The Greatest Works of E. F. Benson (Illustrated Edition). E. F. Benson
truly provincial place which thought itself a centre, wearied with its false and foolish activity, its veneer of culture, its pseudo-Athenian rage for any new thing. They were all busy enough at Riseholme, but busy over worthy objects, over Beethoven and Shakespeare, over high thinking, over study of the true masterpieces. And now, the moment that Aunt Amy's death gave her and Peppino the means to live in the fiddling little ant-hill by the Thames they were turning their backs on all that hitherto had made existence so splendid and serious a reality, and were training, positively training for frivolity by exercises in Stravinski, auction bridge and crossword puzzles. Only the day before the fatal influx of fortune had come to them, Lucia, dropping in on Colonel and Mrs Boucher about teatime, had found them very cosily puzzling out a children's crossword in the evening paper, having given up the adult conundrum as too difficult, had pretended that even this was far beyond her poor wits, and had gone home the moment she had swallowed her tea in order to finish a canto of Dante's Purgatorio . . . And it was no use Lucia's saying that they intended only to spend a week or two in Brompton Square before the house was sold: Daisy's quickness and cleverness about the copperplate at Ye Signe of Ye Daffodil had made short work of that. Lucia was evidently the prey of a guilty conscience too: she meant, so Mrs Boucher was firmly convinced, to steal away, leaving the impression she was soon coming back.
Vigorous reflections like these came in fits and spurts from Mrs Boucher as her husband wheeled her home for lunch.
"And as for the pearls, Jacob," she said, as she got out, hot with indignation, "if you asked me, actually asked me what I think about the pearls, I should have to tell you that I don't believe in the pearls. There may be half a dozen seed pearls in an old pillbox: I don't say there are not, but that's all the pearls we shall see. Pearls!"
Chapter Three
Georgie had only just come down to breakfast and had not yet opened his Times, one morning at the end of this hectic week, when the telephone bell rang. Lucia had not been seen at all the day before and he had a distinct premonition, though he had not time to write it down, that this was she. It was: and her voice sounded very brisk and playful.
"Is that Georgino?" she said. "Zat oo, Georgie?"
Georgie had another premonition, stronger than the first.
"Yes, it's me," he said.
"Georgie, is oo coming round to say Ta-ta to poor Lucia and Peppino?" she said.
('I knew it,' thought Georgie.)
"What, are you going away?" he asked.
"Yes, I told you the other night," said Lucia in a great hurry, "when you were doing crosswords, you and Peppino. Sure I did. Perhaps you weren't attending. But —"
"No, you never told me," said Georgie firmly.
"How cwoss oo sounds. But come round, Georgie, about eleven and have 'ickle chat. We're going to be very stravvy and motor up, and perhaps keep the motor for a day or two."
"And when are you coming back?" asked Georgie.
"Not quite settled," said Lucia brightly. "There's a lot of bizz-bizz for poor Peppino. Can't quite tell how long it will take. Eleven, then?"
Georgie had hardly replaced the receiver when there came a series of bangs and rings at his front door, and Foljambe coming from the kitchen with his dish of bacon in one hand, turned to open it. It was only de Vere with a copy of The Times in her hand.
"With Mrs Quantock's compliments," said de Vere, "and would Mr Pillson look at the paragraph she has marked, and send it back? Mrs Quantock will see him whenever he comes round."
"That all?" said Foljambe rather crossly. "What did you want to knock the house down for then?"
De Vere vouchsafed no reply, but turned slowly in her high-heeled shoes and regarded the prospect.
Georgie also had come into the hall at this battering summons, and Foljambe gave him the paper. There were a large blue pencil mark and several notes of exclamation opposite a short paragraph.
"Mr and Mrs Philip Lucas will arrive today from The Hurst, Riseholme, at 25 Brompton Square."
"No!" said Georgie. "Tell Mrs Quantock I'll look in after breakfast," and he hurried back, and opened his copy of The Times to see if it were the same there. It was: there was no misprint, nor could any other interpretation be attached to it. Though he knew the fact already, print seemed to bring it home. Print also disclosed the further fact that Lucia must have settled everything at least before the morning post yesterday, or this paragraph could never have appeared today. He gobbled up his breakfast, burning his tongue terribly with his tea . . .
"It isn't only deception," said Daisy the moment he appeared without even greeting him, "for that we knew already, but it's funk as well. She didn't dare tell us."
"She's going to motor up," said Georgie, "starting soon after eleven. She's just asked me to come and say goodbye."
"That's more deception then," said Daisy, "for naturally, having read that, we should have imagined she was going up by the afternoon train, and gone round to say goodbye after lunch, and found her gone. If I were you, I shouldn't dream of going to say goodbye to her after this. She's shaking the dust of Riseholme off her London shoes . . . But we'll have no May Day revels if I've got anything to do with it."
"Nor me," said Georgie. "But it's no use being cross with her. Besides, it's so terribly interesting. I shouldn't wonder if she was writing some invitations on the cards you saw —"
"No, I never saw the cards," said Daisy, scrupulously. "Only the plate."
"It's the same thing. She may be writing invitations now, to post in London."
"Go a little before eleven then, and see," said Daisy. "Even if she's not writing them then, there'll be envelopes lying about perhaps."
"Come too," said Georgie.
"Certainly not," said Daisy. "If Lucia doesn't choose to tell me she's going away, the only dignified thing to do is to behave as if I knew nothing whatever about it. I'm sure I hope she'll have a very pleasant drive. That's all I can say about it; I take no further interest in her movements. Besides, I'm very busy: I've got to finish weeding my garden, for I've not been able to touch it these last days, and then my planchette arrived this morning. And a ouija board."
"What's that?" said Georgie.
"A sort of planchette, but much more — much more powerful. Only it takes longer, as it points at letters instead of writing," said Daisy. "I shall begin with planchette and take it up seriously, because I know I'm very psychic, and there'll be a little time for it now that we shan't be trapesing round all day in ruffs and stomachers over those May Day revels. Perhaps there'll be May Day revels in Brompton Square for a change. I shouldn't wonder: nothing would surprise me about Lucia now. And it's my opinion we shall get on very well without her."
Georgie felt he must stick up for her: she was catching it so frightfully hot all round.
"After all, it isn't criminal to spend a few weeks in London," he observed.
"Whoever said it was?" said Daisy. "I'm all for everybody doing exactly as they like. I just shrug my shoulders."
She heaved up her round little shoulders with an effort.
"Georgie, how do you think she'll begin up there?" she said. "There's that cousin of hers with whom she stayed sometimes, Aggie Sandeman, and then, of course, there's Olga Bracely. Will she just pick up acquaintances, and pick up more from them, like one of those charity snowballs? Will she be presented? Not that I take the slightest interest in it."
Georgie looked at his watch and rose.
"I do," he said. "I'm thrilled about it. I expect she'll manage. After all, we none of us wanted to have May Day revels last year but she got us to. She's got drive."
"I