Anticipation is supposed to be pleasanter than any fulfilment, however agreeable, and if that is the case, Miss Mapp during the next day or two had more enjoyment than the announcement of fifty engagements could have given her, so constantly (when from the garden-room she heard the sound of the knocker on her front door) did she spring up in certainty that this was Susan, which it never was. But, however enjoyable it all might be, she appeared to herself at least to be suffering tortures of suspense, through which by degrees an idea, painful and revolting in the extreme, yet strangely exhilarating, began to insinuate itself into her mind. There seemed a deadly probability of the correctness of the conjecture, as the week went by without further confirmation of that kiss, for, after all, who knew anything about the character and antecedents of Susan? As for Mr. Wyse, was he not a constant visitor to the fierce and fickle south, where, as everyone knew, morality was wholly extinct? And how, if it was all too true, should Tilling treat this hitherto unprecedented situation? It was terrible to contemplate this moral upheaval, which might prove to be a social upheaval also. Time and again, as Miss Mapp vainly waited for news, she was within an ace of communicating her suspicions to the Padre. He ought to know, for Christmas (as was usual in December) was daily drawing nearer…
There came some half-way through that month a dark and ominous afternoon, the rain falling sad and thick, and so unusual a density of cloud dwelling in the upper air that by three o’clock Miss Mapp was quite unable, until the street lamp at the corner was lit, to carry out the minor duty of keeping an eye on the houses of Captain Puffin and Major Benjy. The Royce had already lumbered by her door since lunch-time, but so dark was it that, peer as she might, it was lost in the gloom before it came to the dentist’s corner, and Miss Mapp had to face the fact that she really did not know whether it had turned into the street where Susan’s lover lived or had gone straight on. It was easier to imagine the worst, and she had already pictured to herself a clandestine meeting between those passionate ones, who under cover of this darkness were imperviously concealed from any observation (beneath an umbrella) from her house-roof. Nothing but a powerful searchlight could reveal what was going on in the drawing-room window of Mr. Wyse’s house, and apart from the fact that she had not got a powerful searchlight, it was strongly improbable that anything of a very intimate nature was going on there… it was not likely that they would choose the drawing-room window. She thought of calling on Mr. Wyse and asking for the loan of a book, so that she would see whether the sables were in the hall, but even then she would not really be much further on. Even as she considered this a sea-mist began to creep through the street outside, and in a few minutes it was blotted from view. Nothing was visible, and nothing audible but the hissing of the shrouded rain.
Suddenly from close outside came the sound of a doorknocker imperiously plied, which could be no other than her own. Only a telegram or some urgent errand could bring anyone out on such a day, and unable to bear the suspense of waiting till Withers had answered it, she hurried into the house to open the door herself. Was the news of the engagement coming to her at last? Late though it was, she would welcome it even now, for it would atone, in part at any rate… It was Diva.
“Diva dear!” said Miss Mapp enthusiastically, for Withers was already in the hall. “How sweet of you to come round. Anything special?”
“Yes,” said Diva, opening her eyes very wide, and spreading a shower of moisture as she whisked off her mackintosh. “She’s come.”
This could not refer to Susan…
“Who?” asked Miss Mapp.
“Faradiddleony,” said Diva.
“No!” said Miss Mapp very loud, so much interested that she quite forgot to resent Diva’s being the first to have the news. “Let’s have a comfortable cup of tea in the garden-room. Tea, Withers.”
Miss Mapp lit the candles there, for, lost in meditation, she had been sitting in the dark, and with reckless hospitality poked the fire to make it blaze.
“Tell me all about it,” she said. That would be a treat for Diva, who was such a gossip.
“Went to the station just now,” said Diva. “Wanted a new time-table. Besides the Royce had just gone down. Mr. Wyse and Susan on the platform.
“Sables?” asked Miss Mapp parenthetically, to complete the picture.
“Swaddled. Talked to them. Train came in. Woman got out. Kissed Mr. Wyse. Shook hands with Susan. Both hands. While luggage was got out.”
“Much?” asked Miss Mapp quickly.
“Hundreds. Covered with coronets and Fs. Two cabs.”
Miss Mapp’s mind, on a hot scent, went back to the previous telegraphic utterance.
“Both hands did you say, dear?” she asked. “Perhaps that’s the Italian fashion.”
“Maybe. Then what else do you think? Faradiddleony kissed Susan! Mr. Wyse and she must be engaged. I can’t account for it any other way. He must have written to tell his sister. Couldn’t have told her then at the station. Must have been engaged some days and we never knew. They went to look at the orchid. Remember? That was when.”
It was bitter, no doubt, but the bitterness could be transmuted into an amazing sweetness.
“Then now I can speak,” said Miss Mapp with a sigh of great relief. “Oh, it has been so hard keeping silence, but I felt I ought to. I knew all along, Diva dear, all, all along.”
“How?” asked Diva with a fallen crest.
Miss Mapp laughed merrily.
“I looked out of the window, dear, while you went for your hanky and peeped into dining-room and boudoir, didn’t you? There they were on the lawn, and they kissed each other. So I said to myself: ‘Dear Susan has got him! Perseverance rewarded!’”
“H’m. Only a guess of yours. Or did Susan tell you?”
“No, dear, she said nothing. But Susan was always secretive.”
“But they might not have been engaged at all,” said Diva with a brightened eye. “Man doesn’t always marry a woman he kisses!”
Diva had betrayed the lowness of her mind now by hazarding that which had for days dwelt in Miss Mapp’s mind as almost certain. She drew in her breath with a hissing noise as if in pain.
“Darling, what a dreadful suggestion,” she said. “No such idea ever occurred to me. Secretive I thought Susan might be, but immoral, never. I must forget you ever thought that. Let’s talk about something less painful. Perhaps you would like to tell me more about the Contessa.”
Diva had the grace to look ashamed of herself, and to take refuge in the new topic so thoughtfully suggested.
“Couldn’t see clearly,” she said. “So dark. But tall and lean. Sneezed.”
“That might happen to anybody, dear,” said Miss Mapp, “whether tall or short. Nothing more?”
“An eyeglass,” said Diva after thought.
“A single one?” asked Miss Mapp. “On a string? How strange for a woman.”
That seemed positively the last atom of Diva’s knowledge, and though Miss Mapp tried on the principles of psycho-analysis to disinter something she had forgotten, the catechism led to no results whatever. But Diva had evidently something else to say, for after finishing her tea she whizzed backwards and forwards from window to fireplace with little grunts and whistles, as was her habit when she was struggling with utterance. Long before it came out, Miss Mapp had, of course, guessed what it was. No wonder Diva found difficulty in speaking of a matter in which she had behaved so deplorably…
“About that wretched dress,” she said at length. “Got it stained with chocolate first time I wore it, and neither I nor Janet can get it out.”
(“Hurrah,” thought Miss Mapp.) “Must have it dyed again,” continued Diva. “Thought I’d better tell you. Else you might have yours dyed the same colour as mine again. Kingfisher-blue to crimson-lake. All came out of Vogue and Mrs. Trout. Rather funny, you know, but expensive. You should have seen your face, Elizabeth, when you came in to Susan’s the other night.”
“Should I, dearest?” said M
iss Mapp, trembling violently.
“Yes. Wouldn’t have gone home with you in the dark for anything. Murder.”
“Diva dear,” said Miss Mapp anxiously, “you’ve got a mind which likes to put the worst construction on everything. If Mr. Wyse kisses his intended you think things too terrible for words; if I look surprised you think I’m full of hatred and malice. Be more generous, dear. Don’t put evil constructions on all you see.”
“Ho!” said Diva with a world of meaning.
“I don’t know what you intend to convey by ho,” said Miss Mapp, “and I shan’t try to guess. But be kinder, darling, and it will make you happier. Thinketh no evil, you know! Charity!”
Diva felt that the limit of what was tolerable was reached when Elizabeth lectured her on the need of charity, and she would no doubt have explained tersely and unmistakably exactly what she meant by “Ho!” had not Withers opportunely entered to clear away tea. She brought a note with her, which Miss Mapp opened. “Encourage me to hope,” were the first words that met her eye: Mrs. Poppit had been encouraging him to hope again.
“To dine at Mr. Wyse’s to-morrow,” she said. “No doubt the announcement will be made then. He probably wrote it before he went to the station. Yes, a few friends. You going dear?”
Diva instantly got up.
“Think I’ll run home and see,” she said. “By the by, Elizabeth, what about the—the teagown, if I go? You or I?”
“If yours is all covered with chocolate, I shouldn’t think you’d like to wear it,” said Miss Mapp.
“Could tuck it away,” said Diva, “just for once. Put flowers. Then send it to dyer’s. You won’t see it again. Not crimson-lake, I mean.”
Miss Mapp summoned the whole of her magnanimity. It had been put to a great strain already and was tired out, but it was capable of one more effort.
“Wear it then,” she said. “It’ll be a treat to you. But let me know if you’re not asked. I daresay Mr. Wyse will want to keep it very small. Good-bye, dear; I’m afraid you’ll get very wet going home.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The sea-mist and the rain continued without intermission next morning, but shopping with umbrellas and mackintoshes was unusually brisk, for there was naturally a universally felt desire to catch sight of a Contessa with as little delay as possible. The foggy conditions perhaps added to the excitement, for it was not possible to see more than a few yards, and thus at any moment anybody might almost run into her. Diva’s impressions, meagre though they were, had been thoroughly circulated, but the morning passed, and the ladies of Tilling went home to change their wet things and take a little ammoniated quinine as a precaution after so long and chilly an exposure, without a single one of them having caught sight of the single eyeglass. It was disappointing, but the disappointment was bearable since Mr. Wyse, so far from wanting his party to be very small, had been encouraged by Mrs. Poppit to hope that it would include all his world of Tilling with one exception. He had hopes with regard to the Major and the Captain, and the Padre and wee wifie, and Irene and Miss Mapp, and of course Isabel. But apparently he despaired of Diva.
She alone therefore was absent from this long, wet shopping, for she waited indoors, almost pen in hand, to answer in the affirmative the invitation which had at present not arrived. Owing to the thickness of the fog, her absence from the street passed unnoticed, for everybody supposed that everybody else had seen her, while she, biting her nails at home, waited and waited and waited. Then she waited. About a quarter past one she gave it up, and duly telephoned, according to promise, via Janet and Withers, to Miss Mapp to say that Mr. Wyse had not yet hoped. It was very unpleasant to let them know, but if she had herself rung up and been answered by Elizabeth, who usually rushed to the telephone, she felt that she would sooner have choked than have delivered this message. So Janet telephoned and Withers said she would tell her mistress. And did.
Miss Mapp was steeped in pleasant conjectures. The most likely of all was that the Contessa had seen that roundabout little busybody in the station, and taken an instant dislike to her through her single eyeglass. Or she might have seen poor Diva inquisitively inspecting the luggage with the coronets and the Fs on it, and have learned with pain that this was one of the ladies of Tilling. “Algernon,” she would have said (so said Miss Mapp to herself), “who is that queer little woman? Is she going to steal some of my luggage?” And then Algernon would have told her that this was poor Diva, quite a decent sort of little body. But when it came to Algernon asking his guests for the dinner-party in honour of his betrothal and her arrival at Tilling, no doubt the Contessa would have said, “Algernon, I beg…” or if Diva—poor Diva—was right in her conjectures that the notes had been written before the arrival of the train, it was evident that Algernon had torn up the one addressed to Diva, when the Contessa heard whom she was to meet the next evening… Or Susan might easily have insinuated that they would have two very pleasant tables of bridge after dinner without including Diva, who was so wrong and quarrelsome over the score. Any of these explanations were quite satisfactory, and since Diva would not be present, Miss Mapp would naturally don the crimson-lake. They would all see what crimson-lake looked like when it decked a suitable wearer and was not parodied on the other side of a card-table. How true, as dear Major Benjy had said, that one woman could wear what another could not… . And if there was a woman who could not wear crimson-lake it was Diva… Or was Mr. Wyse really ashamed to let his sister see Diva in the crimson-lake? It would be just like him to be considerate of Diva, and not permit her to make a guy of herself before the Italian aristocracy. No doubt he would ask her to lunch some day, quite quietly. Or had… Miss Mapp bloomed with pretty conjectures, like some Alpine meadow when smitten into flower by the spring, and enjoyed her lunch very much indeed.
The anxiety and suspense of the morning, which, instead of being relieved, had ended in utter gloom, gave Diva a headache, and she adopted her usual strenuous methods of getting rid of it. So, instead of lying down and taking aspirin and dozing, she set out after lunch to walk it off. She sprinted and splashed along the miry roads, indifferent as to whether she stepped in puddles or not, and careless how wet she got. She bit on the bullet of her omission from the dinner-party this evening, determining not to mind one atom about it, but to look forward to a pleasant evening at home instead of going out (like this) in the wet. And never—never under any circumstances would she ask any of the guests what sort of an evening had been spent, how Mr. Wyse announced the news, and how the Faradiddleony played bridge. (She said that satirical word aloud, mouthing it to the puddles and the dripping hedgerows.) She would not evince the slightest interest in it all; she would cover it with spadefuls of oblivion, and when next she met Mr. Wyse she would, whatever she might feel, behave exactly as usual. She plumed herself on this dignified resolution, and walked so fast that the hedgerows became quite transparent. That was the proper thing to do; she had been grossly slighted, and, like a true lady, would be unaware of that slight; whereas poor Elizabeth, under such circumstances, would have devised a hundred petty schemes for rendering Mr. Wyse’s life a burden to him. But if—if (she only said “if”) she found any reason to believe that Susan was at the bottom of this, then probably she would think of something worthy not so much of a true lady but of a true woman. Without asking any questions, she might easily arrive at information which would enable her to identify Susan as the culprit, and she would then act in some way which would astonish Susan. What that way was she need not think yet, and so she devoted her entire mind to the question all the way home.
Feeling better and with her headache quite gone, she arrived in Tilling again drenched to the skin. It was already after tea-time, and she abandoned tea altogether, and prepared to console herself for her exclusion from gaiety with a “good blow-out” in the shape of regular dinner, instead of the usual muffin now and a tray later. To add dignity to her feast, she put on the crimson-lake tea-gown for the last time that it would be crimson-lak
e (though the same tea-gown still), since to-morrow it would be sent to the dyer’s to go into perpetual mourning for its vanished glories. She had meant to send it to-day, but all this misery and anxiety had put it out of her head.
Having dressed thus, to the great astonishment of Janet, she sat down to divert her mind from trouble by Patience. As if to reward her for her stubborn fortitude, the malignity of the cards relented, and she brought out an intricate matter three times running. The clock on her mantelpiece chiming a quarter to eight, surprised her with the lateness of the hour, and recalled to her with a stab of pain that it was dinner-time at Mr. Wyse’s, and at this moment some seven pairs of eager feet were approaching the door. Well, she was dining at a quarter to eight, too; Janet would enter presently to tell her that her own banquet was ready, and gathering up her cards, she spent a pleasant though regretful minute in looking at herself and the crimson-lake for the last time in her long glass. The tremendous walk in the rain had given her an almost equally high colour. Janet’s foot was heard on the stairs, and she turned away from the glass. Janet entered.