Chapter 11

The sweet smells that were everywhere in San Salvatore were alone

enough to produce concord. They came into the sitting-room from the

flowers on the battlements, and met the ones from the flowers inside

the room, and almost, thought Mrs. Wilkins, could be seen greeting each

other with a holy kiss. Who could be angry in the middle of such

gentlenesses? Who could be acquisitive, selfish, in the old rasped

London way, in the presence of this bounteous beauty?

Yet Mrs. Fisher seemed to be all three of these things.

There was so much beauty, so much more than enough for every one, that

it did appear to be a vain activity to try and make a corner in it.

Yet Mrs. Fisher was trying to make a corner in it, and had railed off a

portion for her exclusive use.

Well, she would get over that presently; she would get over it

inevitably, Mrs. Wilkins was sure, after a day or two in the

extraordinary atmosphere of peace in that place.

Meanwhile she obviously hadn’t even begun to get over it. She stood

looking at her and Rose with an expression that appeared to be one of

anger. Anger. Fancy. Silly old nerve-racked London feelings, thought

Mrs. Wilkins, whose eyes saw the room full of kisses, and everybody in

it being kissed, Mrs. Fisher as copiously as she herself and Rose.

“You don’t like us being in here,” said Mrs. Wilkins, getting up and at

once, after her manner, fixing on the truth. “Why?”

“I should have thought,” said Mrs. Fisher leaning on her stick, “you

could have seen that it is my room.”

“You mean because of the photographs,” said Mrs. Wilkins.

Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was a little red and surprised, got up too.

“And the notepaper,” said Mrs. Fisher. “Notepaper with my London

address on it. That pen—”

She pointed. It was still in Mrs. Wilkins’s hand.

“Is yours. I’m very sorry,” said Mrs. Wilkins, laying it on the table.

And she added smiling, that it had just been writing some very amiable

things.

“But why,” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, who found herself unable to acquiesce

in Mrs. Fisher’s arrangements without at least a gentle struggle,

“ought we not to be here? It’s a sitting-room.”

“There is another one,” said Mrs. Fisher. “You and your friend cannot

sit in two rooms at once, and if I have no wish to disturb you in yours

I am unable to see why you should wish to disturb me in mine.”

“But why—” began Mrs. Arbuthnot again.

“It’s quite natural,” Mrs. Wilkins interrupted, for Rose was looking

stubborn; and turning to Mrs. Fisher she said that although sharing

things with friends was pleasant she could understand that Mrs. Fisher,

still steeped in the Prince of Wales Terrace attitude to life, did not

yet want to, but that she would get rid of that after a bit and feel

quite different. “Soon you’ll want us to share,” said Mrs. Wilkins

reassuringly. “Why, you may even get so far as _asking_ me to use your

pen if you knew I hadn’t got one.”

Mrs. Fisher was moved almost beyond control by this speech. To have a

ramshackle young woman from Hampstead patting her on the back as it

were, in breezy certitude that quite soon she would improve, stirred

her more deeply than anything had stirred her since her first discovery

that Mr. Fisher was not what he seemed. Mrs. Wilkins must certainly be

curbed. But how? There was a curious imperviousness about her. At that

moment, for instance, she was smiling as pleasantly and with as

unclouded a face as if she were saying nothing in the least

impertinent. Would she know she was being curbed? If she didn’t know,

if she were too tough to feel it, then what? Nothing, except avoidance;

except, precisely, one’s own private sitting-room.

“I’m an old woman,” said Mrs. Fisher, “and I need a room to myself. I

cannot get about, because of my stick. As I cannot get about I have to

sit. Why should I not sit quietly and undisturbed, as I told you in

London I intended to? If people are to come in and out all day long,

chattering and leaving doors open, you will have broken the agreement,

which was that I was to be quiet.”

“But we haven’t the least wish—” began Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was again

cut short by Mrs. Wilkins.

“We’re only too glad,” said Mrs. Wilkins, “for you to have this room if

it makes you happy. We didn’t know about it, that’s all. We wouldn’t

have come in if we had—not till you invited us, anyhow. I expect,” she

finished looking down cheerfully at Mrs. Fisher, “you soon will.” And

picking up her letter she took Mrs. Arbuthnot’s hand and drew her

towards the door.

Mrs. Arbuthnot did not want to go. She, the mildest of women, was

filled with a curious and surely unchristian desire to stay and fight.

Not, of course, really, nor even with any definitely aggressive words.

No; she only wanted to reason with Mrs. Fisher, and to reason

patiently. But she did feel that something ought to be said, and that

she ought not to allow herself to be rated and turned out as if she

were a schoolgirl caught in ill behaviour by Authority.

Mrs. Wilkins, however, drew her firmly to and through the door, and

once again Rose wondered at Lotty, at her balance, her sweet and

equable temper—she who in England had been such a thing of gusts. From

the moment they got into Italy it was Lotty who seemed the elder. She

certainly was very happy; blissful, in fact. Did happiness so

completely protect one? Did it make one so untouchable, so wise? Rose

was happy herself, but not anything like _so_ happy. Evidently not, for

not only did she want to fight Mrs. Fisher but she wanted something

else, something more than this lovely place, something to complete it;

she wanted Frederick. For the first time in her life she was surrounded

by perfect beauty, and her one thought was to show it to him, to share

it with him. She wanted Frederick. She yearned for Frederick. Ah, if

only, only Frederick . . .

“Poor old thing,” said Mrs. Wilkins, shutting the door gently on Mrs.

Fisher and her triumph. “Fancy on a day like this.”

“She’s a very rude old thing,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot.

“She’ll get over that. I’m sorry we chose just her room to go and sit

in.”

“It’s much the nicest,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot. “And it isn’t hers.”

“Oh but there are lots of other places, and she’s such a poor old

thing. Let her have the room. Whatever does it matter?”

And Mrs. Wilkins said she was going down to the village to find out

where the post-office was and post her letter to Mellersh, and would

Rose go too.

“I’ve been thinking about Mellersh,” said Mrs. Wilkins as they walked,

one behind the other, down the narrow zigzag path up which they had

climbed in the rain the night before.

She went first. Mrs. Arbuthnot, quite naturally now, followed. In

England it had been the other way about—Lotty, timid, hesitating,

except when she burst out so awkwardly, getting behind the calm and

reasonable Rose whenever she could.

“I’ve been thinking about Mellersh,” repeated Mrs. Wilkins over her

shoulder, as Rose seemed not to have heard.

“Have you?” said Rose, a faint distaste in her voice, for her

experiences with Mellersh had not been of a kind to make her enjoy

remembering him. She had deceived Mellersh; therefore she didn’t like

him. She was unconscious that this was the reason of her dislike, and

thought it was that there didn’t seem to be much, if any, of the grace

of God about him. And yet how wrong to feel that, she rebuked herself,

and how presumptuous. No doubt Lotty’s husband was far, far nearer to

God than she herself was ever likely to be. Still, she didn’t like him.

“I’ve been a mean dog,” said Mrs. Wilkins.

“A what?” asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, incredulous of her hearing.

“All this coming away and leaving him in that dreary place while I

rollick in heaven. He had planned to take me to Italy for Easter

himself. Did I tell you?”

“No,” said Mrs. Arbuthnot; and indeed she had discouraged talk about

husbands. Whenever Lotty had begun to blurt out things she had swiftly

changed the conversation. One husband led to another, in conversation

as well as in life, she felt, and she could not, she would not, talk of

Frederick. Beyond the bare fact that he was there, he had not been

mentioned. Mellersh had had to be mentioned, because of his

obstructiveness, but she had carefully kept him from overflowing

outside the limits of necessity.

“Well, he did,” said Mrs. Wilkins. “He had never done such a thing in

his life before, and I was horrified. Fancy—just as I had planned to

come to it myself.”

She paused on the path and looked up at Rose.

“Yes,” said Rose, trying to think of something else to talk about.

“Now you see why I say I’ve been a mean dog. _He_ had planned a holiday

in Italy with me, and _I_ had planned a holiday in Italy leaving him at

home. I think,” she went on, her eyes fixed on Rose’s face, “Mellersh

has every reason to be both angry and hurt.”

Mrs. Arbuthnot was astonished. The extraordinary quickness with which,

hour by hour, under her very eyes, Lotty became more selfless,

disconcerted her. She was turning into something surprisingly like a

saint. Here she was now being affectionate about Mellersh—Mellersh, who

only that morning, while they hung their feet into the sea, had seemed

a mere iridescence, Lotty had told her, a thing of gauze. That was only

that morning; and by the time they had had lunch Lotty had developed so

far as to have got him solid enough again to write to, and to write to

at length. And now, a few minutes later, she was announcing that he had

every reason to be angry with her and hurt, and that she herself had

been—the language was unusual, but it did express real penitence—a mean

dog.

Rose stared at her astonished. If she went on like this, soon a nimbus

might be expected round her head, was there already, if one didn’t know

it was the sun through the tree-trunks catching her sandy hair.

A great desire to love and be friends, to love everybody, to be friends

with everybody, seemed to be invading Lotty—a desire for sheer

goodness. Rose’s own experience was that goodness, the state of being

good, was only reached with difficulty and pain. It took a long time to

get to it; in fact one never did get to it, or, if for a flashing

instant one did, it was only for a flashing instant. Desperate

perseverance was needed to struggle along its path, and all the way was

dotted with doubts. Lotty simply flew along. She had certainly, thought

Rose, not got rid of her impetuousness. It had merely taken another

direction. She was now impetuously becoming a saint. Could one really

attain goodness so violently? Wouldn’t there be an equally violent

reaction?

“I shouldn’t,” said Rose with caution, looking down into Lotty’s bright

eyes—the path was steep, so that Lotty was well below her—“I shouldn’t

be sure of that too quickly.”

“But I am sure of it, and I’ve written and told him so.”

Rose stared. “Why, but only this morning—” she began.

“It’s all in this,” interrupted Lotty, tapping the envelope and looking

pleased.

“What—everything?”

“You mean about the advertisement and my savings being spent? Oh no—not

yet. But I’ll tell him all that when he comes.”

“When he comes?” repeated Rose.

“I’ve invited him to come and stay with us.”

Rose could only go on staring.

“It’s the least I could do. Besides—look at this.” Lotty waved her

hand. “Disgusting not to share it. I was a mean dog to go off and leave

him, but no dog I’ve ever heard of was ever as mean as I’d be if I

didn’t try and persuade Mellersh to come out and enjoy this too. It’s

barest decency that he should have some of the fun out of my nest-egg.

After all, he has housed me and fed me for years. One shouldn’t be

churlish.”

“But—do you think he’ll come?”

“Oh, I _hope_ so,” said Lotty with the utmost earnestness; and added,

“Poor lamb.”

At that Rose felt she would like to sit down. Mellersh a poor lamb?

That same Mellersh who a few hours before was mere shimmer? There was a

seat at the bend of the path, and Rose went to it and sat down. She

wished to get her breath, gain time. If she had time she might perhaps

be able to catch up the leaping Lotty, and perhaps be able to stop her

before she committed herself to what she probably presently would be

sorry for. Mellersh at San Salvatore? Mellersh, from whom Lotty had

taken such pains so recently to escape?

“I _see_ him here,” said Lotty, as if in answer to her thoughts.

Rose looked at her with real concern: for every time Lotty said in that

convinced voice, “I _see_,” what she saw came true. Then it was to be

supposed that Mr. Wilkins too would presently come true.

“I wish,” said Rose anxiously, “I understood you.”

“Don’t try,” said Lotty, smiling.

“But I must, because I love you.”

“Dear Rose,” said Lotty, swiftly bending down and kissing her.

“You’re so quick,” said Rose. “I can’t follow your developments. I

can’t keep touch. It was what happened with Freder—”

She broke off and looked frightened.

“The whole idea of our coming here,” she went on again, as Lotty didn’t

seem to have noticed, “was to get away, wasn’t it? Well, we’ve got

away. And now, after only a single day of it, you want to write to the

very people—”

She stopped.

“The very people we were getting away from,” finished Lotty. “It’s

quite true. It seems idiotically illogical. But I’m so happy, I’m so

well, I feel so fearfully wholesome. This place—why, it makes me feel

_flooded_ with love.”

And she stared down at Rose in a kind of radiant surprise.

Rose was silent a moment. Then she said, “And do you think it will have

the same effect on Mr. Wilkins?”

Lotty laughed. “I don’t know,” she said. “But even if it doesn’t,

there’s enough love about to flood fifty Mr. Wilkinses, as you call

him. The great thing is to have lots of love _about_. I don’t see,” she

went on, “at least I don’t see here, though I did at home, that it

matters who loves as long as somebody does. I was a stingy beast at

home, and used to measure and count. I had a queer obsession about

justice. As though justice mattered. As though justice can really be

distinguished from vengeance. It’s only love that’s any good. At home I

wouldn’t love Mellersh unless he loved me back, exactly as much,

absolute fairness. Did you ever. And as he didn’t, neither did I, and

the _aridity_ of that house! The _aridity_ . . .”

Rose said nothing. She was bewildered by Lotty. One odd effect of San

Salvatore on her rapidly developing friend was her sudden free use of

robust words. She had not used them in Hampstead. Beast and dog were

more robust than Hampstead cared about. In words, too, Lotty had come

unchained.

But how she wished, oh how Rose wished, that she too could write to her

husband and say “Come.” The Wilkins _ménage_, however pompous Mellersh

might be, and he had seemed to Rose pompous, was on a healthier, more

natural footing than hers. Lotty could write to Mellersh and would get

an answer. She couldn’t write to Frederick, for only too well did she

know he wouldn’t answer. At least, he might answer—a hurried scribble,

showing how much bored he was at doing it, with perfunctory thanks for

her letter. But that would be worse than no answer at all; for his

handwriting, her name on an envelope addressed by him, stabbed her

heart. Too acutely did it bring back the letters of their beginnings

together, the letters from him so desolate with separation, so aching

with love and longing. To see apparently one of these very same letters

arrive, and open it and find:

Dear Rose—Thanks for letter. Glad you’re having a good time. Don’t

hurry back. Say if you want any money. Everything going splendidly

here.—Yours,

Frederick.

—no, it couldn’t be borne.

“I don’t think I’ll come down to the village with you to-day,” she

said, looking up at Lotty with eyes suddenly gone dim. “I think I want

to think.”

“All right,” said Lotty, at once starting off briskly down the path.

“But don’t think too long,” she called back over her shoulder. “Write

and invite him at once.”

“Invite whom?” asked Rose, startled.

“Your husband.”