The Second E.F. Benson Megapack. E.F. Benson
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 remarked.
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 in.”
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 Bracely now?”
“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 better.
“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 forehead.
“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