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Page 47
"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.
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