"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 menage, 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 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 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."
Chapter 12
At the evening meal, which was the first time the whole four sat round the dining-room table together, Sc.r.a.p appeared.
She appeared quite punctually, and in one of those wrappers or tea-gowns which are sometimes described as ravishing. This one really was ravishing. It certainly ravished Mrs. Wilkins, who could not take her eyes off the enchanting figure opposite. It was a sh.e.l.l-pink garment, and clung to the adorable Sc.r.a.p as though it, too, loved her.
"What a beautiful dress!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilkins eagerly.
"What--this old rag?" said Sc.r.a.p, glancing down at it as if to see which one she had got on. "I"ve had it a hundred years." And she concentrated on her soup.
"You must be very cold in it," said Mrs. Fisher, thin-lipped; for it showed a great deal of Sc.r.a.p--the whole of her arms, for instance, and even where it covered her up it was so thin that you still saw her.
"Who--me?" said Sc.r.a.p, looking up a moment. "Oh, no."
And she continued her soup.
"You mustn"t catch a chill, you know," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, feeling that such loveliness must at all costs be preserved unharmed.
"There"s a great difference here when the sun goes down."
"I"m quite warm," said Sc.r.a.p, industriously eating her soup.
"You look as if you had nothing at all on underneath," said Mrs.
Fisher.
"I haven"t. At least, hardly anything," said Sc.r.a.p, finishing her soup.
"How every imprudent," said Mrs. Fisher, "and how highly improper."
Whereupon Sc.r.a.p stared at her.
Mrs. Fisher had arrived at dinner feeling friendly towards Lady Caroline. She at least had not intruded into her room and sat at her table and written with her pen. She did, Mrs. Fisher had supposed, know how to behave. Now it appeared that she did not know, for was this behaving, to come dressed--no, undressed--like that to a meal?
Such behaviour was not only exceedingly improper but also most inconsiderate, for the indelicate creature would certainly catch a chill, and then infect the entire party. Mrs. Fisher had a great objection to other people"s chills. They were always the fruit of folly; and then they were handed on to her, who had done nothing at all to deserve them.
"Bird-brained," though Mrs. Fisher, sternly contemplating Lady Caroline. "Not an idea in her head except vanity."
"But there are no men here," said Mrs. Wilkins, "so how can it be improper? Have you noticed," she inquired of Mrs. Fisher, who endeavoured to pretend she did not hear, "How difficult it is to be improper without men?"
Mrs. Fisher neither answered her not looked at her; but Sc.r.a.p looked at her, and did that with her mouth which in any other mouth would have been a fain grin. Seen from without, across the bowl of nasturtiums, it was the most beautiful of brief and dimpled smiles.
She had a very alive sort of face, that one, thought Sc.r.a.p, observing Mrs. Wilkins with a dawn of interest. It was rather like a field of corn swept by lights and shadows. Both she and the dark one, Sc.r.a.p noticed, had changed their clothes, but only in order to put on silk jumpers. The same amount of trouble would have been enough to dress them properly, reflected Sc.r.a.p. Naturally they looked like nothing on earth in the jumpers. It didn"t matter what Mrs. Fisher wore; indeed, the only thing for her, short of plumes and ermine, was what she did wear. But these others were quite young still, and quite attractive. They really definitely had faces. How different life would be for them if they made the most of themselves instead of the least. And yet--Sc.r.a.p was suddenly bored, and turned away her thoughts and absently ate toast. What did it matter? If you did make the most of yourself, you only collected people round you who ended by wanting to grab.
"I"ve had the most wonderful day," began Mrs. Wilkins, her eyes shining.
Sc.r.a.p lowered hers. "Oh," she thought, "she"s going to gush."
"As though anybody were interested in her day," thought Mrs.
Fisher, lowering hers also.
In fact, whenever Mrs. Wilkins spoke Mrs. Fisher deliberately cast down her eyes. Thus would she mark her disapproval. Besides, it seemed the only safe thing to do with her eyes, for no one could tell what the uncurbed creature would say next. That which she had just said, for instance, about men--addressed too, to her--what could she mean? Better not conjecture, thought Mrs. Fisher; and her eyes, though cast down, yet saw Lady Caroline stretch out her hand to the Chianti flask and fill her gla.s.s again.
Again. She had done it once already, and the fish was only just going out of the room. Mrs. Fisher could see that the other respectable member of the party, Mrs. Arbuthnot, was noticing it too. Mrs.
Arbuthnot was, she hoped and believed, respectable and well-meaning.
It is true she also had invaded her sitting-room, but no doubt she had been dragged there by the other one, and Mrs. Fisher had little if anything against Mrs. Arbuthnot, and observed with approval that she only drank water. That was as it should be. So, indeed, to give her her dues, did the freckled one; and very right at their age. She herself drank wine, but with what moderation: one meal, one gla.s.s.
And she was sixty-five, and might properly, and even beneficially, have had a least two.
"That," she said to Lady Caroline, cutting right across what Mrs.
Wilkins was telling them about her wonderful day and indicating the wine-gla.s.s, "is very bad for you."
Lady Caroline, however, could not have heard, for she continued to sip, her elbow on the table, and listen to what Mrs. Wilkins was saying.
And what was it she was saying? She had invited somebody to come and stay? A man?
Mrs. Fisher could not credit her ears. Yet it evidently was a man, for she spoke of the person as he.
Suddenly and for the first time--but then this was most important--Mrs. Fisher addressed Mrs. Wilkins directly. She was sixty-five, and cared very little what sorts of women she happened to be with for a month, but if the women were to be mixed with men it was a different proposition altogether. She was not going to be made a cat"s-paw of. She had not come out there to sanction by her presence what used in her day to be called fast behaviour. Nothing had been said at the interview in London about men; if there had been she would have declined, of course to come.
"What is his name?" asked Mrs. Fisher, abruptly interposing.
Mrs. Wilkins turned to her with a slight surprise. "Wilkins,"