The Greatest Works of E. F. Benson (Illustrated Edition). E. F. Benson
of making something out of it. Up till then, the sordid question of money had not really occurred to them: there was to be a museum which would make them busy again, and the committee was to run it. They were quite willing to devote practically the whole of their time to it, for Riseholme was one of those happy places where the proverb that Time is money was a flat fallacy, for nobody had ever earned a penny with it. But since Robert's financial judgment argued that the Museum would be a profitable investment, the committee naturally wished to have a hand in it, and the three members each subscribed fifty pounds, and co-opted Robert to join the board and supply the rest. Profits (if any) would be divided up between the members of the committee in proportion to their subscriptions. The financial Robert would see to all that, and the rest of them could turn their attention to the provision of curiosities.
There was evidently to be no lack of them, for everyone in Riseholme had stores of miscellaneous antiquities and "specimens" of various kinds which encumbered their houses and required a deal of dusting, but which couldn't quite be thrown away. A very few striking objects were only lent: among these were Daisy's box of coins, and Mrs Antrobus's fibula, but the most of them, like Georgie's glass and Colonel Boucher's pieces of Samian ware, were fervently bestowed. Objects of all sorts poured in, the greater portion of a spinning-wheel, an Elizabethan pestle and mortar, no end of Roman tiles, a large wooden post unhesitatingly called a whipping-post, some indecipherable documents on parchment with seals attached, belonging to the vicar, an ordnance map of the district, numerous collections of fossils and of carved stones from the site of the Abbey, ancient quilts, a baby's cradle, worm-eaten enough to be Anglo-Saxon, queer-shaped bottles, a tiger-ware jug, fire-irons too ponderous for use, and (by special vote of the Parish Council) the stocks which had hitherto stood at the edge of the pond on the green. All Riseholme was busy again, for fossils had to be sorted out (it was early realised that even a museum could have too many ammonites), curtains had to be stitched for the windows, labels to be written, Samian ware to be pieced together, cases arranged, a catalogue prepared. The period of flatness consequent on Lucia's desertion had passed off, and what had certainly added zest to industry was the thought that Lucia had nothing to do with the Museum. When next she deigned to visit her discarded kingdom, she would find how busily and successfully and originally they had got on without her, and that there was no place for her on the committee, and probably none in the Museum for the Elizabethan turnspit which so often made the chimney of her music-room to smoke.
Riseholme, indeed, was busier than ever, for not only had it the Museum feverishly to occupy it so that it might be open for the tourist season this year, and, if possible, before Lucia came down for one of her promised weekends, but it was immersed in a wave of psychical experiments. Daisy Quantock had been perfectly honest in acknowledging that the idea of the Museum was not hers at all, but Abfou's, her Egyptian guide. She had, it is true, been as ingenious as Joseph in interpreting Abfou's directions, but it was Abfou to whom all credit was due, and who evidently took such a deep interest in the affairs of Riseholme. She even offered to present the Museum with the sheet of foolscap on which the words 'Riseholme Museum' (not mouse) were written, but the general feeling of the committee, while thanking her for her munificence, was that it would not be tactful to display it, since the same Sibylline sheet contained those sarcastic remarks about Lucia. It was proved also that Abfou had meant the Museum to be started, for subsequently he several times said, "Much pleased with your plans for the Museum. Abfou approves." So everybody else wanted to get into touch with Abfou too, and no less than four planchettes or ouija-boards were immediately ordered by various members of Riseholme society. At present Abfou did not manifest himself to any of them, except in what was possibly Arabic script (for it certainly bore a strong resemblance to his earlier efforts of communication with Daisy), and while she encouraged the scribes to persevere in the hope that he might soon regale them with English, she was not really very anxious that he should. With her he was getting Englisher and Englisher every day, and had not Simkinson, after having had the true meaning of the word 'lazy' carefully explained to him, consented to manage her garden again, it certainly would have degenerated into primeval jungle, for she absolutely had not a minute to attend to it.
Simkinson, however, was quite genial.
"Oh yes, ma'am, very pleased to come back," he said. "I knew you wouldn't be able to get on long without me, and I want no explanations. Now let's have a look round and see what you've been doing. Why, whatever's happened to my mulberry tree?"
That was Simkinson's way: he always talked of 'my flowers' and 'my asparagus' when he meant hers.
"I've been pruning its roots," she said.
"Well, ma'am, you've done your best to do it in," said Simkinson. "I don't think it's dead though, I dare say it'll pull round."
Abfou had been understood to say it was dead, but perhaps he meant something else, thought Daisy, and they went on to the small circular bed below the dining-room windows.
"Phlox," said Daisy hopefully.
"Broccoli," said Simkinson examining the young green sprouts. "And the long bed there. I sowed a lot of annuals there, and I don't see a sign of anything coming up."
He fixed her with a merry eye.
"I believe you've been weeding, ma'am," he said. "I shall have to get you a lot of young plants if you want a bit of colour there. It's too late for me to put my seeds in again."
Daisy rather wished she hadn't come out with him, and changed the subject to something more cheerful.
"Well, I shan't want the rockery," she said. "You needn't bother about that. All these stones will be carted away in a day or two."
"Glad of that, ma'am. I'll be able to get to my potting-shed again. Well, I'll try to put you to rights. I'd best pull up the broccoli first, you won't want it under your windows, will you? You stick to rolling the lawn, ma'am, if you want to garden. You won't do any harm then."
It was rather dreadful being put in one's place like this, but Daisy did not dare risk a second quarrel, and the sight of Georgie at the dining-room window (he had come across to 'weedj,' as the psychical processes, whether ouija or planchette, were now called) was rather a relief. Weeding, after all, was unimportant compared with weedjing.
"And I don't believe I ever told you what Olga wrote about," said Georgie, as soon as she was within range. "We've talked of nothing but museum. Oh, and Mrs Boucher's planchette has come. But it broke in the post, and she's gumming it together."
"I doubt if it will act," said Daisy. "But what did Olga say? It quite went out of my head to ask you."
"It's too heavenly of her," said he. "She's asked me to go up and stay with her for the first night of the opera. She's singing Lucrezia, and has got a stall for me."
"No!" said Daisy, making a trial trip over the blotting-paper to see if the pencil was sharp. "That will be an event! I suppose you're going."
"Just about," said Georgie. "It's going to be broadcasted, too, and I shall be listening to the original."
"How interesting!" said Daisy. "And there you'll be in Brompton Square, just opposite Lucia. Oh, you heard from her? What did she say?"
"Apparently she's getting on marvellously," said Georgie. "Not a moment to spare. Just what she likes."
Daisy pushed the planchette aside. There would be time for that when she had had a little talk about Lucia.
"And are you going to stay with her too?" she asked
Georgie was quite determined not to be ill-natured. He had taken no part (or very little) in this trampling on Lucia's majesty, which had been so merrily going on.
"I should love to, if she would ask me," he observed. "She only says she's going to. Of course, I shall go to see her."
"I wouldn't," said Daisy savagely. "If she asked me fifty times I should say 'no' fifty times. What's happened is that she's dropped us. I wouldn't have her on our museum committee if — if she gave her pearls to it and said they belonged to Queen Elizabeth. I wonder you haven't got more spirit."
"I've got plenty of spirit," said Georgie, "and I allow I did feel rather hurt at her letter. But then,