Positively5, for him, Mellersh petted her. There was at no time much pet in Mellersh, because he was by nature a cool man; yet such was the influence on him of, as Lotty supposed, San Salvatore, that in this second week he sometimes pinched both her ears, one after the other, instead of only one; and Lotty, marveling at such rapidly developing affectionateness, wondered what he would do, should he continue at this rate, in the third week, when her supply of ears would have come to an end.
He was particularly nice about the washstand, and genuinely desirous of not taking up too much of the space in the small bedroom. Quick to respond, Lotty was even more desirous not to be in his way; and the room became the scene of many an affectionate combat de générosité, each of which left them more pleased with each other than ever. He did not again have a bath in the bathroom, though it was mended and ready for him, but got up and went down every morning to the sea, and in spite of the cool nights making the water cold early had his dip as a man should, and came up to breakfast rubbing his hands and feeling, as he told Mrs. Fisher, prepared for anything.
Lotty's belief in the irresistible6 influence of the heavenly atmosphere of San Salvatore being thus obviously justified7, and Mr. Wilkins, whom Rose knew as alarming and Scrap8 had pictured as icily unkind, being so evidently a changed man, both Rose and Scrap began to think there might after all be something in what Lotty insisted on, and that San Salvatore did work purgingly on the character.
They were the more inclined to think so in that they too felt a working going on inside themselves: they felt more cleared, both of them, that second week—Scrap in her thoughts, many of which were now quite nice thoughts, real amiable ones about her parents and relations, with a glimmer9 in them of recognition of the extraordinary benefits she had received at the hands of—what? Fate? Providence10?—anyhow of something, and of how, having received them, she had misused11 them by failing to be happy; and Rose in her bosom12, which though it still yearned13, yearned to some purpose, for she was reaching the conclusion that merely inactively to yearn14 was no use at all, and that she must either by some means stop her yearning16 or give it at least a chance— remote, but still a chance—of being quieted by writing to Frederick and asking him to come out.
If Mr. Wilkins could be changed, thought Rose, why not Frederick? How wonderful it would be, how too wonderful, if the place worked on him too and were able to make them even a little understand each other, even a little be friends. Rose, so far had loosening and disintegration17 gone on in her character, now was beginning to think her obstinate18 strait-lacedness about his books and her austere19 absorption in good works had been foolish and perhaps even wrong. He was her husband, and she had frightened him away. She had frightened love away, precious love, and that couldn't be good. Was not Lotty right when she said the other day that nothing at all except love mattered? Nothing certainly seemed much use unless it was built up on love. But once frightened away, could it ever come back? Yes, it might in that beauty, it might in the atmosphere of happiness Lotty and San Salvatore seemed between them to spread round like some divine infection.
She had, however, to get him there first, and he certainly couldn't be got there if she didn't write and tell him where she was.
She would write. She must write; for if she did there was at least a chance of his coming, and if she didn't there was manifestly none. And then, once here in this loveliness, with everything so soft and kind and sweet all round, it would be easier to tell him, to try and explain, to ask for something different, for at least an attempt at something different in their lives in the future, instead of the blankness of separation, the cold—oh, the cold—of nothing at all but the great windiness of faith, the great bleakness20 of works. Why, one person in the world, one single person belonging to one, of one's very own, to talk to, to take care of, to love, to be interested in, was worth more than all the speeches on platforms and the compliments of chairmen in the world. It was also worth more—Rose couldn't help it, the thought would come—than all the prayers.
These thoughts were not head thoughts, like Scrap's, who was altogether free from yearnings, but bosom thoughts. They lodged21 in the bosom; it was in the bosom that Rose ached, and felt so dreadfully lonely. And when her courage failed her, as it did on most days, and it seemed impossible to write to Frederick, she would look at Mr. Wilkins and revive.
There he was, a changed man. There he was, going into that small, uncomfortable room every night, that room whose proximities had been Lotty's only misgiving22, and coming out of it in the morning, and Lotty coming out of it too, both of them as unclouded and as nice to each other as when they went in. And hadn't he, so critical at home, Lotty had told her, of the least thing going wrong, emerged from the bath catastrophe23 as untouched in spirit as Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego were untouched in body when they emerged from the fire? Miracles were happening in this place. If they could happen to Mr. Wilkins, why not to Frederick?
She got up quickly. Yes, she would write. She would go and write to him at once.
But suppose—
She paused. Suppose he didn't answer. Suppose he didn't even answer.
And she sat down again to think a little longer.
In these hesitations24 did Rose spend most of the second week.
Then there was Mrs. Fisher. Her restlessness increased that second week. It increased to such an extent that she might just as well not have had her private sitting-room25 at all, for she could no longer sit. Not for ten minutes together could Mrs. Fisher sit. And added to the restlessness, as the days of the second week proceeded on their way, she had a curious sensation, which worried her, of rising sap. She knew the feeling, because she had sometimes had it in childhood in specially26 swift springs, when the lilacs and the syringes seemed to rush out into blossom in a single night, but it was strange to have it again after over fifty years. She would have liked to remark on the sensation to some one, but she was ashamed. It was such an absurd sensation at her age. Yet oftener and oftener, and every day more and more, did Mrs. Fisher have a ridiculous feeling as if she were presently going to burgeon27.
Sternly she tried to frown the unseemly sensation down. Burgeon, indeed. She had heard of dried staffs, pieces of mere15 dead wood, suddenly putting forth28 fresh leaves, but only in legend. She was not in legend. She knew perfectly29 what was due to herself. Dignity demanded that she should have nothing to do with fresh leaves at her age; and yet there it was—the feeling that presently, that at any moment now, she might crop out all green.
Mrs. Fisher was upset. There were many things she disliked more than anything else, and one was when the elderly imagined they felt young and behaved accordingly. Of course they only imagined it, they were only deceiving themselves; but how deplorable were the results. She herself had grown old as people should grow old—steadily30 and firmly. No interruptions, no belated after-glows and spasmodic returns. If, after all these years, she were now going to be deluded31 into some sort of unsuitable breaking-out, how humiliating.
Indeed she was thankful, that second week, that Kate Lumley was not there. It would be most unpleasant, should anything different occur in her behaviour, to have Kate looking on. Kate had known her all her life. She felt she could let herself go—here Mrs. Fisher frowned at the book she was vainly trying to concentrate on, for where did that expression come from?—much less painfully before strangers than before an old friend. Old friends, reflected Mrs. Fisher, who hoped she was reading, compare one constantly with what one used to be. They are always doing it if one develops. They are surprised at development. They hark back; they expect motionlessness after, say, fifty, to the end of one's days.
That, thought Mrs. Fisher, her eyes going steadily line by line down the page and not a word of it getting through into her consciousness, is foolish of friends. It is condemning32 one to a premature33 death. One should continue (of course with dignity) to develop, however old one may be. She had nothing against developing, against further ripeness, because as long as one was alive one was not dead—obviously, decided34 Mrs. Fisher, and development, change, ripening35, were life. What she would dislike would be unripening, going back to something green. She would dislike it intensely; and this is what she felt she was on the brink36 of doing.
Naturally it made her very uneasy, and only in constant movement could she find distraction37. Increasingly restless and no longer able to confine herself to her battlements, she wandered more and more frequently, and also aimlessly, in and out of the top garden, to the growing surprise of Scrap, especially when she found that all Mrs. Fisher did was to stare for a few minutes at the view, pick a few dead leaves off the rose-bushes, and go away again.
In Mr. Wilkins's conversation she found temporary relief, but though he joined her whenever he could he was not always there, for he spread his attentions judiciously38 among the three ladies, and when he was somewhere else she had to face and manage her thoughts as best she could by herself. Perhaps it was the excess of light and colour at San Salvatore which made every other place seem dark and black; and Prince of Wales Terrace did seem a very dark black spot to have to go back to —a dark, narrow street, and her house dark and narrow as the street, with nothing really living or young in it. The goldfish could hardly be called living, or at most not more than half living, and were certainly not young, and except for them there were only the maids, and they were dusty old things.
Dusty old things. Mrs. Fisher paused in her thoughts, arrested by the strange expression. Where had it come from? How was it possible for it to come at all? It might have been one of Mrs. Wilkins's, in its levity39, its almost slang. Perhaps it was one of hers, and she had heard her say it and unconsciously caught it from her.
If so, this was both serious and disgusting. That the foolish creature should penetrate40 into Mrs. Fisher's very mind and establish her personality there, the personality which was still, in spite of the harmony apparently41 existing between her and her intelligent husband, so alien to Mrs. Fisher's own, so far removed from what she understood and liked, and infect her with her undesirable42 phrases, was most disturbing. Never in her life before had such a sentence come into Mrs. Fisher's head. Never in her life before had she thought of her maids, or of anybody else, as dusty old things. Her maids were not dusty old things; they were most respectable, neat women, who were allowed the use of the bathroom every Saturday night. Elderly, certainly, but then so was she, so was her house, so was her furniture, so were her goldfish. They were all elderly, as they should be, together. But there was a great difference between being elderly and being a dusty old thing.
How true it was what Ruskin said, that evil communications corrupt43 good manners. But did Ruskin say it? On second thoughts she was not sure, but it was just the sort of thing he would have said if he had said it, and in any case it was true. Merely hearing Mrs. Wilkins's evil communications at meals—she did not listen, she avoided listening, yet it was evident she had heard—those communications which, in that they so often were at once vulgar, indelicate and profane44, and always, she was sorry to say, laughed at by Lady Caroline, must be classed as evil, was spoiling her own mental manners. Soon she might not only think but say. How terrible that would be. If that were the form her breaking-out was going to take, the form of unseemly speech, Mrs. Fisher was afraid she would hardly with any degree of composure be able to bear it.
At this stage Mrs. Fisher wished more than ever that she were able to talk over her strange feelings with some one who would understand. There was, however, no one who would understand except Mrs. Wilkins herself. She would. She would know at once, Mrs. Fisher was sure, what she felt like. But this was impossible. It would be as abject45 as begging the very microbe that was infecting one for protection against its disease.
She continued, accordingly, to bear her sensations in silence, and was driven by them into that frequent aimless appearing in the top garden which presently roused even Scrap's attention.
Scrap had noticed it, and vaguely46 wondered at it, for some time before Mr. Wilkins inquired of her one morning as he arranged her cushions for her—he had established the daily assisting of Lady Caroline into her chair as his special privilege—whether there was anything the matter with Mrs. Fisher.
At that moment Mrs. Fisher was standing47 by the eastern parapet, shading her eyes and carefully scrutinizing48 the distant white houses of Mezzago. They could see her through the branches of the daphnes.
"I don't know," said Scrap.
"She is a lady, I take it," said Mr. Wilkins, "who would be unlikely to have anything on her mind?"
"I should imagine so," said Scrap, smiling.
"If she has, and her restlessness appears to suggest it, I should be more than glad to assist her with advice."
"I am sure you would be most kind."
"Of course she has her own legal adviser49, but he is not on the spot. I am. And a lawyer on the spot," said Mr. Wilkins, who endeavoured to make his conversation when he talked to Lady Caroline light, aware that one must be light with young ladies, "is worth two in—we won't be ordinary and complete the proverb, but say London."
"You should ask her."
"Ask her if she needs assistance? Would you advise it? Would it not be a little—a little delicate to touch on such a question, the question whether or no a lady has something on her mind?"
"Perhaps she will tell you if you go and talk to her. I think it must be lonely to be Mrs. Fisher."
"You are all thoughtfulness and consideration," declared Mr. Wilkins, wishing, for the first time in his life, that he were a foreigner so that he might respectfully kiss her hand on withdrawing to go obediently and relieve Mrs. Fisher's loneliness.
It was wonderful what a variety of exits from her corner Scrap contrived50 for Mr. Wilkins. Each morning she found a different one, which sent him off pleased after he had arranged her cushions for her. She allowed him to arrange the cushions because she instantly had discovered, the very first five minutes of the very first evening, that her fears lest he should cling to her and stare in dreadful admiration51 were baseless. Mr. Wilkins did not admire like that. It was not only, she instinctively52 felt, not in him, but if it had been he would not have dared to in her case. He was all respectfulness. She could direct his movements in regard to herself with the raising of an eyelash. His one concern was to obey. She had been prepared to like him if he would only be so obliging as not to admire her, and she did like him. She did not forget his moving defencelessness the first morning in his towel, and he amused her, and he was kind to Lotty. It is true she liked him most when he wasn't there, but then she usually liked everybody most when they weren't there. Certainly he did seem to be one of those men, rare in her experience, who never looked at a woman from the predatory angle. The comfort of this, the simplification it brought into the relations of the party, was immense. From this point of view Mr. Wilkins was simply ideal; he was unique and precious. Whenever she thought of him, and was perhaps inclined to dwell on the aspects of him that were a little boring, she remembered this and murmured, "But what a treasure."
Indeed it was Mr. Wilkins's one aim during his stay at San Salvatore to be a treasure. At all costs the three ladies who were not his wife must like him and trust him. Then presently when trouble arose in their lives—and in what lives did not trouble sooner or later arise?—they would recollect53 how reliable he was and how sympathetic, and turn to him for advice. Ladies with something on their minds were exactly what he wanted. Lady Caroline, he judged, had nothing on hers at the moment, but so much beauty—for he could not but see what was evident—must have had its difficulties in the past and would have more of them before it had done. In the past he had not been at hand; in the future he hoped to be. And meanwhile the behaviour of Mrs. Fisher, the next in importance of the ladies from the professional point of view, showed definite promise. It was almost certain that Mrs. Fisher had something on her mind. He had been observing her attentively54, and it was almost certain.
With the third, with Mrs. Arbuthnot, he had up to this made least headway, for she was so very retiring and quiet. But might not this very retiringness, this tendency to avoid the others and spend her time alone, indicate that she too was troubled? If so, he was her man. He would cultivate her. He would follow her and sit with her, and encourage her to tell him about herself. Arbuthnot, he understood from Lotty, was a British Museum official—nothing specially important at present, but Mr. Wilkins regarded it as his business to know all sorts and kinds. Besides, there was promotion55. Arbuthnot, promoted, might become very much worth while.
As for Lotty, she was charming. She really had all the qualities he had credited her with during his courtship, and they had been, it appeared, merely in abeyance56 since. His early impressions of her were now being endorsed57 by the affection and even admiration Lady Caroline showed for her. Lady Caroline Dester was the last person, he was sure, to be mistaken on such a subject. Her knowledge of the world, her constant association with only the best, must make her quite unerring. Lotty was evidently, then, that which before marriage he had believed her to be—she was valuable. She certainly had been most valuable in introducing him to Lady Caroline and Mrs. Fisher. A man in his profession could be immensely helped by a clever and attractive wife. Why had she not been attractive sooner? Why this sudden flowering?
Mr. Wilkins began too to believe there was something peculiar58, as Lotty had almost at once informed him, in the atmosphere of San Salvatore. It promoted expansion. It brought out dormant59 qualities. And feeling more and more pleased, and even charmed, by his wife, and very content with the progress he was making with the two others, and hopeful of progress to be made with the retiring third, Mr. Wilkins could not remember ever having had such an agreeable holiday. The only thing that might perhaps be bettered was the way they would call him Mr. Wilkins. Nobody said Mr. Mellersh-Wilkins. Yet he had introduced himself to Lady Caroline—he flinched60 a little on remembering the circumstances—as Mellersh-Wilkins.
Still, this was a small matter, not enough to worry about. He would be foolish if in such a place and such society he worried about anything. He was not even worrying about what the holiday was costing, and had made up his mind to pay not only his own expenses but his wife's as well, and surprise her at the end by presenting her with her nest-egg as intact as when she started; and just the knowledge that he was preparing a happy surprise for her made him feel warmer than ever towards her.
In fact Mr. Wilkins, who had begun by being consciously and according to plan on his best behaviour, remained on it unconsciously, and with no effort at all.
And meanwhile the beautiful golden days were dropping gently from the second week one by one, equal in beauty with those of the first, and the scent61 of beanfields in flower on the hillside behind the village came across to San Salvatore whenever the air moved. In the garden that second week the poet's eyed narcissus disappeared out the long grass at the edge of the zigzag62 path, and wild gladiolus, slender and rose-coloured, came in their stead, white pinks bloomed in the borders, filing the whole place with their smoky-sweet smell, and a bush nobody had noticed burst into glory and fragrance63, and it was a purple lilac bush. Such a jumble64 of spring and summer was not to be believed in, except by those who dwelt in those gardens. Everything seemed to be out together—all the things crowded into one month which in England are spread penuriously65 over six. Even primroses66 were found one day by Mrs. Wilkins in a cold corner up in the hills; and when she brought them down to the geraniums and heliotrope67 of San Salvatore they looked quite shy.
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1
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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7
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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11
misused
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| v.使用…不当( misuse的过去式和过去分词 )；把…派作不正当的用途；虐待；滥用 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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yearn
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| v.想念；怀念；渴望 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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disintegration
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| n.分散，解体 | |
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obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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bleakness
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| adj. 萧瑟的, 严寒的, 阴郁的 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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hesitations
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| n.犹豫( hesitation的名词复数 )；踌躇；犹豫（之事或行为）；口吃 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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burgeon
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| v.萌芽，发芽；迅速发展 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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deluded
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| v.欺骗，哄骗( delude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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condemning
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| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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ripening
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的现在分词 )；熟化；熟成 | |
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brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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judiciously
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| adv.明断地，明智而审慎地 | |
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levity
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| n.轻率，轻浮，不稳定，多变 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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42
undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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scrutinizing
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的现在分词 ) | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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51
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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52
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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53
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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55
promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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56
abeyance
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| n.搁置，缓办，中止，产权未定 | |
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57
endorsed
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| vt.& vi.endorse的过去式或过去分词形式v.赞同( endorse的过去式和过去分词 )；在（尤指支票的）背面签字；在（文件的）背面写评论；在广告上说本人使用并赞同某产品 | |
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58
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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59
dormant
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| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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60
flinched
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| v.（因危险和痛苦）退缩，畏惧( flinch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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62
zigzag
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| n.曲折，之字形；adj.曲折的，锯齿形的；adv.曲折地，成锯齿形地；vt.使曲折；vi.曲折前行 | |
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63
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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64
jumble
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| vt.使混乱，混杂；n.混乱；杂乱的一堆 | |
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65
penuriously
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| adv.penurious（吝啬的）的变形 | |
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66
primroses
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| n.报春花( primrose的名词复数 )；淡黄色；追求享乐（招至恶果） | |
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heliotrope
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| n.天芥菜；淡紫色 | |
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