# The Queen of the Spa

Extracted from The Windsor Magazine, Vol 63 1925-26, pp. 361–366. Accompanying illustrations may be omitted.
Illustration: "A tall stout woman, followed by another who was evidently her maid.... Somehow Jessica distrusted the arrival."
THE QUEEN OF THE SPA
By E. F. BENSON
ILLUSTRATED BY E. G. OAKDALE
MISS JESSICA WINTHROP was taking her tea, on this warm afternoon, at one of the little iron tables which fringed the lawn in front of the hotel. This was a post with strategic advantages: she could drop bright little words of encouragement to anyone who was playing on the putting-course which zigzagged over the lawn, and she could also make an early inspection of any arrivals by the train from London which was due about this time. If the weather was inclement she took her tea in the hall and observed them from there as they passed through to see their rooms. As soon as they had gone she looked at the names they had signed in the visitors' book.
Miss Winthrop was a very regular visitor to this Crown Hotel at Newton Spa; she much preferred it to the larger establishment, the Royal, and the Howard Arms which seemed to her garish and noisy and expensive. The Crown was a more friendly and home-like place; they were, as she said, quite a happy family at the Crown, and she was undoubtedly the head of the family. She made friends at once with new-comers (or, if they did not appreciate her attentions, enemies); she had little conversations with the head-waiter, so that she was never given the leg of a chicken, but always the wing; she got up bridge-tournaments and putting tournaments and games in the evening. They were not romping-games (because most of the visitors suffered from rheumatic troubles, which they came to Newton Spa to get rid of, and hobbled or limped or had stiff backs or shoulders) but sedentary, amusing games like Consequences and thinking of a word while somebody limped away out of earshot from the lounge, and then was recalled and made to guess it. If she decreed an evening of bridge, she tripped round to the other tables when she was dummy to see how other people were getting on, and she had her particular arm-chair in the cosiest corner of the lounge when the weather was cold, and by the window when the weather was sultry, which was recognized as peculiarly hers. Occasionally a new-comer, ignorant of its sacred character, ventured to occupy it, but on Miss Winthrop's appearance the hall-porter whispered a word or two to the intruder.... But sooner or later in the evening, whatever diversion she had decreed, she was induced to sit down at the piano and play some sweet slow movement by Beethoven, or one of the less agile preludes of Chopin or the "Largo" by Handel. Indeed, the music-stool was as much her throne as the particular arm-chair, and no one ever touched the piano when Miss Winthrop was present, except by her special request. When she, however, was induced to favour the company, all conversation ceased or was conducted only in the discreetest of whispers. If it continued, Miss Winthrop ceased until it did. But this rarely happened: an automatic hush fell on the lounge at the first firm touch of her rather knobby hands....
She had only just poured out her first cup of tea when Mr. Foster came out on to the lawn with his putter. Mr. Foster, a stout, middle-aged clergyman, was a great favourite of hers, and acted as her lieutenant in getting up diversions for the happy family. He was expecting a friend to come out for a match presently, and till then he practised, while Jessica watched him with advice and applause.
"Oh, padre, that was a good putt," she said. "I shall never dare to play you again if you putt like that.... Ah! Now you've done what you told me never to do: you were two yards short that time. Never up, never in: how that sums it up! Oh, but you've holed it, so you get your two. And here's Mr. Leader: now I shall enjoy seeing a match between you two."
Mr. Leader was a very different person from the padre. He was a gruff, unsociable sort of man, who had been known to refuse to go out of the lounge while they thought of a word, and once when he did go, he went to the smoking-room (for Jessica discouraged smoking in the hall) and refused to come back. But he was a new-comer, and she still hoped that he would fall into line. Just as they began their athletic tussle, the hotel-bus came back from the station, laden with an immense quantity of luggage, and there got out a tall stout woman, followed by another who was evidently her maid and carried a cushion and a rug and a jewel-case. Somehow Jessica distrusted the arrival: she was terribly smartly dressed with skirts that, considering her build, were unnecessarily short. She was smoking also, and that argued ill, and her immense quantity of luggage argued ill, and her maid argued ill. She might be nice enough, thought Jessica, but so much pomp was not quite the right note at the Crown.... Presently she would go to the visitors' book and see who this was.
She turned her rather distracted attention to the putting-match. The padre was in wonderful form, and Mr. Leader was getting grumpier and grumpier, in spite of Jessica's encouragement, which she showered on him for propitiatory reasons.
"Oh, Mr. Leader, that was hard luck!" she said. "The naughty ball! It ought to have gone in. And then the padre goes and lays you a stymie. No one can play against such bad luck.... There, that was a beautiful putt of yours. Well I never! If the padre hasn't holed out in one...."
Suddenly her stream of encouragement ceased, for from the open window of the lounge there came out the sound of brilliant roulades from the piano. It was some dreadful piece of ragtime music—which Jessica detested—all execution, and twirls and shakes and octaves. She sprang up, and nearly trod on Mr. Leader's ball.
"Who can that be?" she said.
"Hi! Fore!" said Mr. Leader. "Just at your feet.... I shouldn't wonder if it was my sister-in-law. I believe she was to arrive to-day. Now we shall get some music."
Jessica hurried indoors with this blasphemy in her ears, and only pausing to see in the visitors' book that it was Mrs. Leader who had arrived just now, went into the lounge.
There, without doubt, at the piano was the woman who had filled her with instinctive distrust, fireworking away all over the keys, with a cigarette in her mouth.... With only one moment for consideration, Jessica, made up her mind what line to take, and sat down very stealthily nearest the piano, and assumed an expression of delighted gaiety. She gave little smiles and nods of her head in time to the music, and when the last distasteful chords had been played, she turned with her most winning expression to the pianist.
"Delicious!" she said. "Oh, what fun! Makes me want to dance. Thank you."
Mrs. Leader was unaware that she was being complimented by the Queen of the Crown, and saw in her only a rather ridiculous old thing with forced smiles on her acid face. As for her wanting to dance...
"Nice of you," she said. "What a foul piano!"
Now Jessica had chosen that piano at the request of the manager some seven years ago. Her smile became a little wintry, like a gleam of sun on a day of north-easterly gale, and she reconsidered her policy.
"I am sorry you find it so," she said. "Perhaps I am accustomed to it, for I like the touch. Please go on playing to me. I adore music."
Mrs. Leader had already risen.
"No, it's your turn," she said quite amicably.
Jessica slid on to the music-stool. After all, it was her throne.
"Terribly out of practice," she said. "A little Beethoven? Or Chopin? Or Handel? The 'Largo'?"
"Don't think I know it," said Mrs. Leader.
Jessica made a pained face, which she dexterously transformed into one of pleasurable anticipation, and after that into a rapt expression, as she struck the first chord, of musical absorption. She closed her eyes, as her habit was.
Mrs. Leader found that she did know it, but that she didn't like it. Besides, the woman couldn't play at all, and she wanted her tea. She did not mean to be rude, but as this famous piece went at a funereal pace, and the pianist's eyes were closed, she thought there would be time to slip into the hall, order her tea, and come back before it was over. But from the hall-door she saw her brother-in-law putting on the lawn, and forgetting about the musical treat inside, went out to greet him. Thus when Jessica, after dwelling on the last chord, opened her eyes again, she found herself alone, and felt sure that her instinctive distrust had been only too well founded. These dark forebodings—she was never wrong in her first impressions—were speedily and amply confirmed.
The visitors at the Crown were of a punctual habit with regard to dinner, and the meal was nearly over before Mrs. Leader made her entry. She dined with her brother-in-law, and by the time that they came out into the lounge, Jessica had already been persuaded to play. There were but few empty chairs, and Mrs. Leader, with a cigarette in her mouth, sat firmly down in Jessica's other throne, and talked. She must have been saying something amusing, for her brother-in-law gave his hoarse laugh and said "Capital, Edith: tell me another." Jessica, in consequence, as Edith proceeded to tell another, took her hands off the keys and waited with a wide, martyred smile. That impressive pause failed in its effect for once.
"It was too killing," said Edith. "There she was, looking precisely like the witch of Endor, with that silly old man. I never saw a woman——"
Edith became aware of the dead hush.
"I'll tell you the rest afterwards, Toby," she said, and lit another cigarette.
Jessica proceeded with the slow movement of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, arranged for the piano, exactly where she had left off. Sighs and "thank you's" were breathed round the room at the end, and she rose and flitted away to where the padre sat with two elderly ladies.
"A little game of bridge, padre," she said, "to get into practice for to-morrow night's tournament? No, I won't be persuaded to play to you again. After Beethoven, what is there to play?"
Bridge had already begun, with whispered declarations, during the music, and the padre put his private piece of green baize on the slippery table.
"You played divinely to-night, Miss Jessica," he said. "Tum-te-tum ... wonderful music."
Jessica looked round for her chair and saw it was occupied. She gave her little sign to the hall-porter, who, rather diffidently, approached Mrs. Leader and whispered to her.
Illustration: "She played sketchily and superbly, with quantities of wrong notes but a glorious sense of rhythm."
"Oh, by all means," she said, where am I to sit then?"
"Sit at the piano," said her brother-in-law.
She rose.
"I'll play you that bit out of 'Foolish Virgins,' if you like," she said. "But a rotten piano..."
She seated herself at the despised instrument, and without preliminary broke into the scherzo of the ballet-music. She played sketchily and superbly, with quantities of wrong notes but a glorious sense of rhythm.... Jessica gave shivering winces at the wrong notes and raised her shrill voice.
"One club, did you say, padre?" she asked. "Now, partner, I shall be ever so reckless and say one spade. So naughty of me, but—oh, that music—but I shall expect to be scolded. Ah, my poor ears ... and you go two clubs, padre, after everybody has passed. Well—let me think if I can, but who can think with this—let me see, what is the right thing? I don't care: I shall go two spades...."
In fact, this was not so much a declaration at bridge as a declaration of war. Red-mouthed, relentless war,
Jessica lay long awake that night inventing tactics and planning manœvres. She had observed with pain that Mrs. Leader's performance had given pleasure to the less musical members of the happy family: old Mrs. Ward, for instance, who was generally found to be asleep at the end of a Beethoven movement, had been sitting bolt upright in her chair and beating time on the arm of it with her fan; young Mr. Innes had applauded loudly at the end, and even the padre had said "Wonderful execution, surely." But difficulties never daunted Jessica, they only developed her horse-power, and next day she went out to battle.
Illustration: "'Now, partner, I shall be ever so reckless and say one spade, naughty of me, but—oh, that music—but I shall expect to scolded. Ah, my poor ears....'"
She had her bath and massage for her rheumatic wrist early, and returning from the establishment had the pleasure of cutting Mrs. Leader dead: the pleasure was only marred by the depressing suspicion that Mrs. Leader had not noticed it. She then sat down at the piano and, with her wrist in excellent order, played solidly for an hour. By that time there were many little groups of the happy family scattered about the lawn, and she went from one to the other.
"Good morning, Mrs. Ward," she said. "What a pianist we have among us now! But how impossible to play bridge, was it not, with those rivers of wrong notes? If Mrs. Leader plays to-night during our tournament there will be a marked falling off in our play, I am afraid.... Ah, Mr. Innes, you and I play bridge together to-night, I think. We really must secure a table away from the piano, or I am sure I shall revoke.... Dear padre, going to have a round at putting? I wonder—you have such tact—if you could tell Mrs. Leader that we are very serious bridge-ites. Oh, dear me, there she is at it again."
Brilliant and rollicking strains came from the window of the lounge, and Jessica, protesting that she could not read her paper in that riot, retired to the sunless little garden on the other side of the hotel. But she found it cold there and came back. The lawn was completely empty, and looking into the lounge, she saw that it was full.
People came rather late in to lunch that day; in fact there was hardly anyone there except Jessica and deaf Mrs. Antrobus till that meretricious hubbub from the lounge ceased. Directly Jessica had finished she tripped away to the piano and had a real good practice. Long before she finished, her fingers were aching, but she held on till four o'clock, at which hour she usually had tea.
She had hardly left the lounge when Mrs. Leader entered it from the garden-door. The piano-stool was rather low, and she sat on all Jessica's volumes of Beethoven.... Jessica hurried back again in order to pretend to write a letter, and then distractedly go away again, with pen, ink-bottle and paper in her hand. She saw her music was not on the piano, where she had left it, and began hunting round the lounge for the melodious volumes. She looked high and low and called the hall-porter to explain her loss. Not till then (apparently) did Mrs. Leader guess what she was looking for, and jumped up, saying:
"Oh, I'm afraid I'm sitting on them. So sorry."
Jessica made the sort of smile which frightens dogs.
"I hope it won't inconvenience you too much if I take them away," she said. "So good of you. Many thanks, and apologies for troubling."
The witheringness of this sarcasm, for which, when goaded, Jessica was famous, had no effect on Mrs. Leader. "Slightly cracked," she thought to herself, and played chromatic scales for a quarter of an hour.
Jessica, trembling with passion but convinced she had inflicted a deep mortal wound, went up to her room. From the window of it she could just see the corner of the lounge where the piano stood. As soon as she observed that the music-stool was unoccupied, she hurried down again and played easy pieces of Mozart till it was time to rest before dinner. Then, by a brilliant inspiration, she locked the piano and hid the key in a brass vase of Benares workmanship. So that would insure them against any ear-splitting strummings during the bridge tournament.
Mrs. Leader, declining to take part in the bridge tournament, played a rather loud sort of patience with her brother-in-law, and when that was over she attempted to open the piano. But it was locked, the key was missing, and neither hall-porter nor manager nor lift-boy knew anything about it. But so long as there was no Beethoven possible, she did not much care, and, being in want of an ash-tray, took the Benares vase off its shelf and found the key. She was an intelligent woman, and instantly guessed how it had got there. She pocketed it therefore, and on her way up to bed hid it on the top of an engraving of "The Monarch of the Glen" which hung in the corridor.
Jessica tripped into the lounge early next morning, with the intention, now that the bridge tournament had not been interrupted by distracting noises, of restoring the key to its place. But when she held the Benares vase upside down nothing fell into her hand but some burned-out cigarette-ends. This was both disgusting and disquieting, for she felt sure she had put the key there.
She washed her hands, and went off to her breakfast completely puzzled. Then she remembered that there was another vase of Benares ware at the further end of the shelf, and returned to see if it was there. She had to get on the sofa to reach this, and at that moment Mrs. Leader entered.
"Good morning," she said cheerfully. "Looking for the key of the piano? Have you forgotten where you put it?"
These remarkable words gave Jessica quite a shock, and she had to steady herself against the shelf.
"I beg your pardon?" she said in her iciest tones.
"Pray don't mention it. But it is annoying to have put something carefully away and to forget where you put it. Sunday too: we shan't have any of your delightful Beethoven."
Jessica dismounted from the sofa.
"I am quite at a loss to understand what you mean," she said.
"I'm afraid I can't explain myself more clearly," said Mrs. Leader.
She broke into a shout of good-natured laughter.
"You put it on the top of the picture of 'The Monarch of the Glen,'" she said. "If you'll fetch it, let's sit down and have a duet. But no more hiding, mind!"
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1940, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 83 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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