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Chapter 17 · The Enchanted April

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Chapter seventeen of The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnum. This Librivots recording is
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in the public domain. Read by T. R. Love. On the
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first day of the third week, Rose wrote to Frederick. In case she
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should again hesitate and not post the letter, she gave it to Domenico to
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post, for if she did not write now there would be no time left
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at all. Half the month at San Salvatore was over. Even if Frederick
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started directly he got the letter, which of course he wouldn't be able to
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do, what with packing and passport. Besides not being in a hurry to
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come, he couldn't arrive for five days. Having done it, Rose wished
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she hadn't He wouldn't come, he wouldn't bother to answer, and if he
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did answer, it would just be giving some reason which was not true,
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and about being too busy to get away, And all that had been got
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by riding to him would be that she would be more unhappy than before.
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What things one did when one was idle. This resurrection of Frederick, or
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rather this attempt to resurrect him, what was it but the result of having
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nothing whatever to do? She wished she had never come away on holiday.
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What did she want with holidays? Work was her salvation. Work was the
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only thing that protected one, that kept one's steady and one's values true.
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At home in Hampstead, absorbed and busy, she had managed to get over
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Frederick, thinking of him laterly, only with the gentle melancholy with which one
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thinks of some one once loved but long since dead. And now this place,
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idleness, in this soft place, had thrown her back to the wretched
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state she had climbed so carefully out of years ago. Why if Frederick did
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come, she would only bore him. Hadn't she seen in a flash quite
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soon after getting to sand Salvatory that that was really what kept him away from
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her? And why should she suppose that now, after such a long estrangement,
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she would be able not to bore him, be able to do anything
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but stand before him like a tongue tied idiot, with all the fingers off
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her spirit turned into thumbs. Besides, what a hopeless position to have,
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as it were, to beseech Please wait a little, Please don't be impatient.
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I think perhaps I shan't be bore presently. A thousand times a day,
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Rose wished she had let Frederick alone. Lottie, who asked her every
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evening whether she had sent her letter yet, exclaimed with the light when the
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answer at last was yes, and threw her arms round her. Now we
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shall be completely happy, cried the enthusiastic Lottie. But nothing seemed less certain
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to Rose, and her expression became more and more the expression of one who
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has something on her mind. Mister Wilkins, wanting to find out what it
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was, strolled in the sun in his Panama hat and began to meet her.
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Accidentally, I did not know, said mister Wilkins the first time,
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courteously raising his hat, that you too liked this particular spot, and he
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sat down beside her. In the afternoon, she chose another spot, and
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she had not been in it half an hour before mister Wilkins, lightly swinging
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his cane, came round the corner. We are destined to meet in our
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rambles, said mister Wilkins pleasantly, and he sat down beside her. Mister
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Wilkins was very kind, and she had she saw, misjudged him in Hampstead.
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And this was the real man, ripened like fruit by the beneficent son
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of San Salvatore, but Rose did want to be alone. Still, she
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was grateful to him for proving to her that though she might bore Frederick,
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she did not bore everybody. If she had, he would not have sat
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talking to her on each occasion till it was time to go. In.
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True, he bored her, but that wasn't anything like so dreadful as if
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she bored him, then indeed her vanity would have been sadly ruffled. For
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now that Rose was not able to say her prayers, she was being assailed
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by every sort of weakness, vanity, sensitiveness, irritability, pugnacity, strange
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unfamiliar devils to have coming crowding on one and taking possession of one's swept and
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empty heart. She had never been vain or irritable or pugnacious in her life
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before. Could it be that San Salvatore was capable of opposite effects? And
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the same son that ripened mister Wilkins made her go acid The next morning so
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as to be sure of being alone. She went down while mister Wilkins was
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still lingering pleasantly with missus Fisher over breakfast, to the rocks by the water's
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edge, where she and Lottie had sat that first day, Frederick by now
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had got her letter to day. If he were like mister Wilkins, she
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might get a telegram from him. She tried to silence the absurd hope by
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jeering at it. Yet, if mister Wilkins had telegraphed, why not Frederick?
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The spell of San Salvatore lurked, even it seemed in note paper.
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Lottie had not dreamed of getting a telegram, And when she came in at
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lunch time, there it was. It would be too wonderful if when she
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went back at lunch time she found one there for her too. Rose clasped
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her hands tight round her knees. How passionately she longed to be important to
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somebody again, not important on platforms, not important as an asset in an
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organization, but privately important, just to one other person, quite privately,
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nobody else to know or notice. It didn't seem much to ask, in
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a world so crowded with people, just to have one of them, only
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one out of all the millions, to oneself, somebody who needed one,
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who thought of one, who was eager to come to one. Oh,
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oh, how dreadfully one wanted to be precious. All the morning she sat
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beneath the pine by the sea. Nobody came near her. The great hours
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passed slowly, they seemed enormous, but she wouldn't go up before lunch.
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She would give the telegram time to arrive. That day. Scrap egged on
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by Lottie's persuasions, and also thinking that perhaps she had sat long enough,
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had arisen from her chair and cushions and gone off with Lottie and sandwiches up
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into the hills till evening. Mister Wilkins, who wished to go with them,
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stayed on Lady Caroline's advice with Missus Fisher in order to cheer her solitude.
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And though he left off cheering her about eleven to go and look for
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Missus Arbuthnot, so as for a pace to cheer her too, thus dividing
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himself impartially between these solitary ladies, he came back again, presently mopping his
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forehead, and continued with Missus Fisher where he had left off. For this
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time Missus Arbuthnot had hidden successfully. There was a telegram too for her,
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he noticed when he came in. Pity he did not know where she was.
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Ought we to open it, he said to missus Fisher. No,
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said missus Fisher, it may require an answer. I don't approve of tampering
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with other people's correspondence, tampering, my dear lady. Mister Wilkins was shocked
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such a word, tampering. He had the greatest possible esteem for missus Fisher,
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but he did at times find her a little difficult. She liked him,
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he was sure, and she was in a fair way. He felt
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to become a client, but he feared she would be a headstrong and secretive
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client. She was certainly secretive, for though he had been skillful and sympathetic
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for a whole week, she had as yet given him no inkling of what
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was so evidently worrying her. Poor old thing, said Lottie, on his
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asking her if she perhaps could throw light on missus Fisher's troubles. She hasn't
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got love. Love, mister Wilkins could only echo genuinely scandalized. But surely,
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my dear at her age any love, said Lottie. That very morning
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he had asked his wife, for he now saw and respected her opinion,
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if she could tell him what was the matter with missus arbuthnot for she too,
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though he had done his best to thaw her into confidence, had remained
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persistently retiring. She wants her husband, said Lottie. Ah, said,
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mister Wilkins, a new lot shet on missus Arbuthnot's shy and modest melancholy,
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And he added, very proper, And Lotty said, smiling at him,
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one does. And mister Wilkins said, smiling her does one. And Lottie
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said, smiling at him, of course, And mister Wilkins much pleased with
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her. Though it was still quite early in the day, a time when
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caresses are sluggish, pinched her ear. Just before half past twelve, Rose
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came slowly up through the pergola and between the camellias ranged on either side of
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the old stone steps. The rivulets of periwinkles that flowed down them when first
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she arrived were gone, and now there were these bushes, incredibly rosetted,
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pink, white, red striped. She fingered and smelt them one after the
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other, so as not to get to her disappointment too quickly. As long
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as she hadn't seen for herself seen the table in the hall quite empty except
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for its bowl of flowers, she still could hope she still could have the
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joy of imagining the telegram lying on it, waiting for her. But there
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was no smell in a camellia, as mister Wilkins, who was standing in
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the doorway on the lookout for her and knew what was necessary in horticulture,
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reminded her. She started at his voice and looked up. A telegram has
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come for you, said mister Wilkins. She stared at him, her mouth
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open. I searched for you everywhere, but failed. Of course, she
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knew it, She had been sure of it all the time. Bright and
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burning youth in that instant flashed down again on rose. She flew up the
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steps, red as the camellia she had just been fingering, and was in
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the hall and tearing open the telegram before mister Wilkins had finished his sentence.
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Why but if things could happen like this, why But there was no end
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to why She and Frederick they were going to be again, at least no
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bad news, I trust, said mister Wilkins, who had followed her.
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For when she had read the telegram, she stood staring at it, and
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her face went slowly white. Curious to watch how her face went slowly white.
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She turned and looked at mister Wilkins as if trying to remember him.
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Oh. No, On the contrary, she managed to smile. I'm going
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to have a visitor, she said, holding out the telegram, and when
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he had taken it, she walked away towards the dining room, murmuring something
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about lunch being ready. Mister Wilkins read the telegram. It had been sent
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that morning from Missago and was a passing through on way to Rome. May
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I pay my respects this afternoon, Thomas Briggs? Why should such a telegram
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make the interesting lady turn pale? For her pallor? On reading? It
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had been so striking as to convince mister Wilkins she was receiving a blow.
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Who is Thomas Briggs? He asked, following her into the dining room.
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She looked at him vaguely. Who who is she repeated, getting her thoughts
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together again. Thomas Briggs. Oh, yes, he is the owner.
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This is his house. He is very nice. He is coming this afternoon.
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Thomas Briggs was at that very moment coming. He was jogging along the
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road between Misago and Castanedo in a fly, sincerely hoping that the dark eyed
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lady would grasp that all he wanted was to see her, and not at
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all to see if his house were still there. He felt that an owner
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of delicacy did not intrude on the tenant, But he had been thinking so
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much of her since that day. Rose are Buthnot such a pretty name,
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and such a pretty creature, mild, milky mothery in the best sense,
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the best sense being that she wasn't his mother, and couldn't have been if
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she had tried, for parents were the only things impossible to have younger than
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oneself. Also, he was passing so near it seemed absurd, not just
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to look in and see if she were comfortable. He longed to see her
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in his house. He longed to see it as her background, to see
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her sitting in his chairs, drinking out of his cups, using all his
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things. Did she put the big crimson brocade cushion in the drawing room behind
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her little dark head? Her hair and the whiteness of her skin would look
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lovely against it. Had she seen the portrait of herself on the stairs,
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he wondered if she liked it, he would explain it to her. If
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she didn't paint and she had said nothing to suggest it. She wouldn't perhaps
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notice how exactly the molding of the eyebrows and the slight hollow of the cheek.
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He told the fly to wait in Castanado, and crossed the piazza,
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hailed by children and dogs who all knew him, and sprang up suddenly from
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nowhere and walking quickly up the zigzag path. For he was an active young
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man, not much more than thirty. He pulled the ancient chain that rang
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the bell, and waited decorously on the proper side of the open door to
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be allowed to come in. At the sight of him, Francesca flung up
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every bit of her that would fling up eyebrows, eyelids, and hands,
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and volubly assured him that all was in perfect order, and that she was
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doing her duty. Of course, of course, said Briggs, cutting her
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short. No one doubts it, and he asked her to take in his
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car to her mistress. Which mistress asked Francesca, which mistress? There are
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four, said Francesca, scenting an irregularity on the part of the tenants.
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For her master looked surprised, and she felt pleased, for life was dull
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and irregularities helped it along at least a little four, he repeated, surprised.
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Well, take it to the lot, then, he said, recovering
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himself, for he noticed her expression. Coffee was being drunk in the top
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garden, in the shade of the Umbrella pine. Only Missus Fisher and mister
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Wilkins were drinking it, for Missus Arbuthnot, after eating nothing and being completely
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silent during lunch, had disappeared immediately afterwards. While Francesca went away into the
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garden with his card, her master stood examining the picture on the staircase of
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that donna by an early Italian painter name unknown, picked up by him at
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Orvietto, who was so much like his tenant. It really was remarkable the
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likeness. Of course, his tenant that day in London had had her hat
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on, but it was pretty sure her hair grew just like that off her
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forehead. The expression of the eyes grave and sweet was exactly the same.
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He rejoiced to think that he would always have her portrait. He looked up
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at the sound of footsteps, and there she was, coming down the stairs,
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just as he had imagined her in that place. Dressed in white,
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she was astonished to see him so soon. She had supposed he would come
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about tea time. Until then, she had meant to sit somewhere out of
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doors where she could be by herself. He watched her coming down the stairs
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with the utmost eager interest. In a moment she would be level with her
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portrait. It really is extraordinary, said Briggs. How do you do?
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Said Rose, Intent only on a decent show of welcome, she did not
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welcome him. He was here, she felt the telegram bitter in her heart.
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Instead of Frederick doing what she had longed Frederick would do, taking his
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place, just stand still a moment, she obeyed automatically, Yes, quite
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astonishing. Do you mind taking off your hat? Rose, surprised, took
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it off obediently. Yes, I thought so. I just wanted to make
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sure. And look, have you noticed? He began to make odd,
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swift passes with his hand over the face in the picture, measuring it,
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looking from it to her. Rose's surprise became amusement, and she could not
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help smiling. Have you come to compare me with my original? She asked?
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You do see how extraordinarily alike? I didn't know I looked so solemn.
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You don't not now you did a minute ago, quite as solemn.
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Oh yes, how do you do? He finished, suddenly noticing her outstretched
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hand, and he laughed and shook it, flushing a trick of his to
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the root of his hair. Francesca came back. The Signora Fisher, she
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said, will be pleased to see him. Who is the Signora Fisher,
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he asked Rose. One of the four who are sharing your house? Then
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there are four of you. Yes, my friend and I found we couldn't
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afford it by ourselves. Oh I say, said Briggs in confusion, for
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he would best have lif Rose arbuthnot pretty name, not to have to afford
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anything, but to stay at San Salvatore as long as she liked as his
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guest. Missus Fisher is having coffee in the top garden, said Rose.
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I'll take you to her and introduce you. I don't want to go.
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You've got your hat on, so you were going for a walk. Mayn't
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I come too? I demensely like being shown round by you. But missus
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Fisher is waiting for you. Won't she keep? Yes, said Rose,
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with the smile that had so much attracted him the first day. I think
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she will keep quite well till tea. Do you speak Italian? No,
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said Rose? Why on that? He turned to Francesca and told her at
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a great rate for in Italian. He was glib to go back to the
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Signora in the top garden and tell her he had encountered his old friend,
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the Signora or Buthnot, and was going for a walk with her, and
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would present himself to her later. Do you invite me to tea? He
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asked Rose, when Francesca had gone. Of course, it's your house,
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it isn't It's yours till Monday week, she smiled. Come and show me
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all the views, he said eagerly. And it was plain even to the
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self depreciatory Rose that she did not bore mister Briggs. End of Chapter seventeen.