The Enchanted April Page 21

  Chapter 21

  Now Frederick was not the man to hurt anything if he could helpit; besides, he was completely bewildered. Not only was his wife here--here, of all places in the world--but she was clinging to him as shehad not clung for years, and murmuring love, and welcoming him. If shewelcomed him she must have been expecting him. Strange as this was, itwas the only thing in the situation which was evident--that, and thesoftness of her cheek against his, and the long-forgotten sweet smellof her.

  Frederick was bewildered. But not being the man to hurt anythingif he could help it he too put his arms round her, and having put themround her he also kissed her; and presently he was kissing her almostas tenderly as she was kissing him; and presently he was kissing herquite as tenderly; and again presently he was kissing her moretenderly, and just as if he had never left off.

  He was bewildered, but he still could kiss. It seemed curiouslynatural to be doing it. It made him feel as if he were thirty againinstead of forty, and Rose were his Rose of twenty, the Rose he had somuch adored before she began to weigh what he did with her idea ofright, and the balance went against him, and she had turned strange,and stony, and more and more shocked, and oh, so lamentable. Hecouldn't get at her in those days at all; she wouldn't, she couldn'tunderstand. She kept on referring everything to what she called God'seyes--in God's eyes it couldn't be right, it wasn't right. Hermiserable face--whatever her principles did for her they didn't makeher happy--her little miserable face, twisted with effort to bepatient, had been at last more than he could bear to see, and he hadkept away as much as he could. She never ought to have been thedaughter of a low-church rector--narrow devil; she was quite unfittedto stand up against such an upbringing.

  What had happened, why she was here, why she was his Rose again,passed his comprehension and meanwhile, and until such time as heunderstood, he still could kiss. In fact he could not stop kissing;and it was he now who began to murmur, to say love things in her earunder the hair that smelt so sweet and tickled him just as heremembered it used to tickle him.

  And as he held her close to his heart and her arms were softround his neck, he felt stealing over him a delicious sense of--atfirst he didn't know what it was, this delicate, pervading warmth, andthen he recognized it as security. Yes; security. No need now to beashamed of his figure, and to make jokes about it so as to forestallother people's and show he didn't mind it; no need now to be ashamed ofgetting hot going up hills, or to torment himself with pictures of howhe probably appeared to beautiful young women--how middle-aged, howabsurd in his inability to keep away from them. Rose cared nothing forsuch things. With her he was safe. To her he was her lover, as heused to be; and she would never notice or mind any of the ignoblechanges that getting older had made in him and would go on making moreand more.

  Frederick continued, therefore, with greater and greater warmthand growing delight to kiss his wife, and the mere holding of her inhis arms caused him to forget everything else. How could he, forinstance, remember or think of Lady Caroline, to mention only one ofthe complications with which his situation bristled, when here was hissweet wife, miraculously restored to him, whispering with her cheekagainst his in the dearest, most romantic words how much she loved him,how terribly she had missed him? He did for one brief instant, foreven in moments of love there were brief instants of lucid thought,recognize the immense power of the woman present and being actuallyheld compared to that of the woman, however beautiful, who is somewhereelse, but that is as far as he got towards remembering Scrap; nofarther. She was like a dream, fleeing before the morning light.

  "When did you start?" murmured Rose, her mouth on his ear. Shecouldn't let him go; not even to talk she couldn't let him go.

  "Yesterday morning," murmured Frederick, holding her close. Hecouldn't let her go either.

  "Oh--the very instant then," murmured Rose.

  This was cryptic, but Frederick said, "Yes, the very instant,"and kissed her neck.

  "How quickly my letter got to you," murmured Rose, whose eyeswere shut in the excess of her happiness.

  "Didn't it," said Frederick, who felt like shutting his eyeshimself.

  So there had been a letter. Soon, no doubt, light would bevouchsafed him, and meanwhile this was so strangely, touchingly sweet,this holding his Rose to his heart again after all the years, that hecouldn't bother to try to guess anything. Oh, he had been happy duringthese years, because it was not in him to be unhappy; besides, how manyinterests life had had to offer him, how many friends, how muchsuccess, how many women only too willing to help him to blot out thethought of the altered, petrified, pitiful little wife at home whowouldn't spend his money, who was appalled by his books, who driftedaway and away from him, and always if he tried to have it out with herasked him with patient obstinacy what he thought the things he wroteand lived by looked in the eyes of God. "No one," she said once,"should ever write a book God wouldn't like to read. That is the test,Frederick." And he had laughed hysterically, burst into a great shriekof laughter, and rushed out of the house, away from her solemn littleface--away from her pathetic, solemn little face. . .

  But this Rose was his youth again, the best part of his life, thepart of it that had had all the visions in it and all the hopes. Howthey had dreamed together, he and she, before he struck that vein ofmemoirs; how they had planned, and laughed and loved. They had livedfor a while in the very heart of poetry. After the happy days came thehappy nights, the happy, happy nights, with her asleep close againsthis heart, with her when he woke in the morning still close against hisheart, for they hardly moved in their deep, happy sleep. It waswonderful to have it all come back to him at the touch of her, at thefeel of her face against his--wonderful that she should be able to givehim back his youth.

  "Sweetheart--sweetheart," he murmured, overcome by remembrance,clinging to her now in his turn.

  "Beloved husband," she breathed--the bliss of it--the sheer bliss. . .

  Briggs, coming in a few minutes before the gong went on thechance that Lady Caroline might be there, was much astonished. He hadsupposed Rose Arbuthnot was a widow, and he still supposed it; so thathe was much astonished.

  "Well I'm damned," thought Briggs, quite clearly and distinctly,for the shock of what he saw in the window startled him so much thatfor a moment he was shaken free of his own confused absorption.

  Aloud he said, very red, "Oh I say--I beg your pardon"--and thenstood hesitating, and wondering whether he oughtn't to go back to hisbedroom again.

  If he had said nothing they would not have noticed he was there,but when he begged their pardon Rose turned and looked at him as onelooks who is trying to remember, and Frederick looked at him toowithout at first quite seeing him.

  They didn't seem, thought Briggs, to mind or to be at allembarrassed. He couldn't be her brother; no brother ever brought thatlook into a woman's face. It was very awkward. If they didn't mind,he did. It upset him to come across his Madonna forgetting herself.

  "Is this one of your friends?" Frederick was able after aninstant to ask Rose, who made no attempt to introduce the young manstanding awkwardly in front of them but continued to gaze at him with akind of abstracted, radiant goodwill.

  "It's Mr. Briggs," said Rose, recognizing him. "This is myhusband," she added.

  And Briggs, shaking hands, just had time to think how surprisingit was to have a husband when you were a widow before the gong sounded,and Lady Caroline would be there in a minute, and he ceased to be ableto think at all, and merely became a thing with its eyes fixed on thedoor.

  Through the door immediately entered, in what seemed to him anendless procession, first Mrs. Fisher, very stately in her evening laceshawl and brooch, who when she saw him at once relaxed into smiles andbenignity, only to stiffen, however, when she caught sight of thestranger; then Mr. Wilkins, cleaner and neater and more carefullydressed and brushed than any man on earth; and then, tying somethinghurriedly as she came, Mrs. Wilkins; and then nobody.

 
Lady Caroline was late. Where was she? Had she heard the gong?Oughtn't it to be beaten again? Suppose she didn't come to dinnerafter all. . .

  Briggs went cold.

  "Introduce me," said Frederick on Mrs. Fisher's entrance,touching Rose's elbow.

  "My husband," said Rose, holding him by the hand, her faceexquisite.

  "This," thought Mrs. Fisher, "must now be the last of thehusbands, unless Lady Caroline produces one from up her sleeve."

  But she received him graciously, for he certainly looked exactlylike a husband, not at all like one of those people who go about abroadpretending they are husbands when they are not, and said she supposedhe had come to accompany his wife home at the end of the month, andremarked that now the house would be completely full. "So that," sheadded, smiling at Briggs, "we shall at last really be getting ourmoney's worth."

  Briggs grinned automatically, because he was just able to realizethat somebody was being playful with him, but he had not heard her andhe did not look at her. Not only were his eyes fixed on the door buthis whole body was concentrated on it.

  Introduced in his turn, Mr. Wilkins was most hospitable andcalled Frederick "sir."

  "Well, sir," said Mr. Wilkins heartily, "here we are, here weare"--and having gripped his hand with an understanding that onlywasn't mutual because Arbuthnot did not yet know what he was in for inthe way of trouble, he looked at him as a man should, squarely in theeyes, and allowed his look to convey as plainly as a look can that inhim would be found staunchness, integrity, reliability--in fact afriend in need. Mrs. Arbuthnot was very much flushed, Mr. Wilkinsnoticed. He had not seen her flushed like that before. "Well, I'mtheir man," he thought.

  Lotty's greeting was effusive. It was done with both hands."Didn't I tell you?" she laughed to Rose over her shoulder whileFrederick was shaking her hands in both his.

  "What did you tell her?" asked Frederick, in order to saysomething. The way they were all welcoming him was confusing. Theyhad evidently all expected him, not only Rose.

  The sandy but agreeable young woman didn't answer his question,but looked extraordinarily pleased to see him. Why should she beextraordinarily pleased to see him?

  "What a delightful place this is," said Frederick, confused, andmaking the first remark that occurred to him.

  "It's a tub of love," said the sandy young woman earnestly; whichconfused him more than ever.

  And his confusion became excessive at the next words he heard--spoken, these, by the old lady, who said: "We won't wait. LadyCaroline is always late"--for he only then, on hearing her name, reallyand properly remembered Lady Caroline, and the thought of her confusedhim to excess.

  He went into the dining-room like a man in a dream. He had comeout to this place to see Lady Caroline, and had told her so. He hadeven told her in his fatuousness--it was true, but how fatuous--that hehadn't been able to help coming. She didn't know he was married. Shethought his name was Arundel. Everybody in London thought his name wasArundel. He had used it and written under it so long that he almostthought it was himself. In the short time since she had left him onthe seat in the garden, where he told her he had come because hecouldn't help it, he had found Rose again, had passionately embracedand been embraced, and had forgotten Lady Caroline. It would be anextraordinary piece of good fortune if Lady Caroline's being late meantshe was tired or bored and would not come to dinner at all. Then hecould--no, he couldn't. He turned a deeper red even than usual, hebeing a man of full habit and red anyhow, at the thought of suchcowardice. No, he couldn't go away after dinner and catch his trainand disappear to Rome; not unless, that is, Rose came with him. Buteven so, what a running away. No, he couldn't.

  When they got to the dining-room Mrs. Fisher went to the head ofthe table--was this Mrs. Fisher's house? He asked himself. He didn'tknow; he didn't know anything--and Rose, who in her earlier day ofdefying Mrs. Fisher had taken the other end as her place, for after allno one could say by looking at a table which was its top and which itsbottom, led Frederick to the seat next to her. If only, he thought, hecould have been alone with Rose; just five minutes more alone withRose, so that he could have asked her--

  But probably he wouldn't have asked her anything, and only goneon kissing her.

  He looked round. The sandy young woman was telling the man theycalled Briggs to go and sit beside Mrs. Fisher--was the house, then,the sandy young woman's and not Mrs. Fisher's? He didn't know; hedidn't know anything--and she herself sat down on Rose's other side, sothat she was opposite him, Frederick, and next to the genial man whohad said "Here we are," when it was only too evident that there theywere indeed.

  Next to Frederick, and between him and Briggs, was an emptychair: Lady Caroline's. No more than Lady Caroline knew of thepresence in Frederick's life of Rose was Rose aware of the presence inFrederick's life of Lady Caroline. What would each think? He didn'tknow; he didn't know anything. Yes, he did know something, and thatwas that his wife had made it up with him--suddenly, miraculously,unaccountably, and divinely. Beyond that he knew nothing. Thesituation was one with which he felt he could not cope. It must leadhim whither it would. He could only drift.

  In silence Frederick ate his soup, and the eyes, the largeexpressive eyes of the young woman opposite, were on him, he couldfeel, with a growing look in them of inquiry. They were, he could see,very intelligent and attractive eyes, and full, apart from the inquiryof goodwill. Probably she thought he ought to talk--but if she kneweverything she wouldn't think so. Briggs didn't talk either. Briggsseemed uneasy. What was the matter with Briggs? And Rose too didn'ttalk, but then that was natural. She never had been a talker. She hadthe loveliest expression on her face. How long would it be on it afterLady Caroline's entrance? He didn't know; he didn't know anything.

  But the genial man on Mrs. Fisher's left was talking enough foreverybody. That fellow ought to have been a parson. Pulpits were theplace for a voice like his; it would get him a bishopric in six months.He was explaining to Briggs, who shuffled about in his seat--why didBriggs shuffle about in his seat?--that he must have come out by thesame train as Arbuthnot, and when Briggs, who said nothing, wriggled inapparent dissent, he undertook to prove it to him, and did prove it tohim in long clear sentences.

  "Who's the man with the voice?" Frederick asked Rose in a whisper;and the young woman opposite, whose ears appeared to have the quicknessof hearing of wild creatures, answered, "He's my husband."

  "Then by all the rules," said Frederick pleasantly, pullinghimself together, "you oughtn't to be sitting next to him."

  "But I want to. I like sitting next to him. I didn't before Icame here."

  Frederick could think of nothing to say to this, so he onlysmiled generally.

  "It's this place," she said, nodding at him. "It makes oneunderstand. You've no idea what a lot you'll understand before you'vedone here."

  "I'm sure I hope so," said Frederick with real fervour.

  The soup was taken away, and the fish was brought. Briggs, onthe other side of the empty chair, seemed more uneasy than ever. Whatwas the matter with Briggs? Didn't he like fish?

  Frederick wondered what Briggs would do in the way of fidgets ifhe were in his own situation. Frederick kept on wiping his moustache,and was not able to look up from his plate, but that was as much as heshowed of what he was feeling.

  Though he didn't look up he felt the eyes of the young womanopposite raking him like searchlights, and Rose's eyes were on him too,he knew, but they rested on him unquestioningly, beautifully, like abenediction. How long would they go on doing that once Lady Carolinewas there? He didn't know; he didn't know anything.

  He wiped his moustache for the twentieth unnecessary time, andcould not quite keep his hand steady, and the young woman opposite sawhis hand not being quite steady, and her eyes raked him persistently.Why did her eyes rake him persistently? He didn't know; he didn't knowanything.

  Then Briggs leapt to his feet. What was the matter with Briggs?Oh--y
es--quite: she had come.

  Frederick wiped his moustache and got up too. He was in for itnow. Absurd, fantastic situation. Well, whatever happened he couldonly drift--drift, and look like an ass to Lady Caroline, the mostabsolute as well as deceitful ass--an ass who was also a reptile, forshe might well think he had been mocking her out in the garden when hesaid, no doubt in a shaking voice--fool and ass--that he had comebecause he couldn't help it; while as for what he would look like tohis Rose--when Lady Caroline introduced him to her--when Lady Carolineintroduced him as her friend whom she had invited in to dinner--well,God alone knew that.

  He, therefore, as he got up wiped his moustache for the last timebefore the catastrophe.

  But he was reckoning without Scrap.

  That accomplished and experienced young woman slipped into thechair Briggs was holding for her, and on Lotty's leaning acrosseagerly, and saying before any one else could get a word in, "Justfancy, Caroline, how quickly Rose's husband has got here!" turned tohim without so much as the faintest shadow of surprise on her face, andheld out her hand, and smiled like a young angel, and said, "and melate your very first evening."

  The daughter of the Droitwiches. . .

  Chapter 22

  That evening was the evening of the full moon. The garden was anenchanted place where all the flowers seemed white. The lilies, thedaphnes, the orange-blossom, the white stocks, the white pinks, thewhite roses--you could see these as plainly as in the day-time; but thecoloured flowers existed only as fragrance.

  The three younger women sat on the low wall at the end of the topgarden after dinner, Rose a little apart from the others, and watchedthe enormous moon moving slowly over the place where Shelley had livedhis last months just on a hundred years before. The sea quivered alongthe path of the moon. The stars winked and trembled. The mountainswere misty blue outlines, with little clusters of lights shiningthrough from little clusters of homes. In the garden the plants stoodquite still, straight and unstirred by the smallest ruffle of air.Through the glass doors the dining-room, with its candle-lit table andbrilliant flowers--nasturtiums and marigolds that night--glowed likesome magic cave of colour, and the three men smoking round it lookedstrangely animated figures seen from the silence, the huge cool calm ofoutside.

  Mrs. Fisher had gone to the drawing-room and the fire. Scrap andLotty, their faces upturned to the sky, said very little and inwhispers. Rose said nothing. Her face too was upturned. She waslooking at the umbrella pine, which had been smitten into somethingglorious, silhouetted against stars. Every now and then Scrap's eyeslingered on Rose; so did Lotty's. For Rose was lovely. Anywhere atthat moment, among all the well-known beauties, she would have beenlovely. Nobody could have put her in the shade, blown out her lightthat evening; she was too evidently shining.

  Lotty bent close to Scrap's ear, and whispered. "Love," shewhispered.

  Scrap nodded. "Yes," she said, under her breath.

  She was obliged to admit it. You only had to look at Rose toknow that here was Love.

  "There's nothing like it," whispered Lotty.

  Scrap was silent.

  "It's a great thing," whispered Lotty after a pause, during whichthey both watched Rose's upturned face, "to get on with one's loving.Perhaps you can tell me of anything else in the world that works suchwonders."

  But Scrap couldn't tell her; and if she could have, what a nightto begin arguing in. This was a night for--

  She pulled herself up. Love again. It was everywhere. Therewas no getting away from it. She had come to this place to get awayfrom it, and here was everybody in its different stages. Even Mrs.Fisher seemed to have been brushed by one of the many feathers ofLove's wing, and at dinner was different--full of concern because Mr.Briggs wouldn't eat, and her face when she turned to him all soft withmotherliness.

  Scrap looked up at the pine-tree motionless among stars. Beautymade you love, and love made you beautiful. . .

  She pulled her wrap closer round her with a gesture of defence,of keeping out and off. She didn't want to grow sentimental.Difficult not to, here; the marvelous night stole in through all one'schinks, and brought in with it, whether one wanted them or not,enormous feelings--feelings one couldn't manage, great things aboutdeath and time and waste; glorious and devastating things, magnificentand bleak, at once rapture and terror and immense, heart-cleavinglonging. She felt small and dreadfully alone. She felt uncovered anddefenceless. Instinctively she pulled her wrap closer. With thisthing of chiffon she tired to protect herself from the eternities.

  "I suppose," whispered Lotty, "Rose's husband seems to you justan ordinary, good-natured, middle-aged man."

  Scrap brought her gaze down from the stars and looked at Lotty amoment while she focused her mind again.

  "Just a rather red, rather round man," whispered Lotty.

  Scrap bowed her head.

  "He isn't," whispered Lotty. "Rose sees through all that.That's mere trimmings. She sees what we can't see, because she loveshim."

  Always love.

  Scrap got up, and winding herself very tightly in her wrap movedaway to her day corner, and sat down there alone on the wall and lookedout across the other sea, the sea where the sun had gone down, the seawith the far-away dim shadow stretching into it which was France.

  Yes, love worked wonders, and Mr. Arundel--she couldn't at onceget used to his other name--was to Rose Love itself; but it also workedinverted wonders, it didn't invariably, as she well knew, transfigurepeople into saints and angels. Grievously indeed did it sometimes dothe opposite. She had had it in her life applied to her to excess. Ifit had let her alone, if it had at least been moderate and infrequent,she might, she thought, have turned out a quite decent, generous-minded,kindly, human being. And what was she, thanks to this love Lotty talkedso much about? Scrap searched for a just description. She was aspoilt, a sour, a suspicious, and a selfish spinster.

  The glass doors of the dining-room opened, and the three men cameout into the garden, Mr. Wilkins's voice flowing along in front ofthem. He appeared to be doing all the talking; the other two weresaying nothing.

  Perhaps she had better go back to Lotty and Rose; it would betiresome to be discovered and hemmed into the cul-de-sac by Mr. Briggs.

  She got up reluctantly, for she considered it unpardonable of Mr.Briggs to force her to move about like this, to force her out of anyplace she wished to sit in; and she emerged from the daphne bushesfeeling like some gaunt, stern figure of just resentment and wishingthat she looked as gaunt and stern as she felt; so would she havestruck repugnance into the soul of Mr. Briggs, and been free of him.But she knew she didn't look like that, however hard she might try. Atdinner his hand shook when he drank, and he couldn't speak to herwithout flushing scarlet and then going pale, and Mrs. Fisher's eyeshad sought hers with the entreaty of one who asks that her only son maynot be hurt.

  How could a human being, thought Scrap, frowning as she issuedforth from her corner, how could a man made in God's image behave so;and be fitted for better things she was sure, with his youth, hisattractiveness, and his brains. He had brains. She had examined himcautiously whenever at dinner Mrs. Fisher forced him to turn away toanswer her, and she was sure he had brains. Also he had character;there was something noble about his head, about the shape of hisforehead--noble and kind. All the more deplorable that he should allowhimself to be infatuated by a mere outside, and waste any of hisstrength, any of his peace of mind, hanging round just a woman-thing.If only he could see right through her, see through all her skin andstuff, he would be cured, and she might go on sitting undisturbed onthis wonderful night by herself.

  Just beyond the daphne bushes she met Fredrick, hurrying.

  "I was determined to find you first," he said, "before I go toRose." And he added quickly, "I want to kiss your shoes."

  "Do you?" said Scrap, smiling. "Then I must go and put on my newones. These aren't nearly good enough."

  She felt immensely well-disposed towar
ds Frederick. He, atleast, would grab no more. His grabbing days, so sudden and so brief,were done. Nice man; agreeable man. She now definitely liked him.Clearly he had been getting into some sort of a tangle, and she wasgrateful to Lotty for stopping her in time at dinner from sayingsomething hopelessly complicating. But whatever he had been gettinginto he was out of it now; his face and Rose's face had the same lightin them.

  "I shall adore you for ever now," said Frederick.

  Scrap smiled. "Shall you?" she said.

  "I adored you before because of your beauty. Now I adore youbecause you're not only as beautiful as a dream but as decent as aman."

  "When the impetuous young woman," Frederick went on, "theblessedly impetuous young woman, blurted out in the nick of time that Iam Rose's husband, you behaved exactly as a man would have behaved tohis friend."

  "Did I?" said Scrap, her enchanting dimple very evident.

  "It's the rarest, most precious of combinations," said Frederick,"to be a woman and have the loyalty of a man."

  "Is it?" smiled Scrap, a little wistfully. These were indeedhandsome compliments. If only she were really like that . . .

  "And I want to kiss your shoes."

  "Won't this save trouble?" she asked, holding out her hand.

  He took it and swiftly kissed it, and was hurrying away again."Bless you," he said as he went.

  "Where is your luggage?" Scrap called after him.

  "Oh, Lord, yes--" said Frederick, pausing. "It's at thestation."

  "I'll send for it."

  He disappeared through the bushes. She went indoors to give theorder; and this is how it happened that Domenico, for the second timethat evening, found himself journeying into Mezzago and wondering as hewent.

  Then, having made the necessary arrangements for the perfecthappiness of these two people, she came slowly out into the gardenagain, very much absorbed in thought. Love seemed to bring happinessto everybody but herself. It had certainly got hold of everybodythere, in its different varieties, except herself. Poor Mr. Briggs hadbeen got hold of by its least dignified variety. Poor Mr. Briggs. Hewas a disturbing problem, and his going away next day wouldn't she wasafraid solve him.

  When she reached the others Mr. Arundel--she kept on forgettingthat he wasn't Mr. Arundel--was already, his arm through Rose's, goingoff with her, probably to the greater seclusion of the lower garden.No doubt they had a great deal to say to each other; something had gonewrong between them, and had suddenly been put right. San Salvatore,Lotty would say, San Salvatore working its spell of happiness. Shecould quite believe in its spell. Even she was happier there than shehad been for ages and ages. The only person who would go empty awaywould be Mr. Briggs.

  Poor Mr. Briggs. When she came in sight of the group he lookedmuch too nice and boyish not to be happy. It seemed out of the picturethat the owner of the place, the person to whom they owed all this,should be the only one to go away from it unblessed.

  Compunction seized Scrap. What very pleasant days she had spentin his house, lying in his garden, enjoying his flowers, loving hisviews, using his things, being comfortable, being rested--recovering,in fact. She had had the most leisured, peaceful, and thoughtful timeof her life; and all really thanks to him. Oh, she knew she paid himsome ridiculous small sum a week, out of all proportion to the benefitsshe got in exchange, but what was that in the balance? And wasn't itentirely thanks to him that she had come across Lotty? Never elsewould she and Lotty have met; never else would she have known her.

  Compunction laid its quick, warm hand on Scrap. Impulsivegratitude flooded her. She went straight up to Briggs.

  "I owe you so much," she said, overcome by the sudden realizationof all she did owe him, and ashamed of her churlishness in theafternoon and at dinner. Of course he hadn't known she was beingchurlish. Of course her disagreeable inside was camouflaged as usualby the chance arrangement of her outside; but she knew it. She waschurlish. She had been churlish to everybody for years. Anypenetrating eye, thought Scrap, any really penetrating eye, would seeher for what she was--a spoilt, a sour, a suspicious and a selfishspinster.

  "I owe you so much," therefore said Scrap earnestly, walkingstraight up to Briggs, humbled by these thoughts.

  He looked at her in wonder. "You owe me?" he said. "But it's Iwho--I who--" he stammered. To see her there in his garden . . .nothing in it, no white flower, was whiter, more exquisite.

  "Please," said Scrap, still more earnestly, "won't you clear yourmind of everything except just truth? You don't owe me anything. Howshould you?"

  "I don't owe you anything?" echoed Briggs. "Why, I owe you myfirst sight of--of--"

  "Oh, for goodness sake--for goodness sake," said Scrapentreatingly, "do, please, be ordinary. Don't be humble. Why shouldyou be humble? It's ridiculous of you to be humble. You're worthfifty of me."

  "Unwise," thought Mr. Wilkins, who was standing there too, whileLotty sat on the wall. He was surprised, he was concerned, he wasshocked that Lady Caroline should thus encourage Briggs. "Unwise--very," thought Mr. Wilkins, shaking his head.

  Briggs's condition was so bad already that the only course totake with him was to repel him utterly, Mr. Wilkins considered. Nohalf measures were the least use with Briggs, and kindliness andfamiliar talk would only be misunderstood by the unhappy youth. Thedaughter of the Droitwiches could not really, it was impossible tosuppose it, desire to encourage him. Briggs was all very well, butBriggs was Briggs; his name alone proved that. Probably Lady Carolinedid not quite appreciate the effect of her voice and face, and howbetween them they made otherwise ordinary words seem--well,encouraging. But these words were not quite ordinary; she had not, hefeared, sufficiently pondered them. Indeed and indeed she needed anadviser--some sagacious, objective counselor like himself. There shewas, standing before Briggs almost holding out her hand to him. Briggsof course ought to be thanked, for they were having a most delightfulholiday in his house, but not thanked to excess and not by LadyCaroline alone. That very evening he had been considering thepresentation to him next day of a round robin of collective gratitudeon his departure; but he should not be thanked like this, in themoonlight, in the garden, by the lady he was so manifestly infatuatedwith.

  Mr. Wilkins therefore, desiring to assist Lady Caroline out ofthis situation by swiftly applied tact, said with much heartiness: "Itis most proper, Briggs, that you should be thanked. You will pleaseallow me to add my expressions of indebtedness, and those of my wife,to Lady Caroline's. We ought to have proposed a vote of thanks to youat dinner. You should have been toasted. There certainly ought to havebeen some--"

  But Briggs took no notice of him whatever; he simply continued tolook at Lady Caroline as though she were the first woman he had everseen. Neither, Mr. Wilkins observed, did Lady Caroline take any noticeof him; she too continued to look at Briggs, and with that odd air ofalmost appeal. Most unwise. Most.

  Lotty, on the other hand, took too much notice of him, choosingthis moment when Lady Caroline needed special support and protection toget up off the wall and put her arm through his and draw him away.

  "I want to tell you something, Mellersh," said Lotty at thisjuncture, getting up.

  "Presently," said Mr. Wilkins, waving her aside.

  "No--now," said Lotty; and she drew him away.

  He went with extreme reluctance. Briggs should be given no ropeat all--not an inch.

  "Well--what is it?" he asked impatiently, as she led him towardsthe house. Lady Caroline ought not to be left like that, exposed toannoyance.

  "Oh, but she isn't," Lotty assured him, just as if he had saidthis aloud, which he certainly had not. "Caroline is perfectly allright."

  "Not at all all right. That young Briggs is--"

  "Of course he is. What did you expect? Let's go indoors to thefire and Mrs. Fisher. She's all by herself."

  "I cannot," said Mr. Wilkins, trying to draw back, "leave LadyCaroline alone in the garden."

  "Don'
t be silly, Mellersh--she isn't alone. Besides, I want totell you something."

  "Well tell me, then."

  "Indoors."

  With reluctance that increased at every step Mr. Wilkins wastaken farther and farther away from Lady Caroline. He believed in hiswife now and trusted her, but on this occasion he thought she wasmaking a terrible mistake. In the drawing-room sat Mrs. Fisher by thefire, and it certainly was to Mr. Wilkins, who preferred rooms andfires after dark to gardens and moonlight, more agreeable to be inthere than out-of-doors if he could have brought Lady Caroline safelyin with him. As it was, he went in with extreme reluctance.

  Mrs. Fisher, her hands folded on her lap, was doing nothing,merely gazing fixedly into the fire. The lamp was arrangedconveniently for reading, but she was not reading. Her great deadfriends did not seem worth reading that night. They always said thesame things now--over and over again they said the same things, andnothing new was to be got out of them any more for ever. No doubt theywere greater than any one was now, but they had this immensedisadvantage, that they were dead. Nothing further was to be expectedof them; while of the living, what might one not still expect? Shecraved for the living, the developing--the crystallized and finishedwearied her. She was thinking that if only she had had a son--a sonlike Mr. Briggs, a dear boy like that, going on, unfolding, alive,affectionate, taking care of her and loving her. . .

  The look on her face gave Mrs. Wilkins's heart a little twistwhen she saw it. "Poor old dear," she thought, all the loneliness ofage flashing upon her, the loneliness of having outstayed one's welcomein the world, of being in it only on sufferance, the completeloneliness of the old childless woman who has failed to make friends.It did seem that people could only be really happy in pairs--any sortsof pairs, not in the least necessarily lovers, but pairs of friends,pairs of mothers and children, of brothers and sisters--and where wasthe other half of Mrs. Fisher's pair going to be found?

  Mrs. Wilkins thought she had perhaps better kiss her again. Thekissing this afternoon had been a great success; she knew it, she hadinstantly felt Mrs. Fisher's reaction to it. So she crossed over andbent down and kissed her and said cheerfully, "We've come in--" whichindeed was evident.

  This time Mrs. Fisher actually put up her hand and held Mrs.Wilkins's cheek against her own--this living thing, full of affection,of warm, racing blood; and as she did this she felt safe with thestrange creature, sure that she who herself did unusual things sonaturally would take the action quite as a matter of course, and notembarrass her by being surprised.

  Mrs. Wilkins was not at all surprised; she was delighted. "Ibelieve I'm the other half of her pair," flashed into her mind. "Ibelieve it's me, positively me, going to be fast friends with Mrs.Fisher!"

  Her face when she lifted her head was full of laughter. Tooextraordinary, the developments produced by San Salvatore. She andMrs. Fisher . . . but she saw them being fast friends.

  "Where are the others?" asked Mrs. Fisher. "Thank you--dear,"she added, as Mrs. Wilkins put a footstool under her feet, a footstoolobviously needed, Mrs. Fisher's legs being short.

  "I see myself throughout the years," thought Mrs. Wilkins, hereyes dancing, "bringing footstools to Mrs. Fisher. . ."

  "The Roses," she said, straightening herself, "have gone into thelower garden--I think love-making."

  "The Roses?"

  "The Fredericks, then, if you like. They're completely mergedand indistinguishable."

  "Why not say the Arbuthnots, my dear?" said Mr. Wilkins.

  "Very well, Mellersh--the Arbuthnots. And the Carolines--"

  Both Mr. Wilkins and Mrs. Fisher started. Mr. Wilkins, usuallyin such complete control of himself, started even more than Mrs.Fisher, and for the first time since his arrival felt angry with hiswife.

  "Really--" he began indignantly.

  "Very well, Mellersh--the Briggses, then."

  "The Briggses!" cried Mr. Wilkins, now very angry indeed; for theimplication was to him a most outrageous insult to the entire race ofDesters--dead Desters, living Desters, and Desters still harmlessbecause they were yet unborn. "Really--"

  "I'm sorry, Mellersh," said Mrs. Wilkins, pretending meekness,"if you don't like it."

  "Like it! You've taken leave of your senses. Why they've neverset eyes on each other before to-day."

  "That's true. But that's why they're able now to go ahead."

  "Go ahead!" Mr. Wilkins could only echo the outrageous words.

  "I'm sorry, Mellersh," said Mrs. Wilkins again, "if you don'tlike it, but--"

  Her grey eyes shone, and her face rippled with the light andconviction that had so much surprised Rose the first time they met.

  "It's useless minding," she said. "I shouldn't struggle if Iwere you. Because--"

  She stopped, and looked first at one alarmed solemn face and thenat the other, and laughter as well as light flickered and danced overher.

  "I see them being the Briggses," finished Mrs. Wilkins.

  That last week the syringa came out at San Salvatore, and all theacacias flowered. No one had noticed how many acacias there were tillone day the garden was full of a new scent, and there were the delicatetrees, the lovely successors to the wistaria, hung all over among theirtrembling leaves with blossom. To lie under an acacia tree that lastweek and look up through the branches at its frail leaves and whiteflowers quivering against the blue of the sky, while the least movementof the air shook down their scent, was a great happiness. Indeed, thewhole garden dressed itself gradually towards the end in white pinksand white banksai roses, and the syringe and the Jessamine, and at lastthe crowning fragrance of the acacias. When, on the first of May,everybody went away, even after they had got to the bottom of the hilland passed through the iron gates out into the village they still couldsmell the acacias.