“Lucia, we must be off,” he said loudly and confidently. “Pepino will wonder where we are.”
Lucia sighed.
“He always bullies me like that, Adele,” she said. “I must go: au revoir, dear. Tuesday next: just a few intimes.”
Lucia’s relief was hardly less than Stephen’s. He would surely not have said anything so indiscreet if he had been contemplating an indiscretion, and she had no fear that his hurry to be off was due to any passionate desire to embrace her in the privacy of her car. She believed he understood, and her belief felt justified when he proposed that the car should be opened.
Riseholme, in the last three weeks of social progress, had not occupied the front row of Lucia’s thoughts, but the second row, so to speak, had been entirely filled with it, for, as far as the future dimly outlined itself behind the present, the plan was to go down there early in August, and remain there, with a few brilliant excursions till autumn peopled London again. She had hoped for a dash to Aix, where there would be many pleasant people, but Pepino had told her summarily that the treasury would not stand it. Lucia had accepted that with the frankest good-nature: she had made quite a gay little lament about it, when she was asked what she was going to do in August. “Ah, all you lucky rich people with money to throw about; we’ve got to go and live quietly at home,” she used to say. “But I shall love it, though I shall miss you all dreadfully. Riseholme, dear Riseholme, you know, adorable, and all the delicious funny friends down there who spoil me so dreadfully. I shall have lovely tranquil days, with a trot across the Green to order fish, and a chat on the way, and my books and my piano, and a chair in the garden, and an early bed-time instead of all these late hours. An anchorite life, but if you have a week-end to spare between your Aix and your yacht and your Scotland, ah, how nice it would be if you just sent a postcard!”
Before they became anchorites, however, there was a long week-end for her and Pepino over the August bank-holiday, and Lucia looked forward to that with unusual excitement. Adele was the hostess, and the scene that immense country-house of hers in Essex. The whole world, apparently, was to be there, for Adele had said the house would be full; and it was to be a final reunion of the choicest spirits before the annual dispersion. Mrs. Garroby-Ashton had longed to be bidden, but was not, and though Lucia was sorry for dear Millicent’s disappointment, she could not but look down on it, as a sort of perch far below her that showed how dizzily she herself had gone upwards. But she had no intention of dropping good kind Millie who was hopping about below: she must certainly come to The Hurst for a Sunday: that would be nice for her, and she would learn all about Adele’s party.
There were yet ten days before that, and the morning after the triumphant affair at the Rutland Gallery, Lucia heard a faint rumour, coming from nowhere in particular, that Marcia Whitby was going to give a very small and very wonderful dance to wind up the season. She had not seen much of Marcia lately, in other words she had seen nothing at all, and Lucia’s last three invitations to her had been declined, one through a secretary, and two through a telephone. Lucia continued, however, to talk about her with unabated familiarity and affection. The next day the rumour became slightly more solid: Adele let slip some allusion to Marcia’s ball, and hurriedly covered it up with talk of her own week-end. Lucia fixed her with a penetrating eye for a moment, but the eye failed apparently to penetrate: Adele went on gabbling about her own party, and took not the slightest notice of it.
But in truth Adele’s gabble was a frenzied and feverish manœuvre to get away from the subject of Marcia’s ball. Marcia was no true Luciaphil; instead of feeling entranced pleasure in Lucia’s successes and failures, her schemes and attainments and ambitions, she had lately been taking a high severe line about her.
“She’s beyond a joke, Adele,” she said. “I hear she’s got a scrap-book, and puts in picture postcards and photographs of country-houses, with dates below them to indicate she has been there—”
“No!” said Adele. “How heavenly of her. I must see it, or did you make it up?”
“Indeed I didn’t,” said the injured Marcia. “And she’s got in it a picture postcard of the moat-garden at Whitby with the date of the Sunday before last, when I had a party there and didn’t ask her. Besides, she was in London at the time. And there’s one of Buckingham Palace Garden, with the date of the last garden-party. Was she asked?”
“I haven’t heard she was,” said Adele.
“Then you may be sure she wasn’t. She’s beyond a joke, I tell you, and I’m not going to ask her to my dance. I won’t, I won’t—I will not. And she asked me to dine three times last week. It isn’t fair: it’s bullying. A weak-minded person would have submitted, but I’m not weak-minded, and I won’t be bullied. I won’t be forcibly fed, and I won’t ask her to my dance. There!”
“Don’t be so unkind,” said Adele. “Besides, you’ll meet her down at my house only a few days afterwards, and it will be awkward. Everybody else will have been.”
“Well, then she can pretend she has been exclusive,” said Marcia snappily, “and she’ll like that…”
The rumours solidified into fact, and soon Lucia was forced to the dreadful conclusion that Marcia’s ball was to take place without her. That was an intolerable thought, and she gave Marcia one more chance by ringing her up and inviting her to dinner on that night (so as to remind her she knew nothing about the ball), but Marcia’s stony voice replied that most unfortunately she had a few people to dinner herself. Wherever she went (and where now did Lucia not go?) she heard talk of the ball, and the plethora of Princes and Princesses that were to attend it.
For a moment the thought of Princesses lightened the depression of this topic. Princess Isabel was rather seriously ill with influenza, so Lucia, driving down Park Lane, thought it would not be amiss to call and enquire how she was, for she had noticed that sometimes the papers recorded the names of enquirers. She did not any longer care in the least how Princess Isabel was; whether she died or recovered was a matter of complete indifference to her in her present embittered frame of mind, for the Princess had not taken the smallest notice of her all these weeks. However, there was the front-door open, for there were other enquirers on the threshold, and Lucia joined them. She presented her card, and asked in a trembling voice what news there was, and was told that the Princess was no better. Lucia bowed her head in resignation, and then, after faltering a moment in her walk, pulled herself together, and with a firmer step went back to her motor.
After this interlude her mind returned to the terrible topic. She was due at a drawing-room meeting at Sophy Alingsby’s house to hear a lecture on psycho-analysis, and she really hardly felt up to it. But there would certainly be a quantity of interesting people there, and the lecture itself might possibly be of interest, and so before long she found herself in the black dining-room, which had been cleared for the purpose. With the self-effacing instincts of the English the audience had left the front row chairs completely unoccupied, and she got a very good place. The lecture had just begun, and so her entry was not unmarked. Stephen was there, and as she seated herself, she nodded to him, and patted the empty chair by her side with a beckoning gesture. Her lover, therefore, sidled up to her and took it.
Lucia whistled her thoughts away from such ephemeral and frivolous subjects as dances, and tried to give Professor Bonstetter her attention. She felt that she had been living a very hectic life lately; the world and its empty vanities had been too much with her, and she needed some intellectual tonic. She had seen no pictures lately, except Bobbie (or was it Bertie?) Alton’s, she had heard no music, she had not touched the piano herself for weeks, she had read no books, and at the most had skimmed the reviews of such as had lately appeared in order to be up to date and be able to reproduce a short but striking criticism or two if the talk became literary. She must not let the mere froth of living entirely conceal by its winking headiness of foam the true beverage below it. There was Sophy, with her hair over her eye
s and her chin in her hand, dressed in a faded rainbow, weird beyond description, but rapt in concentration, while she herself was letting the notion of a dance to which she had not been asked and was clearly not to be asked, drive like a mist between her and these cosmic facts about dreams and the unconscious self. How curious that if you dreamed about boiled rabbit, it meant that sometime in early childhood you had been kissed by a poacher in a railway-carriage, and had forgotten all about it! What a magnificent subject for excited research psycho-analysis would have been in those keen intellectual days at Riseholme… She thought of them now with a vague yearning for their simplicity and absorbing earnestness; of the hours she had spent with Georgie over piano-duets, of Daisy Quantock’s ouija-board and planchette, of the museum with its mittens. Riseholme presented itself now as an abode of sweet peace, where there were no disappointments or heart-burnings, for sooner or later she had always managed to assert her will and constitute herself priestess of the current interests… Suddenly the solution of her present difficulty flashed upon her. Riseholme. She would go to Riseholme: that would explain her absence from Marcia’s stupid ball.
The lecture came to an end, and with others she buzzed for a little while round Professor Bonstetter, and had a few words with her hostess.
“Too interesting: marvellous, was it not, dear Sophy? Boiled rabbit! How curious! And the outcropping of the unconscious in dreams. Explains so much about phobias: people who can’t go in the tube. So pleased to have heard it. Ah, there’s Aggie. Aggie darling! What a treat, wasn’t it? Such a refreshment from our bustlings and runnings-about to get back into origins. I’ve got to fly, but I couldn’t miss this. Dreadful overlapping all this afternoon, and poor Princess Isabel is no better. I just called on my way here, but I wasn’t allowed to see her. Stephen, where is Stephen? See if my motor is there, dear. Au revoir! dear Sophy. We must meet again very soon. Are you going to Adele’s next week? No? How tiresome! Wonderful lecture! Calming!”
Lucia edged herself out of the room with these very hurried greetings, for she was really eager to get home. She found Pepino there, having tea peacefully all by himself, and sank exhausted in a chair.
“Give me a cup of tea, strong tea, Pepino,” she said. “I’ve been racketing about all day, and I feel done for. How I shall get through these next two or three days I really don’t know. And London is stifling. You look worn out too, my dear.”
Pepino acknowledged the truth of this. He had hardly had time even to go to his club this last day or two, and had been reflecting on the enormous strength of the weaker sex. But for Lucia to confess herself done for was a portentous thing: he could not remember such a thing happening before.
“Well, there are not many more days of it,” he said. “Three more this week, and then Lady Brixton’s party.”
He gave several loud sneezes.
“Not a cold?” asked Lucia.
“Something extraordinarily like one,” said he.
Lucia became suddenly alert again. She was sorry for Pepino’s cold, but it gave her an admirable gambit for what she had made up her mind to do.
“My dear, that’s enough,” she said. “I won’t have you flying about London with a bad cold coming on. I shall take you down to Riseholme to-morrow.”
“Oh, but you can’t, my dear,” said he. “You’ve got your engagement-book full for the next three days.”
“Oh, a lot of stupid things,” said she. “And really, I tell you quite honestly, I’m fairly worn out. It’ll do us both good to have a rest for a day or two. Now don’t make objections. Let us see what I’ve got to do.”
The days were pretty full (though, alas, Thursday evening was deplorably empty) and Lucia had a brisk half-hour at the telephone. To those who had been bidden here, and to those to whom she had been bidden, she gave the same excuse, namely, that she had been advised (by herself) two or three days complete rest.
She rang up The Hurst, to say that they were coming down to-morrow, and would bring the necessary attendants, she rang up Georgie (for she was not going to fall into that error again) and in a mixture of baby language and Italian, which he found very hard to understand, asked him to dine to-morrow night, and finally she scribbled a short paragraph to the leading morning papers to say that Mrs. Philip Lucas had been ordered to leave London for two or three days’ complete rest. She had hesitated a moment over the wording of that, for it was Pepino who was much more in need of rest than she, but it would have been rather ludicrous to say that Mr. and Mrs. Philip Lucas were in need of a complete rest… These announcements she sent by hand so that there might be no miscarriage in their appearance to-morrow morning. And then, as an afterthought, she rang up Daisy Quantock and asked her and Robert to lunch to-morrow.
She felt much happier. She would not be at the fell Marcia’s ball, because she was resting in the country.
CHAPTER VIII
A few minutes before Lucia and Pepino drove off next morning from Brompton Square, Marcia observed Lucia’s announcement in the Morning Post. She was a good-natured woman, but she had been goaded, and now that Lucia could goad her no more for the present, she saw no objection to asking her to her ball. She thought of telephoning, but there was the chance that Lucia had not yet started, so she sent her a card instead, directing it to 25 Brompton Square, saying that she was At Home, dancing, to have the honour to meet a string of exalted personages. If she had telephoned, no one knows what would have happened, whether Daisy would have had any lunch that day or Georgie any dinner that night, and what excuse Lucia would have made to them… Adele and Tony Limpsfield, the most adept of all the Luciaphils, subsequently argued the matter out with much heat, but never arrived at a solution that they felt was satisfactory. But then Marcia did not telephone…
The news that the two were coming down was, of course, all over Riseholme a few minutes after Lucia had rung Georgie up. He was in his study when the telephone bell rang, in the fawn-coloured Oxford trousers, which had been cut down from their monstrous proportions and fitted quite nicely, though there had been a sad waste of stuff. Robert Quantock, the wag who had danced a hornpipe when Georgie had appeared in the original voluminousness, was waggish again, when he saw the abbreviated garments, and à propos of nothing in particular had said “Home is the sailor, home from sea,” and that was the epitaph on the Oxford trousers.
Georgie had been busy indoors this afternoon, for he had been attending to his hair, and it was not quite dry yet, and the smell of the auburn mixture still clung to it. But the telephone was a trunk-call, and, whether his hair was dry or not, it must be attended to. Since Lucia had disappeared after that week-end party, he had had a line from her once or twice, saying that they must really settle when he would come and spend a few days in London, but she had never descended to the sordid mention of dates.
A trunk-call, as far as he knew, could only be Lucia or Olga, and one would be interesting and the other delightful. It proved to be the interesting one, and though rather difficult to understand because of the aforesaid mixture of baby-talk and Italian, it certainly conveyed the gist of the originator’s intention.
“Me so tired,” Lucia said, “and it will be divine to get to Riseholme again. So come to ‘ickle quiet din-din with me and Pepino to-morrow, Georgino. Shall want to hear all novelle—”
“What?” said Georgie.
“All the news,” said Lucia.
Georgie sat in the draught—it was very hot to-day—until the auburn mixture dried. He knew that Daisy Quantock and Robert were playing clock-golf on the other side of his garden paling, for their voices had been very audible. Daisy had not been weeding much lately but had taken to golf, and since all the authorities said that matches were entirely won or lost on the putting-green, she with her usual wisdom devoted herself to the winning factor in the game. Presently she would learn to drive and approach and niblick and that sort of thing, and then they would see… She wondered how good Miss Wethered really was.
Georgie, now dry, tripped ou
t into the garden and shouted “May I come in?” That meant, of course, might he look over the garden-paling and talk.
Daisy missed a very short putt, owing to the interruption.
“Yes, do,” she said icily. “I supposed you would give me that, Robert.”
“You supposed wrong,” said Robert, who was now two up.
Georgie stepped on a beautiful pansy.
“Lucia’s coming down to-morrow,” he said.
Daisy dropped her putter.
“No!” she exclaimed.
“And Pepino,” went on Georgie. “She says she’s very tired.”
“All those duchesses,” said Daisy. Robert Alton’s cartoon had been reproduced in an illustrated weekly, but Riseholme up to this moment had been absolutely silent about it. It was beneath notice.
“And she’s asked me to dinner to-morrow,” said Georgie.
“So she’s not bringing down a party?” said Daisy.
“I don’t know,” remarked Robert, “if you are going on putting, or if you give me the match.”
“Pouf!” said Daisy, just like that. “But tired, Georgie? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Georgie, “but that’s what she said.”
“It means something else,” said Daisy, “I can’t tell you what, but it doesn’t mean that. I suppose you’ve said you’re engaged.”
“No I haven’t,” said Georgie.
De Vere came out from the house. In this dry weather her heels made no indentations on the lawn.
“Trunk-call, ma’am,” she said to Daisy.
“These tiresome interruptions,” said Daisy, hurrying indoors with great alacrity.