Chapter 15

The strange effect of this incident was that when they met that evening

at dinner both Mrs. Fisher and Lady Caroline had a singular feeling of

secret understanding with Mr. Wilkins. He could not be to them as other

men. He could not be to them as he would have been if they had met him

in his clothes. There was a sense of broken ice; they felt at once

intimate and indulgent; almost they felt to him as nurses do—as those

feel who have assisted either patients or young children at their

baths. They were acquainted with Mr. Wilkins’s legs.

What Mrs. Fisher said to him that morning in her first shock will never

be known, but what Mr. Wilkins said to her in reply, when reminded by

what she was saying of his condition, was so handsome in its apology,

so proper in its confusion, that she had ended by being quite sorry for

him and completely placated. After all, it was an accident, and nobody

could help accidents. And when she saw him next at dinner, dressed,

polished, spotless as to linen and sleek as to hair, she felt this

singular sensation of a secret understanding with him and, added to it,

of a kind of almost personal pride in his appearance, now that he was

dressed, which presently extended in some subtle way to an almost

personal pride in everything he said.

There was no doubt whatever in Mrs. Fisher’s mind that a man was

infinitely preferable as a companion to a woman. Mr. Wilkins’s presence

and conversation at once raised the standard of the dinner-table from

that of a bear garden—yes, a bear garden—to that of a civilised social

gathering. He talked as men talk, about interesting subjects, and,

though most courteous to Lady Caroline, showed no traces of dissolving

into simpers and idiocy whenever he addressed her. He was, indeed,

precisely as courteous to Mrs. Fisher herself; and when for the first

time at that table politics were introduced, he listened to her with

the proper seriousness on her exhibiting a desire to speak, and treated

her opinions with the attention they deserved. He appeared to think

much as she did about Lloyd George, and in regard to literature he was

equally sound. In fact there was real conversation, and he liked nuts.

How he could have married Mrs. Wilkins was a mystery.

Lotty, for her part, looked on with round eyes. She had expected

Mellersh to take at least two days before he got to this stage, but the

San Salvatore spell had worked instantly. It was not only that he was

pleasant at dinner, for she had always seen him pleasant at dinners

with other people, but he had been pleasant all day privately—so

pleasant that he had complimented her on her looks while she was

brushing out her hair, and kissed her. Kissed her! And it was neither

good-morning nor good-night.

Well, this being so, she would put off telling him the truth about her

nest-egg, and about Rose not being his hostess after all, till next

day. Pity to spoil things. She had been going to blurt it out as soon

as he had had a rest, but it did seem a pity to disturb such a very

beautiful frame of mind as that of Mellersh this first day. Let him too

get more firmly fixed in heaven. Once fixed he wouldn’t mind anything.

Her face sparkled with delight at the instantaneous effect of San

Salvatore. Even the catastrophe of the bath, of which she had been told

when she came in from the garden, had not shaken him. Of course all

that he had needed was a holiday. What a brute she had been to him when

he wanted to take her himself to Italy. But this arrangement, as it

happened, was ever so much better, though not through any merit of

hers. She talked and laughed gaily, not a shred of fear of him left in

her, and even when she said, struck by his spotlessness, that he looked

so clean that one could eat one’s dinner off him, and Scrap laughed,

Mellersh laughed too. He would have minded that at home, supposing that

at home she had had the spirit to say it.

It was a successful evening. Scrap, whenever she looked at Mr. Wilkins,

saw him in his towel, dripping water, and felt indulgent. Mrs. Fisher

was delighted with him. Rose was a dignified hostess in Mr. Wilkins’s

eyes, quiet and dignified, and he admired the way she waived her right

to preside at the head of the table—as a graceful compliment, of

course, to Mrs. Fisher’s age. Mrs. Arbuthnot was, opined Mr. Wilkins,

naturally retiring. She was the most retiring of the three ladies. He

had met her before dinner alone for a moment in the drawing-room, and

had expressed in appropriate language his sense of her kindness in

wishing him to join her party, and she had been retiring. Was she shy?

Probably. She had blushed, and murmured as if in deprecation, and then

the others had come in. At dinner she talked least. He would, of

course, become better acquainted with her during the next few days, and

it would be a pleasure, he was sure.

Meanwhile Lady Caroline was all and more than all Mr. Wilkins had

imagined, and had received his speeches, worked in skilfully between

the courses, graciously; Mrs. Fisher was the exact old lady he had been

hoping to come across all his professional life; and Lotty had not only

immensely improved, but was obviously _au mieux_—Mr. Wilkins knew what

was necessary in French—with Lady Caroline. He had been much tormented

during the day by the thought of how he had stood conversing with Lady

Caroline forgetful of his not being dressed, and had at last written

her a note most deeply apologising, and beseeching her to overlook his

amazing, his incomprehensible obliviousness, to which she had replied

in pencil on the back of the envelope, “Don’t worry.” And he had obeyed

her commands, and had put it from him. The result was he was now in

great contentment. Before going to sleep that night he pinched his

wife’s ear. She was amazed. These endearments . . .

What is more, the morning brought no relapse in Mr. Wilkins, and he

kept up to this high level throughout the day, in spite of its being

the first day of the second week, and therefore pay day.

Its being pay day precipitated Lotty’s confession, which she had, when

it came to the point, been inclined to put off a little longer. She was

not afraid, she dared anything, but Mellersh was in such an admirable

humour—why risk clouding it just yet? When, however, soon after

breakfast Costanza appeared with a pile of very dirty little bits of

paper covered with sums in pencil, and having knocked at Mrs. Fisher’s

door and been sent away, and at Lady Caroline’s door and been sent

away, and at Rose’s door and had no answer because Rose had gone out,

she waylaid Lotty, who was showing Mellersh over the house, and pointed

to the bits of paper and talked very rapidly and loud, and shrugged her

shoulders a great deal, and kept on pointing at the bits of paper,

Lotty remembered that a week had passed without anybody paying anything

to anyone, and that the moment had come to settle up.

“Does this good lady want something?” inquired Mr. Wilkins

mellifluously.

“Money,” said Lotty.

“Money?”

“It’s the housekeeping bills.”

“Well, you have nothing to do with those,” said Mr. Wilkins serenely.

“Oh yes, I have—”

And the confession was precipitated.

It was wonderful how Mellersh took it. One would have imagined that his

sole idea about the nest-egg had always been that it should be lavished

on just this. He did not, as he would have done at home, cross-examine

her; he accepted everything as it came pouring out, about her fibs and

all, and when she had finished and said, “You have every right to be

angry, I think, but I hope you won’t be and will forgive me instead,”

he merely asked, “What can be more beneficial than such a holiday?”

Whereupon she put her arm through his and held it tight and said, “Oh,

Mellersh, you really are too sweet!”—her face red with pride in him.

That he should so quickly assimilate the atmosphere, that he should at

once become nothing but kindness, showed surely what a real affinity he

had with good and beautiful things. He belonged quite naturally in this

place of heavenly calm. He was—extraordinary how she had misjudged

him—by nature a child of light. Fancy not minding the dreadful fibs she

had gone in for before leaving home; fancy passing even those over

without comment. Wonderful. Yet not wonderful, for wasn’t he in heaven?

In heaven nobody minded any of those done-with things, one didn’t even

trouble to forgive and forget, one was much too happy. She pressed his

arm tight in her gratitude and appreciation; and though he did not

withdraw his, neither did he respond to her pressure. Mr. Wilkins was

of a cool habit, and rarely had any real wish to press.

Meanwhile, Costanza, perceiving that she had lost the Wilkinses’ ear

had gone back to Mrs. Fisher, who at least understood Italian, besides

being clearly in the servants’ eyes the one of the party marked down by

age and appearance to pay the bills; and to her, while Mrs. Fisher put

the final touches to her toilette, for she was preparing, by means of

putting on a hat and veil and feather boa and gloves, to go for her

first stroll in the lower garden—positively her first since her

arrival—she explained that unless she was given money to pay the last

week’s bills the shops of Castagneto would refuse credit for the

current week’s food. Not even credit would they give, affirmed

Costanza, who had been spending a great deal and was anxious to pay all

her relations what was owed them and also to find out how her

mistresses took it, for that day’s meals. Soon it would be the hour of

_colazione_, and how could there be _colazione_ without meat, without

fish, without eggs, without—

Mrs. Fisher took the bills out of her hand and looked at the total; and

she was so much astonished by its size, so much horrified by the

extravagance to which it testified, that she sat down at her

writing-table to go into the thing thoroughly.

Costanza had a very bad half-hour. She had not supposed it was in the

English to be so mercenary. And then _la Vecchia_, as she was called in

the kitchen, knew so much Italian, and with a doggedness that filled

Costanza with shame on her behalf, for such conduct was the last one

expected from the noble English, she went through item after item,

requiring and persisting till she got them, explanations.

There were no explanations, except that Costanza had had one glorious

week of doing exactly as she chose, of splendid unbridled licence, and

that this was the result.

Costanza, having no explanations, wept. It was miserable to think she

would have to cook from now on under watchfulness, under suspicion; and

what would her relations say when they found the orders they received

were whittled down? They would say she had no influence; they would

despise her.

Costanza wept, but Mrs. Fisher was unmoved. In slow and splendid

Italian, with the roll of the cantos of the _Inferno_, she informed her

that she would pay no bills till the following week, and that meanwhile

the food was to be precisely as good as ever, and at a quarter the

cost.

Costanza threw up her hands.

Next week, proceeded Mrs. Fisher unmoved, if she found this had been so

she would pay the whole. Otherwise—she paused; for what she would do

otherwise she did not know herself. But she paused and looked

impenetrable, majestic and menacing, and Costanza was cowed.

Then Mrs. Fisher, having dismissed her with a gesture, went in search

of Lady Caroline to complain. She had been under the impression that

Lady Caroline ordered the meals and therefore was responsible for the

prices, but now it appeared that the cook had been left to do exactly

as she pleased ever since they got there, which of course was simply

disgraceful.

Scrap was not in her bedroom, but the room, on Mrs. Fisher’s opening

the door, for she suspected her of being in it and only pretending not

to hear the knock, was still flowerlike from her presence.

“Scent,” sniffed Mrs. Fisher, shutting it again; and she wished Carlyle

could have had five minutes’ straight talk with this young woman. And

yet—perhaps even he—

She went downstairs to go into the garden in search of her, and in the

hall encountered Mr. Wilkins. He had his hat on, and was lighting a

cigar.

Indulgent as Mrs. Fisher felt towards Mr. Wilkins, and peculiarly and

even mystically related after the previous morning’s encounter, she yet

could not like a cigar in the house. Out of doors she endured it, but

it was not necessary, when out of doors was such a big place, to

indulge the habit indoors. Even Mr. Fisher, who had been, she should

say, a man originally tenacious of habits, had quite soon after

marriage got out of this one.

However, Mr. Wilkins, snatching off his hat on seeing her, instantly

threw the cigar away. He threw it into the water a great jar of arum

lilies presumably contained, and Mrs. Fisher, aware of the value men

attach to their newly-lit cigars, could not but be impressed by this

immediate and magnificent _amende honorable_.

But the cigar did not reach the water. It got caught in the lilies, and

smoked on by itself among them, a strange and depraved-looking object.

“Where are you going to, my prett—” began Mr. Wilkins, advancing

towards Mrs. Fisher; but he broke off just in time.

Was it morning spirits impelling him to address Mrs. Fisher in the

terms of a nursery rhyme? He wasn’t even aware that he knew the thing.

Most strange. What could have put it, at such a moment, into his

self-possessed head? He felt great respect for Mrs. Fisher, and would

not for the world have insulted her by addressing her as a maid, pretty

or otherwise. He wished to stand well with her. She was a woman of

parts, and also, he suspected, of property. At breakfast they had been

most pleasant together, and he had been struck by her apparent intimacy

with well-known persons. Victorians, of course; but it was restful to

talk about them after the strain of his brother-in-law’s Georgian

parties on Hampstead Heath. He and she were getting on famously, he

felt. She already showed all the symptoms of presently wishing to

become a client. Not for the world would he offend her. He turned a

little cold at the narrowness of his escape.

She had not, however, noticed.

“You are going out,” he said very politely, all readiness should she

confirm his assumption to accompany her.

“I want to find Lady Caroline,” said Mrs. Fisher, going towards the

glass door leading into the top garden.

“An agreeable quest,” remarked Mr. Wilkins. “May I assist in the

search? Allow me—” he added, opening the door for her.

“She usually sits over in that corner behind the bushes,” said Mrs.

Fisher. “And I don’t know about it being an agreeable quest. She has

been letting the bills run up in the most terrible fashion, and needs a

good scolding.”

“Lady Caroline?” said Mr. Wilkins, unable to follow such an attitude.

“What has Lady Caroline, if I may inquire, to do with the bills here?”

“The housekeeping was left to her, and as we all share alike it ought

to have been a matter of honour with her—”

“But—Lady Caroline housekeeping for the party here? A party which

includes my wife? My dear lady, you render me speechless. Do you not

know she is the daughter of the Droitwiches?”

“Oh, is that who she is,” said Mrs. Fisher, scrunching heavily over the

pebbles towards the hidden corner. “Well, that accounts for it. The

muddle that man Droitwich made in his department in the war was a

national scandal. It amounted to misappropriation of the public funds.”

“But it is impossible, I assure you, to expect the daughter of the

Droitwiches—” began Mr. Wilkins earnestly.

“The Droitwiches,” interrupted Mrs. Fisher, “are neither here nor

there. Duties undertaken should be performed. I don’t intend my money

to be squandered for the sake of any Droitwiches.”

A headstrong old lady. Perhaps not so easy to deal with as he had

hoped. But how wealthy. Only the consciousness of great wealth would

make her snap her fingers in this manner at the Droitwiches. Lotty, on

being questioned, had been vague about her circumstances, and had

described her house as a mausoleum with gold-fish swimming about in it;

but now he was sure she was more than very well off. Still, he wished

he had not joined her at this moment, for he had no sort of desire to

be present at such a spectacle as the scolding of Lady Caroline Dester.

Again, however, he was reckoning without Scrap. Whatever she felt when

she looked up and beheld Mr. Wilkins discovering her corner on the very

first morning, nothing but angelicness appeared on her face. She took

her feet off the parapet on Mrs. Fisher’s sitting down on it, and

listening gravely to her opening remarks as to her not having any money

to fling about in reckless and uncontrolled household expenditure,

interrupted her flow by pulling one of the cushions from behind her

head and offering it to her.

“Sit on this,” said Scrap, holding it out. “You’ll be more

comfortable.”

Mr. Wilkins leapt to relieve her of it.

“Oh, thanks,” said Mrs. Fisher, interrupted.

It was difficult to get into the swing again. Mr. Wilkins inserted the

cushion solicitously between the slightly raised Mrs. Fisher and the

stone of the parapet, and again she had to say “Thanks.” It was

interrupted. Besides, Lady Caroline said nothing in her defence; she

only looked at her, and listened with the face of an attentive angel.

It seemed to Mr. Wilkins that it must be difficult to scold a Dester

who looked like that and so exquisitely said nothing. Mrs. Fisher, he

was glad to see, gradually found it difficult herself, for her severity

slackened, and she ended by saying lamely, “You ought to have told me

you were not doing it.”

“I didn’t know you thought I was,” said the lovely voice.

“I would now like to know,” said Mrs. Fisher, “what you propose to do

for the rest of the time here.”

“Nothing,” said Scrap, smiling.

“Nothing? Do you mean to say—”

“If I may be allowed, ladies,” interposed Mr. Wilkins in his suavest

professional manner, “to make a suggestion”—they both looked at him,

and remembering him as they first saw him felt indulgent—“I would

advise you not to spoil a delightful holiday with worries over

housekeeping.”

“Exactly,” said Mrs. Fisher. “It is what I intend to avoid.”

“Most sensible,” said Mr. Wilkins. “Why not, then,” he continued,

“allow the cook—an excellent cook, by the way—so much a head _per

diem_”—Mr. Wilkins knew what was necessary in Latin—“and tell her that

for this sum she must cater for you, and not only cater but cater as

well as ever? One could easily reckon it out. The charges of a moderate

hotel, for instance, would do as a basis, halved, or perhaps even

quartered.”

“And this week that has just passed?” asked Mrs. Fisher. “The terrible

bills of this first week? What about them?”

“They shall be my present to San Salvatore,” said Scrap, who didn’t

like the idea of Lotty’s nest-egg being reduced so much beyond what she

was prepared for.

There was a silence. The ground was cut from under Mrs. Fisher’s feet.

“Of course if you choose to throw your money about—” she said at last,

disapproving but immensely relieved, while Mr. Wilkins was rapt in the

contemplation of the precious qualities of blue blood. This readiness,

for instance, not to trouble about money, this free-handedness—it was

not only what one admired in others, admired in others perhaps more

than anything else, but it was extraordinarily useful to the

professional classes. When met with it should be encouraged by warmth

of reception. Mrs. Fisher was not warm. She accepted—from which he

deduced that with her wealth went closeness—but she accepted

grudgingly. Presents were presents, and one did not look them in this

manner in the mouth, he felt; and if Lady Caroline found her pleasure

in presenting his wife and Mrs. Fisher with their entire food for a

week, it was their part to accept gracefully. One should not discourage

gifts.

On behalf of his wife, then, Mr. Wilkins expressed what she would wish

to express, and remarking to Lady Caroline—with a touch of lightness,

for so should gifts be accepted in order to avoid embarrassing the

donor—that she had in that case been his wife’s hostess since her

arrival, he turned almost gaily to Mrs. Fisher and pointed out that she

and his wife must now jointly write Lady Caroline the customary letter

of thanks for hospitality. “A Collins,” said Mr. Wilkins, who knew what

was necessary in literature. “I prefer the name Collins for such a

letter to either that of Board and Lodging or Bread and Butter. Let us

call it a Collins.”

Scrap smiled, and held out her cigarette case. Mrs. Fisher could not

help being mollified. A way out of waste was going to be found, thanks

to Mr. Wilkins, and she hated waste quite as much as having to pay for

it; also a way was found out of housekeeping. For a moment she had

thought that if everybody tried to force her into housekeeping on her

brief holiday by their own indifference (Lady Caroline), or inability

to speak Italian (the other two), she would have to send for Kate

Lumley after all. Kate could do it. Kate and she had learnt Italian

together. Kate would only be allowed to come on condition that she did

do it.

But this was much better, this way of Mr. Wilkins’s. Really a most

superior man. There was nothing like an intelligent, not too young man

for profitable and pleasurable companionship. And when she got up, the

business for which she had come being settled, and said she now

intended to take a little stroll before lunch, Mr. Wilkins did not stay

with Lady Caroline, as most of the men she had known would, she was

afraid, have wanted to—he asked to be permitted to go and stroll with

her; so that he evidently definitely preferred conversation to faces. A

sensible, companionable man. A clever, well-read man. A man of the

world. A man. She was very glad indeed she had not written to Kate the

other day. What did she want with Kate? She had found a better

companion.

But Mr. Wilkins did not go with Mrs. Fisher because of her

conversation, but because, when she got up and he got up because she

got up, intending merely to bow her out of the recess, Lady Caroline

had put her feet up on the parapet again, and arranging her head

sideways in the cushions had shut her eyes.

The daughter of the Droitwiches desired to go to sleep.

It was not for him, by remaining, to prevent her.