock to make the inquiries
that had resulted in the epiphany of the Guru. Of course when once
Lucia had heard about it, she was certain to constitute herself head
and leader of the movement, and it was really remarkable how completely
she had done that. In that meeting in the garden just now she had just
sailed through Mrs Quantock as calmly as a steamer cuts through the
waters of the sea, throwing her off from her penetrating bows like a
spent wave. But baffled though she was for the moment, Georgie had been
aware that Mrs Quantock seethed with revolutionary ideas: she deeply
resented this confiscation of what was certainly her property, though
she was impotent to stop it, and Georgie knew just what she felt. It
was all very well to say that Lucia's schemes were entirely in accord
with the purposes of the Guides. That might be so, but Mrs Quantock
would not cease to think that she had been robbed....
Yet nothing mattered if all the class found themselves getting young
and active and loving and excellent under this tuition. It was that
notion which had taken such entire command of them all, and for his
part Georgie did not really care who owned the Guru, so to speak, if
only he got the benefit of his teachings. For social purposes Lucia had
annexed him, and doubtless with him in the house she could get little
instructions and hints that would not count as a lesson, but after all,
Georgie had still got Olga Bracely to himself, for he had not breathed
a word of her advent to Lucia. He felt rather like one who, when
revolutionary ideas are in the air, had concealed a revolver in his
pocket. He did not formulate to himself precisely what he was going to
do with it, but it gave him a sense of power to know it was there.
The train came in, but he looked in vain for his sisters. They had
distinctly said they were arriving by it, but in a couple of minutes it
was perfectly clear that they had done nothing of the kind, for the
only person who got out was Mrs Weston's cook, who as all the world
knew went into Brinton every Wednesday to buy fish. At the rear of the
train, however, was an immense quantity of luggage being taken out,
which could not all be Mrs Weston's fish, and indeed, even at that
distance there was something familiar to Georgie about a very large
green hold-all which was dumped there. Perhaps Hermy and Ursy had
travelled in the van, because “it was such a lark,” or for some other
tomboy reason, and he went down the platform to investigate. There were
bags of golf clubs, and a dog, and portmanteaux, and even as the
conviction dawned on him that he had seen some of these objects before,
the guard, to whom Georgie always gave half-a-crown when he travelled
by this train, presented him with a note scrawled in pencil. It ran—
“It was such a lovely day that when we got to Paddington Ursy and
decided to bicycle down instead, so for a lark we sent our things
and we may arrive tonight, but probably tomorrow. Take care of
Tiptree: and give him plenty of jam. He loves it.
“P.S.—Tipsipoozie doesn't really bite: it's only his fun.”
Georgie crumpled up this odious epistle, and became aware that
Tipsipoozie, a lean Irish terrier, was regarding him with peculiar
disfavour, and shewing all his teeth, probably in fun. In pursuance of
this humorous idea, he then darted towards Georgie, and would have been
extremely funny, if he had not been handicapped by the bag of
golf-clubs to which he was tethered. As it was, he pursued him down the
platform, towing the clubs after him, till he got entangled in them and
Georgie hated dogs at any time, though he had never hated one so
much as Tipsipoozie, and the problems of life became more complicated
than ever. Certainly he was not going to drive back with Tipsipoozie in
his cab, and it became necessary to hire another for that abominable
hound and the rest of the luggage. And what on earth was to happen when
he arrived home, if Tipsipoozie did not drop his fun and become
serious? Foljambe, it is true, liked dogs, so perhaps dogs liked her
... “But it is most tarsome of Hermy!” thought Georgie bitterly. “I
wonder what the Guru would do.” There ensued a very trying ten minutes,
in which the station-master, the porters, Georgie and Mrs Weston's maid
all called Tipsipoozie a good dog as he lay on the ground snapping
promiscuously at those who praised him. Eventually a valiant porter
picked up the bag of clubs, and by holding them out in front of him at
the extreme length of his arms, in the manner of a fishing rod, with
Tipsipoozie on a short chain at the other end of the bag, like a savage
fish, cursing and swearing, managed to propel him into the cab, and
there was another half-crown gone. Georgie thereupon got into his cab
and sped homewards in order to arrive there first, and consult with
Foljambe. Foljambe usually thought of something.
Foljambe came out at the noise of the arriving wheels and Georgie
explained the absence of his sisters and the advent of an atrocious
“He's very fierce,” he said, “but he likes jam.”
Foljambe gave that supreme smile which sometimes Georgie resented.
Now he hailed it, as if it was “an angel-face's smile.”
“I'll see to him, sir,” she said. “I've brought up your tea.”
“But you'll take care, Foljambe won't you?” he asked.
“I expect he'd better take care,” returned the intrepid woman.
Georgie, as he often said, trusted Foljambe completely, which must
explain why he went into his drawing-room, shut the door, and looked
out of the window when the second cab arrived. She opened the door, put
her arms inside, and next moment emerged again with Tipsipoozie on the
end of the chain, making extravagant exhibitions of delight. Then to
Georgie's horror, the drawing-room door opened, and in came Tipsipoozie
without any chain at all. Rapidly sending a message of love in all
directions like a S. O. S. call, Georgie put a small chair in front of
him, to shield his legs. Tipsipoozie evidently thought it was a game,
and hid behind the sofa to rush out again from ambush.
“Just got snappy being tied to those golf-clubs,” remarked Foljambe.
But Georgie, as he put some jam into his saucer, could not help
wondering whether the message of love had not done it.
He dined alone, for Hermy and Ursy did not appear, and had a great
polishing of his knick-knacks afterwards, while waiting for them. No
one ever felt anxious at the non-arrival of those sisters, for they
always turned up from their otter-hunting or their golf sooner or
later, chiefly later, in the highest spirits at the larks they had had,
with amazingly dirty hands and prodigious appetite. But when twelve
o'clock struck, he decided to give up all idea of their appearance that
night, and having given Tipsipoozie some more jam and a comfortable bed
in the woodshed, he went upstairs to his room. Though he knew it was
still possible that he might be roused by wild “Cooees!” and showers of
gravel at his window, and have to come down and minister to their gross
appetites, the prospect seemed improbable and he soon went to sleep.
Georgie awoke with a start some hours later, wondering what had
disturbed him. There was no gravel rattling on his window, no violent
ringing of bicycle bells, nor loud genial shouts outraging the decorous
calm of Riseholme, but certainly he had heard something. Next moment,
the repeated noise sent his heart leaping into his throat, for quite
distinctly he heard a muffled sound in the room below, which he
instantly diagnosed with fatal certainty as burglars. The first emotion
that mingled itself with the sheer terror, was a passionate regret that
Hermy and Ursy had not come. They would have thought it tremendous
larks, and would have invented some wonderful offensive with fire-irons
and golf-clubs and dumb-bells. Even Tipsipoozie, the lately-abhorred,
would have been a succour in this crisis, and why, oh why, had not
Georgie had him to sleep in his bedroom instead of making him cosy in
the woodshed? He would have let Tipsipoozie sleep on his lovely blue
quilt for the remainder of his days, if only Tipsipoozie could have
been with him now, ready to have fun with the burglar below. As it was,
the servants were in the attics at the top of the house, Dicky slept
out, and Georgie was all alone, with the prospect of having to defend
his property at risk of his life. Even at this moment, as he sat up in
bed, blanched with terror, these miscreants might be putting his
treasure into their pockets. The thought of the Faberge cigarette case,
and the Louis XVI snuff box, and the Queen Anne toy-porringer which he
had inherited all these years, made even life seem cheap, for life
would be intolerable without them, and he sprang out of bed, groped for
his slippers, since until he had made a plan it was wiser not to shew a
light, and shuffled noiselessly towards the door.
The door-handle felt icy to fingers already frozen with fright, but
he stood firmly grasping it, ready to turn it noiselessly when he had
quite made up his mind what to do. The first expedient that suggested
itself with an overpowering sweetness of relief, was that of locking
his door, going back to bed again, and pretending that he had heard
nothing. But apart from the sheer cowardice of that, which he did not
mind so much, as nobody else would ever know his guilt, the thought of
the burglar going off quite unmolested with his property was
intolerable. Even if he could not summon up enough courage to get
downstairs with his life and a poker in his hand, he must at least give
them a good fright. They had frightened him, and so he would frighten
them. They should not have it all their own way, and if he decided not
to attack them (or him) single-handed, he could at least thump on the
floor, and call out “Burglars!” at the top of his voice, or shout
“Charles! Henry! Thomas!” as if summoning a bevy of stalwart footmen.
The objection to this course, however, would be that Foljambe or
somebody else might hear him, and in this case, if he did not then go
downstairs to mortal combat, the knowledge of his cowardice would be
the property of others beside himself.... And all the time he
hesitated, they were probably filling their pockets with his dearest
He tried to send out a message of love, but he was totally unable to
Then the little clock in his mantelpiece struck two, which was a
miserable hour, sundered so far from dawn.
Though he had lived through years of agony since he got out of bed,
the actual passage of time, as he stood frozen to the door-handle, was
but the duration of a few brief seconds, and then making a tremendous
call on his courage he felt his way to his fireplace, and picked up the
poker. The tongs and shovel rattled treacherously, and he hoped that
had not been heard, for the essence of his plan (though he had yet no
idea what that plan was) must be silence till some awful surprise broke
upon them. If only he could summon the police, he could come rushing
downstairs with his poker, as the professional supporters of the law
gained an entrance to his house, but unfortunately the telephone was
downstairs, and he could not reasonably hope to carry on a conversation
with the police station without being overheard by the burglars.
He opened his door with so masterly a movement that there was no
sound either from the hinges nor from the handle as he turned it, and
peered out. The hall below was dark, but a long pencil of light came
from the drawing room, which showed where the reckless brutes must be,
and there, too, alas! was his case of treasures. Then suddenly he heard
the sound of a voice, speaking very low, and another voice answered it.
At that Georgie's heart sank, for this proved that there must be at
least two burglars, and the odds against him were desperate. After that
came a low, cruel laugh, the unmistakable sound of the rattle of knives
and forks, and the explosive uncorking of a bottle. At that his heart
sank even lower yet, for he had read that cool habitual burglars always
had supper before they got to work, and therefore he was about to deal
with a gang of professionals. Also that explosive uncorking clearly
indicated champagne, and he knew that they were feasting on his best.
And how wicked of them to take their unhallowed meal in his
drawing-room, for there was no proper table there, and they would be
making a dreadful mess over everything.
A current of cool night air swept up the stairs, and Georgie saw the
panel of light from the open drawing-room door diminish in width, and
presently the door shut with a soft thud, leaving him in the dark. At
that his desperation seemed pressed and concentrated into a moment of
fictitious courage, for he unerringly reasoned that they had left the
drawing-room window open, and that perhaps in a few moments now they
would have finished their meal and with bulging pockets would step
forth unchallenged into the night. Why had he never had bolts put on
his shutters, like Mrs Weston, who lived in nightly terror of burglars?
But it was too late to think of that now, for it was impossible to ask
them to step out till he had put bolts up, and then when he was ready
He could not let them go gorged with his champagne and laden with
his treasures without reprisals of some sort, and keeping his thoughts
steadily away from revolvers and clubs and sandbags, walked straight
downstairs, threw open the drawing-room door, and with his poker
grasped in his shaking hand, cried out in a faint, thin voice:
“If you move I shall fire.”
There was a moment of dead silence, and a little dazzled with the
light he saw what faced him.
At opposite ends of his Chippendale sofa sat Hermy and Ursy. Hermy
had her mouth open and held a bun in her dirty hands. Ursy had her
mouth shut and her cheeks were bulging. Between them was a ham and a
loaf of bread, and a pot of marmalade and a Stilton cheese, and on the
floor was the bottle of champagne with two brimming bubbling tea cups
full of wine. The cork and the wire and the tin-foil they had, with
some show of decency, thrown into the fireplace.
Hermy put down her bun, and gave a great shout of laughter; Ursy's
mouth was disgustingly full and she exploded. Then they lay back
against the arms of the sofa and howled.
Georgie was very much vexed.
“Upon my word, Hermy!” he said, and then found it was not nearly a
strong enough expression. And in a moment of ungovernable irritation he
“Damn it all!”
Hermy showed signs of recovery first, and as Georgie came back after
shutting the window, could find her voice, while Ursy collected small
fragments of ham and bread which she had partially chewed.
“Lord! What a lark!” she said. “Georgie, it's the most
Ursy pointed to the poker.
“He'll fire if we move,” she cried. “Or poke the fire, was it?”
“Ask another!” screamed Hermy. “Oh, dear, he thought we were
burglars, and came down with a poker, brave boy! It's positively the
limit. Have a drink, Georgie.”
Suddenly her eyes grew round and awestruck, and pointing with her
finger to Georgie's shoulder, she went off into another yell of
“Ursy! His hair!” she said, and buried her face in a soft cushion.
Naturally Georgie had not put his hair in order when he came
downstairs, for nobody thinks about things like that when he is going
to encounter burglars single-handed, and there was his bald pate and
his long tresses hanging down one side.
It was most annoying, but when an irremediable annoyance has
absolutely occurred, the only possible thing for a decent person to do
is to take it as lightly as possible. Georgie rose gallantly to the
occasion, gave a little squeal and ran from the room.
“Down again presently,” he called out, and had a heavy fall on the
stairs, as he went up to his bedroom. There he had a short argument
with himself. It was possible to slam his door, go to bed, and be very
polite in the morning. But that would never do: Hermy and Ursy would
have a joke against him forever. It was really much better to share in
the joke, identifying himself with it. So he brushed his hair in the
orthodox fashion, put on a very smart dressing-gown, and came tripping
“My dears, what fun!” he said. “Let's all have supper. But let's
move into the dining-room, where there's a table, and I'll get another
bottle of wine, and some glasses, and we'll bring Tipsipoozie in. You
naughty girls, fancy arriving at a time like this. I suppose your plan
was to go very quietly to bed, and come down to breakfast in the
morning, and give me a fine surprise. Tell me about it now.”
So presently Tipsipoozie was having his marmalade, which did just as
well as jam, and they were all eating slices off the ham, and stuffing
them into split buns.
“Yes, we thought we might as well do it all in one go,” said Hermy,
“and it's a hundred and twenty miles, if it's a yard. And then it was
so late when we got here, we thought we wouldn't disturb you, specially
as the drawing-room window wasn't bolted.”
“Bicycles outside,” said Ursy, “they'll just have to be out at grass
till morning. Oh, Tipsi-ipsi-poozie-woozy, how is you? Hope he behaved
like the good little Tiptree that he is, Georgie?”
“O yes, we made great friends,” said Georgie sketchily. “He was wee
bit upset at the station, but then he had a good tea with his Uncle
Georgie and played hide and seek.”
Rather rashly, Georgie made a face at Tiptree, the sort of face
which amuses children. But it didn't amuse Tiptree, who made another
face, in which teeth played a prominent part.
“Fool-dog,” said Hermy, carelessly smacking him across the nose.
“Always hit him if he shows his teeth, Georgie. Pass the fizz.”
“Well, so we got through the drawing-room window,” continued Ursy,
“and golly, we were hungry. So we foraged, and there we were! Jolly
plucky of you, Georgie, to come down and beard us.”
“Real sport,” said Hermy. “And how's old Fol-de-rol-de-ray? Why
didn't she come down and fight us, too?”
Georgie guessed that Hermy was making a humourous allusion to
Foljambe, who was the one person in Riseholme whom his two sisters
seemed to hold in respect. Ursy had once set a booby-trap for Georgie,
but the mixed biscuits and Brazil nuts had descended on Foljambe
instead. On that occasion Foljambe, girt about in impenetrable calm,
had behaved as if nothing had happened and trod on biscuits and Brazil
nuts without a smile, unaware to all appearance that there was anything
whatever crunching and exploding beneath her feet. That had somehow
quelled the two, who, as soon as she left the room again, swept up the
mess, and put the uninjured Brazil nuts back into the dessert dish....
It would never do if Foljambe lost her prestige and was alluded to by
some outrageously slangy name.
“If you mean Foljambe,” said Georgie icily, “it was because I didn't
think it worth while to disturb her.”
In spite of their ride, the indefatigable sisters were up early next
morning, and the first thing Georgie saw out of his bathroom window was
the pair of them practising lifting shots over the ducking pond on the
green till breakfast was ready. He had given a short account of last
night's adventure to Foljambe when she called him, omitting the episode
about his hair, and her disapproval was strongly indicated by her
silence then, and the studied contempt of her manner to the sisters
when they came in to breakfast.
“Hullo, Foljambe,” said Hermy. “We had a rare lark last night.”
“So I understand, miss,” said Foljambe.
“Got in through the drawing-room window,” said Hermy, hoping to make
“Indeed, miss,” said Foljambe. “Have you any orders for the car,
“Oh, Georgie, may we run over to the links this morning?” asked
Hermy. “Mayn't Dickie-bird take us there?”
She glanced at Foljambe to see whether this brilliant wit afforded
her any amusement. Apparently it didn't.
“Tell Dicky to be round at half-past ten,” said Georgie.
“Hurrah!” said Ursy. “Come, too, Foljambe, and we'll have a
“No, thank you, miss,” said Foljambe, and sailed from the room,
looking down her nose.
“Golly, what an iceberg!” said Hermy when the door was quite shut.
Georgie was not sorry to have the morning to himself, for he wanted
to have a little quiet practice at the Mozart trio, before he went over
to Lucia's at half-past eleven, the hour when she had arranged to run
through it for the first time. He would also have time to do a few
posturing exercises before the first Yoga-class, which was to take
place in Lucia's smoking-parlour at half-past twelve. That would make a
pretty busy morning, and as for the afternoon, there would be sure to
be some callers, since the arrival of his sisters had been expected,
and after that he had to go to the Ambermere Arms for his visit to Olga
Bracely.... And what was he to do about her with regard to Lucia?
Already he had been guilty of disloyalty, for Lady Ambermere had warned
him of the prima-donna's arrival yesterday, and he had not instantly
communicated that really great piece of news to Lucia. Should he make
such amends as were in his power for that omission, or, greatly daring,
should he keep her to himself, as Mrs Quantock so fervently wished that
she had done with regard to the Guru? After the adventure of last
night, he felt he ought to be able to look any situation in the face,
but he found himself utterly unable to conceive himself manly and erect
before the bird-like eyes of the Queen, if she found out that Olga
Bracely had been at Riseholme for the day of her garden-party, and that
Georgie, knowing it and having gone to see her, had not informed the
Court of that fact.
The spirit of Bolshevism, the desire to throw off all authority and
act independently, which had assailed him yesterday returned now with
redoubled force. If he had been perfectly certain that he would not be
found out, there is no doubt he would have kept it from her, and yet,
after all, what was the glory of going to see Olga Bracely (and perhaps
even entertaining her here) if all Riseholme did not turn green with
jealousy? Moreover there was every chance of being found out, for Lady
Ambermere would be at the garden party tomorrow, and she would be sure
to wonder why Lucia had not asked Olga. Then it would come out that
Lucia didn't know of that eminent presence, and Lady Ambermere would be
astonished that Georgie had not told her. Thus he would be in the
situation which his imagination was unable to face, although he had
thrown the drawing room door open in the middle of the night, and
announced that he would fire with his poker.
No; he would have to tell Lucia, when he went to read the Mozart
trio with her for the first time, and very likely she would call on
Olga Bracely herself, though nobody had asked her to, and take all the
wind out of Georgie's sails. Sickening though that would be, he could
not face the alternative, and he opened his copy of the Mozart trio
with a sigh. Lucia did push and shove, and have everything her
own way. Anyhow he would not tell her that Olga and her husband
were dining at The Hall tonight; he would not even tell her that her
husband's name was Shuttleworth, and Lucia might make a dreadful
mistake, and ask Mr and Mrs Bracely. That would be jam for Georgie, and
he could easily imagine himself saying to Lucia, “My dear, I thought
you must have known that she had married Mr Shuttleworth and kept her
maiden name! How tarsome for you! They are so touchy about that sort of
Georgie heard the tinkle of the treble part of the Mozart trio
(Lucia always took the treble, because it had more tune in it, though
she pretended that she had not Georgie's fine touch, which made the
bass effective) as he let himself in to Shakespeare's garden a few
minutes before the appointed time. Lucia must have seen him from the
window, for the subdued noise of the piano ceased even before he had
got as far as Perdita's garden round the sundial, and she opened the
door to him. The far-away look was in her eyes, and the black
undulations of hair had encroached a little on her forehead, but, after
all, others besides Lucia had trouble with their hair, and Georgie only
“Georgino mio!” she said. “It is all being so wonderful. There seems
a new atmosphere about the house since my Guru came. Something holy and
peaceful; do you not notice it?”
“Delicious!” said Georgie, inhaling the pot-pourri. “What is he
“Meditating, and preparing for our class. I do hope dear Daisy will
not bring in discordant elements.”
“Oh, but that's not likely, is it?” said Georgie. “I thought he said
she had so much light.”
“Yes, he did. But now he is a little troubled about her, I think.
She did not want him to go away from her house, and she sent over here
for some silk pyjamas belonging to her husband, which he thought she
had given him. But Robert didn't think so at all. The Guru brought them
across yesterday after he had left good thoughts for her in her house.
But it was the Guides who wished him to come here; they told him so
distinctly. It would have been very wrong of me not to do as they
She gave a great sigh.
“Let us have an hour with Mozart,” she said “and repel all thought
of discord. My Guru says that music and flowers are good influences for
those who are walkers on the Way. He says that my love for both of them
which I have had all my life will help me very much.”
For one moment the mundane world obtruded itself into the calm
“Any news in particular?” she asked. “I saw you drive back from the
station yesterday afternoon, for I happened to be looking out of the
window, in a little moment of leisure—the Guru says I work too hard,
by the way—and your sisters were not with you. And yet there were two
cabs, and a quantity of luggage. Did they not come?”
Georgie gave a respectably accurate account of all that had
happened, omitting the fact of his terror when first he awoke, for that
was not really a happening, and had had no effect on his subsequent
proceedings. He also omitted the adventure about his hair, for that was
quite extraneous, and said what fun they had all had over their supper
at half past two this morning.”
“I think you were marvellously brave, Georgie,” said she, “and most
good natured. You must have been sending out love, and so were full of
it yourself, and that casts out fear.”
She spread the music open.
“Anything else?” she asked.
Georgie took his seat and put his rings on the candle-bracket.
“Oh yes,” he said, “Olga Bracely, the prima-donna, you know, and her
husband are arriving at the Ambermere Arms this afternoon for a couple
The old fire kindled.
“No!” exclaimed Lucia. “Then they'll be here for my party tomorrow.
Fancy if she would come and sing for us! I shall certainly leave cards
today, and write later in the evening, asking her.”
“I have been asked to go and see her,” said Georgie, not proudly.
The music rest fell down with a loud slap, but Lucia paid no
“Let us go together then,” she said. “Who asked you to call on her?”
“Lady Ambermere,” said he.
“When she was in here yesterday? She never mentioned it to me. But
she would certainly think it very odd of me not to call on friends of
hers, and be polite to them. What time shall we go?”
Georgie made up his mind that wild horses should not drag from him
the fact that Olga's husband's name was Shuttleworth, for here was
Lucia grabbing at his discovery, just as she had grabbed at Daisy's
discovery who was now “her Guru.” She should call him Mr Bracely then.
“Somewhere about six, do you think?” said he, inwardly raging.
He looked up and distinctly saw that sharp foxy expression cross
Lucia's face, which from long knowledge of her he knew to betoken that
she had thought of some new plan. But she did not choose to reveal it
and re-erected the music-rest.
“That will do beautifully,” she said. “And now for our heavenly
Mozart. You must be patient with me, Georgie, for you know how badly I
read. Caro! How difficult it looks. I am frightened! Lucia never
saw such a dwefful thing to read!”
And it had been those very bars, which Georgie had heard through the
open window just now.
“Georgie's is much more dwefful!” he said, remembering the double
sharp that came in the second bar. “Georgie fwightened too at reading
it. O-o-h,” and he gave a little scream. “Cattivo Mozart to wite
anything so dwefful diffy!”
It was quite clear at the class this morning that though the pupils
were quite interested in the abstract messages of love which they were
to shoot out in all directions, and in the atmosphere of peace with
which they were to surround themselves, the branch of the subject which
thrilled them to the marrow was the breathing exercises and contortions
which, if persevered in, would give them youth and activity, faultless
digestions and indefatigable energy. They all sat on the floor, and
stopped up alternate nostrils, and held their breath till Mrs Quantock
got purple in the face, and Georgie and Lucia red, and expelled their
breath again with sudden puffs that set the rushes on the floor
quivering, or with long quiet exhalations. Then there were certain
postures to be learned, in one of which, entailing the bending of the
body backwards, two of Georgie's trouser-buttons came off with a sharp
snap and he felt the corresponding member of his braces, thus violently
released, spring up to his shoulder. Various other embarrassing noises
issued from Lucia and Daisy that sounded like the bursting of strings
and tapes, but everybody pretended to hear nothing at all, or covered
up the report of those explosions with coughings and clearings of the
throat. But apart from these discordances, everything was fairly
harmonious indeed, so far from Daisy introducing discords, she wore a
fixed smile, which it would have been purely cynical to call superior,
when Lucia asked some amazingly simple question with regard to Om. She
sighed too, at intervals, but these sighs were expressive of nothing
but patience and resignation, till Lucia's ignorance of the most
elementary doctrines was enlightened, and though she rather pointedly
looked in any direction but hers, and appeared completely unaware of
her presence, she had not, after all, come here to look at Lucia, but
to listen to her own (whatever Lucia might say) Guru.
At the end Lucia, with her far-away look, emerged, you might say, in
a dazed condition from hearing about the fastness of Thibet, where the
Guru had been in commune with the Guides, whose wisdom he interpreted
“I feel such a difference already,” she said dreamily. “I feel as if
I could never be hasty or worried any more at all. Don't you experience
that, dear Daisy?”
“Yes, dear,” said she. “I went through all that at my first lesson.
Didn't I, Guru dear?”
“I felt it too,” said Georgie, unwilling not to share in these
benefits, and surreptitiously tightening his trouser-strap to
compensate for the loss of buttons. “And am I to do that swaying
exercise before every meal?”
“Yes, Georgie,” said Lucia, saving her Guru from the trouble of
answering. “Five times to the right and five times to the left and then
five times backwards and forwards. I felt so young and light just now
when we did it that I thought I was rising into the air. Didn't you,
Daisy smiled kindly.
“No, dear, that is levitation,” she said, “and comes a very long way
She turned briskly towards her Guru.
“Will you tell them about that time when you levitated at Paddington
Station?” she said. “Or will you keep that for when Mrs Lucas gets
rather further on? You must be patient, dear Lucia; we all have to go
through the early stages, before we get to that.”
Mrs Quantock spoke as if she was in the habit of levitating herself,
and it was but reasonable, in spite of the love that was swirling about
them all, that Lucia should protest against such an attitude. Humility,
after all, was the first essential to progress on the Way.
“Yes, dear,” she said. “We will tread these early stages together,
and encourage each other.”
Georgie went home, feeling also unusually light and hungry, for he
had paid special attention to the exercise that enabled him to have his
liver and digestive organs in complete control, but that did not
prevent him from devoting his mind to arriving at that which had made
Lucia look so sharp and foxy during their conversation about Olga
Bracely. He felt sure that she was meaning to steal a march on him, and
she was planning to draw first blood with the prima-donna, and, as
likely as not, claim her for her own, with the same odious greed as she
was already exhibiting with regard to the Guru. All these years Georgie
had been her faithful servant and coadjutor; now for the first time the
spirit of independence had begun to seethe within him. The scales were
falling from his eyes, and just as he turned into shelter of his
mulberry-tree, he put on his spectacles to see how Riseholme was
getting on without him to assist at the morning parliament. His absence
and Mrs Quantock's would be sure to evoke comment, and since the Yoga
classes were always to take place at half-past twelve, the fact that
they would never be there, would soon rise to the level of a
first-class mystery. It would, of course, begin to leak out that they
and Lucia were having a course of Eastern philosophy that made its
pupils young and light and energetic, and there was a sensation!
Like all great discoveries, the solution of Lucia's foxy look broke
on him with the suddenness of a lightning-flash, and since it had been
settled that she should call for him at six, he stationed himself in
the window of his bath room, which commanded a perfect view of the
village green and the entrance to the Ambermere Arms at five. He had
brought up with him a pair of opera-glasses, with the intention of
taking them to bits, so he had informed Foljambe, and washing their
lenses, but he did not at once proceed about this, merely holding them
ready to hand for use. Hermy and Ursy had gone back to their golf again
after lunch, and so callers would be told that they were all out. Thus
he could wash the lenses, when he chose to do so, uninterrupted.
The minutes passed on pleasantly enough, for there was plenty going
on. The two Miss Antrobuses frisked about the green, jumping over the
stocks in their playful way, and running round the duck-pond in the
eternal hope of attracting Colonel Boucher's attention to their pretty
nimble movements. For many years past, they had tried to gain Georgie's
serious attention, without any result, and lately they had turned to
Colonel Boucher. There was Mrs Antrobus there, too, with her ham-like
face and her ear-trumpet, and Mrs Weston was being pushed round and
round the asphalt path below the elms in her bath-chair. She hated
going slow, and her gardener and his boy took turns with her during her
hour's carriage exercise, and propelled her, amid streams of
perspiration, at a steady four miles an hour. As she passed Mrs
Antrobus she shouted something at her, and Mrs Antrobus returned her
reply, when next she came round.
Suddenly all these interesting objects vanished completely from
Georgie's ken, for his dark suspicions were confirmed, and there was
Lucia in her “Hightum” hat and her “Hightum” gown making her gracious
way across the green. She had distinctly been wearing one of the
“Scrub” this morning at the class, so she must have changed after
lunch, which was an unheard of thing to do for a mere stroll on the
green. Georgie knew well that this was no mere stroll; she was on her
way to pay a call of the most formal and magnificent kind. She did not
deviate a hair-breadth from her straight course to the door of the
Arms, she just waggled her hand to Mrs Antrobus, blew a kiss to her
sprightly daughters, made a gracious bow to Colonel Boucher, who stood
up and took his hat off, and went on with the inexorability of the
march of destiny, or of fate knocking at the door in the immortal fifth
symphony. And in her hand she carried a note. Through his glasses
Georgie could see it quite plainly, and it was not a little folded-up
sheet, such as she commonly used, but a square thick envelope. She
disappeared in the Arms and Georgie began thinking feverishly. A great
deal depended on how long she stopped there.
A few little happenings beguiled the period of waiting. Mrs Weston
desisted from her wild career, and came to anchor on the path just
opposite the door into the Arms, while the gardener's boy sank
exhausted on to the grass. It was quite easy to guess that she proposed
to have a chat with Lucia when she came out. Similarly the Miss
Antrobuses who had paid no attention to her at all before, ceased from
their pretty gambolings, and ran up to talk to her, so they wanted a
word too. Colonel Boucher, a little less obviously, began throwing
sticks into the ducking-pond for his bull-dog (for Lucia would be
obliged to pass the ducking-pond) and Mrs Antrobus examined the stocks
very carefully, as if she had never seen them before.
And then, before a couple of minutes had elapsed Lucia came out. She
had no longer the note in her hand, and Georgie began taking his
opera-glasses to bits, in order to wash the lenses. For the present
they had served their purpose. “She has left a note on Olga Bracely,”
said Georgie quite aloud, so powerful was the current of his thoughts.
Then as a corollary came the further proposition which might be
considered as proved, “But she had not seen her.”
The justice of this conclusion was soon proved, for Lucia had hardly
disengaged herself from the group of her subjects, and traversed the
green on her way back to her house, when a motor passed Georgie's
bathroom window, closely followed by a second; both drew up at the
entrance to the Ambermere Arms. With the speed of a practised optician
Georgie put his opera glass together again, and after looking through
the wrong end of it in his agitation was in time to see a man get out
of the second car, and hold the carriage-door open for the occupants of
the first. A lady got out first, tall and slight in figure, who stood
there unwinding her motor veil, then she turned round again, and with a
thump of his heart that surprised Georgie with its violence, he beheld
the well-remembered features of his Brunnhilde.
Swiftly he passed into his bedroom next door, and arrayed himself in
his summer Hightums; a fresh (almost pearly) suit of white duck, a
mauve tie with an amethyst pin in it, socks, tightly braced up, of
precisely the same colour as the tie, so that an imaginative beholder
might have conjectured that on this warm day the end of his tie had
melted and run down his legs; buckskin shoes with tall slim heels and a
straw hat completed this pretty Hightum. He had meant to wear it for
the first time at Lucia's party tomorrow, but now, after her meanness,
she deserved to be punished. All Riseholme should see it before she
The group round Mrs Weston's chair was still engaged in conversation
when Georgie came up, and he casually let slip what a bore it was to
pay calls on such a lovely day, but he had promised to visit Miss Olga
Bracely, who had just arrived. So there was another nasty one for
Lucia, since now all Riseholme would know of her actual arrival before
“And who, Mr Georgie,” asked Mrs Antrobus presenting her trumpet to
him in the manner in which an elephant presents its trunk to receive a
bun, “who was that with her?”
“Oh, her husband, Mr Shuttleworth,” said Georgie. “They have just
been married, and are on their honeymoon.” And if that was not another
staggerer for Lucia, it is diffy, as Georgie would say, to know what a
staggerer is. For Lucia would be last of all to know that this was not
“And will they be at Mrs Lucas's party tomorrow?” asked Mrs Weston.
“Oh, does she know them?” asked Georgie.
“Haw, haw, by Jove!” began Colonel Boucher. “Very handsome woman.
Envy you, my boy. Pity it's their honeymoon. Haw!”
Mrs Antrobus's trumpet was turned in his direction at this moment,
and she heard these daring remarks.
“Naughty!” she said, and Georgie, the envied, passed in into the
He sent in his card, on which he had thought it prudent to write
“From Lady Ambermere,” and was presently led through into the garden
behind the building. There she was, tall and lovely and welcoming, and
held out a most cordial hand.
“How kind of you to come and see us,” she said. “Georgie, this is Mr
Pillson. My husband.”
“How do you do, Mr Shuttleworth,” said Georgie to shew he knew,
though his own Christian name had given him quite a start. For the
moment he had almost thought she was speaking to him.
“And so Lady Ambermere asked you to come and see us?” Olga went on.
“I think that was much kinder of her than to ask us to dinner. I hate
going out to dinner in the country almost as much as I hate not going
out to dinner in town. Besides with that great hook nose of hers, I'm
always afraid that in an absent moment I might scratch her on the head
and say 'Pretty Polly.' Is she a great friend of yours, Mr Pillson? I
hope so, because everyone likes his best friends being laughed at.”
Up till that moment Georgie was prepared to indicate that Lady
Ambermere was the hand and he the glove. But evidently that would not
impress Olga in the least. He laughed in a most irreverent manner
“Don't let us go,” she went on. “Georgie, can't you send a telegram
saying that we have just discovered a subsequent engagement and then
we'll ask Mr Pillson to show us round this utterly adorable place, and
dine with us afterwards. That would be so much nicer. Fancy living
here! Oh, and do tell me something, Mr Pillson. I found a note when I
arrived half an hour ago, from Mrs Lucas asking me and Mr Shuttleworth
to go to a garden-party tomorrow. She said she didn't even hope that I
should remember her, but would we come. Who is she? Really I don't
think she can remember me very well, if she thinks I am Mrs Bracely.
Georgie says I must have been married before, and that I have caused
him to commit bigamy. That's pleasant conversation for a honeymoon,
isn't it? Who is she?”
“Oh, she's quite an old friend of mine,” said Georgie, “though I
never knew she had met you before; I'm devoted to her.”
“Extremely proper. But now tell me this, and look straight in my
face, so that I shall know if you're speaking the truth. Should I enjoy
myself more wandering about this heavenly place than at her garden
Georgie felt that poor Lucia was really punished enough by this
“You will give her a great deal of pleasure if you go,” he began.
“Ah, that's not fair; it is hitting below the belt to appeal to
unselfish motives. I have come here simply to enjoy myself. Go on; eyes
The candour and friendliness of that beautiful face gave Georgie an
impulse of courage. Besides, though no doubt in fun, she had already
suggested that it would be much nicer to wander about with him and dine
together than spend the evening among the splendours of The Hall.
“I've got a suggestion,” he said. “Will you come and lunch with me
first, and we'll stroll about, and then we can go to the garden-party,
and if you don't like it I'll take you away again?”
“Done!” she said. “Now don't you try to get out of it, because my
husband is a witness. Georgie, give me a cigarette.”
In a moment Riseholme-Georgie had his cigarette-case open.
“Do take one of mine,” he said, “I'm Georgie too.”
“You don't say so! Let's send it to the Psychical Research, or
whoever those people are who collect coincidences and say it's spooks.
And a match please, one of you Georgies. Oh, how I should like never to
see the inside of an Opera House again. Why mayn't I grow on the walls
of a garden like this, or better still, why shouldn't I have a house
and garden of my own here, and sing on the village-green, and ask for
halfpennies? Tell me what happens here! I've always lived in town since
the time a hook-nosed Hebrew, rather like Lady Ambermere, took me out
of the gutter.”
“My dear!” said Mr Shuttleworth.
“Well, out of an orphan-school at Brixton and I would much prefer
the gutter. That's all about my early life just now, because I am
keeping it for my memoirs which I shall write when my voice becomes a
little more like a steam-whistle. But don't tell Lady Ambermere, for
she would have a fit, but say you happen to know that I belong to the
Surrey Bracelys. So I do; Brixton is on the Surrey side. Oh, my dear,
look at the sun. It's behaving like the best sort of Claude! Heile
“I heard you do that last May,” said Georgie.
“Then you heard a most second-rate performance,” said she. “But
really being unlaced by that Thing, that great fat profligate beery
Prussian was almost too much for me. And the duet! But it was very
polite of you to come, and I will do better next time. Siegfried!
Brunnhilde! Siegfried! Miaou! Miaou! Bring on the next lot of cats!
Darling Georgie, wasn't it awful? And you had proposed to me only the
“I was absolutely enchanted,” said Riseholme-Georgie.
“Yes, but then you didn't have that Thing breathing beer into your
innocent face.” Georgie rose; the first call on a stranger in Riseholme
was never supposed to last more than half an hour, however much you
were enjoying it, and never less, however bored you might be, and he
felt sure he had already exceeded this.
“I must be off,” he said. “Too delightful to think that you and Mr
Shuttleworth will come to lunch with me tomorrow. Half past one, shall
“Excellent; but where do you live?”
“Just across the green. Shall I call for you?” he asked.
“Certainly not. Why should you have that bother?” she said. “Ah, let
me come with you to the inn-door, and perhaps you will shew me from
She passed through the hall with him, and they stood together in the
sight of all Riseholme, which was strolling about the green at this as
at most other hours. Instantly all faces turned round in their
direction, like so many sunflowers following the sun, while Georgie
pointed out his particular mulberry tree. When everybody had had a good
look, he raised his hat.
“A domani then,” she said. “So many thanks.”
And quite distinctly she kissed her hand to him as he turned
“So she talks Italian too,” thought Georgie, as he dropped little
crumbs of information to his friends on his way to his house.
“Domani, that means tomorrow. Oh yes; she was meaning lunch.”
It is hardly necessary to add that on the table in his hall there
was one of Lucia's commoner kinds of note, merely a half sheet folded
together in her own manner. Georgie felt that it was scarcely more
necessary to read it, for he felt quite sure that it contained some
excuse for not coming to his house at six in order to call on Mr and
Mrs Bracely. But he gave a glance at it before he rolled it up in a
ball for Tipsipoozie to play with, and found its contents to be
precisely what he expected, the excuse being that she had not done her
practising. But the post-script was interesting, for it told him that
she had asked Foljambe to give her his copy of Siegfried....
Georgie strolled down past The Hurst before dinner. Mozart was
silent now, but there came out of the open windows the most amazing
hash of sound, which he could just recognise as being the piano
arrangement of the duet between Brunnhilde and Siegfried at the end. He
would have been dull indeed if he had not instantly guessed what
A fresh thrill went through an atmosphere already super-saturated
with excitement, when next morning all Lucia's friends who had been
bidden to the garden-party (Tightum) were rung up on the telephone and
informed that the party was Hightum. That caused a good deal of extra
work, because the Tightum robes had to be put away again, and the
Hightums aired and brushed and valetted. But it was well worth it, for
Riseholme had not the slightest difficulty in conjecturing that Olga
Bracely was to be among the guests. For a cultured and artistic centre
the presence of a star that blazed so regally in the very zenith of the
firmament of art absolutely demanded the Hightum which the presence of
poor Lady Ambermere (though she would not have liked that) had been
powerless to bring out of their cupboards. And these delightful
anticipations concentrated themselves into one rose-coloured point of
joy, when no less than two independent observers, without collusion,
saw the piano-tuner either entering or leaving The Hurst, while a
third, an ear-witness, unmistakably heard the tuning of the piano
actually going on. It was thus clear to all penetrating minds that Olga
Bracely was going to sing. It was further known that something was
going on between her and Georgie, for she had been heard by one Miss
Antrobus to ask for Georgie's number at the telephone in the Ambermere
Arms. Etiquette forbade her actually to listen to what passed, but she
could not help hearing Olga laugh at something (presumably) that
Georgie said. He himself took no part in the green-parliament that
morning, but had been seen to dash into the fruiterer's and out again,
before he went in a great hurry to The Hurst, shortly after
twelve-thirty. Classes on Eastern philosophy under the tuition of Mrs
Quantock's Indian, were already beginning to be hinted at, but today in
the breathless excitement about the prima-donna nobody cared about
that; they might all have been taking lessons in cannibalism, and
nobody would have been interested. Finally about one o'clock one of the
motors in which the party had arrived yesterday drew up at the door of
the Ambermere Arms, and presently Mr Bracely,—no, dear, Mr
Shuttleworth got in and drove off alone. That was very odd conduct in a
lately-married bridegroom, and it was hoped that there had been no
Olga had, of course, been given no directions as to Hightum or
Tightum, and when she walked across to Georgie's house shortly after
half-past one only Mrs Weston who was going back home to lunch at top
speed was aware that she was dressed in a very simple dark blue morning
frock, that would almost have passed for Scrub. It is true that it was
exceedingly well cut, and had not the look of having been rolled up in
a ball and hastily ironed out again that usually distinguished Scrub,
and she also wore a string of particularly fine pearls round her neck,
the sort of ornament that in Riseholme would only be seen in an evening
Hightum, even if anybody in Riseholme had owned such things. Lucia, not
long ago had expressed the opinion that jewels were vulgar except at
night, and for her part she wore none at all, preferring one Greek
cameo of uncertain authenticity.
Georgie received Olga alone, for Hermy and Ursy were not yet back
from their golf.
“It is good of you to let me come without my husband,” she said.
“His excuse is toothache and he has driven into Brinton—”
“I'm very sorry,” said Georgie.
“You needn't be, for now I'll tell you his real reason. He thought
that if he lunched with you he would have to come on to the garden
party, and that he was absolutely determined not to do. You were the
thin edge of the wedge, in fact. My dear, what a delicious house. All
panelled, with that lovely garden behind. And croquet—may we play
croquet after lunch? I always try to cheat, and if I'm found out I lose
my temper. Georgie won't play with me, so I play with my maid.”
“This Georgie will,” said he.
“How nice of him! And do you know what we did this morning, before
the toothache didn't begin? We went all over that house three doors
away, which is being done up. It belongs to the proprietor of the
Ambermere Arms. And—oh, I wonder if you can keep a secret?”
“Yes,” said Georgie. He probably had never kept one yet, but there
was no reason why he shouldn't begin now.
“Well, I'm absolutely determined to buy it, only I daren't tell my
husband until I've done it. He has an odd nature. When a thing is done,
settled, and there's no help for it, he finds it adorable, but he also
finds fatal objections to doing it at all, if he is consulted about it
before it is done. So not a word! I shall buy it, make the garden,
furnish it, down to the minutest detail, and engage the servants, and
then he'll give it me for a birthday present. I had to tell somebody or
I should burst.”
Georgie nearly swooned with fervour and admiration.
“But what a perfect plan!” he said. “You really like our little
“It's not a question of liking; it's a mere detail of not being able
to do without it. I don't like breathing, but I should die if I didn't.
I want some delicious, hole-in-the-corner, lazy backwater sort of
place, where nothing ever happens, and nobody ever does anything. I've
been observing all the morning, and your habits are adorable. Nothing
ever happens here, and that will precisely suit me, when I get away
from my work.”
Georgie was nearer swooning than ever at this. He could hardly
believe his ears when she talked of Riseholme being a lazy backwater,
and almost thought she must have been speaking of London, where, as
Lucia had acutely observed, people sat in the Park all morning and
talked of each other's affairs, and spent the afternoon at
picture-galleries, and danced all night. There was a flippant, lazy
But she was far too much absorbed in her project to notice his
“But if you breathe a word,” she said, “everything will be spoilt.
It has to burst on Georgie. Oh, and there's another mulberry-tree in
your garden as well as the one in front. It's too much.”
Her eyes followed Foljambe out of the door.
“And I know your parlour-maid is called Paravicini or Grosvenor,”
“No, she is Foljambe,” said Georgie.
“I knew I was right,” she said. “It's practically the same thing.
Oh, and last night! I never had such an awful evening. Why didn't you
warn me, and my husband should have had toothache then instead of this
“What happened?” asked he.
“But the woman's insane, that Ambermere parrot, I mean. Georgie and
I were ten minutes late, and she had a jet tiara on, and why did she
ask us to dine at a quarter to eight, if she meant a quarter to eight,
instead of saying half-past-seven? They were actually going into dinner
when we came, a mournful procession of three moth-eaten men and three
whiskered women. Upon which the procession broke up, as if we had been
the riot act, and was arranged again, as a funeral procession, and
Georgie with Lady Ambermere was the hearse. We dined in the family
vault and talked about Lady Ambermere's pug. She talked about you, too,
and said you were of county family, and that Mrs Lucas was a very
decent sort of woman, and that she herself was going to look in on her
garden-party today. Then she looked at my pearls, and asked if they
were genuine. So I looked at her teeth, and there was no need to ask
“Don't miss out a moment,” said Georgie greedily.
“Whenever Lady Ambermere spoke, everybody else was silent. I didn't
grasp that at first, for no one had explained the rules. So she stopped
in the middle of a sentence and waited till I had finished. Then she
went on again, precisely where she had left off. Then when we came into
the drawing room, the whiskered ladies and I, there a little woman like
a mouse sitting there, and nobody introduced her. So naturally I went
to talk to her, before which the great parrot said, 'Will you kindly
fetch my wool-work, Miss Lyall?' and Miss Lyall took a sack out of the
corner, and inside was the sacred carpet. And then I waited for some
coffee and cigarettes, and I waited, and I waited, and I am waiting
still. The Parrot said that coffee always kept her awake, and that was
why. And then Georgie came in with the others, and I could see by his
face that he hadn't had a cigarette either. It was then half-past nine.
And then each man sat down between two women, and Pug sat in the middle
and looked for fleas. Then Lady Ambermere got up, and came across the
charmed circle to me. She said: 'I hope you have brought your music,
Mrs Shuttleworth. Kindly open the piano, Miss Lyall. It was always
considered a remarkably line instrument.'“
Olga waved the fork on which was impaled a piece of the pineapple
which Georgie had purchased that morning at the fruiterer's.
“The stupendous cheek!” she said. “I thought it must be a joke, and
laughed with the greatest politeness. But it wasn't! You'll hardly
believe it, but it wasn't! One of the whiskered ones said, That will be
a great treat,' and another put on the face that everyone wears at
concerts. And I was so stunned that I sang, and Lady Ambermere beat
time, and Pug barked.”
She pointed a finger at Georgie.
“Never till the day of judgment,” she said, “when Lady Ambermere
gnashes her beautiful teeth for ever and ever, will I set foot in that
house again. Nor she in my house. I will set fire to it sooner. There!
My dear, what a good lunch you have given me. May we play croquet at
Lucia's garden-parties were scheduled from four to seven and
half-an-hour before the earliest guest might be expected, she was
casting an eagle eye over the preparations which today were on a very
sumptuous scale. The bowls were laid out in the bowling alley, not
because anybody in Hightums dresses was the least likely to risk the
stooping down and the strong movements that the game entailed, but
because bowls were Elizabethan. Between the alley and the lawn nearer
to the house was a large marquee, where the commoner crowd—though no
crowd could be really common in Riseholme—would refresh itself. But
even where none are common there may still be degrees in rarity, and by
the side of this general refreshment room was a smaller tent carpeted
with Oriental rugs, and having inside it some half-dozen chairs, and
two seats which can only be described as thrones, for Lady Ambermere or
Olga Bracely, while Lucia's Guru, though throneworthy, would very
kindly sit in one of his most interesting attitudes on the floor. This
tent was designed only for high converse, and common guests (if they
were good) would be led into it and introduced to the great presences,
while for the refreshment of the presences, in intervals of audience, a
more elaborate meal, with peaches and four sorts of sandwiches was laid
in the smoking-parlour. Thus those guests for whom audiences were not
provided, could have the felicity of seeing the great ones pass across
the lawn on their excursions for food, and possibly trip over the
croquet hoops, which had been left up to give an air of naturalness to
the lawn. In the smoking-parlour an Elzevir or two were left
negligently open, as if Mr and Mrs Lucas had been reading the works of
Persius and Juvenal when the first guests arrived. In the music-room,
finally, which was not usually open on these occasions, there were
fresh flowers: the piano, too, was open, and if you had not seen the
Elzevirs in the smoking-parlour, it would have been reasonable for the
early guests, if they penetrated here, to imagine that Mrs Lucas had
been running over the last act of Siegfried a minute before.
In this visit of final inspection Lucia was accompanied by her Guru,
for he was part of the domestic dramatis personae, and she
wanted him to be “discovered” in the special tent. She pointed out the
site of his proposed “discovery” to him.
“Probably the first person I shall bring in here,” she said, “will
be Lady Ambermere, for she is noted for her punctuality. She is so
anxious to see you, and would it not be exciting if you found you had
met before? Her husband was Governor of Madras, and she spent many
years in India.”
“Madras, gracious lady?” asked the Guru. “I, too, know Madras: there
are many dark spirits in Madras. And she was at English Residency?”
“Yes. She says Mr Kipling knows nothing about India. You and she
will have much to talk about. I wish I could sit on the floor, too, and
listen to what you say to each other.”
“It will be great treat,” said the Guru thoughtfully, “I love all
who love my wonderful country.”
Suddenly he stopped, and put his hands up to his head, palms
“There are wonderful vibrations today,” he said. “All day I feel
that some word is on way from the Guides, some great message of light.”
“Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful if it came to you in the middle of my
garden party?” said Lucia enthusiastically.
“Ah, gracious lady, the great word comes not so. It comes always in
solitude and quiet. Gracious lady knows that as well as Guru.”
Pure Guruism and social pre-eminence struggled together in Lucia.
Guruism told her that she ought to be ecstatic at the idea of a great
message coming and should instantly smile on his desire for solitude
and quiet, while social pre-eminence whispered to her that she had
already dangled the presence of a high-caste mystic from Benares before
the eyes of Lady Ambermere, who only came from Madras. On the other
hand Olga Bracely was to be an even more resplendent guest than either
Lady Ambermere or the Guru; surely Olga Bracely was enough to set this
particular garden-party on the giddiest of pinnacles. And an awful
consequence lurked as a possibility if she attempted to force her Guru
not to immune himself in solitude and quiet, which was that conceivably
he might choose to go back to the pit whence he was digged, namely the
house of poor Daisy Quantock. The thought was intolerable, for with him
in her house, she had seen herself as dispenser of Eastern Mysteries,
and Mistress of Omism to Riseholme. In fact the Guru was her August
stunt; it would never do to lose him before the end of July, and rage
to see all Riseholme making pilgrimages to Daisy. There was a
thin-lipped firmness, too, about him at this moment: she felt that
under provocation he might easily defy or desert her. She felt she had
to yield, and so decided to do so in the most complete manner.
“Ah, yes,” she said. “I know how true that is. Dear Guru, go up to
Hamlet: no one will disturb you there. But if the message comes through
before Lady Ambermere goes away, promise me you will come back.”
He went back to the house, where the front door was already open to
admit Lady Ambermere, who was telling “her people” when to come back
for her, and fled with the heels of his slippers tapping on the oak
stairs up to Hamlet. Softly he shut out the dark spirits from Madras,
and made himself even more secure by turning the key in his door. It
would never do to appear as a high caste Brahmin from Benares before
anyone who knew India with such fatal intimacy, for he might not
entirely correspond with her preconceived notions of such a person.
Lady Ambermere's arrival was soon followed by that of other guests,
and instead of going into the special tent reserved for the lions, she
took up a commanding position in the middle of the lawn, where she
could examine everybody through her tortoiseshell handled lorgnette.
She kept Peppino by her, who darted forward to shake hands with his
wife's guests, and then darted back again to her. Poor Miss Lyall stood
behind her chair, and from time to time as ordered, gave her a cape, or
put up her parasol, or adjusted her footstool for her, or took up Pug
or put him down as her patroness required. Most of the time Lady
Ambermere kept up a majestic monologue.
“You have a pretty little garden here, Mr Lucas,” she said, “though
perhaps inconveniently small. Your croquet lawn does not look to me the
full size, and then there is no tennis-court. But I think you have a
little strip of grass somewhere, which you use for bowls, have you not?
Presently I will walk around with you and see your domain. Put Pug down
again, please, Miss Lyall, and let him run about. See, he wants to play
with one of those croquet balls. Put it in motion for him, and he will
run with it. Bless me, who is that coming up the path at such a
tremendous speed in a bath-chair? Oh, I see, it is Mrs Weston. She
should not go as fast as that. If Pug was to stray on to the path he
would be run over. Better pick up Pug again, Miss Lyall, till she has
gone by. And here is Colonel Boucher. If he had brought his bull-dogs,
I should have asked him to take them away again. I should like a cup of
tea, Miss Lyall, with plenty of milk in it, and not too strong. You
know how I like my tea. And a biscuit or something for Pug, with a
little cream in a saucer or anything that's handy.”
“Won't you come into the smoking-parlour, and have tea there, Lady
Ambermere?” asked Peppino.
“The smoking-parlour?” asked she. “How very strange to lay tea in a
Peppino explained that nobody had in all probability used the
smoking-parlour to smoke in for five or six years.
“Oh, if that is so, I will come,” said she. “Better bring Pug along,
too, Miss Lyall. There is a croquet-hoop. I am glad I saw it or I
should have stumbled over it perhaps. Oh, this is the smoking-parlour,
is it? Why do you have rushes on the floor? Put Pug in a chair, Miss
Lyall, or he may prick his paws. Books, too, I see. That one lying open
is an old one. It is Latin poetry. The library at The Hall is very
famous for its classical literature. The first Viscount collected it,
and it numbers many thousands of volumes.”
“Indeed, it is the most wonderful library,” said Peppino. “I can
never tear myself away from it, when I am at The Hall.”
“I do not wonder. I am a great student myself and often spend a
morning there, do I not, Miss Lyall? You should have some new glass put
in those windows, Mr Lucas. On a dark day it must be very difficult to
see here. By the way, your good wife told me that there would probably
be a very remarkable Indian at her party, a Brahmin from Benares, she
said. I should like to have a talk with him while I am having my tea.
Kindly prepare a peach for me, Miss Lyall.”
Peppino had heard about the retirement of the Guru, in consequence
of a message from the Guides being expected, and proceeded to explain
this to Lady Ambermere, who did not take the slightest notice, as she
was looking at the peaches through her lorgnette.
“That one nearest me looks eatable,” she said. “And then I do not
see Miss Olga Bracely, though I distinctly told her I should be here
this afternoon, and she said Mrs Lucas had asked her. She sang to us
yesterday evening at The Hall, and very creditably indeed. Her husband,
Mr Shuttleworth, is a cousin of the late lord's.”
Lucia had come into the smoking-parlour during this speech, and
heard these fatal words. At the moment she would gladly have recalled
her invitation to Olga Bracely altogether, sooner than have alluded
therein to Mr Bracely. But that was one of the irremediable things of
life, and since it was no use wasting regret on that, she was only the
more eager for Olga to come, whatever her husband's name was. She
braced herself up to the situation.
“Peppino, are you looking after Lady Ambermere?” she said. “Dear
Lady Ambermere, I hope they are all taking care of you.”
“A very decent peach,” said Lady Ambermere. “The south wall of my
garden is covered with them, and they are always of a peculiarly
delicious flavour. The Hall is famed for its peaches. I understood that
Miss Bracely was going to be here, Mrs Lucas. I cannot imagine what
makes her so late. I was always famed for my punctuality myself. I have
finished my tea.”
The lawn outside was now growing thick with people all in their
Hightums, and Lady Ambermere as she emerged from the smoking-parlour
again viewed the scene with marked disfavour. The two Miss Antrobuses
had just arrived, and skipped up to their hostess with pretty cries.
“We are dreadfully late,” said the eldest, “but it was all Piggy's
“No, Goosie, it was yours,” said the other. “How can you be so
naughty as to say it was mine? Dear Mrs Lucas, what a lovely party it's
being, and may we go and play bowls?”
Lady Ambermere regarded their retreating backs, as they raced off
with arms intertwined to the bowling green.
“And who are those young ladies?” she asked. “And why Piggy and
Goosie? Miss Lyall, do not let Pug go to the bowls. They are very
Elsewhere Mrs Antrobus was slowly advancing from group to group,
with her trumpet violently engaged in receiving refreshment. But
conversation was not quite so varied as usual, for there was an
attitude of intense expectation about with regard to the appearance of
Miss Bracely, that made talk rather jerky and unconnective. Then also
it had gone about that the mysterious Indian, who had been seen now and
then during the last week, was actually staying with Mrs Lucas, and why
was he not here? More unconjecturable yet, though not so thrillingly
interesting, was the absence of Mr Georgie. What could have happened to
him, that he was not flitting about on his hostess's errands, and being
the life and soul of the party? It was in vain that Mrs Antrobus
plodded on her methodical course, seeking answers to all these riddles,
and that Mrs Weston in her swifter progression dashed about in her
bath-chair from group to group, wherever people seemed to be talking in
an animated manner. She could learn nothing, and Mrs Antrobus could
learn nothing, in fact the only information to be had on the subject
was what Mrs Weston herself supplied. She had a very high-coloured
handsome face, and an extremely impressive manner, as if she was
imparting information of the very highest importance. She naturally
spoke in a loud, clear voice, so that she had not got to raise it much
even when she addressed Mrs Antrobus. Her wealth of discursive detail
was absolutely unrivalled, and she was quite the best observer in
“The last I saw of Miss Bracely,” she said exactly as if she had
been told to describe something on oath in the witness-box, “was a
little after half-past one today. It must have been after half-past
because when I got home it was close on a quarter to two, and I wasn't
a hundred yards from my house when I saw her. As soon as I saw her I
said to my gardener boy, Henry Luton, who was pushing me—he's the son
of old Mrs Luton who kept the fish shop, and when she died last year, I
began to get my fish from Brinton, for I didn't fancy the look of the
new person who took on the business, and Henry went to live with his
aunt. That was his father's sister, not his mother's, for Mrs Luton
never had a sister, and no brothers either. Well, I said to Henry, 'You
can go a bit slower, Henry, as we're late, we're late, and a minute or
two more doesn't make any difference.' 'No, ma'am,' said Henry touching
his cap, so we went slower. Miss Bracely was just opposite the
ducking-pond then, and presently she came out between the elms. She had
just an ordinary morning frock on; it was dark-blue, about the same
shade as your cape, Mrs Antrobus, or perhaps a little darker, for the
sunshine brightened it up. Quite simple it was, nothing grand. And she
looked at the watch on her wrist, and she seemed to me to walk a little
quicker after that, as if she was a bit late, just as I was. But slower
than I was going, I could not go, for I was crawling along, and before
she got off the grass, I had come to the corner of Church Lane, and
though I turned my head round sharp, like that, at the very last
moment, so as to catch the last of her, she hadn't more than stepped
off the grass onto the road before the laurestinus at the corner of
Colonel Boucher's garden—no, of the Vicar's garden—hid her from me.
And if you ask me——”
Mrs Weston stopped for a moment, nodding her head up and down, to
emphasize the importance of what she had said, and to raise the
expectations of Mrs Antrobus to the highest pitch, as to what was
“And if you ask me where I think she was going and what she was
going to do,” she said, “I believe she was going out to lunch and that
she was going to one of those houses there, just across the road, for
she made a bee-line across the green towards them. Well, there are
three houses there: there's Mrs Quantock's, and it couldn't have been
that, or else Mrs Quantock would have had some news of her, or Colonel
Boucher's, and it wouldn't have been that, for the Colonel would have
had news of her, and we all know whose the third house just there is.”
Mrs Antrobus had not completely followed this powerful reasoning.
“But Colonel Boucher and Mrs Quantock are both here, eh?” said she.
Mrs Weston raised her voice a little.
“That's what I'm saying,” she announced, “but who isn't here whom we
should expect to see, and where's his house?”
It was generally felt that Mrs Weston had hit the nail on the head.
What that nail precisely was no one knew, because she had not explained
why both Olga Bracely and Georgie were absentees. But now came the
climax, bang on the top of the nail, a shrewd straight stroke.
“So there she was having her lunch with Mr Georgie,” said Mrs
Weston, now introducing this name for the first time, with the highest
dramatic art, “and they would be seeing round his house afterwards. And
then when it was time to come here, Mr Georgie would have remembered
that the party was Hightum not Tightum, and there was Miss Bracely not
in Hightum at all, nor even Tightum, in my opinion, but Scrub. No doubt
she said to him, 'Is it a very grand sort of party, Mr Pillson?' and he
couldn't do other than reply, for we all received notice that it was
Hightum—mine came about twelve—he couldn't do other than reply, 'Yes,
Miss Bracely, it is.' 'Good gracious me,' she would say, 'and I've only
got this old rag on. I must go back to the Ambermere Arms, and tell my
maid—for she brought a maid in that second motor—and tell my maid to
put me out something tidy.' 'But that will be a great bother for you,'
he would say, or something of that sort, for I don't pretend to know
what he actually did say, and she would reply, 'Oh Mr Pillson, but I
must put on something tidy, and it would be so kind of you, if you
would wait for me, while I do that, and let us go together.' That's
what she said.”
Mrs Weston made a sign to her gardener to proceed, wishing to leave
the stage at the moment of climax.
“And that's why they're both late,” she said, and was whirled away
in the direction of the bowling-green.
The minutes went on, and still nobody appeared who could possibly
have accounted for the three-lined whip of Hightums, but by degrees
Lucia, who had utterly failed to decoy Lady Ambermere into the place of
thrones, began to notice a certain thinning on her lawns. Her guests,
it would seem, were not in process of dispersal, for it was a long way
off seven o'clock yet, and also none would be so ill-mannered as to
leave without shaking hands and saying what a delicious afternoon they
had spent. But certainly the lawns grew emptier, and she was utterly
unable to explain this extraordinary phenomenon, until she happened to
go close to the windows of her music-room. Then, looking in, she saw
that not only was every chair there occupied, but people were standing
about in expectant groups. For a moment, her heart beat high.... Could
Olga have arrived and by some mistake have gone straight in there? It
was a dreamlike possibility, but it burst like a ray of sunshine on the
party that was rapidly becoming a nightmare to her,—for everyone, not
Lady Ambermere alone, was audibly wondering when the Guru was coming,
and when Miss Bracely was going to sing.
At the moment as she paused, a window in the music-room was opened,
and Piggy's odious head looked out.
“Oh, Mrs Lucas,” she said. “Goosie and I have got beautiful seats,
and Mamma is quite close to the piano where she will hear excellently.
Has she promised to sing Siegfried? Is Mr Georgie going to play for
her? It's the most delicious surprise; how could you be so sly and
clever as not to tell anybody?”
Lucia cloaked her rage under the most playful manner, as she ran
into the music-room through the hall.
“You naughty things!” she said. “Do all come into the garden! It's a
garden party, and I couldn't guess where you had all gone. What's all
this about singing and playing? I know nothing of it.”
She herded the incredulous crowd out into the garden again, all in
their Hightums, every one of them, only to meet Lady Ambermere with Pug
and Miss Lyall coming in.
“Better be going, Miss Lyall,” she said. “Kindly run out and find my
people. Oh, here's Mrs Lucas. Been very pleasant indeed, thank you,
good-bye. Your charming garden. Yes.”
“Oh, but it's very early,” said Lucia. “It's hardly six yet.”
“Indeed!” said Lady Ambermere. “Been so charming,” and she marched
out after Miss Lyall out into Shakespeare's garden.
It was soon terribly evident that other people were sharing Lady
Ambermere's conclusion about the delights of the afternoon, and the
necessity of getting home. Colonel Boucher had to take his bull-dogs
for a run and walk off the excitement of the party; Piggy and Goosie
explained to their mother that nobody was going to sing, and by silvery
laughter tried to drown her just indignation, and presently Lucia had
the agony of seeing Mrs Quantock seated on one of the thrones, that had
been designed for much worthier ends, and Peppino sitting in the other,
while a few guests drifted about the lawn with all the purposelessness
of autumn leaves. What with the Guru, presumably meditating upstairs
still, and with Olga Bracely most conspicuously absent, she had hardly
nervous energy left to wonder what could have become of Georgie. Never
in all the years of his ministry had he failed to be at her elbow
through the entire duration of her garden-parties, flying about on her
errands like a tripping Hermes, herding her flocks if she wanted them
in one part of the garden rather than another, like a sagacious
sheep-dog, and coming back to heel again ready for further tasks. But
today Georgie was mysteriously away, for he had neither applied for
leave nor given any explanation, however improbable, of his absence. He
at least would have prevented Lady Ambermere, the only cornerstone of
the party, from going away in what must be called a huff, and have
continued to tell Lucia how marvellous she was, and what a beautiful
party they were having. With the prospect of two other much more
magnificent cornerstones, Lucia had not provided any further
entertainment for her guests: there was not the conjurer from Brinton,
nor the three young ladies who played banjo-trios, nor even the mild
performing doves which cooed so prettily, and walked up their
mistress's outstretched fingers according to order, if they felt
disposed. There was nothing to justify Hightums, there was scarcely
even sufficient to warrant Tightums. Scrub was written all over “the
desert's dusty face.”
It was about half-past six when the miracles began, and without
warning the Guru walked out into the garden. Probably he had watched
the departure of the great motor with its chauffeur and footman, and
Miss Lyall and Lady Ambermere and Pug, and with his intuitive sagacity
had conjectured that the danger from Madras was over. He wore his new
red slippers, a wonderful turban and an ecstatic smile. Lucia and Daisy
met him with cries of joy, and the remaining guests, those drifting
autumn leaves, were swept up, as it were, by some compelling broom and
clustered in a heap in front of him. There had been a Great Message, a
Word of Might, full of Love and Peace. Never had there been such a
And then, even before they had all felt the full thrill of that,
once more the door from the house opened, and out came Olga Bracely and
Georgie. It is true that she had still her blue morning frock, which
Mrs Weston had designated as Scrub, but it was a perfectly new Scrub,
and if it had been completely covered with Paris labels, they would not
have made its provenance one whit clearer. “Dear Mrs Lucas,” she
said, “Mr Georgie and I are terribly late, and it was quite my fault.
There was a game of croquet that wouldn't come to an end, and my life
has been guided by only one principle, and that is to finish a game of
croquet whatever happens. I missed six trains once by finishing a game
of croquet. And Mr Georgie was so unkind: he wouldn't give me a cup of
tea, or let me change my frock, but dragged me off to see you. And I
The autumn leaves turned green and vigorous again, while Georgie
went to get refreshment for his conqueror, and they were all
introduced. She allowed herself to be taken with the utmost
docility—how unlike Somebody—into the tent with the thrones: she
confessed to having stood on tiptoe and looked into Mrs Quantock's
garden and wanted to see it so much from the other side of the wall.
And this garden, too—might she go and wander all over this garden when
she had finished the most delicious peach that the world held? She was
so glad she had not had tea with Mr Georgie: he would never have given
her such a good peach....
Now the departing guests in their Hightums, lingering on the village
green a little, and being rather sarcastic about the utter failure of
Lucia's party, could hardly help seeing Georgie and Olga emerge from
his house and proceed swiftly in the direction of The Hurst, and Mrs
Antrobus who retained marvellous eyesight as compensation for her
defective hearing, saw them go in, and simultaneously thought that she
had left her parasol at The Hurst. Next moment she was walking
thoughtfully away in that direction. Mrs Weston had been the next to
realize what had happened, and though she had to go round by the road
in her bath-chair, she passed Mrs Antrobus a hundred yards from the
house, her pretext for going back being that Lucia had promised to lend
her the book by Antonio Caporelli (or was it Caporelto?).
So once more the door into the garden opened, and out shot Mrs
Weston. Olga by this time had made her tour of the garden, and might
she see the house? She might. There was a pretty music-room. At this
stage, just as Mrs Weston was poured out in the garden, as with the
floodgates being unopened, the crowd that followed her came surging
into Shakespeare's garden, and never had the mermaid's tail behind
which was secreted the electric bell, experienced such feverish usage.
Pressure after pressure invoked its aid, and the pretexts for
re-admission were soon not made at all, or simply disregarded by the
parlour-maid. Colonel Boucher might have left a bull-dog, and Mrs
Antrobus an ear trumpet, or Miss Antrobus (Piggy) a shoe lace, and the
other Miss Antrobus (Goosie) a shoe-horn: but in brisk succession the
guests who had been so sarcastic about the party on the village-green,
jostled each other in order to revisit the scenes of their irony. Miss
Olga Bracely had been known to enter the portals, and as many of them
who entered after her, found a Guru as well.
Olga was in the music-room when the crowd had congested the hall.
People were introduced to her, and sank down into the nearest chairs.
Mrs Antrobus took up her old place by the keyboard of the piano.
Everybody seemed to be expecting something, and by degrees the import
of their longing was borne in upon Olga. They waited, and waited and
waited, much as she had waited for a cigarette the evening before. She
looked at the piano, and there was a comfortable murmur from her
audience. She looked at Lucia, who gave a great gasp, and said nothing
at all. She was the only person present who was standing now except her
hostess, and Mrs Weston's gardener, who had wheeled his mistress's
chair into an admirable position for hearing. She was not too well
pleased, but after all....
“Would you like me to sing?” she asked Lucia. “Yes? Ah, there's a
copy of Siegfried. Do you play?”
Lucia could not smile any more than she was smiling already.
“Is it very diffy?” she asked. “Could I read it, Georgie? Shall I
She slid onto the music-stool.
“Me to begin?” she asked, finding that Olga had opened the book at
the salutation of Brunnhilde, which Lucia had practised so diligently
all the morning.
She got no answer. Olga standing by her, had assumed a perfectly
different aspect. For her gaiety, her lightness was substituted some
air of intense concentrated seriousness which Lucia did not understand
at all. She was looking straight in front of her, gathering herself in,
and paying not the smallest attention to Lucia or anybody else.
“One, two,” said Lucia. “Three. Now,” and she plunged wildly into a
sea of demi-semi-quavers. Olga had just opened her mouth, but shut it
“No,” she said. “Once more,” and she whistled the motif.
“Oh! it's so diffy!” said Lucia beginning again. “Georgie! Turn
Georgie turned over, and Lucia counting audibly to herself made an
incomparable mess all over the piano.
Olga turned to her accompanist.
“Shall I try?” she said.
She sat down at the piano, and made some sort of sketch of the
accompaniment, simplifying, and yet retaining the essence. And then she
Throughout August, Guruism reigned supreme over the cultured life of
Riseholme, and the priestess and dispenser of its mysteries was Lucia.
Never before had she ruled from so elate a pinnacle, nor wielded so
secure a supremacy. None had access to the Guru but through her: all
his classes were held in the smoking-parlour and he meditated only in
Hamlet or in the sequestered arbour at the end of the laburnum walk.
Once he had meditated on the village green, but Lucia did not approve
of that and had led him, still rapt, home by the hand.
The classes had swelled prodigiously, for practically all
Riseholmites now were at some stage of instruction, with the exception
of Hermy and Ursy, who pronounced the whole thing “piffle,” and, as
gentle chaff for Georgie, sometimes stood on one leg in the middle of
the lawn and held their breath. Then Hermy would say One, Two, Three,
and they shouted “Om” at the tops of their discordant voices. Now that
the Guru was practically interned in The Hurst, they had actually never
set eyes on him, for they had not chosen to come to the Hightum
garden-party, preferring to have a second round of golf, and meeting
Lucia next day had been distinctly irreverent on the subject of Eastern
philosophy. Since then she had not been aware of their existence.
Lucia now received special instruction from the Guru in a class all
by herself so prodigious was her advance in Yoga, for she could hold
her breath much longer than anybody else, and had mastered six
postures, while the next class which she attended also consisted of the
other original members, namely Daisy Quantock, Georgie and Peppino.
They had got on very well, too, but Lucia had quite shot away from
them, and now if the Guru had other urgent spiritual claims on him, she
gave instruction to a less advanced class herself. For this purpose she
habited herself in a peculiarly becoming dress of white linen, which
reached to her feet and had full flowing sleeves like a surplice. It
was girdled with a silver cord with long tassels, and had
mother-of-pearl buttons and a hood at the back lined with white satin
which came over her head. Below its hem as she sat and taught in a
really rather advanced posture showed the toes of her white morocco
slippers, and she called it her “Teacher's Robe.” The class which she
taught consisted of Colonel Boucher, Piggy Antrobus and Mrs Weston:
sometimes the Colonel brought his bull-dogs with him, who lay and
snorted precisely as if they were doing breathing exercises, too. A
general air of joyful mystery and spiritual endeavour blew balmily
round them all, and without any doubt the exercises and the deep
breathing were extremely good for them.
One evening, towards the end of the month, Georgie was sitting in
his garden, for the half hour before dressing-time, thinking how busy
he was, and yet how extraordinarily young and fresh he felt. Usually
this month when Hermy and Ursy were with him was very fatiguing, and in
ordinary years he would have driven away with Foljambe and Dicky on the
day after their departure, and had a quiet week by the seaside. But
now, though his sisters were going away tomorrow morning, he had no
intention of taking a well-earned rest, in spite of the fact that not
only had he been their host all this time, but had done an amazing
quantity of other things as well. There had been the daily classes to
begin with, which entailed much work in the way of meditation and
exercises, as well as the actual learning, and also he had had another
job which might easily have taxed his energies to the utmost any other
year. For Olga Bracely had definitely bought that house without which
she had felt that life was not worth living, and Georgie all this month
had at her request been exercising a semi-independent supervision over
its decoration and furnishing. She had ordered the general scheme
herself and had sent down from London the greater part of the
furniture, but Georgie was commissioned to report on any likely pieces
of old stuff that he could find, and if expedition was necessary to act
on his own responsibility and buy them. But above all secrecy was still
necessary till the house was so complete that her Georgie might be
told, and by the end of the month Riseholme generally was in a state of
prostration following on the violent and feverish curiosity as to who
had taken the house. Georgie had gone so far as to confess that he
knew, but the most pathetic appeals as to the owner's identity had
fallen on obdurate, if not deaf, ears. Not the smallest hint would he
give on the subject, and though those incessant visits to the house,
those searchings for furniture, the bestowal of it in suitable places,
the superintendence of the making of the garden, the interviewings of
paperhangers, plumbers, upholsterers, painters, carpenters and so forth
occupied a great deal of time, the delicious mystery about it all, and
the fact that he was doing it for so adorable a creature, rendered his
exertions a positive refreshment. Another thing which, in conjunction
with this and his youth-giving studies, made him feel younger than ever
was the discreet arrival and perfect success of his toupet. No longer
was there any need to fear the dislocation of his espaliered locks. He
felt so secure and undetectable in that regard that he had taken to
wearing no hat, and was soon about to say that his hair was growing
more thickly than ever in consequence. But it was not quite time for
that yet: it would be inartistic to suggest that just a couple of weeks
of hatlessness had produced so desirable a result.
As he sat at ease after the labours of the day he wondered how the
coming of Olga Bracely to Riseholme would affect the economy of the
place. It was impossible to think of her with her beauty, her charm,
her fame, her personality as taking any second place in its life.
Unless she was really meaning to use Riseholme as a retreat, to take no
part in its life at all, it was hard to see what part she would take
except the first part. One who by her arrival at Lucia's ever-memorable
party had converted it in a moment from the most dire of Scrubs (in a
psychical sense) to the Hightumest gathering ever known could not lay
aside her distinction and pre-eminence. Never had Lucia “scored” so
amazingly as over Olga's late appearance, which had the effect of
bringing back all her departed guests with the compulsion of a magnet
over iron-filings, and sending up the whole party like a rocket into
the zenith of social success. All Riseholme knew that Olga had come
(after playing croquet with Georgie the entire afternoon) and had given
them free gratis and for nothing, such a treat as only the wealthiest
could obtain with the most staggering fees. Lady Ambermere alone,
driving back to The Hall with Pug and poor Miss Lyall, was the only
person who had not shared in that, and she knew all about it next day,
for Georgie had driven out on purpose to tell her, and met Lucia coming
away. How, then, would the advent of Olga affect Riseholme's social
working generally, and how would it affect Lucia in particular? And
what would Lucia say when she knew on whose behalf Georgie was so busy
with plumbers and painters, and with buying so many of the desirable
treasures in the Ambermere Arms?
Frankly he could not answer these conundrums: they presupposed
inconceivable situations, which yet, though inconceivable, were shortly
coming to pass, for Olga's advent might be expected before October,
that season of tea-parties that ushered in the multifarious gaieties of
the winter. Would Olga form part of the moonlit circle to whom Lucia
played the first movement of the Moonlight Sonata, and give a long sigh
at the end like the rest of them? And would Lucia when they had all
recovered a little from the invariable emotion go to her and say, “Olga
mia, just a little bit out of the Valkyrie? It would be so pleasant.”
Somehow Georgie, with all his imagination, could not picture such a
scene. And would Olga take the part of second citizenness or something
of the sort when Lucia played Portia? Would Olga join the elementary
class of Yoga, and be instructed by Lucia in her Teacher's Robe? Would
she sing treble in the Christmas Carols, while Lucia beat time, and
said in syllables dictated by the rhythm, “Trebles a little flat! My
poor ears!”? Georgie could not imagine any of these things, and yet,
unless Olga took no part in the social life of Riseholme at all (and
that was equally inconceivable) what was the alternative? True, she had
said that she was coming here because it was so ideally lazy a
backwater, but Georgie did not take that seriously. She would soon see
what Riseholme was when its life poured down in spate, whirling her
punt along with it.
And finally, what would happen to him, when Olga was set as a
shining star in this firmament? Already he revolved about her, he was
aware, like some eager delighted little moon, drawn away from the orbit
where it had encircled so contentedly by the more potent planet. And
the measure of his detachment from that old orbit might be judged
precisely by the fact that the process of detachment which was already
taking place was marked by no sense of the pull of opposing forces at
all. The great new star sailing into the heavens had just picked him up
by force of its superior power of attraction, even as by its momentary
conjunction with Lucia at the garden-party it had raised her to a
magnitude she had never possessed before. That magnitude was still
Lucia's, and no doubt would be until the great star appeared again.
Then without effort its shining must surely eclipse every other
illumination, just as without effort it must surely attract all the
little moons to itself. Or would Lucia manage somehow or other, either
by sheer force of will, by desperate and hostile endeavour, or, on the
other hand, by some supreme tact and cleverness to harness the great
star to her own chariot? He thought the desperate and hostile endeavour
was more in keeping with Lucia's methods, and this quiet evening hour
represented itself to him as the lull before the storm.
The actual quiet of the moment was suddenly broken into. His
front-door banged, and the house was filled with running footsteps and
screams of laughter. But it was not uncommon for Hermy and Ursy to make
this sort of entrance, and at the moment Georgie had not the slightest
idea of how much further-reaching was the disturbance of the
tranquillity. He but drew a couple of long breaths, said “Om” once or
twice, and was quite prepared to find his deeper calm unshattered.
Hermy and Ursy ran down the steps into the garden where he sat still
yelling with laughter, and still Georgie's imagination went no further
than to suppose that one of them had laid a stymie for the other at
their golf, or driven a ball out of bounds or done some other of these
things that appeared to make the game so diverting to them.
“Georgie, you'll never guess!” cried Hermy.
“The Guru: the Om, of high caste and extraordinary sanctity,” cried
“The Brahmin from Benares,” shrieked Hermy.
“The great Teacher! Who do you think he is?” said Ursy. “We never
seen him before—”
“But we recognised him at once—”
“He recognised us, too, and didn't he run?—”
“Into The Hurst and shut the door—”
Georgie's deeper calm suddenly quivered like a jelly.
“My dears, you needn't howl so, or talk quite so loud,” he said.
“All Riseholme will hear you. Tell me without shouting who it was you
thought you recognised.”
“There's no think about it,” said Hermy. “It was one of the cooks
from the Calcutta Restaurant in Bedford Street—”
“Where we often have lunch,” said Ursy. “He makes the most delicious
“Especially when he's a little tipsy,” said Hermy.
“And is about as much a Brahmin as I am.”
“And always said he came from Madras.”
“We always tip him to make the curry himself, so he isn't quite
ignorant about money.”
“O Lord!” said Hermy, wiping her eyes. “If it isn't the limit!”
“And to think of Mrs Lucas and Colonel Boucher and you and Mrs
Quantock, and Piggy and all the rest of them sitting round a cook,”
said Ursy, “and drinking in his wisdom. Mr Quantock was on the right
track after all when he wanted to engage him.”
Georgie with a fallen heart had first to satisfy himself that this
was not one of his sisters' jokes, and then tried to raise his fallen
heart by remembering that the Guru had often spoken of the dignity of
simple manual work, but somehow it was a blow, if Hermy and Ursy were
right, to know that this was a tipsy contriver of curry. There was
nothing in the simple manual office of curry-making that could possibly
tarnish sanctity, but the amazing tissue of falsehoods with which the
Guru had modestly masked his innocent calling was not so markedly in
the spirit of the Guides, as retailed by him. It was of the first
importance, however, to be assured that his sisters had not at present
communicated their upsetting discovery to anybody but himself, and
after that to get their promise that they would not do so.
This was not quite so easy, for Hermy and Ursy had projected a round
of visits after dinner to every member of the classes with the
exception of Lucia, who should wake up next morning to find herself the
only illusioned person in the place.
“She wouldn't like that, you know,” said Hermy with brisk malice.
“We thought it would serve her out for never asking us to her house
again after her foolish old garden-party.”
“My dear, you never wanted to go,” said Georgie.
“I know we didn't, but we rather wanted to tell her we didn't want
to go. She wasn't nice. Oh, I don't think we can give up telling
everybody. It has made such sillies of you all. I think he's a real
“So do I,” said Ursy. “We shall soon have him back at his curry-oven
again. What a laugh we shall have with him.”
They subsided for just as long as it took Foljambe to come out of
the house, inform them that it was a quarter of an hour to dinner-time,
and return again. They all rose obediently.
“Well, we'll talk about it at dinner-time,” said Georgie
diplomatically. “And I'll just go down to the cellar first to see if I
can find something you like.”
“Good old Georgie,” said Hermy. “But if you're going to bribe us,
you must bribe us well.”
“We'll see,” said he.
Georgie was quite right to be careful over his Veuve Clicquot,
especially since it was a bottle of that admirable beverage that Hermy
and Ursy had looted from his cellar on the night of their burglarious
entry. He remembered that well, though he had—chiefly from the desire
to keep things pleasant about his hair—joined in “the fun,” and had
even produced another half-bottle. But tonight, even more than then,
there was need for the abolition of all petty economies, for the
situation would be absolutely intolerable if Hermy and Ursy spread
about Riseholme the fact that the introducers and innermost circle of
Yoga philosophers had sat at the feet of no Gamaliel at all, but at
those of a curry-cook from some low restaurant. Indeed he brought up a
second bottle tonight with a view if Hermy and Ursy were not softened
by the first to administer that also. They would then hardly be in a
condition to be taken seriously if they still insisted on making a
house-to-house visit in Riseholme, and tearing the veil from off the
features of the Guru. Georgie was far too upright of purpose to dream
of making his sisters drunk, but he was willing to make great
sacrifices in order to render them kind. What the inner circle would do
about this cook he had no idea; he must talk to Lucia about it, before
the advanced class tomorrow morning. But anything was better than
letting Hermy and Ursy loose in Riseholme with their rude laughs and
discreditable exposures. This evening safely over, he could discuss
with Lucia what was to be done, for Hermy and Ursy would have vanished
at cock-crow as they were going in for some golf-competition at a safe
distance. Lucia might recommend doing nothing at all, and wish to
continue enlightening studies as if nothing had happened. But Georgie
felt that the romance would have evaporated from the classes as regards
himself. Or again they might have to get rid of the Guru somehow. He
only felt quite sure that Lucia would agree with him that Daisy
Quantock must not be told. She with her thwarted ambitions of being the
prime dispenser of Guruism to Riseholme might easily “turn nasty” and
let it be widely known that she and Robert had seen through that fraud
long ago, and had considered whether they should not offer the Guru the
situation of cook in their household, for which he was so much better
qualified. She might even add that his leanings towards her pretty
housemaid had alone dissuaded her.
The evening went off with a success more brilliant than Georgie had
anticipated, and it was quite unnecessary to open the second bottle of
champagne. Hermy and Ursy, perhaps under the influence of the first,
perhaps from innate good-nature, perhaps because they were starting so
very early next morning, and wanted to be driven into Brinton, instead
of taking a slower and earlier train at this station, readily gave up
their project of informing the whole of Riseholme of their discovery,
and went to bed as soon as they had rooked their brother of eleven
shillings at cut-throat bridge. They continued to say, “I'll play the
Guru,” whenever they had to play a knave, but Georgie found it quite
easy to laugh at that, so long as the humour of it did not spread. He
even himself said, “I'll Guru you, then,” when he took a trick with the
Knave of Trumps.
The agitation and uncertainty caused him not to sleep very well, and
in addition there was a good deal of disturbance in the house, for his
sisters had still all their packing in front of them when they went to
bed and the doze that preceded sleep was often broken by the sound of
the banging of luggage, the clash of golf-clubs and steps on the stairs
as they made ready for their departure.
But after a while these disturbances ceased, and it was out of a
deep sleep that he awoke with the sense that some noise had awakened
him. Apparently they had not finished yet, for there was surely some
faint stir of movement somewhere. Anyhow they respected his legitimate
desire for quiet, for the noise, whatever it was, was extremely
stealthy and subdued. He thought of his absurd lark about burglars on
the night of their arrival, and smiled at the notion. His toupet
was in a drawer close to his bed, but he had no substantial impulse to
put it on, and make sure that the noise was not anything other than his
sisters' preparations for their early start. For himself, he would have
had everything packed and corded long before dinner, if he was to start
next day, except just a suit case that would hold the apparatus of
immediate necessities, but then dear Hermy and Ursy were so ramshackle
in their ways. Some time he would have bells put on all the shutters as
he had determined to do a month ago, and then no sort of noise would
disturb him any more....
The Yoga-class next morning was (unusually) to assemble at ten,
since Peppino, who would not miss it for anything, was going to have a
day's fishing in the happy stream that flowed into the Avon, and he
wanted to be off by eleven. Peppino had made great progress lately and
had certain curious dizzy symptoms when he meditated which were highly
Georgie breakfasted with his sisters at eight (they had enticed the
motor out of him to convey them to Brinton) and when they were gone,
Foljambe informed him that the housemaid had a sore throat, and had not
“done” the drawing-room. Foljambe herself would “do” it, when she had
cleaned the “young ladies'“ rooms (there was a hint of scorn in this)
upstairs, and so Georgie sat on the window seat of the dining-room, and
thought how pleasant peace and quietness were. But just when it was
time to start for The Hurst in order to talk over the disclosures of
the night before with Lucia before the class, and perhaps to frame some
secretive policy which would obviate further exposure, he remembered
that he had left his cigarette-case (the pretty straw one with the
turquoise in the corner) in the drawing-room and went to find it. The
window was open, and apparently Foljambe had just come in to let
fresh air into the atmosphere which Hermy and Ursy had so
uninterruptedly contaminated last night with their “fags” as they
called them, but his cigarette-case was not on the table where he
thought he had left it. He looked round, and then stood rooted to the
His glass-case of treasures was not only open but empty. Gone was
the Louis XVI snuff-box, gone was the miniature of Karl Huth, gone the
piece of Bow China, and gone the Faberge cigarette case. Only the Queen
Anne toy-porringer was there, and in the absence of the others, it
looked to him, as no doubt it had looked to the burglar, indescribably
Georgie gave a little low wailing cry, but did not tear his hair for
obvious reasons. Then he rang the bell three times in swift succession,
which was the signal to Foljambe that even if she was in her bath, she
must come at once. In she came with one of Hermy's horrid woolen
jerseys that had been left behind, in her hand.
“Yes, sir, what is it?” she asked, in an agitated manner, for never
could she remember Georgie having rung the bell three times except once
when a fish-bone had stuck in his throat, and once again when a note
had announced to him that Piggy was going to call and hoped to find him
alone. For answer Georgie pointed to the rifled treasure-case. “Gone!
Burgled!” he said. “Oh, my God!”
At that supreme moment the telephone bell sounded.
“See what it is,” he said to Foljambe, and put the Queen Anne
toy-porringer in his pocket.
She came hurrying back.
“Mrs Lucas wants you to come around at once,” she said.
“I can't,” said Georgie. “I must stop here and send for the police.
Nothing must be moved,” and he hastily replaced the toy-porringer on
the exact circle of pressed velvet where it had stood before.
“Yes, sir,” said Foljambe, but in another moment she returned.
“She would be very much obliged if you would come at once,” she
said. “There's been a robbery in the house.”
“Well, tell her there's been one in mine,” said Georgie irritably.
Then good-nature mixed with furious curiosity came to his aid.
“Wait here, then, Foljambe, on this very spot,” he said, “and see
that nobody touches anything. I shall probably ring up the police from
The Hurst. Admit them.”
In his agitation he put on his hat, instead of going bareheaded and
was received by Lucia, who had clearly been looking out of the
music-room window, at the door. She wore her Teacher's Robe.
“Georgie,” she said, quite forgetting to speak Italian in her
greeting, “someone broke into Philip's safe last night, and took a
hundred pounds in bank-notes. He had put them there only yesterday in
order to pay in cash for that cob. And my Roman pearls.”
Georgie felt a certain pride of achievement.
“I've been burgled, too,” he said. “My Louis XVI snuff-box is worth
more than that, and there's the piece of Bow china, and the
cigarette-case, and the Karl Huth as well.”
“My dear! Come inside,” said she. “It's a gang. And I was feeling so
peaceful and exalted. It will make a terrible atmosphere in the house.
My Guru will be profoundly affected. An atmosphere where thieves have
been will stifle him. He has often told me how he cannot stop in a
house where there have been wicked emotions at play. I must keep it
from him. I cannot lose him.”
Lucia had sunk down on a spacious Elizabethan settle in the hall.
The humorous spider mocked them from the window, the humorous stone
fruit from the plate beside the pot-pourri bowl. Even as she repeated,
“I cannot lose him,” again, a tremendous rap came on the front door,
and Georgie, at a sign from his queen, admitted Mrs Quantock.
“Robert and I have been burgled,” she said. “Four silver
spoons—thank God, most of our things are plate—eight silver forks and
a Georgian tankard. I could have spared all but the last.”
A faint sign of relief escaped Lucia. If the foul atmosphere of
thieves permeated Daisy's house, too, there was no great danger that
her Guru would go back there. She instantly became sublime.
“Peace!” she said. “Let us have our class first, for it is ten
already, and not let any thought of revenge or evil spoil that for us.
If I sent for the police now I could not concentrate. I will not tell
my Guru what has happened to any of us, but for poor Peppino's sake I
will ask him to give us rather a short lesson. I feel completely calm.
Vague nightmare images began to take shape in Georgie's mind,
unworthy suspicions based on his sisters' information the evening
before. But with Foljambe keeping guard over the Queen Anne porringer,
there was nothing more to fear, and he followed Lucia, her silver cord
with tassels gently swinging as she moved, to the smoking-parlour,
where Peppino was already sitting on the floor, and breathing in a
rather more agitated manner than was usual with the advanced class.
There were fresh flowers on the table, and the scented morning breeze
blew in from the garden. According to custom they all sat down and
waited, getting calmer and more peaceful every moment. Soon there would
be the tapping of slippered heels on the walk of broken paving-stones
outside, and for the time they would forget all these disturbances. But
they were all rather glad that Lucia was to ask the Guru to give them a
shorter lesson than usual.
They waited. Presently the hands of the Cromwellian timepiece which
was the nearest approach to an Elizabethan clock that Lucia had been
able at present to obtain, pointed to a quarter past ten.
“My Guru is a little late,” said she.
Two minutes afterwards, Peppino sneezed. Two minutes after that
Daisy spoke, using irony.
“Would it not be well to see what has happened to your Guru, dear?”
she asked. “Have you seen your Guru this morning?”
“No, dear,” said Lucia, not opening her eyes, for she was
“concentrating,” “he always meditates before a class.”
“So do I,” said Daisy, “but I have meditated long enough.”
“Hush!” said Lucia. “He is coming.”
That proved to be a false alarm, for it was nothing but Lucia's
Persian cat, who had a quarrel with some dead laurel leaves. Lucia
“I don't like to interrupt him,” she said, “but time is getting on.”
She left the smoking-parlour with the slow supple walk that she
adopted when she wore her Teacher's Robes. Before many seconds had
passed, she came back more quickly and with no suppleness.
“His door is locked", she said; “and yet there's no key in it.”
“Did you look through the keyhole, Lucia mia?” asked Mrs
Quantock, with irrepressible irony.
Naturally Lucia disregarded this.
“I knocked,” she said, “and there was no reply. I said, 'Master, we
are waiting,' and he didn't answer.”
Suddenly Georgie spoke, as with the report of a cork flying out of a
“My sisters told me last night that he was the curry-cook at the
Calcutta restaurant,” he said. “They recognised him, and they thought
he recognised them. He comes from Madras, and is no more a Brahmin than
Peppino bounded to his feet.
“What?” he said. “Let's get a poker and break in the door! I believe
he's gone and I believe he's the burglar. Ring for the police.”
“Curry-cook, is he?” said Daisy. “Robert and I were right after all.
We knew what your Guru was best fitted for, dear Lucia, but then of
course you always know best, and you and he have been fooling us
finely. But you didn't fool me. I knew when you took him away from me,
what sort of a bargain you had made. Guru, indeed! He's the same class
as Mrs Eddy, and I saw through her fast enough. And now what are we to
do? For my part, I shall just get home, and ring up for the police, and
say that the Indian who has been living with you all these weeks has
stolen my spoons and forks and my Georgian tankard. Guru, indeed!
Burglaroo, I call him! There!”
Her passion, like Hyperion's, had lifted her upon her feet, and she
stood there defying the whole of the advanced class, short and stout
and wholly ridiculous, but with some revolutionary menace about her.
She was not exactly “terrible as an army with banners,” but she was
terrible as an elderly lady with a long-standing grievance that had
been accentuated by the loss of a Georgian tankard, and that was
terrible enough to make Lucia adopt a conciliatory attitude. Bitterly
she repented having stolen Daisy's Guru at all, if the suspicions now
thickening in the air proved to be true, but after all they were not
proved yet. The Guru might still walk in from the arbor on the laburnum
alley which they had not yet searched, or he might be levitating with
the door key in his pocket. It was not probable but it was possible,
and at this crisis possibilities were things that must be clung to, for
otherwise you would simply have to submerge, like those U-boats.
They searched all the garden, but found no trace of the curry-cook:
they made guarded enquiries of the servants as to whether he had been
seen, but nothing whatever could be learned about him. So when Peppino
took a ponderous hammer and a stout chisel from his tool chest and led
the way upstairs, they all knew that the decisive moment had come.
Perhaps he might be meditating (for indeed it was likely that he had a
good deal to meditate about), but perhaps—Peppino called to him in his
most sonorous tones, and said that he would be obliged to break his
lock if no answer came, and presently the house resounded with
knockings as terrible as those in Macbeth, and much louder. Then
suddenly the lock gave, and the door was open.
The room was empty, and as they had all conjectured by now, the bed
was unslept in. They opened the drawers of the wardrobe and they were
as empty as the room. Finally, Peppino unlocked the door of a large
cupboard that stood in the corner, and with a clinking and crashing of
glass there poured out a cataract of empty brandy bottles. Emptiness:
that was the key-note of the whole scene, and blank consternation its
“My brandy!” said Mrs Quantock in a strangled voice. “There are
fourteen or fifteen bottles. That accounts for the glazed look in his
eyes which you, dear Lucia, thought was concentration. I call it
“Did he take it from your cellar?” asked Lucia, too shattered to
feel resentment, but still capable of intense curiosity.
“No: he had a standing order from me to order any little things he
might want from my tradesmen. I wish I had my bills sent in every
“Yes, dear,” said Lucia.
Georgie's eyes sought hers.
“I saw him buy the first bottle,” he said. “I remember telling you
about it. It was at Rush's”
Peppino gathered up his hammer and chisel.
“Well, it's no use sitting here and thinking of old times,” he
observed. “I shall ring up the police-station and put the whole matter
into their hands, as far as I am concerned. They'll soon lay hands on
him, and he can do his postures in prison for the next few years.”
“But we don't know that it was he who committed all these burglaries
yet,” said Lucia.
No one felt it was worth answering this, for the others had all
tried and convicted him already.
“I shall do the same,” said Georgie.
“My tankard,” said Mrs Quantock. Lucia got up.
“Peppino mio,” she said, “and you, Georgie, and you, Daisy, I
want you before you do anything at all to listen to me for five
minutes. Just consider this. What sort of figure shall we all cut if we
put the matter into the hands of the police? They will probably catch
him, and it will all come out that we have been the dupes of a
curry-cook. Think what we have all been doing for this last month,
think of our classes, our exercises, our—everything. We have been made
fools of, but for my part, I simply couldn't bear that everybody should
know I had been made a fool of. Anything but that. What's a hundred
pounds compared to that, or a tankard—”
“My Louis XVI snuff-box was worth at least that without the other
things,” said Georgie, still with a secret satisfaction in being the
“And it was my hundred pounds, not yours, carissima,” said
Peppino. But it was clear that Lucia's words were working within him
“I'll go halves with you,” she said. I'll give you a cheque for
“And who would like to go halves in my tankard?” said Daisy with
bitter irony. “I want my tankard.”
Georgie said nothing, but his mind was extremely busy. There was
Olga soon coming to Riseholme, and it would be awful if she found it
ringing with the tale of the Guru, and glancing across to Peppino, he
saw a thoughtful and sympathetic look in his eyes, that seemed to
indicate that his mind was working on parallel lines. Certainly Lucia
had given them all something to meditate upon. He tried to imagine the
whole story being shouted into Mrs Antrobus's ear-trumpet on the
village-green, and could not endure the idea. He tried to imagine Mrs
Weston ever ceasing to talk about it, and could not picture her
silence. No doubt they had all been taken in, too, but here in this
empty bedroom were the original dupes, who encouraged the rest.
After Mrs Quantock's enquiry a dead silence fell.
“What do you propose, then?” asked Peppino, showing signs of
Lucia exerted her utmost wiles.
“Caro!” she said. “I want 'oo to propose. Daisy and me, we
silly women, we want 'oo and Georgie to tell us what to do. But if
Lucia must speak, I fink—”
She paused a moment, and observing strong disgust at her playfulness
on Mrs Quantock's face, reverted to ordinary English again.
“I should do something of this sort,” she said. “I should say that
dear Daisy's Guru had left us quite suddenly, and that he has had a
call somewhere else. His work here was done; he had established our
classes, and set all our feet upon the Way. He always said that
something of the sort might happen to him——”
“I believe he had planned it all along,” said Georgie. “He knew the
thing couldn't last for ever, and when my sisters recognised him, he
concluded it was time to bolt.”
“With all the available property he could lay hands on,” said Mrs
Lucia fingered her tassel.
“Now about the burglaries,” she said. “It won't do to let it be
known that three burglaries were committed in one night, and that
simultaneously Daisy's Guru was called away—”
“My Guru, indeed!” said Mrs Quantock, fizzing with indignation at
the repetition of this insult.
“That might give rise to suspicion,” continued Lucia calmly,
disregarding the interruption, “and we must stop the news from
spreading. Now with regard to our burglary ... let me think a moment.”
She had got such complete control of them all now that no one spoke.
“I have it,” she said. “Only Boaler knows, for Peppino told her not
to say a word till the police had been sent for. You must tell her,
carissimo, that you have found the hundred pounds. That settles
that. Now you, Georgie.”
“Foljambe knows,” said Georgie.
“Then tell her not to say a word about it. Put some more things out
in your lovely treasure-case, no one will notice. And you, Daisy.”
“Robert is away,” said she, quite meekly, for she had been thinking
things over. “My maid knows.”
“And when he comes back, will he notice the loss of the tankard? Did
you often use it?”
“About once in ten years.”
“Chance it, then,” said Lucia. “Just tell your maid to say nothing
She became deliciously modest again.
“There!” she said. “That's just a little rough idea of mine and now
Peppino and Georgie will put their wise heads together, and tell us
what to do.”
That was easily done: they repeated what she had said, and she
corrected them if they went wrong. Then once again she stood fingering
the tassels of her Teacher's Robe.
“About our studies,” she said. “I for one should be very sorry to
drop them altogether, because they made such a wonderful difference to
me, and I think you all felt the same. Look at Georgie now: he looks
ten years younger than he did a month ago, and as for Daisy, I wish I
could trip about as she does. And it wouldn't do, would it, to drop
everything just because Daisy's Guru—I mean our Guru—had been called
away. It would look as if we weren't really interested in what he
taught us, as if it was only the novelty of having a—a Brahmin among
us that had attracted us.”
Lucia smiled benignly at them all.
“Perhaps we shall find, bye and bye, that we can't progress much all
by ourselves,” she said, “and it will all drop quietly. But don't let
us drop it with a bang. I shall certainly take my elementary class as
usual this afternoon.”
“In my Robe, just as usual,” she said.
The fish for which Mrs Weston sent to Brinton every week since she
did not like the look of the successor to Tommy Luton's mother lay
disregarded on the dish, while with fork and fish-slice in her hand, as
aids to gesticulation, she was recounting to Colonel Boucher the
complete steps that had led up to her remarkable discovery.
“It was the day of Mrs Lucas's garden-party.” she said, “when first
I began to have my ideas, and you may be sure I kept them to myself,
for I'm not one to speak before I'm pretty sure, but now if the King
and Queen came to me on their bended knee and said it wasn't so, I
shouldn't believe them. Well—as you may remember, we all went back to
Mrs Lucas's party again about half-past six, and it was an umbrella
that one had left behind, and a stick that another had forgotten, and
what not, for me it was a book all about Venice, that I wanted to
borrow, most interesting I am sure, but I haven't had time to glance at
it yet, and there was Miss Bracely just come!”
Mrs Weston had to pause a moment for her maid, Elizabeth Luton
(cousin of Tommy), jogged her elbow with the dishcover in a manner that
could not fail to remind her that Colonel Boucher was still waiting for
his piece of brill. As she carved it for him, he rapidly ran over in
his mind what seemed to be the main points so far, for as yet there was
no certain clue as to the purpose of this preliminary matter, he
guessed either Guru or Miss Bracely. Then he received his piece of
brill, and Mrs Weston laid down her carving implements again.
“You'd better help yourself, ma'am,” said Elizabeth discreetly.
“So I had, and I'll give you a piece of advice too, Elizabeth, and
that is to give the Colonel a glass of wine. Burgundy! I was only
wondering this afternoon when it began to turn chilly, if there was a
bottle or two of the old Burgundy left, which Mr Weston used to be so
fond of, and there was. He bought it on the very spot where it was
made, and he said there wasn't a headache in it, not if you drank it
all night. He never did, for a couple of glasses and one more was all
he ever took, so I don't know how he knew about drinking it all night,
but he was a very fine judge of wine. So I said to Elizabeth, 'A bottle
of the old Burgundy, Elizabeth,' Well, on that evening I stopped behind
a bit, to have another look at the Guru, and get my book, and when I
came up the street again, what should I see but Miss Bracely walking in
to the little front garden at 'Old Place.' It was getting dark, I know,
and my eyes aren't like Mrs Antrobus's, which I call gimlets, but I saw
her plain enough. And if it wasn't the next day, it was the day after
that, that they began mending the roof, and since then, there have been
plumbers and painters and upholsterers and furniture vans at the door
day and night.”
“Haw, hum,” said the Colonel, “then do you mean that it's Miss
Bracely who has taken it?”
Mrs Weston nodded her head up and down.
“I shall ask you what you think when I've told you all,” she said.
“Well! There came a day, and if today's Friday it would be last Tuesday
fortnight, and if today's Thursday, for I get mixed about it this
morning, and then I never get it straight till next Sunday, but if
today's Thursday, then it would be last Monday fortnight, when the Guru
went away very suddenly, and I'm sure I wasn't very sorry, because
those breathings made me feel very giddy and yet I didn't like to be
out of it all. Mr Georgie's sisters went away the same day, and I've
often wondered whether there was any connection between the two events,
for it was odd their happening together like that, and I'm not sure
we've heard the last of it yet.”
Colonel Boucher began to wonder whether this was going to be about
the Guru after all and helped himself to half a partridge. This had the
effect of diverting Mrs Weston's attention.
“No,” she said. “I insist on your taking the whole bird. They are
quite small, and I was disappointed when I saw them plucked, and a bit
of cold ham and a savoury is all the rest of your dinner. Mary asked me
if I wouldn't have an apple tart as well, but I said 'No; the Colonel
never touches sweets, but he'll have a partridge, a whole partridge,' I
said, 'and he won't complain of his dinner.' Well! On the day that they
all went away, whatever the explanation of that was, I was sitting in
my chair opposite the Arms, when out came the landlord followed by two
men carrying the settle that stood on the right of the fireplace in the
hall. So I said, 'Well, landlord, who has ordered that handsome piece?'
For handsome it was with it carved arms. And he said, 'Good morning,
ma'am no, good afternoon ma'am, it would be—It's for Miss—and then he
stopped dead and corrected himself, 'It's for Mr Pillson.'“
Mrs Weston rapidly took a great quantity of mouthfuls of partridge.
As soon as possible she went on.
“So perhaps you can tell me where it is now, if it was for Mr
Georgie,” she said. “I was there only two days ago, and it wasn't in
his hall, or in his dining room, or in his drawing room, for though
there are changes there, that settle isn't one of them. It's his
treasure case that's so altered. The snuff-box is gone, and the
cigarette case and the piece of Bow china, and instead there's a
rat-tail spoon which he used to have on his dinner-table, and made a
great fuss with, and a bit of Worcester china that used to stand on the
mantelpiece, and a different cigarette case, and a bead-bag. I don't
know where that same from, but if he inherited it, he didn't inherit
much that time, I priced it at five shillings. But there's no settle in
the treasure-case or out of it, and if you want to know where that
settle is, it's in Old Place, because I saw it there myself, when the
door was open, as I passed. He bought it—Mr Georgie—on behalf of Miss
Bracely, unless you suppose that Mr Georgie is going to live in Old
Place one day and his own house the next. No; it's Miss Bracely who is
going to live at 'Old Place' and that explains the landlord saying
'Miss' and then stopping. For some reason, and I daresay that won't
puzzle me long, now I can give my mind to it, she's making a secret
about it, and only Mr Georgie and the landlord of the Arms know. Of
course he had to, for 'Old Place' is his, and I wish I had bought it
myself now, for he got it for an old song.”
“Well, by Jove, you have pieced it together finely,” said Colonel
“Wait a bit,” said Mrs Weston, rising to her climax. “This very day,
when Mary, that's my cook as you know, was coming back from Brinton
with that bit of brill we've been eating, for they hadn't got an ounce
of turbot, which I wanted, a luggage-train was standing at Riseholme
station, and they had just taken out of it a case that could have held
nothing but a grand piano. And if that's not enough for you, Colonel,
there were two big dress-baskets as well, which I think must have
contained linen, for they were corded, and it took two men to move each
of them, so Mary said, and there's nothing so heavy as linen properly
packed, unless it's plate, and there printed on them in black—no, it
would be white, because the dress-baskets are black, were two initials,
O.B. And if you can point to another O.B. in Riseholme I shall think
I've lost my memory.”
At this moment of supreme climax, the telephone-bell rang in the
hall, shrill through the noise of cracking walnuts, and in came
Elizabeth with the news that Mr Georgie wanted to know if he might come
in for half-an-hour and chat. If it had been Olga Bracely herself, she
could hardly have been more welcome; virtue (the virtue of observation
and inference) was receiving its immediate reward.
“Delighted; say I'm delighted, Elizabeth,” said Mrs Weston, “and
now, Colonel, why should you sit all alone here, and I all alone in the
drawing room? Bring your decanter and your glass with you, and you
shall spare me half a glass for myself, and if you can't guess what one
of the questions that I shall ask Mr Georgie is: well——”
Georgie made haste to avail himself of this hospitality for he was
bursting with the most important news that had been his since the night
of the burglaries. Today he had received permission to let it be known
that Olga was coming to Old Place, for Mr Shuttleworth had been
informed of the purchase and furnishing of the house, and had, as
expected, presented his wife with it, a really magnificent gift. So now
Riseholme might know, too, and Georgie, as eager as Hermes, if not
quite so swift, tripped across to Mrs Weston's, on his delightful
errand. It was, too, of the nature of just such a punitive expedition
as Georgie thoroughly enjoyed, for Lucia all this week had been rather
haughty and cold with him for his firm refusal to tell her who the
purchaser of Old Place was. He had admitted that he knew, but had said
that he was under promise not to reveal that, until permitted and Lucia
had been haughty in consequence. She had, in fact, been so haughty that
when Georgie rang her up just now, before ringing Mrs Weston up, to ask
if he might spend an hour after dinner there, fully intending to tell
her the great news, she had replied through her parlour-maid that she
was very busy at the piano. Very well, if she preferred the second and
third movements of the Moonlight Sonata, which she had seriously taken
in hand, to Georgie's company, why, he would offer himself and his
great news elsewhere. But he determined not to bring it out at once;
that sort of thing must be kept till he said it was time to go away.
Then he would bring it out, and depart in the blaze of Success.
He had brought a pretty piece of embroidery with him to occupy
himself with, for his work had fallen into sad arrears during August,
and he settled himself comfortably down close to the light, so that at
the cost of very little eye-strain, he need not put on his spectacles.
“Any news?” he asked, according to the invariable formula. Mrs
Weston caught the Colonel's eye. She was not proposing to bring out her
tremendous interrogation just yet.
“Poor Mrs Antrobus. Toothache!” she said. “I was in the chemist's
this morning and who should come in but Miss Piggy, and she wanted a
drop of laudanum and had to say what it was for, and even then she had
to sign a paper. Very unpleasant, I call it, to be obliged to let a
chemist know that your mother has a toothache. But there it was, tell
him she had to, or go away without any laudanum. I don't know whether
Mr Doubleday wasn't asking more than he should, just out of
inquisitiveness, for I don't see what business it is of his. I know
what I should have said: 'Oh, Mr Doubleday, I want it to make laudanum
tartlets, we are all so fond of laudanum tartlets.' Something sharp and
sarcastic like that, to show him his place. But I expect it did Mrs
Antrobus good, for there she was on the green in the afternoon, and her
face wasn't swollen for I had a good look at her. Oh, and there was
something I wanted to ask you, Mr Georgie, and I had it on the tip of
my tongue a moment ago. We talked about it at dinner, the Colonel and
I, while we were eating our bit of partridge, and I thought 'Mr Georgie
will be sure to be able to tell us,' and if you didn't ring up on the
telephone immediately afterwards! That seemed just Providential, but
what's the use of that, if I can't remember what it was that I wanted
to ask you.”
This seemed a good opening for his startling news, but Georgie
rejected it, as it was too early yet. “I wonder what it could have
been,” he said.
“Well, it will come back to me presently, and here's our coffee, and
I see Elizabeth hasn't forgotten to bring a drop of something good for
you two gentlemen. And I don't say that I won't join you, if Elizabeth
will bring another glass. What with a glass of Burgundy at my dinner,
and a drop of brandy now, I shall be quite tipsy unless I take care.
The Guru now, Mr Georgie, no, that's not what I wanted to ask you
about—but has there been any news of the Guru?”
For a moment in this juxtaposition of the topics of brandy and Guru,
Georgie was afraid that something might have leaked out about the
contents of the cupboard in Othello. But it was evidently a chance
combination, for Mrs Weston went straight on without waiting for an
“What a day that was,” she said, “when he and Miss Olga Bracely were
both at Mrs Lucas' garden-party. Ah, now I've got it; now I know what I
wanted to ask. When will Miss Olga Bracely come to live at Old Place?
Quite soon now, I suppose.”
If Georgie had not put down his embroidery with great expedition, he
would undoubtedly have pricked his finger.
“But how on earth did you know she was coming at all?” he said. “I
was just going to tell you that she was coming, as a great bit of news.
How tarsome! It's spoiled all my pleasure.”
“Haw, hum, not a very gallant speech, when you're talking to Mrs
Weston,” said the Colonel, who hated Georgie's embroidery.
Luckily the pleasure in the punitive part of the expedition remained
and Georgie recovered himself. He had some news too; he could answer
Mrs Weston's question.
“But it was to have been such a secret until the whole thing was
ready,” he said. “I knew all along; I have known since the day of the
garden-party. No one but me, not even her husband.”
He was well rewarded for the recovery of his temper. Mrs Weston put
down her glass of something good untasted.
“What?” she said. “Is she going to live here alone in hiding from
him? Have they quarrelled so soon?”
Georgie had to disappoint her about this, and gave the authentic
“And she's coming next week, Monday probably,” he said.
They were all now extremely happy, for Mrs Weston felt convinced
that nobody else had put two and two together with the same brilliant
result as herself, and Georgie was in the even superior position of
having known the result without having to do any addition at all, and
Colonel Boucher enjoyed the first fruits of it all. When they parted,
having thoroughly discussed it, the chief preoccupation in the minds of
all was the number of Riseholmites that each of them would be the first
to pass on the news to, Mrs Weston could tell Elizabeth that night, and
Colonel Boucher his bull-dogs, but the first blood was really drawn by
Georgie, who seeing a light in Mrs Quantock's drawing room when he
returned, dropped in for a moment and scored a right and left by
telling Robert who let him in, before going upstairs, and Mrs Quantock
when he got there. It was impossible to do any more that night.
Lucia was always very busy of a morning in polishing the sword and
shield of Art, in order to present herself daily to her subjects in
shining armour, and keep a little ahead of them all in culture, and
thus did not as a rule take part in the parliament on the Green.
Moreover Georgie usually dropped in before lunch, and her casual
interrogation “Any news?” as they sat down to the piano, elicited from
him, as in a neat little jug, the cream of the morning's milkings.
Today she was attired in her Teacher's Robe, for the elementary class,
though not always now in full conclave, gathered at her house on
Tuesdays and Fridays. There had been signs of late that the interest of
her pupils was on the wane, for Colonel Boucher had not appeared for
two meetings, nor had Mrs Weston come to the last, but it was part of
Lucia's policy to let Guruism die a natural death without herself
facilitating its happy release, and she meant to be ready for her class
at the appointed times as long as anybody turned up. Besides the
Teacher's Robe was singularly becoming and she often wore it when there
was no question of teaching at all.
But today, though she would not have been surprised at the complete
absence of pupils, she was still in consultation with her cook over the
commissariat of the day, when a succession of tinklings from the
mermaid's tail, announced that a full meeting was assembling. Her maid
in fact had announced to her without pause except to go to the door and
back, though it still wanted a few minutes to eleven, that Colonel
Boucher, Mrs Weston, Mrs Antrobus and Piggy were all assembled in the
smoking-parlour. Even as she passed through the hall on her way 'there,
Georgie came hurrying across Shakespeare's garden, his figure distorted
through the wavy glass of the windows, and she opened the door to him
“Georgino mio,” she said, “oo not angry with Lucia for saying
she was busy last night? And now I'm just going to take my Yoga-class.
They all came rather early and I haven't seen any of them yet. Any
Georgie heaved a sigh; all Riseholme knew by this time, and he was
going to score one more by telling Lucia.
“My dear, haven't you heard yet?” he asked. “I was going to tell you
“The tenant of Old Place?” asked Lucia unerringly.
“Yes. Guess!” said Georgie tantalizingly. This was his last
revelation and he wanted to spin it out.
Lucia decided on a great stroke, involving risks but magnificent if
it came off. In a flash she guessed why all the Yoga-class had come so
super-punctually; each of them she felt convinced wanted to have the
joy of telling her, after everybody else knew, who the new tenant was.
On the top of this bitterness was the added acrimony of Georgie, whose
clear duty it was to have informed her the moment he knew, wanting to
make the same revelation to her, last of all Riseholme. She had already
had her suspicions, for she had not forgotten the fact that Olga
Bracely and Georgie had played croquet all afternoon when they should
have been at her garden-party, and she determined to risk all for the
sake of spoiling Georgie's pleasure in telling her. She gave her
silvery laugh, that started, so she had ascertained, on A flat above
the treble clef.
“Georgino, did all my questions as to who it was really take
you in?” she asked. “Just as if I hadn't known all along! Why, Miss
Olga Bracely, of course!”
Georgie's fallen face shewed her how completely she had spoiled his
“Who told you?” he asked.
She rattled her tassels.
“Little bird!” she said. “I must run away to my class, or they will
Once again before they settled down to high philosophies, Lucia had
the pleasure of disappointing the ambitions of her class to surprise,
inform and astonish her.
“Good morning to you all,” she said, “and before we settle down I'll
give you a little bit of news now that at last I'm allowed to. Dear
Miss Olga Bracely, whom I think you all met here, is coming to live at
Old Place. Will she not be a great addition to our musical parties?
But this splendid bravado was but a scintillation, on a hard and
highly polished surface, and had Georgie been able to penetrate into
Lucia's heart he would have found complete healing for his recent
severe mortification. He did not really believe that Lucia had known
all along, like himself, who the new tenant was, for her enquiries had
seemed to be pointed with the most piercing curiosity, but, after all,
Lucia (when she did not forget her part) was a fine actress, and
perhaps all the time he thought he had been punishing her, she had been
fooling him. And, in any ease, he certainly had not had the joy of
telling her; whether she had guessed or really knew, it was she who had
told him, and there was no getting over it. He went back straight home
and drew a caricature of her.
But if Georgie was sitting with a clouded brow, Lucia was troubled
by nothing less than a raging tornado of agitated thought. Though Olga
would undoubtedly be a great addition to the musical talent of
Riseholme, would she fall into line, and, for instance, “bring her
music” and sing after dinner when Lucia asked her? As regards music, it
was possible that she might be almost too great an addition, and cause
the rest of the gifted amateurs to sink into comparative
insignificance. At present Lucia was high-priestess at every altar of
Art, and she could not think with equanimity of seeing anybody in
charge of the ritual at any. Again to so eminent an opera-singer there
must be conceded a certain dramatic knowledge, and indeed Georgie had
often spoken to Lucia of that superb moment when Brunnhilde woke and
hailed the sun. Must Lucia give up the direction of dramatic art as
well as of music?
Point by point pricked themselves out of the general gloom, and
hoisted danger signals; then suddenly the whole was in blaze together.
What if Olga took the lead, not in this particular or in that, but
attempted to constitute herself supreme in the affairs of Riseholme? It
was all very well for her to be a brilliant bird of passage just for a
couple of days, and drop so to speak, “a moulted feather, a eagle's
feather” on Lucia's party, thereby causing it to shine out from all
previous festivities, making it the Hightumest affair that had ever
happened, but it was a totally different matter to contemplate her
permanent residence here. It seemed possible that then she might keep
her feathers to line her own eyrie. She thought of Belshazzar's feast,
and the writing of doom on the wall which she was Daniel enough to
interpret herself, “Thy kingdom is divided” it said, “and given to the
Bracelys or the Shuttleworths.”
She rallied her forces. If Olga meant to show herself that sort of
woman, she should soon know with whom she had to deal. Not but what
Lucia would give her the chance first of behaving with suitable loyalty
and obedience; she would even condescend to cooperate with her so long
as it was perfectly clear that she aimed at no supremacy. But there was
only one lawgiver in Riseholme, one court of appeal, one dispenser of
Her own firmness of soul calmed and invigorated her, and changing
her Teacher's Robe for a walking dress, she went out up the road that
led by Old Place, to see what could be observed of the interior from
One morning about the middle of October, Lucia was seated at
breakfast and frowning over a note she had just received. It began
without any formality and was written in pencil.
“Do look in about half-past nine on Saturday and be
silly for an hour or two. We'll play games and
dance, shall we? Bring your husband of course, and
don't bother to reply.
“An invitation,” she said icily, as she passed it to her husband.
“Rather short notice.”
“We're not doing anything, are we?” he asked.
Peppino was a little imperceptive sometimes.
“No, it wasn't that I meant,” she said. “But there's a little more
informality about it than one would expect.”
“Probably it's an informal party,” said he.
“It certainly seems most informal. I am not accustomed to be asked
quite like that.”
Peppino began to be aware of the true nature of the situation.
“I see what you mean, cara,” he said. “So don't let us go.
Then she will take the hint perhaps.”
Lucia thought this over for a moment and found that she rather
wanted to go. But a certain resentment that had been slowly
accumulating in her mind for some days past began to leak out first,
before she consented to overlook Olga's informality.
“It is a fortnight since I called on her,” she said, “and she has
not even returned the call. I daresay they behave like that in London
in certain circles, but I don't know that London is any better for it.”
“She has been away twice since she came,” said Peppino. “She has
hardly been here for a couple of days together yet.”
“I may be wrong,” said Lucia. “No doubt I am wrong. But I should
have thought that she might have spared half-an-hour out of these days
by returning my call. However, she thought not.”
Peppino suddenly recollected a thrilling piece of news which most
unaccountably he had forgotten to tell Lucia.
“Dear me, something slipped my memory,” he said. “I met Mrs Weston
yesterday afternoon, who told me that half an hour ago Miss Bracely had
seen her in her bath-chair and had taken the handles from Tommy Luton,
and pushed her twice round the green, positively running.”
“That does not seem to me of very prime importance,” said Lucia,
though she was thrilled to the marrow. “I do not wonder it slipped your
“Carissima, wait a minute. That is not all. She told Mrs
Weston that she would have returned her call, but that she hadn't got
any calling cards.”
“Impossible!” cried Lucia. “They could have printed them at 'Ye olde
Booke Shop' in an afternoon.”
“That may be so, indeed, if you say so, it is,” said Peppino.
“Anyhow she said she hadn't got any calling cards, and I don't see why
she should lie about it.”
“No, it is not the confession one would be likely to make,” said
she, “unless it was true. Or even if it was,” she added.
“Anyhow it explains why she has not been here,” said Peppino. “She
would naturally like to do everything in order, when she called on you,
carissima. It would have been embarrassing if you were out, and she
could not hand in her card.”
“And about Mr Shuttleworth?” asked she in an absent voice, as if she
had no real interest in her question.
“He has not been seen yet at all, as far as I can gather.”
“Then shall we have no host, if we drop in tomorrow night?”
“Let us go and see, cara,” said he gaily.
Apart from this matter of her call not being returned, Lucia had not
as yet had any reason to suspect Olga of revolutionary designs on the
throne. She had done odd things, pushing Mrs Weston's chair round the
green was one of them, smoking a cigarette as she came back from church
on Sunday was another, but these she set down to the Bohemianism and
want of polish which might be expected from her upbringing, if you
could call an orphan school at Brixton an upbringing at all. This
terrific fact Georgie had let slip in his stern determination to know
twice as much about Olga as anybody else, and Lucia had treasured it.
She had in the last fortnight labelled Olga as “rather common,”
retaining, however, a certain respect for her professional career,
given that that professional career was to be thrown down as a carpet
for her own feet. But, after all, if Olga was a bit Bohemian in her way
of life, as exhibited by the absence of calling cards, Lucia was
perfectly ready to overlook that (confident in the refining influence
of Riseholme), and to go to the informal party next day, if she felt so
disposed, for no direct answer was asked for.
There was a considerable illumination in the windows of Old Place
when she and Peppino set out after dinner next night to go to the
“silly” party, kindly overlooking the informality and the absence of a
return visit to her call. It had been a sloppy day of rain, and, as was
natural, Lucia carried some very smart indoor shoes in a paper-parcel
and Peppino had his Russian goloshes on. These were immense snow-boots,
in which his evening shoes were completely encased, but Lucia preferred
not to disfigure her feet to that extent, and was clad in neat
walking-boots which she could exchange for her smart satin footwear in
the cloak-room. The resumption of walking-boots when the evening was
over was rather a feature among the ladies and was called “The
cobbler's at-home.” The two started rather late, for it was fitting
that Lucia should be the last to arrive.
They had come to the door of the Old Place, and Peppino was fumbling
in the dark for the bell, when Lucia gave a little cry of agony and put
her hands over her ears, just as if she had been seized with a
double-earache of peculiar intensity.
“Gramophone,” she said faintly.
There could be no doubt about that. From the window close at hand
came out the excruciating strains of a very lusty instrument, and the
record was that of a vulgar “catchy” waltz-tune, taken down from a
brass-band. All Riseholme knew what her opinion about gramophones was;
to the lover of Beethoven they were like indecent and profane language
loudly used in a public place. Only one, so far as was known, had ever
come to Riseholme, and that was introduced by the misguided Robert
Quantock. Once he had turned it on in her presence, but the look of
agony which crossed her face was such that he had to stop it
immediately. Then the door was opened, and the abominable noise poured
out in increased volume.
Lucia paused for a moment in indecision. Would it be the great, the
magnificent thing to go home without coming in, trusting to Peppino to
let it be widely known what had turned her back from the door? There
was a good deal to be said for that, for it would be living up to her
own high and immutable standards. On the other hand she particularly
wanted to see what standard of entertaining Olga was initiating. The
“silly evening” was quite a new type of party, for since she had
directed and controlled the social side of things there had been no
“silly evenings” of any kind in Riseholme, and it might be a good thing
to ensure the failure of this (in case she did not like it) by setting
the example of a bored and frosty face. But if she went in, the
gramophone must be stopped. She would sit and wince, and Peppino must
explain her feeling about gramophones. That would be a suitable
exhibition of authority. Or she might tell Olga.
Lucia put on her satin shoes, leaving her boots till the hour of the
cobbler's at-home came, and composing her face to a suitable wince was
led by a footman on tiptoe to the door of the big music room which
Georgie had spoken of.
“If you'll please to step in very quietly, ma'am,” he said.
The room was full of people; all Riseholme was there, and since
there were not nearly enough chairs (Lucia saw that at once) a
large number were sitting on the floor on cushions. At the far end of
the room was a slightly-raised dais, to the corner of which the grand
piano had been pushed, on the top of which, with its braying trumpet
pointing straight at Lucia was an immense gramophone. On the dais was
Olga dancing. She was dressed in some white soft fabric shimmering with
silver, which left her beautiful arms bare to the shoulder. It was cut
squarely and simply about the neck, and hung in straight folds down to
just above her ankles. She held in her hands some long shimmering scarf
of brilliant red, that floated and undulated as she moved, as if
inspired by some life of its own that it drew out of her slim superb
vitality. From the cloud of shifting crimson, with the slow billows of
silver moving rhythmically round her body, that beautiful face looked
out deliciously smiling and brimming with life....
Lucia had hardly entered when with a final bray the gramophone came
to the end of its record, and Olga swept a great curtsey, threw down
her scarf, and stepped off the dais. Georgie was sitting on the floor
close to it, and jumped up, leading the applause. For a moment, though
several heads had been turned at Lucia's entrance, nobody took the
slightest notice of her, indeed, the first apparently to recognize her
presence was her hostess, who just kissed her hand to her, and then
continued talking to Georgie. Then Olga threaded her way through the
besprinkled floor, and came up to her.
“How wise you were to miss that very poor performance,” she said.
“But Mr Georgie insisted that I should make a fool of myself.”
“Indeed, I am sorry not to have been here for it,” said Lucia in her
most stately manner. “It seemed to me very far from being a poor
performance, very far indeed. Caro mio, you remember Miss
“Si, si molto bene,” said Peppino, shaking hands.
“Ah, and you talk Italian,” said Olga. “Che bella lingua! I
wish I knew it.”
“You have a very good pronunciation,” said Lucia.
“Tante grazie. You know everyone here of course. Now, what
shall we do next? Clumps or charades or what? Ah, there are some
cigarettes. Won't you have one?”
Lucia gave a little scream of dismay.
“A cigarette for me? That would be a very odd thing,” she said. Then
relenting, as she remembered that Olga must be excused for her
ignorance, she added: “You see I never smoke. Never.”
“Oh, you should learn,” said Olga. “Now let's play clumps. Does
everyone know clumps? If they don't they will find out. Or shall we
dance? There's the gramophone to dance to.”
Lucia put up her hands in playful petition.
“Oh please, no gramophone!” she said.
“Oh, don't you like it?” said Olga. “It's so horrible that I adore
it, as I adore dreadful creatures in an aquarium. But I think we won't
dance till after supper. We'll have supper extremely soon, partly
because I am dying of famine, and partly because people are sillier
afterwards. But just one game of clumps first. Let's see; there are but
enough for four clumps. Please make four clumps everybody, and—and
will you and two more go out with Mr Georgie, Mrs Lucas? We will be as
quick as we can, and we won't think of anything that will make Mr
Georgie blush. Oh, there he is! He heard!”
Olga's intense enjoyment of her own party was rapidly galvanizing
everybody into a much keener gaiety than was at all usual in Riseholme,
where as a rule, the hostess was somewhat anxious and watchful, fearing
that her guests were not amusing themselves, and that the sandwiches
would give out. There was a sit-down supper when the clumps were over
(Mrs Quantock had been the first to guess Beethoven's little toe on his
right foot, which made Lucia wince) and there were not enough men and
maids to wait, and so people foraged for themselves, and Olga paraded
up and down the room with a bottle of champagne in one hand, and a dish
of lobster-salad in the other. She sat for a minute or two first at one
table and then at another, and asked silly riddles, and sent to the
kitchen for a ham, and put out all the electric light by mistake, when
she meant to turn on some more. Then when supper was over they all took
their seats back into the music-room and played musical chairs, at the
end of which Mrs Quantock was left in with Olga, and it was believed
that she said “Damn,” when Mrs Quantock won. Georgie was in charge of
the gramophone which supplied deadly music, quite forgetting that this
was agony to Lucia, and not even being aware when she made a sign to
Peppino, and went away having a cobbler's at-home all to herself.
Nobody noticed when Saturday ended and Sunday began, for Georgie and
Colonel Boucher were cock-fighting on the floor, Georgie screaming out
“How tarsome” when he was upset, and Colonel Boucher very red in the
face saying “Haw, hum. Never thought I should romp again like this. By
Jove, most amusing!” Georgie was the last to leave and did not notice
till he was half-way home that he had a ham-frill adorning his shirt
front. He hoped that it had been Olga who put it there, when he had to
walk blind-fold across the floor and try to keep in a straight line.
Riseholme got up rather late next morning, and had to hurry over its
breakfast in order to be in time for church. There was a slight feeling
of reaction abroad, and a sense of having been young and amused, and of
waking now to the fact of church-bells and middle-age. Colonel Boucher
singing the bass of “A few more years shall roll,” felt his mind
instinctively wandering to the cock-fight the evening before, and
depressedly recollecting that a considerable number of years had rolled
already. Mrs Weston, with her bath-chair in the aisle and Tommy Luton
to hand her hymn-book and prayer-book as she required, looked sideways
at Mrs Quantock, and thought how strange it was that Daisy, so few
hours ago, had been racing round a solitary chair with Georgie's finger
on the gramophone, while Georgie, singing tenor by Colonel Boucher's
ample side, saw with keen annoyance that there was a stain of tarnished
silver on his forefinger, accounted for by the fact that after
breakfast he had been cleaning the frame which held the photograph of
Olga Bracely and had been astonished to hear the church-bells
beginning. Another conducement to depression on his part was the fact
that he was lunching with Lucia, and he could not imagine what Lucia's
attitude would be towards the party last night. She had come to church
rather late, having no use for the General Confession, and sang with
stony fervour. She wore her usual church-face, from which nothing
whatever could be gathered. A great many stealthy glances right and
left from everybody failed to reveal the presence of their hostess of
last night. Georgie, in particular, was sorry for this; he would have
liked her to show that capacity for respectable seriousness which her
presence at church that morning would have implied; while Lucia, in
particular, was glad of this, for it confirmed her view that Miss
Bracely was not, nor could ever be, a true Riseholmite. She had thought
as much last night, and had said so to Peppino. She proposed to say the
same to Georgie today.
Then came a stupefying surprise as Mr Rumbold walked from his stall
to the pulpit for the sermon. Generally he gave out the number of the
short anthem which accompanied this manoeuvre, but today he made no
such announcement. A discreet curtain hid the organist from the
congregation, and veiled his gymnastics with the stops and his antic
dancing on the pedals, and now when Mr Rumbold moved from his stall,
there came from the organ the short introduction to Bach's “Mein
Glaubige Herz,” which even Lucia had allowed to be nearly “equal” to
Beethoven. And then came the voice....
The reaction after the romp last night went out like a snuffed
candle at this divine singing, which was charged with the joyfulness of
some heavenly child. It grew low and soft, it rang out again, it
lingered and tarried, it quickened into the ultimate triumph. No
singing could have been simpler, but that simplicity could only have
sprung from the highest art. But now the art was wholly unconscious; it
was part of the singer who but praised God as the thrushes do. She who
had made gaiety last night, made worship this morning.
As they sat down for the discourse, Colonel Boucher discreetly
whispered to Georgie “By Jove.” And Georgie rather more audibly
answered “Adorable.” Mrs Weston drew a half-a-crown from her purse
instead of her usual shilling, to be ready for the offertory, and Mrs
Quantock wondered if she was too old to learn to sing.
Georgie found Lucia very full of talk that day at luncheon, and was
markedly more Italian than usual. Indeed she put down an Italian
grammar when he entered the drawing-room, and covered it up with the
essays of Antonio Caporelli. This possibly had some connection with the
fact that she had encouraged Olga last night with regard to her
“Ben arrivato, Georgio,” she said. “Ho finito il libro di
Antonio Caporelli quanta memento. E magnifico!“
Georgie thought she had finished it long ago, but perhaps he was
mistaken. The sentence flew off Lucia's tongue as if it was perched
there all quite ready.
“Sono un poco fatigata dopo il—dear me how rusty I am
getting in Italian for I can't remember the word,” she went on. “Anyhow
I am a little tired after last night. A delightful little party, was it
not? It was clever of Miss Bracely to get so many people together at so
short a notice. Once in a while that sort of romp is very well.”
“I enjoyed it quite enormously,” said Georgie.
“I saw you did, cattivo ragazzo,” said she. “You quite forgot
about your poor Lucia and her horror of that dreadful gramophone. I had
to exert all the calmness that Yoga has given me not to scream. But you
were naughty with the gramophone over those musical chairs—unmusical
chairs, as I said to Peppino, didn't I, caro?—taking it off and
putting it on again so suddenly. Each time I thought it was the end.
E pronta la colazione. Andiamo.”
Presently they were seated; the menu, an unusual thing in itself at
luncheon, was written in Italian, the scribe being clearly Lucia.
“I shall want a lot of Georgino's tempo this week,” she said,
“for Peppino and I have quite settled we must give a little after
dinner party next Saturday, and I want you to help me to arrange some
impromptu tableaux. Everything impromptu must just be sketched out
first, and I daresay Miss Bracely worked a great deal at her dance last
night and I wish I had seen more of it. She was a little awkward in the
management of her draperies I thought, but I daresay she does not know
much about dancing. Still it was very graceful and effective for an
amateur, and she carried it off very well.”
“Oh, but she is not quite an amateur,” said Georgie. “She has played
Lucia pursed her lips.
“Indeed, I am sorry she played in that,” she said. “With her
undoubtedly great gifts I should have thought she might have found a
worthier object. Naturally I have not heard it. I should be very much
ashamed to be seen there. But about our tableaux now. Peppino thought
we might open with the Execution of Mary Queen of Scots. It is a
dreadful thing that I have lost my pearls. He would be the executioner
and you the priest. Then I should like to have the awakening of
“That would be lovely,” said Georgie. “Have you asked Miss Olga if
“Georgino mio, you don't quite understand,” said Lucia. “This
party is to be for Miss Bracely. I was her guest last night in spite of
the gramophone, and indeed I hope she will find nothing in my house
that jars on her as much as her gramophone jarred on me. I had a
dreadful nightmare last night—didn't I, Peppino?—in consequence.
About the Brunnhilde tableaux, I thought Peppino would be
Siegfried—and perhaps you could learn just fifteen or twenty bars of
the music and play it while the curtain was up. You can play the same
over again if it is encored. Then how about King Cophetua and the
beggar-maid. I should be with my back to the audience, and should not
turn round at all; it would be quite your tableaux. We will just sketch
them out, as I said, and have a grouping or two to make sure we don't
get in each other's way, and I will see that there are some dresses of
some kind which we can just throw on. The tableaux with a little music,
serious music, would be quite sufficient to keep everybody interested.”
By this time Georgie had got a tolerable inkling of the import of
all this. It was not at present to be war; it was to be magnificent
rivalry, a throwing down perhaps of a gauntlet, which none would
venture to pick up. To confirm this view, Lucia went on with gathering
“I do not propose to have games, romps shall I call them?” she said,
“for as far as I know Riseholme, and perhaps I know it a little better
than dear Miss Bracely, Riseholme does not care for that sort of thing.
It is not quite in our line; we may be right or wrong, I am sure I do
not know, but as a matter of fact, we don't care for that sort
of thing. Dear Miss Bracely did her very best last night; I am sure she
was prompted only by the most hospitable motives, but how should she
know? The supper too. Peppino counted nineteen empty champagne
“Eighteen, carissima,” said Peppino.
“I think you told me nineteen, caro, but it makes very little
difference. Eighteen empty champagne bottles standing on the sideboard,
and no end to the caviare sandwiches which were left over. It was all
too much, though there were not nearly enough chairs, and indeed I
never got one at all except just at supper.”
Lucia leaned forward over the table, with her hands clasped.
“There was display about it, Georgino, and you know how I
hate display,” she said. “Shakespeare was content with the most modest
scenery for his masterpieces, and it would be a great mistake if we
allowed ourselves to be carried away by mere wasteful opulence. In all
the years I have lived here, and contributed in my humble way to the
life of the place, I have heard no complaints about my suppers or teas,
nor about the quality of entertainment which I offer my guests when
they are so good as to say 'Si,' to le mie invitazione.
Art is not advanced by romping, and we are able to enjoy ourselves
without two hundred caviare sandwiches being left over. And such
wasteful cutting of the ham; I had to slice the chunk she gave me over
and over again before I could eat it.”
Georgie felt he could not quite let this pass.
“Well, I had an excellent supper,” he said, “and I enjoyed it very
much. Besides, I saw Peppino tucking in like anything. Ask him what he
thought of it.”
Lucia gave her silvery laugh.
“Georgino, you are a boy,” she said artfully, “and 'tuck in'
as you so vulgarly call it without thinking, I'm saying nothing against
the supper, but I'm sure that Peppino and Colonel Boucher would have
felt better this morning if they had been wiser last night. But that's
not the real point. I want to show Miss Bracely, and I'm sure she will
be grateful for it, the sort of entertainment that has contented us at
Riseholme for so long. I will frame it on her lines; I will ask all and
sundry to drop in with just a few hours' notice, as she did. Everything
shall be good, and there shall be about it all something that I seemed
to miss last night. There was a little bit—how shall I say it?—a
little bit of the footlights about it all. And the footlights didn't
seem to me to have been extinguished at church-time this morning. The
singing of that very fine aria was theatrical, I can't call it less
She fixed Georgie with her black beady eye, and smoothed her
“Theatrical,” she said again. “Now let us have our coffee in the
music-room. Shall Lucia play a little bit of Beethoven to take out any
nasty taste of gramophone? Me no likey gramophone at all. Nebber!”
Georgie now began to feel himself able to sympathise with that
surfeited swain who thought how happy he could be with either, were
t'other dear charmer away. Certainly he had been very happy with Lucia
all these years, before t'other dear charmer alighted in Riseholme, and
now he felt that should Lucia decide, as she had often so nearly
decided, to spend the winter on the Riviera, Riseholme would still be a
very pleasant place of residence. He never was quite sure how seriously
she had contemplated a winter on the Riviera, for the mere mention of
it had always been enough to make him protest that Riseholme could not
possibly exist without her, but today, as he sat and heard (rather than
listened to) a series of slow movements, with a brief and hazardous
attempt at the scherzo of the “Moonlight,” he felt that if any talk of
the Riviera came up, he would not be quite so insistent as to the
impossibility of Riseholme continuing to exist without her. He could,
for instance, have existed perfectly well this Sunday afternoon if
Lucia had been even at Timbuctoo or the Antipodes, for as he went away
last night, Olga had thrown a casual intimation to him that she would
be at home, if he had nothing better to do, and cared to drop in.
Certainly he had nothing better to do but he had something worse to
Peppino was sitting in the window-seat, with eyes closed, because he
listened to music better so, and with head that nodded occasionally,
presumably for the same reason. But the cessation of the slow movement
naturally made him cease to listen, and he stirred and gave the sigh
with which Riseholme always acknowledged the end of a slow movement.
Georgie sighed too, and Lucia sighed; they all sighed, and then Lucia
began again. So Peppino closed his eyes again, and Georgie continued
his mental analysis of the situation.
At present, so he concluded, Lucia did not mean war. She meant, as
by some great armed demonstration, to exhibit the Riseholme spirit in
its full panoply, and then crush into dazzled submission any potential
rivalry. She meant also to exert an educational influence, for she
allowed that Olga had great gifts, and she meant to train and refine
those gifts so that they might, when exercised under benign but
autocratic supervision, conduce to the strength and splendour of
Riseholme. Naturally she must be loyally and ably assisted, and Georgie
realized that the tableau of King Cophetua (his tableau as she had
said) partook of the nature of a bribe, and, if that word was
invidious, of a raising of his pay. It was equally certain that this
prolonged recital of slow movements was intended to produce in his mind
a vivid consciousness of the contrast between the romp last night and
the present tranquil hour, and it did not fail in this respect.
Lucia shut the piano-lid, and almost before they had given their
“I think I will have a little dinner-party first,” she said. “I will
ask Lady Ambermere. That will make us four, with you Georgie, and Miss
Bracely and Mr Shuttleworth will make six. The rest I shall ask to come
in at nine, for I know Lady Ambermere does not like late hours. And now
shall we talk over our tableaux?”
So even Lucia's mind had not been wholly absorbed in Beethoven,
though Georgie, as usual, told her she had never played so divinely.
The manoeuvres of the next week became so bewilderingly complicated
that by Wednesday Georgie was almost thinking of going away to the
seaside with Foljambe and Dicky in sheer despair, and in after years he
could not without great mental effort succeed in straightening it all
out, and the effort caused quite a buzzing in his head.... That Sunday
evening Lucia sent an invitation to Lady Ambermere for “dinner and
tableaux,” to which Lady Ambermere's “people” replied by telephone on
Monday afternoon that her ladyship was sorry to be unable. Lucia
therefore gave up the idea of a dinner-party, and reverted to her
original scheme of an evening party like Olga's got up on the spur of
the moment, with great care and most anxious preparation. The
rehearsals for the impromptu tableaux meantime went steadily forward
behind closed doors, and Georgie wrestled with twenty bars of the music
of the “Awakening of Brunnhilde.” Lucia intended to ask nobody until
Friday evening, and Olga should see what sort of party Riseholme could
raise at a moment's notice.
Early on Tuesday morning the devil entered into Daisy Quantock,
probably by means of subconscious telepathy, and she proceeded to go
round the green at the morning parliament, and ask everybody to come in
for a good romp on Saturday evening, and they all accepted. Georgie,
Lucia and Olga were absentees, and so, making a house-to-house
visitation she went first to Georgie. He with secret knowledge of the
tableaux (indeed he was stitching himself a robe to be worn by King
Cophetua at the time and hastily bundling it under the table) regretted
that he was already engaged. This was rather mysterious, but he might
have planned, for all Mrs Quantock knew, an evening when he would be
“busy indoors,” and since those evenings were never to be pried upon,
she asked no questions, but went off to Lucia's to give her invitation
there. There again she was met with a similarly mysterious refusal.
Lucia much regretted that she and Peppino were unable to come, and she
hoped Daisy would have a lovely party. Even as she spoke, she heard her
telephone bell ringing, and hurried off to find that Georgie, faithful
lieutenant, was acquainting her with the fact that Mrs Quantock was
planning a party for Saturday; he did not know how far she had got. At
that moment she had got just half-way to Old Place, walking at unusual
speed. Lucia grasped the situation with amazing quickness, and cutting
off Georgie with a snap, she abandoned all idea of her party being
impromptu, and rang up Olga. She would secure her anyhow....
The telephone was in the hall, and Olga, with her hat on, was just
preparing to go out, when the bell sounded. The words of grateful
acceptance were on her very lips when her front-door bell rang too,
very long and insistently and had hardly left off when it began again.
Olga opened the door herself and there was Mrs Quantock on the doorstep
with her invitation for Saturday night. She was obliged to refuse, but
promised to look in, if she was not very late in getting away from Mrs
Lucas's (and pop went the cat out of the bag). Another romp would be
Already the evils of decentralisation and overlapping were becoming
manifest. Lucia rang up house after house, only to find that its
inhabitants were already engaged. She had got Olga and Georgie, and
could begin the good work of education and the crushing of rivalry, not
by force but by pure and refined example, but Mrs Quantock had got
everybody else. In the old days this could never have happened for
everything devolved round one central body. Now with the appearance of
this other great star, all the known laws of gravity and attraction
Georgie, again summoned to the telephone, recommended an appeal to
Mrs Quantock's better nature, which Lucia rejected, doubting whether
she had one.
“But what about the tableaux?” asked Georgie. “We three can't very
well do tableaux for Miss Olga to look at.”
Then Lucia showed herself truly great.
“The merit of the tableaux does not consist in the number of the
audience,” she said.
She paused a moment.
“Have you got the Cophetua-robe to set properly?” she asked.
“Oh, it'll do,” said Georgie dejectedly.
On Tuesday afternoon Olga rang up Lucia again to say that her
husband was arriving that day, so might she bring him on Saturday? To
this Lucia cordially assented, but she felt that a husband and wife
sitting together and looking at another husband and wife doing tableaux
would be an unusual entertainment, and not characteristic of
Riseholme's best. She began to waver about the tableaux and to consider
dinner instead. She also wondered whether she had been wronging dear
Daisy, and whether she had a better nature after all. Perhaps Georgie
Georgie was roused from a little fatigued nap by the telephone, for
he had fallen asleep over King Cophetua's robe. Lucia explained the
situation and delicately suggested that it would be so easy for him to
“pop in” to dear Daisy's, and be very diplomatic. There was nobody like
Georgie for tact. So with a heavy yawn he popped in.
“You've come about this business on Saturday,” said Daisy
unerringly. “Haven't you?”
Georgie remembered his character for tact.
“How wonderful of you to guess that!” he said. “I thought we might
see if we couldn't arrange something, if we put our heads together.
It's such a pity to split up. We-I mean Lucia has got Miss Olga and her
husband coming, and——”
“And I've got everybody else,” said Daisy brightly. “And Miss
Bracely is coming over here, if she gets away early. Probably with such
a small party she will.”
“Oh, I shouldn't count on that,” said he. “We are having some
tableaux, and they always take longer than you think. Dear me, I
shouldn't have said that, as they were to be impromptu, but I really
believe my head is going. You know how thorough Lucia is; she is taking
a great deal of trouble about them.”
“I hadn't heard about that,” said Mrs Quantock.
She thought a moment.
“Well; I don't want to spoil Lucia's evening,” she said, “for I'm
sure nothing could be so ridiculous as three people doing tableaux for
two others. And on the other hand, I don't want her to spoil mine, for
what's to prevent her going on with the tableaux till church-time next
morning if she wishes to keep Miss Bracely away from my house? I'm sure
after the way she behaved about my Guru——Well, never mind that. How
would it be if we had the tableaux first at Lucia's, and then came on
here? If Lucia cares to suggest that to me, and my guests consent, I
don't mind doing that.”
By six o'clock on Tuesday evening therefore all the telephone bells
of Riseholme were merrily ringing again. Mrs Quantock stipulated that
Lucia's party should end at 10.45 precisely, if it didn't end before,
and that everyone should then be free to flock across to her house. She
proposed a romp that should even outshine Olga's, and was deep in the
study of a manual of “Round Games,” which included “Hunt the
Georgie and Peppino took turns at the telephone, ringing up all Mrs
Quantock's guests, and informing them of the double pleasure which
awaited them on Saturday. Since Georgie had let out the secret of the
impromptu tableaux to Mrs Quantock there was no reason why the rest of
Riseholme should not learn of this firsthand from The Hurst, instead of
second-hand (with promises not to repeat it) from Mrs Quantock. It
appeared that she had a better nature than Lucia credited her with, but
to expect her not to tell everybody about the tableaux would be putting
virtue to an unfair test.
“So that's all settled,” said Georgie, as he returned with the last
acceptance, “and how fortunately it has happened after all. But what a
day it has been. Nothing but telephoning from morning till night. If we
go on like this the company will pay a dividend this year, and return
us some of our own pennies.”
Lucia had got a quantity of pearl beads and was stringing them for
the tableau of Mary Queen of Scots.
“Now that everyone knows,” she said, “we might allow ourselves a
little more elaboration in our preparations. There is an Elizabethan
axe at the Ambermere Arms which I might borrow for Peppino. Then about
the Brunnhilde tableau. It is dawn, is it not? We might have the stage
quite dark when the curtain goes up, and turn up a lamp very slowly
behind the scene, so that it shines on my face. A lamp being turned up
very slowly is wonderfully effective. It produces a perfect illusion.
Could you manage that with one hand and play the music of the awakening
with the other, Georgino?”
“I'm quite sure I couldn't,” said he.
“Well then Peppino must do it before he comes on. We will have
movement in this tableau; I think that will be quite a new idea.
Peppino shall come in—just two steps—when he has turned the lamp up,
and he will take off my shield and armour——”
“But the music will never last out,” cried Georgie. “I shall have to
“Yes, perhaps that would be better,” said Lucia calmly. “That real
piece of chain-armour too, I am glad I remembered Peppino had that.
Marshall is cleaning it now, and it will give a far finer effect than
the tawdry stuff they use in opera. Then I sit up very slowly, and wave
first my right arm and then my left, and then both. I should like to
practise that now on the sofa!”
Lucia had just lain down, when the telephone sounded again and
Georgie got up.
“That's to announce a dividend,” he said, and tripped into the hall.
“Is that Mrs Lucas'?” said a voice he knew.
“Yes, Miss Olga,” he said, “and this is me.”
“Oh, Mr Georgie, how fortunate,” she said. “You can give my message
now to Mrs Lucas, can't you? I'm a perfect fool, you know, and horribly
“What's the matter?” asked Georgie faintly.
“It's about Saturday. I've just remembered that Georgie and I—not
you, you know—are going away for the week, end. Will you tell Mrs
Lucas how sorry I am?”
Georgie went back to the music room, where Lucia had just got both
her arms waving. But at the sight of his face she dropped them and took
a firm hold of herself.
“Well, what is it?” she said.
Georgie gave the message, and she got off the sofa, rising to her
feet, while her mind rose to the occasion.
“I am sorry that Miss Bracely will not see our tableaux,” she said.
“But as she was not acting in them I do not know that it makes much
A deadly flatness, although Olga's absence made no difference,
descended on the three. Lucia did not resume her arm-work, for after
all these years her acting might be supposed to be good enough for
Riseholme without further practice, and nothing more was heard of the
borrowing of the axe from the Ambermere Arms. But having begun to
thread her pearl-beads, she finished them; Georgie, however, cared no
longer whether the gold border of King Cophetua's mantle went quite
round the back or not, and having tacked on the piece he was working
at, rolled it up. It was just going to be an ordinary party, after all.
His cup was empty.
But Lucia's was not yet quite full, for at this moment Miss Lyall's
pony hip-bath stopped at the gate, and a small stableboy presented a
note, which required an answer. In spite of all Lucia's self-control,
the immediate answer it got was a flush of heightened colour.
“Mere impertinence,” she said. “I will read it aloud.”
“Dear Mrs Lucas,
“I was in Riseholme this morning, and learn from Mrs
Weston that Miss Bracely will be at your house on
Saturday night. So I shall be enchanted to come to
dinner after all. You must know that I make a rule of
not going out in the evening, except for some special
reason, but it would be a great pleasure to hear her
sing again. I wonder if you would have dinner at 7:30
instead of 8, as I do not like being out very late.”
There was a short pause.
“Caro,” said Lucia, trembling violently, “perhaps you would
kindly tell Miss Lyall that I do not expect Miss Bracely on Saturday,
and that I do not expect Lady Ambermere either.”
“My dear—” he began.
“I will do it myself then,” she said.
It was as Georgie walked home after the delivery of this message
that he wanted to fly away and be at rest with Foljambe and Dicky. He
had been frantically excited ever since Sunday at the idea of doing
tableaux before Olga, and today in especial had been a mere feverish
hash of telephoning and sewing which all ended in nothing at all, for
neither tableaux nor romps seemed to hold the least attraction for him
now that Olga was not going to be there. And then all at once it dawned
on him that he must be in love with Olga, for why else should her
presence or absence make such an astounding difference to him? He
stopped dead opposite Mrs Quantock's mulberry tree.
“More misery! More unhappiness!” he said to himself. Really if life
at Riseholme was to become a series of agitated days ending in
devastating discoveries, the sooner he went away with Foljambe and
Dicky the better. He did not quite know what it was like to be in love,
for the nearest he had previously ever got to it was when he saw Olga
awake on the mountain-top and felt that he had missed his vocation in
not being Siegfried, but from that he guessed. This time, too, it was
about Olga, not about her as framed in the romance of legend and song,
but of her as she appeared at Riseholme, taking as she did now, an
ecstatic interest in the affairs of the place. So short a time ago,
when she contemplated coming here first, she had spoken of it as a lazy
backwater. Now she knew better than that, for she could listen to Mrs
Weston far longer than anybody else, and ask for more histories when
even she had run dry. And yet Lucia seemed hardly to interest her at
all. Georgie wondered why that was.
He raised his eyes as he muttered these desolated syllables and
there was Olga just letting herself out of the front garden of the Old
Place. Georgie's first impulse was to affect not to see her, and turn
into his bachelor house, but she had certainly seen him, and made so
shrill and piercing a whistle on her fingers that, pretend as he would
not to have seen her, it was ludicrous to appear not to have heard her.
She beckoned to him.
“Georgie, the most awful thing has happened,” she said, as they came
within speaking distance. “Oh, I called you Georgie by mistake then.
When one once does that, one must go on doing it on purpose. Guess!”
she said in the best Riseholme manner.
“You can come to Lucia's party after all,” said he.
“No, I can't. Well, you'll never guess because you move in such high
circles, so I'll tell you. Mrs Weston's Elizabeth is going to be
married to Colonel Boucher's Atkinson. I don't know his Christian name,
nor her surname, but they're the ones!”
“You don't say so!” said Georgie, stung for a moment out of his own
troubles. “But will they both leave? What will either of the others do?
Mrs Weston can't have a manservant, and how on earth is she to get on
without Elizabeth? Besides——”
A faint flush mounted to his cheek.
“I know. You mean babies,” said Olga ruthlessly. “Didn't you?”
“Yes,” said Georgie.
“Then why not say so? You and I were babies once, though no one is
old enough to remember that, and we shouldn't have liked our parents
and friends to have blushed when they mentioned us. Georgie, you are a
“No, I'm not,” said Georgie, remembering he was probably in love
with a married woman.
“It doesn't matter whether you are or not. Now there's only one
thing that can happen to Mrs Weston and the Colonel. They must marry
each other too. Then Atkinson can continue to be Colonel Boucher's man
and Elizabeth the parlour-maid, unless she is busy with what made you
blush. Then they can get help in; you will lend them Foljambe, for
instance. It's time you began to be of some good in your wicked selfish
life. So that's settled. It only remains for us to make them marry each
“Aren't you getting on rather fast?” asked Georgie.
“I'm not getting on at all at present I'm only talking. Come into my
house instantly, and we'll drink vermouth. Vermouth always makes me
brilliant unless it makes me idiotic, but we'll hope for the best.”
Presently they were seated in Olga's music-room, with a bottle of
vermouth between them.
“Now drink fair, Georgie,” she said, “and as you drink tell me all
about the young people's emotional history.”
“Atkinson and Elizabeth?” asked Georgie.
“No, my dear; Colonel Boucher and Mrs Weston. They have an emotional
history. I am sure you all thought they were going to marry each other
once. And they constantly dine together tete-a-tete. Now that's a very
good start. Are you quite sure he hasn't got a wife and family in
Egypt, or she a husband and family somewhere else? I don't want to rake
up family skeletons.”
“I've never heard of them,” said Georgie.
“Then we'll take them as non-existent. You certainly would have
heard of them if there were any, and very likely if there weren't. And
they both like eating, drinking and the latest intelligence. Don't
“But what? What more do you or they want? Isn't that a better start
for married life than many people get?”
“But aren't they rather old?” asked Georgie.
“Not much older than you and me, and if it wasn't that I've got my
own Georgie, I would soon have somebody else's. Do you know who I
“No!” said Georgie firmly. Though all this came at the end of a most
harrowing day, it or the vermouth exhilarated him.
“Then I'll tell you just what Mrs Weston told me. 'He's always been
devoted to Lucia,' said Mrs Weston, 'and he has never looked at anybody
else. There was Piggy Antrobus——' Now do you know who I mean?”
Georgie suddenly giggled.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then don't talk about yourself so much, my dear, and let us get to
the point. Now this afternoon I dropped in to see Mrs Weston and as she
was telling me about the tragedy, she said by accident (just as I
called you Georgie just now by accident) 'And I don't know what Jacob
will do without Atkinson.' Now is or is not Colonel Boucher's name
Jacob? There you are then! That's one side of the question. She called
him Jacob by accident and so she'll call him Jacob on purpose before
Olga nodded her head up and down in precise reproduction of Mrs
“I'd hardly got out of the house,” she said in exact imitation of
Mrs Weston's voice, “before I met Colonel Boucher. It would have been
about three o'clock—no it couldn't have been three, because I had got
back home and was standing in the hall when it struck three, and my
clock's a shade fast if anything. Well; Colonel Boucher said to me,
'Haw, hum, quite a domestic crisis, by Jove.' And so I pretended I
didn't know, and he told me all about it. So I said 'Well, it is a
domestic crisis, and you'll lose Atkinson.' 'Haw, hum,' said he, 'and
poor Jane, I should say, Mrs Weston, will lose Elizabeth.' There!”
She got up and lit a cigarette.
“Oh, Georgie, do you grasp the inwardness of that?” she said. “Their
dear old hearts were laid bare by the trouble that had come upon them,
and each of them spoke of the other, as each felt for the other.
Probably neither of them had said Jacob or Jane in the whole course of
their lives. But the Angel of the Lord descended and troubled the
waters. If you think that's profane, have some more vermouth. It's
making me brilliant, though you wouldn't have thought it. Now listen!”
She sat down again close to him, her face brimming with a humorous
enthusiasm. Humour in Riseholme was apt to be a little unkind; if you
mentioned the absurdities of your friends, there was just a speck of
malice in your wit. But with her there was none of that, she gave an
imitation of Mrs Weston with the most ruthless fidelity, and yet it was
kindly to the bottom. She liked her for talking in that emphatic voice
and being so particular as to what time it was. “Now first of all you
are coming to dine with me tonight,” said Olga.
“Oh, I'm afraid that tonight——” began Georgie, shrinking from any
further complications. He really must have a quiet evening, and go to
bed very early.
“What are you afraid of tonight?” she asked. “You're only going to
wash your hair. You can do that tomorrow. So you and I, that's two, and
Mrs Weston and Colonel Jacob, that's four, which is enough, and I don't
believe there's anything to eat in the house. But there's something to
drink, which is my point. Not for you and me, mind; we've got to keep
our heads and be clever. Don't have any more vermouth. But Jane and
Jacob are going to have quantities of champagne. Not tipsy, you
understand, but at their best, and unguardedly appreciative of each
other and us. And when they go away, they will exchange a chaste kiss
at Mrs Weston's door, and she will ask him in. No! I think she'll ask
him in first. And when they wake up tomorrow morning, they will both
wonder how they could possibly, and jointly ask themselves what
everybody else will say. And then they'll thank God and Olga and
Georgie that they did, and live happily for an extraordinary number of
years. My dear, how infinitely happier they will be together than they
are being now. Funny old dears! Each at its own fireside, saying that
it's too old, bless them! And you and I will sing 'Voice that breathed
o'er Eden' and in the middle our angel-voices will crack, and we will
sob into our handkerchief, and Eden will be left breathing deeply all
by itself like the Guru. Why did you never tell me about the Guru? Mrs
Weston's a better friend to me than you are, and I must ring for my
cook—no I'll telephone first to Jacob and Jane—and see what there is
to eat afterwards. You will sit here quietly, and when I have finished
I will tell you what your part is.”
During dinner, according to Olga's plan of campaign, the
conversation was to be general, because she hated to have two
conversations going on when only four people were present, since she
found that she always wanted to join in the other one. This was the
main principle she inculcated on Georgie, stamping it on his memory by
a simile of peculiar vividness. “Imagine there is an Elizabethan
spittoon in the middle of the table,” she said, “and keep on firmly
spitting into it. I want you when there's any pause to spit about two
things, one, how dreadfully unhappy both Jacob and Jane will be without
their paragons, the other, how pleasant is conversation and
companionship. I shall be chaffing you, mind, all the time and saying
you must get married. After dinner I shall probably stroll in the
garden with Jacob. Don't come. Keep him after dinner for some little
time, for then's my opportunity of talking to Jane, and give him at
least three glasses of port. Gracious it's time to dress, and the Lord
Georgie found himself the last to arrive, when he got back to Olga's
and all three of them shook hands rather as people shake hands before a
funeral. They went into dinner at once and Olga instantly began, “How
many years did you say your admirable Atkinson had been with you?” she
asked Colonel Boucher.
“Twenty; getting on for twenty-one,” said he. “Great nuisance; 'pon
my word it's worse than a nuisance.”
Georgie had a bright idea.
“But what's a nuisance, Colonel?” he asked.
“Eh, haven't you heard? I thought it would have been all over the
place by now. Atkinson's going to be married.”
“No!” said Georgie. “Whom to?”
Mrs Weston could not bear not to announce this herself. “To my
Elizabeth,” she said. “Elizabeth came to me this morning. 'May I speak
to you a minute, ma'am?' she asked, and I thought nothing more than
that perhaps she had broken a tea-cup. 'Yes,' said I quite cheerfully,
'and what have you come to tell me?'“
It was getting almost too tragic and Olga broke in.
“Let's try to forget all about it, for an hour or two,” she said.
“It was nice of you all to take pity on me and come and have dinner,
otherwise I should have been quite alone. If there's one thing I cannot
bear it's being alone in the evening. And to think that anybody chooses
to be alone when he needn't! Look at that wretch there,” and she
pointed to Georgie, “who lives all by himself instead of marrying.
Liking to be alone is the worst habit I know; much worse than drink.”
“Now do leave me alone,” said Georgie.
“I won't, my dear, and when dinner is over Mrs Weston and I are
going to put our heads together, and when you come out we shall
announce to you the name of your bride. I should put a tax of twenty
shillings on the pound on all bachelors; they should all marry or
Suddenly she turned to Colonel Boucher.
“Oh, Colonel,” she said. “What have I been saying? How dreadfully
stupid of me not to remember that you were a bachelor too. But I
wouldn't have you starve for anything. Have some more fish instantly to
shew you forgive me. Georgie change the subject you're always talking
Georgie turned with admirable docility to Mrs Weston.
“It's too miserable for you,” he said. “How will you get on without
Elizabeth? How long has she been with you?”
Mrs Weston went straight back to where she had left off.
“So I said, 'What have you come to tell me?' quite cheerfully,
thinking it was a tea-cup. And she said, 'I'm going to be married,
ma'am,' and she blushed so prettily that you'd have thought she was a
girl of twenty, though she was seventeen when she came to me,—no, she
was just eighteen, and that's fifteen years ago, and that makes her
thirty-three. 'Well, Elizabeth,' I said, 'you haven't told me yet who
it is, but whether it's the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Prince of
Wales—for I felt I had to make a little joke like that—I hope you'll
make him as happy as you've made me all these years.'“
“You old darling,” said Olga. “I should have gone into hysterics,
and forbade the banns.”
“No, Miss Bracely, you wouldn't,” said Mrs Weston, “you'd have been
just as thankful as me, that she'd got a good husband to take care of
and to be taken care of by, because then she said, 'Lor ma'am, it's
none of they—not them great folks. It's the Colonel's Atkinson.' You
ask the Colonel for Atkinson's character, Miss Bracely, and then you'd
be just as thankful as I was.”
“The Colonel's Atkinson is a slow coach, just like Georgie,” said
Olga. “He and Elizabeth have been living side by side all these years,
and why couldn't the man make up his mind before? The only redeeming
circumstance is that he has done it now. Our poor Georgie now—”
“Now you're going to be rude to Colonel Boucher again,” said
Georgie. “Colonel, we've been asked here to be insulted.”
Colonel Boucher had nothing stronger than a mild tolerance for
Georgie and rather enjoyed snubbing him.
“Well, if you call a glass of wine and a dinner like this an
insult,” he said, “'pon my word I don't know what you'd call a
“I know what I call a compliment,” said Olga, “and that's your all
coming to dine with me at such short notice. About Georgie's
approaching nuptials now—”
“You're too tarsome” said he. “If you go on like that, I shan't ask
you to the wedding. Let's talk about Elizabeth's. When are they going
to get married, Mrs Weston?”
“That's what I said to Elizabeth. 'Get an almanack, Elizabeth,' said
I, 'so that you won't choose a Sunday. Don't say the 20th of next month
without looking it out. But if the 20th isn't a Sunday or a Friday
mind, for though I don't believe in such things, still you never
know—' There was Mrs Antrobus now,” said Mrs Weston suddenly, putting
in a footnote to her speech to Elizabeth, “it was on a Friday she
married, and within a year she got as deaf as you see her now. Then Mr
Weston's uncle, his uncle by marriage I should say, he was another
Friday marriage and they missed their train when going off on their
honeymoon, and had to stay all night where they were without a sponge
or a tooth brush between them, for all their luggage was in the train
being whirled away to Torquay. 'So make it the 20th, Elizabeth,' I
said, 'if it isn't a Friday or a Sunday, and I shall have time to look
round me, and so will the Colonel, though I don't expect that either of
us will find your equals! And don't cry, Elizabeth,' I said, for she
was getting quite watery, 'for if you cry about a marriage, what'll be
left for a funeral?'“
“Ha! Upon my word, I call that splendid of you,” said the Colonel.
“I told Atkinson I wished I had never set eyes on him, before I wished
Olga got up.
“Look after Colonel Boucher, Georgie,” she said, “and ring for
anything you want. Look at the moon! Isn't it heavenly. How Atkinson
and Elizabeth must be enjoying it.”
The two men spent a half-hour of only moderately enjoyable
conversation, for Georgie kept the grindstone of the misery of his lot
without Atkinson, and the pleasure of companionship firmly to the
Colonel's nose. It was no use for him to attempt to change the subject
to the approaching tableaux, to a vague rumour that Piggy had fallen
face downwards in the ducking-pond, that Mrs Quantock and her husband
had turned a table this afternoon with remarkable results, for it had
tapped out that his name was Robert and hers Daisy. Whichever way he
turned, Georgie herded him back on to the stony path that he had been
bidden to take, with the result that when Georgie finally permitted him
to go into the music-room, he was athirst for the more genial
companionship of the ladies. Olga got up as they entered.
“Georgie's so lazy,” she said, “that it's no use asking him. But do
let you and me have a turn up and down my garden, Colonel. There's a
divine moon and it's quite warm.”
They stepped out into the windless night.
“Fancy it's being October,” she said. “I don't believe there is any
winter in Riseholme, nor autumn either, for that matter. You are all so
young, so deliciously young. Look at Georgie in there: he's like a boy
still, and as for Mrs Weston, she's twenty-five: not a day older.”
“Yes, wonderful woman,” said he. “Always agreeable and lively.
Handsome, too: I consider Mrs Weston a very handsome woman. Hasn't
altered an atom since I knew her.”
“That's the wonderful thing about you all!” said she. “You are all
just as brisk and young as you were ten years ago. It's ridiculous. As
for you, I'm not sure that you're not the most ridiculous of the lot. I
feel as if I had been having dinner with three delightful cousins a
little younger—not much, but just a little—than myself. Gracious! How
you all made me romp the other night here. What a pace you go, Colonel!
What's your walking like if you call this a stroll?”
Colonel Boucher moderated his pace. He thought Olga had been walking
“I'm very sorry,” he said. “Certainly Riseholme is a healthy bracing
place. Perhaps we do keep our youth pretty well. God bless me, but the
days go by without one's noticing them. To think that I came here with
Atkinson close on ten years ago.”
This did very well for Olga: she swiftly switched off onto it.
“It's quite horrid for you losing your servant,” she said. “Servants
do become friends, don't they, especially to anyone living alone.
Georgie and Foljambe, now! But I shouldn't be a bit surprised if
Foljambe had a mistress before very long.”
“No, really? I thought you were just chaffing him at dinner. Georgie
marrying, is he? His wife'll take some of his needlework off his hands.
May I—ah—may I enquire the lady's name?”
Olga decided to play a great card. She had just found it, so to
speak, in her hand, and it was most tempting. She stopped.
“But can't you guess?” she said. “Surely I'm not absolutely on the
“Ah, Miss Antrobus,” said he. “The one I think they call Piggy. No,
I should say there was nothing in that.”
“Oh, that had never occurred to me,” said she. “I daresay I'm quite
wrong. I only judged from what I thought I noticed in poor Georgie. I
daresay it's only what he should have done ten years ago, but I fancy
there's a spark alive still. Let us talk about something else, though
we won't go in quite yet, shall we?” She felt quite safe in her
apparent reluctance to tell him; the Riseholme gluttony for news made
it imperative for him to ask more.
“Really, I must be very dull,” he said. “I daresay an eye new to the
place sees more. Who is it, Miss Bracely?”
“Ah, how bad a man is at observing a man!” she said. “Didn't you see
Georgie at dinner? He hardly took his eyes off her.”
She had a great and glorious reward. Colonel Boucher's face grew
absolutely blank in the moonlight with sheer astonishment.
“Well, you surprise me,” he said. “Surely a fine woman, though lame,
wouldn't look at a needle-woman—well, leave it at that.”
He stamped his feet and put his hands in his pockets.
“It's growing a bit chilly,” he said. “You'll be catching cold, Miss
Bracely, and what will your husband say if he finds out I've been
strolling about with you out of doors after dinner?”
“Yes, we'll go in,” she said. “It is chilly. How thoughtful you are
Georgie little knowing the catspaw that had been made of him, found
himself being detached from Mrs Weston by the Colonel, and this suited
him very well, for presently Olga said she would sing, unless anybody
minded, and called on him to accompany her. She stood just behind him,
leaning over him sometimes with a hand on his shoulder, and sang three
ruthless simple English songs, appropriate to the matter in hand. She
sang, “I Attempt from Love's Sickness to Fly,” and “Sally in Our
Alley,” and “Come Live with Me,” and sometimes beneath the rustle of
leaves turned over she whispered to him, “Georgie, I'm cleverer than
anybody ever was, and I shall die in the night,” she said once. Again
more enigmatically she said, “I've been a cad, but I'll tell you about
it when they've gone. Stop behind.” And then some whiskey came in, and
she insisted on the “young people” having some of that; finally she saw
them off at the door, and came running back to Georgie. “I've been a
cad,” she said, “because I hinted that you were in love with Mrs
Weston. My dear, it was simply perfect! I believe it to have been the
last straw, and if you don't forgive me you needn't. Wasn't it clever?
He simply couldn't stand that, for it came on the top of your being so
“Well, really—” said Georgie.
“I know. And I must be a cad again. I'm going up to my bedroom, you
may come, too, if you like, because it commands a view of Church Road.
I shouldn't sleep a wink unless I knew that he had gone in with her.
It'll be precisely like Faust and Marguerite going into the house, and
you and I are Mephistopheles and Martha. Come quick!”
From the dark of the window they watched Mrs Weston's bath-chair
being pushed up the lit road.
“It's the Colonel pushing it,” whispered Olga, squeezing him into a
corner of the window. “Look! There's Tommy Luton on the path. Now
they've stopped at her gate ... I can't bear the suspense.... Oh,
Georgie, they've gone in! And Atkinson will stop, and so will
Elizabeth, and you've promised to lend them Foljambe. Which house will
they live at, do you think? Aren't you happy?”
The miserable Lucia started a run of extreme bad luck about this
time, of which the adventure or misadventure of the Guru seemed to be
the prelude, or perhaps the news of her want of recognition of the
August moon, which Georgie had so carefully saluted, may have arrived
at that satellite by October. For she had simply “cut” the August
There was the fiasco about Olga coming to the tableaux, which was
the cause of her sending that very tart reply, via Miss Lyall, to Lady
Ambermere's impertinence, and the very next morning, Lady Ambermere,
coming again into Riseholme, perhaps for that very purpose, had behaved
to Lucia as Lucia had behaved to the moon, and cut her. That was
irritating, but the counter-irritant to it had been that Lady Ambermere
had then gone to Olga's, and been told that she was not at home, though
she was very audibly practising in her music-room at the time. Upon
which Lady Ambermere had said “Home” to her people, and got in with
such unconcern of the material world that she sat down on Pug.
Mrs Quantock had heard both “Home” and Pug, and told the cut Lucia,
who was a hundred yards away about it. She also told her about the
engagement of Atkinson and Elizabeth, which was all she knew about
events in those houses. On which Lucia with a kind smile had said,
“Dear Daisy, what slaves some people are to their servants. I am sure
Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucher will be quite miserable, poor things.
Now I must run home. How I wish I could stop and chat on the green!”
And she gave her silvery laugh, for she felt much better now that she
knew Olga had said she was out to Lady Ambermere, when she was so
Then came a second piece of bad luck. Lucia had not gone more than a
hundred yards past Georgie's house, when he came out in a tremendous
hurry. He rapidly measured the distance between himself and Lucia, and
himself and Mrs Quantock, and made a bee-line for Mrs Quantock, since
she was the nearest. Olga had just telephoned to him....
“Good morning,” he said breathlessly, determined to cap anything she
said. “Any news?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said. “Haven't you heard?”
Georgie had one moment of heart-sink.
“What?” he said.
“Atkinson and Eliz——” she began.
“Oh, that,” said he scornfully. “And talking of them, of course
you've heard the rest. Haven't you? Why, Mrs Weston and Colonel
Boucher are going to follow their example, unless they set it
themselves, and get married first.”
“No!” said Mrs Quantock in the loudest possible Riseholme voice of
“Oh, yes. I really knew it last night. I was dining at Old Place and
they were there. Olga and I both settled there would be something to
talk in the morning. Shall we stroll on the green a few minutes?”
Georgie had a lovely time. He hurried from person to person, leaving
Mrs Quantock to pick up a few further gleanings. Everyone was there
except Lucia, and she, but for the accident of her being further off
than Mrs Quantock, would have been the first to know.
When this tour was finished Georgie sat to enjoy the warm comforting
glow of envy that surrounded him. Nowadays the meeting place at the
Green had insensibly transferred itself to just opposite Old Place, and
it was extremely interesting to hear Olga practising as she always did
in the morning. Interesting though it was, Riseholme had at first been
a little disappointed about it, for everyone had thought that she would
sing Brunnhilde's part or Salome's part through every day, or some
trifle of that kind. Instead she would perform an upwards scale in
gradual crescendo, and on the highest most magnificent note
would enunciate at the top of her voice, “Yawning York!” Then starting
soft again she would descend in crescendo to a superb low note
and enunciate “Love's Lilies Lonely.” Then after a dozen repetitions of
this, she would start off with full voice, and get softer and softer
until she just whispered that York was yawning, and do the same with
Love's Lilies. But you never could tell what she might not sing, and
some mornings there would be long trills and leapings onto high notes:
long notes and leaping onto trills, and occasionally she sang a real
song. That was worth waiting for, and Georgie did not hesitate to let
drop that she had sung four last night to his accompaniment. And hardly
had he repeated that the third time, when she appeared at her window,
and before all Riseholme called out “Georgie!” with a trill at the end,
like a bird shaking its wings. Before all Riseholme!
So in he went. Had Lucia known that, it would quite have wiped the
gilt off Lady Ambermere's being refused admittance. In point of fact it
did wipe the gilt off when, about an hour afterwards, Georgie went to
lunch because he told her. And if there had been any gilt left about
anywhere, that would have vanished, too, when in answer to some rather
damaging remark she made about poor Daisy's interests in the
love-affairs of other people's servants, she learned that it was of the
love-affairs of their superiors that all Riseholme had been talking for
at least an hour by now.
Again there was ill-luck about the tableaux on Saturday, for in the
Brunnhilde scene, Peppino in his agitation, turned the lamp that was to
be a sunrise, completely out, and Brunnhilde had to hail the midnight,
or at any rate a very obscure twilight. Georgie, it is true, with
wonderful presence of mind, turned on an electric light when he had
finished playing, but it was more like a flash of lightning than a
slow, wonderful dawn. The tableaux were over well before 10.45, and
though Lucia in answer to the usual pressings, said she would “see
about” doing them again, she felt that Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucher,
who made their first public appearance as the happy pair, attracted
more than their proper share of attention. The only consolation was
that the romps that followed at poor Daisy's were a complete fiasco. It
was in vain, too, at supper, that she went from table to table, and
helped people to lobster salad and champagne, and had not enough
chairs, and generally imitated all that had apparently made Olga's
party so supreme a success. But on this occasion the recipe for the
dish and not the dish itself was served up, and the hunting of the
slipper produced no exhilaration in the chase....
But far more untoward events followed. Olga came back on the next
Monday, and immediately after Lucia received a card for an evening “At
Home,” with “Music” in the bottom left-hand corner. It happened to be
wet that afternoon, and seeing Olga's shut motor coming from the
station with four men inside, she leaped to the conclusion that these
were four musicians for the music. A second motor followed with
luggage, and she quite distinctly saw the unmistakable shape of a
'cello against the window. After that no more guessing was necessary,
for it was clear that poor Olga had hired the awful string-quartet from
Brinton, that played in the lounge at the Royal Hotel after dinner. The
Brinton string-quartet! She had heard them once at a distance and that
was quite enough. Lucia shuddered as she thought of those doleful
fiddlers. It was indeed strange that Olga with all the opportunities
she had had for hearing good music, should hire the Brinton
string-quartet, but, after all, that was entirely of a piece with her
views about the gramophone. Perhaps the gramophone would have its share
in this musical evening. But she had said she would go: it would be
very unkind to Olga to stop away now, for Olga must know by this time
her passion for music, so she went. She sincerely hoped that she would
not be conducted to the seat of honour, and be obliged to say a few
encouraging words to the string-quartet afterwards.
Once again she came rather late, for the music had begun. It had
only just begun, for she recognised—who should recognise if not
she?—the early bars of a Beethoven quartet. She laid her hand on
“Brinton: Beethoven,” she said limply.
She slipped into a chair next Daisy Quantock, and sat in her
well-known position when listening to music, with her head forward, her
chin resting on her hand, and the far-away look in her eyes. Nothing of
course could wholly take away the splendour of that glorious
composition, and she was pleased that there was no applause between the
movements, for she had rather expected that Olga would clap, and
interrupt the unity of it all. Occasionally, too, she was agreeably
surprised by the Brinton string-quartet: they seemed to have some
inklings, though not many. Once she winced very much when a string
Olga (she was rather a restless hostess) came up to her when it was
“So glad you could come,” she said. “Aren't they divine?”
Lucia gave her most indulgent smile.
“Perfect music! Glorious!” she said. “And they really played it very
creditably. But I am a little spoiled, you know, for the last time I
heard that it was performed by the Spanish Quartet. I know one ought
never to compare, but have you ever heard the Spanish Quartet, Miss
Olga looked at her in surprise.
“But they are the Spanish Quartet!” she said pointing to the
Lucia had raised her voice rather as she spoke, for when she spoke
on music she spoke for everybody to hear. And a great many people
undoubtedly did hear, among whom, of course, was Daisy Quantock. She
gave one shrill squeal of laughter, like a slate-pencil, and from that
moment granted plenary absolution to poor dear Lucia for all her
greed and grabbing with regard to the Guru.
But instantly all Olga's good-nature awoke: unwittingly (for her
remark that this was the Spanish Quartet had been a mere
surprised exclamation), she had made a guest of hers uncomfortable, and
must at once do all she could to remedy that.
“It's a shocking room for echoes, this,” she said. “Do all of you
come up a little nearer, and you will be able to hear the playing so
much better. You lose all shade, all fineness here. I came here on
purpose to ask you to move up, Mrs Lucas: there are half a dozen chairs
unoccupied near the platform.”
It was a kindly intention that prompted the speech, but for all real
Riseholme practical purposes, quite barren, for many people had heard
Lucia's remarks, and Peppino also had already been wincing at the
Brinton quartet. In that fell moment the Bolshevists laid bony fingers
on the sceptre of her musical autocracy.... But who would have guessed
that Olga would get the Spanish Quartet from London to come down to
Staggering from these blows, she had to undergo an even shrewder
stroke yet. Already. in the intelligence department, she had been sadly
behind-hand in news, her tableaux-party had been anything but a
success, this one little remark of Olga's had shaken her musically, but
at any rate up till this moment she had shewn herself mistress of the
Italian tongue, while to strengthen that she was being very diligent
with her dictionary, grammar and Dante's Paradiso. Then as by a bolt
out of a clear sky that temple, too, was completely demolished, in the
most tragic fashion.
A few days after the disaster of the Spanish-Brinton Quartet, Olga
received a letter from Signor Cortese, the eminent Italian composer, to
herald the completion of his opera, “Lucretia.” Might he come down to
Riseholme for a couple of nights, and, figuratively, lay it at her
feet, in the hope that she would raise it up, and usher it into the
world? All the time he had been writing it, as she knew, he had thought
of her in the name part and he would come down today, tomorrow, at a
moment's notice by day or night to submit it to her. Olga was delighted
and sent an effusive telegram of many sheets, full of congratulation
and welcome, for she wanted above all things to “create” the part. So
would Signor Cortese come down that very day?
She ran upstairs with the news to her husband.
“My dear, 'Lucretia' is finished,” she said, “and that angel
practically offers it me. Now what are we to do about dinner tonight?
Jacob and Jane are coming, and neither you nor they, I suppose, speak
one word of Italian, and you know what mine is, firm and intelligible
and operatic but not conversational. What are we to do? He hates
talking English.... Oh, I know, if I can only get Mrs Lucas. They
always talk Italian, I believe, at home. I wonder if she can come.
She's musical, too, and I shall ask her husband, I think: that'll be a
man over, but it will be another Italiano——”
Olga wrote at once to Lucia, mentioning that Cortese was staying
with them, but, quite naturally, saying nothing about the usefulness of
Peppino and her being able to engage the musician in his own tongue,
for that she took for granted. An eager affirmative (such a great
pleasure) came back to her, and for the rest of the day, Lucia and
Peppino made up neat little sentences to let off to the dazzled
Cortese, at the moment when they said “good-night,” to shew that they
could have talked Italian all the time, had there been any occasion for
Mrs Weston and Colonel Boucher had already arrived when Lucia and
her husband entered, and Lucia had quite a shock to see on what
intimate terms they were with their hostess. They actually called each
other Olga and Jacob and Jane, which was most surprising and almost
painful. Lucia (perhaps because she had not known about it soon enough)
had been a little satirical about the engagement, rather as if it was a
slight on her that Jacob had not been content with celibacy and Jane
with her friendship, but she was sure she wished them both “nothing but
well.” Indeed the moment she got over the shock of seeing them so
intimate with Olga, she could not have been surpassed in cordiality.
“We see but little of our old friends now,” she said to Olga and
Jane jointly, “but we must excuse their desire for solitude in their
first glow of their happiness. Peppino and I remember that sweet time,
oh, ever so long ago.”
This might have been tact, or it might have been cat. That Peppino
and she sympathised as they remembered their beautiful time was tact,
that it was so long ago was cat. Altogether it might be described as a
cat chewing tact. But there was a slight air of patronage about it, and
if there was one thing Mrs Weston would not, and could not and did not
even intend to stand, it was that. Besides it had reached her ears that
Mrs Lucas had said something about there being no difficulty in finding
bridesmaids younger than the bride.
“Fancy! How clever of you to remember so long ago,” she said. “But,
then, you have the most marvellous memory, dear, and keep it
“How kind of you and Mr Lucas to come at such short notice,” she
said. “Cortese hates talking English, so I shall put him between you
and me, and you'll talk to him all the time, won't you? And you won't
laugh at me, will you, when I join in with my atrocious attempts? And I
shall buttress myself on the other side with your husband, who will
firmly talk across me to him.”
Lucia had to say something. A further exposure was at hand, quite
inevitably. It was no use for her and Peppino to recollect a previous
“Oh, my Italian is terribly rusty,” she said, knowing that Mrs
Weston's eye was on her.... Why had she not sent Mrs Weston a handsome
wedding-present that morning?
“Rusty? We will ask Cortese about that when you've had a good talk
to him. Ah, here he is!”
Cortese came into the room, florid and loquacious, pouring out a
stream of apology for his lateness to Olga, none of which was the least
intelligible to Lucia. She guessed what he was saying, and next moment
Olga, who apparently understood him perfectly, and told him with an
enviable fluency that he was not late at all, was introducing him to
her, and explaining that “la Signora” (Lucia understood this) and her
husband talked Italian. She did not need to reply to some torrent of
amiable words from him, addressed to her, for he was taken on and
introduced to Mrs Weston, and the Colonel. But he instantly whirled
round to her again, and asked her something. Not knowing the least what
he meant, she replied:
“Si: tante grazie.”
He looked puzzled for a moment and then repeated his question in
“In what deestrict of Italy 'ave you voyaged most?”
Lucia understood that: so did Mrs Weston, and Lucia pulled herself
“In Rome,” she said. “Che bella citta! Adoro Roma, e il mio
marito. Non e vere, Peppino?“
Peppino cordially assented: the familiar ring of this fine
intelligible Italian restored his confidence, and he asked Cortese
whether he was not very fond of music....
Dinner seemed interminable to Lucia. She kept a watchful eye on
Cortese, and if she saw he was about to speak to her, she turned
hastily to Colonel Boucher, who sat on her other side, and asked him
something about his cari cani, which she translated to him.
While he answered she made up another sentence in Italian about the
blue sky or Venice, or very meanly said her husband had been there,
hoping to direct the torrent of Italian eloquence to him. But she knew
that, as an Italian conversationalist, neither she nor Peppino had a
rag of reputation left them, and she dismally regretted that they had
not chosen French, of which they both knew about as much, instead of
Italian, for the vehicle of their linguistic distinction.
Olga meantime continued to understand all that Cortese said, and to
reply to it with odious fluency, and at the last, Cortese having said
something to her which made her laugh, he turned to Lucia.
“I've said to Meesis Shottlewort” ... and he proceeded to explain
his joke in English.
“Molto bene,” said Lucia with a dying flicker. “Molto divertente.
Non e vero, Peppino.”
“Si, si,” said Peppino miserably.
And then the final disgrace came, and it was something of a relief
to have it over. Cortese, in excellent spirits with his dinner and his
wine and the prospect of Olga taking the part of Lucretia, turned
beamingly to Lucia again.
“Now we will all spick English,” he said. “This is one very pleasant
evening. I enjoy me very much. Ecco!”
Just once more Lucia shot up into flame.
“Parlate Inglese molto bene,” she said, and except when Cortese
spoke to Olga, there was no more Italian that night.
Even the unique excitement of hearing Olga “try over” the great
scene in the last act could not quite absorb Lucia's attention after
this awful fiasco, and though she sat leaning forward with her chin in
her hand, and the far-away look in her eyes, her mind was furiously
busy as to how to make anything whatever out of so bad a job. Everyone
present knew that her Italian, as a medium for conversation, had
suffered a complete break-down, and it was no longer any real use, when
Olga did not quite catch the rhythm of a passage, to murmur “Uno, due, tre” unconsciously to herself; she might just as
well have said “one, two, three” for any effect it had on Mrs Weston.
The story would be all over Riseholme next day, and she felt sure that
Mrs Weston, that excellent observer and superb reporter, had not failed
to take it all in, and would not fail to do justice to it. Blow after
blow had been rained upon her palace door, it was little wonder that
the whole building was a-quiver. She had thought of starting a
Dante-class this winter, for printed Italian, if you had a dictionary
and a translation in order to prepare for the class, could be easily
interpreted: it was the spoken word which you had to understand without
any preparation at all, and not in the least knowing what was coming,
that had presented such insurmountable difficulties. And yet who, when
the story of this evening was known, would seek instruction from a
teacher of that sort? Would Mrs Weston come to her Dante-class? Would
she? Would she? No, she would not.
Lucia lay long awake that night, tossing and turning in her bed in
that delightful apartment in “Midsummer Night's Dream,” and reviewing
the fell array of these unlucky affairs. As she eyed them, black shapes
against the glow of her firelight, it struck her that the same
malevolent influence inspired them all. For what had caused the failure
and flatness of her tableaux (omitting the unfortunate incident about
the lamp) but the absence of Olga? Who was it who had occasioned her
unfortunate remark about the Spanish Quartet but Olga, whose clear duty
it had been, when she sent the invitation for the musical party, to
state (so that there could be no mistake about it) that those eminent
performers were to entrance them? Who could have guessed that she would
have gone to the staggering expense of having them down from London?
The Brinton quartet was the Utmost that any sane imagination could have
pictured, and Lucia's extremely sane imagination had pictured just
that, with such extreme vividness that it had never occurred to her
that it could be anybody else. Certainly Olga should have put “Spanish
Quartet” in the bottom left-hand corner instead of “Music” and then
Lucia would have known all about it, and have been speechless with
emotion when they had finished the Beethoven, and wiped her eyes, and
pulled herself together again. It really looked as if Olga had laid a
trap for her....
Even more like a trap were the horrid events of this evening. Trap
was not at all too strong a word for them. To ask her to the house, and
then suddenly spring upon her the fact that she was expected to talk
Italian.... Was that an open, an honourable proceeding? What if Lucia
had actually told Olga (and she seemed to recollect it) that she and
Peppino often talked Italian at home? That was no reason why she should
be expected, off-hand like that, to talk Italian anywhere else. She
should have been told what was expected of her, so as to give her the
chance of having a previous engagement. Lucia hated underhand ways, and
they were particularly odious in one whom she had been willing to
educate and refine up to the highest standards of Riseholme. Indeed it
looked as if Olga's nature was actually incapable of receiving
cultivation. She went on her own rough independent lines, giving a romp
one night, and not coming to the tableaux on another, and getting the
Spanish Quartet without consultation on a third, and springing this
dreadful Pentecostal party on them on a fourth. Olga clearly meant
mischief: she wanted to set herself up as leader of Art and Culture in
Riseholme. Her conduct admitted of no other explanation.
Lucia's benevolent scheme of educating and refining vanished like
morning mists, and through her drooping eyelids, the firelight seemed
strangely red.... She had been too kind, too encouraging: now she must
collect her forces round her and be stern. As she dozed off to sleep,
she reminded herself to ask Georgie to lunch next day. He and Peppino
and she must have a serious talk. She had seen Georgie comparatively
little just lately, and she drowsily and uneasily wondered how that
Georgie by this time had quite got over the desolation of the moment
when standing in the road opposite Mrs Quantock's mulberry-tree he had
given vent to that bitter cry of “More misery: more unhappiness!” His
nerves on that occasion had been worn to fiddlestrings with all the
fuss and fiasco of planning the tableaux, and thus fancying himself in
love had been just the last straw. But the fact that he had been Olga's
chosen confidant in her wonderful scheme of causing Mrs Weston and the
Colonel to get engaged, and the distinction of being singled out by
Olga to this friendly intimacy, had proved a great tonic. It was quite
clear that the existence of Mr Shuttleworth constituted a hopeless bar
to the fruition of his passion, and, if he was completely honest with
himself, he was aware that he did not really hate Mr Shuttleworth for
standing in his path. Georgie was gentle in all his ways, and his
manner of falling in love was very gentle, too. He admired Olga
immensely, he found her stimulating and amusing, and since it was out
of the question really to be her lover, he would have enjoyed next best
to that, being her brother, and such little pangs of jealousy as he
might experience from time to time, were rather in the nature of small
electric shocks voluntarily received. He was devoted to her with a
warmth that his supposed devotion to Lucia had never kindled in him; he
even went so far as to dream about her in an agitated though respectful
manner. Without being conscious of any unreality about his sentiments,
he really wanted to dress up as a lover rather than to be one, for he
could form no notion at present of what it felt to be absorbed in
anyone else. Life was so full as it was: there really was no room for
anything else, especially if that something else must be of the quality
which rendered everything else colourless.
This state of mind, this quality of emotion was wholly pleasurable
and quite exciting, and instead of crying out “More misery! more
unhappiness!” he could now, as he passed the mulberry, say to himself
“More pleasures! more happiness!”
Yet as he ran down the road to lunch with Lucia he was conscious
that she was likely to stand, an angel perhaps, but certainly one with
a flaming sword, between him and all the interests of the new life
which was undoubtedly beginning to bubble in Riseholme, and to which
Georgie found it so pleasant to take his little mug, and have it filled
with exhilarating liquid. And if Lucia proved to be standing in his
path, forbidding his approach, he, too, was armed for combat, with a
revolutionary weapon, consisting of a rolled-up copy of some of
Debussy's music for the piano—Olga had lent it him a few days,—and he
had been very busy over “Poissons d'or.” He was further armed by the
complete knowledge of the Italian debacle of last night, which, from
his knowledge of Lucia, he judged must constitute a crisis. Something
would have to happen.... Several times lately Olga had, so to speak,
run full-tilt into Lucia, and had passed on leaving a staggering form
behind her. And in each case, so Georgie clearly perceived, Olga had
not intended to butt into or stagger anybody. Each time, she had
knocked Lucia down purely by accident, but if these accidents occurred
with such awful frequency, it was to be expected that Lucia would find
another name for them: they would have to be christened. With all his
Riseholme appetite for complications and events Georgie guessed that he
was not likely to go empty away from this lunch. In addition there were
other topics of extraordinary interest, for really there had been very
odd experiences at Mrs Quantock's last night, when the Italian debacle
was going on, a little way up the road. But he was not going to bring
that out at once.
Lucia hailed him with her most cordial manner, and with a superb
effrontery began to talk Italian just as usual, though she must have
guessed that Georgie knew all about last night.
“Bon arrivato, amico mio,” she said. “Why, it must be three days
since we met. Che la falto il signorino? And what have you got there?”
Georgie, having escaped being caught over Italian, had made up his
mind not to talk any more ever.
“Oh, they are some little things by Debussy,” he said. “I want to
play one of them to you afterwards. I've just been glancing through
“Bene, molto bene!” said she. “Come in to lunch. But I can't promise
to like it, Georgino. Isn't Debussy the man who always makes me want to
howl like a dog at the sound of the gong? Where did you get these
“Olga lent me them,” said Georgie negligently. He really did call
her Olga to her face now, by request.
Lucia's bugles began to sound.
“Yes, I should think Miss Bracely would admire that sort of music,”
she said. “I suppose I am too old-fashioned, though I will not condemn
your little pieces of Debussy before I have heard them. Old-fashioned!
Yes! I was certainly too old-fashioned for the music she gave us last
night. Dio mi!”
“Oh, didn't you enjoy it?” asked he.
Lucia sat down, without waiting for Peppino.
“Poor Miss Bracely!” she said. “It was very kind of her in intention
to ask me, but she would have been kinder to have asked Mrs Antrobus
instead, and have told her not to bring her ear-trumpet. To hear that
lovely voice, for I do her justice, and there are lovely notes in her
voice, lovely, to hear that voice shrieking and screaming away,
in what she called the great scene, was simply pitiful. There was no
melody, and above all there was no form. A musical composition is like
an architectural building; it must be built up and constructed. How
often have I said that! You must have colour, and you must have line,
otherwise I cannot concede you the right to say you have music.”
Lucia finished her egg in a hurry, and put her elbows on the table.
“I hope I am not hide-bound and limited,” she said, “and I think you
will acknowledge, Georgie, that I am not. Even in the divinest music of
all, I am not blind to defects, if there are defects. The Moonlight
Sonata, for instance. You have often heard me say that the two last
movements do not approach the first in perfection of form. And if I am
permitted to criticise Beethoven, I hope I may be allowed to suggest
that Mr Cortese has not produced an opera which will render Fidelio
ridiculous. But really I am chiefly sorry for Miss Bracely. I should
have thought it worth her while to render herself not unworthy to
interpret Fidelio, whatever time and trouble that cost her, rather than
to seek notoriety by helping to foist on to the world a fresh
combination of engine-whistles and grunts. Non e vero, Peppino?
How late you are.”
Lucia had not determined on this declaration of war without anxious
consideration. But it was quite obvious to her that the enemy was daily
gaining strength, and therefore the sooner she came to open hostilities
the better, for it was equally obvious to her mind that Olga was a
pretender to the throne she had occupied for so long. It was time to
mobilise, and she had first to state her views and her plan of campaign
to the chief of her staff.
“No, we did not quite like our evening, Peppino and I, did we,
caro?” she went on. “And Mr Cortese! His appearance! He is like a
huge hairdresser. His touch on the piano. If you can imagine a wild
bull butting at the keys, you will have some idea of it. And above all,
his Italian! I gathered that he was a Neapolitan, and we all know what
Neapolitan dialect is like. Tuscans and Romans, who between them I
believe—Lingua Toscano in Bocca Romana, you remember—know how to
speak their own tongue, find Neapolitans totally unintelligible. For
myself, and I speak for mio sposo as well, I do not want to understand
what Romans do not understand. La bella lingua is sufficient for me.”
“I hear that Olga could understand him quite well,” said Georgie
betraying his complete knowledge of all that had happened.
“That may be so,” said Lucia. “I hope she understood his English
too, and his music. He had not an 'h' when he spoke English, and I have
not the slightest doubt in my own mind that his Italian was equally
illiterate. It does not matter; I do not see that Mr Cortese's
linguistic accomplishments concern us. But his music does, if poor Miss
Bracely, with her lovely notes, is going to study it, and appear as
Lucretia. I am sorry if that is so. Any news?”
Really it was rather magnificent, and it was war as well; of that
there could not be the slightest doubt. All Riseholme, by this time,
knew that Lucia and Peppino had not been able to understand a word of
what Cortese had said, and here was the answer to the back-biting
suggestion, vividly put forward by Mrs Weston on the green that
morning, that the explanation was that Lucia and Peppino did not know
Italian. They could not reasonably be expected to know Neapolitan
dialect; the language of Dante satisfied their humble needs. They found
it difficult to understand Cortese when he spoke English, but that did
not imply that they did not know English. Dante's tongue and
Shakespeare's tongue sufficed them....
“And what were the words of the libretto like?” asked Georgie.
Lucia fixed him with her beady eyes, ready and eager to show how
delighted she was to bestow approbation wherever it was deserved.
“Wonderful!” she said. “I felt, and so did Peppino, that the words
were as utterly wasted on that formless music as was poor Miss
Bracely's voice. How did it go, Peppino? Let me think!”
Lucia raised her head again with the far-away look.
“Amore misterio!” she said. “Amore profondo! Amore profondo del
vasto mar.” Ah, there was our poor bella lingua again. I wonder who
wrote the libretto.”
“Mr Cortese wrote the libretto,” said Georgie.
Lucia did not hesitate for a moment, but gave her silvery laugh.
“Oh, dear me, no,” she said. “If you had heard him talk you would
know he could not have. Well, have we not had enough of Mr Cortese and
his works? Any news? What did you do last night, when Peppino and I
were in our purgatorio?”
Georgie was almost equally glad to get off the subject of Italian.
The less said in or of Italian the better.
“I was dining with Mrs Quantock,” he said. “She had a very
interesting Russian woman staying with her, Princess Popoffski.”
Lucia laughed again.
“Dear Daisy!” she said. “Tell me about the Russian princess. Was she
a Guru? Dear me, how easily some people are taken in! The Guru! Well,
we were all in the same boat there. We took the Guru on poor Daisy's
valuation, and I still believe he had very remarkable gifts, curry-cook
or not. But Princess Popoffski now——”
“We had a seance,” said Georgie.
“Indeed! And Princess Popoffski was the medium?”
Georgie grew a little dignified.
“It is no use adopting that tone, cara,” he said, relapsing into
Italian. “You were not there; you were having your purgatory at Olga's.
It was very remarkable. We touched hands all round the table; there was
no possibility of fraud.”
Lucia's views on psychic phenomena were clearly known to Riseholme;
those who produced them were fraudulent, those who were taken in by
them were dupes. Consequently there was irony in the baby-talk of her
“Me dood!” she said. “Me very dood, and listen carefully. Tell
Georgie recounted the experiences. The table had rocked and tapped
out names. The table had whirled round, though it was a very heavy
table. Georgie had been told that he had two sisters, one of whom in
Latin was a bear.
“How did the table know that?” he asked. “Ursa, a bear, you know.
And then, while we were sitting there, the Princess went off into a
trance. She said there was a beautiful spirit present, who blessed us
all. She called Mrs Quantock Margarita, which, as you may know, is the
Italian for Daisy.”
“Thank you for explaining, Georgino,” she said.
There was no mistaking the irony of that, and Georgie thought he
would be ironical too.
“I didn't know if you knew,” he said. “I thought it might be
“Pray, go on!” said Lucia, breathing through her nose.
“And she said I was Georgie,” said Georgie, “but that there was
another Georgie not far off. That was odd, because Olga's house, with
Mr Shuttleworth, were so close. And then the Princess went into very
deep trance, and the spirit that was there took possession of her.”
“And who was that?” asked Lucia.
“His name was Amadeo. She spoke in Amadeo's voice, indeed it was
Amadeo who was speaking. He was a Florentine and knew Dante quite well.
He materialised; I saw him.”
A bright glorious vision flashed upon Lucia. The Dante-class might
not, even though it was clearly understood that Cortese spoke
unintelligible Neapolitan, be a complete success, if the only
attraction was that she herself taught Dante, but it would be quite a
different proposition if Princess Popoffski, controlled by Amadeo,
Dante's friend, was present. They might read a Canto first, and then
hold a seance of which Amadeo—via Princess Popoffski—would take
charge. While this was simmering in her mind, it was important to drop
all irony and be extremely sympathetic.
“Georgino! How wonderful!” she said. “As you know, I am sceptical by
nature, and want all evidence carefully sifted. I daresay I am too
critical, and that is a fault. But fancy getting in touch with a friend
of Dante's! What would one not give? Tell me: what is this Princess
like? Is she the sort of person one could ask to dinner?”
Georgie was still sore over the irony to which he had been treated.
He had, moreover, the solid fact behind him that Daisy Quantock
(Margarita) had declared that in no circumstances would she permit
Lucia to annex her Princess. She had forgiven Lucia for annexing the
Guru (and considering that she had only annexed a curry-cook, it was
not so difficult) but she was quite determined to run her Princess
“Yes, you might ask her,” he said. If irony was going about, there
was no reason why he should not have a share.
Lucia bounced from her seat, as if it had been a spring cushion.
“We will have a little party,” she said. “We three, and dear Daisy
and her husband and the Princess. I think that will be enough; psychics
hate a crowd, because it disturbs the influences. Mind! I do not say I
believe in her power yet, but I am quite open-minded; I should like to
be convinced. Let me see! We are doing nothing tomorrow. Let us have
our little dinner tomorrow. I will send a line to dear Daisy at once,
and say how enormously your account of the seance has interested me. I
should like dear Daisy to have something to console her for that
terrible fiasco about her Guru. And then, Georgino mio, I will listen
to your Debussy. Do not expect anything; if it seems to me formless, I
shall say so. But if it seems to me promising, I shall be equally
frank. Perhaps it is great; I cannot tell you about that till I have
heard it. Let me write my note first.”
That was soon done, and Lucia, having sent it by hand, came into the
music-room, and drew down the blinds over the window through which the
autumn sun was streaming. Very little art, as she had once said, would
“stand” daylight; only Shakespeare or Dante or Beethoven and perhaps
Bach, could complete with the sun.
Georgie, for his part, would have liked rather more light, but after
all Debussy wrote such very odd chords and sequences that it was not
necessary to wear his spectacles.
Lucia sat in a high chair near the piano, with her chin in her hand,
Georgie took off his rings and laid them on the candle-bracket, and
ran his hands nimbly over the piano.
“Poissons d'or,” he said. “Goldfish!”
“Yes; Pesci d'oro,” said Lucia, explaining it to Peppino.
Lucia's face changed as the elusive music proceeded. The far-away
look died away, and became puzzled; her chin came out of her hand, and
the hand it came out of covered her eyes.
Before Georgie had got to the end the answer to her note came, and
she sat with it in her hand, which, released from covering her eyes,
tried to beat time. On the last note she got up with a regretful sigh.
“Is it finished?” she asked. “And yet I feel inclined to say 'When
is it going to begin?' I haven't been fed; I haven't drank in anything.
Yes, I warned you I should be quite candid. And there's my verdict. I
am sorry. Me vewy sowwy! But you played it, I am sure, beautifully,
Georgino; you were a buono avvocato; you said all that could be
said for your client. Shall I open this note before we discuss it more
fully? Give Georgino a cigarette, Peppino! I am sure he deserves one,
after all those accidentals.”
She pulled up the blind again in order to read her note and as she
read her face clouded.
“Ah! I am sorry for that,” she said. “Peppino, the Princess does not
go out in the evening; they always have a seance there. I daresay Daisy
means to ask us some evening soon. We will keep an evening or two open.
It is a long time since I have seen dear Daisy; I will pop round this
Spiritualism, and all things pertaining to it, swept over Riseholme
like the amazing growth of some tropical forest, germinating and
shooting out its surprising vegetation, and rearing into huge fantastic
shapes. In the centre of this wonderful jungle was a temple, so to
speak, and that temple was the house of Mrs Quantock....
A strange Providence was the origin of it all. Mrs Quantock, a week
before, had the toothache, and being no longer in the fold of Christian
Science, found that it was no good at all to tell herself that it was a
false claim. False claim it might be, but it was so plausible at once
that it quite deceived her, and she went up to London to have its
falsity demonstrated by a dentist. Since the collapse of Yoga and the
flight of the curry-cook, she had embarked on no mystical adventure,
and she starved for some new fad. Then when her first visit to the
dentist was over (the tooth required three treatments) and she went to
a vegetarian restaurant to see if there was anything enlightening to be
got out of that, she was delighted to find herself sitting at a very
small table with a very communicative lady who ate cabbages in
perfectly incredible quantities. She had a round pale face like the
moon behind the clouds, enormous eyebrows that almost met over her
nose, and a strange low voice, of husky tone, and a pronunciation quite
as foreign as Signor Cortese's. She wore some very curious rings with
large engraved amethysts and turquoises in them, and since in the first
moments of their conversation she had volunteered the information that
vegetarianism was the only possible diet for any who were cultivating
their psychical powers, Mrs Quantock asked her if these weird
finger-ornaments had any mystical signification. They had; one was
Gnostic, one was Rosicrucian, and the other was Cabalistic.... It is
easy to picture Mrs Quantock's delight; adventure had met her with
smiling mouth and mysterious eyes. In the course of an animated
conversation of half an hour, the lady explained that if Mrs Quantock
was, like her, a searcher after psychical truths, and cared to come to
her flat at half-past four that afternoon, she would try to help her.
She added with some little diffidence that the fee for a seance was a
guinea, and, as she left, took a card out of a case, encrusted with
glowing rubies, and gave it her. That was the Princess Popoffski.
Now here was a curious thing. For the last few evenings at
Riseholme, Mrs Quantock had been experimenting with a table, and found
that it creaked and tilted and tapped in the most encouraging way when
she and Robert laid their hands on it. Then something—whatever it was
that moved the table—had indicated by raps that her name was Daisy and
his Robert, as well as giving them other information, which could not
so easily be verified. Robert had grown quite excited about it, and was
vexed that the seances were interrupted by his wife's expedition to
London. But now how providential that was. She had walked straight from
the dentist into the arms of Princess Popoffski.
It was barely half-past four when Mrs Quantock arrived at the
Princess's flat, in a pleasant quiet side street off Charing Cross
Road. A small dapper little gentleman received her, who explained that
he was the Princess's secretary, and conducted her through several
small rooms into the presence of the Sybil. These rooms, so Mrs
Quantock thrillingly noticed, were dimly lit by oil lamps that stood in
front of shrines containing images of the great spiritual guides from
Moses down to Madame Blavatski, a smell of incense hung about, there
were vases of flowers on the tables, and strange caskets set with
winking stones. In the last of these rooms the Princess was seated, and
for the moment Mrs Quantock hardly recognised her, for she wore a blue
robe, which left her massive arms bare, and up them writhed
serpent-shaped bracelets of many coils. She fixed her eyes on Mrs
Quantock, as if she had never seen her before, and made no sign of
“The Princess has been meditating,” said the secretary in a whisper.
“She'll come to herself presently.”
For a moment meditation unpleasantly reminded Mrs Quantock of the
Guru, but nothing could have been less like that ill-starred curry-cook
than this majestic creature. Eventually she gave a great sigh and came
out of her meditation.
“Ah, it is my friend,” she said. “Do you know that you have a purple
This was very gratifying, especially when it was explained that only
the most elect had purple halos, and soon other elect souls assembled
for the seance. In the centre of the table was placed a musical box and
a violin, and hardly had the circle been made, and the lights turned
down, when the most extraordinary things began to happen. A perfect
storm of rappings issued from the table, which began to rock violently,
and presently there came peals of laughter in a high voice, and those
who had been here before said that it was Pocky. He was a dear naughty
boy, so Mrs Quantock's neighbour explained to her, so full of fun, and
when on earth had been a Hungarian violinist. Still invisible, Pocky
wished them all much laughter and joy, and then suddenly said “'Ullo,
'ullo, 'ere's a new friend. I like her,” and Mrs Quantock's neighbour,
with a touch of envy in her voice, told her that Pocky clearly meant
her. Then Pocky said that they had been having heavenly music on the
other side that day, and that if the new friend would say “Please” he
would play them some of it.
So Mrs Quantock, trembling with emotion, said “Please, Pocky,” and
instantly he began to play on the violin the spirit tune which he had
just been playing on the other side. After that, the violin clattered
back onto the middle of the table again, and Pocky, blowing showers of
kisses to them all, went away amid peals of happy laughter.
Silence fell, and then a deep bass voice said, “I am coming,
Amadeo!” and out of the middle of the table appeared a faint
luminousness. It grew upwards and began to take form. Swathes of white
muslin shaped themselves in the darkness, and there appeared a white
face, in among the topmost folds of the muslin, with a Roman nose and a
melancholy expression. He was not gay like Pocky, but he was intensely
impressive, and spoke some lines in Italian, when asked to repeat a
piece of Dante. Mrs Quantock knew they were Italian, because she
recognised “notte” and “uno” and “caro,” familiar words on Lucia's
The seance came to an end, and Mrs Quantock having placed a guinea
with the utmost alacrity in a sort of offertory plate which the
Princess's secretary negligently but prominently put down on a table in
one of the other rooms, waited to arrange for another seance. But most
unfortunately the Princess was leaving town next day on a much needed
holiday, for she had been giving three seances a day for the last two
months and required rest.
“Yes, we're off tomorrow, the Princess and I,” said he, “for a week
at the Royal Hotel at Brinton. Pleasant bracing air, always sets her
up. But after that she'll be back in town. Do you know that part of the
Daisy could hardly believe her ears.
“Brinton?” she said. “I live close to Brinton.”
Her whole scheme flashed completely upon her, even as Athene sprang
full-grown from the brain of Zeus.
“Do you think that she might be induced to spend a few days with me
at Riseholme?” she said. “My husband and I are so much interested in
psychical things. You would be our guest, too, I hope. If she rested
for a few days at Brinton first? If she came on to me afterwards? And
then if she was thoroughly rested, perhaps she would give us a seance
or two. I don't know—”
Mrs Quantock felt a great diffidence in speaking of guineas in the
same sentence with Princesses, and had to make another start.
“If she were thoroughly rested,” she said, “and if a little circle
perhaps of four, at the usual price would be worth her while. Just
after dinner, you know, and nothing else to do all day but rest. There
are pretty drives and beautiful air. All very quiet, and I think I may
say more comfortable than the hotel. It would be such a pleasure.”
Mrs Quantock heard the clinking of bracelets from the room where the
Princess was still reposing, and there she stood in the door, looking
unspeakably majestic, but very gracious. So Mrs Quantock put her
proposition before her, the secretary coming to the rescue on the
subject of the usual fees, and when two days afterwards Mrs Quantock
returned to Riseholme, it was to get ready the spare room and Robert's
room next to it for these thrilling visitors, whose first seance
Georgie and Piggy had attended, on the evening of the Italian
The Quantocks had taken a high and magnificent line about the “usual
fees” for the seances, an expensive line, but then Roumanian oils had
been extremely prosperous lately. No mention whatever of these fees was
made to their guests, no offertory-plate was put in a prominent
position in the hall, there was no fumbling for change or the discreet
pressure of coins into the secretary's hand; the entire cost was borne
by Roumanian oils. The Princess and Mrs Quantock, apparently, were old
friends; they spoke to each other at dinner as “dear friend,” and the
Princess declared in the most gratifying way that they had been most
intimate in a previous incarnation, without any allusion to the fact
that in this incarnation they had met for the first time last week at a
vegetarian restaurant. She was kind enough, it was left to be
understood, to give a little seance after dinner at the house of her
“dear friend,” and so, publicly, the question of money never came up.
Now the Princess was to stay three nights, and therefore, as soon as
Mrs Quantock had made sure of that, she proceeded to fill up each of
the seances without asking Lucia to any of them. It was not that she
had not fully forgiven her for her odious grabbing of the Guru, for she
had done that on the night of the Spanish quartette; it was rather that
she meant to make sure that there would by no possibility be anything
to forgive concerning her conduct with regard to the Princess. Lucia
could not grab her and so call Daisy's powers of forgiveness into play
again, if she never came near her, and Daisy meant to take proper
precautions that she should not come near her. Accordingly Georgie and
Piggy were asked to the first seance (if it did not go very well, it
would not particularly matter with them), Olga and Mr Shuttleworth were
bidden to the second, and Lady Ambermere with Georgie again to the
third. This—quite apart from the immense interest of psychic
phenomena—was deadly work, for it would be bitter indeed to Lucia to
know, as she most undoubtedly would, that Lady Ambermere, who had cut
her so firmly, was dining twice and coming to a seance. Daisy, it must
again be repeated, had quite forgiven Lucia about the Guru, but Lucia
must take the consequences of what she had done.
It was after the first seance that the frenzy for spiritualism
seized Riseholme. The Princess with great good-nature, gave some
further exhibitions of her psychical power in addition to the seances,
and even as Georgie the next afternoon was receiving Lucia's cruel
verdict about Debussy, the Sybil was looking at the hands of Colonel
Boucher and Mrs Weston, and unerringly probing into their past, and
lifting the corner of the veil, giving them both glimpses into the
future. She knew that the two were engaged for that she had learned
from Mrs Quantock in her morning's drive, and did not attempt to
conceal the fact, but how could it be accounted for that looking
impressively from the one to the other, she said that a woman no longer
young but tall, and with fair hair had crossed their lives and had been
connected with one, of them for years past? It was impossible to
describe Elizabeth more accurately than that, and Mrs Weston in high
excitement confessed that her maid who had been with her for fifteen
years entirely corresponded with what the Princess had seen in her
hand. After that it took only a moment's further scrutiny for the
Princess to discover that Elizabeth was going to be happy too. Then she
found that there was a man connected with Elizabeth, and Colonel
Boucher's hand, to which she transferred her gaze, trembled with
delightful anticipation. She seemed to see a man there; she was not
quite sure, but was there a man who perhaps had been known to him for a
long time? There was. And then by degrees the affairs of Elizabeth and
Atkinson were unerringly unravelled. It was little wonder that the
Colonel pushed Mrs Weston's bath-chair with record speed to “Ye signe
of ye daffodil,” and by the greatest good luck obtained a copy of the
At another of these informal seances attended by Goosie and Mrs
Antrobus, even stranger things had happened, for the Princess's hands,
as they held a little preliminary conversation, began to tremble and
twitch even more strongly than Colonel Boucher's, and Mrs Quantock
hastily supplied her with a pencil and a quantity of sheets of foolscap
paper, for this trembling and twitching implied that Reschia, an
ancient Egyptian priestess, was longing to use the Princess's hand for
automatic writing. After a few wild scrawls and plunges with the
pencil, the Princess, though she still continued to talk to them,
covered sheet after sheet in large flowing handwriting. This, when it
was finished and the Princess sunk back in her chair, proved to be the
most wonderful spiritual discourse, describing the happiness and
harmony which pervaded the whole universe, and was only temporarily
obscured by the mists of materiality. These mists were wholly withdrawn
from the vision of those who had passed over. They lived in the midst
of song and flowers and light and love.... Towards the end there was a
less intelligible passage about fire from the clouds. It was rendered
completely intelligible the very next day when there was a
thunderstorm, surely an unusual occurrence in November. If that had not
happened Mrs Quantock's interpretation of it, as referring to
Zeppelins, would have been found equally satisfactory. It was no wonder
after that, that Mrs Antrobus, Piggy and Goosie spent long evenings
with pencils and paper, for the Princess said that everybody had the
gift of automatic writing, if they would only take pains and patience
to develop it. Everybody had his own particular guide, and it was the
very next day that Piggy obtained a script clearly signed Annabel
Nicostratus and Jamifleg followed very soon after for her mother and
sister, and so there was no jealousy.
But the crown and apex of these manifestations was undoubtedly the
three regular seances which took place to the three select circles
after dinner. Musical boxes resounded, violins gave forth ravishing
airs, the sitters were touched by unseen fingers when everybody's hands
were touching all around the table, and from the middle of it
materialisations swathed in muslin were built up. Pocky came, visible
to the eye, and played spirit music. Amadeo, melancholy and impressive,
recited Dante, and Cardinal Newman, not visible to the eye but audible
to the ear, joined in the singing “Lead, Kindly Light,” which the
secretary requested them to encourage him with, and blessed them
profusely at the conclusion. Lady Ambermere was so much impressed, and
so nervous of driving home alone, that she insisted on Georgie's going
back to the Hall with her, and consigning her person to Pug and Miss
Lyall, and for the three days of the Princess's visit, there was
practically no subject discussed at the parliaments on the Green,
except the latest manifestations. Olga went to town for a crystal, and
Georgie for a planchette, and Riseholme temporarily became a
spiritualistic republic, with the Princess as priestess and Mrs
Quantock as President.
Lucia, all this time, was almost insane with pique and jealousy, for
she sat in vain waiting for an invitation to come to a seance, and
would, long before the three days were over, have welcomed with
enthusiasm a place at one of the inferior and informal exhibitions.
Since she could not procure the Princess for dinner, she asked Daisy to
bring her to lunch or tea or at any hour day or night which was
convenient. She made Peppino hang about opposite Daisy's house, with
orders to drop his stick, or let his hat blow off, if he saw even the
secretary coming out of the gate, so as possibly to enter into
conversation with him, while she positively forced herself one morning
into Daisy's hall, and cried “Margarita” in silvery tones. On this
occasion Margarita came out of the drawing-room with a most determined
expression on her face, and shut the door carefully behind her.
“Dearest Lucia,” she said, “how nice to see you! What is it?”
“I just popped in for a chat,” said she. “I haven't set eyes on you
since the evening of the Spanish quartette.”
“No! So long ago as that is it? Well, you must come in again
sometime very soon, won't you? The day after tomorrow I shall be much
less busy. Promise to look in then.”
“You have a visitor with you, have you not?” asked Lucia
“Yes! Two, indeed, dear friends of mine. But I am afraid you would
not like them. I know your opinion about anything connected with
spiritualism, and—isn't it silly of us?—we've been dabbling in that.”
“Oh, but how interesting,” said Lucia. “I—I am always ready to
learn, and alter my opinions if I am wrong.”
Mrs Quantock did not move from in front of the drawing-room door.
“Yes?” she said. “Then we will have a great talk about it, when you
come to see me the day after tomorrow. But I know I shall find you hard
She kissed the tips of her fingers in a manner so hopelessly final
that there was nothing to do but go away.
Then with poor generalship, Lucia altered her tactics, and went up
to the Village Green where Piggy was telling Georgie about the script
signed Annabel. This was repeated again for Lucia's benefit.
“Wasn't it too lovely?” said Piggy. “So Annabel's my guide, and she
writes a hand quite unlike mine.”
Lucia gave a little scream, and put her fingers to her ears.
“Gracious me!” she said. “What has come over Riseholme? Wherever I
go I hear nothing but talk of seances, and spirits, and automatic
writing. Such a pack of nonsense, my dear Piggy. I wonder at a sensible
girl like you.”
Mrs Weston, propelled by the Colonel, whirled up in her bath-chair.
“'The Palmist's Manual' is too wonderful,” she said, “and Jacob and
I sat up over it till I don't know what hour. There's a break in his
line of life, just at the right place, when he was so ill in Egypt,
which is most remarkable, and when Tommy Luton brought round my
bath-chair this morning—I had it at the garden-door, because the
gravel's just laid at my front-door, and the wheels sink so far into
it—'Tommy,' I said, 'let me look at your hand a moment,' and there on
his line of fate, was the little cross that means bereavement. It came
just right didn't it, Jacob? when he was thirteen, for he's fourteen
this year, and Mrs Luton died just a year ago. Of course I didn't tell
Tommy that, for I only told him to wash his hands, but it was most
curious. And has your planchette come yet, Mr Georgie? I shall be most
anxious to know what it writes, so if you've got an evening free any
night soon just come round for a bit of dinner, and we'll make an
evening of it, with table turning and planchette and palmistry. Now
tell me all about the seance the first night. I wish I could have been
present at a real seance, but of course Mrs Quantock can't find room
for everybody, and I'm sure it was most kind of her to let the Colonel
and me come in yesterday afternoon. We were thrilled with it, and who
knows but that the Princess didn't write the Palmist's Manual for on
the title page it says it's by P. and that might be Popoffski as easily
as not, or perhaps Princess.”
This allusion to there not being room for everybody was agony to
Lucia. She laughed in her most silvery manner.
“Or, perhaps Peppino,” she said. “I must ask mio caro if he
wrote it. Or does it stand for Pillson? Georgino, are you the author of
the Palmist's Manual? Ecco! I believe it was you.”
This was not quite wise, for no one detested irony more than Mrs
Weston, or was sharper to detect it. Lucia should never have been
ironical just then, nor indeed have dropped into Italian.
“No” she said. “I'm sure it was neither Il Signer Peppino nor Il
Signer Pillson who wrote it. I believe it was the Principessa. So,
ecco! And did we not have a delicious evening at Miss Bracely's the
other night? Such lovely singing, and so interesting to learn that
Signor Cortese made it all up. And those lovely words, for though I
didn't understand much of them, they sounded so exquisite. And fancy
Miss Bracely talking Italian so beautifully when we none of us knew she
talked it at all.”
Mrs Weston's amiable face was crimson with suppressed emotion, of
which these few words were only the most insignificant leakage, and a
very awkward pause succeeded which was luckily broken by everybody
beginning to talk again very fast and brightly. Then Mrs Weston's chair
scudded away; Piggy skipped away to the stocks where Goosie was sitting
with a large sheet of foolscap, in case her hand twitched for automatic
script, and Lucia turned to Georgie, who alone was left.
“Poor Daisy!” she said. “I dropped in just now, and really I found
her very odd and strange. What with her crazes for Christian Science,
and Uric Acid and Gurus and Mediums, one wonders if she is quite sane.
So sad! I should be dreadfully sorry if she had some mental collapse;
that sort of thing is always so painful. But I know of a first-rate
place for rest-cures; I think it would be wise if I just casually
dropped the name of it to Mr Robert, in case. And this last craze seems
so terribly infectious. Fancy Mrs Weston dabbling in palmistry! It is
too comical, but I hope I did not hurt her feelings by suggesting that
Peppino or you wrote the Manual, It is dangerous to make little jokes
to poor Mrs Weston.”
Georgie quite agreed with that, but did not think it necessary to
say in what sense he agreed with it. Every day now Lucia was pouring
floods of light on a quite new side of her character, which had been
undeveloped, like the print from some photographic plate lying in the
dark so long as she was undisputed mistress of Riseholme. But, so it
struck him now, since the advent of Olga, she had taken up a critical
ironical standpoint, which previously she had reserved for Londoners.
At every turn she had to criticise and condemn where once she would
only have praised. So few months ago, there had been that marvellous
Hightum garden party, when Olga had sung long after Lady Ambermere had
gone away. That was her garden party; the splendour and success of it
had been hers, and no one had been allowed to forget that until Olga
came back again. But the moment that happened, and Olga began to sing
on her own account (which after all, so Georgie thought, she had a
perfect right to do), the whole aspect of affairs was changed. She
romped, and Riseholme did not like romps; she sang in church, and that
was theatrical; she gave a party with the Spanish quartette, and
Brinton was publicly credited with the performance. Then had come Mrs
Quantock and her Princess, and, lo, it would be kind to remember the
name of an establishment for rest-cures, in the hope of saving poor
Daisy's sanity. Again Colonel Boucher and Mrs Weston were intending to
get married, and consulted a Palmist's Manual, so they too helped to
develop as with acid the print that had lain so long in the dark.
“Poor thing!” said Lucia, “it is dreadful to have no sense of
humour, and I'm sure I hope that Colonel Boucher will thoroughly
understand that she has none before he speaks the fatal words. But then
he has none either, and I have often noticed that two people without
any sense of humour find each other most witty and amusing. A sense of
humour, I expect, is not a very common gift; Miss Bracely has none at
all, for I do not call romping humour. As for poor Daisy, what can
rival her solemnity in sitting night after night round a table with
someone who may or may not be a Russian princess—Russia of course is a
very large place, and one does not know how many princesses there may
be there—and thrilling over a pot of luminous paint and a false nose
and calling it Amadeo the friend of Dante.”
This was too much for Georgie.
“But you asked Mrs Quantock and the Princess to dine with you,” he
said, “and hoped there would be a seance afterwards. You wouldn't have
done that, if you thought it was only a false nose and a pot of
“I may have been impulsive,” said Lucia speaking very rapidly. “I
daresay I'm impulsive, and if my impulses lie in the direction of
extending such poor hospitality as I can offer to my friends, and their
friends, I am not ashamed of them. Far otherwise. But when I see and
observe the awful effect of this so-called spiritualism on people whom
I should have thought sensible and well-balanced—I do not include poor
dear Daisy among them—then I am only thankful that my impulses did not
happen to lead me into countenancing such piffle, as your sister so
truly observed about POOR Daisy's Guru.”
They had come opposite Georgie's house, and suddenly his
drawing-room window was thrown up. Olga's head looked out.
“Don't have a fit, Georgie, to find me here” she said. “Good
morning, Mrs Lucas; you were behind the mulberry, and I didn't see you.
But something's happened to my kitchen range, and I can't have lunch at
home. Do give me some. I've brought my crystal, and we'll gaze and
gaze. I can see nothing at present except my own nose and the window.
Are you psychical, Mrs Lucas?”
This was the last straw; all Lucia's grievances had been flocking
together like swallows for their flight, and to crown all came this
open annexation of Georgie. There was Olga, sitting in his window, all
unasked, and demanding lunch, with her silly ridiculous crystal in her
hand, wondering if Lucia was psychical.
Her silvery laugh was a little shrill. It started a full tone above
its normal pitch.
“No, dear Miss Bracely,” she said. “I am afraid I am much too
commonplace and matter-of-fact to care about such things. It is a great
loss I know, and deprives me of the pleasant society of Russian
princesses. But we are all made differently; that is very lucky. I must
get home, Georgie.”
It certainly seemed very lucky that everyone was not precisely like
Lucia at that moment, or there would have been quarrelling.
She walked quickly off, and Georgie entered his house. Lucia had
really been remarkably rude, and, if allusion was made to it, he was
ready to confess that she seemed a little worried. Friendship would
allow that, and candour demanded it. But no allusion of any sort was
made. There was a certain flush on Olga's face, and she explained that
she had been sitting over the fire.
The Princess's visit came to an end next day, and all the world knew
that she was going back to London by the 11.00 a.m. express. Lady
Ambermere was quite aware of it, and drove in with Pug and Miss Lyall,
meaning to give her a lift to the station, leaving Mrs Quantock, if she
wanted to see her guest off, to follow with the Princess's luggage in
the fly which, no doubt, had been ordered. But Daisy had no intention
of permitting this sort of thing, and drove calmly away with her dear
friend in Georgie's motor, leaving the baffled Lady Ambermere to follow
or not as she liked. She did like, though not much, and found herself
on the platform among a perfect crowd of Riseholmites who had strolled
down to the station on this lovely morning to see if parcels had come.
Lady Ambermere took very little notice of them, but managed that Pug
should give his paw to the Princess as she took her seat, and waved her
hand to Mrs Quantock's dear friend, as the train slid out of the
“The late lord had some Russian relations,” she said majestically.
“How did you get to know her?”
“I met her at Potsdam” was on the tip of Mrs Quantock's tongue, but
she was afraid that Lady Ambermere might not understand, and ask her
when she had been to Potsdam. It was grievous work making jokes for
The train sped on to London, and the Princess opened the envelope
which her hostess had discreetly put in her hand, and found that
that was all right. Her hostess had also provided her with an
admirable lunch, which her secretary took out of a Gladstone bag. When
that was finished, she wanted her cigarettes, and as she looked for
these, and even after she had found them, she continued to search for
something else. There was the musical box there, and some curious
pieces of elastic, and the violin was in its case, and there was a
white mask. But she still continued to search....
About the same time as she gave up the search, Mrs Quantock wandered
upstairs to the Princess's room. A less highly vitalised nature than
hers would have been in a stupor of content, but she was more in a
frenzy of content than in a stupor. How fine that frenzy was may be
judged from the fact that perhaps the smallest ingredient in it was her
utter defeat of Lucia, She cared comparatively little for that glorious
achievement, and she was not sure that when the Princess came back
again, as she had arranged to do on her next holiday, she would not ask
Lucia to come to a seance. Indeed she had little but pity for the
vanquished, so great were the spoils. Never had Riseholme risen to such
a pitch of enthusiasm, and with good cause had it done so now, for of
all the wonderful and exciting things that had ever happened there,
these seances were the most delirious. And better even than the
excitement of Riseholme was the cause of its excitement, for
spiritualism and the truth of inexplicable psychic phenomena had
flashed upon them all. Tableaux, romps, Yoga, the Moonlight Sonata,
Shakespeare, Christian Science, Olga herself, Uric Acid, Elizabethan
furniture, the engagement of Colonel Boucher and Mrs Weston, all these
tremendous topics had paled like fire in the sunlight before the
revelation that had now dawned. By practice and patience, by zealous
concentration on crystals and palms, by the waiting for automatic
script to develop, you attained to the highest mysteries, and could
evoke Cardinal Newman, or Pocky....
There was the bed in which the Sybil had slept; there was the fresh
vase of flowers, difficult to procure in November, but still
obtainable, which she loved to have standing near her. There was the
chest of drawers in which she had put her clothes, and Mrs Quantock
pulled them open one by one, finding fresh emanations and vibrations
everywhere. The lowest one stuck a little, and she had to use force to
The smile was struck from her face, as it flew open. Inside it were
billows and billows of the finest possible muslin. Fold after fold of
it she drew out, and with it there came a pair of false eyebrows. She
recognised them at once as being Amadeo's. The muslin belonged to Pocky
She needed but a moment's concentrated thought, and in swift
succession rejected two courses of action that suggested themselves.
The first was to use the muslin herself; it would make summer garments
for years. The chief reason against that was that she was a little old
for muslin. The second course was to send the whole paraphernalia back
to her dear friend, with or without a comment. But that would be
tantamount to a direct accusation of fraud. Never any more, if she did
that, could she dispense her dear friend to Riseholme like an expensive
drug. She would not so utterly burn her boats. There remained only one
other judicious course of action, and she got to work.
It had been a cold morning, clear and frosty, and she had caused a
good fire to be lit in the Princess's bedroom, for her to dress by. It
still prospered in the grate, and Mrs Quantock, having shut the door
and locked it, put on to it the false eyebrows, which, as they turned
to ash, flew up the chimney. Then she fed it with muslin; yards and
yards of muslin she poured on to it; never had there been so much
muslin nor that so exquisitely fine. It went to her heart to burn it,
but there was no time for minor considerations; every atom of that
evidence must be purged by fire. The Princess would certainly not write
and say that she had left some eyebrows and a hundred yards of muslin
behind her, for, knowing what she did, it would be to her interests as
well as Mrs Quantock's that those properties should vanish, as if they
never had been.
Up the chimney in sheets of flame went this delightful fabric;
sometimes it roared there, as if it had set the chimney on fire, and
she had to pause, shielding her scorched face, until the hollow
rumbling had died down. But at last the holocaust was over, and she
unlocked the door again. No one knew but she, and no one should ever
know. The Guru had turned out to be a curry-cook, but no intruding
Hermy had been here this time. As long as crystals fascinated and
automatic writing flourished, the secret of the muslin and the eyebrows
should repose in one bosom alone. Riseholme had been electrified by
spiritualism, and, even now, the seances had been cheap at the price,
and in spite of this discovery, she felt by no means sure that she
would not ask the Princess to come again and minister to their
She had hardly got downstairs when Robert came in from the Green,
where he had been recounting the experiences of the last seance.
“Looked as if there was a chimney on fire,” he said. “I wish it was
the kitchen chimney. Then perhaps the beef mightn't be so raw as it was
Thus is comedy intertwined with tragedy!
Georgie was very busily engaged during the first weeks of December
on a water-colour sketch of Olga sitting at her piano and singing. The
difficulty of it was such that at times he almost despaired of
accomplishing it, for the problem of how to draw her face and her mouth
wide open and yet retain the likeness seemed almost insoluble. Often he
sat in front of his own looking-glass with his mouth open, and
diligently drew his own face, in order to arrive at the principles of
the changes of line which took place. Certainly the shape of a person's
face, when his mouth was wide open altered so completely that you would
have thought him quite unrecognisable, however skilfully the artist
reproduced his elongated countenance, and yet Georgie could easily
recognise that face in the glass as his. Forehead, eyes and cheek-bones
alone retained their wonted aspect; even the nose seemed to lengthen if
you opened your mouth very wide.... Then how again was he to indicate
that she was singing and not yawning, or preparing for a sneeze? His
most successful sketch at present looked precisely as if she was
yawning, and made Georgie's jaws long to yawn too. Perhaps the shape of
the mouth in the two positions was really the same, and it was only the
sound that led you to suppose that an open-mouthed person was singing.
But perhaps the piano would supply the necessary suggestion; Olga would
not sit down at the piano merely to yawn or sneeze, for she could do
Then a brilliant idea struck him: he would introduce a shaded lamp
standing on the piano, and then her face would be in red shadow.
Naturally this entailed fresh problems with regard to light, but light
seemed to present less difficulty than likeness. Besides he could make
her dress, and the keys of the piano very like indeed. But when he came
to painting again he despaired. There must be red shadow on her face
and yellow light on her hands, and on her green dress, and presently
the whole thing looked not so much like Olga singing by lamp-light, as
a lobster-salad spread out in the sunlight. The more he painted, the
more vividly did the lettuce leaves and the dressing and the lobster
emerge from the paper. So he took away the lamp, and shut Olga's mouth,
and there she would be at her piano just going to sing.
These artistic agonies had rewards which more than compensated for
them, for regularly now he took his drawing-board and his paint-box
across to her house, and sat with her while she practised. There were
none of love's lilies low or yawning York now, for she was very busy
learning her part in Lucretia, spending a solid two hours at it every
morning, and Georgie began to perceive what sort of work it implied to
produce the spontaneous ease with which Brunnhilde hailed the sun. More
astounding even was the fact that this mere learning of notes was but
the preliminary to what she called “real work.” And when she had got
through the mere mechanical part of it, she would have to study. Then
when her practice was over, she would indulgently sit with her head in
profile against a dark background, and Georgie would suck one end of
his brush and bite the other, and wonder whether he would ever produce
anything which he could dare to offer her. By daily poring on her face,
he grew not to admire only but to adore its youth and beauty, by daily
contact with her he began to see how fresh and how lovely was the mind
that illuminated it.
“Georgie, I'm going to scold you,” she said one day, as she took up
her place against the black panel. “You're a selfish little brute. You
think of nothing but your own amusement. Did that ever strike you?”
Georgie gasped with surprise. Here was he spending the whole of
every morning trying to do something which would be a worthy Christmas
present for her (to say nothing of the hours he had spent with his
mouth open in front of his glass, and the cost of the beautiful frame
which he had ordered) and yet he was supposed to be only thinking about
himself. Of course Olga did not know that the picture was to be
“How tarsome you are!” he said. “You're always finding fault with
“Well, you're neglecting your old friends for your new one,” she
said. “My dear, you should never drop an old friend. For instance, when
did you last play duets with Mrs Lucas?”
“Oh, not so very long ago,” said Georgie.
“Quite long enough, I am sure. But I don't actually mean sitting
down and thumping the piano with her. When did you last think about her
and make plans for her and talk baby-language?”
“Who told you I ever did?” asked Georgie.
“Gracious! How can I possibly remember that sort of thing? I should
say at a guess that everybody told me. Now poor Mrs Lucas is feeling
out of it, and neglected and dethroned. It's all on my mind rather, and
I'm talking to you about it, because it's largely your fault. Now we're
talking quite frankly, so don't fence, and say it's mine. I know
exactly what you mean, but you are perfectly wrong. Primarily, it's Mrs
Lucas's fault, because she's quite the stupidest woman I ever saw, but
it's partly your fault too.”
She turned round.
“Come, Georgie, let's have it out,” she said. “I'm perfectly
powerless to do anything, because she detests me, and you've got to
help her and help me, and drop your selfishness. Before I came here,
she used to run you all, and give you treats like going to her tableaux
and listening to her stupid old Moonlight Sonata, and talking seven
words of Italian. And then I came along with no earthly intention
except to enjoy my holidays, and she got it into her head that I was
trying to run the place instead of her. Isn't that so? Just say 'yes.'“
“Yes,” said Georgie.
“Well, that puts me in an odious position and a helpless position. I
did my best to be nice to her; I went to her house until she ceased to
ask me, and asked her here for everything that I thought would amuse
her, until she ceased to come. I took no notice of her rudeness which
was remarkable, or of her absurd patronising airs, which didn't hurt me
in the smallest degree. But Georgie, she would continue to make such a
dreadful ass of herself, and think it was my fault. Was it my fault
that she didn't know the Spanish quartette when she heard it, or that
she didn't know a word of Italian, when she pretended she did, or that
the other day (it was the last time I saw her, when you played your
Debussy to us at Aunt Jane's) she talked to me about inverted fifths?”
Olga suddenly burst out laughing, and Georgie assumed the Riseholme
face of intense curiosity.
“You must tell me all about that,” he said, “and I'll tell you the
rest which you don't know.”
Olga succumbed too, and began to talk in Aunt Jane's voice, for she
had adopted her as an aunt.
“Well, it was last Monday week” she said “or was it Sunday? No it
couldn't have been Sunday because I don't have anybody to tea that day,
as Elizabeth goes over to Jacob's and spends the afternoon with
Atkinson, or the other way about, which doesn't signify, as the point
is that Elizabeth should be free. So it was Monday, and Aunt Jane—it's
me talking again—had the tea-party at which you played Poisson d'Or.
And when it was finished, Mrs Lucas gave a great sigh, and said 'Poor
Georgino! Wasting his time over that rubbish,' though she knew quite
well that I had given it to you. And so I said, 'Would you call it
rubbish, do you think?' and she said 'Quite. Every rule of music is
violated. Don't those inverted fifths make you wince, Miss Bracely?'“
Olga laughed again, and spoke in her own voice.
“Oh, Georgie, she is an ass,” she said. “What she meant I suppose
was consecutive fifths; you can't invert a fifth. So I said (I really
meant it as a joke), 'Of course there is that, but you must forgive
Debussy that for the sake of that wonderful passage of submerged
tenths!' And she took it quite gravely and shook her head, and said she
was afraid she was a purist. What happened next? That's all I know.”
“Directly afterwards,” said Georgie, “she brought the music to me,
and asked me to show her where the passage of tenths came. I didn't
know, but I found some tenths, and she brightened up and said 'Yes, it
is true; those submerged tenths are very impressive.' Then I suggested
that the submerged tenth was not a musical expression, but referred to
a section of the population. On which she said no more, but when she
went away she asked me to send her some book on 'Harmony.' I daresay
she is looking for the submerged tenth still.”
Olga lit a cigarette and became grave again.
“Well, it can't go on,” she said. “We can't have the poor thing
feeling angry and out of it. Then there was Mrs Quantock absolutely
refusing to let her see the Princess.”
“That was her own fault,” said Georgie. “It was because she was so
greedy about the Guru.”
“That makes it all the bitterer. And I can't do anything, because
she blames me for it all. I would ask her and her Peppino here every
night, and listen to her dreary tunes every evening, and let her have
it all her own way, if it would do any good. But things have gone too
far; she wouldn't come. It has all happened without my noticing it. I
never added it all up as it went along, and I hate it.”
Georgie thought of the spiritualistic truths.
“If you're an incarnation,” he said in a sudden glow of admiration,
“you're the incarnation of an angel. How you can forgive her odious
manners to you——”
“My dear, shut up,” said Olga. “We've got to do something. Now how
would it be if you gave a nice party on Christmas night, and asked her
at once? Ask her to help you in getting it up; make it clear she's
going to run it.”
“All right. You'll come, won't you?”
“Certainly I will not. Perhaps I will come in after dinner with
Goosie or some one of that sort. Don't you see it would spoil it all if
I were at dinner? You must rather pointedly leave me out. Give her a
nice expensive refined Christmas present too. You might give her that
picture you're doing of me—No, I suppose she wouldn't like that. But
just comfort her and make her feel you can't get on without her. You've
been her right hand all these years. Make her give her tableaux again.
And then I think you must ask me in afterwards. I long to see her and
Peppino as Brunnhilde and Siegfried. Just attend to her, Georgie, and
buck her up. Promise me you will. And do it as if your heart was in it,
otherwise it's no good.”
Georgie began packing up his paint-box. This was not the plan he had
hoped for on Christmas Day, but if Olga wished this, it had got to be
“Well, I'll do my best,” he said.
“Thanks ever so much. You're a darling. And how is your planchette
getting on? I've been lazy about my crystal, but I get so tired of my
“Planchette would write nothing but a few names,” said Georgie,
omitting the fact that Olga's was the most frequent. “I think I shall
This was but reasonable, for since Riseholme had some new and
absorbing excitement every few weeks, to say nothing of the current
excitement of daily life, it followed that even the most thrilling
pursuits could not hold the stage for very long. Still, the interest in
spiritualism had died down with the rapidity of the seed on stony
“Even Mrs Quantock seems to have cooled,” said Olga. “She and her
husband were here last night, and they looked rather bored when I
suggested table-turning. I wonder if anything has happened to put her
“What do you think could have?” asked Georgie with Riseholme
“Georgie, do you really believe in the Princess and Pocky?” she
Georgie looked round to see that there was no one within hearing.
“I did at the time,” he said, “at least I think I did. But it seems
less likely now. Who was the Princess anyway? Why didn't we ever hear
of her before? I believe Mrs Quantock met her in the train or
“So do I,” said Olga. “But not a word. It makes Aunt Jane and Uncle
Jacob completely happy to believe in it all. Their lines of life are
enormous, and they won't die till they're over a hundred. Now go and
see Mrs Lucas, and if she doesn't ask you to lunch you can come back
Georgie put down his picture and painting-apparatus at his house,
and went on to Lucia's, definitely conscious that though he did not
want to have her to dinner on Christmas Day, or go back to his duets
and his A. D. C. duties, there was a spice and savour in so doing that
came entirely from the fact that Olga wished him to, that by this
service he was pleasing her. In itself it was distasteful, in itself it
tended to cut him off from her, if he had to devote his time to Lucia,
but he still delighted in doing it.
“I believe I am falling in love with her this time,” said Georgie to
himself.... “She's wonderful; she's big; she's—-”
At that moment his thoughts were violently diverted, for Robert
Quantock came out of his house in a tremendous hurry, merely scowling
at Georgie, and positively trotted across the Green in the direction of
the news-agent's. Instantly Georgie recollected that he had seen him
there already this morning before his visit to Olga, buying a new
twopenny paper in a yellow cover called “Todd's News.” They had had a
few words of genial conversation, and what could have happened in the
last two hours that made Robert merely gnash his teeth at Georgie now,
and make a second visit to the paper-shop?
It was impossible not to linger a moment and see what Robert did
when he got to the paper-shop, and with the aid of his spectacles
Georgie perceived that he presently loaded himself with a whole packet
of papers in yellow covers, presumably “Todd's News.” Flesh and blood
could not resist the cravings of curiosity, and making a detour, so as
to avoid being gnashed at again by Robert, who was coming rapidly back
in his direction, he strolled round to the paper-shop and asked for a
copy of “Todd's News.” Instantly the bright December morning grew dark
with mystery, for the proprietor told him that Mr Quantock has bought
every copy he possessed of it. No further information could be
obtained, except that he had bought a copy of every other daily paper
Georgie could make nothing of it whatever, and having observed
Robert hurry into his house again, went on his errand to Lucia. Had he
seen what Robert did when he got home, it is doubtful if he could have
avoided breaking into the house and snatching a copy of “Todd's News"
Robert went to his study, and locked the door. He drew out from
under his blotting-pad the first copy of “Todd's News” that he bought
earlier in the morning, and put it with the rest. Then with a furrowed
brow he turned to the police-reports in the “Times” and after looking
at them laid the paper down. He did the same to the “Daily Telegraph,”
the “Daily Mail,” the “Morning Post,” the “Daily Chronicle.” Finally
(this was the last of the daily papers) he perused “The Daily Mirror,”
tore it in shreds, and said “Damn.”
He sat for a while in thought, trying to recollect if anybody in
Riseholme except Colonel Boucher took in the “Daily Mirror.” But he
felt morally certain that no one did, and letting himself out of his
study, and again locking the door after him, he went into the street,
and saw at a glance that the Colonel was employed in whirling Mrs
Weston round the Green. Instead of joining them he hurried to the
Colonel's house and, for there was no time for half-measures, fixed
Atkinson with his eye, and said he would like to write a note to
Colonel Boucher. He was shown into his sitting-room, and saw the “Daily
Mirror” lying open on the table. As soon as he was left alone, he
stuffed it into his pocket, told Atkinson he would speak to the Colonel
instead, and intercepted the path of the bath-chair. He was nearly run
over, but stood his ground, and in a perfectly firm voice asked the
Colonel if there was any news in the morning papers. With the Colonel's
decided negative ringing joyfully in his ears, he went home again, and
locked himself for the second time into his study.
There is a luxury, when some fell danger has been averted by
promptness and presence of mind, in living through the moments of that
danger again, and Robert opened “Todd's News,” for that gave the fuller
account, and read over the paragraph in the police news headed “Bogus
Russian Princess.” But now he gloated over the lines which had made him
shudder before when he read how Marie Lowenstein, of 15, Gerald Street,
Charing Cross Road, calling herself Princess Popoffski, had been
brought up at the Bow Street Police Court for fraudulently professing
to tell fortunes and produce materialised spirits at a seance in her
flat. Sordid details followed: a detective who had been there seized an
apparition by the throat, and turned on the electric light. It was the
woman Popoffski's throat that he held, and her secretary, Hezekiah
Schwarz, was discovered under the table detaching an electric hammer. A
fine was inflicted....
A moment's mental debate was sufficient to determine Robert not to
tell his wife. It was true that she had produced Popoffski, but then he
had praised and applauded her for that; he, no less than she, had been
convinced of Popoffski's integrity, high rank and marvellous psychic
powers, and together they had soared to a pinnacle of unexampled
greatness in the Riseholme world. Besides poor Daisy would be simply
flattened out if she knew that Popoffski was no better than the Guru.
He glanced at the pile of papers, and at the fire place....
It had been a cold morning, clear and frosty, and a good blaze
prospered in the grate. Out of each copy, of “Todd's News” he tore the
page on which were printed the police reports, and fed the fire with
them. Page after page he put upon it; never had so much paper been
devoted to one grate. Up the chimney they flew in sheets of flame;
sometimes he was afraid he had set it on fire, and he had to pause,
shielding his scorched face, until the hollow rumbling had died down.
With the page from two copies of the “Daily Mirror” the holocaust was
over, and he unlocked the door again. No one in Riseholme knew but he,
and no one should ever know. Riseholme had been electrified by
spiritualism, and even now the seances had been cheap at the price.
The debris of all these papers he caused to be removed by the
housemaid, and this was hardly done when his wife came in from the
“I thought there was a chimney on fire, Robert,” she said. “You
would have liked it to be the kitchen-chimney as you said the other
“Stuff and nonsense, my dear,” said he. “Lunch-time, isn't it?”
“Yes. Ah, there's the post. None for me, and two for you.”
She looked at him narrowly as he took his letters. Perhaps their
subconscious minds (according to her dear friend's theory) held
communication, but only the faintest unintelligible ripple of that
appeared on the surface.
“I haven't heard from my Princess since she went away,” she
Robert gave a slight start; he was a little off his guard from the
reaction after his anxiety.
“Indeed!” he said. “Have you written to her?”
She appeared to try to remember.
“Well, I really don't believe I have,” she said. “That is remiss of
me. I must send her a long budget one of these days.”
This time he looked narrowly at her. Had she a secret, he wondered,
as well as he? What could it be?...
Georgie found his mission none too easy, and it was only the thought
that it was a labour of love, or something very like it, that enabled
him to persevere. Even then for the first few minutes he thought it
might prove love's labour's lost, so bright and unreal was Lucia.
He had half crossed Shakespeare's garden, and had clearly seen her
standing at the window of the music-room, when she stole away, and next
moment the strains of some slow movement, played very loud, drowned the
bell on the mermaid's tail so completely that he wondered whether it
had rung at all. As a matter of fact, Lucia and Peppino were in the
midst of a most serious conversation when Georgie came through the
gate, which was concerned with deciding what was to be done. A party at
The Hurst sometime during Christmas week was as regular as the festival
itself, but this year everything was so unusual. Who were to be asked
in the first place? Certainly not Mrs Weston, for she had talked
Italian to Lucia in a manner impossible to misinterpret, and probably,
so said Lucia with great acidity, she would be playing children's games
with her promesso. It was equally impossible to ask Miss Bracely
and her husband, for relations were already severed on account of the
Spanish quartette and Signer Cortese, and as for the Quantocks, did
Peppino expect Lucia to ask Mrs Quantock again ever? Then there was
Georgie, who had become so different and strange, and ... Well here was
Georgie. Hastily she sat down at the piano, and Peppino closed his eyes
for the slow movement.
The opening of the door was lost on Lucia, and Peppino's eyes were
closed. Consequently Georgie sat down on the nearest chair, and waited.
At the end Peppino sighed, and he sighed too.
“Who is that?” said Lucia sharply. “Why is it you, Georgie? What a
stranger. Aren't you? Any news?”
This was all delivered in the coldest of tones, and Lucia snatched a
morsel of wax off Eb.
“I've heard none,” said Georgie in great discomfort. “I just dropped
Lucia fixed Peppino with a glance. If she had shouted at the top of
her voice she could not have conveyed more unmistakably that she was
going to manage this situation.
“Ah, that is very pleasant,” she said. “Peppino and I have been so
busy lately that we have seen nobody. We are quite country-cousins, and
so the town-mouse must spare us a little cheese. How is dear Miss
“Very well,” said Georgie. “I saw her this morning.”
Lucia gave a sigh of relief.
“That is good,” she said. “Peppino, do you hear? Miss Bracely is
quite well. Not overtired with practising that new opera? Lucy Grecian,
was it? Oh, how silly I am! Lucretia; that was it, by that
extraordinary Neapolitan. Yes. And what next? Our good Mrs Weston, now!
Still thinking about her nice young man? Making orange-flower wreaths,
and choosing bridesmaids? How naughty I am! Yes. And then dear Daisy?
How is she? Still entertaining princesses? I look in the Court Circular
every morning to see if Princess Pop—Pop—Popoff isn't it? if Princess
Popoff has popped off to see her cousin the Czar again. Dear me!”
The amount of malice, envy and all uncharitableness which Lucia
managed to put into this quite unrehearsed speech was positively
amazing. She had not thought it over beforehand for a moment; it came
out with the august spontaneity of lightning leaping from a cloud. Not
till that moment had Georgie guessed at a tithe of all that Olga had
felt so certain about, and a double emotion took hold of him. He was
immensely sorry for Lucia, never having conjectured how she must have
suffered before she attained to so superb a sourness, and he adored the
intuition that had guessed it and wanted to sweeten it.
The outburst was not quite over yet, though Lucia felt distinctly
“And you, Georgie,” she said, “though I'm sure we are such strangers
that I ought to call you Mr Pillson, what have you been doing? Playing
Miss Bracely's accompaniments, and sewing wedding-dresses all day, and
raising spooks all night? Yes.”
Lucia had caught this “Yes” from Lady Ambermere, having found it
peculiarly obnoxious. You laid down a proposition, or asked a question,
and then confirmed it yourself.
“And Mr Cortese,” she said, “is he still roaring out his marvellous
English and Italian? Yes. What a full life you lead, Georgie. I suppose
you have no time for your painting now.”
This was not a bow drawn at a venture, for she had seen Georgie come
out of Old Place with his paint-box and drawing-board, but this direct
attack on him did not lessen the power of the “sweet charity” which had
sent him here. He blew the bugle to rally all the good-nature for which
he was capable.
“No, I have been painting lately,” he said, “at least I have been
trying to. I'm doing a little sketch of Miss Bracely at her piano,
which I want to give her on Christmas Day. But it's so difficult. I
wish I had brought it round to ask your advice, but you would only have
screamed with laughter at it. It's a dreadful failure: much worse than
those I gave you for your birthdays. Fancy your keeping them still in
your lovely music-room. Send them to the pantry, and I'll do something
better for you next.”
Lucia, try as she might, could not help being rather touched by
that. There they all were: “Golden Autumn Woodland,” “Bleak December,”
“Yellow Daffodils,” and “Roses of Summer.”...
“Or have them blacked over by the boot-boy,” she said. “Take them
down, Georgie, and let me send them to be blacked.”
This was much better: there was playfulness behind the sarcasm now,
which peeped out from it. He made the most of that.
“We'll do that presently,” he said. “Just now I want to engage you
and Peppino to dine with me on Christmas Day. Now don't be tarsome and
say you're engaged. But one can never tell with you.”
“A party?” asked Lucia suspiciously.
“Well, I thought we would have just one of our old evenings together
again,” said Georgie, feeling himself remarkably clever. “We'll have
the Quantocks, shan't we, and Colonel and Mrs Colonel, and you and
Peppino, and me, and Mrs Rumbold? That'll make eight, which is more
than Foljambe likes, but she must lump it. Mr Rumbold is always singing
carols all Christmas evening with the choir, and she will be alone.”
“Ah, those carols” said Lucia, wincing.
“I know: I will provide you with little wads of cotton-wool. Do come
and we'll have just a party of eight. I've asked no one yet and perhaps
nobody will come. I want you and Peppino, and the rest may come or stop
away. Do say you approve.”
Lucia could not yield at once. She had to press her fingers to her
“So kind of you, Georgie,” she said, “but I must think. Are we doing
anything on Christmas night, carrissimo? Where's your engagement-book?
Go and consult it.”
This was a grand manoeuvre, for hardly had Peppino left the room
when she started up with a little scream and ran after him.
“Me so stupid,” she cried. “Me put it in smoking-room, and poor caro
will look for it ever so long. Back in minute, Georgino.”
Naturally this was perfectly clear to Georgie. She wanted to have a
short private consultation with Peppino, and he waited rather hopefully
for their return, for Peppino, he felt sure, was bored with this
Achilles-attitude of sitting sulking in the tent. They came back
wreathed in smiles, and instantly embarked on the question of what to
do after dinner. No romps: certainly not, but why not the tableaux
again? The question was still under debate when they went in to lunch.
It was settled affirmatively during the macaroni, and Lucia said that
they all wanted to work her to death, and so get rid of her. They had
thought—she and Peppino—of having a little holiday on the Riviera,
but anyhow they would put if off till after Christmas. Georgie's mouth
was full of crashing toast at the moment, and he could only shake his
head. But as soon as the toast could be swallowed, he made the usual
reply with great fervour.
Georgie was hardly at all complacent when he walked home afterwards,
and thought how extremely good-natured he had been, for he could not
but feel that this marvellous forbearance was a sort of mistletoe
growth on him, quite foreign really to his nature. Never before had
Lucia showed so shrewish and venomous a temper; he had not thought her
capable of it. For the gracious queen, there was substituted a snarling
fish-wife, but then as Georgie calmly pursued the pacific mission of
comfort to which Olga had ordained him, how the fish-wife's wrinkles
had been smoothed out, and the asps withered from her tongue. Had his
imagination ever pictured Lucia saying such things to him, it would
have supplied him with no sequel but a complete severance of relations
between them. Instead of that he had consulted her and truckled to her:
truckled: yes, he had truckled, and he was astonished at himself. Why
had he truckled? And the beautiful mouth and kindly eyes of Olga
supplied the answer. Certainly he must drop in at once, and tell her
the result of the mission. Perhaps she would reward him by calling him
a darling again. Really he deserved that she should say something nice
It was a day of surprises for Georgie. He found Olga at home, and
recounted, without loving any of the substance, the sarcasms of Lucia,
and his own amazing tact and forbearance. He did not comment, he just
narrated the facts in the vivid Riseholme manner, and waited for his
Olga looked at him a moment in silence: then she deliberately wiped
“Oh, poor Mrs Lucas” she said. “She must have been miserable to have
behaved like that! I am so sorry. Now what else can you do, Georgie, to
make her feel better?”
“I think I've done everything that could have been required of me,” said Georgie. “It was all I could do to keep my temper at all. I will
give my party at Christmas, because I promised you I would.”
“Oh, but it's ten days to Christmas yet,” said Olga. “Can't you
paint her portrait, and give it her for a present. Oh, I think you
could, playing the Moonlight-Sonata.”
Georgie felt terribly inclined to be offended and tell Olga that she
was tired of him: or to be dignified and say he was unusually busy.
Never had he shown such forbearance towards downright rudeness as he
had shown to Lucia, and though he had shown that for Olga's sake, she
seemed to be without a single spark of gratitude, but continued to urge
“Do paint a little picture of her,” she repeated. “She would love
it, and make it young and interesting. Think over it, anyhow: perhaps
you'll think of something better than that. And now won't you go and
secure all your guests for Christmas at once?”
Georgie turned to leave the room, but just as he got to the door she
“I think you're a brick,” she said.
Somehow this undemonstrative expression of approval began to glow in
Georgie's heart as he walked home. Apparently she took it for granted
that he was going to behave with all the perfect tact and good-temper
that he had shown. It did not surprise her in the least, she had almost
forgotten to indicate that she had noticed it at all. And that, as he
thought about it, seemed a far deeper compliment than if she had told
him how wonderful he was. She took it for granted, no more nor less,
that he would be kind and pleasant, whatever Lucia said. He had not
fallen short of her standard....
Georgie's Christmas party had just taken its seats at his round
rosewood table without a cloth, and he hoped that Foljambe would be
quick with the champagne, because there had been rather a long wait
before dinner, owing to Lucia and Peppino being late, and conversation
had been a little jerky. Lucia, as usual, had sailed into the room,
without a word of apology, for she was accustomed to come last when she
went out to dinner, and on her arrival dinner was always announced
immediately. The few seconds that intervened were employed by her in
saying just one kind word to everybody. Tonight, however, these
gratifying utterances had not been received with the gratified
responses to which she was accustomed: there was a different atmosphere
abroad, and it was as if she were no more than one-eighth of the entire
party.... But it would never do to hurry Foljambe, who was a little
upset already by the fact of there being eight to dinner, which was two
more than she approved of.
Lucia was on Georgie's right, Mrs Colonel as she had decided to call
herself, on his left. Next her was Peppino, then Mrs Quantock, then the
Colonel, then Mrs Rumbold (who resembled a grey hungry mouse), and Mr
Quantock completed the circle round to Lucia again. Everyone had a
small bunch of violets in the napkin, but Lucia had the largest. She
had also a footstool.
“Capital good soup,” remarked Mr Quantock. “Can't get soup like this
There was dead silence. Why was there never a silence when Olga was
there, wondered Georgie. It wasn't because she talked, she somehow
caused other people to talk.
“Tommy Luton hasn't got measles,” said Mrs Weston. “I always said he
hadn't, though there are measles about. He came to walk as usual this
morning, and is going to sing in the carols tonight.”
She suddenly stopped.
Georgie gave an imploring glance at Foljambe, and looked at the
champagne glasses. She took no notice. Lucia turned to Georgie, with an
elbow on the table between her and Mr Quantock.
“And what news, Georgie?” she said. “Peppino and I have been so busy
that we haven't seen a soul all day. What have you been doing? Any
She looked brightly at Mrs Quantock.
“Yes, dear Daisy, I needn't ask you what you've been doing.
Table-turning, I expect. I know how interested you are in psychical
matters. I should be, too, if only I could be certain that I was not
dealing with fraudulent people.”
Georgie felt inclined to give a hollow groan and sink under the
table when this awful polemical rhetoric began. To his unbounded
surprise Mrs Quantock answered most cordially.
“You are quite right, dear Lucia,” she said. “Would it not be
terrible to find that a medium, some dear friend perhaps, whom one
implicitly trusted, was exposed as fraudulent? One sees such exposures
in the paper sometimes. I should be miserable if I thought I had ever
sat with a medium who was not honest. They fine the wretches well,
though, if they are caught, and they deserve it.”
Georgie observed, and couldn't the least understand, a sudden blank
expression cross Robert's face. For the moment he looked as if he were
dead but had been beautifully stuffed. But Georgie gave but a cursory
thought to that, for the amazing supposition dawned on him that Lucia
had not been polemical at all, but was burying instead of chopping with
the hatchet. It was instantly confirmed, for Lucia took her elbow off
the table, and turned to Robert.
“You and dear Daisy have been very lucky in your spiritualistic
experiences,” she said. “I hear on all sides what a charming medium you
had. Georgie quite lost his heart to her.”
“'Pon my word; she was delightful,” said Robert.
“Of course she was a dear friend of Daisy's, but one has to be very
careful when one hears of the dreadful exposures, as my wife said, that
occur sometimes. Fancy finding that a medium whom you believed to be
perfectly honest had yards and yards of muslin and a false nose or two
concealed about her. It would sicken me of the whole business.”
A loud pop announced that Foljambe had allowed them all some
champagne at last, but Georgie hardly heard it, for glancing up at
Daisy Quantock, he observed that the same dead and stuffed look had
come over her face which he had just now noticed on her husband's
countenance. Then they both looked up at each other with a glance that
to him bristled with significance. An agonised questioning, an
imploring petition for silence seemed to inspire it; it was as if each
had made unwittingly some hopeless faux pas. Then they instantly
looked away from each other again; their necks seemed to crack with the
rapidity with which they turned them right and left, and they burst
into torrents of speech to the grey hungry mouse and the Colonel
Georgie was utterly mystified: his Riseholme instinct told him that
there was something below all this, but his Riseholme instinct could
not supply the faintest clue as to what it was. Both of the Quantocks,
it seemed clear, knew something perilous about the Princess, but surely
if Daisy had read in the paper that the Princess had been exposed and
fined, she would not have touched on so dangerous a subject. Then the
curious incident about “Todd's News” inevitably occurred to him, but
that would not fit the case, since it was Robert and not Daisy who had
bought that inexplicable number of the yellow print. And then Robert
had hinted at the discovery of yards and yards of muslin and a false
nose. Why had he done that unless he had discovered them, or unless ...
Georgie's eyes grew round with the excitement of the chase ... unless
Robert had some other reason to suspect the integrity of the dear
friend, and had said this at hap-hazard. In that case what was Robert's
reason for suspicion? Had he, not Daisy, read in the paper of
some damaging disclosures, and had Daisy (also having reason to suspect
the Princess) alluded to the damaging exposures in the paper by pure
hap-hazard? Anyhow they had both looked dead and stuffed when the other
alluded to mediumistic frauds, and both had said how lucky their own
experiences had been. “Oh!”—Georgie almost said it aloud—What if
Robert had seen a damaging exposure in “Todd's News,” and therefore
bought up every copy that was to be had? Then, indeed, he would look
dead and stuffed, when Daisy alluded to damaging exposures in the
paper. Had a stray copy escaped him, and did Daisy know? What did
Robert know? Had they exquisite secrets from each other?
Lucia was being talked to across him by Mrs Weston, who had also
pinned down the attention of Peppino on the other side of her. At that
precise moment the flood of Mrs Quantock's spate of conversation to the
Colonel dried up, and Robert could find nothing more to say to the
hungry mouse. Georgie in this backwater of his own thoughts was whirled
into the current again. But before he sank he caught Mrs Quantock's eye
and put a question that arose from his exciting backwater.
“Have you heard from the Princess lately?” he asked.
Robert's head went round with the same alacrity as he had turned it
“Oh, yes,” said she. “Two days ago was it, Robert?”
“I heard yesterday,” said Robert firmly.
Mrs Quantock looked at her husband with an eager encouraging
“So you did!” she said. 'I'm getting jealous. Interesting, dear?”
“Yes, dear, haw, haw,” said Robert, and again their eyes met.
This time Georgie had no doubts at all. They were playing the same
game now: they smiled and smirked at each other. They had not been
playing the same game before. Now they recognised that there was a
conspiracy between them.... But he was host, his business for the
moment was to make his guests comfortable, and not pry into their
inmost bosoms. So before Mrs Weston realised that she had the whole
table attending to her, he said:
“I shall get it out of Robert after dinner. And I'll tell you, Mrs
“Before Atkinson came to the Colonel,” said Mrs Weston, going on
precisely where she had left off, “and that was five years before
Elizabeth came to me—let me see—was it five or was it four and a
half?—four and a half we'll say, he had another servant whose name was
“No!” said Georgie.
“Yes!” said Mrs Weston, hastily finishing her champagne, for she saw
Foljambe coming near—“Yes, Ahab Crowe. He married, too, just like
Atkinson is going to, and that's an odd coincidence in itself. I tell
the Colonel that if Ahab Crowe hadn't married, he would be with him
still, and who can say that he'd have fancied Elizabeth? And if he
hadn't, I don't believe that the Colonel and I would ever have—well,
I'll leave that alone, and spare my blushes. But that's not what I was
saying. Whom do you think Ahab Crowe married? You can have ten guesses
each, and you would never come right, for it can't be a common name. It
was Miss Jackdaw. Crowe: Jackdaw. I never heard anything like that, and
if you ask the Colonel about it, he'll confirm every word I've said.
Boucher, Weston, why that's quite commonplace in comparison, and I'm
sure that's an event enough for me.”
Lucia gave her silvery laugh.
“Dear Mrs Weston,” she said, “you must really tell me at once when
the happy day will be. Peppino and I are thinking of going to the
Georgie broke in.
“You shan't do anything of the kind,” he said. “What's to happen to
us? 'Oo very selfish, Lucia.”
The conversation broke up again into duets and trios, and Lucia
could have a private conversation with her host. But half-an-hour ago,
so Georgie reflected, they had all been walking round each other like
dogs going on tiptoe with their tails very tightly curled, and growling
gently to themselves, aware that a hasty snap, or the breach of the
smallest observance of etiquette, might lead to a general quarrel. But
now they all had the reward of their icy politenesses: there was no
more ice, except on their plates, and the politeness was not a matter
of etiquette. At present, they might be considered a republic, but no
one knew what was going to happen after dinner. Not a word had been
said about the tableaux.
Lucia dropped her voice as she spoke to him, and put in a good deal
of Italian for fear she might be overheard.
“Non cognosce anybody?” she asked. “I tablieri, I
mean. And are we all to sit in the aula, while the salone
is being got ready?”
“Si,” said Georgie. “There's a fire. When you go out, keep
them there. I domestichi are making salone ready.”
“Molto bene. Then Peppino and you and I just steal away.
La lampa is acting beautifully. We tried it over several times.”
“Everybody's tummin',” said Georgie, varying the cipher.
“Me so nervosa!” said Lucia. “Fancy me doing Brunnhilde
before singing Brunnhilde. Me can't bear it.”
Georgie knew that Lucia had been thrilled and delighted to know that
Olga so much wanted to come in after dinner and see the tableaux, so he
found it quite easy to induce Lucia to nerve herself up to an ordeal so
passionately desired. Indeed he himself was hardly less excited at the
thought of being King Cophetua.
At that moment, even as the crackers were being handed round, the
sound of the carol-singers was heard from outside, and Lucia had to
wince, as “Good King Wenceslas” looked out. When the Page and the King
sang their speeches, the other voices grew piano, so that the effect
was of a solo voice accompanied. When the Page sang, Lucia shuddered.
“That's the small red-haired boy who nearly deafens me in church,”
she whispered to Georgie. “Don't you hope his voice will crack soon?”
She said this very discreetly, so as not to hurt Mrs Rumbold's
feelings, for she trained the choir. Everyone knew that the king was Mr
Rumbold, and said “Charming” to each other, after he had sung.
“I liked that boy's voice, too,” said Mrs Weston. “Tommy Luton used
to have a lovely voice, but this one's struck me as better-trained even
than Tommy Luton's. Great credit to you, Mrs Rumbold.”
The grey hungry mouse suddenly gave a shrill cackle of a laugh,
quite inexplicable. Then Georgie guessed.
He got up.
“Now nobody must move,” he said, “because we haven't drunk 'absent
friends' yet. I'm just going out to see that they have a bit of supper
in the kitchen before they go on.”
His trembling legs would scarcely carry him to the door, and he ran
out. There were half a dozen little choir boys, four men and one tall
“Divine!” he said to Olga. “Aunt Jane thought your voice very well
trained. Come in soon, won't you?”
“Yes: all flourishing?”
“Swimming,” said Georgie. “Lucia hoped your voice would crack soon.
But it's all being lovely.”
He explained about food in the kitchen and hurried back to his
guests. There was the riddle of the Quantocks to solve: there were the
tableaux vivants imminent: there was the little red-haired boy coming
in soon. What a Christmas night!
Soon after Georgie's hall began to fill up with guests, and yet not
a word was said about tableaux. It grew so full that nobody could have
said for certain whether Lucia and Peppino were there or not. Olga
certainly was: there was no mistaking that fact. And then Foljambe
opened the drawing-room door and sounded a gong.
The lamp behaved perfectly and an hour later one Brunnhilde was
being extremely kind to the other, as they sat together. “If you really
want to know my view, dear Miss Bracely,” said Lucia, “it's just that.
You must be Brunnhilde for the time being. Singing, of course, as you
say, helps it out: you can express so much by singing. You are so lucky
there. I am bound to say I had qualms when Peppino—or was it
Georgie—suggested we should do Brunnhilde-Siegfried. I said it would
be so terribly difficult. Slow: it has to be slow, and to keep gestures
slow when you cannot make them mere illustrations of what you are
singing—well, I am sure, it is very kind of you to be so flattering
about it—but it is difficult to do that.”
“And you thought them all out for yourself?” said Olga.
“Ah, if I had ever seen you do it,” said Lucia, “I am sure I should
have picked up some hints! And King Cophetua! Won't you give me a
little word for our dear King Cophetua? I was so glad after the strain
of Brunnhilde to have my back to the audience. Even then there is the
difficulty of keeping quite still, but I am sure you know that quite as
well as I do, from having played Brunnhilde yourself. Georgie was very
much impressed by your performance of it. And Mary Queen of Scots now!
The shrinking of the flesh, and the resignation of the spirit! That is
what I tried to express. You must come and help me next time I attempt
this sort of thing again. That will not be quite soon, I am afraid, for
Peppino and I am thinking of going to the Riviera for a little
“Oh, but how selfish!” said Olga. “You mustn't do that.”
Lucia gave the silvery laugh.
“You are all very tiresome about my going to the Riviera,” she said.
“But I don't promise that I shall give it up yet. We shall see!
Gracious! How late it is. We must have sat very late over dinner. Why
were you not asked to dinner, I wonder! I shall scold Georgie for not
asking you. Ah, there is dear Mrs Weston going away. I must say
good-night to her. She would think it very strange if I did not.
Colonel Boucher, too! Oh, they are coming this way to save us the
trouble of moving.”
A general move was certainly taking place, not in the direction of
the door, but to where Olga and Lucia were sitting.
“It's snowing,” said Piggy excitedly to Olga. “Will you mark my
footsteps well, my page?”
“Piggy, you—you Goosie,” said Olga hurriedly. “Goosie, weren't the
“And the carols,” said Goosie. “I adored the carols. I guessed. Did
you guess, Mrs Lucas?”
Olga resorted to the mean trick of treading on Goosie's foot and
apologising. That was cowardly because it was sure to come out
sometime. And Goosie again trod on dangerous ground by saying that if
the Page had trod like that, there was no need for any footsteps to be
marked for him.
It was snowing fast, and Mrs Weston's wheels left a deep track, but
in spite of that, Daisy and Robert had not gone fifty yards from the
door when they came to a full stop.
“Now, what is it?” said Daisy. “Out with it. Why did you talk about
the discovery of muslin?”
“I only said that we were fortunate in a medium whom after all you
picked up at a vegetarian restaurant,” said he. “I suppose I may
indulge in general conversation. If it comes to that, why did you talk
about exposure in the papers?”
“General conversation,” said Mrs Quantock all in one word. “So
that's all, is it?”
“Yes,” said Robert, “you may know something, and—”
“Now don't put it all on me,” said Daisy. “If you want to know what
I think, it is that you've got some secret.”
“And if you want to know what I think,” he retorted, “it is that I
know you have.”
Daisy hesitated a moment, the snow was white on her shoulder and she
shook her cloak.
“I hate concealment,” she said. “I found yards and yards of muslin
and a pair of Amadeo's eyebrows in that woman's bedroom the very day
she went away.”
“And she was fined last Thursday for holding a seance at which a
detective was present,” said Robert. “15 Gerard Street. He seized
Amadeo or Cardinal Newman by the throat, and it was that woman.”
She looked hastily round.
“When you thought that the chimney was on fire, I was burning
muslin,” she said.
“When you thought the chimney was on fire, I was burning every copy
of 'Todd's News,'“ said he. “Also a copy of the 'Daily Mirror,' which
contained the case. It belonged to the Colonel. I stole it.”
She put her hand through his arm.
“Let's get home,” she said. “We must talk it over. No one knows one
word except you and me?”
“Not one, my dear,” said Robert cordially. “But there are
suspicions. Georgie suspects, for instance. He saw me buy all the
copies of 'Todd's News,' at least he was hanging about. Tonight he was
clearly on the track of something, though he gave us a very tolerable
They went into Robert's study: it was cold, but neither felt it, for
they glowed with excitement and enterprise.
“That was a wonderful stroke of yours, Robert,” said she. “It was
masterly: it saved the situation. The 'Daily Mirror,' too: how right
you were to steal it. A horrid paper I always thought. Yes, Georgie
suspects something, but luckily he doesn't know what he suspects.”
“That's why we both said we had just heard from that woman,” said
“Of course. You haven't got a copy of 'Todd's News,' have you?”
“No: at least I burned every page of the police reports,” said he.
“It was safer.”
“Quite so. I cannot show you Amadeo's eyebrows for the same reason.
Nor the muslin. Lovely muslin, my dear: yards of it. Now what we must
do is this: we must continue to be interested in psychical things; we
mustn't drop them, or seem to be put off them. I wish now I had taken
you into my confidence at the beginning and told you about Amadeo's
“My dear, you acted for the best,” said he. “So did I when I didn't
tell you about 'Todd's News.' Secrecy even from each other was more
prudent, until it became impossible. And I think we should be wise to
let it be understood that we hear from the Princess now and then.
Perhaps in a few months she might even visit us again. It—it would be
humorous to be behind the scenes, so to speak, and observe the
credulity of the others.”
Daisy broke into a broad grin.
“I will certainly ask dear Lucia to a seance, if we do,” she said.
“Dear me! How late it is: there was such a long wait between the
tableaux. But we must keep our eyes on Georgie, and be careful how we
answer his impertinent questions. He is sure to ask some. About getting
that woman down again, Robert. It might be fool-hardy, for we've had an
escape, and shouldn't put our heads into the same noose again. On the
other hand, it would disarm suspicion for ever, if, after a few months,
I asked her to spend a few days of holiday here. You said it was a fine
only, not imprisonment?”
The week was a busy one: Georgie in particular never had a moment to
himself. The Hurst, so lately a desert, suddenly began to rejoice with
joy and singing and broke out into all manner of edifying gaieties.
Lucia, capricious queen, quite forgot all the vitriolic things she had
said to him, and gave him to understand that he was just as high in
favour as ever before, and he was as busy with his duties as ever he
had been. Whether he would have fallen into his old place so readily if
he had been a free agent, was a question that did not arise, for though
it was Lucia who employed him, it was Olga who drove him there. But he
had his consolation, for Lucia's noble forgiveness of all the
disloyalties against her, included Olga's as well, and out of all the
dinners and music parties, and recitations from Peppino's new book of
prose poems which was already in proof, and was read to select
audiences from end to end, there was none to which Olga was not bidden,
and none at which she failed to appear. Lucia even overlooked the fact
that she had sung in the carols on Christmas night, though she had
herself declared that it was the voice of the red-haired boy which was
so peculiarly painful to her. Georgie's picture of her (she never knew
that Olga had really commissioned it) hung at the side of the piano in
the music room, where the print of Beethoven had hung before, and it
gave her the acutest gratification. It represented her sitting, with
eyes cast down at her piano, and was indeed much on the same scheme as
the yet unfinished one of Olga, which had been postponed in its favour,
but there was no time for Georgie to think out another position, and
his hand was in with regard to the perspective of pianos. So there it
hung with its title, “The Moonlight Sonata,” painted in gilt letters on
its frame, and Lucia, though she continued to say that he had made her
far, far too young, could not but consider that he had caught her
So Riseholme flocked back to The Hurst like sheep that have been
astray, for it was certain to find Olga there, even as it had turned
there, deeply breathing, to the classes of the Guru. It had to sit
through the prose-poems of Peppino, it had to listen to the old, old
tunes and sigh at the end, but Olga mingled her sighs with theirs, and
often after a suitable pause Lucia would say winningly to Olga:
“One little song, Miss Bracely. Just a stanza? Or am I trespassing
too much on your good-nature? Where is your accompanist? I declare I am
jealous of him: I shall pop into his place some day! Georgino, Miss
Bracely is going to sing us something. Is not that a treat? Sh-sh,
please, ladies and gentlemen.”
And she rustled to her place, and sat with the farthest-away
expression ever seen on mortal face, while she trespassed on Miss
Then Georgie had the other picture to finish, which he hoped to get
ready in time to be a New Year's present, since Olga had insisted on
Lucia's being done first. He had certainly secured an admirable
likeness of her, and there was in it just all that his stippled, fussy
representation of Lucia lacked. “Bleak December” and “Yellow Daffodils"
and the rest of the series lacked it, too: for once he had done
something in the doing of which he had forgotten himself. It was by no
means a work of genius, for Georgie was not possessed of one grain of
that, and the talent it displayed was by no means of a high order, but
it had something of the naturalness of a flower that grew from the
earth which nourished it.
On the last day of the year he was putting a few final touches to
it, little high reflected lights on the black keys, little blacknesses
of shadow in the moulding of the panel behind his hand. He had finished
with her altogether, and now she sat in the window-seat, looking out,
and playing with the blind-tassel. He had been so much absorbed in his
work that he had scarcely noticed that she had been rather unusually
“I've got a piece of news for you,” she said at length.
Georgie held his breath, as he drew a very thin line of body-colour
along the edge of Ab.
“No! What is it?” he said. “Is it about the Princess?”
Olga seemed to hail this as a diversion.
“Ah, let's talk about that for a minute,” she said. “What you ought
to have done was to order another copy of 'Todd's News' at once.”
“I know I ought, but I couldn't get one when I thought of it
afterwards. That was tarsome. But I feel sure there was something about
her in it.”
“And you can't get anything out of the Quantocks?”
“No, though I've laid plenty of traps for them. There's an
understanding between them now. They both know something. When I lay a
trap, it isn't any use: they look at the trap, and then they look at
each other afterwards.”
“What sort of traps?”
“Oh, anything. I say suddenly, 'What a bore it is that there are so
many frauds among mediums, especially paid ones.' You see, I don't
believe for a moment that these seances were held for nothing, though
we didn't pay for going to them. And then Robert says that he would
never trust a paid medium, and she looks at him approvingly, and says
'Dear Princess'! The other day—it was a very good trap—I said, 'Is it
true that the Princess is coming to stay with Lady Ambermere?' It
wasn't a lie: I only asked.”
“And then?” said Olga.
“Robert gave an awful twitch, not a jump exactly, but a twitch. But
she was on the spot and said, 'Ah, that would be nice. I wonder if it's
true. The Princess didn't mention it in her last letter.' And then he
looked at her approvingly. There is something there, no one shall
convince me otherwise.”
Olga suddenly burst out laughing.
“What's the matter?” asked Georgie.
“Oh, it's all so delicious!” she said. “I never knew before how
terribly interesting little things were. It's all wildly exciting, and
there are fifty things going on just as exciting. Is it all of you who
take such a tremendous interest in them that makes them so absorbing,
or is it that they are absorbing in themselves, and ordinary dull
people, not Riseholmites, don't see how exciting they are? Tommy
Luton's measles: the Quantocks' secret: Elizabeth's lover! And to think
that I believed I was coming to a backwater.”
Georgie held up his picture and half closed his eyes. “I believe
it's finished,” he said. “I shall have it framed, and put it in my
This was a trap, and Olga fell into it.
“Yes, it will look nice there,” she said. “Really, Georgie, it is
very clever of you.”
He began washing his brushes.
“And what was your news?” he said.
She got up from her seat.
“I forgot all about it, with talking of the Quantocks' secret,” she
said. “That just shows you: I completely forgot, Georgie. I've just
accepted an offer to sing in America, a four months' engagement, at
fifty thousand million pounds a night. A penny less, and I wouldn't
have gone. But I really can't refuse. It's all been very sudden, but
they want to produce Lucretia there before it appears in England. Then
I come back, and sing in London all the summer. Oh, me!”
There was dead silence, while Georgie dried his brushes.
“When do you go?” he asked.
“In about a fortnight.”
“Oh,” said he.
She moved down the room to the piano and shut it without speaking,
while he folded the paper round his finished picture.
“Why don't you come, too?” she said at length. “It would do you no
end of good, for you would get out of this darling two-penny place
which will all go inside a nut-shell. There are big things in the
world, Georgie: seas, continents, people, movements, emotions. I told
my Georgie I was going to ask you, and he thoroughly approves. We both
like you, you know. It would be lovely if you would come. Come for a
couple of months, anyhow: of course you'll be our guest, please.”
The world, at that moment, had grown absolutely black to him, and it
was by that that he knew who, for him, was the light of it. He shook
“Why can't you come?” she said.
He looked at her straight in the face.
“Because I adore you,” he said.
The glad word went round Riseholme one March morning that the
earliest flower in Perdita's garden was in bloom. The day was one of
those glories of the English spring-time, with large white clouds blown
across wide spaces of blue sky by the southwest wind, and with swift
shadows that bowled across the green below them. Parliament was in full
conclave that day, and in the elms the rooks were busy.
An awful flatness had succeeded Olga's departure. Riseholme
naturally took a good deal of credit for the tremendous success which
had attended the production of Lucretia, since it so rightly considered
that the real cradle of the opera was here, where she had tried it over
for the first time. Lucia seemed to remember it better than anybody,
for she remembered all sorts of things which no one else had the
faintest recollection of: how she had discussed music with Signor
Cortese, and he had asked her where she had her musical training. Such
a treat to talk Italian with a Roman—lingua Toscana in bocca
Romana—and what a wonderful evening it was. Poor Mrs Colonel
recollected very little of this, but Lucia had long been aware that her
memory was going sadly. After producing Lucretia in New York, Olga had
appeared in some of her old roles, notably in the part of Brunnhilde,
and Lucia was very reminiscent of that charming party of Christmas Day
at dear Georgino's, when they had the tableaux. Dear Olga was so simple
and unspoiled: she had come to Lucia afterwards, and asked her to tell
her how she had worked out her scheme of gestures in the awakening, and
Lucia had been very glad, very glad indeed to give her a few hints. In
fact, Lucia was quite herself: it was only her subjects whom it had
been a little hard to stir up. Georgie in particular had been very
listless and dull, and Lucia, for all her ingenuity, was at a complete
loss to find a reason for it.
But today the warm inflowing tide of spring seemed to renovate the
muddy flats, setting the weeds, that had lain dank and dispirited,
a-floating again on the return of the water. No one could quite resist
the magic of the season, and Georgie, who had intended out of mere
politeness to go to see the earliest of Perdita's stupid flowers
(having been warned of its epiphany by telephone from The Hurst) found,
when he set foot outside his house on that warm windy morning, that it
would be interesting to stroll across the green first, and see if there
was any news. All the news he had really cared about for the last two
months was news from America, of which he had a small packet done up in
a pink riband.
After getting rid of Piggy, he went to the newspaper shop, to get
his “Times,” which most unaccountably had not arrived, and the sight of
“Todd's News” in its yellow cover stirred his drowsy interest. Not one
atom of light had ever been thrown on that extraordinary occurrence
when Robert bought the whole issue, and though Olga never failed to
enquire, he had not been able to give her the slightest additional
information. Occasionally he set a languid trap for one of the
Quantocks, but they never by any chance fell into it. The whole affair
must be classed with problems like the origin of evil, among the
insoluble mysteries of life.
It was possible to get letters by the second post an hour earlier
than the house-to-house delivery by calling at the office, and as
Georgie was waiting for his “Times,” Mrs Quantock came hurrying out of
the post-office with a small packet in her hands, which she was opening
as she walked. She was so much absorbed by this that she did not see
Georgie at all, though she passed quite close to him, and soon after
shed a registered envelope. At that the “old familiar glamour” began to
steal over him again, and he found himself wondering with intensity
what it contained.
She was now some hundred yards in front of him, walking in the
direction of The Hurst, and there could be no doubt that she, too, was
on her way to see Perdita's first flower. He followed her going more
briskly than she and began to catch her up. Soon (this time by
accident, not in the manner in which, through eagerness she had
untidily cast the registered envelope away) she dropped a small paper,
and Georgie picked it up, meaning to give it her. It had printed matter
on the front of it, and was clearly a small pamphlet. He could not
possibly help seeing what that printed matter was, for it was in
INCREASE YOUR HEIGHT
Georgie quickened his step, and the old familiar glamour brightened
round him. As soon as he got within speaking distance, he called to
her, and turning round, “like a guilty thing surprised,” a little box
flew out of her hand. As it fell the lid came off, and there was
scattered on the green grass a multitude of red lozenges. She gave a
cry of dismay.
“Oh! Mr Georgie, how you startled me” she said. “Do help me to pick
them up. Do you think the damp will have hurt them? Any news? I was so
wrapped up in what I was doing that I've spoken to nobody.”
Georgie assisted in the recovery of the red lozenges.
“You dropped this as you walked,” he said. “I picked it up in order
to give it you.”
“Ah, that is kind, and did you see what it was?”
“I couldn't help seeing the outside,” said Georgie.
She looked at him a moment, wondering what was the most prudent
course. If she said nothing more, he would probably tell everybody....
“Well, then I shall let you into the whole secret,” she said. “It's
the most wonderful invention, and increases your height, whatever your
age is, from two to six inches. Fancy! There are some exercises you
have to do, rather like those Yoga ones, every morning, and you eat
three lozenges a day. Quite harmless they are, and then you soon begin
to shoot up. It sounds incredible, doesn't it? but there are so many
testimonials that I can't doubt it is genuine. Here's one of a man who
grew six inches. I saw it advertised in some paper, and sent for it.
Only a guinea! What fun when Robert begins to see that I am taller than
he is! But now not a word! Don't tell dear Lucia whatever you do. She
is half a head taller than I, and it would be no fun if everybody grew
from two to six inches. You may write for them, and I'll give you the
address, but you must tell nobody.”
“Too wonderful” said Georgie. “I shall watch you. Here we
are. Look, there's Perdita's flower. What a beauty!”
It was not necessary to press the mermaid's tail, for Lucia had seen
them from the music-room, and they heard her high heels clacking over
the polished floor of the hall.
“Listen! No more need of high heels!” said Mrs Quantock. “And I've
got something else to tell you. Lucia may hear that. Ah, dear Lucia,
what a wonderful Perdita-blossom!”
“Is it not?” said Lucia, blowing kisses to Georgie, and giving them
to Daisy. “That shows spring is here. Primavera! And Peppino's
piccolo libro comes out today. I should not be a bit surprised if
you each of you found a copy of it arrived before evening. Glorious!
Surely it was no wonder that Georgie's blood began to canter along
his arteries again. There had been very pleasant exciting years before
now, requiring for their fuel no more than was ready at this moment to
keep up the fire. Mrs Quantock was on tip-toe, so to speak, to increase
her height, Peppino was just delivered of a second of these vellum
volumes with seals and tapes outside, Mrs Weston was going to become
Mrs Colonel at the end of the week, and at the same hour and church
Elizabeth was going to become Mrs Atkinson. Had these things no savour,
“How is 'oo?” said Georgie, with a sudden flush of the spring-time
through him. “Me vewy well, sank 'oo and me so want to read Peppino's
“'Oo come in,” said Lucia. “Evewybody come in. Now, who's got ickle
Mrs Quantock had been walking on her toes all across the hall, in
anticipation of the happy time when she would be from two to six inches
taller. As the animated pamphlet said, the world assumed a totally
different aspect when you were even two inches taller. She was quite
sorry to sit down.
“Is next week very full with you, dear Lucia?” she asked.
Lucia pressed her finger to her forehead.
“Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday,” she began. “No, not Tuesday, I am
doing nothing on Tuesday. You want to be the death of me between you.
“I hope that my dear friend, Princess Popoffski, will be staying
with me” said Mrs Quantock. “Do get over your prejudice against
spiritualism, and give it a chance. Come to a seance on Tuesday. You,
too, of course, Georgie: I know better than to invite Lucia without
Lucia put on the far-away look which she reserved for the
masterpieces of music, and for Georgie's hopeless devotion.
“Lovely! That will be lovely!” she said. “Most interesting! I shall
come with a perfectly open mind.”
Georgie scarcely lamented the annihilation of a mystery. He must
surely have imagined the mystery, for it all collapsed like a
card-house, if the Princess was coming back. The seances had been most
remarkable, too; and he would have to get out his planchette again.
“And what's going to happen on Wednesday?” he asked Lucia. “All I
know is that I've not been asked. Me's offended.”
“Ickle surprise,” said Lucia. “You're not engaged that evening, are
you? Nor you, dear Daisy? That's lovely. Eight o'clock? No, I think a
quarter to. That will give us more time. I shan't tell you what it is.”
Mrs Quantock, grasping her lozenges, wondered how much taller she
would be by then. As Lucia played to them, she drew a lozenge out of
the box and put it into her mouth, in order to begin growing at once.
It tasted rather bitter, but not unpleasantly so.