 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Diana Keisner. The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnhem. Chapter one. It began in a woman's club in London on a February afternoon. An uncomfortable club and a miserable afternoon. When Mrs. Wilkins, who had come down from Hampstead to shop and had lunch at her club, took up the tines from the table in the smoking room and running her listless eye down the agony column saw this. To appreciate wisteria and sunshine. Small medieval Italian castle on the shores of the Mediterranean. To be let furnished for the month of April. Necessary servants remain. Z. Box 1000. The times. That was its conception. Yet, as in the case of many another, the conceiver was unaware of it at the moment. So entirely unaware was Mrs. Wilkins, that her April for that year had then and there been settled for her. That she dropped the newspaper with a gesture that was both irritated and resigned. And went over to the window and stared drearily out at the dripping street. Not for her were medieval castles, even those that are specially described as small. Not for her the shores in April of the Mediterranean and the wisteria and sunshine. Such delights were only for the rich. Yet the advertisement had been addressed to persons who appreciate these things. So that it had been anyhow addressed to her. For she certainly appreciated them. More than anybody knew. More than she had ever told. But she was poor. In the whole world she possessed of her very own only ninety pounds. Saved from year to year. Put by carefully, pound by pound, out of her dress allowance. She had scraped this sum together at the suggestion of her husband as a shield in refuge against a rainy day. Her dress allowance, given her by her father, was a hundred pounds a year. So that Mrs. Wilkins' clothes were what her husband, urging her to save, called modest and becoming. And her acquaintance to each other when they spoke of her at all. Which was seldom, for she was very negligible. Called a perfect sight. Mr. Wilkins, a solicitor, encouraged thrift. Accept that branch of it which got into his food. He did not call that thrift. He called it bad housekeeping. But for the thrift which, like moth, penetrated into Mrs. Wilkins' clothes and spoilt them, he had much praise. You never know, he said, when there will be a rainy day. And you may be very glad to find you have an est egg. Indeed, we both may. Looking out of the club window into Shaftsbury Avenue. Hers was an economical club. But convenient for Hampstead where she lived. And for Shullbreds where she shopped. Mrs. Wilkins, having stood there some time very drearily. Her mind's eye on the Mediterranean in April and the Wisteria. And the enviable opportunities of the rich. While her bodily eye watched the really extremely horrible sooty rain falling steadily on the hurrying umbrellas and splashing omnibuses. Suddenly wondered whether perhaps this was not the rainy day. Malersh. Malersh was Mr. Wilkins. Had so often encouraged her to prepare for. And whether to get out of such a climate and into the small medieval castle wasn't perhaps what Providence had all along intended her to do with her savings. Part of her savings, of course. Perhaps quite a small part. The castle, being medieval, might also be dilapidated. And dilapidations were surely cheap. She wouldn't in the least mind a few of them. Because you didn't pay for dilapidations which were already there. On the contrary. By reducing the price you had to pay, they really paid you. But what nonsense to think of it. She turned away from the window with the same gesture of mingled irritation and resignation with which she had laid down the times. And crossed the room towards the door with the intention of getting her macintosh and umbrella and fighting her way into one of the overcrowded omnibuses. And going to shulbreds on the way home and buying some souls for Malersh's dinner. Malersh was difficult with fish and liked only souls except salmon. When she beheld Mrs. R. Buffnott, a woman she knew by sight as also living in Hampstead and belonging to the club. Sitting at the table in the middle of the room on which the newspapers and magazines were kept, absorbed in her turn in the first page of the times. Mrs. Wilkins had never yet spoken to Mrs. R. Buffnott, who belonged to one of the various church sets and who analyzed, classified, divided and registered the poor. Whereas she and Malersh, when they did go out, went to the parties of impressionist painters, of whom in Hampstead there are many. Malersh had a sister who had married one of them and lived up on the heath. And because of this alliance Mrs. Wilkins was drawn into a circle which was highly unnatural to her. And she had learned to dread pictures. She had to say things about them and she didn't know what to say. She used to murmur, marvellous, and feel that it was not enough. But nobody minded. Nobody listened. Nobody took any notice of Mrs. Wilkins. She was the kind of person who is not noticed at parties. Her clothes, infested by thrift, made her practically invisible. Her face was non-arresting. Her conversation was reluctant. She was shy. And if one's clothes and face and conversation are all negligible, thought Mrs. Wilkins, who recognized her disabilities, what at parties is there left of one? Also she was always with Wilkins, that clean, shaven, fine-looking man, who gave a party merely by coming to it a great air. Wilkins was very respectable. He was known to be highly thought of by his senior partners. His sister's circle admired him. He pronounced adequately intelligent judgments on art and artists. He was pithy. He was prudent. He never said a word too much, nor on the other hand did he ever say a word too little. He produced the impression of keeping copies of everything he said. And he was so obviously reliable that it often happened that people who met him at these parties became discontented with their own solicitors, and after a period of restlessness extricated themselves and went to Wilkins. Naturally Mrs. Wilkins was blotted out. She, said his sister, with something herself of the judicial, the digested, and the final in her manner, should stay at home. But Wilkins could not leave his wife at home. He was a family solicitor, and all such have wives and show them. With his in the week he went to parties, and with his on Sundays he went to church. Being still fairly young, he was thirty-nine, and ambitious of old ladies, of whom he had not yet acquired in his practice a sufficient number, he could not afford to miss church. And it was there that Mrs. Wilkins became familiar, though never through words, with Mrs. Arbuthnaud. She saw her marshalling the children of the poor into pews. She would come in at the head of the procession from the Sunday school exactly five minutes before the choir, and get her boys and girls neatly fitted into their allotted seats, and down on their little knees in their preliminary prayer. And up again on their feet, just as to the swelling organ, the vestry door opened and the choir and clergy, big with the litanies and commandments they were presently to roll out, emerged. She had a sad face, yet she was evidently efficient. The combination used to make Mrs. Wilkins wonder, for she had been told by Malourish on days when she had only been able to get place, that if one were efficient one wouldn't be depressed, and that if one does one's job well one becomes automatically bright and brisk. About Mrs. Arbuthnaud there was nothing bright and brisk, though much in her way with the Sunday school children that was automatic. But when Mrs. Wilkins, turning from the window, caught sight of her in the club, she was not being automatic at all, but was looking fixedly at one portion of the first page of the times, holding the paper quite still, her eyes not moving. She was just staring and her face, as usual, was the face of a patient and disappointed Madonna. Mrs. Wilkins watched her a minute, trying to screw up courage to speak to her. She wanted to ask her if she'd seen the advertisement. She did not know why she wanted to ask her this, but she wanted to. How stupid not to be able to speak to her. She looked so kind. She looked so unhappy. Why couldn't two unhappy people refresh each other on their way through this dusty business of life by a little talk? Real natural talk about what they felt, what they would have liked, what they still tried to hope. And she could not help thinking that Mrs. Arbuthnaud, too, was reading that very same advertisement. Her eyes were on the very part of the paper. Was she, too, picturing what it would be like? The color, the fragrance, the light, the soft lapping of the sea among little hot rocks? Color, fragrance, light, sea. Instead of Shaftesbury Avenue and the wet omnibuses and the fish department at showbreds and the tube to Hampstead and dinner and tomorrow the same and the day after the same and always the same. Suddenly Mrs. Wilkins found herself leaning across the table. Are you reading about the medieval castle in the Wisteria? She heard herself asking. Naturally Mrs. Arbuthnaud was surprised. But she was not half so much surprised as Mrs. Wilkins was at herself for asking. Mrs. Arbuthnaud had not yet, to her knowledge, set eyes on the shabby, lank, loosely put together figure sitting opposite her. With its small freckled face and big grey eyes almost disappearing under a smashed down wet weather hat. And she gazed at her a moment without answering. She was reading about the medieval castle in the Wisteria or rather had read about it ten minutes before and since then had been lost in dreams of light, of color, of fragrance, of the soft lapping of the sea among little hot rocks. Why do you ask me that? She said in her grave voice. For her training of and by the poor had made her grave and patient. Mrs. Wilkins flushed and looked excessively shy and frightened. Oh, only because I saw it too. And I thought perhaps, I thought somehow, she stammered. Whereupon Mrs. Arbuthnaud her mind being used to getting people into lists and divisions, from habit considered as she gazed thoughtfully at Mrs. Wilkins. Under what heading? Supposing she had to classify her, she could most properly be put. And I know you by sight went on Mrs. Wilkins, who like all the shy once she was started lunged on, frightening herself to more and more speech by the sheer sound of what she had said last in her ears. Every Sunday, I see you every Sunday in church. In church? echoed Mrs. Arbuthnaud. And this seems such a wonderful thing. This advertisement about the wisteria and Mrs. Wilkins who must have been at least 30 broke off and wriggled in her chair with the movement of an awkward and embarrassed schoolgirl. It seems so wonderful she went on in a kind of burst and it is such a miserable day. And then she sat looking at Mrs. Arbuthnaud with the eyes of an imprisoned dog. This poor thing thought Mrs. Arbuthnaud, whose life was spent and helping and alleviating, needs advice. She accordingly prepared herself patiently to give it. If you see me in church, she said kindly and attentively. I suppose you live in Hampstead, too? Oh, yes, said Mrs. Wilkins. And she repeated her head on its long, thin neck, drooping a little as if the recollection of Hampstead bowed her. Oh, yes. Where? asked Mrs. Arbuthnaud. Who, when advice was needed, naturally first proceeded to collect the facts. But Mrs. Wilkins, laying her hand softly and caressingly on the part of the times where the advertisement was, as though the mere printed words of it were precious, only said, perhaps that is why this seems so wonderful. No. I think that's wonderful anyhow, said Mrs. Arbuthnaud, forgetting facts and faintly sighing. Then you were reading it? Yes, said Mrs. Arbuthnaud, her eyes going dreamy again. Wouldn't it be wonderful, murmured Mrs. Wilkins? Wonderful, said Mrs. Arbuthnaud. Her face, which had lit up, faded into patience again. Very wonderful, she said. But it's no use wasting one's time thinking of such things. Oh, but it is. Was Mrs. Wilkins' quick, surprising reply? Surprising, because it was so much unlike the rest of her. The characterless coat and skirt, the crumpled hat, the undecided wisp of hair straggling out. And just the considering of them is worthwhile in itself. Such a change from Hampstead. And sometimes I believe, I really do believe, if one considers hard enough, one gets things. Mrs. Arbuthnaud observed her patiently. In what category would she, supposing she had to, put her? Perhaps, she said, leaning forward a little, you will tell me your name. If we are to be friends, she smiled her grave smile, as I hope we are. We'd better begin at the beginning. Oh yes, how kind of you. I'm Mrs. Wilkins, said Mrs. Wilkins. I don't expect, she added, flushing, as Mrs. Arbuthnaud said nothing, that it conveys anything to you. Sometimes it doesn't seem to convey anything to me, either. But, she looked round with the movement of seeking help. I am Mrs. Wilkins. She did not like her name. It was a mean, small name, with a kind of facetious twist, she thought, about its end, like the upward curve of the pug-dog'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. Malersh Wilkins, she only did that when he was within earshot. For she thought Malersh made Wilkins worse. Emphasizing it in the way Chatsworth on the gateposts of Avila, emphasizes the villa. When Firstie suggested she should add Malersh, she had objected for the above reason. And after a pause, Malersh 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'd never supposed he was. She'd not dreamed of meaning. He was only just thinking. The more she explained, the more Ernest became Malersh'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 Ernest's 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. He's a solicitor. He... She cast about for something she could say a lucidatory of Malersh 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 take in the back, 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' great gray eyes were fixed on her, and it seemed suddenly to Mrs. Arbuthnot that perhaps she was becoming crystallized into a habit of exposition, and an exposition after the manner of nursemaids, through having an audience that couldn't but agree that would be afraid if it wished to interrupt, but 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 gray walls, the medieval 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 to it, 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 someone 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 what go on during for years and years. In fact, said Mrs. Wilkins, fleshing 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 stop. I see no end to it. There is no end to it. So that there ought to be a break, there ought to be intervals in everybody's interests. Why you would really be being unselfish to go away and be happy for a little? Because we would come back so much nicer. You see, after a bit everybody needs a holiday. You mean, get it, asked Mrs. Arbuthnot. Take it, said Mrs. Wilkins. Take it, rent it, hire it, have it. But do you mean you and I? Yes, between us share. Then it would only cost half and you look so, you look exactly as if you wanted it just as much as I do, as if you ought to have a rest, have something happy happen to you. Why, but we don't know each other. But just think how well we would if we went away together for a month and I've saved for a rainy day, look at it. She is unbalanced, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot. Yet she felt strangely stirred. Think of getting away for a whole month, for everything, to heaven. She shouldn't say things like that, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, the vicar. Yet she felt strangely stirred. It would indeed be wonderful to have a rest, a cessation, have it, however, steadied her again. And years of intercourse with the poor made her say with the slight, those sympathetic superiority of the explainer. But then you see, heaven isn't somewhere else. It is here and now. We are told so. She became very earnest, just as she did when trying patiently to help and enlighten the poor. Heaven is within us, she said in her gentle, low voice. We are told that on the very highest authority. And you know the lines about the kindred points, don't you? Oh yes, I know them. Interrupted Mrs. Wilkins impatiently. The kindred points of heaven and home continued Mrs. Arbuthnot, who was used to finishing her sentences. Heaven is in our home. It isn't, said Mrs. Wilkins, again surprisingly. Mrs. Arbuthnot was taken aback. Then she said gently, Oh, but it is. It is there if we choose, if we make it. I do choose, and I do make it. And it isn't, said Mrs. Wilkins. Then Mrs. Arbuthnot was silent, for she too sometimes had doubts about homes. She sat and looked uneasily at Mrs. Wilkins, feeling more and more the urgent need to getting her classified. If she could only classify Mrs. Wilkins, get her safely under her proper heading, she felt that she herself would regain her balance, which did seem very strangely to be slipping all to one side. For neither had she had a holiday for years, and the advertisement when she saw it had set her dreaming. And Mrs. Wilkins' excitement about it was infectious. And she had the sensation, as she listened to her impetuous odd talk and watched her lit up face, that she was being stirred out of sleep. Clearly Mrs. Wilkins was unbalanced, but Mrs. Arbuthnot had met the unbalanced before. Indeed she was always meeting them, and they had no effect on her own stability at all. Whereas this one was making her feel quite wobbly, quite as though to be off and away, away from her compass points of God, husband, home, and duty. She didn't feel as if Mrs. Wilkins intended Mr. Wilkins to come too, and just for once be happy would be both good and desirable, which of course it wasn't, which certainly of course it wasn't. She also had a nest egg, invested gradually in the post office savings bank, but to suppose that she would ever forget her duty to the extent of drawing it out and spending it on herself was surely absurd. Surely she couldn't. She wouldn't ever do such a thing. Surely she wouldn't. She couldn't ever forget her poor, forget misery and sickness as completely as that. No doubt a trip to Italy would be extraordinarily delightful, but there were many delightful things one would like to do, and what was strength given to one for except to help one not to do them. Steadfast is the points of the compass to Mrs. Arbuthnot with the great four facts of life. God, husband, home, duty. She had gone to sleep on these facts years ago, after a period of much misery, her head resting on the masona pillow, and she had a great dread of being awakened out of so simple and untroublesome a condition. Therefore it was that she searched with earnestness for a heading under which to put Mrs. Wilkins, and in this way illumine and steady her own mind. And sitting there, looking at her uneasily after her last remark, and feeling herself becoming more and more unbalanced and infected, she decided, pro tem, as the vicar said at meetings, to put her under the heading nerves. It was just possible that she ought to go straight into the category hysteria, which was often only the anti-chamber to lunacy, but Mrs. Arbuthnot had learned not to hurry people into their final categories, having on more than one occasion discovered with dismay that she had made a mistake, and how difficult it had been to get them out again, and how crushed she had been with the most terrible remorse. Yes, nerves. Probably she had no regular work for others, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, no work that would take her outside herself. Evidently she was rudderless, blown about by ghosts, by impulses. Nerves was almost certainly her category, or would be quite soon if no one helped her. Poor little thing thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, her own balance returning hand-in-hand with her compassion, and unable because of the table to see the length of Mrs. Wilkins' legs. All she saw was her small, eager, shy face, and her thin shoulders, and the look of childish longing in her eyes for something that she was sure was going to make her happy. No. Such things didn't make people happy, such fleeting things. Mrs. Arbuthnot had learned in her long life with Frederick, he was her husband, and she had married him at twenty, and was not thirty-three, where alone true joys are to be found. There to be found she now knew only in daily, in hourly living for others. There to be found only, hadn't she over and over again taken her disappointments and discouragements there, and come away comforted at the feet of God. Frederick had been the kind of husband whose wife betakes herself early to the feet of God. From him to them had been a short, though, painful step. It seemed short to her in retrospect, but it had really taken the whole of the first year of their marriage, and every inch of the way had been a struggle, and every inch of it was stained, she felt at the time, with her heart's blood. All that was over now. She had long since found peace, and Frederick, from her passionately loved bridegroom, from her worshipped young husband, had become second only to God on her list of duties and forbearances. There he hung, the second in importance, a bloodless thing bled white by her prayers. For years she had been able to be happy only by forgetting happiness. She wanted to stay like that. She wanted to shut out everything that would remind her of beautiful things that might set her off again, long, desiring. I'd like so much to be friends, she said earnestly. Won't you come and see me, or let me come to you sometimes? Whenever you feel as if you wanted to talk. I'll give you my address. She searched in her handbag, and then you won't forget. And she found a card and held it out. Mrs. Wilkins ignored the card. It's so funny, said Mrs. Wilkins, just as if she'd not heard her. But I see as both, you and me. This April in the medieval castle, Mrs. Arbuthnot relapsed into uneasiness. Do you, she said, making an effort to stay balanced under the visionary gaze of the shining gray eyes? Do you? Don't you ever see things in a kind of flash before they happened? Asked Mrs. Wilkins. Never, said Mrs. Arbuthnot. She tried to smile. She tried to smile the sympathetic yet wise and tolerant smile with which she was accustomed to listen to the necessarily biased and incomplete view of the poor. She didn't succeed. The smile trembled out. Of course, she said in a low voice, almost as if she were afraid the vicar and the savings bank were listening. It would be most beautiful, most beautiful. Even if it were wrong, said Mrs. Wilkins, it would only be for a month. That began Mrs. Arbuthnot, quite clear as to the reprehensiveness of such a point of view. But Mrs. Wilkins stopped her before she could finish. Anyhow, said Mrs. Wilkins, stopping her. I'm sure it's wrong to go on being good for too long till one gets miserable. And I can see you've been good for years and years because you look so unhappy. Mrs. Arbuthnot opened her mouth to protest. And I've done nothing but duties, things for other people, ever since I was a girl. And I don't believe anybody loves me a bit, a bit better. And I long, oh, I long for something else, something else. Was she going to cry? Mrs. Arbuthnot became acutely uncomfortable and pathetic. She hoped she wasn't going to cry. Not there. Not in that unfriendly room with strangers coming and going. But Mrs. Wilkins, after tugging agitatedly at a handkerchief that wouldn't come out of her pocket, did succeed at last and merely apparently blowing her nose with it, and then blinking her eyes very quickly once or twice, looked at Mrs. Arbuthnot with a quivering air of half-humble, half-frightened apology and smiled. Will you believe, she whispered, trying to steady her mouth, evidently dreadfully ashamed of herself, that I'd never spoken to anyone before in my life like this? I can't think. I simply don't know what has come over me. It's the advertisement, said Mrs. Arbuthnot, nodding gravely. Yes, said Mrs. Wilkins, dabbing furtively at her eyes. And us both being so, she blew her nose again a little miserable. End of Chapter 1 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Diana Keisner's The Enchanted April By Elizabeth von Arnim Chapter 2 Of course Mrs. Arbuthnot was not miserable. How could she be, she asked herself, when God was taking care of her? But she let that pass for the moment, unreputated, because of her conviction that here was another fellow creature in urgent need of her help. And not just boots and blankets and better sanitary arrangements this time, but the more delicate help of comprehension of finding the exact right words. The exact right words she presently discovered, after trying various ones about living for others and prayer, and the peace to be found in placing oneself unreservedly in God's hands. To meet all these words Mrs. Wilkins had other words, incoherent and yet, for the moment at least, till one had had more time, difficult to answer. The exact right words were a suggestion that it would do no harm to answer the advertisement. Non-committal, mere inquire. And what disturbed Mrs. Arbuthnot about this suggestion was that she did not make it solely to comfort Mrs. Wilkins. She made it because of her own strange longing for the medieval castle. This was very disturbing. There she was, accustomed to direct, to lead, to advise, to support, except Frederick she long since had learned to lead Frederick to God, being led herself, being influenced and thrown off her feet by just an advertisement, by just an incoherent stranger. It was indeed disturbing. She failed to understand her sudden longing for what was, after all, self-indulgence when for years no such desire had entered her heart. There's no harm in simply asking, she said in a low voice, as if the vicar and the savings-bank and all her waiting and dependent poor were listening and condemning. It isn't as if it committed us to anything, like Mrs. Wilkins, also in a low voice, but her voice shook. They got up simultaneously. Mrs. Arbuthnot had a sensation of surprise that Mrs. Wilkins should be so tall and went to a writing table, and Mrs. Arbuthnot wrote to Zed, Box 1000, the Times, for particulars. She asked for all particulars, but the only one they really wanted was the one about the rent. They both felt that it was Mrs. Arbuthnot who ought to write the letter and do the business part. Not only was she used to organizing and being practical, but she also was older and certainly calmer, and she herself had no doubt, too, that she was wiser. Neither had Mrs. Wilkins any doubt of this. The very way Mrs. Arbuthnot parted her hair suggested a great calm that could only proceed from wisdom. But if she was wiser, older and calmer, Mrs. Arbuthnot's new friend nevertheless seemed to her to be the one who impelled. Incoherent, she yet impelled. She appeared to have, apart from her need of help, an upsetting kind of character. She had a curious infectiousness. She led one on. And the way her unsteady mind leaped at conclusions, wrong ones, of course, witnessed the one that she, Mrs. Arbuthnot, was miserable, the way she leaped at conclusions was disconcerting. Whatever she was, however, and whatever her unsteadiness, Mrs. Arbuthnot found herself sharing her excitement and her longing. And when the letter had been posted in the letter box in the hall and actually was beyond getting back again, both she and Mrs. Wilkins felt the same sense of guilt. It only shows, said Mrs. Wilkins in a whisper, as they turned away from the letter box. How immaculately good we've been all our lives! The first time we do anything our husbands don't know about, we feel guilty. I'm afraid I can't say I've been immaculately good, gently protested, Mrs. Arbuthnot, a little uncomfortable at this fresh example of successful leaping at conclusions, as she had not said a word about her feeling of guilt. Oh, but I'm sure you have. I see you being good, and that's why you're not happy. She shouldn't say things like that, thought Mrs. Arbuthnot. I must try and help her not to. Allowed, she said gravely, I don't know why you insist that I'm not happy. When you know me better, I think you'll find that I am. And I'm sure you don't mean really that goodness, if one could attain it, makes one unhappy. Yes, I do, said Mrs. Wilkins. Our sort of goodness does. We have attained it, and we are unhappy. There are miserable sorts of goodness, and happy sorts, the sort we'll have at the medieval castle, for instance, is the happy sort. That is, supposing we go there, said Mrs. Arbuthnot restrainingly. She felt that Mrs. Wilkins needed holding on to. After all, we've only written just to ask. Anybody may do that. I think it quite likely we shall find the conditions impossible, and even if they were not, probably by tomorrow we shall not want to go. I see us there, was Mrs. Wilkins' answer to that. All this was very unbalancing. Mrs. Arbuthnot, as she presently splashed through the dripping streets on her way to a meeting she was to speak at, was in an unusually disturbed condition of mind. She had, she hoped, shown herself very calm to Mrs. Wilkins, very practical and sober, concealing her own excitement. But she was really extraordinarily moved, and she felt happy, and she felt guilty, and she felt afraid. And she had all the feelings, though this she did not know, of a woman who has come away from a secret meeting with her lover. That indeed was what she looked like when she arrived late on her platform. She, the open-browed, looked almost furtive as her eyes fell on the staring wooden faces, waiting to hear her try and persuade them to contribute to the alleviation of the urgent needs of the Hampstead poor, each one convinced that they needed contributions themselves. She looked as though she were hiding something discreditable but delightful. Certainly her customary clear expression of candor was not there, and its place was taken by a kind of suppressed and frightened pleaseness, which would have led a more worldly-minded audience to the instant conviction of recent and probably impassioned love-making. Beauty, beauty, beauty. The words kept ringing in her ears as she stood on the platform, talking of sad things to the sparsely attended meeting. She'd never been to Italy. Was that really what her nest egg was to be spent on after all? Though she couldn't approve of the way Mrs. Wilkins was introducing the idea of predestination into her immediate future, just as if she had no choice, just as if to struggle or even to reflect were useless, it yet influenced her. Mrs. Wilkins' eyes had been the eyes of a seer. Some people were like that, Mrs. Arbuth not knew, and if Mrs. Wilkins had actually seen her at the medieval castle, it did seem probable that struggling would be a waste of time. But Mrs. Wilkins was still to spend her nest egg on self-indulgence. The origin of the egg had been corrupt, but she had at least supposed its end was to be creditable. Was she to deflect it from its intended destination, which alone had appeared to justify her keeping it, and spend it on giving herself pleasure? Mrs. Arbuth not spoke on and on so much practiced in the kind of speech that she could have said it all in her sleep, and at the end of the meeting her eyes dazzled by her secret visions, she hardly noticed that nobody was moved in any way whatever, least of all in the way of contributions. But the vicar noticed. The vicar was disappointed. Usually his good friend and supporter, Mrs. Arbuth not, succeeded better than this. And what was even more unusual, she appeared, he observed, not even to mind. I can't imagine, he said to her as they parted, speaking irritably, for he was irritated both by the audience and by her. What these people are coming to? Nothing seems to move them. Perhaps they need a holiday, suggested Mrs. Arbuth not. An unsatisfactory, a queer reply, the vicar thought. In February, he called after her sarcastically. Oh no, not till April, said Mrs. Arbuth not over her shoulder. Very odd, thought the vicar. Very odd indeed. And he went home and was not perhaps quite Christian to his wife. That night in her prayers Mrs. Arbuth not asked for guidance. She felt she ought really to ask, straight out and roundly, that the medieval castle should already have been taken by someone else and the whole thing must be settled, but her courage failed her. Suppose her prayer were to be answered. No. She couldn't ask it. She couldn't risk it. And after all, she almost pointed this out to God. If she spent her present nest egg on a holiday, she could quite soon accumulate another. Frederick pressed money on her. And it would only mean, while she rolled up a second egg, that for a time her contributions to the parish charities would be less. And then it could be the next nest egg whose original corruption would be purged away by the use to which it was finally put. Her Mrs. Arbuth not, who had no money of her own, was obliged to live on the proceeds of Frederick's activities. And her very nest egg was the fruit posthumously ripened of ancient sin. The way Frederick made his living was one of the standing distresses of her life. He wrote immensely popular memoirs regularly, every year, of the mistresses of kings. There were in history numerous kings who had had mistresses, and there were still more numerous mistresses who had had kings, so that he had been able to publish a book of memoirs during each year of his married life. And even so, there were greater further piles of these ladies waiting to be dealt with. Mrs. Arbuth not was helpless. Whether she liked it or not, she was obliged to live on the proceeds. He gave her a dreadful sofa once, after the success of his Duberry memoir, with swollen cushions and soft receptive lap. And it seemed to her a miserable thing that there, in her very home, should flaunt this reincarnation of a dead old French sinner. Simply good, convinced that morality is the basis of happiness, the fact that she and Frederick should draw their sustenance from guilt, ever much purged by the passage of centuries, was one of the secret reasons of her sadness. The more the memoir lady had forgotten herself, the more his book about her was read, and the more free-handed he was to his wife, and all that he gave her was spent after adding slightly to her nest egg, for she did hope and believed that one day people would cease to want to read of wickedness, and then Frederick would need supporting on helping the poor. The parish flourished because, to take a handful at random, of the ill-behavior of the ladies of Duberry, Montespain, Pompadour, Nino de l'Enclos, and even of Leunard-Mantinon, the poor were the filter through which the money was passed to come out, Mrs. Arbuthnot hoped, purified. She could do no more. She had tried in days gone by to think the situation out, to discover the exact right course for her to take, but had found it, as she had found Frederick, too difficult, and had left it, as she had left Frederick, to God. Nothing of this money was spent on her house or dress. Those remained, except for the great soft sofa, austere. It was the poor who profited. Their very boots were stout with sins. But how difficult it had been! Mrs. Arbuthnot, groping for guidance, prayed about it to exhaustion. Had she perhaps to refuse to touch the money, to avoid it, as she would have avoided the sins which were at source? But then what about the parish's boots? She asked the vicar what he thought, and through much delicate language, evasive and cautious, it did finally appear that he was for the boots. At least she had persuaded Frederick when first he began his terrible, successful career. He only began it after their marriage. When she married him, he had been a blameless official attached to the library of the British Museum. To publish the memoirs under another name, so that she was not publicly branded. Hamsted read the books with glee, and had no idea that their writer lived in its midst. Frederick was almost unknown, even by sight, in Hamsted. He never went to any of its gatherings. Whatever it was he did in the way of recreation was done in London. But he never spoke of what he did or whom he saw. He might have been perfectly friendless for any mention he ever made of friends to his wife. Only the vicar knew where the money for the parish came from, and he regarded it, he told Mrs. Arbuthnot, as a matter of honour not to mention it. And at least her little house was not haunted by the loose-lived ladies. For Frederick did his work away from home. He had two rooms near the British Museum, which was the scene of his exhumations, and there he went every morning, and he came back long after his wife was asleep. Sometimes he did not come back at all. Sometimes she did not see him for several days together. Then he would suddenly appear at breakfast, having let himself in with his latchkey the night before, very chovial and good-natured and free-handed, and glad, if she would allow him to give her something, a well-fed man, contented with the world, a jolly, full-blooded, satisfied man, and she was always gentle and anxious that his coffee should be as he liked it. He seemed very happy. Life she often thought, however much one tabulated, was yet a mystery. There were always some people it was impossible to place. Frederick was one of them. He did not seem to bear the remotest resemblance to the original Frederick. He did not seem to have the least need of any of the things he used to say were so important and beautiful, love, home, complete communion of thoughts, complete immersion in each other's interests. After those early, painful attempts to hold him up to the point from which they at hand in hand so splendidly started, attempts in which she herself had got terribly hurt, and the Frederick she supposed she had married was mangled out of recognition. She hung him up finally by her bedside as the chief subject of her prayers and left him, except for those, entirely to God. She loved Frederick too deeply to be able now to do anything but pray for him. He had no idea that he never went out of the house without her blessing going with him, too, hovering, like a little echo of finished love round that once dear head. She didn't dare think of him as he used to be, as he had seemed to her to be in those marvelous first days of their lovemaking, of their marriage. Her child had died. She had nothing, nobody of her own to lavish herself on. The poor became her children and God the object of her love. What could be happier than such a life, she sometimes asked herself, but her face, and particularly her eyes, continued sad. Perhaps when we're old, perhaps when we're both quite old, she would think wistfully. End of Chapter 2 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Diana Keisner's. The Enchanted April by Elizabeth von Arnhem. Chapter 3 The owner of the medieval castle was an Englishman, a Mr. Briggs, who was in London at the moment, and wrote that it had beds enough for eight people, exclusive of servants, three sitting rooms, battlements, dungeons, and electric light. The rent was 60 pounds for the month. The servant's wages were extra, and he wanted references. He wanted assurances that the second half of his rent would be paid, and he wanted assurances of respectability from a solicitor or doctor or clergyman. He was very polite in his letter, explaining that his desire for references was what was usual and should be regarded as a mere formality. Mrs. Arbuthnaught and Mrs. Wilkins had not thought of references, and they had not dreamed a rent could be so high. In their minds had floated sums like three guineas a week, or less, seeing that the place was small and old, 60 pounds for a single month. It staggered them before Mrs. Arbuthnaught's eyes rose up boots, endless vistas, all the stout boots that 60 pounds would buy. And besides the rent there would be the servants' wages and the food and the railway journeys out and home. While as for references these did indeed seem a stumbling block, it did seem impossible to give any without making their plan more public than they had intended. They had both, even Mrs. Arbuthnaught lured for once away from perfect candor by the realization of the great saving of trouble and criticism and imperfect explanation would produce. They had both thought it would be a good plan to give out, each to her own circle, their circles being luckily distinct, that each was going to stay with a friend who had a house in Italy. It would be true as far as it went. Mrs. Wilkins asserted that it would be quite true but Mrs. Arbuthnaught thought it wouldn't be quite and it was the only way Mrs. Wilkins said to keep Malert even approximately quiet. To spend any of her money just on the mere getting to Italy would cause him indignation. What he would say if he knew she was renting part of a medieval castle on her own account is preferred not to think. It would take him days to say it all and this although it was her very own money and not a penny of it had ever been his. But I expect, she said, your husband is just the same. I expect all husbands are alike in the long run. Mrs. Arbuthnaught said nothing because her reason for not wanting Frederick to know was the exactly opposite one. Frederick would be only too pleased for her to go. He would not mind it in the very least. Indeed he would hail such a manifestation of self-indulgence and worldliness with an amusement that would hurt and urge her to have a good time and not to hurry home with a crushing detachment. Far better, she thought to be missed by Malert than to be sped by Frederick. To be missed to be needed from whatever motive was, she thought, better than the complete loneliness of not being missed or needed at all. She therefore said nothing and allowed Mrs. Wilkins to leap at her conclusions unchecked. But they did, both of them, for a whole day feel that the only thing to be done was to renounce the medieval castle and it was in arriving at this bitter decision that they really realized how acute had been their longing for it. Then, Mrs. Arbuthnaught whose mind was trained in the finding of ways out of difficulties found a way out of the reference difficulty and simultaneously Mrs. Wilkins had a vision revealing to her how to reduce the rent. Mrs. Arbuthnaught's plan was simple and completely successful. She took the whole of the rent in person to the owner drawing it out of her savings bank. Again, she looked furtive and apolitetic as if the clerk must know the money was wanted for purposes of self-indulgence. And, going up with the six ten-pound notes in her handbag, to the address near the Brompton Oratory where the owner lived, presented them to him, waving her right to pay only half. And when he saw her and her parted hair and soft dark eyes and sober apparel and heard her grave voice he told her not to bother getting round for those references. It'll be all right, he said scribbling a receipt for the rent. Do sit down, won't you? Nasty day, isn't it? You'll find the old castle has lots of sunshine whatever else it hasn't got. Husband going. Mrs. Arbuthnaught, unused to anything but candor looked troubled at this question and began to murmur immediately. And the owner at once concluded that she was a widow. A war one, of course, for other widows were old and that he had been a fool not to guess it. Oh, I'm sorry, he said turning red right up to his fair hair. I didn't mean hmm, hmm, hmm. He ran his eye over the receipt he had written. Yes, I think that's all right, he said getting up and giving it to her. Now he added taking the six notes she held out and smiling for Mrs. Arbuthnaught was agreeable to look at. I'm richer and you are happier. I've got money and you've got San Salvatore. I wonder God is best. I think you know said Mrs. Arbuthnaught with her sweet smile. He laughed and opened the door for her. It was a pity the interview was over. He would have liked to ask her to lunch with him. She made him think of his mother, of his nurse, of all things kind and comforting besides having the attraction of not being his mother or his nurse. I hope you'll like the old place, he said holding her hand a minute at the door. The very feel of her hand even through its glove was reassuring. It was the sort of hand he thought that children would like to hold in the dark. In April you know it's simply a mass of flowers and then there's the sea. You must wear white. You'll fit in very well. There's several portraits of you there. Portraits? Madonna's you know? There's one on the stairs really exactly like you. Mrs. Arbuthnaught smiled and said goodbye and thanked him. Without the least trouble and at once she had got him placed in his proper category. He was an artist and of an effervescent temperament. She shook hands and left and he wished she hadn't. After she was gone he supposed that he ought to have asked for those references if only because she would think him so un-business like not to. But he could as soon have insisted on references from a saint in a nimbus as from that grave sweet lady. Rose Arbuthnaught her letter making the appointment lay on the table. Pretty name. That difficulty then was overcome. But there still remained the other one the really annihilating effect of the expense on the nest eggs and especially on Mrs. Wilkins which was in size compared with Mrs. Arbuthnaught as the egg of the plover to that of the duck. And this in its turn was overcome by the vision vouchsafe to Mrs. Wilkins revealing to her the steps to be taken for its overcoming. Having got San Salvatore the beautiful the religious name fascinated them. They in their turn would advertise in the agony column of the times and would inquire after two more ladies of similar desires to their own to join them and share the expenses at once the strain of the nest eggs would be reduced from half to a quarter. Mrs. Wilkins was prepared to fling her entire egg into the adventure. But she realized that if it were to cost even six pence over her 90 pounds her position would be terrible. Imagine going to Merlurson saying I oh it would be awful enough if some day circumstances forced her to say I have no nest egg. But at least she would be supported in such a case by the knowledge that the egg had been her own. She therefore though prepared to fling her last penny into the adventure was not prepared to fling into it a single farthing that was not demonstrably her own. And she thought that if her share of the rent was reduced to 15 pounds only she would have a safe margin for the other expenses. Also they might economize very much on food gather olives off their own trees and eat them for instance and perhaps catch fish. Of course as they pointed out to each other they could reduce the rent to an almost negligible sum by increasing the number of sharers. They could have six more ladies instead of two if they wanted to seeing that there were eight beds. But supposing the eight beds were distributed in couples in four rooms it would not be altogether what they wanted to find themselves shut up at night with a stranger. Besides they thought that perhaps having so many would not be quite so peaceful. After all they were going to stay in Salvatore for peace and rest and joy and six more ladies especially if they got into one's bedroom might a little interfere with that. However there seemed to be only two ladies in England at that moment who had any wish to join them for they had only two answers to their advertisement. Well we only want two said Mrs. Wilkins quickly recovering for she had imagined a great rush. I think a choice would have been a good thing said Mrs. Arbuthnot. You mean because then we needn't have had Lady Caroline Dester. I didn't say that gently protested Mrs. Arbuthnot. We needn't have her said Mrs. Wilkins. Just one more person would help us a great deal with the rent. We're not obliged to have two but why should we not have her? She seems really quite what we want. Yes she does from her letter said Mrs. Wilkins doubtfully. She thought she would be terribly shy of Lady Caroline. Incredible as it may seem seeing how they get into everything Mrs. Wilkins had never come across any members of the aristocracy. They interviewed Lady Caroline and they interviewed the other applicant a Mrs. Fisher. Lady Caroline came to the club in Shaftesbury Avenue and appeared to be wholly taken up by one great longing a longing to get away from everybody she had ever known. When she saw the club and Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins she was sure that here was exactly what she wanted. She would be in Italy a place she adored she would not be in hotels places she loathed she would not be staying with friends persons she disliked and she would be in the company of strangers who would never mention a single person she knew for the simple reason that they had not could not have and would not come across them. She asked a few questions about the fourth woman and was satisfied with the answers Mrs. Fisher of Prince of Wales Terrace a widow she too would be unacquainted with any of her friends Lady Caroline did not even know where Prince of Wales Terrace was. It's in London said Mrs. Arbuthnot is it said Lady Caroline it all seemed most restful Mrs. Fisher was unable to come to the club because she explained by letter she could not walk without a stick therefore Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins went to her but if she can't come to the club how can she go to Italy wondered Mrs. Wilkins aloud we shall hear that from her own lips said Mrs. Arbuthnot from Mrs. Fisher's lips they merely heard in reply to delicate questioning that sitting in chains was not walking about and they knew that already except for the stick however she appeared to be a most desirable fourth quiet educated elderly she was much older than they or Lady Caroline Lady Caroline had informed them she was 28 but not so old as to have ceased to be active minded she was very respectable indeed and still wore a complete suit of black though her husband had died seven years before her house was full of signed photographs of illustrious Victorian dead all of whom she said she had known when she was little her father had been an eminent critic and in his house she had seen practically everybody who was anybody in letters and art Carlisle had scowled at her Matthew Arnold had held her on his knee Tennyson had sonorously rallied her on the length of her pig tail she animatedly showed them the photographs hung everywhere on her walls pointing out the signatures with her stick and she neither gave any information about her own husband nor asked for any about the husbands of her visitors which was the greatest comfort indeed she seemed to think that they also were widows for on inquiring who the fourth lady was to be and being told it was a Lady Caroline Dester she said is she a widow too and on there explaining that she was not because she had not yet been married observed with abstracted amyability all in good time but Mrs. Fisher's very abstractedness and she seemed to be absorbed chiefly in the interesting people she used to know and in their memorial photographs and quite a good part of the interview was taken up by reminiscent anecdote of Carlisle, Meredith Matthew Arnold, Tennyson and a host of others her very abstractedness was a recommendation she only asked to be allowed to sit quiet in the sun and remember that was all Mrs. Arbuthnaught and Mrs. Wilkins asked of their sharers it was their idea of a perfect sharer that she should sit quiet in the sun and remember rousing herself on Saturday evenings sufficiently to pay her share Mrs. Fisher was very fond too she said of flowers and once when she was spending a weekend with her father at Box Hill who lived at Box Hill interrupted Mrs. Wilkins who hung on Mrs. Fisher's remniscences intensely excited by meeting somebody who had actually been familiar with all that really and truly and undoubtedly great actually seen them, heard them talking touch them Mrs. Fisher looked at her over the top of her glasses in some surprise Mrs. Wilkins in her eagerness to tear the heart out quickly of Mrs. Fisher's remniscences afraid that at any moment Mrs. Arbuthnaught would take her away and she wouldn't have heard half had already interrupted several times with questions which appeared ignorant to Mrs. Fisher Meredith of course said Mrs. Fisher rather shortly I remember a particular weekend she continued her father often took me but I always remember this weekend particularly did you know Keats eagerly interrupted Mrs. Wilkins Mrs. Fisher after a pause said with sub-acid reserve that she had been unacquainted with both Keats and Shakespeare of course how ridiculous of me cried Mrs. Wilkins flushing Scarlett she floundered it's because the immortals somehow still seem alive don't they as if they were here going to walk into the room in another minute and one forgets they're dead in fact one knows perfectly well that they're not dead not nearly so dead as you and I even now she assured Mrs. Fisher who observed her over the top of her glasses I thought I saw Keats the other day Mrs. Wilkins incoherently proceeded driven on by Mrs. Fisher's look over the top of her glasses in Hampstead crossing the road in front of that house you know the house where he lived Mrs. Arbuthnot said they must be going Mrs. Fisher did nothing to prevent them I really thought I saw him protested Mrs. Wilkins appealing for belief first to one and then to the other while waves of color passed over her face and totally unable to stop because of Mrs. Fisher's glasses and the steady eyes looking at her over their tops I believe I did see him he was dressed in a even Mrs. Arbuthnot looked at her now and in her gentlest voice said they would be late for lunch it was at this point that Mrs. Fisher asked for references she had no wish to find herself shut up for four weeks with somebody who saw things it is true that there were three sitting rooms besides the garden and the battlements at Sam Salvatore so there would be opportunities of withdrawal from Mrs. Wilkins but it would be agreeable to Mrs. Fisher for instance if Mrs. Wilkins was suddenly to assert that she saw Mr. Fisher Mr. Fisher was dead let him remain so she had no wish to be told he was walking about the garden the only reference she really wanted for she was much too old and firmly seated in her place in the world for questionable associates to matter to her was one with regard to Mrs. Wilkins health was her health quite normal was she an ordinary every day sensible woman Mrs. Fisher felt that if she were given even one address she would be able to find out what she needed so she asked for references and her visitors appeared to be so much taken aback Mrs. Wilkins indeed was instantly sobered that she added it is usual Mrs. Wilkins found her speech first but she said aren't we the ones who ought to ask for some from you and this seemed to Mrs. Arbuthnot to the right attitude surely it was they who were taking Mrs. Fisher into their party and not Mrs. Fisher who was taking them into it for answer Mrs. Fisher leaning on her stick went to the writing table and in a firm hand wrote down three names and offered them to Mrs. Wilkins and the names were so respectable more they were so momentous they were so nearly august that just to read them was enough the president of the royal academy the archbishop of Canterbury and the governor of the bank of England who would dare disturb such personages in their meditations with inquiries as to whether a female friend of theirs was all she should be they had known me since I was little said Mrs. Fisher everybody seemed to have known Mrs. Fisher since or when she was little I don't think references are nice things at all between between ordinary decent women burst out Mrs. Wilkins made courageous by being as she felt at bay for she very well knew that the only reference she could give without getting into trouble was shulbred and she had little confidence in that as it would be entirely based on Malersha's fish we're not business people we needn't distrust each other and Mrs. Arbuthnot said with a dignity that yet was sweet I'm afraid references do bring an atmosphere into our holiday plan that isn't quite what we want and I don't think we'll take yours up or give you any ourselves so that I suppose you won't wish to join us and she held out her hand in goodbye then Mrs. Fisher her gaze diverted to Mrs. Arbuthnot who inspired trust and liking even in tube officials thought that she would be idiotic to lose the opportunity of being in Italy in the particular conditions offered and that she and this calm, browed woman between them would certainly be able to curb the other one when she had her attacks so she said taking Mrs. Arbuthnot's offered hand very well I waive references she waived references the two as they walked to the station in Kensington High Street could not help thinking that this way of putting it was lofty even Mrs. Arbuthnot spent thrift of excuses for lapses thought Mrs. Fisher might have used other words and Mrs. Wilkins by the time she got to the station and the walk and the struggle on the crowded pavement the people's umbrellas had warmed her blood actually suggested waiving Mrs. Fisher if there is any waiving to be done do let us be the ones who waive she said eagerly but Mrs. Arbuthnot as usual held on to Mrs. Wilkins and presently having cooled down in the train Mrs. Wilkins announced that at San Salvatore Mrs. Fisher would find her level I see her finding her level there she said her eyes very bright whereupon Mrs. Arbuthnot sitting with her quiet hands folded turned over in her mind how best she could help Mrs. Wilkins not to see quite so much or at least if she must see to see in silence End of Chapter 3 This is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information and to find out how you can volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Diana Keisner The Enchanted April by Elizabeth Van Arnim Chapter 4 It had been arranged that Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins travelling together should arrive at San Salvatore on the evening of March 31st the owner who told them how to get there appreciated their disinclination to begin their time in it on April 1st and Lady Caroline and Mrs. Fisher as yet unacquainted and therefore under no obligations to bore each other on the journey for only towards the end would they find out by a process of sifting who they were were to arrive on the morning of April 2nd in this way everything would be got nicely ready for the two who seemed in spite of the equality of the sharing yet to have something about them of guests there were disagreeable incidents towards the end of March when Mrs. Wilkins her heart in her mouth and her face a mixture of guilt terror and a determination told her husband that she had been invited to Italy and he declined to believe it of course he declined to believe it nobody had ever invited his wife to Italy before there was no precedent he required proofs the only proof was Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mrs. Wilkins had produced her but after what entreaties what passionate persuading Mrs. Arbuthnot had not imagined she would have to face Mr. Wilkins and say things to him that were short of the truth and it brought home to her what she had for some time suspected that she was slipping more and more away from God indeed the whole of March was filled with unpleasant anxious moments it was an uneasy month Mrs. Arbuthnot's conscience made super sensitive by years of pampering could not reconcile what she was doing with its own high standard of what was right it gave her little peace it nudged her at her prayers it punctuated her entreaties for divine guidance with disconcerting questions such as are you not a hypocrite do you really mean that would you not frankly be disappointed if that prayer were granted the prolonged wet raw weather was on the side too of her conscience producing far more sickness than usual among the poor they had bronchitis they had fevers there was no end to the distress and here she was going off spending precious money on going off simply and solely to be happy one woman one woman being happy and these piteous multitudes she was unable to look the vicar in the face he did not know nobody knew what she was going to do and from the very beginning she was unable to look anybody in the face she excused herself from making speeches appealing for money how could she stand up and ask people for money when she herself was spending so much on her own selfish pleasure nor did it help her or quiet her that having actually told Frederick in her desire to make up for what she was squandering that she would be grateful if he would let her have some money he instantly gave her a check for a hundred pounds he asked no questions she was scarlet he looked at her a moment and then looked away it was a relief to Frederick that she should take some money she gave it all immediately to the organization she worked with and found herself more tangled in doubts than ever Mrs. Wilkins on the contrary had no doubts she was quite certain that it was a most proper thing to have a holiday and altogether right and beautiful to spend one's own hard collected savings on being happy think how much nicer we shall be when we come back she said to Mrs. Arbuthnot encouraging that pale lady no Mrs. Wilkins had no doubts but she had fears and March was for her too an anxious month with the unconscious Mr. Wilkins coming back daily to his dinner and eating his fish in the silence of imagined security also things happen so awkwardly it really is astonishing how awkwardly they happen Mrs. Wilkins who was very careful all this month to give Malerche only the food he liked buying it and hovering over its cooking with a zeal more than common succeeded so well that Malerche was pleased definitely pleased so much pleased that he began to think he might after all have married the right wife instead of as he had frequently suspected the wrong one the result was that on the third Sunday in the month had made up her trembling mind that on the fourth Sunday there being five in that March and it being on the fifth of them that she and Mrs. Arbuthnot were to start she would tell Malerche of her invitation on the third Sunday then after a very well cooked lunch in which the Yorkshire pudding had melted in his mouth and the apricot tart had been so perfect that he ate it all Malerche smoking his cigar by the brightly burning fire the while Hale Gus banged on the window said I am thinking of taking you to Italy for Easter and paused for her astounded and grateful ecstasy none came the silence in the room except for the Hale hitting the windows and the gay roar of the fire was complete Mrs. Wilkins could not speak she was dumbfounded the next Sunday was the day she had meant to break her news for him and she had not yet even prepared the form of words in which she would break it Mr. Wilkins who had not been abroad since before the war and was noticing with increasing disgust as weak followed weak of wind and rain the peculiar persistent vileness of the weather and slowly conceived a desire to get away from England for Easter he was doing very well in his business he could afford a trip Switzerland was useless in April there was a familiar sound about Easter in Italy to Italy he would go and as it would cause comment if he did not take his wife take her he must besides she would be useful a second person was always useful in a country whose language one did not speak for holding things for waiting with the luggage he had expected an explosion of gratitude and excitement the absence of it was incredible she could not he concluded have heard probably she was absorbed in some foolish daydream it was regrettable how childish she remained he turned his head their chairs were in front of the fire and looked at her she was staring straight into the fire and it was no doubt the fire that made her face so red I am thinking he repeated raising his clear cultivated voice and speaking with acerbity for inattention at such a moment was deplorable of taking you to Italy for Easter did you not hear me yes she had heard him and she had been wondering at the extraordinary coincidence really most extraordinary she was just going to tell him how she had been invited a friend had invited her Easter too Easter was in April wasn't it her friend had a house there in fact Mrs. Wilkins driven by terror guilt and surprise had been more incoherent if possible than usual it was a dreadful afternoon malersh profoundly indignant besides having his intended treat coming back on him like a blessing to roost Cross examined her with the utmost severity he demanded that she refuse the invitation he demanded that since she had so outrageously accepted it without consulting him she should write and cancel her acceptance finding himself up against an unexpected shocking rock of obstinacy in her he then declined to believe she had been invited to Italy at all he declined to believe in this Mrs. Arbuthnaught of whom till that moment he had never heard and it was only when the gentle creature was brought round with such difficulty with such a desire on her part to throw the whole thing up rather than tell Mr. Wilkins less than the truth and herself endorsed his wife's statements that he was able to give them credence he could not but believe Mrs. Arbuthnaught she produced the precise effect on him that she did on tube officials she hardly needed to say anything but that made no difference to her conscience which knew and would not let her forget that she had given him an incomplete impression do you ask her conscience see any real difference between an incomplete impression and a completely stated lie God sees none the remainder of March was a confused bad dream both Mrs. Arbuthnaught and Mr. Wilkins were shattered try as they would not to both felt extraordinarily guilty and when in the morning of the 30th they did finally get off there was no exhilaration about the departure no holiday feeling at all we've been too good much too good Mrs. Wilkins kept on murmuring as they walked up and down the platform at Victoria having arrived there an hour before they need have and that's why we feel as though we're doing wrong we're brow-beaten we're not any longer real human beings real human beings aren't ever as good as we've been oh she clenched her thin hands to think that we ought to be so happy now here on the very station actually starting and we're not and it's being spoiled for us just simply because we've spoiled them what have we done I should like to know she inquired of Mrs. Arbuthnaught patiently pacing did not ask who she met by them because she knew Mrs. Wilkins met their husbands persisting in her assumption that Frederick was as indignant as Malerche over the departure of his wife as Frederick did not even know his wife had gone Mrs. Arbuthnaught always silent about him had said nothing of this to Mrs. Wilkins Frederick went too deep into her heart for her to talk about him he was having an extra bout of work finishing another of those dreadful books and had been away practically continually the last few weeks and was away when she left why should she tell him beforehand sure as she so miserably was that he would have no objection to anything she did she merely wrote him a note and put it on the hall table ready for him if and when he should come home she said she was going away for a month's holiday as she needed a rest and she had not had one for so long and that Gladys the efficient parlor maid had orders to see to his comforts she did not say where she was going there was no reason why she should he would not be interested he would not care the day was wretched, blustering and wet the crossing was atrocious and they were very sick after having been very sick just to arrive at Calais and not be sick was happiness and it was there that the real splendor of what they were doing first began to warm their benumbed spirits it got hold of Mrs. Wilkins first and spread from her like a rose-coloured flame over her pale companion Malurch at Calais where they restored themselves with souls because of Mrs. Wilkins' desire to eat a soul Malurch wasn't having Malurch at Calais had already begun to dwindle and seem less important none of the French porters knew him not a single official at Calais cared a fig for Malurch in Paris there was no time to think of him because their train was late and they only just caught the Turin train at the Gare de Lyon and by the afternoon of the next day when they got into Italy England, Frederick, Malurch the vicar the poor Hampstead the club shulbred everybody and everything the whole inflamed sore dreariness had faded to the dimness of a dream End of chapter 4