The Enchanted April
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