The Enchanted April
to his other name—was to Rose Love itself; but it also worked inverted
wonders, it didn’t invariably, as she well knew, transfigure people
into saints and angels. Grievously indeed did it sometimes do the
opposite. She had had it in her life applied to her to excess. If it
had let her alone, if it had at least been moderate and infrequent, she
might, she thought, have turned out a quite decent, generous-minded,
kindly, human being. And what was she, thanks to this love Lotty talked
so much about? Scrap searched for a just description. She was a spoilt,
a sour, a suspicious, and a selfish spinster.
The glass doors of the dining-room opened, and the three men came out
into the garden, Mr. Wilkins’s voice flowing along in front of them. He
appeared to be doing all the talking; the other two were saying
nothing.
Perhaps she had better go back to Lotty and Rose; it would be tiresome
to be discovered and hemmed into thate _cul-de-sac_ by Mr. Briggs.
She got up reluctantly, for she considered it unpardonable of Mr.
Briggs to force her to move about like this, to force her out of any
place she wished to sit in; and she emerged from the daphne bushes
feeling like some gaunt, stern figure of just resentment and wishing
that she looked as gaunt and stern as she felt; so would she have
struck repugnance into the soul of Mr. Briggs, and been free of him.
But she knew she didn’t look like that, however hard she might try. At
dinner his hand shook when he drank, and he couldn’t speak to her
without flushing scarlet and then going pale, and Mrs. Fisher’s eyes
had sought hers with the entreaty of one who asks that her only son may
not be hurt.
How could a human being, thought Scrap, frowning as she issued forth
from her corner, how could a man made in God’s image behave so; and he
fitted for better things she was sure, with his youth, his
attractiveness, and his brains. He had brains. She had examined him
cautiously whenever at dinner Mrs. Fisher forced him to turn away to
answer her, and she was sure he had brains. Also he had character;
there was something noble about his head, about the shape of his
forehead—noble and kind. All the more deplorable that he should allow
himself to be infatuated by a mere outside, and waste any of his
strength, any of his peace of mind, hanging round just a woman-thing.
If only he could see right through her, see through all her skin and
stuff, he would be cured, and she might go on sitting undisturbed on
this wonderful night by herself.
Just beyond the daphne bushes she met Frederick, hurrying.
“I was determined to find you first,” he said, “before I go to Rose.”
And he added quickly, “I want to kiss your shoes.”
“Do you?” said Scrap, smiling. “Then I must go and put on my new ones.
These aren’t nearly good enough.”
She felt immensely well-disposed towards Frederick. He, at least, would
grab no more. His grabbing days, so sudden and so brief, were done.
Nice man; agreeable man. She now definitely liked him. Clearly he had
been getting into some sort of a tangle, and she was grateful to Lotty
for stopping her in time at dinner from saying something hopelessly
complicating. But whatever he had been getting into he was out of it
now; his face and Rose’s face had the same light in them.
“I shall adore you for ever now,” said Frederick.
Scrap smiled. “Shall you?” she said.
“I adored you before because of your beauty. Now I adore you because
you’re not only as beautiful as a dream but as decent as a man.”
Scrap laughed. “Am I?” she said, amused.
“When the impetuous young woman,” Frederick went on, “the blessedly
impetuous young woman, blurted out in the nick of time that I am Rose’s
husband, you behaved exactly as a man would have behaved to his
friend.”
“Did I?” said Scrap, her enchanting dimple very evident.
“It’s the rarest, most precious of combinations,” said Frederick, “to
be a woman and have the loyalty of a man.”
“Is it?” smiled Scrap, a little wistfully. These were indeed handsome
compliments. If only she were really like that . . .
“And I want to kiss your shoes.”
“Won’t this save trouble?” she asked, holding out her hand.
He took it and swiftly kissed it, and was hurrying away again. “Bless
you,” he said as he went.
“Where is your luggage?” Scrap called after him.
“Oh, Lord, yes—” said Frederick, pausing. “It’s at the station.”
“I’ll send for it.”
He disappeared through the bushes. She went indoors to give the order;
and this is how it happened that Domenico, for the second time that
evening, found himself journeying into Mezzago and wondering as he
went.
Then, having made the necessary arrangements for the perfect happiness
of these two people, she came slowly out into the garden again, very
much absorbed in thought. Love seemed to bring happiness to everybody
but herself. It had certainly got hold of everybody there, in its
different varieties, except herself. Poor Mr. Briggs had been got hold
of by its least dignified variety. Poor Mr. Briggs. He was a disturbing
problem, and his going away next day wouldn’t she was afraid solve him.
When she reached the others Mr. Arundel—she kept on forgetting that he
wasn’t Mr. Arundel—was already, his arm through Rose’s, going off with
her, probably to the greater seclusion of the lower garden. No doubt
they had a great deal to say to each other; something had gone wrong
between them, and had suddenly been put right. San Salvatore, Lotty
would say, San Salvatore working its spell of happiness. She could
quite believe in its spell. Even she was happier there than she had
been for ages and ages. The only person who would go empty away would
be Mr. Briggs.
Poor Mr. Briggs. When she came in sight of the group he looked much too
nice and boyish not to be happy. It seemed out of the picture that the
owner of the place, the person to whom they owed all this, should be
the only one to go away from it unblessed.
Compunction seized Scrap. What very pleasant days she had spent in his
house, lying in his garden, enjoying his flowers, loving his views,
using his things, being comfortable, being rested—recovering, in fact.
She had had the most leisured, peaceful, and thoughtful time of her
life; and all really thanks to him. Oh, she knew she paid him some
ridiculous small sum a week, out of all proportion to the benefits she
got in exchange, but what was that in the balance? And wasn’t it
entirely thanks to him that she had come across Lotty? Never else would
she and Lotty have met; never else would she have known her.
Compunction laid its quick, warm hand on Scrap. Impulsive gratitude
flooded her. She went straight up to Briggs.
“I owe you so _much_,” she said, overcome by the sudden realisation of
all she did owe him, and ashamed of her churlishness in the afternoon
and at dinner. Of course he hadn’t known she was being churlish. Of
course her disagreeable inside was camouflaged as usual by the chance
arrangement of her outside; but she knew it. She was churlish. She had
been churlish to everybody for years. Any penetrating eye, thought
Scrap, any really penetrating eye, would see her for what she was—a
spoilt, a sour, a suspicious and a selfish spinster.
“I owe you so _much_,” therefore said Scrap earnestly, walking straight
up to Briggs, humbled by these thoughts.
He looked at her in wonder. “_You_ owe _me?_” he said. “But it’s I
who—I who—” he stammered. To see her there in his garden . . . nothing
in it, no white flower, was whiter, more exquisite.
“Please,” said Scrap, still more earnestly, “won’t you clear your mind
of everything except just truth? You don’t owe me anything. How should
you?”
“I don’t owe you anything?” echoed Briggs. “Why, I owe you my first
sight of—of—”
“Oh, for goodness sake—for _goodness_ sake,” said Scrap entreatingly,
“do, please, be ordinary. Don’t be humble. Why should you be humble?
It’s ridiculous of you to be humble. You’re worth fifty of me.”
“Unwise,” thought Mr. Wilkins, who was standing there too, while Lotty
sat on the wall. He was surprised, he was concerned, he was shocked
that Lady Caroline should thus encourage Briggs. “Unwise—very,”
thought Mr. Wilkins, shaking his head.
Briggs’s condition was so bad already that the only course to take with
him was to repel him utterly, Mr. Wilkins considered. No half measures
were the least use with Briggs, and kindliness and familiar talk would
only be misunderstood by the unhappy youth. The daughter of the
Droitwiches could not really, it was impossible to suppose it, desire
to encourage him. Briggs was all very well, but Briggs was Briggs; his
name alone proved that. Probably Lady Caroline did not quite appreciate
the effect of her voice and face, and how between them they made
otherwise ordinary words seem—well, encouraging. But these words were
not quite ordinary; she had not, he feared, sufficiently pondered them.
Indeed and indeed she needed an adviser—some sagacious, objective
counsellor like himself. There she was, standing before Briggs almost
holding out her hands to him. Briggs of course ought to be thanked, for
they were having a most delightful holiday in his house, but not
thanked to excess and not by Lady Caroline alone. That very evening he
had been considering the presentation to him next day of a round robin
of collective gratitude on his departure; but he should not be thanked
like this, in the moonlight, in the garden, by the lady he was so
manifestly infatuated with.
Mr. Wilkins therefore, desiring to assist Lady Caroline out of this
situation by swiftly applied tact, said with much heartiness: “It is
most proper, Briggs, that you should be thanked. You will please allow
me to add my expressions of indebtedness, and those of my wife, to Lady
Caroline’s. We ought to have proposed a vote of thanks to you at
dinner. You should have been toasted. There certainly ought to have
been some—”
But Briggs took no notice of him whatever; he simply continued to look
at Lady Caroline as though she were the first woman he had ever seen.
Neither, Mr. Wilkins observed, did Lady Caroline take any notice of
him; she too continued to look at Briggs, and with that odd air of
almost appeal. Most unwise. Most.
Lotty, on the other hand, took too much notice of him, choosing this
moment when Lady Caroline needed special support and protection to get
up off the wall and put her arm through his and draw him away.
“I want to tell you something, Mellersh,” said Lotty at this juncture,
getting up.
“Presently,” said Mr. Wilkins, waving her aside.
“No—now,” said Lotty; and she drew him away.
He went with extreme reluctance. Briggs should be given no rope at
all—not an inch.
“Well—what is it?” he asked impatiently, as she led him towards the
house. Lady Caroline ought not to be left like that, exposed to
annoyance.
“Oh, but she isn’t,” Lotty assured him, just as if he had said this
aloud, which he certainly had not. “Caroline is perfectly all right.”
“Not at all all right. That young Briggs is—”
“Of course he is. What did you expect? Let’s go indoors to the fire and
Mrs. Fisher. She’s all by herself.”
“I cannot,” said Mr. Wilkins, trying to draw back, “leave Lady Caroline
alone in the garden.”
“Don’t be silly, Mellersh—she isn’t alone. Besides, I want to tell you
something.”
“Well tell me, then.”
“Indoors.”
With a reluctance that increased at every step Mr. Wilkins was taken
farther and farther away from Lady Caroline. He believed in his wife
now and trusted her, but on this occasion he thought she was making a
terrible mistake. In the drawing-room sat Mrs. Fisher by the fire, and
it certainly was to Mr. Wilkins, who preferred rooms and fires after
dark to gardens and moonlight, more agreeable to be in there than