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.”