drinking it up, promising the Tillingites another golden day. The tidal river was at the flood, and the bright water lapped the bases of the turf-covered banks that kept it within its course. Beyond that was the tram-station towards which presently Major Benjy and Captain Puffin would be hurrying to catch the tram that would take them out to the golf links. The straight road across the marsh was visible, and the railway bridge. All these things were pitilessly unchanged, and Miss Mapp noted them blankly, until rage began to restore the numbed current of her mental processes.
* * * *
If the records of history contained any similar instance of such treachery and low cunning as was involved in this plot of Diva’s to dress Janet in the rosebud chintz, Miss Mapp would have liked to be told clearly and distinctly what it was. She could trace the workings of Diva’s base mind with absolute accuracy, and if all the archangels in the hierarchy of heaven had assured her that Diva had originally intended the rosebuds for Janet, she would have scorned them for their clumsy perjury. Diva had designed and executed that dress for herself, and just because Miss Mapp’s ingenuity (inspired by the two rosebuds that had fluttered out of the window) had forestalled her, she had taken this fiendish revenge. It was impossible to pervade the High Street covered with chintz poppies when a parlour-maid was being equally pervasive in chintz rosebuds, and what was to be done with this frock executed with such mirth and malice by Withers, Mary and herself she had no idea. She might just as well give it Withers, for she could no longer wear it herself, or tear the poppies from the hem and bestrew the High Street with them… Miss Mapp’s face froze into immobility again, for here, trundling swiftly towards her, was Diva herself.
Diva appeared not to see her till she got quite close.
“Morning, Elizabeth,” she said. “Seen my Janet anywhere?”
“No,” said Miss Mapp.
Janet (no doubt according to instructions received) popped out of a shop, and came towards her mistress.
“Here she is,” said Diva. “All right, Janet. You go home. I’ll see to the other things.”
“It’s a lovely day,” said Miss Mapp, beginning to lash her tail. “So bright.”
“Yes. Pretty trimming of poppies,” said Diva.“Janet’s got rosebuds.”
This was too much.
“Diva, I didn’t think it of you,” said Miss Mapp in a shaking voice. “You saw my new frock yesterday, and you were filled with malice and envy, Diva, just because I had thought of using flowers off an old chintz as well as you, and came out first with it. You had meant to wear that purple frock yourself—though I must say it fits Janet perfectly—and just because I was first in the field you did this. You gave Janet that frock, so that I should be dressed in the same style as your parlour-maid, and you’ve got a black heart, Diva!”
“That’s nonsense,” said Diva firmly.“Heart’s as red as anybody’s, and talking of black hearts doesn’t become you, Elizabeth. You knew I was cutting out roses from my curtains—”
Miss Mapp laughed shrilly.
“Well, if I happen to notice that you’ve taken your chintz curtains down,” she said with an awful distinctness that showed the wisdom-teeth of which Diva had got three at the most, “and pink bunches of roses come flying out of your window into the High Street, even my poor wits, small as they are, are equal to drawing the conclusion that you are cutting roses out of curtains. Your well-known fondness for dress did the rest. With your permission, Diva, I intend to draw exactly what conclusions I please on every occasion, including this one.”
“Ho! That’s how you got the idea then,” said Diva.“I knew you had cribbed it from me.”
“Cribbed?” asked Miss Mapp, in ironical ignorance of what so vulgar and slangy an expression meant.
“Cribbed means taking what isn’t yours,” said Diva.“Even then, if you had only acted in a straightforward manner—”
Miss Mapp, shaken as with palsy, regretted that she had let slip, out of pure childlike joy, in irony, the manner in which she had obtained the poppy-notion, but in a quarrel regrets are useless, and she went on again.
“And would you very kindly explain how or when I have acted in a manner that was not straightforward,” she asked with laborious politeness. “Or do I understand that a monopoly of cutting up chintz curtains for personal adornment has been bestowed on you by Act of Parliament?”
“You knew I was meaning to make a frock with chintz roses on it,” said Diva. “You stole my idea. Worked night and day to be first. Just like you. Mean behaviour.”
“It was meaner to give that frock to Janet,” said Miss Mapp.
“You can give yours to Withers,” snapped Diva.
“Much obliged, Mrs. Plaistow,” said Miss Mapp.
* * * *
Diva had been watching Janet’s retreating figure, and feeling that though revenge was sweet, revenge was also strangely expensive, for she had sacrificed one of the most strikingly successful frocks she had ever made on that smoking altar. Now her revenge was gratified, and deeply she regretted the frock. Miss Mapp’s heart was similarly wrung by torture: revenge too had been hers (general revenge on Diva for existing), but this dreadful counter-stroke had made it quite impossible for her to enjoy the use of this frock any more, for she could not habit herself like a housemaid. Each, in fact, had, as matters at present stood, completely wrecked the other, like two express trains meeting in top-speed collision, and, since the quarrel had clearly risen to its utmost height, there was no farther joy of battle to be anticipated, but only the melancholy task of counting the corpses. So they paused, breathing very quickly and trembling, while both sought for some way out. Besides Miss Mapp had a bridge-party this afternoon, and if they parted now in this extreme state of tension, Diva might conceivably not come, thereby robbing herself of her bridge and spoiling her hostess’s table. Naturally any permanent quarrel was not contemplated by either of them, for if quarrels were permanent in Tilling, nobody would be on speaking terms any more with anyone else in a day or two, and (hardly less disastrous) there could be no fresh quarrels with anybody, since you could not quarrel without words. There might be songs without words, as Mendelssohn had proved, but not rows without words. By what formula could this deadly antagonism be bridged without delay?
Diva gazed out over the marsh. She wanted desperately to regain her rosebud-frock, and she knew that Elizabeth was starving for further wearing of her poppies. Perhaps the wide, serene plain below inspired her with a hatred of littleness. There would be no loss of dignity in making a proposal that her enemy, she felt sure, would accept: it merely showed a Christian spirit, and set an example to Elizabeth, to make the first move. Janet she did not consider.
“If you are in a fit state to listen to reason, Elizabeth,” she began.
Miss Mapp heaved a sigh of relief. Diva had thought of something. She swallowed the insult at a gulp.
“Yes, dear,” she said.
“Got an idea. Take away Janet’s frock, and wear it myself. Then you can wear yours. Too pretty for parlour-maids. Eh?”
A heavenly brightness spread over Miss Mapp’s face.
“Oh, how wonderful of you to have thought of that, Diva,” she said. “But how shall we explain it all to everybody?”
Diva
