Mr. Cardan returned to the palace of the Cybo Malaspina to find that the
number of guests had been increased during his absence by the arrival of
Mrs. Chelifer. Mrs. Aldwinkle had not been particularly anxious to have
Chelifer’s mother in the house, but finding that Chelifer was preparing
to leave as soon as his mother should arrive, she peremptorily insisted
on giving the lady hospitality.
“It’s absurd,” she argued, “to go down again to that horrible hotel at
Marina di Vezza, stay there uncomfortably for a few days and then go to
Rome by train. You must bring your mother here, and then, when it’s time
for Mr. Falx to go to his conference, we’ll all go to Rome in the car.
It’ll be far pleasanter.”
Chelifer tried to object; but Mrs. Aldwinkle would not hear of
objections. When Mrs. Chelifer arrived at the station of Vezza she found
Francis waiting for her on the platform with Mrs. Aldwinkle, in yellow
tussore and a floating white veil, at his side. The welcome she got from
Mrs. Aldwinkle was far more effusively affectionate than that which she
got from her son. A little bewildered, but preserving all her calm and
gentle dignity, Mrs. Chelifer suffered herself to be led towards the
Rolls Royce.
“We all admire your son so enormously,” said Mrs. Aldwinkle. “He’s
so—how shall I say?—so _post-bellum_, so essentially one of _us_.” Mrs.
Aldwinkle made haste to establish her position among the youngest of the
younger generation. “All that one only dimly feels he expresses. Can you
be surprised at our admiration?”
So far Mrs. Chelifer was rather surprised by everything. It took her
some time to get used to Mrs. Aldwinkle. Nor was the aspect of the
palace calculated to allay her astonishment.
“A superb specimen of early baroque,” Mrs. Aldwinkle assured her,
pointing with her parasol. But even after she knew the dates, it all
seemed to Mrs. Chelifer rather queer.
Mrs. Aldwinkle remained extremely cordial to her new guest; but in
secret she disliked Mrs. Chelifer extremely. There would have been small
reason, in any circumstances, for Mrs. Aldwinkle to have liked her. The
two women had nothing in common; their views of life were different and
irreconcilable, they had lived in separate worlds. At the best of times
Mrs. Aldwinkle would have found her guest _bourgeoise_ and _bornée_. As
things actually were she loathed her. And no wonder; for in his mother
Chelifer had a permanent and unexceptionable excuse for getting away
from Mrs. Aldwinkle. Mrs. Aldwinkle naturally resented the presence in
her house of this cause and living justification of infidelity. At the
same time it was necessary for her to keep on good terms with Mrs.
Chelifer; for if she quarrelled with the mother, it was obvious that the
son would take himself off. Inwardly chafing, Mrs. Aldwinkle continued
to treat her with the same gushing affection as at first.
To Mrs. Aldwinkle’s guests the arrival of Mrs. Chelifer was more welcome
than to herself. Mr. Falx found in her a more sympathetic and
comprehensible soul than he could discover in his hostess. To Lord
Hovenden and Irene her arrival meant the complete cessation of Irene’s
duties as a spy; they liked her well enough, moreover, for her own sake.
“A nice old fing,” was how Lord Hovenden summed her up.
Miss Thriplow affected almost to worship her.
“She’s so wonderfully good and simple and _integral_, if you understand
what I mean,” Miss Thriplow explained to Calamy. “To be able to be so
undividedly enthusiastic about folk-songs and animals’ rights and all
that sort of thing—it’s really wonderful. She’s a lesson to us,” Miss
Thriplow concluded, “a lesson.” Mrs. Chelifer became endowed, for her,
with all the qualities that the village grocer had unfortunately not
possessed. The symbol of his virtues—if only he had possessed them—had
been the white apron; Mrs. Chelifer’s integrity was figured forth by her
dateless grey dresses.
“She’s one of Nature’s Quakeresses,” Miss Thriplow declared. “If only
one could be born like that!” There had been a time, not so long ago,
when she had aspired to be one of Nature’s Guardswomen. “I never knew
that anything so good and dove-coloured existed outside of Academy
subject-pictures of 1880. You know: ‘A Pilgrim Mother on Board the
Mayflower,’ or something of that sort. It’s absurd in the Academy. But
it’s lovely in real life.”
Calamy agreed.
But the person who most genuinely liked Mrs. Chelifer was Grace Elver.
From the moment she set eyes on Mrs. Chelifer, Grace was her dog-like
attendant. And Mrs. Chelifer responded by practically adopting her for
the time being. When he learned the nature of her tastes and
occupations, Mr. Cardan explained her kindness to himself by the
hypothesis that poor Grace was the nearest thing to a stray dog or cat
that Mrs. Chelifer could find. Conversely, Grace’s love at first sight
must be due to the realisation by that cat-like mind that here was a
born protector and friend. In any case, he was exceedingly grateful to
Mrs. Chelifer for having made her appearance when she did. Her presence
in the house made easy what would otherwise have been a difficult
situation.
That Mrs. Aldwinkle would be impressed by the romantic story of Grace’s
abduction Mr. Cardan had always been certain. And when he told the
story, she _was_ impressed, though less profoundly than Mr. Cardan had
hoped; she was too much preoccupied with her own affairs to be able to
respond with her customary enthusiasm to what, at other times, would
have been an irresistible appeal. About her reception of the story,
then, Mr. Cardan had never entertained a doubt; he knew that she would
find it romantic. But that was no guarantee that she would like the
heroine of the story. From what he knew of her, which was a great deal,
Mr. Cardan felt sure that she would very quickly find poor Grace
exceedingly tiresome. He knew her lack of patience and her intolerance.
Grace would get on her nerves; Lilian would be unkind, and goodness only
knew what scenes might follow. Mr. Cardan had brought her to the palace
meaning to stay only a day or two and then take his leave, before Mrs.
Aldwinkle had had time to get poor Grace on her nerves. But the presence
of Mrs. Chelifer made him change his mind. Her affectionate protection
was a guarantee against Mrs. Aldwinkle’s impatience; more important
still, it had the best possible effect on Grace herself. In Mrs.
Chelifer’s presence she behaved quietly and sensibly, like a child doing
its best to make a good impression. Mrs. Chelifer, moreover, kept a
tenderly watchful eye on her appearance and her manners; kept her up to
the mark about washing her hands and brushing her hair, dropped a gentle
hint when she was not behaving as well as she ought to at table, and
checked her propensity to eat too much of the things she liked and not
enough of those she didn’t like. Mrs. Chelifer, it was obvious, had the
best possible influence over her. When they were married, Mr. Cardan
decided, he would frequently invite Mrs. Chelifer to stay—preferably,
though she was a very nice old thing, while he was away from home.
Meanwhile, secure that his residence at the palace of the Cybo Malaspina
would be marred by no disagreeable incidents, he wrote to his lawyer to
make the necessary arrangements about his marriage.
For her part, Mrs. Chelifer was delighted to have found Grace. As Mr.
Cardan had divined, she missed her cats and dogs, her poor children and
traditional games. It was very reluctantly that she had at last given up
the old Oxford house; very reluctantly, though the arguments that
Francis had used to persuade her were unanswerable. It was too large for
her, it was full of those mediaeval labour-creating devices of which Mr.
Ruskin and his architectural followers were so fond, it cost more to
keep up than she could afford; moreover, it was unhealthy, she was
regularly ill there every winter; the doctors had been urging her for
years past to get out of the Thames valley. Yes, the arguments were
quite unanswerable; but it had been a long time before she had finally
made up her mind to leave the place. Forty years of her life had been
passed there; she was loth to part with all those memories. And then
there were the dogs and the poor children, all her old friends and her
charities. In the end, however, she had allowed herself to be persuaded.
The house was sold; it was arranged that she should spend the winter in
Rome.
“Now you’re free,” her son had said.
But Mrs. Chelifer rather mournfully shook her head. “I don’t know that I
very much like being free,” she answered. “I shall be without occupation
in Rome. I look forward to it almost with dread.”
Francis reassured her. “You’ll soon find something,” he said. “Don’t be
afraid of that.”
“Shall I?” Mrs. Chelifer questioned doubtfully. They were walking
together in the little garden at the back of the house; looking round
her at the familiar grass plot and flower beds, she sighed.
But Francis was right; dogs, poor children or their equivalents are
fortunately not rare. At the end of the first stage of her journey Mrs.
Chelifer had found, in Grace Elver, a compensation for what she had
abandoned at Oxford. Attending to poor Grace she was happy.
For the rest of the party Miss Elver’s arrival had no special or
personal significance. For them she was just Mr. Cardan’s half-wit; that
was all. Even Mary Thriplow, who might have been expected to take an
interest in so genuine a specimen of the simple soul, paid little
attention to her. The fact was that Grace was really too simple to be
interesting. Simplicity is no virtue unless you are potentially
complicated. Mrs. Chelifer, being with all her simplicity a woman of
intelligence, threw light, Miss Thriplow felt, on her own case. Grace
was simple only as a child or an imbecile is simple; her didactic value
was therefore nil. Miss Thriplow remained faithful to Mrs. Chelifer.
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