They had a very pleasant walk, with a great deal of sitting down in warm,
thyme-fragrant corners, and if anything could have helped Rose to recover from
the bitter disappointment of the morning it would have been the company and
conversation of Mr. Briggs. He did help her to recover, and the same process
took place as that which Lotty had undergone with her husband, and the more Mr.
Briggs thought Rose charming the more charming she became. Briggs was a man incapable of concealments, who never lost time if he could
help it. They had not got to the end of the headland where the lighthouse
is—Briggs asked her to show him the lighthouse, because the path to it, he
knew, was wide enough for two to walk abreast and fairly level—before he had
told her of the impression she had made on him in London. Since even the most religious, sober women like to know they have made an
impression, particularly the kind that has nothing to do with character or
merits, Rose was pleased. Being pleased, she smiled. Smiling, she was more
attractive than ever. Colour came into her cheeks, and brightness into her
eyes. She heard herself saying things that really sounded quite interesting and
even amusing. If Frederick were listening now, she thought, perhaps he would
see that she couldn’t after all be such a hopeless bore; for here was a man,
nice-looking, young, and surely clever—he seemed clever, and she hoped he was,
for then the compliment would be still greater—who was evidently quite happy to
spend the afternoon just talking to her. And indeed Mr. Briggs seemed very much interested. He wanted to hear all about
everything she had been doing from the moment she got there. He asked her if
she had seen this, that, and the other in the house, what she liked best, which
room she had, if she were comfortable, if Francesca was behaving, if Domenico
took care of her, and whether she didn’t enjoy using the yellow
sitting-room—the one that got all the sun and looked out towards Genoa. Rose was ashamed how little she had noticed in the house, and how few of the
things he spoke of as curious or beautiful in it she had even seen. Swamped in
thoughts of Frederick, she appeared to have lived in San Salvatore blindly, and
more than half the time had gone, and what had been the good of it? She might
just as well have been sitting hankering on Hampstead Heath. No, she mightn’t;
through all her hankerings she had been conscious that she was at least in the
very heart of beauty; and indeed it was this beauty, this longing to share it,
that had first started her off hankering. 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 some one came along who was
charming to her, and she could have sunk into the ground with shame when Mrs.
Fisher presently laughed, and she realised by the shock it gave her that the
sound was entirely new. Not once before had she or any one 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 daresay I would tell you mine.” “Ah no,” said Mr. Wilkins, adapting himself to this tone of easy
badinage, “I must protest. I really must. 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 an 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 an 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 inquiringly 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 dreamed of, his ideal of absolute
loveliness.