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Chapter 19 · The Enchanted April

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  Chapter nineteen of The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnum. This LibriVox recording is
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  in the public domain. Read by Tea our love. And then when she
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  spoke what chance was there for poor Briggs? He was undone. All Scraps
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  said was how do you do on mister Wilkins presenting him? But it was
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  enough. It undid Briggs. From a cheerful, chatty, happy young man,
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  overflowing with life and friendliness, he became silent, solemn, and with
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  little beads on his temples. Also he became clumsy, dropping the teaspoon as
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  he handed her her cup, mismanaging the macaroons so that one rolled on the
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  ground. His eyes could not keep off the enchanting face for a moment.
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  And when mister Wilkins elucidating him, for he failed to elucidate himself, inform
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  Lady Caroline that in mister Briggs she beheld the owner of San Salvatore, who
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  was on his way to Rome, but had got out at Misago, et
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  cetera, et cetera, And that the other three ladies had invited him to
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  spend the night in what was, to all intents and purposes, his own
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  house. Rather than a hotel, and mister Briggs was only waiting for the
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  seal of her approval to this invitation, she being the fourth hostess. When
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  mister Wilkins, balancing his sentences and being admirably clear and enjoying the sound of
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  his own cultured voice, explained the position in this manner to Lady Caroline,
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  Briggs sat and never said a word. A deep melancholy invaded Scrap. The
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  symptoms of the incipient grabber were all there, and only too familiar, and
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  she knew that if Briggs stayed her rest cure might be regarded as over.
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  Then Kate Lumley occurred to her. She caught at Kate as at a straw.
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  It would have been delightful, she said, faintly, smiling at Briggs.
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  She could not, in decency not smile at least a little, but
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  even a little betrayed the dimple, and Briggs's eyes became more fixed than ever.
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  I'm wondering if there is room. Yes, there is, said Lottie.
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  There's Kate Lumley's room, I thought, said Scrap to missus Fisher.
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  And it seemed to Briggs that he had never heard music till now. Your
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  friend was expected immediately. Oh no, said missus Fisher, with an awe
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  and placidness. Scrap thought Miss Lumley, said mister Wilkins. Or should I
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  he inquired of missus Fisher, say missus nobody has ever married Kate, said
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  missus Fisher complacently. Quite so, Miss Lumley does not arrive to day in
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  any case, Lady Caroline, and mister Briggs has, unfortunately, if I
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  may say so, to continue his journey tomorrow so that his staying would in
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  no way interfere with Miss Lumley's possible movements. Then of course I join in
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  the invitation, said Scrap, with what was to Briggs the most divine cordiality.
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  He stammered something flushing scarlet and scrap butt oh and turned her head away.
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  But that merely made Briggs acquainted with her profile. And if there existed
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  anything more lovely than Scrap's full face, it was her profile. Well,
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  it was only for this one afternoon and evening he would leave, no doubt,
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  the first thing in the morning. It took hours to get to Rome.
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  Awfully if he hung on till the night train. She had a feeling
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  that the principle expressed to Rome passed through at night. Why hadn't that woman
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  Kate Lumley arrived yet? She had forgotten all about her, But now she
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  remembered she was to have been invited a fortnight ago. What had become of
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  her? This man, once let in, would come and see her in
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  London, would haunt the places she was likely to go. He had the
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  makings her experienced. I could see of a passionately persistent grabber. If thought
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  mister Wilkins, observing Briggs's face and sudden silence, any understanding existed between this
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  young fellow and Missus Arbuthnot, there is now going to be trouble. Trouble
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  of a different nature from the kind I feared, in which our Buthnot would
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  have played a leading part, in fact, the part of petitioner. But
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  trouble that may need help and advice none the less, for it's not being
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  publicly scandalous. Briggs, impelled by his passions and her beauty, will aspire
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  to the daughter of the Droit Witches. She naturally and properly will repel him.
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  Missus Arbuthnot, left in the cold, will be upset and show it.
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  Arbuffnot, on his arrival, will find his wife in enigmatic tears,
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  inquiring into their cause, he will be met with an icy reserve. More
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  trouble may than be expected, And in me they will seek and find their
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  adviser. When Lottie said Missus Arbuthnot wanted her husband, she was wrong.
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  What Missus Arbuthnot wants is Briggs, and it looks uncommonly as if she were
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  not going to get him. Well, I'm their man. Where are your
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  things, mister Briggs asked missus Fisher, her voice round with motherliness. Oughtn't
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  they to be fetched? For the sun was nearly in the sea now,
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  and the sweet smelling april dampness that followed immediately on its disappearance was beginning to
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  steal into the garden. Briggs started my things, he repeated, Oh,
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  yes, I must fetch them. They'rein Misago. I'll send Dominico. My
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  fly is waiting in the village. He can go back in it. I'll
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  go and tell him. He got up to whom was he talking to missus
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  Fisher? Ostensibly yet his eyes were fixed on Scrap, who said nothing and
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  looked at no one. Then, recollecting himself, he stammered, I'm awfully
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  sorry. I keep on forgetting. I'll go down and fetch them myself.
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  We can always send Domenico, said Rose, and at her gentle voice he
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  turned his head. Why there was his friend, the sweet named lady.
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  But how had she not in this short interval changed? Was it the failing
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  light making her so colorless, so vague featured, so dim, so much
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  like a ghost? A nice, good ghost, of course, and still
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  with a pretty name, but only a ghost. He turned from her to
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  scrap again and forgot Rose Arbuthnot's existence. How was it possible for him to
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  bother about anybody or anything else in this first moment of being face to face
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  with his dream come true, Briggs had not supposed or hoped that any one
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  as beautiful as his dream of beauty existed. He had never till now met
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  even an approximation pretty women. Charming women by the score he had met and
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  properly appreciated, but never the real, the godlike thing itself. He used
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  to think, if I ever saw a perfectly beautiful woman, I should die,
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  And though having now met to what his ideas was a perfectly beautiful woman,
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  he did not die. He became very nearly as incapable of managing his
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  own affairs, as if he had the others were obliged to arrange everything for
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  him. By questions. They extracted from him that his luggage was in the
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  station cloak room at Misago, and they sent for Domenico. And urged and
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  prompted by everybody except Scrap, who sat in silence and looked at no one,
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  Briggs was induced to give him the necessary instructions for going back in the
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  fly and bringing out his things. It was a sad sight to see the
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  collapse up Briggs. Everybody noticed it, even rose upon my word, the
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  missus Fisher. The way one pretty face can turn a delightful man into an
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  idiot is past all patience, and feeling the air getting chilly and the sight
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  of the enthralled Briggs painful, she went in to order his room to be
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  got ready, regretting now that she had pressed the poor boy to stay.
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  She had forgotten Lady Caroline's kill joy face for the moment, and the more
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  completely owing to the absence of any ill effects produced by it on mister Wilkins,
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  poor boy, such a charming boy, too left to himself. It
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  was true she could not accuse Lady Caroline of not leaving him to himself,
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  for she was taking no notice of him at all. But that did not
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  help. Exactly like foolish moths did. Men in other respects intelligent flutter round
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  the impassive lighted candle of a pretty face. She had seen them doing it,
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  she had looked on only too often. Almost she laid a mother hand
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  on Briggs's fair head as she passed him. Poor boy, then scrap,
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  having finished her cigarette, got up and went indoors too. She saw no
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  reason why she should sit there in order to gratify mister Briggs's desire to stare.
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  She would have liked to stay out longer, to go to her corner
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  behind the Daphne bushes and look at the sunset sky, and watched the lights
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  coming out one by one in the village below, and smelled the sweet moisteness
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  of the evening. But if she did, mister Briggs would certainly follow her.
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  The old familiar tyranny had begun again. Her holiday of peace and liberation
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  was interrupted, perhaps over, for who knew if he would go away after
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  all tomorrow he might leave the house driven out of it by Kate Lumley,
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  But that was nothing to prevent his taking rooms in the village and coming up
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  every day, this tyranny of one person over another. And she was so
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  miserably constructed that she wouldn't even be able to frown him down without being misunderstood.
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  Scrap, who loved this time of the evening in her corner, felt
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  indignant with mister Briggs, who was doing her out of it, and she
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  turned her back on the garden and him, and went towards the house without
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  a look or a word. But Briggs, when he realized her intention,
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  leapt to his feet, snatched chairs which were not in her way out of
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  it, kicked a footstool which was not in her path on one side,
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  hurried to the door, which stood wide open in order to hold it open,
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  and followed her through it, walking by her side along the hall.
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  What was to be done with mister Briggs, Well, it was his hall.
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  She couldn't prevent his walking along it. I hope, he said,
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  not able while walking to take his eyes off her, so that he knocked
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  against several things he would otherwise have avoided, the corner of a bookcase,
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  an ancient carved cupboard, the table with flowers on it, shaking the water
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  over that you are quite comfortable here. If you're not, I'll I'll flay
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  them alive. His voice vibrated. What was to be done with mister Briggs.
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  She could, of course stay in her room the whole time, say
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  she was ill, not appear at dinner. But again the tyranny of this.
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  I'm very comfortable, indeed, said Scrap. If I had dreamed you
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  were coming, he began. It's a wonderful old place, said Scrap,
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  doing her utmost to sound detached and for bidding, but with little hope of
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  success. The kitchen was on this floor, and passing its door, which
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  was open a crack. They were observed by the servants, whose thoughts communicated
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  to each other by looks, may be roughly reproduced by such rude symbols as
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  ah ha and oh hoo, symbols which represented and included their appreciation of the
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  inevitable, their foreknowledge of the inevitable, and their complete understanding and approval.
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  Are you going upstairs? Asked Briggs, as she paused at the foot of
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  them. Yes, which room do you sit in? The drawing room or
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  the small yellow room in my own room? So then he couldn't go up
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  with her, So then all he could do was to wait till she came
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  out again. He longed to ask her which was her own room. It
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  thrilled him to hear her call any room in his house her own room,
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  that he might picture her in it. He longed to know if, by
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  any happy chance, it was his room forever after, to be filled with
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  her wonder. But he didn't dare. He would find out later from some
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  one else. Francesca, anybody, then, I shan't see you again till
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  dinner. Dinner is at eight, was Scrap's evasive answer. As she went
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  upstairs, he watched her go. She passed the Madonna, the portrait of
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  Rose Arbuthnot, and the dark eyed figure he had thought so sweet seemed to
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  turn pale to shrivel into insignificance. As she passed, she turned the bend
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  off the stairs, and the setting sun shining through the west window. A
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  moment on her face turned her to glory. She disappeared, and the sun
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  went out too, and the stairs were dark and empty. He listened till
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  her footsteps were silent, trying to tell from the sound of the shutting door
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  which room she had gone into. Then wandered aimlessly away through the hall again
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  and found himself back in the top garden. Scrap from her window saw him
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  there. She saw Lottie and Rose sitting on the end parapet where she would
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  have liked to have been, and she saw mister Wilkins button holing Briggs and
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  evidently telling him the story of the oleander tree in the middle of the garden.
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  Briggs was listening with the patience she thought rather nice, seeing that it
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  was his oleander and his own father's story. She knew mister Wilkins was telling
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  him the story by his gestures. Domenico had told it her soon after her
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  arrival, and he had also told Missus Fisher, who had told mister Wilkins.
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  Missus Fisher thought highly of this story and often spoke of it. It
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  was about a cherrywood walking stick. Briggs's father had thrust this stick into the
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  ground at that spot and said to Domenico's father, who was then the gardener,
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  here we will have an oleander. And Briggs's father left the stick in
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  the ground as a reminder to Domenico's father, and presently, how long afterwards
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  nobody remembered, the stick began to sprout, and it was an oleander.
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  There stood poor mister Briggs, being told all about it, and listening to
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  the story he must have known from infancy with patience. Probably he was thinking
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  of something else. She was afraid he was. How unfortunate, how extremely
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  unfortunate, the determination that seized people to get hold of and engulf other people.
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  If only they could be induced to stand more on their own feet.
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  Why couldn't mister Briggs be more like Lottie, who never wanted anything of anybody,
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  but was complete in herself and respected other people's completeness. One loved being
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  with Lottie. With her, one was free and yet befriended. Mister Briggs
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  looked so really nice too. She thought she might like him, if only
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  he wouldn't so excessively like her. Scrap felt melancholy here she was shut up
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  in her bedroom, which was stuffy from the afternoon sun that had been pouring
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  into it instead of out in the cool garden, and all because of mister
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  Briggs. Intolerably tyranny, she thought, flaring up. She wouldn't endure it.
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  She would go out all the same, She would run downstairs while mister
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  Wilkins, Really that man was a treasure held mister Briggs down, telling him
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  about the oleander, and get out of the house by the front door and
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  take cover in the shadows of the zigzag path. Nobody could see her there,
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  nobody would think of looking for her. There she snatched up a rap,
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  for she did not mean to come back for a long while, perhaps
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  not even to dinner. It would be all mister Briggs's fault if she went
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  dinnerless and hungry. And with another glance out of the window to see if
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  she were still safe, she stole out and got away to the sheltering trees
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  of the zigzag path, and there sat down on one of the seats placed
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  at each bend to assist the upward journey of those who were breathless. Ah,
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  this was lovely, thought Scrap, with a sigh of relief. How
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  cool, how good it smelt. She could see the quiet water of the
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  little harbor through the pine trunks, and the lights coming out in the houses
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  on the other side, and all round her, the green dusk was splashed
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  by the rose pink of the gladiolus's in the grass, and the white of
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  the crowding daisies. Ah, this was lovely. So still nothing moving,
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  not a leaf not a stalk. The only sound was a dog barking far
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  away, somewhere up in the hills. Or when the door of the little
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  restaurant in the piazza below was opened and there was a burst of voices,
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  silenced again immediately by the swinging tube up the door. She drew in a
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  deep breath of pleasure. Ah, this was her deep breath. Was arrested
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  in the middle. What was that? She leaned forward, listening her body
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  tense. Footsteps on the zigzag path, Briggs finding her out. Should you
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  run? No? The footsteps were coming up, not down, someone from
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  the village, perhaps Angelo, with provisions. She relaxed again. But the
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  steps were not the steps of Angelo, that swift and springing youth. They
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  were slow and considered, and they kept on pausing. Some one who isn't
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  used to hills thought scrap. The idea of going back to the house did
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  not occur to her. She was afraid of nothing in life except love,
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  brigands or murderers. As such held no terrors for the daughter of the Droit
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  witches. She only would have been afraid of them if they left off being
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  brigands and murderers and began instead to try and make love. The next moment,
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  the footsteps turned the corner of her bit of path, and stood still,
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  getting his wind thought scrap. Not looking round. Then, as he
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  from the sounds of the steps, she took them to belong to, a
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  man did not move. She turned her head and beheld with astonishment a person
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  she had seen a good deal of lately in London, the well known writer
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  of amusing memoirs, mister Ferdinand Arundel. She stared. Nothing in the way
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  of being followed surprised her any more, but that he should have discovered where
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  she was surprised her. Her mother had promised faithfully to tell no one you,
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  she said, feeling betrayed here He came up to her and took off
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  his hat. His forehead beneath the hat was wet with the beads of unaccustomed
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  climbing. He looked ashamed and entreating, like a guilty but devoted dog.
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  You must forgive me, he said. Lady Droitwich told me where you were,
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  and as I happened to be passing through my way to Rome, I
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  thought I would get out at Masago and just look in and see how you
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  were. But didn't my mother tell you I was doing a rest cure.
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  Yes, she did, and that's why I haven't intruded on you. Earlier
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  in the day, I thought you would probably be asleep all day and wake
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  up about now so as to be fed. But I know I've got nothing
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  to say an excuse. I couldn't help myself. This thought scrap comes of
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  mother insisting on having authors to lunch, and me being so much more amiable
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  in appearance than I really am. She had been amiable to fernand Arundel.
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  She liked him, or rather, she did not dislike him. He seemed
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  a jovial simple man and had the eyes of a nice dog. Also,
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  though it was evident that he admired her, he had not in London grabbed
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  there. He had merely been a good natured, harmless person of entertaining conversation
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  who helped to make luncheons agreeable. Now it appeared that he too was a
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  grabber, fancy following her out there daring too. Nobody else had. Perhaps
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  her mother had given him the address because she considered him so absolutely harmless and
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  thought he might be useful to see her home. Well, whatever he was,
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  he couldn't possibly give her the trouble an active man like mister Briggs might
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  give her. Mister Briggs, infatuated, would be reckless, she felt,
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  would stick at nothing, would lose his head publicly. She could imagine mister
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  Briggs doing things with rope ladders and singing all night under her window, being
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  really difficult and uncomfortable. Mister Arundel hadn't the figure for any kind of recklessness.
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  He had lived too long and too well. She was sure he couldn't
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  sing Anne wouldn't want to. He must be at least forty. How many
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  good dinners could not a man have eaten by the time he was forty,
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  And if during that time, instead of taking exercise he had sat writing books,
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  he would quite naturally acquire the figure. Mister Arundale had, in fact
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  acquired the figure rather for conversation than a venture scrap who had become melancholy at
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  the side of Briggs, became philosophical at the side of Arundale. Here he
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  was. She couldn't send him away till after dinner. He must be nourished.
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  This being so, she had better make the best of it, and
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  do that with a good grace, which anyhow wasn't to be avoided. Besides,
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  he would be a temporary shelter from mister Briggs. She was at least
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  acquainted with Ferdinand Arundale and could hear news from him of her mother and her
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  friends, and such talk would put up a defensive barrier at dinner between herself
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  and the approaches of the other one. And it was only for one dinner,
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  and he couldn't eat her. She therefore prepared herself for friendsliness. I'm
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  to be fed, she said, ignoring his last remark at eight, and
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  you must come up and be fed. To sit down and get cool and
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  tell me how everybody is. May I really dine with you in these traveling
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  things, he said, wiping his forehead before sitting down beside her. She
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  was too lovely to be true, he thought. Just to look at her
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  for an hour, just to hear her voice was enough reward for his journey
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  and his fears. Of course, I suppose you've left your fly in the
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  village and will be going on from Misago by the night train, or stay
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  in Misago at a hotel and go on tomorrow. But tell me, he
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  said, gazing at the adorable profile about yourself. London has been extraordinarily dull
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  and empty. Lady Droitwich said, you were with people here, She didn't
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  know. I hope they've been calm unto you. You look well as if
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  your cure had done everything a cure should. They've been very kind, said
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  Scrap. I got them out of an advertisement. An advertisement. It's a
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  good way I find to get friends. I'm fonder of one of these than
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  i've been of anybody in years. Really, who is it? You shall
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  guess which one of them it is when you see them. Tell me about
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  mother? When did you see her last? We arranged not to write to
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  each other unless there was something special. I wanted to have a month that
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  was perfectly blank. And now I've come and interrupted. I can't tell you
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  how shamed I am, both of having done it and of not having been
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  able to help it. Oh, but said Scrap quickly, for he could
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  not have come on a better day. When up there waiting and watching for
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  her was she knew the enamored Briggs. I'm really glad indeed to see you.
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  Tell me about mother. End of chapter nineteen