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.