The Complete Mapp & Lucia (165 page)

“It’s only fair to say that she paid me next morning,” said Diva scrupulously.

“Oh, stop me laughing,” cried Faradiddlione. “Mapp enters. ‘Come home, Benjy,’ and then ‘Queen of my Heart’ all down the High Street. The rage of the Mapp! If she could not have a baby she must invent for her husband a mistress. Who shall say it is not true, though? When his bilious attack is better will they meet in the garden at Mallards? He is Lothario of the tiger-skins. Why should it not be true? My Cecco has had a mistress for years—such a good-natured pretty woman—and why not your Major?
Basta!
I must be calm.”

This flippant and deplorably immoral view of the crisis had an inflammatory rather than a cooling effect. If Tilling was anything, it was intensely serious, and not to be taken seriously by this lascivious Countess made it far more serious. So, after a few days during which social intercourse was completely paralysed, Lucia determined to change the currents of thought by digging a new channel for them. She had long been considering which should be the first of those benefactions to Tilling which would raise her on a pinnacle of public pre-eminence and expunge the memory of that slight fiasco at the late municipal elections, and now she decided on the renovation and amplification of the organ on which she and Georgie had been practising this morning. The time was well chosen, for surely those extensive rents in the social fabric would be repaired by the universal homage rendered her for her munificence, and nothing more would be heard of Roman antiquities and dinner-bells and drunkenness and those odious and unfounded aspersions on the really untarnishable chastity of her own character. All would be forgotten.

Accordingly next Sunday morning the Padre had announced from the pulpit in accents trembling with emotion that through the generosity of a donor who preferred to remain anonymous the congregation’s psalms and hymns of praise would soon be accompanied by a noble new relay of trumpets and shawms. Then, as nobody seemed to guess (as Lucia had hoped) who the anonymous donor was, she had easily been persuaded to let this thin veil of anonymity be withdrawn. But even then there was not such a tumultuous outpouring of gratitude and admiration as to sweep away all the hatchets that still lay perilously about: in fact Elizabeth who brought the news to Diva considered the gift a very ostentatious and misleading gesture.

“It’s throwing dust in our eyes,” she observed with singular acidity. “It’s drawing a red herring across her Roman excavations and her abominable forwardness with Benjy on that terrible evening. As for the gift itself, I consider it far from generous. With the fortune she has made in gold-mines and rails and all the rest of it, she doesn’t feel the cost of it one atom. What I call generosity is to deprive yourself—”

“Now you’re not being consistent, Elizabeth,” said Diva. “You told me yourself that you didn’t believe she had made more than half-a-crown.”

“No, I never said that, dear,” affirmed Elizabeth. “You must be thinking of someone else you were gossiping with.”

“No, I mustn’t,” said Diva. “You did say it. And even if you hadn’t, it would be very paltry of you to belittle her gift just because she was rich. But you’re always carping and picking holes, and sowing discord.”

“I?” said Elizabeth, not believing her ears.

“Yes, you. Go back to that terrible evening as you call it. You’ve talked about nothing else since: you’ve been keeping the wound open. I don’t deny that it was very humiliating for you to see Major Benjy exceed like that, and of course no woman would have liked her husband to go bawling out ‘Queen of my Heart’ all the way home about some other woman. But I’ve been thinking it over. I don’t believe Lucia made up to him any more than I did. We should all be settling down again happily if it wasn’t for you, instead of being at loggerheads with each other. Strawberries will be in next week, and not one of us dares ask the rest to our usual summer Bridge parties for fear of there being more ructions.”

“Nonsense, dear,” said Elizabeth. “As far as I am concerned it isn’t a question of not daring at all, though of course I wouldn’t be so rude as to contradict you about your own moral cowardice. It’s simply that I prefer not to see anything of people like Lucia or Susan who on that night was neither more nor less than a barmaid encouraging Benjy to drink, until they’ve expressed regret for their conduct.”

“If it comes to expressions of regret,” retorted Diva. “I think Major Benjy had better show the way and you follow. How you can call yourself a Christian at all is beyond me.”

“Benjy has expressed himself very properly to me,” said Elizabeth, “so there’s the end of that. As for my expressing regret I can’t conceive what you wish me to express regret for. Painful though I should find it to be excommunicated by you, dear, I shall have to bear it. Or would you like me to apologise to Irene for all the wicked things she said to me that night?”

“Well I daren’t ask our usual party,” said Diva, “however brave you are. You may call it moral cowardice, but it’s simply common sense. Lucia would refuse with some excuse that would be an insult to my intelligence, and Mr. Georgie would certainly stick to her. So would Irene; besides she called me a foul-minded old widow. The Wyses won’t begin, and I agree it wouldn’t be any use your trying. The only person who’s got the power or position or whatever you like to call it, to bring us all together again is Lucia herself. Don’t look down your nose, Elizabeth, because it’s true. I’ve a good mind to apologise to her for my bit of silly chaff about Major Benjy, and to ask her to do something for us.”

“I hope, dear,” said Elizabeth rising, “that you won’t encourage her to think that Benjy and I will come to her house. That would only lead to disappointment.”

“By the way, how is he?” said Diva. “I forgot to ask.”

“So I noticed, dear. He’s better, thanks. Gone to play golf again to-day.”

Diva put her pride in her pocket and went up to Mallards that very afternoon and said that she was very sorry that a word of hers spoken really in jest, should have given offence to Lucia. Lucia, as might have been expected from her lofty and irritating ways, looked at her smiling and a little puzzled, with her head on one side.

“Dear Diva, what do you mean?” she said. “How can you have offended me?”

“What I said about Benjy and you,” said Diva. “Just outside Twistevant’s. Very stupid of me, but just chaff.”

“My wretched memory,” said Lucia. “I’ve no recollection of it at all. I think you must have dreamed it. But so nice to see you, and tell me all the news. Heaps of pleasant little parties? I’ve been so busy with my new organ and so on, that I’m quite out of the movement.”

“There’s not been a single party since that dinner at Susan’s,” said Diva.

“You don’t say so! And how is Major Benjy? I think somebody told me he had caught a chill that night, when he walked home. People who have lived much in the tropics are liable to them: he must take more care of himself.”

They had strolled out into the garden, awaiting tea, and looked into the greenhouse where the peach trees were covered with setting fruit. Lucia looked wistfully at the potato and asparagus beds.

“More treasures to be unearthed some time, I hope,” she said with really unparalleled nerve. “But at present my hands are so full: my organ, my little investments, Georgie just dines quietly with me or I with him, and we make music or read. Happy busy days!”

Really she was quite maddening, thought Diva, pretending like this to be totally unaware of the earthquake which had laid in ruins the social life of Tilling. On she went.

“Otherwise I’ve seen no one but Irene, and just a glimpse of dear Contessa Faraglione, and we had a refreshing chat in Italian. I found I was terribly rusty. She told me that it was just a flying visit.”

“Yes, she’s gone,” said Diva.

“Such a pity: I should have liked to get up an evening with
un po’ di musica
for her,” said Lucia, who had heard from Georgie, who had it from the Padre, all about her monstrously immoral views and her maniac laughter. “Ah, tea ready, Grosvenor? Tell me more Tilling news, Diva.”

“But there isn’t any,” said Diva, “and there won’t be unless you do something for us.”

“I?” asked Lucia. “Little hermit I?”

Diva could have smacked her for her lofty unconsciousness, but in view of her mission had to check that genial impulse.

“Yes, you, of course,” she said. “We’ve all been quarrelling. Never knew anything so acute. We shall never get together again, unless you come to the rescue.”

Lucia sighed.

“Dear Diva, how you all work me, and come to me when there’s trouble. But I’m very obedient. Tell me what you want me to do. Give one of my simple little parties,
al fresco,
here some evening?”

“Oh,
do!”
said Diva.

“Nothing easier. I’m afraid I’ve been terribly remiss, thinking of nothing but my busy fragrant life. Very naughty of me. And if, as you say, it will help to patch up some of your funny little disagreements between yourselves, of which I know nothing at all, so much the better. Let’s settle a night at once. My engagement-book, Grosvenor.”

Grosvenor brought it her. There were no evening engagements at all in the future, and slightly tipping it up, so that Diva could not see the fair white pages, she turned over a leaf or two.

“This week, impossible, I’m afraid,” she said, with a noble disregard of her own admission that she and Georgie dined quietly together every night. “But how about Wednesday next week? Let me think—yes, that’s all right. And whom am I to ask? All our little circle?”

“Oh do!” said Diva. “Start us again. Break the ice. Put out the fire. They’ll all come.”

Diva was right: even Elizabeth who had warned her that such an invitation would only lead to disappointment accepted with pleasure, and Lucia made the most tactful arrangements for this
agapé.
Grosvenor was instructed to start every dish at Mrs. Mapp-Flint, and to offer barley-water as well as wine to all the guests. They assembled before dinner in the garden-room, and there, on the top of the piano, compelling notice, were the bowl and saucer of Samian ware. Mr. Wyse, with his keen perception for the beautiful, instantly enquired what they were.

“Just some fragments of Roman pottery,” said Lucia casually. “So glad you admire them. They are pretty, but, alas, the bowl as you see is incomplete.”

Evie gave a squeal of satisfaction: she had always believed in Lucia’s excavations.

“Oh, look, Kenneth,” she said to her husband, “Fancy finding those lovely things in an empty potato-patch.”

“Begorra, Mistress Lucia,” said he, “‘twas worth digging up a whole garden entoirely.”

Elizabeth cast a despairing glance at this convincing evidence, and dinner was announced.

Conversation was a little difficult at first; for there were so many dangerous topics to avoid that to carry it on was like crossing a quaking bog and jumping from one firm tussock to another over soft and mossy places. But Elizabeth’s wintriness thawed, when she found that not only was she placed on Georgie’s right hand who was acting as host, but that every dish was started with her, and she even asked Irene if she had been painting any of her sweet pictures lately. Dubious topics and those allied to them were quite avoided, and before the end of dinner, if Lucia had proposed that they should sing “Auld Lang Syne,” there would not have been a silent voice. Bridge, of so friendly a kind that it was almost insipid, followed, and it was past midnight before anyone could suppose that it was half-past ten. Then most cordial partings took place in the hall: Susan was loaded with her furs, Diva dropped a shilling and was distracted. Benjy found a clandestine opportunity to drink a strong whisky and soda, Irene clung passionately to Lucia, as if she would never finish saying good night, the Royce sawed to and fro before it could turn and set forth on its journey of one hundred yards, and the serene orbs of heaven twinkled benignly over a peaceful Tilling. This happy result (all but the stars) was Lucia’s achievement: she had gone skimming up the pinnacle of social pre-eminence till she was almost among the stars herself.

Naturally nobody was foolish enough to expect that such idyllic harmony would be of long duration, for in this highly alert and critical society, with Elizabeth lynx-eyed to see what was done amiss, and Lucia, as was soon obvious, so intolerably conscious of the unique service she had done Tilling in having reconciled all those “funny little quarrels” of which she pretended to be quite unaware, discord was sure to develop before long; but at any rate tea-parties for Bridge were in full swing by the time strawberries were really cheap, and before they were over came the ceremony of the dedication of Lucia’s organ.

She had said from the first that her whole function (and that a privilege) was to have made this little contribution to the beauty of the church services: that was all, and she began and ended there. But in a quiet talk with the Padre she suggested that the day of its dedication might be made to coincide with the annual confirmation of the young folk of the parish. The Bishop, perhaps, when his laying on of hands was done, would come to lunch at Mallards and take part in the other ceremony in the afternoon. The Padre thought that an excellent notion, and in due course the Bishop accepted Lucia’s invitation and would be happy (D.V.) to dedicate the organ and give a short address.

Lucia had got her start: now like a great liner she cast off her tugs and began to move out under her own steam. There was another quiet talk in the garden-room.

“You know how I hate all fuss, dear Padre,” she said, “but I do think, don’t you, that Tilling would wish for a little pomp and ceremony. An idea occurred to me: the Mayor and Corporation perhaps might like to escort the Bishop in procession from here to the church after lunch. If that is their wish, I should not dream of opposing it. Maces, scarlet robes; there would be picturesqueness about it which would be suitable on such an occasion. Of course I couldn’t suggest it myself, but, as Vicar, you might ascertain what they felt.”