So Riseholme flocked back to The Hurst like sheep that have been astray, for it was certain to find Olga there, even as it had turned there, deeply breathing, to the classes of the Guru. It had to sit through the prose-poems of Peppino, it had to listen to the old, old tunes and sigh at the end, but Olga mingled her sighs with theirs, and often after a suitable pause Lucia would say winningly to Olga:
“One little song, Miss Bracely. Just a stanza? Or am I trespassing too much on your good-nature? Where is your accompanist? I declare I am jealous of him: I shall pop into his place some day! Georgino, Miss Bracely is going to sing us something. Is not that a treat? Sh-sh, please, ladies and gentlemen.”
And she rustled to her place, and sat with the farthest-away expression ever seen on mortal face, while she trespassed on Miss Bracely’s good-nature.
Then Georgie had the other picture to finish, which he hoped to get ready in time to be a New Year’s present, since Olga had insisted on Lucia’s being done first. He had certainly secured an admirable likeness of her, and there was in it just all that his stippled, fussy representation of Lucia lacked. “Bleak December” and “Yellow Daffodils” and the rest of the series lacked it, too: for once he had done something in the doing of which he had forgotten himself. It was by no means a work of genius, for Georgie was not possessed of one grain of that, and the talent it displayed was by no means of a high order, but it had something of the naturalness of a flower that grew from the earth which nourished it.
On the last day of the year he was putting a few final touches to it, little high reflected lights on the black keys, little blacknesses of shadow in the moulding of the panel behind his hand. He had finished with her altogether, and now she sat in the window-seat, looking out, and playing with the blind-tassel. He had been so much absorbed in his work that he had scarcely noticed that she had been rather unusually silent.
“I’ve got a piece of news for you,” she said at length.
Georgie held his breath, as he drew a very thin line of body-colour along the edge of Ab.
“No! What is it?” he said. “Is it about the Princess?”
Olga seemed to hail this as a diversion.
“Ah, let’s talk about that for a minute,” she said. “What you ought to have done was to order another copy of Todd’s News at once.”
“I know I ought, but I couldn’t get one when I thought of it afterwards. That was tarsome. But I feel sure there was something about her in it.”
“And you can’t get anything out of the Quantocks?”
“No, though I’ve laid plenty of traps for them. There’s an understanding between them now. They both know something. When I lay a trap, it isn’t any use: they look at the trap, and then they look at each other afterwards.”
“What sort of traps?”
“Oh, anything. I say suddenly, ‘What a bore it is that there are so many frauds among mediums, especially paid ones.’ You see, I don’t believe for a moment that these seances were held for nothing, though we didn’t pay for going to them. And then Robert says that he would never trust a paid medium, and she looks at him approvingly, and says ‘Dear Princess’! The other day—it was a very good trap—I said, ‘Is it true that the Princess is coming to stay with Lady Ambermere?’ It wasn’t a lie: I only asked.”
“And then?” said Olga.
“Robert gave an awful twitch, not a jump exactly, but a twitch. But she was on the spot and said, ‘Ah, that would be nice. I wonder if it’s true. The Princess didn’t mention it in her last letter.’ And then he looked at her approvingly. There is something there, no one shall convince me otherwise.”
Olga suddenly burst out laughing.
“What’s the matter?” asked Georgie.
“Oh, it’s all so delicious!” she said. “I never knew before how terribly interesting little things were. It’s all wildly exciting, and there are fifty things going on just as exciting. Is it all of you who take such a tremendous interest in them that makes them so absorbing, or is it that they are absorbing in themselves, and ordinary dull people, not Riseholmites, don’t see how exciting they are? Tommy Luton’s measles: the Quantocks’ secret: Elizabeth’s lover! And to think that I believed I was coming to a backwater.”
Georgie held up his picture and half closed his eyes. “I believe it’s finished,” he said. “I shall have it framed, and put it in my drawing-room.”
This was a trap, and Olga fell into it.
“Yes, it will look nice there,” she said. “Really, Georgie, it is very clever of you.”
He began washing his brushes.
“And what was your news?” he said.
She got up from her seat.
“I forgot all about it, with talking of the Quantocks’ secret,” she said. “That just shows you: I completely forgot, Georgie. I’ve just accepted an offer to sing in America, a four months’ engagement, at fifty thousand million pounds a night. A penny less, and I wouldn’t have gone. But I really can’t refuse. It’s all been very sudden, but they want to produce Lucretia there before it appears in England. Then I come back, and sing in London all the summer. Oh, me!”
There was dead silence, while Georgie dried his brushes.
“When do you go?” he asked.
“In about a fortnight.”
“Oh,” said he.
She moved down the room to the piano and shut it without speaking, while he folded the paper round his finished picture.
“Why don’t you come, too?” she said at length. “It would do you no end of good, for you would get out of this darling two-penny place which will all go inside a nut-shell. There are big things in the world, Georgie: seas, continents, people, movements, emotions. I told my Georgie I was going to ask you, and he thoroughly approves. We both like you, you know. It would be lovely if you would come. Come for a couple of months, anyhow: of course you’ll be our guest, please.”
The world, at that moment, had grown absolutely black to him, and it was by that that he knew who, for him, was the light of it. He shook his head.
“Why can’t you come?” she said.
He looked at her straight in the face.
“Because I adore you,” he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN