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Chapter 20 · The Enchanted April

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  Chapter twenty of The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnham. This LibriVox recording is
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  in the public domain. Read by T. R. Love. Scrap wanted
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  to know so much about her mother that Arundel had presently to invent. He
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  would talk about anything she wished, if only he might be with her for
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  a while and see her and hear her. But he knew very little of
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  the Droit witches and their friends really beyond meeting them at those bigger functions where
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  literature is also represented, and amusing them at lunches and dinners. He knew
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  very little of them really. To them, he had always remained mister Arundel.
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  No one called him Ferdinand, and he only knew the gossip also available
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  to the evening papers and the frequenters of clubs. Body was, however,
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  good at inventing, and as soon as he had come to an end of
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  first hand knowledge, in order to answer her inquiries and keep her there to
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  himself, he proceeded to invent. It was quite easy to fasten some of
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  the entertaining things he was constantly thinking on to other people and pretend they were
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  theirs. Scrap, who had that affection for her parents which warms in absence,
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  was a thirst for news, and became more and more interested by the
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  news. He gradually imparted. At first it was ordinary news. He had
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  met her mother here and seen her there. She looked very well, she
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  said so and so. But presently the things Lady Droitwich had said took on
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  an unusual quality. They became amusing. Mother said that. Scrap interrupted,
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  surprised, and presently Lady Droitwich began to do amusing things as well as save
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  them. Mother did that, Scrap inquired, wide eyed, Arundel warmed to
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  his work. He fathered some of the most entertaining ideas he had lately had
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  on to Lady droit Witch, and also any charming, funny things that had
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  been done or might have been done, for he could imagine almost anything.
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  Scrap's eyes grew round with wonder and affectionate pride in her mother. Why but
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  how funny, fancy mother, What old darling did she really do that?
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  How perfectly adorable of her? And did she really say? But how wonderful
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  of her to think of it? What sort of a face did Lloyd George
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  make? She laughed and laughed, and had a great longing to hug her
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  mother, and the time flew, and it grew quite dusk, and it
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  grew nearly dark, and mister Arundale still went on amusing her, and it
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  was a quarter to eight before she suddenly remembered dinner. Oh good heavens,
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  she exclaimed, jumping up. Yes, it's late, said Arundale. I'll
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  go on quickly and send the maid to you. I must run or I'll
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  never be ready in time. And she was gone up the path with the
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  swiftness of a young, slender deer. Arundale followed. He did not wish
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  to arrive too hot, so had to go slowly. Fortunately he was near
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  the top, and Francesca came down the pergola to pilot him indoors, and
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  having shown him where he could wash, she put him in the empty drawing
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  room to cool himself by the crackling wood fire. He got as far away
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  from the fire as he could and stood in one of the deep window recesses,
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  looking out at the distant lights of Missago. The drawing room door was
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  open, and the house was quiet, with the hush that precedes dinner when
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  the inhabitants are all shut up in their rooms dressing Briggs in his room,
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  was throwing away spoilt tie after spoilt tie scrap in hers was hurrying into a
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  black frock, with a vague notion that mister Briggs wouldn't be able to see
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  her so clearly in black. Missus Fisher was fastening the lace shawl which nightly
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  transformed her day dress into her evening dress, with the brooch Ruskin had given
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  her on her marriage, formed of two pearl lilies tied together by a blue
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  enamel ribbon, on which was written in gold letters Esto perpetua. Mister Wilkins
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  was sitting on the edge of his bed brushing his wife's hair. Thus far
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  in this third week he had progressed in demonstrativeness, while she, for her
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  part, sitting on a chair in front of him, put his studs in
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  clean shirt, and Rose, ready dressed, sat at her window considering her
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  day. Rose was quite aware of what had happened to mister Briggs. If
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  she had had any difficulty about it, Lotty would have removed it by the
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  frank comments she made while she and Rose sat together after tea on the wall,
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  Lotty was delighted at more love being introduced into San Salvatore, even if
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  it were only one sided, and said that when Rose's husband was there,
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  she didn't suppose now that Missus Fisher too had at last come on glued.
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  Rose protested at the expression, and Lotty retorted that it was in Keats.
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  There would be another place in the world more swarming with happiness than San Salvatore.
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  Your husband, said Lotty, swinging her feet, might be here quite
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  soon, perhaps tomorrow evening if he starts at once, and they'll be a
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  glorious final few days before we all go home, refreshed for life. I
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  don't believe any of us will ever be the same again, and I wouldn't
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  be a bit surprised if Caroline doesn't end up by getting fond of the young
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  man Briggs. It's in the air, you have to get fond of people.
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  Here, Rose sat at her window thinking of these things, Lottie's optimism
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  yet it had been justified by mister Wilkins, and looked too at missus Fisher.
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  If only it would come true as well about Frederick. For Rose,
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  who between lunch and tea had left off thinking about Frederick, was now between
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  tea and dinner thinking of him harder than ever. It has been funny and
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  delightful, that little interlude of admiration. But of course it couldn't go on.
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  Once Caro appeared, Rose knew her place. She could see as well
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  as any one, the unusually the unique loveliness of Lady Caroline. How warm
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  though things like admiration and appreciation made one feel, how capable of really deserving
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  them, How different, how glowing they seemed to quicken unsuspected faculties into life.
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  She was sure she had been a thoroughly amusing woman between lunch and tea,
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  and a pretty one too. She was quite certain she had been pretty.
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  She saw it in mister Briggs's eyes as clearly as in a looking glass.
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  For a brief space, she thought she had been like a torpid fly
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  brought back to gay, buzzing by the light of a fire in a wintry
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  room. She still buzzed, She still tingled, just at the remembrance.
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  What fun it had been having an admirer, even for that little while.
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  No wonder people liked admirers. They seemed, in some strange way, to
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  make one come alive. Although it was over, she still glowed with it
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  and felt more exhilarated, more optimistic, more as Lottie probably constantly felt,
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  than she had done since she was a girl. She dressed with care,
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  though she knew mister Briggs would no longer see her, but it gave her
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  pleasure to see how pretty while she was about it she could make herself look.
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  And very nearly she stuck a crimson camellia in her hair, down by
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  her ear. She did hold it there for a minute, and it looked
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  almost sinfully attractive, and was exactly the color of her mouth. But she
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  took it out again with a smile and a sigh, and put it in
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  the proper place for flowers, which is water. She mustn't be silly,
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  she thought, Think of the poor. Soon she would be back with them
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  again. And what would a camellia behind her ear seem like then? Simply
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  fantastic. But on one thing she was determined. The first thing she would
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  do when she got home would be to have it out with Frederick if he
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  didn't come to San Salvatore. That is what she would do, the very
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  first thing. Long ago she ought to have done this, but always she
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  had been handicapped when she tried to by being so dreadfully fond of him,
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  and so much afraid that fresh wounds were going to be given her wretched soft
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  heart. But now let him wound her as much as he chose, as
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  much as he possibly could, She would still have it out with him.
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  Not that he ever intentionally wounded her. She knew he never meant to.
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  She knew he often had no idea of having done it. For a person
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  who wrote books, thought Rose Frederick didn't seem to have much imagination anyhow,
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  She said to herself, getting up from the dressing table. Things couldn't go
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  on like this. She would have it out with him. This separate life,
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  this freezing loneliness. She had had enough of it. Why shouldn't she
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  too be happy? Why on earth the energetic expression matched her mood of rebelliousness.
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  Shouldn't she too be loved and allowed to love? She looked at her
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  little clock, still ten minutes before dinner. Tired of staying in her bedroom,
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  she thought she would go on to Missus Fisher's battlements, which would be
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  empty at this hour, and watch the moon rise out of the sea.
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  She went into the deserted upper hall with this intention, but was a track
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  on her way along it by the firelight shining through the open door of the
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  drawing room. How day it looked. The fire transformed the room a dark,
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  ugly room. In the daytime, it was transformed just as she had
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  been transformed by the warmth of No she wouldn't be silly, she would think
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  of the poor. The thought of them always brought her down to sobriety.
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  At once she peeped in firelight and flowers, and outside the deep slits of
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  windows hung the blue curtain of the night. How pretty, what a sweet
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  place Sen Salvatore was, And that gorgeous lilac on the table. She must
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  go and put her face in it. But she never got to the lilac.
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  She went one step towards it, and then stood still, for she
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  had seen the figure looking out of the window in the farthest corner, and
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  it was Frederick. All the blood in Rose's body rushed to her heart and
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  seemed to stop its beating. She stood quite still. He had not heard
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  her, He did not turn round. She stood looking at him. The
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  miracle had happened, and he had come. She stood holding her breath.
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  So he needed her, for he had come instantly, So he too,
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  must have been thinking longing. Her heart, which had seemed to stop beating,
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  was suffocating her now the way it raced along. Frederick did love her,
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  then he must love her? Or why had he come something? Perhaps
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  her absence had made him turn to her, want her, And now the
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  understanding she had made up her mind to have with him would be quite would
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  be quite easy. Her thoughts wouldn't go on. Her mind stammered. She
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  couldn't think, She could only see and feel. She didn't know how it
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  had happened. It was a miracle. God could do miracles, God had
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  done this. One God could, God could could. Her mind stammered again
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  and broke off Frederick. She tried to say, but no sound came,
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  or if it did, the crackling of the fire covered it up. She
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  must go nearer. She began to creep towards him, softly, softly.
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  He did not move. He had not heard. She stole nearer and nearer,
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  and the fire crackled, and he heard nothing. She stopped a moment,
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  unable to breathe. She was afraid. Suppose he suppose he Oh,
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  but he had come, He had come. She went on again, and
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  close up to him and her heart beat so loud that she thought he must
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  hear it, and couldn't he feel? Didn't he know? Frederick, she
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  whispered, hardly able even to whisper, choked by the beating of her heart.
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  He spun round on his heels, Rose, he exclaimed, staring blankly.
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  But she did not see his stare, for her arms were round his
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  neck, and her cheek was against his, and she was murmuring, her
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  lips on his ear. I knew you would come, in my very heart.
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  I always always knew you would come. End of Chapter twenty