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Chapter 22 · The Enchanted April

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Chapter twenty two of The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnham. This LibriVox recording
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is in the public domain. Read by T. R. Love, That
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evening was the evening of the full moon. The garden was an enchanted place,
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where all the flowers seemed white, the lilies, the Daphne's, the
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orange blossom, the white stalks, the white pinks, the white roses.
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You could see these as plainly as in the daytime, but the colored flowers
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existed only as fragrance. The three younger women sat on the low wall at
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the end of the top garden after dinner, rose a little apart from the
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others, and watched the enormous moon moving slowly over the place where Shelley had
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lived his last months, just on a hundred years before. The sea quivered
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along the path of the moon. The stars winked and tramped. The mountains
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were misty blue outlines, with little clusters of lights shining through from little clusters
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of homes. In the garden. The plants stood quite still, straight and
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unstirred by the smallest ruffle of air through the glass doors. The dining room,
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with its candlelight table and brilliant flowers, nastciams and marigolds that night glowed
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like some magic cave of color, and the three men smoking round it looked
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strangely animated figures seen from the silence the huge, cool calm of outside.
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Missus Fisher had gone to the drawing room and the fire. Scrap and Lottie,
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their faces upturned to the sky, said very little, and in whispers.
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Rose said nothing. Her face too was upturned. She was looking at
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the umbrella pine, which had been smitten into something glorious, silhouetted against stars.
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Every now and then, Scrap's eyes lingered on Rose, so did Lottie's.
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For Rose was lovely anywhere at that moment, among all the well known
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beauties, she would have been lovely. Nobody could have put her in the
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shade blown out her light that evening she was too evidently shining. Lotty bent
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close to Scrap's ear and whispered love. She whispered. Scrap nodded, yes,
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she said under her breath. She was obliged to admit it. You
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only had to look at Rose to know that here was love. There's nothing
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like it, whispered Lottie. Scrap was silent. It's a great thing.
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Whispered Lotty, after a pause during which they both watched Rose's upturned face.
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To get on with one's loving. Perhaps you can tell me of anything else
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in the world that works such wonders. But Scrap couldn't tell her. And
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if she could have, what a night to begin arguing in. This was
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a night for she pulled herself up love again. It was everywhere. There
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was no getting away from it. She had come to this place to get
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away from it, and here was everybody in its different stages. Even missus
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Fisher seemed to have been brushed by one of the many feathers of Love's wing.
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And at dinner was different. Full of concern because mister Briggs wouldn't eat,
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and her face when she turned to him, all soft with motherliness.
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Scrap looked up at the pine tree, motionless among stars. Beauty made you
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love, and love made you beautiful. She pulled her Rap close around her
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with a gesture of defense of keeping out and off. She didn't want to
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grow Sentimentalfficult not to hear. The marvelous night stole in through all one's chinks
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and brought in with it, whether one wanted them or not, enormous feelings
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feelings. One couldn't manage great things about death and time and waste, glorious
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and devastating things magnificent and bleak at once, rapture and terror and immense heart
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cleaving longing. She felt small and dreadfully alone. She felt uncovered and defenseless.
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Instinctively, she pulled her rap closer with this thing of chiffon, she
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tried to protect herself from the eternities. I suppose, whispered Lottie Rose's husband
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seems to you, just an ordinary, good natured, middle aged man.
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Scrap brought her gaze down from the stars and looked at Lottie a moment while
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she focused her mind, and again, just a rather red, rather round
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man, whispered Lottie. Scrap bowed her head. He isn't, whispered Lottie
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Rose sees through all that that's mere trimmings. She sees what we can't see,
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because she loves him, always love. Scrap got up, and,
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winding herself very tightly in her wrap, moved away to her day corner and
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sat down there alone on the wall, and looked out across the other sea,
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the sea where the sun had gone down, the sea with the far
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away dim shadow stretching into it, which was France. Yes, love worked,
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Wonders, and mister Arundel she couldn't at once get used to. His
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other name was to Rose love itself. But it also worked inverted Wonders.
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It didn't invariably, as she well knew, transfigure people into saints and angels
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grievously. Indeed, did it sometimes do the opposite. She had had it
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in her life applied to her to access. If it had let her alone,
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if it had at least been moderate and infrequent, she might, she
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thought, have turned out a quite decent, generous, minded, kindly human
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being. And what was she thanks to this love? Lotty talked so much
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about scripe search for a just description. She was a spoilt, a sour,
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a suspicious, and a selfish spinster. The glass doors of the dining
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room opened and the three men came out into the garden, mister Wilkins's voice
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flowing along in front of them. He appeared to be doing all the talking.
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The other two were saying nothing. Perhaps she had better go back to
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Lottie and Rose. It would be tiresome to be discovered and hemmed into the
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cul de sact by mister Briggs. She got up reluctantly, for she considered
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it unpardonable of mister Briggs to force her to move about like this, to
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force her out of any place she wished to sit in. And she emerged
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from the Daphne Bush's feeling like some gaunt, stern figure of just resentment,
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and wishing that she looked as gaunt and stern as she felt. So,
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would she have struck repugnance into the soul of mister Briggs and been free of
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him? But she knew she didn't look like that, however hard she might
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try. At dinner, his hand shook when he drank, and he couldn't
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speak to her without flushing scarlet and then going pale. And missus Fisher's eyes
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had sought hers with the entreaty of one who asked that her only son may
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not be hurt. How could a human being thought scrap frowning as she issued
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forth from her corner, How could a man made a god's image behaves so
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and be fitted for better things? She was sure, with his youth,
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his attractiveness, and his brains he had brains. She had examined him cautiously
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whenever at dinner missus Fisher forced him to turn away to answer her, and
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she was sure he had brains. Also, he had character. There was
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something noble about his head, about the shape of his forehead, noble and
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kind. All the more deplorable that he should allow himself to be infatuated by
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a mere outside and waste any of his strength, any of his peace of
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mind, hanging round just a woman thing. If only he could see right
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through her, see through all her skin and stuff, he would be cured,
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and she might go on sitting undisturbed on this wonderful night by herself.
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Just beyond the Daphning bushes, she met Frederick, hurrying. I was determined
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to find you first, he said, before I go to Rose. And
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he added quickly, I want to kiss your shoes, do you, said,
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scrap, smiling. Then I must go and put on my new ones.
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These aren't nearly good enough. She felt immensely well disposed towards Frederick.
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He at least would grab no more. His grabbing days, so sudden and
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so brief, were done. Nice man, agreeable man. She now definitely
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liked him. Clearly he had been going into some sort of a tangle,
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and she was grateful to Lottie for stopping her in time at dinner from saying
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something hopelessly complicating. But whatever he had been getting into, he was out
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of it. Now His face and Rose's face had the same light in them.
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I shall adore you forever now, said fred Scrap smiled, shall you?
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She said? I adored you before because of your beauty. Now I
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adore you because you're not only as beautiful as a dream, but as decent
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as a man. When the impetuous young woman Frederick went on, the blessedly
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impetuous young woman blurted out in the neck of time that I am Rose's husband.
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You behaved exactly as a man would have behaved to his friend, did
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I said Scrap, her enchanting dimple. Very evident. It's the rarest,
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most precious of combinations, said Frederick, To be a woman and have the
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loyalty of a man, is it? Smiled Scrap a little wistfully. These
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were indeed handsome compliments. If only she were really like that. And I
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want to kiss your shoes. Won't this save trouble? She asked, holding
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out her hand. He took it and swiftly kissed it, and was hurrying
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away again. Bless you, he said as he went. Where is your
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luggage? Scrap called after him. Oh lord, yes, said Frederick,
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pausing it's at the station. I'll send for it. He disappeared through the
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bushes. She went indoors to give the order. And this is how it
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happened that Domenico, for the second time that evening, found himself journeying into
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Missago and wandering as he went. Then, having made the necessary arrangements for
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the perfect happiness of these two people, she came slowly out into the garden
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again, very much absorbed in thought. Love seemed to bring happiness to everybody
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but herself. It had certainly got hold of everybody there in its different varieties,
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except herself. Poor mister Briggs had been got hold of by its least
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dignified variety. Poor missus Briggs. He was a disturbing problem, and his
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going away next day wouldn't She was afraid solve him. When she reached the
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others, mister Arundale, she kept on forgetting that he wasn't. Mister Arundale
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was already his arm threw roses, going off with her, probably to the
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greater seclusion of the lower garden. No doubt they had a great deal to
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say to each other. Something had gone wrong between them and had suddenly been
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put right. San Salvatore, Lottie would say, San Salvatore working its spell
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of happiness. She could quite believe in its spell. Even she was happier
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here than she had been for ages and ages. The only person who would
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go empty away would be mister Briggs, Poor mister Briggs. When she came
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inside of the group, he looked much too nice and boyish not to be
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happy. It seemed out of the picture that the owner of the place,
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the person to whom they owed all this, should be the only one to
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go away from it unblessed compunction ceased scrap. What very pleasant days she had
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spent in his house, lying in his garden, enjoying his flowers, loving
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his views, using his things, being comfortable, being rested, recovering.
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In fact, she had had the most leisured, peaceful and thoughtful time of
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her life, and all really thanks to him. Oh, she knew.
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She paid him some ridiculous small sum a week out of all proportion to the
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benefits she got in exchange. But what was that in the balance, And
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wasn't it entirely thanks to him that she had come across Lottie. Never else
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would she and Lotty have met, Never else would she have known her compunction
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laid its quick, warm hand on Scrap. Impulsive gratitude flooded her. She
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went straight up to Briggs. I owe you so much, she said,
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overcome by the sudden realization of all she did owe him, and ashamed of
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her churlishness in the afternoon and at dinner. Of course, he hadn't known
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she was being churlish. Of course her disagreeable inside was camouflaged, as usual
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by the chance arrangement of her outside. But she knew it. She was
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churlish. She had been churlish to everybody for years. Any penetrating eye,
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thought Scrap, any really penetrating eye, would see her for what she was,
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A spoilt, a sour, a suspicious and a selfish spinster. I
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owe you so much, therefore, said Scrap, earnestly, walking straight up
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to Briggs. Humbled by these thoughts. He looked at her in wonder you
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owe me, he said, But it's I who I who? He stammered,
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to see her there in his garden, nothing in it, no white
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flower was wider, more exquisite, please, said Scrap still more earnestly,
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won't you clear your mind of everything except just truth? You don't owe me
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anything? How should you? I don't owe you anything, echoed Briggs.
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Why I owe you my first sight of of Oh, for goodness's sake.
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For goodness' sake, said Scrap entreatingly. Do please be ordinary? Don't be
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humble? Why should you be humble? It's ridiculous of you to be humble.
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You're worth fifty of me. Unwise, thought mister Wilkins, who was
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standing there too, while Lottie sat on the wall. He was surprised,
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He was concerned. He was shocked that Lady Caroline should thus encourage Briggs.
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Unwise, very, thought mister Wilkins, shaking his head. Briggs's condition was
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so bad already that the only course to take with him was to repel him
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utterly. Mister Wilkins considered no half measures were the least use with Briggs,
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and kindliness and familiar talk would only be misunderstood by the unhappy youth. The
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daughter of the Droit Witches could not really it was impossible to suppose it desire
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to encourage him. Briggs was all very well, But Briggs was Briggs.
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His name alone proved that probably Lady Caroline did not quite appreciate the effect of
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her voice and face, and how between them they made other wh as ordinary
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words seem well encouraging. But these words were not quite ordinary. She had
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not, he feared, sufficiently pondered them indeed, and indeed she needed an
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adviser, some sagacious subjective counselor like himself. There she was standing before Briggs,
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almost holding out her hand to him. Briggs, of course ought to
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be thanked, for they were having the most delightful holiday in his house,
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but not thanked to excess, and not by Lady Caroline alone. That very
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evening he had been considering the presentation to him next day of a round robin
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of collective gratitude on his departure. But he should not be thanked like this
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in the moonlight in the garden by the lady. He was so manifestly infatuated
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with mister Wilkins. Therefore, desiring to assus Lady Caroline out of this situation
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by swiftly applied tact, said with much heartiness, it is most proper,
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Briggs, that you should be thanked you will please allow me to add my
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expressions of indebtedness and those of my wife to Lady Caroline's. We ought to
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have proposed a vote of thanks to you at dinner. You should have been
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toasted. There certainly ought to have been some But Briggs took no notice of
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him whatever. He simply continued to look at Lady Caroline as though she were
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the first woman he had ever seen. Neither mister Wilkins observed, did Lady
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Caroline take any notice of him. She too, continued to look at Briggs
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and with that odd air of almost appeal. Most unwise most Lottie, on
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the other hand, took too much notice of him, choosing this moment when
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Lady carroll Line needed special support and protection to get up off the wall and
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put her arm through his and draw him away. I want to tell you
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something, mellowish, said Lottie at this juncture, getting up presently, said
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mister Wilkins, waving her aside. No now, said Lottie, and she
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drew him away. He went with extreme reluctance. Briggs should be given no
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rope at all, not an inch. Well, what is it, he
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asked patiently, as she led him towards the house. Lady Caroline ought not
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to be left like that, exposed to annoyance. Oh but she isn't,
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Lotty assured him, just as if he had said this aloud, which he
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certainly had not. Caroline is perfectly all right, not at all all right,
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that young Briggs is. Of course he is. What did you expect.
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Let's go indoors to the fire and missus Fisher she's all by herself.
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I cannot, said mister Wilkins, trying to draw back. Leave Lady Caroline
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alone in the garden. Don't be silly, mellersh she isn't alone. Besides,
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I want to tell you something, Well tell me then indoors. With
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reluctance that increased at every step, mister Wilkins was taken farther and farther away
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from Lady Caroline. He believed in his wife now and trusted her, but
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on this occasion he thought she was making a terrible mistake. In the drawing
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room sat Missus Fisher by the fire, and it certainly was to mister Wilkins,
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who preferred rooms and fires after dark, two gardens and moonlight, more
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agreeable to be in there than out of doors. If he could have brought
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Lady Caroline safely in with him. As it was, he went in with
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extreme reluctance. Missus Fisher, her hands folded on her lap, was doing
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nothing, merely gazing fixedly into the fire. The lamp was arranged conveniently for
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reading, but she was not reading. Her great dead friends did not seem
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worth reading. That night. They always said the same things. Now over
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and over again they said the same things, and nothing new was to be
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got out of them any more forever, no doubt, they were greater than
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anyone was now, But they had this immense disadvantage that they were dead.
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Nothing further was to be expected of them. While of the living, what
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might one not still expect? She craved for the living. The developing,
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the crystallized and finished wearied her. She was thinking that if only she had
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had a son, a son like mister Briggs, a boy like that,
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going on unfolding, alive, affectionate, taking care of her, and loving
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her. The look on her face gave Missus Wilkins' heart a little twist when
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she saw it. Poor, oh dear, she thought, all the loneliness
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of age flashing upon her, the loneliness of having outstayed one's welcome in the
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world, of being in it only on sufferance the complete loneliness of the old
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childless woman who has failed to make friends. It did seem that people could
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only be really happy in pairs any sorts of pears, not in the least
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necessarily lovers, but pairs of friends, pairs of mothers and children, of
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brothers and sisters. And where was the other half of missus Fisher's pair going
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to be found? Missus Wilkins thought she had perhaps better kiss her again.
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The kissing this afternoon had been a great success. She knew it. She
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had instantly felt Missus Fisher's reaction to it. So she crossed over and bent
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down and kissed her, and said, cheerfully, we've come in, which
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indeed was evident this time Missus Fisher actually put up her hand and held Missus
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Wilkins's cheek against her own, this living thing full of affection, of warm,
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racing blood. And as she did this, she felt safe with the
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strange creature, sure that she, who herself did unusual things so naturally,
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would take the action quite as a matter of course, and not embarrass her
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by being surprised Missus Wilkins was not at all surprised. She was delighted.
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I believe I'm the other half of her pair, flashed into her mind.
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I believe it's me, positively, me going to be fast friends with missus
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Fisher. Her face when she lifted her head was full of laughter. Too
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extraordinary the developments produced by San Salvatore. She and Missus Fisher, but she
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saw them being fast friends. Where are the others? Asked missus Fisher.
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Thank you, dear, she added, as Missus Wilkins put a footstool under
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her feet, a footstool obviously needed Missus Fisher's legs being short. I see
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myself throughout the years, thought Missus Wilkins, her eyes dancing, bringing footstools
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to Missus Fisher. The roses, she said, straightening herself, have gone
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into the lower garden. I think love making the roses the Fredericks. Then,
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if you like they are completely merged and indistinguishable, why not say they
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ar bufknots, my dear, said mister Wilkins. Very well, mellersh the
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arbuthnots and the Carolines. Both mister Wilkins and Missus Fisher started. Mister Wilkins,
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usually in such complete control of himself, started even more than Missus Fisher,
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and for the first time since his arrival, felt angry with his wife.
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Really, he began indignantly, very well, Mellersh, the briggs is
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then the Briggses, cried mister Wilkins, now very angry, indeed, for
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the implication to him was a most outrageous insult to the entire race of desters,
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dead desters, living desters, and desters still harmless because they were yet
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unborn. Really, I'm sorry, Mellersh, said Missus Wilkins, pretending meekness.
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If you don't like it, like it, you've taken leave of your
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senses. Why they've never set eyes on each other before today, that's true,
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but that's why they're able now to go ahead, go ahead. Mister
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Wilkins could only echo the outrageous words. I'm sorry, Mellersh, said Missus
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Wilkins, again, if you don't like it, But her gray eyes shone
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and her face rippled with the light and conviction that had so much surprised Rose
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the first time they met. It's useless minding, she said, I shouldn't
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struggle if I were you, because She stopped and looked first at one alarmed,
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solemn face, and then at the other, and laughter as well as
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light flickered and danced over her. I see them being the briggses, finished
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Missus Wilkins. That last week the syringeac came out at San Salvatore and all
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the acacious flowers. No one had noticed how many acacias there were till one
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day. The garden was full of a new scent, and there were the
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delicate trees, the lovely successors to the wistaria, hung all over among their
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trembling leaves with blossom. To lie under an acacia tree that last week and
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look up through the branches at its frail leaves, on white flowers quivering against
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the blue of the sky, while the least movement of the air shook down
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their scent was a great happiness. Indeed, the whole garden dressed itself gradually
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towards the end in white and grew more and more scented. There were the
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lilies as vigorous as ever, and the white stalks, and white pinks,
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and white banks a roses, and the syringa, and the jessamine, and
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at last the crowning fragrance of the acacius. When on the first of May
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everybody went away, Even after they had got to the bottom of the hill
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and passed through the iron gates out into the village, they could still smell
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the acacias. End of Chapter twenty two. End of The Enchanted April by
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Elizabeth von Arnhem