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Page 88
"If," thought Mr. Wilkins, observing Briggs's face and sudden
silence, "any understanding existed between this young fellow and Mrs.
Arbuthnot, there is now going to be trouble. Trouble of a different
nature from the kind I feared, in which Arbuthnot would have played a
leading part, in fact the part of petitioner, but trouble that may need
help and advice none the less for its not being publicly scandalous.
Briggs, impelled by his passions and her beauty, will aspire to the
daughter of the Droitwiches. She, naturally and properly, will repel
him. Mrs. Arbuthnot, left in the cold, will be upset and show it.
Arbuthnot, on his arrival will find his wife in enigmatic tears.
Inquiring into their cause, he will be met with an icy reserve. More
trouble may then be expected, and in me they will seek and find their
adviser. When Lotty said Mrs. Arbuthnot wanted her husband, she was
wrong. What Mrs. Arbuthnot wants is Briggs, and it looks uncommonly as
if she were not going to get him. Well, I'm their man."
"Where are your things, Mr. Briggs?" asked Mrs. Fisher, her voice
round with motherliness. "Oughtn't they to be fetched?" For the sun
was nearly in the sea now, and the sweet-smelling April dampness that
followed immediately on its disappearance was beginning to steal into
the garden.
Briggs started. "My things?" he repeated. "Oh yes--I must
fetch them. They're in Mezzago. I'll send Domenico. My fly is
waiting in the village. He can go back in it. I'll go and tell him."
He got up. To whom was he talking? To Mrs. Fisher, ostensibly,
yet his eyes were fixed on Scrap, who said nothing and looked at no
one.
Then, recollecting himself, he stammered, "I'm awfully sorry--I
keep on forgetting--I'll go down and fetch them myself."
"We can easily send Domenico," said Rose; and at her gentle voice
he turned his head.
Why, there was his friend, the sweet-named lady--but how had she
not in this short interval changed! Was it the failing light making
her so colourless, so vague-featured, so dim, so much like a ghost? A
nice good ghost, of course, and still with a pretty name, but only a
ghost.
He turned from her to Scrap again, and forgot Rose Arbuthnot's
existence. How was it possible for him to bother about anybody or
anything else in this first moment of being face to face with his dream
come true?
Briggs had not supposed or hoped that any one as beautiful as his
dream of beauty existed. He had never till now met even an
approximation. Pretty women, charming women by the score he had met
and properly appreciated, but never the real, the godlike thing itself.
He used to think "If ever I saw a perfectly beautiful woman I should
die"; and though, having now met what to his ideas was a perfectly
beautiful woman, he did not die, he became very nearly as incapable of
managing his own affairs as if he had.
The others were obliged to arrange everything for him. By
questions they extracted from him that his luggage was in the station
cloakroom at Mezzago, and they sent for Domenico, and, urged and
prompted by everybody except Scrap, who sat in silence and looked at no
one, Briggs was induced to give him the necessary instructions for
going back in the fly and bringing out his things.
It was a sad sight to see the collapse of Briggs. Everybody
noticed it, even Rose.
"Upon my word," thought Mrs. Fisher, "the way one pretty face can
turn a delightful man into an idiot is past all patience."
And feeling the air getting chilly, and the sight of the
enthralled Briggs painful, she went in to order his room to be got
ready, regretting now that she had pressed the poor boy to stay. She
had forgotten Lady Caroline's kill-joy face for the moment, and the
more completely owing to the absence of any ill effects produced by it
on Mr. Wilkins. Poor boy. Such a charming boy too, left to himself.
It was true she could not accuse Lady Caroline of not leaving him to
himself, for she was taking no notice of him at all, but that did not
help. Exactly like foolish moths did men, in other respects
intelligent, flutter round the impassive lighted candle of a pretty
face. She had seen them doing it. She had looked on only too often.
Almost she laid a mother hand on Briggs's fair head as she passed him.
Poor boy.
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