The Enchanted April
who would have to leave them quite soon and go back to life in
Hampstead? Also, there was the imminence of Mellersh, of that Mellersh
from whom Lotty had so lately run. It was all very well to feel one
ought to share, and to make a _beau geste_ and do it, but the _beaux
gestes_ Scrap had known hadn’t made anybody happy. Nobody really liked
being the object of one, and it always meant an effort on the part of
the maker. Still, she had to admit there was no effort about Lotty; it
was quite plain that everything she did and said was effortless, and
that she was just simply, completely happy.
And so Mrs. Wilkins was; for her doubts as to whether she had had time
to become steady enough in serenity to go on being serene in Mellersh’s
company when she had it uninterruptedly right round the clock, had gone
by the middle of the week, and she felt that nothing now could shake
her. She was ready for anything. She was firmly grafted, rooted, built
into heaven. Whatever Mellersh said or did, she would not budge an inch
out of heaven, would not rouse herself a single instant to come outside
it and be cross. On the contrary, she was going to pull him up into it
beside her, and they would sit comfortably together, suffused in light,
and laugh at how much afraid of him she used to be in Hampstead, and at
how deceitful her afraidness had made her. But he wouldn’t need much
pulling. He would come in quite naturally after a day or two,
irresistibly wafted on the scented breezes of that divine air; and
there he would sit arrayed in stars, thought Mrs. Wilkins, in whose
mind, among much other _débris_, floated occasional bright shreds of
poetry. She laughed to herself a little at the picture of Mellersh,
that top-hatted, black-coated, respectable family solicitor, arrayed in
stars, but she laughed affectionately, almost with a maternal pride in
how splendid he would look in such fine clothes. “Poor lamb,” she
murmured to herself affectionately. And added, “What he wants is a
thorough airing.”
This was during the first half of the week. By the beginning of the
last half, at the end of which Mr. Wilkins arrived, she left off even
assuring herself that she was unshakeable, that she was permeated
beyond altering by the atmosphere, she no longer thought of it or
noticed it; she took it for granted. If one may say so, and she
certainly said so, not only to herself but also to Lady Caroline, she
had found her celestial legs.
Contrary to Mrs. Fisher’s idea of the seemly—but of course contrary;
what else would one expect of Mrs. Wilkins?—she did not go to meet her
husband at Mezzago, but merely walked down to the point where Beppo’s
fly would leave him and his luggage in the street of Castagneto. Mrs.
Fisher disliked the arrival of Mr. Wilkins, and was sure that anybody
who could have married Mrs. Wilkins must be at least of an injudicious
disposition, but a husband, whatever his disposition, should be
properly met. Mr. Fisher had always been properly met. Never once in
his married life had he gone unmet at a station, nor had he ever not
been seen off. These observances, these courtesies, strengthened the
bonds of marriage, and made the husband feel he could rely on his
wife’s being always there. Always being there was the essential secret
for a wife. What would have become of Mr. Fisher if she had neglected
to act on this principle she preferred not to think. Enough things
became of him as it was; for whatever one’s care in stopping up,
married life yet seemed to contain chinks.
But Mrs. Wilkins took no pains. She just walked down the hill
singing—Mrs. Fisher could hear her—and picked up her husband in the
street as casually as if he were a pin. The three others, still in bed,
for it was not nearly time to get up, heard her as she passed beneath
their windows down the zigzag path to meet Mr. Wilkins, who was coming
by the morning train, and Scrap smiled, and Rose sighed, and Mrs.
Fisher rang her bell and desired Francesca to bring her her breakfast
in her room. All three had breakfast that day in their rooms, moved by
a common instinct to take cover.
Scrap always breakfasted in bed, but she had the same instinct for
cover, and during breakfast she made plans for spending the whole day
where she was. Perhaps, though, it wouldn’t be as necessary that day as
the next. That day, Scrap calculated, Mellersh would be provided for.
He would want to have a bath, and having a bath at San Salvatore was an
elaborate business, a real adventure if one had a hot one in the
bathroom, and it took a lot of time. It involved the attendance of the
entire staff—Domenico and the boy Giuseppe coaxing the patent stove to
burn, restraining it when it burnt too fiercely, using the bellows to
it when it threatened to go out, relighting it when it did go out;
Francesca anxiously hovering over the tap regulating its trickle,
because if it were turned on too full the water instantly ran cold, and
if not full enough the stove blew up inside and mysteriously flooded
the house; and Costanza and Angela running up and down bringing pails
of hot water from the kitchen to eke out what the tap did.
This bath had been put in lately, and was at once the pride and the
terror of the servants. It was very patent. Nobody quite understood it.
There were long printed instructions as to its right treatment hanging
on the wall, in which the word _pericoloso_ recurred. When Mrs. Fisher,
proceeding on her arrival to the bathroom, saw this word, she went back
to her room again and ordered a sponge-bath instead; and when the
others found what using the bathroom meant, and how reluctant the
servants were to leave them alone with the stove, and how Francesca
positively refused to, and stayed with her back turned watching the
tap, and how the remaining servants waited anxiously outside the door
till the bather came safely out again, they too had sponge-baths
brought into their rooms instead.
Mr. Wilkins, however, was a man, and would be sure to want a big bath.
Having it, Scrap calculated, would keep him busy for a long while. Then
he would unpack, and then, after his night in the train, he would
probably sleep till the evening. So would he be provided for the whole
of that day, and not be let loose on them till dinner.
Therefore Scrap came to the conclusion she would be quite safe in the
garden that day, and got up as usual after breakfast, and dawdled as
usual through her dressing, listening with a slightly cocked ear to
the sounds of Mr. Wilkins’s arrival, of his luggage being carried into
Lotty’s room on the other side of the landing, of his educated voice
as he inquired of Lotty, first, “Do I give this fellow anything?” and
immediately afterwards, “Can I have a hot bath?”—of Lotty’s voice
cheerfully assuring him that he needn’t give the fellow anything
because he was the gardener, and that yes, he could have a hot bath;
and soon after this the landing was filled with the familiar noises of
wood being brought, of water being brought, of feet running, of tongues
vociferating—in fact, with the preparation of the bath.
Scrap finished dressing, and then loitered at her window, waiting till
she should hear Mr. Wilkins go into the bathroom. When he was safely
there she would slip out and settle herself in her garden and resume
her inquiries into the probable meaning of her life. She was getting on
with her inquiries. She dozed much less frequently, and was beginning
to be inclined to agree that tawdry was the word to apply to her past.
Also she was afraid that her future looked black.
There—she could hear Mr. Wilkins’s educated voice again. Lotty’s door
had opened, and he was coming out of it asking his way to the bathroom.
“It’s where you see the crowd,” Lotty’s voice answered—still a cheerful
voice, Scrap was glad to notice.
His steps went along the landing, and Lotty’s steps seemed to go
downstairs, and then there seemed to be a brief altercation at the
bathroom door—hardly so much an altercation as a chorus of
vociferations on one side and a wordless determination, Scrap judged, to
have a bath by oneself on the other.
Mr. Wilkins knew no Italian, and the expression _pericoloso_ left
him precisely as it found him—or would have if he had seen it, but
naturally he took no notice of the printed matter on the wall. He
firmly closed the door on the servants, resisting Domenico, who tried
to the last to press through, and locked himself in as a man should for
his bath, judicially considering, as he made his simple preparations
for getting in, the singular standard of behaviour of these foreigners
who, both male and female, apparently wished to stay with him while
he bathed. In Finland, he had heard, the female natives not only
were present on such occasions but actually washed the bath-taking
traveller. He had not heard, however, that this was true too of Italy,
which somehow seemed much nearer civilisation—perhaps because one went
there, and did not go to Finland.
Impartially examining this reflection, and carefully balancing the
claims to civilisation of Italy and Finland, Mr. Wilkins got into the
bath and turned off the tap. Naturally he turned off the tap. It was
what one did. But on the instructions, printed in red letters, was a
paragraph saying that the tap should not be turned off as long as there
was still fire in the stove. It should be left on—not much on, but
on—until the fire was quite out; otherwise, and here again was the word
_pericoloso_, the stove would blow up.
Mr. Wilkins got into the bath, turned off the tap, and the stove blew
up, exactly as the printed instructions said it would. It blew up,
fortunately, only in its inside, but it blew up with a terrific noise,
and Mr. Wilkins leapt out of the bath and rushed to the door, and only
the instinct born of years of training made him snatch up a towel as he
rushed.
Scrap, half-way across the landing on her way out of doors, heard the
explosion.
“Good heavens,” she thought, remembering the instructions, “there goes
Mr. Wilkins!”
And she ran toward the head of the stairs to call the servants, and as
she ran, out ran Mr. Wilkins clutching his towel, and they ran into
each other.
“That damned bath!” cried Mr. Wilkins, perhaps for the only time in his
life forgetting himself; but he was upset.
Here was an introduction. Mr Wilkins, imperfectly concealed in his
towel, his shoulders exposed at one end and his legs at the other, and
Lady Caroline Dester, to meet whom he had swallowed all his anger with
his wife and come out to Italy.
For Lotty in her letter had told him who was at San Salvatore besides
herself and Mrs. Arbuthnot, and Mr. Wilkins at once had perceived that
this was an opportunity which might never recur. Lotty had merely said,
“There are two other women here, Mrs. Fisher and Lady Caroline Dester,”
but that was enough. He knew all about the Droitwiches, their wealth,
their connections, their place in history, and the power they had,
should they choose to exert it, of making yet another solicitor happy
by adding him to those they already employed. Some people employed one
solicitor for one branch of their affairs, and another for another. The
affairs of the Droitwiches must have many branches. He had also
heard—for it was, he considered, part of his business to hear, and
having heard to remember—of the beauty of their only daughter. Even if
the Droitwiches themselves did not need his services, their daughter
might. Beauty led one into strange situations; advice could never come
amiss. And should none of them, neither parents nor daughter nor any of
their brilliant sons, need him in his professional capacity, it yet was
obviously a most valuable acquaintance to make. It opened up vistas. It
swelled with possibilities. He might go on living in Hampstead for