The Greatest Works of E. F. Benson (Illustrated Edition). E. F. Benson
said by way of public comment, though couples might have been observed with set and angry faces and gabbling mouths. But higher yet ran curiosity and surmise as to what Lucia would do, and what Olga would do. Not a sign had come for anyone from The Hurst, not a soul had been asked to lunch, dinner, or even tea, and if Lucia seemed to be ashamed of Riseholme society before her grand friends, there was no doubt that Riseholme society was ashamed of Lucia . . .
And then suddenly a deadly hush fell on these discussions, and even those who were walking fastest in their indignation came to a halt, for out of the front door of The Hurst streamed the 'exciting people' and their hosts. There was Lucia, hatless and shingled and short-skirted, and the Bird-of-Paradise and Mrs Garroby-Ashton, and Peppino and Lord Limpsfield and Mr Merriall all talking shrilly together, with shrieks of hollow laughter. They came slowly across the green towards the little pond round which Riseholme stood, and passed within fifty yards of it, and if Lucia had been the Gorgon, Riseholme could not more effectually have been turned into stone. She too, appeared not to notice them, so absorbed was she in conversation, and on they went straight towards the Museum. Just as they passed Colonel Boucher's house, Mrs Boucher came out in her bath-chair, and without pause was wheeled straight through the middle of them. She then drew up by the side of the green below the large elm.
The party passed into the Museum. The windows were open, and from inside them came shrieks of laughter. This continued for about ten minutes, and then . . . they all came out again. Several of them carried catalogues, and Mr Merriall was reading out of one in a loud voice.
"Pair of worsted mittens," he announced, "belonging to Queen Charlotte, and presented by the Lady Ambermere."
"Don't," said Lucia. "Don't make fun of our dear little Museum, Stephen."
As they retraced their way along the edge of the green, movement came back to Riseholme again. Lucia's policy with regard to the Museum had declared itself. Georgie strolled up to Mrs Boucher's bath-chair. Mrs Boucher was extremely red in the face, and her hands were trembling.
"Good-evening, Mr Georgie," said she. "Another party of strangers, I see, visiting the Museum. They looked very odd people, and I hope we shan't find anything missing. Any news?"
That was a very dignified way of taking it, and Georgie responded in the same spirit.
"Not a scrap that I know of," he said, "except that Olga's coming down tomorrow."
"That will be nice," said Mrs Boucher. "Riseholme is always glad to see her."
Daisy joined them.
"Good-evening, Mrs Quantock," said Mrs Boucher. "Any news?"
"Yes, indeed," said Daisy rather breathlessly. "Didn't you see them? Lucia and her party?"
"No," said Mrs Boucher firmly. "She is in London surely. Anything else?"
Daisy took the cue. Complete ignorance that Lucia was in Riseholme at all was a noble manœuvre.
"It must have been my mistake," she said. "Oh, my mulberry tree has quite come round."
"No!" said Mrs Boucher in the Riseholme voice. "I am pleased. I dare say the pruning did it good. And Mr Georgie's just told me that our dear Olga, or I should say Mrs Shuttleworth, is coming down tomorrow, but he hasn't told me what time yet."
"Two or three, she said," answered Georgie. "She's motoring down, and is going to have lunch with me whenever she gets here."
"Indeed! Then I should advise you to have something cold that won't spoil by waiting. A bit of cold lamb, for instance. Nothing so good on a hot day."
"What an excellent idea!" said Georgie. "I was thinking of hot lamb. But the other's much better. I'll have it cooked tonight."
"And a nice tomato salad," said Mrs Boucher, "and if you haven't got any, I can give you some. Send your Foljambe round, and she'll come back with half a dozen ripe tomatoes."
Georgie hurried off to see to these new arrangements, and Colonel Boucher having strolled away with Piggie, his wife could talk freely to Mrs Quantock . . . She did.
* * *
Lucia waking rather early next morning found she had rather an uneasy conscience as her bedfellow, and she used what seemed very reasonable arguments to quiet it. There would have been no point in writing to Georgie or any of them to say that she was bringing down some friends for the weekend and would be occupied with them all Sunday. She could not with all these guests play duets with Georgie, or get poor Daisy to give an exhibition of ouija, or have Mrs Boucher in her bath-chair to tea, for she would give them all long histories of purely local interest, which could not conceivably amuse people like Lord Limpsfield or weird Sophy. She had been quite wise to keep Riseholme and Brompton Square apart, for they would not mix. Besides, her guests would go away on Monday morning, and she had determined to stop over till Tuesday and be extremely kind, and not the least condescending. She would have one or two of them to lunch, and one or two more to dinner, and give Georgie a full hour of duets as well. Naturally, if Olga had been here, she would have asked Olga on Sunday but Olga had been singing last night at the opera. Lucia had talked a good deal about her at dinner, and given the impression that they were never out of each other's houses either in town or here, and had lamented her absence.
"Such a pity," she had said. "For dearest Olga loves singing in my music-room. I shall never forget how she dropped in for some little garden-party and sang the awakening of Brünnhilde. Even you, dear Sophy, with your passion for the primitive, would have enjoyed that. She sang Lucrezia here, too, before anyone had heard it. Cortese brought the score down the moment he had finished it — ah, I think that was in her house — there was just Peppino and me, and perhaps one or two others. We would have had dearest Olga here all day tomorrow if only she had been here . . ."
So Lucia felt fairly easy, having planned these treats for Riseholme on Monday, as to her aloofness today, and then her conscience brought up the question of the Museum. Here she stoutly defended herself: she knew nothing about the Museum (except what Peppino had seen through the window a few Sundays before); she had not been consulted about the Museum, she was not on the committee, and it was perfectly proper for her to take her party to see it. She could not prevent them bursting into shrieks of laughter at Queen Charlotte's mittens and Daisy's drain-pipes, nor could she possibly prevent herself from joining in those shrieks of laughter herself, for surely this was the most ridiculous collection of rubbish ever brought together. A glass case for Queen Charlotte's mittens, a heap of fossils such as she had chipped out by the score from the old quarry, some fragments of glass (Georgie ought to have known better), some quilts, a dozen coins, lent, only lent, by poor Daisy! In fact the only object of the slightest interest was the pair of stocks which she and Peppino had bought and set up on the village green. She would see about that when she came down in August, and back they should go on to the village green. Then there was the catalogue: who could help laughing at the catalogue which described in most pompous language the contents of this dustbin? There was nothing to be uneasy about over that. And as for Mrs Boucher having driven right through her party without a glance of recognition, what did that matter? On her own side also, Lucia had given no glance of recognition to Mrs Boucher: if she had, Mrs Boucher would have told them all about her asparagus or how her Elizabeth had broken a plate. It was odd, perhaps, that Mrs Boucher hadn't stopped . . . and was it rather odd also that, though from the corner of her eye she had seen all Riseholme standing about on the green, no one had made the smallest sign of welcome? It was true that she had practically cut them (if a process conducted at the distance of fifty yards can be called a cut), but she was not quite sure that she enjoyed the same process herself. Probably it meant nothing; they saw she was engaged with her friends, and very properly had not thrust themselves forward.
Her guests mostly breakfasted upstairs, but by the middle of the morning they had all straggled down. Lucia had brought with her yesterday her portrait by Sigismund, which Sophy declared was a masterpiece of adagio. She was advising her to clear all other pictures out of the music-room and hang it there alone, like a wonderful slow movement, when Mr Merriall came in with the Sunday paper.
"Ah, the paper has come," said Lucia. "Is not that Riseholmish of us? We never get the Sunday paper till midday."