Chapter 11
The sweet smells that were everywhere in San Salvatore were aloneenough to produce concord. They came into the sitting-room from theflowers on the battlements, and met the ones from the flowers insidethe room, and almost, thought Mrs. Wilkins, could be seen greeting eachother with a holy kiss. Who could be angry in the middle of suchgentlenesses? Who could be acquisitive, selfish, in the old raspedLondon 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 init.
Yet Mrs. Fisher was trying to make a corner in it, and had railedoff a portion for her exclusive use.
Well, she would get over that presently; she would get over itinevitably, Mrs. Wilkins was sure, after a day or two in theextraordinary atmosphere of peace in that place.
Meanwhile she obviously hadn't even begun to get over it. Shestood looking at her and Rose with an expression that appeared to beone of anger. Anger. Fancy. Silly old nerve-racked London feelings,thought Mrs. Wilkins, whose eyes saw the room full of kisses, andeverybody in it being kissed, Mrs. Fisher as copiously as she herselfand Rose.
"You don't like us being in here," said Mrs. Wilkins, getting upand 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 Londonaddress 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 thetable. And she added smiling, that it had just been writing some veryamiable things.
"But why," asked Mrs. Arbuthnot, who found herself unable toacquiesce in Mrs. Fisher's arrangements without at least a gentlestruggle, "ought we not to be here? It's a sitting-room."
"There is another one," said Mrs. Fisher. "You and your friendcannot sit in two rooms at once, and if I have no wish to disturb youin 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 waslooking stubborn; and turning to Mrs. Fisher she said that althoughsharing 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 andfeel quite different. "Soon you'll want us to share," said Mrs.Wilkins reassuringly. "Why, you may even get so far as asking me touse your pen if you knew I hadn't got one."
Mrs. Fisher was moved almost beyond control by this speech. Tohave a ramshackle young woman from Hampstead patting her on the back asit were, in breezy certitude that quite soon she would improve, stirredher more deeply than anything had stirred her since her first discoverythat Mr. Fisher was not what he seemed. Mrs. Wilkins must certainly becurbed. But how? There was a curious imperviousness about her. Atthat moment, for instance, she was smiling as pleasantly and with asunclouded a face as if she were saying nothing in the leastimpertinent. Would she know she was being curbed? If she didn't know,if she were too tough to feel it, then what? Nothing, exceptavoidance; except, precisely, one's own private sitting-room.
"I'm an old woman," said Mrs. Fisher, "and I need a room tomyself. I cannot get about, because of my stick. As I cannot getabout I have to sit. Why should I not sit quietly and undisturbed, asI told you in London I intended to? If people are to come in and outall day long, chattering and leaving doors open, you will have brokenthe agreement, which was that I was to be quiet."
"But we haven't the least wish--" began Mrs. Arbuthnot, who wasagain cut short by Mrs. Wilkins.
"We're only too glad," said Mrs. Wilkins, "for you to have thisroom if it makes you happy. We didn't know about it, that's all. Wewouldn't have come in if we had--not till you invited us, anyhow. Iexpect," she finished looking down cheerfully at Mrs. Fisher, "you soonwill." And picking up her letter she took Mrs. Arbuthnot's hand anddrew 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 andfight. Not, of course, really, nor even with any definitely aggressivewords. No; she only wanted to reason with Mrs. Fisher, and to reasonpatiently. But she did feel that something ought to be said, and thatshe ought not to allow herself to be rated and turned out as if shewere 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 andequable 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 socompletely protect one? Did it make one so untouchable, so wise? Rosewas happy herself, but not anything like so happy. Evidently not, fornot only did she want to fight Mrs. Fisher but she wanted somethingelse, something more than this lovely place, something to complete it;she wanted Frederick. For the first time in her life she wassurrounded by perfect beauty, and her one thought was to show it tohim, to share it with him. She wanted Frederick. She yearned forFrederick. Ah, if only, only Frederick . . .
"Poor old thing," said Mrs. Wilkins, shutting the door gently onMrs. 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 goand sit in."
"It's much the nicest," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. "And it isn'thers."
"Oh but there are lots of other places, and she's such a poor oldthing. Let her have the room. Whatever does it matter?"
And Mrs. Wilkins said she was going down to the village to findout where the post-office was and post her letter to Mellersh, andwould Rose go too.
"I've been thinking about Mellersh," said Mrs. Wilkins as theywalked, one behind the other, down the narrow zigzag path up which theyhad 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 andreasonable Rose whenever she could.
"I've been thinking about Mellersh," repeated Mrs. Wilkins overher shoulder, as Rose seemed not to have heard.
"Have you?" said Rose, a faint distaste in her voice, for herexperiences with Mellersh had not been of a kind to make her enjoyremembering him. She had deceived Mellersh; therefore she didn't likehim. She was unconscious that this was the reason of her dislike, andthought it was that there didn't seem to be much, if any, of the graceof 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 toGod than she herself was ever likely to be. Still, she didn't likehim.
"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 whileI rollick in heaven. He had planned to take me to Italy for Easterhimself. Did I tell you?"
"No," said Mrs. Arbuthnot; and indeed she had discouraged talkabout husbands. Whenever Lotty had begun to blurt out things she hadswiftly changed the conversation. One husband led to another, inconversation as well as in life, she felt, and she could not, she wouldnot, talk of Frederick. Beyond the bare fact that he was there, he hadnot been mentioned. Mellersh had had to be mentioned, because of hisobstructiveness, but she had carefully kept him from overflowingoutside the limits of necessity.
"Well, he did," said Mrs. Wilkins. "He had never done such athing in his li
fe before, and I was horrified. Fancy--just as I hadplanned 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 talkabout.
"Now you see why I say I've been a mean dog. He had planned aholiday in Italy with me, and I had planned a holiday in Italy leavinghim 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 withwhich, hour by hour, under her very eyes, Lotty became more selfless,disconcerted her. She was turning into something surprisingly like asaint. Here she was now being affectionate about Mellersh--Mellersh,who only that morning, while they hung their feet into the sea, hadseemed a mere iridescence, Lotty had told her, a thing of gauze. Thatwas only that morning; and by the time they had had lunch Lotty haddeveloped so far as to have got him solid enough again to write to, andto write to at length. And now, a few minutes later, she wasannouncing that he had every reason to be angry with her and hurt, andthat she herself had been--the language was unusual, but it did expressreal penitence--a mean dog.
Rose stared at her astonished. If she went on like this, soon animbus might be expected round her head, was there already, if onedidn't know it was the sun through the tree-trunks catching her sandyhair.
A great desire to love and be friends, to love everybody, to befriends with everybody, seemed to be invading Lotty--a desire for sheergoodness. Rose's own experience was that goodness, the state of beinggood, was only reached with difficulty and pain. It took a long timeto get to it; in fact one never did get to it, or, if for a flashinginstant one did, it was only for a flashing instant. Desperateperseverance was needed to struggle along its path, and all the way wasdotted with doubts. Lotty simply flew along. She had certainly,thought Rose, not got rid of her impetuousness. It had merely takenanother direction. She was now impetuously becoming a saint. Couldone really attain goodness so violently? Wouldn't there be an equallyviolent reaction?
"I shouldn't," said Rose with caution, looking down into Lotty'sbright eyes--the path was steep, so that Lotty was well below her--"Ishouldn'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 andlooking pleased.
"What--everything?"
"You mean about the advertisement and my savings being spent? Ohno--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 waived herhand. "Disgusting not to share it. I was a mean dog to go off andleave him, but no dog I've every heard of was ever as mean as I'd beif 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 mynest-egg. After all, he has housed me and fed me for years. Oneshouldn't be churlish."
"But--do you think he'll come?
"Oh, I hope so," said Lotty with the utmost earnestness; andadded, "Poor lamb."
At that Rose felt she would like to sit down. Mellersh a poorlamb? 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 satdown. She wished to get her breath, gain time. If she had time shemight perhaps be able to catch up the leaping Lotty, and perhaps beable to stop her before she committed herself to what she probablypresently 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 saidin that convinced voice, "I see," what she saw came true. Then it wasto 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 Lottydidn't seem to have noticed, "was to get away, wasn't it? Well, we'vegot away. And now, after only a single day of it, you want to write tothe 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 makesme 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 itwill have the same effect on Mr. Wilkins?"
Lotty laughed. "I don't know," she said. "But even if itdoesn't, there's enough love about to flood fifty Mr. Wilkinses, as youcall him. The great thing is to have lots of love about. I don'tsee," 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 stingybeast at home, and used to measure and count. I had a queer obsessionabout justice. As though justice mattered. As though justice canreally be distinguished from vengeance. It's only love that's anygood. 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 effectof San Salvatore on her rapidly developing friend was her sudden freeuse of robust words. She had not used them in Hampstead. Beast anddog were more robust than Hampstead cared about. In words, too, Lottyhad come unchained.
But how she wished, oh how Rose wished, that she too could writeto her husband and say "Come." The Wilkins menage, however pompousMellersh might be, and he had seemed to Rose pompous, was on ahealthier, more natural footing than hers. Lotty could write toMellersh and would get an answer. She couldn't write to Frederick, foronly too well did she know he wouldn't answer. At least, he mightanswer--a hurried scribble, showing how much bored he was at doing it,with perfunctory thanks for her letter. But that would be worse thanno answer at all; for his handwriting, her name on an envelopeaddressed by him, stabbed her heart. Too acutely did it bring back theletters of their beginnings together, the letters from him so desolatewith separation, so aching with love and longing. To see apparentlyone of these very same letters arrive, and open it to find:
Dear Rose--Thanks for letter. Glad you're having a good time.Don't hurry back. Say if you want any money. Everything goingsplendidly 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 Iwant to think."
"All right," said Lotty, at once starting off briskly down thepath. "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."