The Enchanted April | Page 4

about its end like the upward curve of a
pugdog's tail. There it was, however. There was no doing anything with
it. Wilkins she was and Wilkins she would remain; and though her
husband encouraged her to give it on all occasions as Mrs.
Mellersh-Wilkins she only did that when he was within earshot, for she
thought Mellersh made Wilkins worse, emphasizing it in the way
Chatsworth on the gate-posts of a villa emphasizes the villa.
When first he suggested she should add Mellersh she had objected for

the above reason, and after a pause--Mellersh was much too prudent to
speak except after a pause, during which presumably he was taking a
careful mental copy of his coming observation--he said, much
displeased, "But I am not a villa," and looked at her as he looks who
hopes, for perhaps the hundredth time, that he may not have married a
fool.
Of course he was not a villa, Mrs. Wilkins assured him; she had never
supposed he was; she had not dreamed of meaning . . . she was only
just thinking . . .
The more she explained the more earnest became Mellersh's hope,
familiar to him by this time, for he had then been a husband for two
years, that he might not by any chance have married a fool; and they
had a prolonged quarrel, if that can be called a quarrel which is
conducted with dignified silence on one side and earnest apology on
the other, as to whether or no Mrs. Wilkins had intended to suggest that
Mr. Wilkins was a villa.
"I believe," she had thought when it was at last over--it took a long
while--"that anybody would quarrel about anything when they've not
left off being together for a single day for two whole years. What we
both need is a holiday."
"My husband," went on Mrs. Wilkins to Mrs. Arbuthnot, trying to
throw some light on herself, "is a solicitor. He--" She cast about for
something she could say elucidatory of Mellersh, and found: "He's very
handsome."
"Well," said Mrs. Arbuthnot kindly, "that must be a great pleasure to
you."
"Why?" asked Mrs. Wilkins.
"Because," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, a little taken aback, for constant
intercourse with the poor had accustomed her to have her
pronouncements accepted without question, "because
beauty--handsomeness-- is a gift like any other, and if it is properly

used--"
She trailed off into silence. Mrs. Wilkins's great grey eyes were fixed
on her, and it seemed suddenly to Mrs. Arbuthnot that perhaps she was
becoming crystallized into a habit of exposition, and of exposition after
the manner of nursemaids, through having an audience that couldn't but
agree, that would be afraid, if it wished, to interrupt, that didn't know,
that was, in fact, at her mercy.
But Mrs. Wilkins was not listening; for just then, absurd as it seemed, a
picture had flashed across her brain, and there were two figures in it
sitting together under a great trailing wisteria that stretched across the
branches of a tree she didn't know, and it was herself and Mrs.
Arbuthnot--she saw them--she saw them. And behind them, bright in
sunshine, were old grey walls--the mediaeval castle --she saw it--they
were there . . .
She therefore stared at Mrs. Arbuthnot and did not hear a word she said.
And Mrs. Arbuthnot stared too at Mrs. Wilkins, arrested by the
expression on her face, which was swept by the excitement of what she
saw, and was as luminous and tremulous under it as water in sunlight
when it is ruffled by a gust of wind. At this moment, if she had been at
a party, Mrs. Wilkins would have been looked at with interest.
They stared at each other; Mrs. Arbuthnot surprised, inquiringly, Mrs.
Wilkins with the eyes of some one who has had a revelation. Of course.
That was how it could be done. She herself, she by herself, couldn't
afford it, and wouldn't be able, even if she could afford it, to go there
all alone; but she and Mrs. Arbuthnot together . . .
She leaned across the table, "Why don't we try and get it?" she
whispered.
Mrs. Arbuthnot became even more wide-eyed. "Get it?" she repeated.
"Yes," said Mrs. Wilkins, still as though she were afraid of being
overheard. "Not just sit here and say How wonderful, and then go home
to Hampstead without having put out a finger--go home just as usual

and see about the dinner and the fish just as we've been doing for years
and years and will go on doing for years and years. In fact," said Mrs.
Wilkins, flushing to the roots of her hair, for the sound of what she was
saying, of what was coming pouring out, frightened her, and yet she
couldn't