Christopher and Columbus

“Hadn’t you better have lunch first?” he asked, though he knew from the look on her face that she wouldn’t.  It was a very remarkable look.  It was as though an angel, dwelling in perfect bliss, had unaccountably got its feet wet.  Not more troubled than that; a little troubled, but not more than that.

“No thank you,” she said politely.  “But if you’ve finished yours, do you mind coming into the office?  Because otherwise Mrs. Bilton—­”

“She’s fetching me some brandy,” said Mr. Twist.

“I didn’t know you drank,” said Anna-Felicitas, even at this moment interested.  “But do you mind having it afterwards?  Because otherwise Mrs. Bilton—­”

“I guess the idea was to have it first,” said Mr. Twist.

She was however already making for the tea-room, proceeding towards it without hurry, and with a single-mindedness that would certainly get her there.

He could only follow.

In the office she said, “Do you mind shutting the door?”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Twist; but he did mind.  His hour had come, and he wasn’t liking it.  He wanted to begin with Anna-Rose.  He wanted to get things clear with her first before dealing with this one.  There was less of Anna-Rose.  And her dear little head yesterday when he patted it….  And she needed comforting….  Anna-Rose cried, and let herself be comforted….  And it was so sweet to Mr. Twist to comfort….

“Christopher—­” began Anna-Felicitas, directly he had shut the door.

“I know.  She’s mad with you.  What can you expect, Anna II.?” he interrupted in a very matter-of-fact voice, leaning against a bookcase.  Even a bookcase was better than nothing to lean against.

“Christopher is being unreasonable,” said Anna-Felicitas, her voice softer and gentler than he had yet heard it.

Then she stopped, and considered him a moment with much of the look of one who on a rather cold day considers the sea before diving in—­with, that is, a slight but temporary reluctance to proceed.

“Won’t you sit down?” said Mr. Twist.

“Perhaps I’d better,” she said, disposing herself in the big chair.  “It’s very strange, but my legs feel funny.  You wouldn’t think being in love would make one want to sit down.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Mr. Twist.

“I have fallen in love,” said Anna-Felicitas, looking up at him with a kind of pensive radiance.  “I did it this morning.”

Mr. Twist stared at her.  “I beg your—­what did you say?” he asked.

She said, still with that air as she regarded him of pensive radiance, of not seeing him but something beyond him that was very beautiful to her and satisfactory, “I’ve fallen in love, and I can’t tell you how pleased I am because I’ve always been afraid I was going to find it a difficult thing to do.  But it wasn’t.  Quite the contrary.”

Then, as he only staged at her, she said, “He’s coming round this afternoon on the new footing, and I wanted to prepare your and Christopher’s minds in good time so that you shouldn’t be surprised.”

And having said this she lapsed into what was apparently, judging from her expression, a silent contemplation of her bliss.

“But you’re too young,” burst out Mr. Twist.

“Too young?” repeated Anna-Felicitas, coming out of her contemplation for a moment to smile at him.  “We don’t think so.”

Well.  This beat everything.

Mr. Twist could only stare down at her.

Conflicting emotions raged in him.  He couldn’t tell for a moment what they were, they were so violent and so varied.  How dared Elliott.  How dared a person they had none of them heard of that time yesterday come making love to a girl he had never seen before.  And in such a hurry.  So suddenly.  So instantly.  Here had he himself been with the twins constantly for weeks, and wouldn’t have dreamed of making love to them.  They had been sacred to him.  And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t wanted to hug them often and often, but he had restrained himself as a gentleman should from the highest motives of delicacy, and consideration, and respect, and propriety, besides a great doubt as to whether they wouldn’t very energetically mind.  And then comes along this blundering Britisher, and straight away tumbles right in where Mr. Twist had feared to tread, and within twenty-four hours had persuaded Anna-Felicitas to think she was in love.  New footing indeed.  There hadn’t been an old footing yet.  And who was this Elliott?  And how was Mr. Twist going to be able to find out if he were a proper person to be allowed to pay his addresses to one so precious as a Twinkler twin?

Anger, jealousy, anxiety, sense of responsibility and mortification, all tumbled about furiously together inside Mr. Twist as he leaned against the bookcase and gazed down at Anna-Felicitas, who for her part was gazing beatifically into space; but through the anger, and the jealousy, and the anxiety, and the sense of responsibility and mortification one great thought was struggling, and it finally pushed every other aside and got out to the top of the welter:  here, in the chair before him, he beheld his sister-in-law.  So much at least was cleared up.

He crossed to the bureau and dragged his office-stool over next to her and sat down.  “So that’s it, is it?” he said, trying to speak very calmly, but his face pulled all sorts of ways, as it had so often been since the arrival in his life of the twins.

“Yes,” she said, coming out of her contemplation.  “It’s love at last.”

“I don’t know about at last.  Whichever way you look at it, Anna II., that don’t seem to hit it off as a word.  What I meant was, it’s Elliott.”

“Yes,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “Which is the same thing.  I believe,” she added, “I now have to allude to him as John.”

Mr. Twist made another effort to speak calmly.  “You don’t,” he said, “think it at all unusual or undesirable that you should be calling a man John to-day of whom you’d never heard yesterday.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” said Anna-Felicitas beaming.

“It doesn’t strike you in any way as imprudent to be so hasty.  It doesn’t strike you as foolish.”

“On the contrary,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “I can’t help thinking I’ve been very clever.  I shouldn’t have thought it of myself.  You see, I’m not naturally quick.”  And she beamed with what she evidently regarded as a pardonable pride.

“It doesn’t strike you as even a little—­well, a little improper.”

“On the contrary,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “Aunt Alice told us that the one man one could never be improper about, even if one tried, was one’s husband.”

“Husband?” Mr. Twist winced.  He loved, as we have seen, the word wife, but then that was different.

“It’s not time yet to talk of husbands,” he said, full of a flaming unreasonableness and jealousy and the sore feeling that he who had been toiling so long and so devotedly in the heat of the Twinkler sun had had a most unfair march stolen on him by this eleventh-hour stranger.

He flamed with unreasonableness.  Yet he knew this was the solution of half his problem,—­and of much the worst half, for it was after all Anna-Felicitas who had produced the uncomfortable feeling of slipperiness, of eels; Anna-Rose had been quite good, sitting in a chair crying and just so sweetly needing comfort.  But now that the solution was presented to him he was full of fears.  For on what now could he base his proposal to Anna-Rose?  Elliott would be the legitimate protector of both the Twinklers.  Mr. Twist, who had been so much perturbed by the idea of having to propose to one or other twin, was miserably upset by the realization that now he needn’t propose to either.  Elliott had cut the ground from under his feet.  He had indeed—­what was the expression he used the evening before?—­yes, nipped in.  There was now no necessity for Anna-Rose to marry him, and Mr. Twist had an icy and forlorn feeling that on no other basis except necessity would she.  He was thirty-five.  It was all very well for Elliott to get proposing to people of seventeen; he couldn’t be more than twenty-five.  And it wasn’t only age.  Mr. Twist hadn’t shaved before looking-glasses for nothing, and he was very distinctly aware that Elliott was extremely attractive.

“It’s not time yet to talk of husbands,” he therefore hotly and jealously said.

“On the contrary,” said Anna-Felicitas gently, “it’s not only time but war-time.  The war, I have observed, is making people be quick and sudden about all sorts of things.”

“You haven’t observed it.  That’s Elliott said that.”

“He may have,” said Anna-Felicitas.  “He said so many things—­”

And again she lapsed into contemplation; into, thought Mr. Twist as he gazed jealously at her profile, an ineffable, ruminating, reminiscent smugness.

“See here, Anna II.,” he said, finding it impossibly painful to wait while she contemplated, “suppose you don’t at this particular crisis fall into quite so many ecstatic meditations.  There isn’t as much time as you seem to think.”

“No—­and there’s Christopher,” said Anna-Felicitas, giving herself a shake, and with that slightly troubled look coming into her face again as of having, in spite of being an angel in glory, somehow got her feet wet.

“Precisely,” said Mr. Twist, getting up and walking about the room.  “There’s Christopher.  Now Christopher, I should say, would be pretty well heart-broken over this.”

“But that’s so unreasonable,” said Anna-Felicitas with gentle deprecation.

“You’re all she has got, and she’ll be under the impression—­the remarkably vivid impression—­that she’s losing you.”

“But that’s so unreasonable.  She isn’t losing me.  It’s sheer gain.  Without the least effort or bother on her part she’s acquiring a brother-in-law.”

“Oh, I know what Christopher feels,” said Mr. Twist, going up and down the room quickly.  “I know right enough, because I feel it all myself.”

“But that’s so unreasonable,” said Anna-Felicitas earnestly.  “Why should two of you be feeling things that aren’t?”

“She has always regarded herself as responsible for you, and I shouldn’t be surprised if she were terribly shocked at your conduct.”

“But there has to be conduct,” said Anna-Felicitas, still very gentle, but looking as though her feet were getting wetter.  “I don’t see how anybody is ever to fall in love unless there’s been some conduct first.”

“Oh, don’t argue—­don’t argue.  You can’t expect Anna-Rose not to mind your wanting to marry a perfect stranger, a man she hasn’t even seen.”

“But everybody you marry started by being a perfect stranger and somebody you hadn’t ever seen,” said Anna-Felicitas.

“Oh Lord, if only you wouldn’t argue!” exclaimed Mr. Twist.  “And as for your aunt in England, what’s she going to say to this twenty-four-hours, quick-lunch sort of engagement?  She’ll be terribly upset.  And Anna-Rose knows that, and is I expect nigh worried crazy.”

“But what,” asked Anna-Felicitas, “have aunts to do with love?”

Then she said very earnestly, her face a little flushed, her eyes troubled, “Christopher said all that you’re saying now, and a lot more, down in the garden before I came to you, and I said what I’ve been saying to you, and a lot more, but she wouldn’t listen.  And when I found she wouldn’t listen I tried to comfort her, but she wouldn’t be comforted.  And then I came to you; for besides wanting to tell you what I’ve done I wanted to ask you to comfort Christopher.”

Mr. Twist paused a moment in his walk.  “Yes,” he said, staring at the carpet.  “Yes.  I can very well imagine she needs it.  But I don’t suppose anything I would say—­”

“Christopher is very fond of you,” said Anna-Felicitas gently.

“Oh yes.  You’re both very fond of me,” said Mr. Twist, pulling his mouth into a crooked and unhappy smile.

“We love you,” said Anna-Felicitas simply.

Mr. Twist looked at her, and a mist came over his spectacles.  “You dear children,” he said, “you dear, dear children—­”

“I don’t know about children—­” began Anna-Felicitas; but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“It’s only the brandy,” said Mr. Twist, seeing her face assume the expression he had learned to associate with the approach of Mrs. Bilton.  “Take it away, please Mrs. Bilton,” he called out, “and put it on the—­”

Mrs. Bilton however, didn’t take anything away, but opened the door an inch instead.  “There’s someone wants to speak to you, Mr. Twist,” she said in a loud whisper, thrusting in a card.  “He says he just must.  I found him on the verandah when I took your brandy out, and as I’m not the woman to leave a stranger alone with good brandy I brought him in with me, and he’s right here back of me in the tea-room.”

“It’s John,” remarked Anna-Felicitas placidly.  “Come early.”

“I say—­” said a voice behind Mrs. Bilton.

“Yes,” nodded Anna-Felicitas, getting up out of the deep chair.  “That’s John.”

“I say—­may I come in?  I’ve got something important—­”

Mr. Twist looked at Anna-Felicitas.  “Wouldn’t you rather—?” he began.

“I don’t mind John,” she said softly, her face flooded with a most beautiful light.

Mr. Twist opened the door and went out.  “Come in,” he said.  “Mrs. Bilton, may I present Mr. Elliott to you—­Commander Elliott of the British Navy.”

“Pleased to meet you, Commander Elliott,” said Mrs. Bilton.  “Mr. Twist, your brandy is on the verandah.  Shall I bring it to you in here?”

“No thank you, Mrs. Bilton.  I’ll go out there presently.  Perhaps you wouldn’t mind waiting for me there—­I don’t suppose Mr. Elliott will want to keep me long.  Come in, Mr. Elliott.”

And having disposed of Mrs. Bilton, who was in a particularly willing and obedient and female mood, he motioned Elliott into the office.

There stood Anna-Felicitas.

Elliott stopped dead.

“This isn’t fair,” he said, his eyes twinkling and dancing.

“What isn’t?” inquired Anna-Felicitas gently, beaming at him.

“Your being here.  I’ve got to talk business.  Look here, sir,” he said, turning to Mr. Twist, “could you talk business with her there?”

“Not if she argued,” said Mr. Twist.

“Argued!  I wouldn’t mind her arguing.  It’s just her being there.  I’ve got to talk business,” he said, turning to Anna-Felicitas,—­“business about marrying you.  And how can I with you standing there looking like—­well, like that?”

“I don’t know,” said Anna-Felicitas placidly, not moving.

“But you’ll interrupt—­just your being there will interrupt.  I shall see you out of the corner of my eye, and it’ll be impossible not to—­I mean I know I’ll want to—­I mean, Anna-Felicitas my dear, it isn’t done.  I’ve got to explain all sorts of things to your guardian—­”

“He isn’t my guardian,” corrected the accurate Anna-Felicitas gently.  “He only very nearly once was.”

“Well, anyhow I’ve got to explain a lot of things that’ll take some time, and it isn’t so much explain as persuade—­for I expect,” he said, turning to Mr. Twist, “this strikes you as a bit sudden, sir?”

“It would strike anybody,” said Mr. Twist trying to be stern but finding it difficult, for Elliott was so disarmingly engaging and so disarmingly in love.  The radiance on Anna-Felicitas’s face might have been almost a reflection caught from his.  Mr. Twist had never seen two people look so happy.  He had never, of course, before been present at the first wonderful dawning of love.  The whole room seemed to glow with the surprise of it.

“There.  You see?” said Elliott, again appealing to Anna-Felicitas, who stood smiling beatifically at him without moving.  “I’ve got to explain that it isn’t after all as mad as it seems, and that I’m a fearfully decent chap and can give you lots to eat, and that I’ve got a jolly little sister here who’s respectable and well-known besides, and I’m going to produce references to back up these assertions, and proofs that I’m perfectly sound in health except for my silly foot, which isn’t health but just foot and which you don’t seem to mind anyhow, and how—­I ask you how, Anna-Felicitas my dear, am I to do any of this with you standing there looking like—­well, like that?”

“I don’t know,” said Anna-Felicitas again, still not moving.

“Anna-Felicitas, my dear,” he said, “won’t you go?”

“No, John,” said Anna-Felicitas gently.

His eyes twinkled and danced more than ever.  He took a step towards her, then checked himself and looked round beseechingly at Mr. Twist.

“Somebody’s got to go,” he said.

“Yes,” said Mr. Twist.  “And I guess it’s me.”