Mr Briggs, however, was too much alive for her to be able to spare any attention at this moment for Frederick, and she praised the servants in answer to his questions, and praised the yellow sitting room without telling him she had only been in it once and then was ignominiously ejected, and she told him she knew hardly anything about art and curiosities, but thought perhaps if somebody would tell her about them she would know more, and she said she had spent every day since her arrival out of doors, because out of doors there was so very wonderful and different from anything she had ever seen.
Briggs walked by her side along his paths that were yet so happily, for the moment, her paths, and felt all the innocent glows of family life. He was an orphan and an only child, and had a warm, domestic disposition. He would have adored a sister and spoilt a mother, and was beginning at this time to think of marrying – for though he had been very happy with his various loves, each of whom, contrary to the usual experience, turned ultimately into his devoted friend, he was fond of children and thought he had perhaps now got to the age of settling if he did not wish to be too old by the time his eldest son was twenty. San Salvatore had latterly seemed a little forlorn. He fancied it echoed when he walked about it. He had felt lonely there – so lonely that he had preferred this year to miss out a spring and let it. It wanted a wife in it. It wanted that final touch of warmth and beauty, for he never thought of his wife except in terms of warmth and beauty – she would, of course, be beautiful and kind. It amused him how much in love with this vague wife he was already.
At such a rate was he making friends with the lady with the sweet name as he walked along the path towards the lighthouse that he was sure presently he would be telling her everything about himself and his past doings and his future hopes, and the thought of such a swiftly developing confidence made him laugh.
“Why are you laughing?” she asked, looking at him and smiling.
“It’s so like coming home,” he said.
“But it is coming home for you to come here.”
“I mean really like coming home. To one’s – one’s family. I never had a family. I’m an orphan.”
“Oh, are you?” said Rose with the proper sympathy. “I hope you’ve not been one very long. No, I mean I hope you have been one very long. No – I don’t know what I mean, except that I’m sorry.”
He laughed again. “Oh I’m used to it. I haven’t anybody. No sisters or brothers.”
“Then you’re an only child,” she observed intelligently.
“Yes. And there’s something about you that’s exactly my idea of a – of a family.”
She was amused.
“So – cosy,” he said, looking at her and searching for a word.
“You wouldn’t think so if you saw my house in Hampstead,” she said, a vision of that austere and hard-seated dwelling presenting itself to her mind, with nothing soft in it except the shunned and neglected Du Barri sofa. No wonder, she thought, for a moment clear-brained, that Frederick avoided it. There was nothing cosy about his family.
“I don’t believe any place you lived in could be anything but exactly like you,” he said.
“You’re not going to pretend San Salvatore is like me?”
“Indeed I do pretend it. Surely you admit that it is beautiful?”
He said several things like that. She enjoyed her walk. She could not recollect any walk so pleasant since her courting days.
She came back to tea, bringing Mr Briggs, and looking quite different, Mr Wilkins noticed, from what she had looked till then. Trouble here, trouble here, thought Mr Wilkins, mentally rubbing his professional hands. He could see himself being called in presently to advise. On the one hand there was Arbuthnot, on the other hand here was Briggs. Trouble brewing, trouble sooner or later. But why had Briggs’s telegram acted on the lady like a blow? If she had turned pale from excess of joy, then trouble was nearer than he had supposed. She was not pale now – she was more like her name than he had yet seen her. Well, he was the man for trouble. He regretted, of course, that people should get into it, but being in, he was their man.
And Mr Wilkins, invigorated by these thoughts, his career being very precious to him, proceeded to assist in doing the honours to Mr Briggs, both in his quality of sharer in the temporary ownership of San Salvatore and of probable helper out of difficulties, with great hospitality, and pointed out the various features of the place to him, and led him to the parapet and showed him Mezzago across the bay.
Mrs Fisher too was gracious. This was this young man’s house. He was a man of property. She liked property, and she liked men of property. Also there seemed a peculiar merit in being a man of property so young. Inheritance, of course – and inheritance was more respectable than acquisition. It did indicate fathers, and in an age where most people appeared neither to have them nor to want them she liked this too.
Accordingly it was a pleasant meal, with everybody amiable and pleased. Briggs thought Mrs Fisher a dear old lady, and showed he thought so – and again the magic worked, and she became a dear old lady. She developed benignity with him, and a kind of benignity which was almost playful – actually, before tea was over, including in some observation she made him the words “My dear boy”.
Strange words in Mrs Fisher’s mouth. It is doubtful whether in her life she had used them before. Rose was astonished. How nice people really were. When would she leave off making mistakes about them? She hadn’t suspected this side of Mrs Fisher, and she began to wonder whether those other sides of her, with which alone she was acquainted, had not perhaps after all been the effect of her own militant and irritating behaviour. Probably they were. How horrid, then, she must have been. She felt very penitent when she saw Mrs Fisher beneath her eyes blossoming out into real amiability the moment someone came along who was charming to her, and she could have sunk into the ground with shame when Mrs Fisher presently laughed, and she realized by the shock it gave her that the sound was entirely new. Not once before had she or anyone else there heard Mrs Fisher laugh. What an indictment of the lot of them! For they had all laughed, the others, some more and some less, at one time or another since their arrival, and only Mrs Fisher had not. Clearly, since she could enjoy herself as she was now enjoying herself, she had not enjoyed herself before. Nobody had cared whether she did or not, except perhaps Lotty. Yes, Lotty had cared, and had wanted her to be happy, but Lotty seemed to produce a bad effect on Mrs Fisher – while as for Rose herself she had never been with her for five minutes without wanting, really wanting, to provoke and oppose her.
How very horrid she had been. She had behaved unpardonably. Her penitence showed itself in a shy and deferential solicitude towards Mrs Fisher which made the observant Briggs think her still more angelic, and wish for a moment that he were an old lady himself in order to be behaved to by Rose Arbuthnot just like that. There was evidently no end, he thought, to the things she could do sweetly. He would even not mind taking medicine – really nasty medicine – if it were Rose Arbuthnot bending over him with the dose.
She felt his bright blue eyes, the brighter because he was so sunburnt, fixed on her with a twinkle in them, and, smiling, asked him what he was thinking about.
But he couldn’t very well tell her that, he said, and added, “Some day.”
“Trouble, trouble,” thought Mr Wilkins at this, again mentally rubbing his hands. “Well, I’m their man.”
“I’m sure,” said Mrs Fisher benignly, “you have no thoughts we may not hear.”
“I’m sure,” said Briggs, “I would be telling you every one of my secrets in a week.”
“You would be telling somebody very safe, then,” said Mrs Fisher benevolently – just such a son would she have liked to have had. “And in return,” she went on, “I dare say I would tell you mine.”
“Ah no,” said Mr Wilkins, adapting himself to this tone of easy badinage, “I must protest. I really mus
t. I have a prior claim, I am the older friend. I have known Mrs Fisher ten days, and you, Briggs, have not yet known her one. I assert my right to be told her secrets first. That is,” he added, bowing gallantly, “if she has any – which I beg leave to doubt.”
“Oh, haven’t I!” exclaimed Mrs Fisher, thinking of those green leaves. That she should exclaim at all was surprising, but that she should do it with gaiety was miraculous. Rose could only watch her in wonder.
“Then I shall worm them out,” said Briggs, with equal gaiety.
“They won’t need much worming out,” said Mrs Fisher. “My difficulty is to keep them from bursting out.”
It might have been Lotty talking. Mr Wilkins adjusted the single eyeglass he carried with him for occasions like this, and examined Mrs Fisher carefully. Rose looked on, unable not to smile too since Mrs Fisher seemed so much amused, though Rose did not quite know why, and her smile was a little uncertain, for Mrs Fisher amused was a new sight, not without its awe-inspiring aspects, and had to be got accustomed to.
What Mrs Fisher was thinking was how much surprised they would be if she told them of her very odd and exciting sensation of going to come out all over buds. They would think she was an extremely silly old woman, and so would she have thought as lately as two days ago – but the bud idea was becoming familiar to her, she was more apprivoisée* now, as dear Matthew Arnold used to say, and though it would undoubtedly be best if one’s appearance and sensations matched, yet supposing they did not – and one couldn’t have everything – was it not better to feel young somewhere rather than old everywhere? Time enough to be old everywhere again, inside as well as out, when she got back to her sarcophagus in Prince of Wales Terrace.
Yet it is probable that without the arrival of Briggs Mrs Fisher would have gone on secretly fermenting in her shell. The others only knew her as severe. It would have been more than her dignity could bear suddenly to relax – especially towards the three young women. But now came the stranger, Briggs – a stranger who at once took to her as no young man had taken to her in her life, and it was the coming of Briggs and his real and manifest appreciation – for just such a grandmother, thought Briggs, hungry for home life and its concomitants, would he have liked to have – that released Mrs Fisher from her shell; and here she was at last, as Lotty had predicted: pleased, good-humoured and benevolent.
Lotty, coming back half an hour later from her picnic, and following the sound of voices into the top garden in the hope of still finding tea, saw at once what had happened, for Mrs Fisher at that very moment was laughing.
“She’s burst her cocoon,” thought Lotty – and swift as she was in all her movements, and impulsive, and also without any sense of propriety to worry and delay her, she bent over the back of Mrs Fisher’s chair and kissed her.
“Good gracious!” cried Mrs Fisher, starting violently, for such a thing had not happened to her since Mr Fisher’s earlier days, and then only gingerly. This kiss was a real kiss, and rested on Mrs Fisher’s cheek a moment with a strange, soft sweetness.
When she saw whose it was, a deep flush spread over her face. Mrs Wilkins kissing her and the kiss feeling so affectionate… Even if she had wanted to, she could not in the presence of the appreciative Mr Briggs resume her cast-off severity and begin rebuking again – but she did not want to. Was it possible Mrs Wilkins liked her – had liked her all this time, while she had been so much disliking her herself? A queer little trickle of warmth filtered through the frozen defences of Mrs Fisher’s heart. Somebody young kissing her – somebody young wanting to kiss her… Very much flushed, she watched the strange creature, apparently quite unconscious she had done anything extraordinary, shaking hands with Mr Briggs, on her husband’s introducing him, and immediately embarking on the friendliest conversation with him, exactly as if she had known him all her life. What a strange creature – what a very strange creature. It was natural, she being so strange, that one should have, perhaps, misjudged her…
“I’m sure you want some tea,” said Briggs, with eager hospitality to Lotty. He thought her delightful – freckles, picnic-untidiness and all. Just such a sister would he…
“This is cold,” he said, feeling the teapot. “I’ll tell Francesca to make you some fresh—”
He broke off and blushed. “Aren’t I forgetting myself” he said, laughing and looking round at them.
“Very natural, very natural,” Mr Wilkins reassured him.
“I’ll go and tell Francesca,” said Rose, getting up.
“No, no,” said Briggs. “Don’t go away.” And he put his hands to his mouth and shouted.
“Francesca!” shouted Briggs.
She came running. No summons in their experience had been answered by her with such celerity.
‘“Her Master’s Voice,”’* remarked Mr Wilkins – aptly, he considered.
“Make fresh tea,” ordered Briggs in Italian. “Quick – quick—” And then, remembering himself, he blushed again and begged everybody’s pardon.
“Very natural, very natural,” Mr Wilkins reassured him.
Briggs then explained to Lotty what he had explained twice already, once to Rose and once to the other two: that he was on his way to Rome and thought he would get out at Mezzago and just look in to see if they were comfortable and continue his journey the next day, staying the night in a hotel at Mezzago.
“But how ridiculous,” said Lotty. “Of course you must stay here. It’s your house. There’s Kate Lumley’s room,” she added, turning to Mrs Fisher. “You wouldn’t mind Mr Briggs having it for one night? Kate Lumley isn’t in it, you know,” she said turning to Briggs again and laughing.
And Mrs Fisher, to her immense surprise, laughed too. She knew that at any other time this remark would have struck her as excessively unseemly, and yet now she only thought it funny.
No indeed, she assured Briggs, Kate Lumley was not in that room. Very fortunately, for she was an excessively wide person and the room was excessively narrow. Kate Lumley might get into it, but that was about all. Once in, she would fit it so tightly that probably she would never be able to get out again. It was entirely at Mr Briggs’s disposal, and she hoped he would do nothing so absurd as go to a hotel – he, the owner of the whole place.
Rose listened to this speech wide-eyed with amazement. Mrs Fisher laughed very much as she made it. Lotty laughed very much too, and at the end of it bent down and kissed her again – kissed her several times.
“So you see, my dear boy,” said Mrs Fisher, “you must stay here and give us all a great deal of pleasure.”
“A great deal indeed,” corroborated Mr Wilkins heartily.
“A very great deal,” repeated Mrs Fisher, looking exactly like a pleased mother.
“Do,” said Rose, on Briggs’s turning enquiringly to her.
“How kind of you all,” he said, his face broad with smiles. “I’d love to be a guest here. What a new sensation. And with three such—”
He broke off and looked round. “I say,” he asked, “oughtn’t I to have a fourth hostess? Francesca said she had four mistresses.”
“Yes. There’s Lady Caroline,” said Lotty.
“Then hadn’t we better find out first if she invites me too?”
“Oh, but she’s sure…” began Lotty.
“The daughter of the Droitwiches, Briggs,” said Mr Wilkins, “is not likely to be wanting in the proper hospitable impulses.”
“The daughter of the…” repeated Briggs, but he stopped dead, for there in the doorway was the daughter of the Droitwiches herself – or rather, coming towards him out of the dark doorway into the brightness of the sunset, was that which he had not in his life yet seen but only dreamt of: his ideal of absolute loveliness.
19
And then when she spoke… what chance was there for poor Briggs? He was undone. All Scrap said was, “How do you do,” on Mr Wilkins presenting
him, but it was enough: it undid Briggs.
From a cheerful, chatty, happy young man, overflowing with life and friendliness, he became silent, solemn, and with little beads on his temples. Also he became clumsy, dropping the teaspoon as he handed her her cup, mismanaging the macaroons, so that one rolled on the ground. His eyes could not keep off the enchanting face for a moment – and when Mr Wilkins, elucidating him, for he failed to elucidate himself, informed Lady Caroline that in Mr Briggs she beheld the owner of San Salvatore, who was on his way to Rome, but had got out at Mezzago, etc., etc., and that the other three ladies had invited him to spend the night in what was, to all intents and purposes, his own house, rather than a hotel, and Mr Briggs was only waiting for the seal of her approval to this invitation, she being the fourth hostess – when Mr Wilkins, balancing his sentences and being admirably clear and enjoying the sound of his own cultured voice, explained the position in this manner to Lady Caroline, Briggs sat and said never a word.
A deep melancholy invaded Scrap. The symptoms of the incipient grabber were all there and only too familiar, and she knew that if Briggs stayed, her rest-cure might be regarded as over.
Then Kate Lumley occurred to her. She caught at Kate as at a straw.
“It would have been delightful,” she said, faintly smiling at Briggs – she could not, in decency, not smile, at least a little, but even a little betrayed the dimple, and Briggs’s eyes became more fixed than ever – “I’m only wondering if there is room.”
“Yes, there is,” said Lotty. “There’s Kate Lumley’s room.”
The Enchanted April Page 20