The Enchanted April | Page 3

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 colour, the fragrance, the light, the soft lapping of
the sea among little hot rocks? Colour, fragrance, light, sea; instead of
Shaftesbury Avenue, and the wet omnibuses, and the fish department at
Shoolbred's, and the Tube to Hampstead, and dinner, and to-morrow
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 mediaeval castle and the wisteria?" she heard herself
asking.
Naturally Mrs. Arbuthnot was surprised; but she was not half so much
surprised as Mrs. Wilkins was at herself for asking.
Mrs. Arbuthnot 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 mediaeval castle and the wisteria,
or rather had read about it ten minutes before, and since then had been
lost in dreams--of light, of colour, 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. Arbuthnot, 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. Arbuthnot.
"And this seems such a wonderful thing--this advertisement about the
wisteria--and--"
Mrs. Wilkins, who must have been at least thirty, 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. Arbuthnot with the eyes of an
imprisoned dog.
"This poor thing," thought Mrs. Arbuthnot, whose life was spent in
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. Arbuthnot, 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. Arbuthnot, forgetting
facts and faintly sighing.
"Then you were reading it?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Arbuthnot, her eyes going dreamy again.
"Wouldn't it be wonderful?" murmured Mrs. Wilkins.
"Wonderful," said Mrs. Arbuthnot. 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's 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 worth while in itself--such a
change from Hampstead--and sometimes I believe--I really do
believe--if one considers hard enough one gets things."
Mrs. Arbuthnot 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 had 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. Arbuthnot said nothing,
"that it conveys anything to you. Sometimes it--it doesn't seem to
convey anything to me either. But"--she looked round with a 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,