56

 

 

 

 

 

 

LUCIA'S PROGRESS

 

PART 4

CHAPTER IV

 

Elizabeth Mapp-Flint had schemes for her husband and meant to realize them. As a bachelor, with an inclination to booze and a very limited income, inhabiting that small house next to Mallards, it was up to him, if he chose, to spend the still robust energies of his fifty-five years in playing golf all day and getting slightly squiffy in the evening. But his marriage had given him a new status: he was master, though certainly not mistress, of the best house in Tilling, he was, through her, a person of position, and it was only right that he should have a share in municipal government. The elections to the Town Council were coming on shortly, and she had made up her mind, and his for him, that he must stand. The fact that, if elected, he would make it his business to get something done about Susan Wyse's motor causing a congestion of traffic every morning in the High Street was not really a leading motive. Elizabeth craved for the local dignity which his election would give not only to him but her, and if poor Lucia (always pushing herself forward) happened to turn pea-green with envy, that would be her misfortune and not Elizabeth's fault. As yet the programme which he should present to the electors was only being thought out, but municipal economy (Major Mapp-Flint and Economy) with reduction of rates would be the ticket.

 

The night of Lucia's birthday party was succeeded by a day of pelting rain, and, no golf being possible, Elizabeth, having sent her cook (she had a mackintosh) to do the marketing for her, came out to the garden-room after breakfast for a chat. She always knocked at the door, opening it a chink and saying, "May I come in, Benjy-boy?" in order to remind him of her nobility in giving it him. To-day a rather gruff voice answered her, for economy had certainly not been the ticket at Lucia's party, and there had been a frightful profusion of viands and wine: really a very vulgar display, and Benjy had eaten enormously and drunk far more wine than was positively necessary for the quenching of thirst. There had been a little argument as they drove home, for he had insisted that there were fifty-one candles round the cake and that it had been a remarkably jolly evening: she said that there were only fifty candles, and that it was a very mistaken sort of hospitality which gave guests so much more than they wanted to eat or should want to drink. His lack of appetite at breakfast might prove that he had had enough to eat the night before to last him some hours yet, but his extraordinary consumption of tea could not be explained on the same analogy. But Elizabeth thought she had made sufficient comment on that at breakfast (or tea as far as he was concerned) and when she came in this morning for a chat, she had no intention of rubbing it in. The accusation, however, that he had not been able to count correctly up to fifty or fifty-one, still rankled in his mind, for it certainly implied a faintly camouflaged connection with sherry, champagne, port and brandy.

 

"Such a pity, dear," she said brightly, "that it's so wet. A round of golf would have done you all the good in the world. Blown the cobwebs away."

 

To Benjy's disgruntled humour, this seemed an allusion to the old subject, and he went straight to the point.

 

"There were fifty-one candles," he said.

 

"Cinquante, Benjy," she answered firmly. "She is fifty. She said so. So there must have been fifty."

 

"Fifty-one. Candles I mean. But what I've been thinking over is that you've been thinking, if you follow me, that I couldn't count. Very unjust. Perhaps you'll say I saw a hundred next. Seeing double, eh? And why should a round of golf do me all the good in the world to-day? Not more good than any other day, unless you want me to get pneumonia."

 

Elizabeth sat down on the seat in the window as suddenly as if she had been violently hit behind the knees, and put her handkerchief up to her eyes to conceal the fact that there was not a vestige of a tear there. As he was facing towards the fire he did not perceive this manœuvre and thought she had only gone to the window to make her usual morning observations. He continued to brood over the Financial Post, which contained the news that Siriami had been weak and Southern Prefs remarkably strong. These items were about equally depressing.

 

Elizabeth was doubtful as to what to do next. In the course of their married life, there had been occasional squalls, and she had tried sarcasm and vituperation with but small success. Benjy-boy had answered her back or sulked, and she was left with a sense of imperfect mastery. This policy of being hurt was a new one, and since the first signal had not been noticed she hoisted a second one and sniffed.

 

"Got a bit of a cold?" he asked pacifically.

 

No answer, and he turned round.

 

"Why, what's wrong?" he said.

 

"And there's a jolie chose to ask," said Elizabeth with strangled shrillness. "You tell me I want you to catch pneumonia, and then ask what's wrong. You wound me deeply."

 

"Well, I got annoyed with your nagging at me that I couldn't count. You implied I was squiffy just because I had a jolly good dinner. And there were fifty-one candles."

 

"It doesn't matter if there were fifty-one million," cried Elizabeth. "What matters is that you spoke to me very cruelly. I planned to make you so happy, Benjy, by giving up my best room to you and all sorts of things, and all the reward I get is to be told one day that I ought to have let Lucia lead me by the nose and almost the next that I hoped you would die of pneumonia."

 

He came across to the window.

 

"Well, I didn't mean that," he said. "You're sarcastic, too, at times and say monstrously disagreeable things to me."

 

"Oh, that's a wicked lie," said Elizabeth violently. "Never have I spoken disagreeably to you. Jamais! Firmly sometimes, but always for your good. Toujours! Never another thought in my head but your true happiness."

 

Benjy was rather alarmed: hysterics seemed imminent.

 

"Yes, girlie, I know that," he said soothingly. "Nothing the matter? Nothing wrong?"

 

She opened her mouth once or twice like a gasping fish, and recovered her self-control.

 

"Nothing, dear, that I can tell you yet," she said. "Don't ask me. But never say I want you to get pneumonia again. It hurt me cruelly. There! All over! Look, there's Mr. Georgie coming out in this pelting rain. Do you know, I like his beard, though I couldn't tell him so, except for that odd sort of sheen on it, like the colours on cold boiled beef. But I daresay that'll pass off. Oh, let's put up the window and ask him how many candles there were . . . Good morning, Mr. Georgie. What a lovely, no, disgusting morning, but what a lovely evening yesterday! Do you happen to know for certain how many candles there were on Lucia's beautiful cake?"

 

"Yes, fifty-one," said Georgie, "though she's only fifty. She put an extra one, so that she may get used to being fifty-one before she is."

 

"What a pretty idea! So like her," said Elizabeth, and shut the window again.

 

Benjy with great tact pretended not to have heard, for he had no wish to bring back those hysterical symptoms. A sensational surmise as to the cause of them had dimly occurred to him, but surely it was impossible. So tranquillity being restored, they sat together "ever so cosily," said Elizabeth, by the fire (which meant that she appropriated his hip-bath chair and got nearly all the heat) and began plotting out the campaign for the coming municipal elections.

 

"Better just get quietly to work, love," said she, "and not say much about it at first, for Lucia's sadly capable of standing, too, if she knows you are."

 

"I'm afraid I told her last night," said Benjy.

 

"Oh, what a blabbing boy! Well, it can't be helped now. Let's hope it'll put no jealous ambitions into her head. Now, l'Économie is the right slogan for you. Anything more reckless than the way the Corporation has been spending money I can't conceive. Just as if Tilling was Eldorado. Think of pulling down all those pretty little slums by the railway and building new houses! Fearfully expensive, and spoiling the town: taking all its quaintness away."

 

"And then there's that new road they're making that skirts the town," said Benjy, "to relieve the congestion in the High Street."

 

"Just so," chimed in Elizabeth. "They'd relieve it much more effectually if they didn't allow Susan to park her car, positively across the street, wherever she pleases, and as long as she pleases. It's throwing money about like that which sends up the rates by leaps and bounds; why, they're nearly double of what they were when I inherited Mallards from sweet Aunt Caroline. And nothing to shew for it except a road that nobody wants and some ugly new houses instead of those picturesque old cottages. They may be a little damp, perhaps, but, after all, there was a dreadful patch of damp in my bedroom last year, and I didn't ask the Town Council to rebuild Mallards at the public expense. And I'm told all those new houses have got a bathroom in which the tenants will probably keep poultry. Then, they say, there are the unemployed. Rubbish, Benjy! There's plenty of work for everybody, only those lazy fellows prefer the dole and idleness. We've got to pinch and squeeze so that the so-called poor may live in the lap of luxury. If I didn't get a good let for Mallards every year we shouldn't be able to live in it at all, and you may take that from me. Economy! That's the ticket! Talk to them like that and you'll head the poll."

 

A brilliant notion struck Benjy as he listened to this impassioned speech. Though he liked the idea of holding public office and of the dignity it conferred, he knew that his golf would be much curtailed by his canvassing, and, if he was elected, by his duties. Moreover, he could not talk in that vivid and vitriolic manner. . . .

 

He jumped up.

 

"Upon my word, Liz, I wish you'd stand instead of me," he said. "You've got the gift of the gab; you can put things clearly and forcibly, and you've got it all at your fingers' ends. Besides, you're the owner of Mallards, and these rates and taxes press harder on you than on me. What do you say to that?"

 

The idea had never occurred to her before: she wondered why. How she would enjoy paying calls on all the numerous householders who felt the burden of increasing rates, and securing their votes for her programme of economy! She saw herself triumphantly heading the poll. She saw herself sitting in the Council Room, the only woman present, with sheaves of statistics to confute this spendthrift policy. Eloquence, compliments, processions to church on certain official occasions, a status, a doctorial-looking gown, position, power. All these enticements beckoned her, and from on high, she seemed to look down on poor Lucia as if at the bottom of a disused well, fifty years old, playing duets with Georgie, and gabbling away about all the Aristophanes she read and the callisthenics she practised, and the principles of psychic bidding, and the advice she gave her broker, while Councillor Mapp-Flint was as busy with the interests of the Borough. A lesson for the self-styled Queen of Tilling.

 

"Really, dear," she said, "I hardly know what to say. Such a new idea to me, for all this was the future I planned for you, and how I've lain awake at night thinking of it. I must adjust my mind to such a revolution of our plans. But there is something in what you suggest. That house to house canvassing: perhaps a woman is more suited to that than a man. A cup of tea, you know, with the mother and a peep at baby. It's true again that as owner of Mallards, I have a solider stake in property than you. Dear me, yes, I begin to see your point of view. Sound, as a man's always is. Then again what you call the gift of the gab--such a rude expression--perhaps forcible words do come more easily to me, and they'll be needful indeed when it comes to fighting the spendthrifts. But first you would have to promise to help me, for you know how I shall depend on you. I hope my health will stand the strain, and I'll gladly work myself to the bone in such a cause. Better to wear oneself out than rust in the scabbard."

 

"You're cut out for the job," said Benjy enthusiastically. "As for wearing yourself out, hubby won't permit that!"

 

Once more Elizabeth recalled her bright visions of power and the reduction of rates. The prospect was irresistible.

 

"I give you your way as usual, Benjy-boy," she said. "How I spoil you! Such a bully! What? Dejeuner already, Withers? Hasn't the morning flown?"

 

The morning had flown with equal speed for Lucia. She had gone to her office after breakfast, the passage to which had now been laid with india-rubber felting, so that no noise of footsteps outside could distract her when she was engaged in financial operations. This insured perfect tranquillity, unless it so happened that she was urgently wanted, in which case Grosvenor's tap on the door startled her very much since she had not heard her approach; this risk, however, was now minimised because she had a telephone extension to the office. To-day there were entries to be made in the ledger, for she had sold her Southern Prefs at a scandalous profit, and there was a list of recommendations from that intelligent Mammoncash for the re-investment of the capital released.

 

She drew her chair up to the fire to study this. High-priced shares did not interest her much: you got so few for your money. "The sort of thing I want," she thought, "is quantities of low-priced shares, like those angelic Siriamis, which nearly doubled their value in a few weeks," but the list contained nothing to which Mammoncash thought this likely to happen. He even suggested that she might do worse than put half her capital into gilt-edged stock. He could not have made a duller suggestion: Dame Catherine Winterglass, Lucia felt sure, would not have touched Government Loans with the end of a barge-pole. Then there was "London Transport 'C.'" Taking a long view, Mammoncash thought that in a year's time there should be a considerable capital appreciation. . . .

 

Lucia found her power of concentration slipping from her, and her thoughts drifted away to her party last night. She had observed that Benjy had seldom any wine in his glass for more than a moment, and that Elizabeth's eye was on him. Though she had forsworn any interest in such petty concerns, food for serious thought had sprung out of this, for, getting expansive towards the end of dinner, he had told her that he was standing for the Town Council. He and Elizabeth both thought it was his duty. "It'll mean a lot of work," he said, "but thank God, I'm not afraid of that, and something must be done to check this monstrous municipal extravagance. Less golf for me, Mrs. Lucas, but duty comes before pleasure. I shall hope to call on you before long and ask your support."

 

Lucia had not taken much interest in this project at the time, but now ideas began to bubble in her brain. She need not consider the idea of his being elected--for who in his senses could conceivably vote for him?--and she found herself in violent opposition to the programme of economy which he had indicated. Exactly the contrary policy recommended itself: more work must somehow be found for the unemployed: the building of decent houses for the poor ought to be quickened up. There was urgent and serious work to be done, and, as she gazed meditatively at the fire, personal and ambitious day-dreams began to form themselves. Surely there was a worthy career here for an energetic and middle-aged widow. Then the telephone rang and she picked it off the table. Georgie.

 

"Such a filthy day: no chance of its clearing," he said. "Do come and lunch and we'll play duets."

 

"Yes, Georgie, that will be lovely. What about my party last night?"

 

"Perfect. And weren't they all astonished when I told them about my shingles. Major Benjy was a bit squiffy. Doesn't get a chance at home."

 

"I rather like to see people a little, just a little squiffy at my expense," observed Lucia. "It makes me feel I'm being a good hostess. Any news?"

 

"I passed there an hour ago," said Georgie, "and she suddenly threw the window up and asked me how many candles there were on your cake, and when I said there were fifty-one she banged it down again quite sharply."

 

"No! I wonder why she wanted to know that and didn't like it when you told her," said Lucia, intrigued beyond measure, and forgetting that such gossip could not be worth a moment's thought.

 

"Can't imagine. I've been puzzling over it," said Georgie.

 

Lucia recollected her principles.

 

"Such a triviality in any case," she said, "whatever the explanation may be. I'll be with you at one-thirty. And I've got something very important to discuss with you. Something quite new: you can't guess."

 

"My dear, how exciting! More money?"

 

"Probably less for all of us if it comes off," said Lucia enigmatically. "But I must get back to my affairs. I rather think, from my first glance at the report, that there ought to be capital appreciation in Transport 'C'."

 

"Transport by sea?" asked Georgie.

 

"No, the other sort of sea. A. B. C."

 

"Those tea-shops?" asked the intelligent Georgie.

 

"No, trams, buses, tubes."

 

She rang off, but the moment afterwards so brilliant an idea struck her that she called him up again.

 

"Georgie: about the candles. I'm sure I've got it. Elizabeth believed that there were fifty. That's a clue for you."

 

She rang off again, and meditated furiously on the future.

 

Georgie ran to the door when Lucia arrived and opened it himself before Foljambe could get there.

 

"--and Benjy said there were fifty-one and she thought he wasn't in a state to count properly," he said all in one breath. "Come in, and tell me at once about the other important thing. Lunch is ready. Is it about Benjy?"

 

Georgie at once perceived that Lucia was charged with weighty matter. She was rather overwhelming in these humours: sometimes he wished he had a piece of green baize to throw over her as over a canary, when it will not stop singing. ("Foljambe, fetch Mrs. Lucas's baize," he thought to himself.)

 

"Yes, indirectly about him, and directly about the elections to the Town Council. I think it's my duty to stand, Georgie, and when I see my duty clearly, I do it. Major Benjy is standing, you see; he told me so last night, and he's all out for the reduction of rates and taxes--"

 

"So am I," said Georgie.

 

Lucia laid down her knife and fork, and let her pheasant get cold to Georgie's great annoyance.

 

"You won't be if you listen to me, my dear," she said. "Rates and taxes are high, it's true, but they ought to be ever so much higher for the sake of the unemployed. They must be given work, Georgie: I know myself how demoralizing it is not to have work to do. Before I embarked on my financial career, I was sinking into lethargy. It is the same with our poorer brethren. That new road, for instance. It employs a fair number of men, who would otherwise be idle and on the dole, but that's not nearly enough. Work helps everybody to maintain his--or her--self-respect: without work we should all go to the dogs. I should like to see that road doubled in width and--well in width, and however useless it might appear to be, the moral salvation of hundreds would have been secured by it. Again, those slums by the railway: it's true that new houses are being built to take the place of hovels which are a disgrace to any Christian town. But I demand a bigger programme. Those slums ought to be swept away, at once. All of them. The expense? Who cares? We fortunate ones will bear it between us. Here are we living in the lap of luxury, and just round the corner, so to speak, or, at any rate, at the bottom of the hill are those pig-sties, where human beings are compelled to live. No bathroom, I believe; think of it, Georgie! I feel as if I ought to give free baths to anybody who cares to come and have one, only I suppose Grosvenor would instantly leave. The municipal building plans for the year ought to be far more comprehensive. That shall be my ticket: spend, spend, spend. I'm too selfish: I must work for others, and I shall send in my name as standing for the Town Council, and set about canvassing at once. How does one canvass?"

 

"You go from house to house asking for support I suppose," said Georgie.

 

"And you'll help me, of course. I know I can rely on you."

 

"But I don't want rates to be any higher," said Georgie. "Aren't you going to eat any pheasant?"

 

Lucia took up her knife and fork.

 

"But just think, Georgie. Here are you and I eating pheasant--molto bene e bellissime cooked--in your lovely little house, and then we shall play on your piano, and there are people in this dear little Tilling who never eat a pheasant or play on a piano from Christmas day to New Year's Day, I mean the other way round. I hope to live here for the rest of my days, and I have a duty towards my neighbours."

 

Lucia had a duty towards the pheasant, too, and wolfed it down. Her voice had now assumed the resonant tang of compulsion, and Georgie, like the unfortunate victim of the Ancient Mariner "could not choose but hear."

 

"Georgie, you and I--particularly I--are getting on in years, and we shall not pass this way again. (Is it Kingsley, dear?) Anyhow we must help poor little lame dogs over stiles. Ickle you and me have been spoiled. We've always had all we wanted and we must do ickle more for others. I've got an insight into finance lately, and I can see what a power money is, what one can do with it unselfishly, like the wonderful Winterglass. I want to live, just for the few years that may still be left me, with a clear conscience, quietly and peacefully--"

 

"But with Benjy standing in the opposite interest, won't there be a bit of friction instead?" asked Georgie.

 

"Emphatically not, as far as I am concerned," said Lucia, firmly. "I shall be just as cordial to them as ever--I say 'them', because of course Elizabeth's at the bottom of his standing--and I give them the credit of their policy of economy being just as sincere as mine."

 

"Quite," said Georgie, "for if taxes were much higher, and if they couldn't get a thumping good let for Mallards every year, I don't suppose they would be able to live there. Have to sell."

 

An involuntary gleam lit up Lucia's bird-like eyes, just as if a thrush had seen a fat worm. She instantly switched it off.

 

"Naturally I should be very sorry for them," she said, "if they had to do that, but personal regrets can't affect my principles. And then, Georgie, more schemes seem to outline themselves. Don't be frightened: they will bring only me to the workhouse. But they want thinking out yet. I seem to see--well, never mind. Now let us have our music. Not a moment have I had for practice lately, so you mustn't scold me. Let us begin with deevy Beethoven's fifth symphony. Fate knocking at the door. That's how I feel, as if there was one clear call for me."

 

The window of Georgie's sitting-room, which looked out on to the street, was close to the front door. Lucia, as usual, had bagged the treble part, for she said she could never manage that difficult bass, omitting to add that the treble was far the more amusing to play, and they were approaching the end of the first movement, when Georgie, turning a page, saw a woman's figure standing on the doorstep.

 

"It's Elizabeth," he whispered to Lucia. "Under an umbrella. And the bell's out of order."

 

"Uno, due. So much the better, she'll go away," said Lucia with a word to each beat.

 

She didn't. Georgie occasionally glancing up saw her still standing there and presently the first movement came to an end.

 

"I'll tell Foljambe I'm engaged," said Georgie, stealing from his seat. "What can she want? It's too late for lunch and too early for tea."

 

It was too late for anything. The knocker sounded briskly, and before Georgie had time to give Foljambe this instruction, she opened the door, exactly at the moment that he opened his sitting-room door to tell her not to.

 

"Dear Mr. Georgie," said Elizabeth. "So ashamed, but I've been eavesdropping. How I enjoyed listening to that lovely music. Wouldn't have interrupted it for anything!"

 

Elizabeth adopted the motion she called "scriggling." Almost imperceptibly she squeezed and wriggled till she had got past Foljambe, and had a clear view into George's sitting-room.

 

"Why! There's dear Lucia," she said. "Such a lovely party last night, chérie: all Tilling talking about it. But I know I'm interrupting. Duet wasn't it? May I sit in a corner, mum as a mouse, while you go on? It would be such a treat. That lovely piece: I seem to know it so well. I should never forgive myself if I broke into it, besides losing such a pleasure. Je vous prie!"

 

It was of course quite clear to the performers that Elizabeth had come for some purpose beyond that of this treat, but she sank into a chair by the fire, and assumed the Tilling musical face (Lucia's patent) smiling wistfully, gazing at the ceiling, and supporting her chin on her hand, as was the correct attitude for slow movements.

 

So Georgie sat down again, and the slow movement went on its long deliberate way, and Elizabeth was surfeited with her treat pages before it was done. Again and again she hoped it was finished, but the same tune (rather like a hymn, she thought) was presented in yet another aspect, till she knew it inside out and upside down: it was like a stage army passing by, individually the same, but with different helmets, or kilts instead of trousers. At long last came several loud thumps, and Lucia sighed and Georgie sighed, and before she had time to sigh too, they were off again on the next instalment. This was much livelier and Elizabeth abandoned her wistfulness for a mien of sprightly pleasure, and, in turn, for a mien of scarcely concealed impatience. It seemed odd that two people should be so selfishly absorbed in that frightful noise as to think that she had come in to hear them practise. True, she had urged them to give her a treat, but who could have supposed that such a gargantuan feast was prepared for her? Bang! Bang! Bang! It was over and she got up.

 

"Lovely!" she said. "Bach was always a favourite composer of mine. Merci! And such luck to have found you here, dear Lucia. What do you think I came to see Mr. Georgie about? Guess! I won't tease you. These coming elections to the Town Council. Benjy-boy and I both feel very strongly--I believe he mentioned it to you last night--that something must be done to check the monstrous extravagance that's going on. Tout le monde is crippled by it: we shall all be bankrupt if it continues. We feel it our duty to fight it."

 

Georgie was stroking his beard: this had already become a habit with him in anxious moments. There must be a disclosure now, and Lucia must make it. It was no use being chivalrous and doing so himself: it was her business. So he occupied himself with putting on the rings he had taken off for fate knocking at the door and stroked his beard again.

 

"Yes, Major Benjy told me something of his plans last night," said Lucia, "and I take quite the opposite line. Those slums, for instance, ought to be swept away altogether, and new houses built tutto presto."

 

"But such a vandalism, dear," said Elizabeth. "So picturesque and, I expect, so cosy. As to our plans, there's been a little change in them. Benjy urged me so strongly that I yielded, and I'm standing instead of him. So I'm getting to work toute suite, and I looked in to get promise of your support, monsieur, and then you and I must convert dear Lucia."

 

The time had come.

 

"Dear Elizabeth," said Lucia very decisively, "you must give up all idea of that. I am standing for election myself on precisely the opposite policy. Cost what it may we must have no more slums and no more unemployment in our beloved Tilling. A Christian duty. Georgie agrees."

 

"Well, in a sort of way--" began Georgie.

 

"Georgie, tuo buon' cuore agrees," said Lucia, fixing him with the compulsion of her gimlet eye. "You're enthusiastic about it really."

 

Elizabeth ignored Lucia, and turned to him.

 

"Monsieur Georgie, it will be the ruin of us all," she said, "the Town Council is behaving as I said à mon mari just now, as if Tilling was Eldorado and the Rand."

 

"Georgie, you and I go to-morrow to see those cosy picturesque hovels of which dear Elizabeth spoke," said Lucia, "and you will feel more keenly than you do even now that they must be condemned. You won't be able to sleep a wink at night if you feel you're condoning their continuance. Whole families sleeping in one room. Filth, squalor, immorality, insanitation--"

 

In their growing enthusiasm both ladies dropped foreign tongues.

 

"Look in any time, Mr. Georgie," interrupted Elizabeth, "and let me show you the figures of how the authorities are spending your money and mine. And that new road which nobody wants has already cost--"

 

"The unemployment here, Georgie," said Lucia, "would make angels weep. Strong young men willing and eager to get work, and despairing of finding it, while you and dear Elizabeth and I are living in ease and luxury in our beautiful houses."

 

Georgie was standing between these two impassioned ladies, with his head turning rapidly this way and that, as if he was watching lawn tennis. At the same time he felt as if he was the ball that was being slogged to and fro between these powerful players, and he was mentally bruised and battered by their alternate intensity. Luckily, this last violent drive of Lucia's diverted Elizabeth's attack to her.

 

"Dear Lucia," she said. "You, of course, as a comparatively new resident in Tilling can't know very much about municipal expenditure, but I should be only too glad to show you how rates and taxes have been mounting up in the last ten years, owing to the criminal extravagance of the authorities. It would indeed be a pleasure."

 

"I'm delighted to hear they've been mounting," said Lucia. "I want them to soar. It's a matter of conscience to me that they should."

 

"Naughty and reckless of you," said Elizabeth, trembling a little. "You've no idea how hardly it presses on some of us."

 

"We must shoulder the burden," said Lucia. "We must make up our minds to economise."

 

Elizabeth with that genial air which betokened undiluted acidity, turned to Georgie, and abandoned principles for personalities, which had become irresistible.

 

"Quite a coincidence, isn't it, Mr. Georgie," she said, "that the moment Lucia heard that my Benjy-boy was to stand for the Town Council, she determined to stand herself."

 

Lucia emitted the silvery laugh which betokened the most exasperating and child-like amusement.

 

"Dear Elizabeth!" she said. "How can you be so silly?"

 

"Did you say 'silly' dear?" asked Elizabeth, white to the lips.

 

Georgie intervened.

 

"O, dear me!" he said. "Let's all have tea. So much more comfortable than talking about rates. I know there are muffins."

 

They had both ceased to regard him now: instead of being driven from one to the other, he lay like a ball out of court, while the two advanced to the net with brandished rackets.

 

"Yes, dear, I said 'silly,' because you are silly," said Lucia, as if she was patiently explaining something to a stupid child. "You certainly implied that my object in standing was to oppose Major Benjy qua Major Benjy. What made me determined to stand myself, was that he advocated municipal economy. It horrified me. He woke up my conscience, and I am most grateful to him. Most. And I shall tell him so on the first opportunity. Let me add that I regard you both with the utmost cordiality and friendliness. Should you be elected, which I hope and trust you won't, I shall be the first to congratulate you."

 

Elizabeth put a finger to her forehead.

 

"Too difficult for me, I'm afraid," she said. "Such niceties are quite beyond my simple comprehension . . . No tea for me, thanks, Mr. Georgie, even with muffins. I must be getting on with my canvassing. And thank you for your lovely music. So refreshing. Don't bother to see me out, but do look in some time and let me show you my tables of figures."

 

She gave a hyena-smile to Lucia, and they saw her hurry past the window, having quite forgotten to put up her umbrella, as if she welcomed the cooling rain. Lucia instantly and without direct comment sat down at the piano again.

 

"Georgino, a little piece of celestial Mozartino, don't you think, before tea?" she said. "That will put us in tune again after those discords. Poor woman!"

 

The campaign began in earnest next day, and at once speculative investments, Lucia's birthday party and George's beard were, as topics of interest, as dead as Queen Anne. The elections were coming on very soon, and intensive indeed were the activities of the two female candidates. Lucia hardly set foot in her office, letting Transport "C" pursue its upward path unregarded, and Benjy, after brief, disgusted glances at the Financial Post, which gave sad news of Siriami, took over his wife's household duties and went shopping in the morning instead of her, with her market-basket on his arm. Both ladies made some small errors: Lucia, for instance, exercised all her powers of charm on Twistevant the greengrocer, and ordered unheard of quantities of forced mushrooms, only to find, when she introduced the subject of her crusade and spoke of those stinking (no less) pigsties where human beings were forced to dwell, that he was the owner of several of them and much resented her disparagement of his house property. "They're very nice little houses indeed, ma'am," he said, "and I should be happy to live there myself. I will send the mushrooms round at once. . . ." Again, Elizabeth, seeing Susan's motor stopping the traffic (which usually made her see red), loaded her with compliments on her sable cloak (which had long been an object of derision to Tilling) and made an appointment to come and have a cosy talk at six that afternoon, carelessly oblivious of the fact that, a yard away, Georgie was looking into the barber's window. Hearing the appointment made, he very properly told Lucia, who therefore went to see Susan at exactly the hour named. The two candidates sat and talked to her, though not to each other, about everything else under the sun for an hour and a half, each of them being determined not to leave the other in possession of the field. At half-past seven Mr. Wyse joined them to remind Susan that she must go and dress, and the candidates left together without having said a single word about the election. As soon as they had got outside Elizabeth shot away up the hill, rocking like a ship over the uneven cobbles of the street. That seemed very like a "cut," and when Lucia next day, in order to ascertain that for certain, met the mistress of Mallards in the High Street and wished her good morning, Elizabeth might have been a deaf mute. They were both on their way to canvass Diva, and crossed the road neck to neck, but Lucia by a dexterous swerve established herself on Diva's doorstep and rang the bell. Diva was just going out with her market-basket, and opened the door herself.

 

"Diva mia," said Lucia effusively, "I just popped in to ask you to dine to-morrow: I'll send the car for you. And have you two minutes to spare now?"

 

"I'll look in presently, sweet Diva," called Elizabeth shrilly over Lucia's shoulder. "Just going to see the Padre."

 

Lucia hurried in and shut the door.

 

"May I telephone to the Padre?" she asked. "I want to get him, too, for to-morrow night. Thanks. I'll give you a penny in a moment."

 

"Delighted to dine with you," said Diva, "but I warn you--"

 

"Tilling 23, please," said Lucia. "Yes, Diva?"

 

"I warn you I'm not going to vote for you. Can't afford to pay higher rates. Monstrous already."

 

"Diva, if you only saw the state of those houses--Oh, is that the Padre? I hope you and Evie will dine with me to-morrow. Capital. I'll send the car for you. And may I pop in for a minute presently? . . . Oh, she's with you now, is she. Would you ring me up at Diva's then, the moment she goes?"

 

"It's a squeeze to make ends meet as it is," said Diva. "Very sorry for unemployed, and all that, but the new road is sheer extravagance. Money taken out of my pocket. I shall vote for Elizabeth. Tell you frankly."

 

"But didn't you make a fortune over my tip about Siriamis?" asked Lucia.

 

"That would be over-stating it. It's no use your canvassing me. Talk about something else. Have you noticed any change, any real change, in Elizabeth lately?"

 

"I don't think so," said Lucia thoughtfully. "She was very much herself the last time I had any talk with her at Georgie's a few days ago. She seemed to take it as a personal insult that anyone but herself should stand for the Town Council, which is just what one would expect. Perhaps a shade more acid than usual, but nothing to speak of."

 

"Oh, I don't mean that," said Diva, "No change there: I told you about the rabbit, didn't I?"

 

"Yes, so characteristic," said Lucia. "One hoped, of course, that matrimony might improve her, mellow her, make a true woman of her, but eagerly as I've looked out for any signs of it, I can't say--"

 

Lucia broke off, for a prodigious idea as to what might be in Diva's mind had flashed upon her.

 

"Tell me what you mean," she said, boring with her eye into the very centre of Diva's secret soul, "Not--not that?"

 

Diva nodded her head eight times with increasing emphasis.

 

"Yes, that," she said.

 

"But it can't be true!" cried Lucia. "Quite impossible. Tell me precisely why you think so?"

 

"I don't see why it shouldn't be true," said Diva, "for I think she's not more than forty-three, though of course it's more likely that she's only trying to persuade herself of it. She was in here the other day. Twilight. She asked me what twilight sleep was. Then hurriedly changed the subject and talked about the price of soap. Went back to subject again. Said there were such pretty dolls in the toy shop. Had a mind to buy one. It's odd her talking like that. May be something in it. I shall keep an open mind about it."

 

The two ladies had sat down on the window-seat, where the muslin curtains concealed them from without, but did not obstruct from them a very fair view of the High Street. Their thrilling conversation was now suddenly broken by the loud ringing, as of a dinner-bell, not far away to the right.

 

"That's not the muffin-man," said Diva. "Much too sonorous and the town-crier has influenza, so it's neither of them. I think there are two bells, aren't there? We shall soon see."

 

The bells sounded louder and louder, evidently there were two of them, and a cortège (no less) came into view. Quaint Irene led it. She was dressed in her usual scarlet pullover and trousers, but on her head she wore a large tin helmet, like Britannia on a penny, and she rang her dinner-bell all the time, turning round and round as she walked. Behind her came four ragged girls eating buns and carrying a huge canvas banner painted with an impressionist portrait of Lucia, and a legend in gold letters "Vote for Mrs. Lucas, the Friend of the Poor." Behind them walked Lucy, Irene's six-foot maid, ringing a second dinner-bell and chanting in a baritone voice, "Bring out your dead." She was followed by four ragged boys, also eating buns, who carried another banner painted with a hideous rendering of Elizabeth and a legend in black, "Down with Mrs. Mapp-Flint, the Foe of the Poor." The whole procession was evidently enjoying itself prodigiously.

 

"Dear me, it's too kind of Irene," said Lucia in some agitation, "but is it quite discreet? What will people think? I must ask her to stop it."

 

She hurried out into the street. The revolving Irene saw her, and, halting her procession, ran to her.

 

"Darling, you've come in the nick of time," she said. "Isn't it noble? Worth hundreds of votes to you. We're going to march up and down through all the streets for an hour, and then burn the Mapp-Flint banner in front of Mallards. Three cheers for Mrs. Lucas, the Friend of the Poor!"

 

Three shrill cheers were given with splutterings of pieces of bun and frenzied ringing of dinner-bells before Lucia could get a word in. It would have been ungracious not to acknowledge this very gratifying enthusiasm, and she stood smiling and bowing on the pavement.

 

"Irene, dear, most cordial and sweet of you," she began when the cheers were done, "and what a charming picture of me, but--"

 

"And three groans for the Foe of the Poor," shouted Irene.

 

Precisely at that tumultuous moment Major Benjy came down one side-street from Mallards on his marketing errands, and Elizabeth down the next on her way from her canvassing errand to the Padre. She heard the cheers, she heard the groans, she saw the banners and the monstrous cartoon of herself, and beckoned violently to her Benjy-boy, who broke into a trot.

 

"The enemy in force," shrieked Irene. "Run, children."

 

The procession fled down the High Street with bells ringing and banners wobbling frightfully. Major Benjy restrained an almost overwhelming impulse to hurl his market-basket at Lucy, and he and Elizabeth started in pursuit. But there was a want of dignity about such a race and no hope whatever of catching the children. Already out of breath, they halted, the procession disappeared round the far end of the street, and the clamour of dinner-bells died away.

 

Shoppers and shop-keepers, post-office clerks, errand boys, cooks and housemaids and private citizens had all come running out into the street at the sound of the cheers and groans and dinner-bells, windows had been thrown open, and heads leaned out of them, goggle-eyed and open-mouthed. Everyone cackled and chattered: it was like the second act of The Meistersinger. By degrees the excitement died down, and the pulse of ordinary life, momentarily suspended, began to beat again. Cooks went back to their kitchens, housemaids to their brooms, shop-keepers to their customers, and goggle-faces were withdrawn and windows closed. Major Benjy, unable to face shopping just now, went to play golf instead, and there were left standing on opposite pavements of the High Street the Friend of the Poor and the Foe of the Poor, both of whom could face anything, even each other.

 

Lucia did not know what in the world to do. She was innocent of all complicity in Irene's frightful demonstration in her favour, except that mere good manners had caused her weakly to smile and bow when she was cheered by four small girls, but nothing was more certain than that Elizabeth would believe that she had got up the whole thing. But, intrepid to the marrow of her bones, she walked across the street to where a similar intrepidity was standing. Elizabeth fixed her with a steely glance, and then looked carefully at a point some six inches above her head.

 

"I just popped across to assure you," said Lucia, "that I knew nothing about what we have just seen until--well, until, I saw it."

 

Elizabeth cocked her head on one side, but remained looking at the fixed point.

 

"I think I understand," she said, "you didn't see that pretty show until you saw it. Quite! I take your word for it."

 

"And I saw it first when it came into the High Street," said Lucia. "And I much regret it."

 

"I don't regret it in the least," said Elizabeth with shrill animation. "People, whoever they are, who demean themselves either to plan or to execute such gross outrages only hurt themselves. I may be sorry for them, but otherwise they are nothing to me. I do not know of their existence. Ils n'existent pas pour moi."

 

"Nor for me either," said Lucia, following the general sentiment rather than the precise application, "Sono niente."

 

Then both ladies turned their backs on each other, as by some perfectly executed movement in a ballet, and walked away in opposite directions. It was really the only thing to do.

 

Two days still remained before the poll, and these two remarkable candidates redoubled (if possible) their activities. Major Benjy got no golf at all, for he accompanied his wife everywhere, and Georgie formed a corresponding bodyguard for Lucia: in fact the feuds of the Montagus and Capulets were but a faint historical foreshadowing of this municipal contest. The parties, even when they met on narrow pavements in mean streets, were totally blind to each other, and, pending the result, social life in Tilling was at a standstill. As dusk fell on the eve of the poll, Lucia and Georgie, footsore with so much tramping on uneven cobblestones, dragged themselves up the hill to Mallards Cottage for a final checking of their visits and a reviving cup of tea. They passed below the windows of the garden-room, obscured by the gathering darkness, and there, quite distinctly against the light within, were the silhouettes of the enemy, and Elizabeth was drinking out of a wineglass. The silhouette of Benjy with a half-bottle of champagne in his hand showed what the refreshment was.

 

"Poor Elizabeth, taken to drink," said Lucia, in tones of the deepest pity. "I always feared for Benjy's influence on her. Tired as I am, Georgie--and I can't remember ever being really tired before--have you ever known me tired?"

 

"Never!" said Georgie in a broken voice.

 

"Well, tired as I am, nothing would induce me to touch any sort of stimulant. Ah, how nice it will be to sit down."

 

Foljambe had tea ready for them and Lucia lay down full length on Georgie's sofa.

 

"Very strong, please, Georgie," she said. "Stir the teapot up well. No milk."

 

The rasping beverage rapidly revived Lucia; she drank two cups, the first out of her saucer, then she took her feet off the sofa, and the familiar gabbling timbre came back to her voice.

 

"Completely restored, Georgie, and we've got to think what will happen next," she said. "Elizabeth and I can't go on being totally invisible to each other. And what more can I do? I definitely told her that I had nothing to do with dear, loyal Irene's exhibition, and she almost as definitely told me that she didn't believe me. About the election itself I feel very confident, but if I get in at the top of the poll, and she is quite at the bottom, which I think more than likely, she'll be worse than ever. The only thing that could placate her would be if she was elected and I wasn't. But there's not the slightest chance of that happening as far as I can see. I have a flair, as Elizabeth would say, about such things. All day I have felt a growing conviction that there is a very large body of public opinion behind me. I can feel the pulse of the place."

 

Sheer weariness had made Georgie rather cross.

 

"I daresay Elizabeth feels precisely the same," he said, "especially after her booze. As for future plans, for goodness sake let us wait till we see what the result is."

 

Lucia finished her tea.

 

"How right you are, Georgino," she said. "Let us dismiss it all. What about un po' di musica?"

 

"Yes, do play me something," said Georgie. "But as to a duet, I can't. Impossible."

 

"Povero!" said Lucia. "Is 'oo fatigato? Then 'oo shall rest. I'll be going back home, for I want two hours in my office. I've done hardly anything all this week. Buon riposo."

 

 

 

The result of the poll was declared two mornings later with due pomp and circumstance. The votes had been counted in the committee room of the King's Arms Hotel in the High Street, and thither at noon came the Mayor and Corporation in procession from the Town Hall clad in their civic robes and preceded by the mace-bearers. The announcement was to be made from the first floor balcony overlooking the High Street. Traffic was suspended for the ceremony and the roadway was solid with folk, for Tilling's interest in the election, usually of the tepidest, had been vastly stimulated by the mortal rivalry between the two lady candidates and by Irene's riotous proceedings. Lucia and Georgie had seats in Diva's drawing-room window, for that would be a conspicuous place from which to bow to the crowd: Elizabeth and Benjy were wedged against the wall below, and that seemed a good omen. The morning was glorious, and in the blaze of the winter sun the scarlet gowns of Councillors, and the great silver maces dazzled the eye as the procession went into the hotel.

 

"Really a very splendid piece of pageantry," said Lucia, the palms of whose hands, despite her strong conviction of success, were slightly moist. "Wonderful effect of colour, marvellous maces; what a pity, Georgie, you did not bring your paint-box. I have always said that there is no more honourable and dignified office in the kingdom than that of the Mayor of a borough. The word 'mayor,' I believe, is the same as Major--poor Major Benjy."

 

"There's the list of the Mayors of Tilling from the fifteenth century onwards painted up in the Town Hall," said Georgie.

 

"Really! A dynasty indeed!" said Lucia. Her fingers had begun to tremble as if she was doing rapid shakes and trills on the piano. "Look, there's Irene on the pavement opposite, smoking a pipe. I find that a false note. I hope she won't make any fearful demonstration when the names are read out, but I see she has got her dinner-bell. Has a woman ever been Mayor of Tilling, Diva?"

 

"Never," said Diva. "Not likely either. Here they come."

 

The mace-bearers emerged on to the balcony, and the mayor stepped out between them and advanced to the railing. In his hand he held a drawing-board with a paper pinned to it.

 

"That must be the list," said Lucia in a cracked voice.

 

The town-crier (not Irene) rang his bell.

 

"Citizens of Tilling," he proclaimed. "Silence for the Right Worshipful the Mayor."

 

The Mayor bowed. There were two vacancies to be filled, he said, on the Town Council, and there were seven candidates. He read the list with the number of votes each candidate had polled. The first two had polled nearly three hundred votes each. The next three, all close together, had polled between a hundred and fifty and two hundred votes.

 

"Number six," said the Mayor, "Mrs. Emmeline Lucas. Thirty-nine votes. Equal with her, Mrs. Elizabeth Mapp-Flint, also thirty-nine votes. God save the King."

 

He bowed to the assembled crowd and, followed by the mace-bearers, disappeared within. Presently the procession emerged again, and returned to the Town Hall.

 

"A most interesting ceremony, Diva. Quite mediæval," said Lucia. "I am very glad to have seen it. We got a wonderful view of it."

 

The crowd had broken up when she and Georgie came out into the street.

 

"That noble story of Disraeli's first speech in the House of Commons," she began--

 

 

 

To be continued

 

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