chapter xv: the disaster within the sunday after miss bartlett's arrivalwas a glorious day, like most of the days of that year. in the weald, autumn approached, breakingup the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist, thebeech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. up on the heights, battalions of blackpines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. either country was spanned by a cloudlesssky, and in either arose the tinkle of
church bells. the garden of windy corners was desertedexcept for a red book, which lay sunning itself upon the gravel path.from the house came incoherent sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "the men say they won't go"--"well, i don'tblame them"--minnie says, "need she go?"-- "tell her, no nonsense"--"anne!mary! hook me behind!"--"dearest lucia, may itrespass upon you for a pin?" for miss bartlett had announced that she atall events was one for church. the sun rose higher on its journey, guided,not by phaethon, but by apollo, competent,
unswerving, divine. its rays fell on the ladies whenever theyadvanced towards the bedroom windows; on mr. beebe down at summer street as hesmiled over a letter from miss catharine alan; on george emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete thecatalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously.the ladies move, mr. beebe moves, george moves, and movement may engender shadow. but this book lies motionless, to becaressed all the morning by the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as thoughacknowledging the caress.
presently lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. her new cerise dress has been a failure,and makes her look tawdry and wan. at her throat is a garnet brooch, on herfinger a ring set with rubies--an engagement ring.her eyes are bent to the weald. she frowns a little--not in anger, but as abrave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. in all that expanse no human eye is lookingat her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive betweenapollo and the western hills. "lucy!
lucy!what's that book? who's been taking a book out of the shelfand leaving it about to spoil?" "it's only the library book that cecil'sbeen reading." "but pick it up, and don't stand idlingthere like a flamingo." lucy picked up the book and glanced at thetitle listlessly, under a loggia. she no longer read novels herself, devotingall her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching cecil up. it was dreadful how little she knew, andeven when she thought she knew a thing, like the italian painters, she found shehad forgotten it.
only this morning she had confusedfrancesco francia with piero della francesca, and cecil had said, "what! youaren't forgetting your italy already?" and this too had lent anxiety to her eyeswhen she saluted the dear view and the dear garden in the foreground, and above them,scarcely conceivable elsewhere, the dear sun. "lucy--have you a sixpence for minnie and ashilling for yourself?" she hastened in to her mother, who wasrapidly working herself into a sunday fluster. "it's a special collection--i forget whatfor.
i do beg, no vulgar clinking in the platewith halfpennies; see that minnie has a nice bright sixpence. where is the child?minnie! that book's all warped.(gracious, how plain you look!) put it under the atlas to press. minnie!""oh, mrs. honeychurch--" from the upper regions."minnie, don't be late. here comes the horse"--it was always thehorse, never the carriage. "where's charlotte?run up and hurry her.
why is she so long? she had nothing to do.she never brings anything but blouses. poor charlotte--how i do detest blouses!minnie!" paganism is infectious--more infectiousthan diphtheria or piety--and the rector's niece was taken to church protesting.as usual, she didn't see why. why shouldn't she sit in the sun with theyoung men? the young men, who had now appeared, mockedher with ungenerous words. mrs. honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and inthe midst of the confusion miss bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion,came strolling down the stairs.
"dear marian, i am very sorry, but i haveno small change--nothing but sovereigns and half crowns.could any one give me--" "yes, easily. jump in.gracious me, how smart you look! what a lovely frock!you put us all to shame." "if i did not wear my best rags and tattersnow, when should i wear them?" said miss bartlett reproachfully.she got into the victoria and placed herself with her back to the horse. the necessary roar ensued, and then theydrove off.
"good-bye!be good!" called out cecil. lucy bit her lip, for the tone wassneering. on the subject of "church and so on" theyhad had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. he had said that people ought to overhaulthemselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not know it wasdone. honest orthodoxy cecil respected, but healways assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he could not imagineit as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward like flowers.
all that he said on this subject painedher, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the emersons were different.she saw the emersons after church. there was a line of carriages down theroad, and the honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite cissie villa. to save time, they walked over the green toit, and found father and son smoking in the garden."introduce me," said her mother. "unless the young man considers that heknows me already." he probably did; but lucy ignored thesacred lake and introduced them formally. old mr. emerson claimed her with muchwarmth, and said how glad he was that she
was going to be married. she said yes, she was glad too; and then,as miss bartlett and minnie were lingering behind with mr. beebe, she turned theconversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house. "very much," he replied, but there was anote of offence in his voice; she had never known him offended before. he added: "we find, though, that the missalans were coming, and that we have turned them out.women mind such a thing. i am very much upset about it."
"i believe that there was somemisunderstanding," said mrs. honeychurch uneasily. "our landlord was told that we should be adifferent type of person," said george, who seemed disposed to carry the matterfurther. "he thought we should be artistic. he is disappointed.""and i wonder whether we ought to write to the miss alans and offer to give it up.what do you think?" he appealed to lucy. "oh, stop now you have come," said lucylightly.
she must avoid censuring cecil. for it was on cecil that the little episodeturned, though his name was never mentioned."so george says. he says that the miss alans must go to thewall. yet it does seem so unkind." "there is only a certain amount of kindnessin the world," said george, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passingcarriages. "yes!" exclaimed mrs. honeychurch. "that's exactly what i say.why all this twiddling and twaddling over
two miss alans?" "there is a certain amount of kindness,just as there is a certain amount of light," he continued in measured tones. "we cast a shadow on something wherever westand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadowalways follows. choose a place where you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and stand in it for all you areworth, facing the sunshine." "oh, mr. emerson, i see you're clever!" "eh--?""i see you're going to be clever.
i hope you didn't go behaving like that topoor freddy." george's eyes laughed, and lucy suspectedthat he and her mother would get on rather well."no, i didn't," he said. "he behaved that way to me. it is his philosophy.only he starts life with it; and i have tried the note of interrogation first.""what do you mean? no, never mind what you mean. don't explain.he looks forward to seeing you this afternoon.do you play tennis?
do you mind tennis on sunday--?" "george mind tennis on sunday!george, after his education, distinguish between sunday--""very well, george doesn't mind tennis on sunday. no more do i.that's settled. mr. emerson, if you could come with yourson we should be so pleased." he thanked her, but the walk sounded ratherfar; he could only potter about in these days.she turned to george: "and then he wants to give up his house to the miss alans."
"i know," said george, and put his armround his father's neck. the kindness that mr. beebe and lucy hadalways known to exist in him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vastlandscape--a touch of the morning sun? she remembered that in all his perversitieshe had never spoken against affection. miss bartlett approached."you know our cousin, miss bartlett," said mrs. honeychurch pleasantly. "you met her with my daughter in florence.""yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the garden tomeet the lady. miss bartlett promptly got into thevictoria.
thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. it was the pension bertolini again, thedining-table with the decanters of water and wine.it was the old, old battle of the room with the view. george did not respond to the bow.like any boy, he blushed and was ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered.he said: "i--i'll come up to tennis if i can manage it," and went into the house. perhaps anything that he did would havepleased lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not godsafter all, but as human and as clumsy as
girls; even men might suffer fromunexplained desires, and need help. to one of her upbringing, and of herdestination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised itat florence, when george threw her photographs into the river arno. "george, don't go," cried his father, whothought it a great treat for people if his son would talk to them. "george has been in such good spiritstoday, and i am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon."lucy caught her cousin's eye. something in its mute appeal made herreckless.
"yes," she said, raising her voice, "i dohope he will." then she went to the carriage and murmured,"the old man hasn't been told; i knew it was all right."mrs. honeychurch followed her, and they drove away. satisfactory that mr. emerson had not beentold of the florence escapade; yet lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if shehad sighted the ramparts of heaven. satisfactory; yet surely she greeted itwith disproportionate joy. all the way home the horses' hoofs sang atune to her: "he has not told, he has not told."
her brain expanded the melody: "he has nottold his father--to whom he tells all things.it was not an exploit. he did not laugh at me when i had gone." she raised her hand to her cheek."he does not love me. no. how terrible if he did!but he has not told. he will not tell." she longed to shout the words: "it is allright. it's a secret between us two for ever.cecil will never hear." she was even glad that miss bartlett hadmade her promise secrecy, that last dark
evening at florence, when they had kneltpacking in his room. the secret, big or little, was guarded. only three english people knew of it in theworld. thus she interpreted her joy.she greeted cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so safe. as he helped her out of the carriage, shesaid: "the emersons have been so nice.george emerson has improved enormously." "how are my proteges?" asked cecil, whotook no real interest in them, and had long since forgotten his resolution to bringthem to windy corner for educational
purposes. "proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth.for the only relationship which cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector andprotected. he had no glimpse of the comradeship afterwhich the girl's soul yearned. "you shall see for yourself how yourproteges are. george emerson is coming up this afternoon. he is a most interesting man to talk to.only don't--" she nearly said, "don't protect him." but the bell was ringing for lunch, and, asoften happened, cecil had paid no great
attention to her remarks.charm, not argument, was to be her forte. lunch was a cheerful meal. generally lucy was depressed at meals.some one had to be soothed--either cecil or miss bartlett or a being not visible to themortal eye--a being who whispered to her soul: "it will not last, this cheerfulness. in january you must go to london toentertain the grandchildren of celebrated men."but to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. her mother would always sit there, herbrother here.
the sun, though it had moved a little sincethe morning, would never be hidden behind the western hills. after luncheon they asked her to play. she had seen gluck's armide that year, andplayed from memory the music of the enchanted garden--the music to which renaudapproaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but ripples for ever like thetideless seas of fairyland. such music is not for the piano, and heraudience began to get restive, and cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: "nowplay us the other garden--the one in
parsifal." she closed the instrument."not very dutiful," said her mother's voice.fearing that she had offended cecil, she turned quickly round. there george was.he had crept in without interrupting her. "oh, i had no idea!" she exclaimed, gettingvery red; and then, without a word of greeting, she reopened the piano. cecil should have the parsifal, andanything else that he liked. "our performer has changed her mind," saidmiss bartlett, perhaps implying, she will
play the music to mr. emerson. lucy did not know what to do nor even whatshe wanted to do. she played a few bars of the flowermaidens' song very badly and then she stopped. "i vote tennis," said freddy, disgusted atthe scrappy entertainment. "yes, so do i."once more she closed the unfortunate piano. "i vote you have a men's four." "all right.""not for me, thank you," said cecil. "i will not spoil the set."
he never realized that it may be an act ofkindness in a bad player to make up a fourth."oh, come along cecil. i'm bad, floyd's rotten, and so i daresay's emerson." george corrected him: "i am not bad."one looked down one's nose at this. "then certainly i won't play," said cecil,while miss bartlett, under the impression that she was snubbing george, added: "iagree with you, mr. vyse. you had much better not play. much better not."minnie, rushing in where cecil feared to tread, announced that she would play."i shall miss every ball anyway, so what
does it matter?" but sunday intervened and stamped heavilyupon the kindly suggestion. "then it will have to be lucy," said mrs.honeychurch; "you must fall back on lucy. there is no other way out of it. lucy, go and change your frock."lucy's sabbath was generally of this amphibious nature. she kept it without hypocrisy in themorning, and broke it without reluctance in the afternoon. as she changed her frock, she wonderedwhether cecil was sneering at her; really
she must overhaul herself and settleeverything up before she married him. mr. floyd was her partner. she liked music, but how much better tennisseemed. how much better to run about in comfortableclothes than to sit at the piano and feel girt under the arms. once more music appeared to her theemployment of a child. george served, and surprised her by hisanxiety to win. she remembered how he had sighed among thetombs at santa croce because things wouldn't fit; how after the death of thatobscure italian he had leant over the
parapet by the arno and said to her: "i shall want to live, i tell you," he wantedto live now, to win at tennis, to stand for all he was worth in the sun--the sun whichhad begun to decline and was shining in her eyes; and he did win. ah, how beautiful the weald looked!the hills stood out above its radiance, as fiesole stands above the tuscan plain, andthe south downs, if one chose, were the mountains of carrara. she might be forgetting her italy, but shewas noticing more things in her england. one could play a new game with the view,and try to find in its innumerable folds
some town or village that would do forflorence. ah, how beautiful the weald looked! but now cecil claimed her.he chanced to be in a lucid critical mood, and would not sympathize with exaltation. he had been rather a nuisance all throughthe tennis, for the novel that he was reading was so bad that he was obliged toread it aloud to others. he would stroll round the precincts of thecourt and call out: "i say, listen to this, lucy.three split infinitives." "dreadful!" said lucy, and missed herstroke.
when they had finished their set, he stillwent on reading; there was some murder scene, and really every one must listen toit. freddy and mr. floyd were obliged to huntfor a lost ball in the laurels, but the other two acquiesced."the scene is laid in florence." "what fun, cecil! read away.come, mr. emerson, sit down after all your energy." she had "forgiven" george, as she put it,and she made a point of being pleasant to him.he jumped over the net and sat down at her
feet asking: "you--and are you tired?" "of course i'm not!""do you mind being beaten?" she was going to answer, "no," when itstruck her that she did mind, so she answered, "yes." she added merrily, "i don't see you're sucha splendid player, though. the light was behind you, and it was in myeyes." "i never said i was." "why, you did!""you didn't attend." "you said--oh, don't go in for accuracy atthis house.
we all exaggerate, and we get very angrywith people who don't." "'the scene is laid in florence,'" repeatedcecil, with an upward note. lucy recollected herself. "'sunset.leonora was speeding--'" lucy interrupted."leonora? is leonora the heroine? who's the book by?""joseph emery prank. 'sunset.leonora speeding across the square. pray the saints she might not arrive toolate.
sunset--the sunset of italy.under orcagna's loggia--the loggia de' lanzi, as we sometimes call it now--'" lucy burst into laughter."'joseph emery prank' indeed! why it's miss lavish!it's miss lavish's novel, and she's publishing it under somebody else's name." "who may miss lavish be?""oh, a dreadful person--mr. emerson, you remember miss lavish?"excited by her pleasant afternoon, she clapped her hands. george looked up."of course i do.
i saw her the day i arrived at summerstreet. it was she who told me that you livedhere." "weren't you pleased?" she meant "to see miss lavish," but when hebent down to the grass without replying, it struck her that she could mean somethingelse. she watched his head, which was almostresting against her knee, and she thought that the ears were reddening."no wonder the novel's bad," she added. "i never liked miss lavish. but i suppose one ought to read it as one'smet her."
"all modern books are bad," said cecil, whowas annoyed at her inattention, and vented his annoyance on literature. "every one writes for money in these days.""oh, cecil--!" "it is so.i will inflict joseph emery prank on you no longer." cecil, this afternoon seemed such atwittering sparrow. the ups and downs in his voice werenoticeable, but they did not affect her. she had dwelt amongst melody and movement,and her nerves refused to answer to the clang of his.leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the
black head again. she did not want to stroke it, but she sawherself wanting to stroke it; the sensation was curious."how do you like this view of ours, mr. emerson?" "i never notice much difference in views.""what do you mean?" "because they're all alike.because all that matters in them is distance and air." "h'm!" said cecil, uncertain whether theremark was striking or not. "my father"--he looked up at her (and hewas a little flushed)--"says that there is
only one perfect view--the view of the skystraight over our heads, and that all these views on earth are but bungled copies ofit." "i expect your father has been readingdante," said cecil, fingering the novel, which alone permitted him to lead theconversation. "he told us another day that views arereally crowds--crowds of trees and houses and hills--and are bound to resemble eachother, like human crowds--and that the power they have over us is sometimessupernatural, for the same reason." lucy's lips parted."for a crowd is more than the people who make it up.
something gets added to it--no one knowshow--just as something has got added to those hills."he pointed with his racquet to the south downs. "what a splendid idea!" she murmured."i shall enjoy hearing your father talk again.i'm so sorry he's not so well." "no, he isn't well." "there's an absurd account of a view inthis book," said cecil. "also that men fall into two classes--thosewho forget views and those who remember them, even in small rooms."
"mr. emerson, have you any brothers orsisters?" "none.why?" "you spoke of 'us.'" "my mother, i was meaning."cecil closed the novel with a bang. "oh, cecil--how you made me jump!""i will inflict joseph emery prank on you no longer." "i can just remember us all three goinginto the country for the day and seeing as far as hindhead.it is the first thing that i remember." cecil got up; the man was ill-bred--hehadn't put on his coat after tennis--he
didn't do.he would have strolled away if lucy had not stopped him. "cecil, do read the thing about the view.""not while mr. emerson is here to entertain us.""no--read away. i think nothing's funnier than to hearsilly things read out loud. if mr. emerson thinks us frivolous, he cango." this struck cecil as subtle, and pleasedhim. it put their visitor in the position of aprig. somewhat mollified, he sat down again.
"mr. emerson, go and find tennis balls."she opened the book. cecil must have his reading and anythingelse that he liked. but her attention wandered to george'smother, who--according to mr. eager--had been murdered in the sight of god accordingto her son--had seen as far as hindhead. "am i really to go?" asked george. "no, of course not really," she answered."chapter two," said cecil, yawning. "find me chapter two, if it isn't botheringyou." chapter two was found, and she glanced atits opening sentences. she thought she had gone mad."here--hand me the book."
she heard her voice saying: "it isn't worthreading--it's too silly to read--i never saw such rubbish--it oughtn't to be allowedto be printed." he took the book from her. "'leonora,'" he read, "'sat pensive andalone. before her lay the rich champaign oftuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. the season was spring.'"miss lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose, for cecil toread and for george to hear. "'a golden haze,'" he read.
he read: "'afar off the towers of florence,while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets.all unobserved antonio stole up behind her- -'" lest cecil should see her face she turnedto george and saw his face. he read: "'there came from his lips nowordy protestation such as formal lovers use. no eloquence was his, nor did he sufferfrom the lack of it. he simply enfolded her in his manly arms.'" "this isn't the passage i wanted," heinformed them, "there is another much
funnier, further on."he turned over the leaves. "should we go in to tea?" said lucy, whosevoice remained steady. she led the way up the garden, cecilfollowing her, george last. she thought a disaster was averted. but when they entered the shrubbery itcame. the book, as if it had not worked mischiefenough, had been forgotten, and cecil must go back for it; and george, who lovedpassionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path. "no--" she gasped, and, for the secondtime, was kissed by him.
as if no more was possible, he slippedback; cecil rejoined her; they reached the upper lawn alone. > chapter xvi: lying to george but lucy had developed since the spring.that is to say, she was now better able to stifle the emotions of which theconventions and the world disapprove. though the danger was greater, she was notshaken by deep sobs. she said to cecil, "i am not coming in totea--tell mother--i must write some letters," and went up to her room.
then she prepared for action. love felt and returned, love which ourbodies exact and our hearts have transfigured, love which is the most realthing that we shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she muststifle it. she sent for miss bartlett.the contest lay not between love and duty. perhaps there never is such a contest. it lay between the real and the pretended,and lucy's first aim was to defeat herself. as her brain clouded over, as the memory ofthe views grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to her oldshibboleth of nerves.
she "conquered her breakdown." tampering with the truth, she forgot thatthe truth had ever been. remembering that she was engaged to cecil,she compelled herself to confused remembrances of george; he was nothing toher; he never had been anything; he had behaved abominably; she had neverencouraged him. the armour of falsehood is subtly wroughtout of darkness, and hides a man not only from others, but from his own soul. in a few moments lucy was equipped forbattle. "something too awful has happened," shebegan, as soon as her cousin arrived.
"do you know anything about miss lavish'snovel?" miss bartlett looked surprised, and saidthat she had not read the book, nor known that it was published; eleanor was areticent woman at heart. "there is a scene in it. the hero and heroine make love.do you know about that?" "dear--?""do you know about it, please?" she repeated. "they are on a hillside, and florence is inthe distance." "my good lucia, i am all at sea.i know nothing about it whatever."
"there are violets. i cannot believe it is a coincidence.charlotte, charlotte, how could you have told her?i have thought before speaking; it must be you." "told her what?" she asked, with growingagitation. "about that dreadful afternoon infebruary." miss bartlett was genuinely moved. "oh, lucy, dearest girl--she hasn't putthat in her book?" lucy nodded."not so that one could recognize it.
yes." "then never--never--never more shalleleanor lavish be a friend of mine." "so you did tell?""i did just happen--when i had tea with her at rome--in the course of conversation--" "but charlotte--what about the promise yougave me when we were packing? why did you tell miss lavish, when youwouldn't even let me tell mother?" "i will never forgive eleanor. she has betrayed my confidence.""why did you tell her, though? this is a most serious thing."why does any one tell anything?
the question is eternal, and it was notsurprising that miss bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. she had done wrong--she admitted it, sheonly hoped that she had not done harm; she had told eleanor in the strictestconfidence. lucy stamped with irritation. "cecil happened to read out the passagealoud to me and to mr. emerson; it upset mr. emerson and he insulted me again.behind cecil's back. ugh! is it possible that men are such brutes?behind cecil's back as we were walking up
the garden."miss bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets. "what is to be done now?can you tell me?" "oh, lucy--i shall never forgive myself,never to my dying day. fancy if your prospects--" "i know," said lucy, wincing at the word."i see now why you wanted me to tell cecil, and what you meant by 'some other source.'you knew that you had told miss lavish, and that she was not reliable." it was miss bartlett's turn to wince."however," said the girl, despising her
cousin's shiftiness, "what's done's done.you have put me in a most awkward position. how am i to get out of it?" miss bartlett could not think.the days of her energy were over. she was a visitor, not a chaperon, and adiscredited visitor at that. she stood with clasped hands while the girlworked herself into the necessary rage. "he must--that man must have such a settingdown that he won't forget. and who's to give it him? i can't tell mother now--owing to you.nor cecil, charlotte, owing to you. i am caught up every way.i think i shall go mad.
i have no one to help me. that's why i've sent for you.what's wanted is a man with a whip." miss bartlett agreed: one wanted a man witha whip. "yes--but it's no good agreeing. what's to be done.we women go maundering on. what does a girl do when she comes across acad?" "i always said he was a cad, dear. give me credit for that, at all events.from the very first moment--when he said his father was having a bath.""oh, bother the credit and who's been right
or wrong! we've both made a muddle of it.george emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, orisn't he? i want to know." miss bartlett was absolutely helpless.her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in herbrain. she moved feebly to the window, and triedto detect the cad's white flannels among the laurels."you were ready enough at the bertolini when you rushed me off to rome.
can't you speak again to him now?""willingly would i move heaven and earth--" "i want something more definite," said lucycontemptuously. "will you speak to him? it is the least you can do, surely,considering it all happened because you broke your word.""never again shall eleanor lavish be a friend of mine." really, charlotte was outdoing herself."yes or no, please; yes or no." "it is the kind of thing that only agentleman can settle." george emerson was coming up the gardenwith a tennis ball in his hand.
"very well," said lucy, with an angrygesture. "no one will help me. i will speak to him myself."and immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along."hullo, emerson!" called freddy from below. "found the lost ball? good man!want any tea?" and there was an irruption from the houseon to the terrace. "oh, lucy, but that is brave of you! i admire you--"they had gathered round george, who
beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, thesloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. her anger faded at the sight of him.ah! the emersons were fine people in their way.she had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying: "freddy has taken him into the dining-room.the others are going down the garden. come.let us get this over quickly. come. i want you in the room, of course.""lucy, do you mind doing it?"
"how can you ask such a ridiculousquestion?" "poor lucy--" she stretched out her hand. "i seem to bring nothing but misfortunewherever i go." lucy nodded. she remembered their last evening atflorence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of miss bartlett's toque on thedoor. she was not to be trapped by pathos asecond time. eluding her cousin's caress, she led theway downstairs. "try the jam," freddy was saying.
"the jam's jolly good."george, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room.as she entered he stopped, and said: "no--nothing to eat." "you go down to the others," said lucy;"charlotte and i will give mr. emerson all he wants.where's mother?" "she's started on her sunday writing. she's in the drawing-room.""that's all right. you go away."he went off singing. lucy sat down at the table.
miss bartlett, who was thoroughlyfrightened, took up a book and pretended to read.she would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. she just said: "i can't have it, mr.emerson. i cannot even talk to you. go out of this house, and never come intoit again as long as i live here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door."i hate a row. go please." "what--""no discussion."
"but i can't--"she shook her head. "go, please. i do not want to call in mr. vyse.""you don't mean," he said, absolutely ignoring miss bartlett--"you don't meanthat you are going to marry that man?" the line was unexpected. she shrugged her shoulders, as if hisvulgarity wearied her. "you are merely ridiculous," she saidquietly. then his words rose gravely over hers: "youcannot live with vyse. he's only for an acquaintance.he is for society and cultivated talk.
he should know no one intimately, least ofall a woman." it was a new light on cecil's character."have you ever talked to vyse without feeling tired?" "i can scarcely discuss--""no, but have you ever? he is the sort who are all right so long asthey keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come to people. that's why i'll speak out through all thismuddle even now. it's shocking enough to lose you in anycase, but generally a man must deny himself joy, and i would have held back if yourcecil had been a different person.
i would never have let myself go. but i saw him first in the nationalgallery, when he winced because my father mispronounced the names of great painters. then he brings us here, and we find it isto play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. that is the man all over--playing tricks onpeople, on the most sacred form of life that he can find. next, i meet you together, and find himprotecting and teaching you and your mother to be shocked, when it was for you tosettle whether you were shocked or no.
cecil all over again. he daren't let a woman decide.he's the type who's kept europe back for a thousand years. every moment of his life he's forming you,telling you what's charming or amusing or ladylike, telling you what a man thinkswomanly; and you, you of all women, listen to his voice instead of to your own. so it was at the rectory, when i met youboth again; so it has been the whole of this afternoon. therefore--not 'therefore i kissed you,'because the book made me do that, and i
wish to goodness i had more self-control.i'm not ashamed. i don't apologize. but it has frightened you, and you may nothave noticed that i love you. or would you have told me to go, and dealtwith a tremendous thing so lightly? but therefore--therefore i settled to fighthim." lucy thought of a very good remark."you say mr. vyse wants me to listen to him, mr. emerson. pardon me for suggesting that you havecaught the habit." and he took the shoddy reproof and touchedit into immortality.
he said: "yes, i have," and sank down as if suddenlyweary. "i'm the same kind of brute at bottom. this desire to govern a woman--it lies verydeep, and men and women must fight it together before they shall enter thegarden. but i do love you surely in a better waythan he does." he thought."yes--really in a better way. i want you to have your own thoughts evenwhen i hold you in my arms," he stretched them towards her.
"lucy, be quick--there's no time for us totalk now--come to me as you came in the spring, and afterwards i will be gentle andexplain. i have cared for you since that man died. i cannot live without you, 'no good,' ithought; 'she is marrying some one else'; but i meet you again when all the world isglorious water and sun. as you came through the wood i saw thatnothing else mattered. i called.i wanted to live and have my chance of joy." "and mr. vyse?" said lucy, who keptcommendably calm.
"does he not matter?that i love cecil and shall be his wife shortly? a detail of no importance, i suppose?"but he stretched his arms over the table towards her."may i ask what you intend to gain by this exhibition?" he said: "it is our last chance.i shall do all that i can." and as if he had done all else, he turnedto miss bartlett, who sat like some portent against the skies of the evening. "you wouldn't stop us this second time ifyou understood," he said.
"i have been into the dark, and i am goingback into it, unless you will try to understand." her long, narrow head drove backwards andforwards, as though demolishing some invisible obstacle.she did not answer. "it is being young," he said quietly,picking up his racquet from the floor and preparing to go."it is being certain that lucy cares for me really. it is that love and youth matterintellectually." in silence the two women watched him.his last remark, they knew, was nonsense,
but was he going after it or not? would not he, the cad, the charlatan,attempt a more dramatic finish? no. he was apparently content. he left them, carefully closing the frontdoor; and when they looked through the hall window, they saw him go up the drive andbegin to climb the slopes of withered fern behind the house. their tongues were loosed, and they burstinto stealthy rejoicings. "oh, lucia--come back here--oh, what anawful man!" lucy had no reaction--at least, not yet.
"well, he amuses me," she said."either i'm mad, or else he is, and i'm inclined to think it's the latter.one more fuss through with you, charlotte. many thanks. i think, though, that this is the last.my admirer will hardly trouble me again." and miss bartlett, too, essayed theroguish: "well, it isn't every one who could boastsuch a conquest, dearest, is it? oh, one oughtn't to laugh, really.it might have been very serious. but you were so sensible and brave--sounlike the girls of my day." "let's go down to them."but, once in the open air, she paused.
some emotion--pity, terror, love, but theemotion was strong--seized her, and she was aware of autumn. summer was ending, and the evening broughther odours of decay, the more pathetic because they were reminiscent of spring.that something or other mattered intellectually? a leaf, violently agitated, danced pasther, while other leaves lay motionless. that the earth was hastening to re-enterdarkness, and the shadows of those trees over windy corner? "hullo, lucy!there's still light enough for another set,
if you two'll hurry.""mr. emerson has had to go." "what a nuisance! that spoils the four.i say, cecil, do play, do, there's a good chap.it's floyd's last day. do play tennis with us, just this once." cecil's voice came: "my dear freddy, i amno athlete. as you well remarked this very morning,'there are some chaps who are no good for anything but books'; i plead guilty tobeing such a chap, and will not inflict myself on you."
the scales fell from lucy's eyes.how had she stood cecil for a moment? he was absolutely intolerable, and the sameevening she broke off her engagement. chapter xvii: lying to cecil he was bewildered.he had nothing to say. he was not even angry, but stood, with aglass of whiskey between his hands, trying to think what had led her to such aconclusion. she had chosen the moment before bed, when,in accordance with their bourgeois habit, she always dispensed drinks to the men. freddy and mr. floyd were sure to retirewith their glasses, while cecil invariably
lingered, sipping at his while she lockedup the sideboard. "i am very sorry about it," she said; "ihave carefully thought things over. we are too different. i must ask you to release me, and try toforget that there ever was such a foolish girl."it was a suitable speech, but she was more angry than sorry, and her voice showed it. "different--how--how--""i haven't had a really good education, for one thing," she continued, still on herknees by the sideboard. "my italian trip came too late, and i amforgetting all that i learnt there.
i shall never be able to talk to yourfriends, or behave as a wife of yours should." "i don't understand you.you aren't like yourself. you're tired, lucy.""tired!" she retorted, kindling at once. "that is exactly like you. you always think women don't mean what theysay." "well, you sound tired, as if something hasworried you." "what if i do? it doesn't prevent me from realizing thetruth.
i can't marry you, and you will thank mefor saying so some day." "you had that bad headache yesterday--allright"--for she had exclaimed indignantly: "i see it's much more than headaches.but give me a moment's time." he closed his eyes. "you must excuse me if i say stupid things,but my brain has gone to pieces. part of it lives three minutes back, when iwas sure that you loved me, and the other part--i find it difficult--i am likely tosay the wrong thing." it struck her that he was not behaving sobadly, and her irritation increased. she again desired a struggle, not adiscussion.
to bring on the crisis, she said: "there are days when one sees clearly, andthis is one of them. things must come to a breaking-point sometime, and it happens to be to-day. if you want to know, quite a little thingdecided me to speak to you--when you wouldn't play tennis with freddy.""i never do play tennis," said cecil, painfully bewildered; "i never could play. i don't understand a word you say.""you can play well enough to make up a four.i thought it abominably selfish of you." "no, i can't--well, never mind the tennis.
why couldn't you--couldn't you have warnedme if you felt anything wrong? you talked of our wedding at lunch--atleast, you let me talk." "i knew you wouldn't understand," said lucyquite crossly. "i might have known there would have beenthese dreadful explanations. of course, it isn't the tennis--that wasonly the last straw to all i have been feeling for weeks.surely it was better not to speak until i felt certain." she developed this position."often before i have wondered if i was fitted for your wife--for instance, inlondon; and are you fitted to be my
husband? i don't think so.you don't like freddy, nor my mother. there was always a lot against ourengagement, cecil, but all our relations seemed pleased, and we met so often, and itwas no good mentioning it until--well, until all things came to a point. they have to-day.i see clearly. i must speak.that's all." "i cannot think you were right," said cecilgently. "i cannot tell why, but though all that yousay sounds true, i feel that you are not
treating me fairly. it's all too horrible.""what's the good of a scene?" "no good.but surely i have a right to hear a little more." he put down his glass and opened thewindow. from where she knelt, jangling her keys,she could see a slit of darkness, and, peering into it, as if it would tell himthat "little more," his long, thoughtful face. "don't open the window; and you'd betterdraw the curtain, too; freddy or any one
might be outside."he obeyed. "i really think we had better go to bed, ifyou don't mind. i shall only say things that will make meunhappy afterwards. as you say it is all too horrible, and itis no good talking." but to cecil, now that he was about to loseher, she seemed each moment more desirable. he looked at her, instead of through her,for the first time since they were engaged. from a leonardo she had become a livingwoman, with mysteries and forces of her own, with qualities that even eluded art. his brain recovered from the shock, and, ina burst of genuine devotion, he cried: "but
i love you, and i did think you loved me!""i did not," she said. "i thought i did at first. i am sorry, and ought to have refused youthis last time, too." he began to walk up and down the room, andshe grew more and more vexed at his dignified behaviour. she had counted on his being petty.it would have made things easier for her. by a cruel irony she was drawing out allthat was finest in his disposition. "you don't love me, evidently. i dare say you are right not to.but it would hurt a little less if i knew
why." "because"--a phrase came to her, and sheaccepted it--"you're the sort who can't know any one intimately."a horrified look came into his eyes. "i don't mean exactly that. but you will question me, though i beg younot to, and i must say something. it is that, more or less. when we were only acquaintances, you let mebe myself, but now you're always protecting me."her voice swelled. "i won't be protected.
i will choose for myself what is ladylikeand right. to shield me is an insult.can't i be trusted to face the truth but i must get it second-hand through you? a woman's place! you despise my mother--i know you do--because she's conventional and bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!"--she rose toher feet--"conventional, cecil, you're that, for you may understand beautiful things, but you don't know how to use them;and you wrap yourself up in art and books and music, and would try to wrap up me.
i won't be stifled, not by the mostglorious music, for people are more glorious, and you hide them from me.that's why i break off my engagement. you were all right as long as you kept tothings, but when you came to people--" she stopped.there was a pause. then cecil said with great emotion: "it is true.""true on the whole," she corrected, full of some vague shame."true, every word. it is a revelation. it is--i.""anyhow, those are my reasons for not being
your wife."he repeated: "'the sort that can know no one intimately.' it is true.i fell to pieces the very first day we were engaged.i behaved like a cad to beebe and to your brother. you are even greater than i thought."she withdrew a step. "i'm not going to worry you.you are far too good to me. i shall never forget your insight; and,dear, i only blame you for this: you might have warned me in the early stages, beforeyou felt you wouldn't marry me, and so have
given me a chance to improve. i have never known you till this evening.i have just used you as a peg for my silly notions of what a woman should be.but this evening you are a different person: new thoughts--even a new voice--" "what do you mean by a new voice?" sheasked, seized with incontrollable anger. "i mean that a new person seems speakingthrough you," said he. then she lost her balance. she cried: "if you think i am in love withsome one else, you are very much mistaken." "of course i don't think that.you are not that kind, lucy."
"oh, yes, you do think it. it's your old idea, the idea that has kepteurope back--i mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. if a girl breaks off her engagement, everyone says: 'oh, she had some one else in her mind; she hopes to get some one else.'it's disgusting, brutal! as if a girl can't break it off for thesake of freedom." he answered reverently: "i may have saidthat in the past. i shall never say it again. you have taught me better."she began to redden, and pretended to
examine the windows again. "of course, there is no question of 'someone else' in this, no 'jilting' or any such nauseous stupidity.i beg your pardon most humbly if my words suggested that there was. i only meant that there was a force in youthat i hadn't known of up till now." "all right, cecil, that will do.don't apologize to me. it was my mistake." "it is a question between ideals, yours andmine--pure abstract ideals, and yours are the nobler.
i was bound up in the old vicious notions,and all the time you were splendid and new."his voice broke. "i must actually thank you for what youhave done--for showing me what i really am. solemnly, i thank you for showing me a truewoman. will you shake hands?" "of course i will," said lucy, twisting upher other hand in the curtains. "good-night, cecil.good-bye. that's all right. i'm sorry about it.thank you very much for your gentleness."
"let me light your candle, shall i?"they went into the hall. "thank you. good-night again.god bless you, lucy!" "good-bye, cecil." she watched him steal up-stairs, while theshadows from three banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. on the landing he paused strong in hisrenunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. for all his culture, cecil was an asceticat heart, and nothing in his love became
him like the leaving of it.she could never marry. in the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. cecil believed in her; she must some daybelieve in herself. she must be one of the women whom she hadpraised so eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget thatgeorge loved her, that george had been thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, that george had goneaway into--what was it?--the darkness. she put out the lamp.it did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that to feel.
she gave up trying to understand herself,and the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, andmarch to their destiny by catch-words. the armies are full of pleasant and piousfolk. but they have yielded to the only enemythat matters--the enemy within. they have sinned against passion and truth,and vain will be their strife after virtue. as the years pass, they are censured. their pleasantry and their piety showcracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel andproduce discomfort wherever they go. they have sinned against eros and againstpallas athene, and not by any heavenly
intervention, but by the ordinary course ofnature, those allied deities will be avenged. lucy entered this army when she pretendedto george that she did not love him, and pretended to cecil that she loved no one.the night received her, as it had received miss bartlett thirty years before. chapter xviii: lying to mr. beebe, mrs.honeychurch, freddy, and the servants windy corner lay, not on the summit of theridge, but a few hundred feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one ofthe great buttresses that supported the hill.
on either side of it was a shallow ravine,filled with ferns and pine-trees, and down the ravine on the left ran the highway intothe weald. whenever mr. beebe crossed the ridge andcaught sight of these noble dispositions of the earth, and, poised in the middle ofthem, windy corner,--he laughed. the situation was so glorious, the house socommonplace, not to say impertinent. the late mr. honeychurch had affected thecube, because it gave him the most accommodation for his money, and the onlyaddition made by his widow had been a small turret, shaped like a rhinoceros' horn, where she could sit in wet weather andwatch the carts going up and down the road.
so impertinent--and yet the house "did,"for it was the home of people who loved their surroundings honestly. other houses in the neighborhood had beenbuilt by expensive architects, over others their inmates had fidgeted sedulously, yetall these suggested the accidental, the temporary; while windy corner seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of nature's owncreation. one might laugh at the house, but one nevershuddered. mr. beebe was bicycling over this mondayafternoon with a piece of gossip. he had heard from the miss alans.
these admirable ladies, since they couldnot go to cissie villa, had changed their plans.they were going to greece instead. "since florence did my poor sister so muchgood," wrote miss catharine, "we do not see why we should not try athens this winter. of course, athens is a plunge, and thedoctor has ordered her special digestive bread; but, after all, we can take thatwith us, and it is only getting first into a steamer and then into a train. but is there an english church?" and the letter went on to say: "i do notexpect we shall go any further than athens,
but if you knew of a really comfortablepension at constantinople, we should be so grateful." lucy would enjoy this letter, and the smilewith which mr. beebe greeted windy corner was partly for her.she would see the fun of it, and some of its beauty, for she must see some beauty. though she was hopeless about pictures, andthough she dressed so unevenly--oh, that cerise frock yesterday at church!--she mustsee some beauty in life, or she could not play the piano as she did. he had a theory that musicians areincredibly complex, and know far less than
other artists what they want and what theyare; that they puzzle themselves as well as their friends; that their psychology is a modern development, and has not yet beenunderstood. this theory, had he known it, had possiblyjust been illustrated by facts. ignorant of the events of yesterday he wasonly riding over to get some tea, to see his niece, and to observe whether misshoneychurch saw anything beautiful in the desire of two old ladies to visit athens. a carriage was drawn up outside windycorner, and just as he caught sight of the house it started, bowled up the drive, andstopped abruptly when it reached the main
road. therefore it must be the horse, who alwaysexpected people to walk up the hill in case they tired him. the door opened obediently, and two menemerged, whom mr. beebe recognized as cecil and freddy.they were an odd couple to go driving; but he saw a trunk beside the coachman's legs. cecil, who wore a bowler, must be goingaway, while freddy (a cap)--was seeing him to the station. they walked rapidly, taking the short cuts,and reached the summit while the carriage
was still pursuing the windings of theroad. they shook hands with the clergyman, butdid not speak. "so you're off for a minute, mr. vyse?" heasked. cecil said, "yes," while freddy edged away. "i was coming to show you this delightfulletter from those friends of miss honeychurch."he quoted from it. "isn't it wonderful? isn't it romance? most certainly they willgo to constantinople. they are taken in a snare that cannot fail.they will end by going round the world."
cecil listened civilly, and said he wassure that lucy would be amused and interested."isn't romance capricious! i never notice it in you young people; youdo nothing but play lawn tennis, and say that romance is dead, while the miss alansare struggling with all the weapons of propriety against the terrible thing. 'a really comfortable pension atconstantinople!' so they call it out of decency, but intheir hearts they want a pension with magic windows opening on the foam of perilousseas in fairyland forlorn! no ordinary view will content the missalans.
they want the pension keats." "i'm awfully sorry to interrupt, mr.beebe," said freddy, "but have you any matches?" "i have," said cecil, and it did not escapemr. beebe's notice that he spoke to the boy more kindly."you have never met these miss alans, have you, mr. vyse?" "never.""then you don't see the wonder of this greek visit. i haven't been to greece myself, and don'tmean to go, and i can't imagine any of my
friends going.it is altogether too big for our little lot. don't you think so?italy is just about as much as we can manage. italy is heroic, but greece is godlike ordevilish--i am not sure which, and in either case absolutely out of our suburbanfocus. all right, freddy--i am not being clever,upon my word i am not--i took the idea from another fellow; and give me those matcheswhen you've done with them." he lit a cigarette, and went on talking tothe two young men.
"i was saying, if our poor little cockneylives must have a background, let it be italian. big enough in all conscience.the ceiling of the sistine chapel for me. there the contrast is just as much as i canrealize. but not the parthenon, not the frieze ofphidias at any price; and here comes the victoria.""you're quite right," said cecil. "greece is not for our little lot"; and hegot in. freddy followed, nodding to the clergyman,whom he trusted not to be pulling one's leg, really.
and before they had gone a dozen yards hejumped out, and came running back for vyse's match-box, which had not beenreturned. as he took it, he said: "i'm so glad youonly talked about books. cecil's hard hit.lucy won't marry him. if you'd gone on about her, as you didabout them, he might have broken down." "but when--""late last night. i must go." "perhaps they won't want me down there.""no--go on. good-bye."
"thank goodness!" exclaimed mr. beebe tohimself, and struck the saddle of his bicycle approvingly, "it was the onefoolish thing she ever did. oh, what a glorious riddance!" and, after a little thought, he negotiatedthe slope into windy corner, light of heart.the house was again as it ought to be--cut off forever from cecil's pretentious world. he would find miss minnie down in thegarden. in the drawing-room lucy was tinkling at amozart sonata. he hesitated a moment, but went down thegarden as requested.
there he found a mournful company.it was a blustering day, and the wind had taken and broken the dahlias. mrs. honeychurch, who looked cross, wastying them up, while miss bartlett, unsuitably dressed, impeded her with offersof assistance. at a little distance stood minnie and the"garden-child," a minute importation, each holding either end of a long piece of bass."oh, how do you do, mr. beebe? gracious what a mess everything is! look at my scarlet pompons, and the windblowing your skirts about, and the ground so hard that not a prop will stick in, andthen the carriage having to go out, when i
had counted on having powell, who--give every one their due--does tie up dahliasproperly." evidently mrs. honeychurch was shattered. "how do you do?" said miss bartlett, with ameaning glance, as though conveying that more than dahlias had been broken off bythe autumn gales. "here, lennie, the bass," cried mrs.honeychurch. the garden-child, who did not know whatbass was, stood rooted to the path with horror. minnie slipped to her uncle and whisperedthat every one was very disagreeable to-
day, and that it was not her fault ifdahlia-strings would tear longways instead of across. "come for a walk with me," he told her."you have worried them as much as they can stand.mrs. honeychurch, i only called in aimlessly. i shall take her up to tea at the beehivetavern, if i may." "oh, must you? yes do.--not the scissors, thank you,charlotte, when both my hands are full already--i'm perfectly certain that theorange cactus will go before i can get to
it." mr. beebe, who was an adept at relievingsituations, invited miss bartlett to accompany them to this mild festivity. "yes, charlotte, i don't want you--do go;there's nothing to stop about for, either in the house or out of it." miss bartlett said that her duty lay in thedahlia bed, but when she had exasperated every one, except minnie, by a refusal, sheturned round and exasperated minnie by an acceptance. as they walked up the garden, the orangecactus fell, and mr. beebe's last vision
was of the garden-child clasping it like alover, his dark head buried in a wealth of blossom. "it is terrible, this havoc among theflowers," he remarked. "it is always terrible when the promise ofmonths is destroyed in a moment," enunciated miss bartlett. "perhaps we ought to send miss honeychurchdown to her mother. or will she come with us?""i think we had better leave lucy to herself, and to her own pursuits." "they're angry with miss honeychurchbecause she was late for breakfast,"
whispered minnie, "and floyd has gone, andmr. vyse has gone, and freddy won't play with me. in fact, uncle arthur, the house is not atall what it was yesterday." "don't be a prig," said her uncle arthur."go and put on your boots." he stepped into the drawing-room, wherelucy was still attentively pursuing the sonatas of mozart.she stopped when he entered. "how do you do? miss bartlett and minnie are coming with meto tea at the beehive. would you come too?""i don't think i will, thank you."
"no, i didn't suppose you would care tomuch." lucy turned to the piano and struck a fewchords. "how delicate those sonatas are!" said mr.beebe, though at the bottom of his heart, he thought them silly little things.lucy passed into schumann. "miss honeychurch!" "yes.""i met them on the hill. your brother told me.""oh he did?" she sounded annoyed. mr. beebe felt hurt, for he had thoughtthat she would like him to be told.
"i needn't say that it will go no further." "mother, charlotte, cecil, freddy, you,"said lucy, playing a note for each person who knew, and then playing a sixth note. "if you'll let me say so, i am very glad,and i am certain that you have done the right thing.""so i hoped other people would think, but they don't seem to." "i could see that miss bartlett thought itunwise." "so does mother.mother minds dreadfully." "i am very sorry for that," said mr. beebewith feeling.
mrs. honeychurch, who hated all changes,did mind, but not nearly as much as her daughter pretended, and only for theminute. it was really a ruse of lucy's to justifyher despondency--a ruse of which she was not herself conscious, for she was marchingin the armies of darkness. "and freddy minds." "still, freddy never hit it off with vysemuch, did he? i gathered that he disliked the engagement,and felt it might separate him from you." "boys are so odd." minnie could be heard arguing with missbartlett through the floor.
tea at the beehive apparently involved acomplete change of apparel. mr. beebe saw that lucy--very properly--didnot wish to discuss her action, so after a sincere expression of sympathy, he said, "ihave had an absurd letter from miss alan. that was really what brought me over. i thought it might amuse you all.""how delightful!" said lucy, in a dull voice.for the sake of something to do, he began to read her the letter. after a few words her eyes grew alert, andsoon she interrupted him with "going abroad?when do they start?"
"next week, i gather." "did freddy say whether he was drivingstraight back?" "no, he didn't.""because i do hope he won't go gossiping." so she did want to talk about her brokenengagement. always complaisant, he put the letter away.but she, at once exclaimed in a high voice, "oh, do tell me more about the miss alans! how perfectly splendid of them to goabroad!" "i want them to start from venice, and goin a cargo steamer down the illyrian coast!"
she laughed heartily."oh, delightful! i wish they'd take me.""has italy filled you with the fever of travel? perhaps george emerson is right.he says that 'italy is only an euphuism for fate.'""oh, not italy, but constantinople. i have always longed to go toconstantinople. constantinople is practically asia, isn'tit?" mr. beebe reminded her that constantinoplewas still unlikely, and that the miss alans only aimed at athens, "with delphi,perhaps, if the roads are safe."
but this made no difference to herenthusiasm. she had always longed to go to greece evenmore, it seemed. he saw, to his surprise, that she wasapparently serious. "i didn't realize that you and the missalans were still such friends, after cissie villa." "oh, that's nothing; i assure you cissievilla's nothing to me; i would give anything to go with them.""would your mother spare you again so soon? you have scarcely been home three months." "she must spare me!" cried lucy, in growingexcitement.
"i simply must go away.i have to." she ran her fingers hysterically throughher hair. "don't you see that i have to go away? i didn't realize at the time--and of coursei want to see constantinople so particularly.""you mean that since you have broken off your engagement you feel--" "yes, yes.i knew you'd understand." mr. beebe did not quite understand.why could not miss honeychurch repose in the bosom of her family?
cecil had evidently taken up the dignifiedline, and was not going to annoy her. then it struck him that her family itselfmight be annoying. he hinted this to her, and she accepted thehint eagerly. "yes, of course; to go to constantinopleuntil they are used to the idea and everything has calmed down." "i am afraid it has been a bothersomebusiness," he said gently. "no, not at all. cecil was very kind indeed; only--i hadbetter tell you the whole truth, since you have heard a little--it was that he is somasterful.
i found that he wouldn't let me go my ownway. he would improve me in places where i can'tbe improved. cecil won't let a woman decide for herself--in fact, he daren't. what nonsense i do talk! but that is thekind of thing." "it is what i gathered from my ownobservation of mr. vyse; it is what i gather from all that i have known of you.i do sympathize and agree most profoundly. i agree so much that you must let me makeone little criticism: is it worth while rushing off to greece?""but i must go somewhere!" she cried. "i have been worrying all the morning, andhere comes the very thing."
she struck her knees with clenched fists,and repeated: "i must! and the time i shall have with mother, andall the money she spent on me last spring. you all think much too highly of me.i wish you weren't so kind." at this moment miss bartlett entered, andher nervousness increased. "i must get away, ever so far.i must know my own mind and where i want to go." "come along; tea, tea, tea," said mr.beebe, and bustled his guests out of the front-door.he hustled them so quickly that he forgot his hat.
when he returned for it he heard, to hisrelief and surprise, the tinkling of a mozart sonata."she is playing again," he said to miss bartlett. "lucy can always play," was the acid reply."one is very thankful that she has such a resource.she is evidently much worried, as, of course, she ought to be. i know all about it.the marriage was so near that it must have been a hard struggle before she could windherself up to speak." miss bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, andhe prepared for a discussion.
he had never fathomed miss bartlett. as he had put it to himself at florence,"she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not of meaning."but she was so unsympathetic that she must be reliable. he assumed that much, and he had nohesitation in discussing lucy with her. minnie was fortunately collecting ferns.she opened the discussion with: "we had much better let the matter drop." "i wonder.""it is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip in summer street.it would be death to gossip about mr.
vyse's dismissal at the present moment." mr. beebe raised his eyebrows.death is a strong word--surely too strong. there was no question of tragedy. he said: "of course, miss honeychurch willmake the fact public in her own way, and when she chooses.freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind." "i know," said miss bartlett civilly."yet freddy ought not to have told even you.one cannot be too careful." "quite so."
"i do implore absolute secrecy.a chance word to a chattering friend, and-- ""exactly." he was used to these nervous old maids andto the exaggerated importance that they attach to words. a rector lives in a web of petty secrets,and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is the less he will regard them. he will change the subject, as did mr.beebe, saying cheerfully: "have you heard from any bertolini people lately?i believe you keep up with miss lavish. it is odd how we of that pension, whoseemed such a fortuitous collection, have
been working into one another's lives. two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; ihad forgotten the emersons--have kept more or less in touch.we must really give the signora a testimonial." and, miss bartlett not favouring thescheme, they walked up the hill in a silence which was only broken by the rectornaming some fern. on the summit they paused. the sky had grown wilder since he stoodthere last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in surrey.
grey clouds were charging across tissues ofwhite, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until through their finallayers there gleamed a hint of the disappearing blue. summer was retreating.the wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vastoperations in heaven. the weather was breaking up, breaking,broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equips suchcrises with the salvos of angelic artillery. mr. beebe's eyes rested on windy corner,where lucy sat, practising mozart.
no smile came to his lips, and, changingthe subject again, he said: "we shan't have rain, but we shall have darkness, so let ushurry on. the darkness last night was appalling." they reached the beehive tavern at aboutfive o'clock. that amiable hostelry possesses a verandah,in which the young and the unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more matureyears seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. mr. beebe saw that miss bartlett would becold if she sat out, and that minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed adivision of forces.
they would hand the child her food throughthe window. thus he was incidentally enabled to discussthe fortunes of lucy. "i have been thinking, miss bartlett," hesaid, "and, unless you very much object, i would like to reopen that discussion."she bowed. "nothing about the past. i know little and care less about that; iam absolutely certain that it is to your cousin's credit. she has acted loftily and rightly, and itis like her gentle modesty to say that we think too highly of her.but the future.
seriously, what do you think of this greekplan?" he pulled out the letter again. "i don't know whether you overheard, butshe wants to join the miss alans in their mad career.it's all--i can't explain--it's wrong." miss bartlett read the letter in silence,laid it down, seemed to hesitate, and then read it again."i can't see the point of it myself." to his astonishment, she replied: "there icannot agree with you. in it i spy lucy's salvation.""really. now, why?"
"she wanted to leave windy corner.""i know--but it seems so odd, so unlike her, so--i was going to say--selfish.""it is natural, surely--after such painful scenes--that she should desire a change." here, apparently, was one of those pointsthat the male intellect misses. mr. beebe exclaimed: "so she says herself,and since another lady agrees with her, i must own that i am partially convinced. perhaps she must have a change.i have no sisters or--and i don't understand these things.but why need she go as far as greece?" "you may well ask that," replied missbartlett, who was evidently interested, and
had almost dropped her evasive manner."why greece? (what is it, minnie dear--jam?) why not tunbridge wells?oh, mr. beebe! i had a long and most unsatisfactoryinterview with dear lucy this morning. i cannot help her. i will say no more.perhaps i have already said too much. i am not to talk.i wanted her to spend six months with me at tunbridge wells, and she refused." mr. beebe poked at a crumb with his knife."but my feelings are of no importance.
i know too well that i get on lucy'snerves. our tour was a failure. she wanted to leave florence, and when wegot to rome she did not want to be in rome, and all the time i felt that i was spendingher mother's money--." "let us keep to the future, though,"interrupted mr. beebe. "i want your advice." "very well," said charlotte, with a chokyabruptness that was new to him, though familiar to lucy."i for one will help her to go to greece. will you?"
mr. beebe considered."it is absolutely necessary," she continued, lowering her veil and whisperingthrough it with a passion, an intensity, that surprised him. "i know--i know."the darkness was coming on, and he felt that this odd woman really did know."she must not stop here a moment, and we must keep quiet till she goes. i trust that the servants know nothing.afterwards--but i may have said too much already.only, lucy and i are helpless against mrs. honeychurch alone.
if you help we may succeed.otherwise--" "otherwise--?""otherwise," she repeated as if the word held finality. "yes, i will help her," said the clergyman,setting his jaw firm. "come, let us go back now, and settle thewhole thing up." miss bartlett burst into florid gratitude. the tavern sign--a beehive trimmed evenlywith bees--creaked in the wind outside as she thanked him. mr. beebe did not quite understand thesituation; but then, he did not desire to
understand it, nor to jump to theconclusion of "another man" that would have attracted a grosser mind. he only felt that miss bartlett knew ofsome vague influence from which the girl desired to be delivered, and which mightwell be clothed in the fleshly form. its very vagueness spurred him into knight-errantry. his belief in celibacy, so reticent, socarefully concealed beneath his tolerance and culture, now came to the surface andexpanded like some delicate flower. "they that marry do well, but they thatrefrain do better." so ran his belief, and he never heard thatan engagement was broken off but with a
slight feeling of pleasure. in the case of lucy, the feeling wasintensified through dislike of cecil; and he was willing to go further--to place herout of danger until she could confirm her resolution of virginity. the feeling was very subtle and quiteundogmatic, and he never imparted it to any other of the characters in thisentanglement. yet it existed, and it alone explains hisaction subsequently, and his influence on the action of others. the compact that he made with miss bartlettin the tavern, was to help not only lucy,
but religion also.they hurried home through a world of black and grey. he conversed on indifferent topics: theemersons' need of a housekeeper; servants; italian servants; novels about italy;novels with a purpose; could literature influence life? windy corner glimmered.in the garden, mrs. honeychurch, now helped by freddy, still wrestled with the lives ofher flowers. "it gets too dark," she said hopelessly. "this comes of putting off.we might have known the weather would break
up soon; and now lucy wants to go togreece. i don't know what the world's coming to." "mrs. honeychurch," he said, "go to greeceshe must. come up to the house and let's talk itover. do you, in the first place, mind herbreaking with vyse?" "mr. beebe, i'm thankful--simply thankful.""so am i," said freddy. "good. now come up to the house."they conferred in the dining-room for half an hour.lucy would never have carried the greek
scheme alone. it was expensive and dramatic--bothqualities that her mother loathed. nor would charlotte have succeeded.the honours of the day rested with mr. beebe. by his tact and common sense, and by hisinfluence as a clergyman--for a clergyman who was not a fool influenced mrs.honeychurch greatly--he bent her to their purpose, "i don't see why greece is necessary," she said; "but as you do, isuppose it is all right. it must be something i can't understand.lucy!
let's tell her. lucy!""she is playing the piano," mr. beebe said. he opened the door, and heard the words ofa song: "look not thou on beauty's charming." "i didn't know that miss honeychurch sang,too." "sit thou still when kings are arming,taste not when the wine-cup glistens--" "it's a song that cecil gave her. how odd girls are!""what's that?" called lucy, stopping short. "all right, dear," said mrs. honeychurchkindly.
she went into the drawing-room, and mr.beebe heard her kiss lucy and say: "i am sorry i was so cross about greece, but itcame on the top of the dahlias." rather a hard voice said: "thank you,mother; that doesn't matter a bit." "and you are right, too--greece will be allright; you can go if the miss alans will have you." "oh, splendid!oh, thank you!" mr. beebe followed.lucy still sat at the piano with her hands over the keys. she was glad, but he had expected greatergladness.
her mother bent over her. freddy, to whom she had been singing,reclined on the floor with his head against her, and an unlit pipe between his lips.oddly enough, the group was beautiful. mr. beebe, who loved the art of the past,was reminded of a favourite theme, the santa conversazione, in which people whocare for one another are painted chatting together about noble things--a theme neither sensual nor sensational, andtherefore ignored by the art of to-day. why should lucy want either to marry or totravel when she had such friends at home? "taste not when the wine-cup glistens,speak not when the people listens," she
continued."here's mr. beebe." "mr. beebe knows my rude ways." "it's a beautiful song and a wise one,"said he. "go on.""it isn't very good," she said listlessly. "i forget why--harmony or something." "i suspected it was unscholarly.it's so beautiful." "the tune's right enough," said freddy,"but the words are rotten. why throw up the sponge?" "how stupidly you talk!" said his sister.the santa conversazione was broken up.
after all, there was no reason that lucyshould talk about greece or thank him for persuading her mother, so he said good-bye. freddy lit his bicycle lamp for him in theporch, and with his usual felicity of phrase, said: "this has been a day and ahalf." "stop thine ear against the singer--" "wait a minute; she is finishing.""from the red gold keep thy finger; vacant heart and hand and eye easy live and quietdie." "i love weather like this," said freddy. mr. beebe passed into it.the two main facts were clear.
she had behaved splendidly, and he hadhelped her. he could not expect to master the detailsof so big a change in a girl's life. if here and there he was dissatisfied orpuzzled, he must acquiesce; she was choosing the better part. "vacant heart and hand and eye--"perhaps the song stated "the better part" rather too strongly. he half fancied that the soaringaccompaniment--which he did not lose in the shout of the gale--really agreed withfreddy, and was gently criticizing the words that it adorned:
"vacant heart and hand and eye easy liveand quiet die." however, for the fourth time windy cornerlay poised below him--now as a beacon in the roaring tides of darkness. chapter xix: lying to mr. emerson the miss alans were found in their belovedtemperance hotel near bloomsbury--a clean, airless establishment much patronized byprovincial england. they always perched there before crossingthe great seas, and for a week or two would fidget gently over clothes, guide-books,mackintosh squares, digestive bread, and other continental necessaries.
that there are shops abroad, even inathens, never occurred to them, for they regarded travel as a species of warfare,only to be undertaken by those who have been fully armed at the haymarket stores. miss honeychurch, they trusted, would takecare to equip herself duly. quinine could now be obtained in tabloids;paper soap was a great help towards freshening up one's face in the train. lucy promised, a little depressed."but, of course, you know all about these things, and you have mr. vyse to help you.a gentleman is such a stand-by." mrs. honeychurch, who had come up to townwith her daughter, began to drum nervously
upon her card-case."we think it so good of mr. vyse to spare you," miss catharine continued. "it is not every young man who would be sounselfish. but perhaps he will come out and join youlater on." "or does his work keep him in london?" saidmiss teresa, the more acute and less kindly of the two sisters."however, we shall see him when he sees you off. i do so long to see him.""no one will see lucy off," interposed mrs. honeychurch."she doesn't like it."
"no, i hate seeings-off," said lucy. "really?how funny! i should have thought that in this case--""oh, mrs. honeychurch, you aren't going? it is such a pleasure to have met you!" they escaped, and lucy said with relief:"that's all right. we just got through that time."but her mother was annoyed. "i should be told, dear, that i amunsympathetic. but i cannot see why you didn't tell yourfriends about cecil and be done with it. there all the time we had to sit fencing,and almost telling lies, and be seen
through, too, i dare say, which is mostunpleasant." lucy had plenty to say in reply. she described the miss alans' character:they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would be everywhere in notime. "but why shouldn't it be everywhere in notime?" "because i settled with cecil not toannounce it until i left england. i shall tell them then. it's much pleasanter.how wet it is! let's turn in here.""here" was the british museum.
mrs. honeychurch refused. if they must take shelter, let it be in ashop. lucy felt contemptuous, for she was on thetack of caring for greek sculpture, and had already borrowed a mythical dictionary frommr. beebe to get up the names of the goddesses and gods. "oh, well, let it be shop, then.let's go to mudie's. i'll buy a guide-book." "you know, lucy, you and charlotte and mr.beebe all tell me i'm so stupid, so i suppose i am, but i shall never understandthis hole-and-corner work.
you've got rid of cecil--well and good, andi'm thankful he's gone, though i did feel angry for the minute.but why not announce it? why this hushing up and tip-toeing?" "it's only for a few days.""but why at all?" lucy was silent.she was drifting away from her mother. it was quite easy to say, "because georgeemerson has been bothering me, and if he hears i've given up cecil may begin again"--quite easy, and it had the incidental advantage of being true. but she could not say it.she disliked confidences, for they might
lead to self-knowledge and to that king ofterrors--light. ever since that last evening at florenceshe had deemed it unwise to reveal her soul.mrs. honeychurch, too, was silent. she was thinking, "my daughter won't answerme; she would rather be with those inquisitive old maids than with freddy andme. any rag, tag, and bobtail apparently doesif she can leave her home." and as in her case thoughts never remainedunspoken long, she burst out with: "you're tired of windy corner." this was perfectly true.lucy had hoped to return to windy corner
when she escaped from cecil, but shediscovered that her home existed no longer. it might exist for freddy, who still livedand thought straight, but not for one who had deliberately warped the brain. she did not acknowledge that her brain waswarped, for the brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment, and she wasdisordering the very instruments of life. she only felt, "i do not love george; ibroke off my engagement because i did not love george; i must go to greece because ido not love george; it is more important that i should look up gods in the dictionary than that i should help mymother; every one else is behaving very
badly." she only felt irritable and petulant, andanxious to do what she was not expected to do, and in this spirit she proceeded withthe conversation. "oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! of course i'm not tired of windy corner.""then why not say so at once, instead of considering half an hour?"she laughed faintly, "half a minute would be nearer." "perhaps you would like to stay away fromyour home altogether?" "hush, mother!people will hear you"; for they had entered
mudie's. she bought baedeker, and then continued:"of course i want to live at home; but as we are talking about it, i may as well saythat i shall want to be away in the future more than i have been. you see, i come into my money next year."tears came into her mother's eyes. driven by nameless bewilderment, by what isin older people termed "eccentricity," lucy determined to make this point clear. "i've seen the world so little--i felt soout of things in italy. i have seen so little of life; one ought tocome up to london more--not a cheap ticket
like to-day, but to stop. i might even share a flat for a little withsome other girl." "and mess with typewriters and latch-keys,"exploded mrs. honeychurch. "and agitate and scream, and be carried offkicking by the police. and call it a mission--when no one wantsyou! and call it duty--when it means that youcan't stand your own home! and call it work--when thousands of men arestarving with the competition as it is! and then to prepare yourself, find twododdering old ladies, and go abroad with them."
"i want more independence," said lucylamely; she knew that she wanted something, and independence is a useful cry; we canalways say that we have not got it. she tried to remember her emotions inflorence: those had been sincere and passionate, and had suggested beauty ratherthan short skirts and latch-keys. but independence was certainly her cue. "very well.take your independence and be gone. rush up and down and round the world, andcome back as thin as a lath with the bad food. despise the house that your father builtand the garden that he planted, and our
dear view--and then share a flat withanother girl." lucy screwed up her mouth and said:"perhaps i spoke hastily." "oh, goodness!" her mother flashed."how you do remind me of charlotte bartlett!" "charlotte!" flashed lucy in her turn,pierced at last by a vivid pain. "more every moment." "i don't know what you mean, mother;charlotte and i are not the very least alike.""well, i see the likeness. the same eternal worrying, the same takingback of words.
you and charlotte trying to divide twoapples among three people last night might be sisters." "what rubbish!and if you dislike charlotte so, it's rather a pity you asked her to stop. i warned you about her; i begged you,implored you not to, but of course it was not listened to.""there you go." "i beg your pardon?" "charlotte again, my dear; that's all; hervery words." lucy clenched her teeth."my point is that you oughtn't to have
asked charlotte to stop. i wish you would keep to the point."and the conversation died off into a wrangle. she and her mother shopped in silence,spoke little in the train, little again in the carriage, which met them at dorkingstation. it had poured all day and as they ascendedthrough the deep surrey lanes showers of water fell from the over-hanging beech-trees and rattled on the hood. lucy complained that the hood was stuffy. leaning forward, she looked out into thesteaming dusk, and watched the carriage-
lamp pass like a search-light over mud andleaves, and reveal nothing beautiful. "the crush when charlotte gets in will beabominable," she remarked. for they were to pick up miss bartlett atsummer street, where she had been dropped as the carriage went down, to pay a call onmr. beebe's old mother. "we shall have to sit three a side, becausethe trees drop, and yet it isn't raining. oh, for a little air!"then she listened to the horse's hoofs--"he has not told--he has not told." that melody was blurred by the soft road."can't we have the hood down?" she demanded, and her mother, with suddentenderness, said: "very well, old lady,
stop the horse." and the horse was stopped, and lucy andpowell wrestled with the hood, and squirted water down mrs. honeychurch's neck. but now that the hood was down, she did seesomething that she would have missed--there were no lights in the windows of cissievilla, and round the garden gate she fancied she saw a padlock. "is that house to let again, powell?" shecalled. "yes, miss," he replied."have they gone?" "it is too far out of town for the younggentleman, and his father's rheumatism has
come on, so he can't stop on alone, so theyare trying to let furnished," was the answer. "they have gone, then?""yes, miss, they have gone." lucy sank back.the carriage stopped at the rectory. she got out to call for miss bartlett. so the emersons had gone, and all thisbother about greece had been unnecessary. waste!that word seemed to sum up the whole of life. wasted plans, wasted money, wasted love,and she had wounded her mother.
was it possible that she had muddled thingsaway? quite possible. other people had.when the maid opened the door, she was unable to speak, and stared stupidly intothe hall. miss bartlett at once came forward, andafter a long preamble asked a great favour: might she go to church? mr. beebe and his mother had already gone,but she had refused to start until she obtained her hostess's full sanction, forit would mean keeping the horse waiting a good ten minutes more.
"certainly," said the hostess wearily."i forgot it was friday. let's all go.powell can go round to the stables." "lucy dearest--" "no church for me, thank you."a sigh, and they departed. the church was invisible, but up in thedarkness to the left there was a hint of colour. this was a stained window, through whichsome feeble light was shining, and when the door opened lucy heard mr. beebe's voicerunning through the litany to a minute congregation.
even their church, built upon the slope ofthe hill so artfully, with its beautiful raised transept and its spire of silveryshingle--even their church had lost its charm; and the thing one never talked about--religion--was fading like all theother things. she followed the maid into the rectory.would she object to sitting in mr. beebe's study? there was only that one fire.she would not object. some one was there already, for lucy heardthe words: "a lady to wait, sir." old mr. emerson was sitting by the fire,with his foot upon a gout-stool.
"oh, miss honeychurch, that you shouldcome!" he quavered; and lucy saw an alteration in him since last sunday. not a word would come to her lips.george she had faced, and could have faced again, but she had forgotten how to treathis father. "miss honeychurch, dear, we are so sorry! george is so sorry!he thought he had a right to try. i cannot blame my boy, and yet i wish hehad told me first. he ought not to have tried. i knew nothing about it at all."if only she could remember how to behave!
he held up his hand."but you must not scold him." lucy turned her back, and began to look atmr. beebe's books. "i taught him," he quavered, "to trust inlove. i said: 'when love comes, that is reality.' i said: 'passion does not blind.no. passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will everreally understand.'" he sighed: "true, everlastingly true,though my day is over, and though there is the result.poor boy! he is so sorry!
he said he knew it was madness when youbrought your cousin in; that whatever you felt you did not mean. yet"--his voice gathered strength: he spokeout to make certain--"miss honeychurch, do you remember italy?"lucy selected a book--a volume of old testament commentaries. holding it up to her eyes, she said: "ihave no wish to discuss italy or any subject connected with your son.""but you do remember it?" "he has misbehaved himself from the first." "i only was told that he loved you lastsunday.
i never could judge behaviour.i--i--suppose he has." feeling a little steadier, she put the bookback and turned round to him. his face was drooping and swollen, but hiseyes, though they were sunken deep, gleamed with a child's courage. "why, he has behaved abominably," she said."i am glad he is sorry. do you know what he did?""not 'abominably,'" was the gentle correction. "he only tried when he should not havetried. you have all you want, miss honeychurch:you are going to marry the man you love.
do not go out of george's life saying he isabominable." "no, of course," said lucy, ashamed at thereference to cecil. "'abominable' is much too strong. i am sorry i used it about your son.i think i will go to church, after all. my mother and my cousin have gone.i shall not be so very late--" "especially as he has gone under," he saidquietly. "what was that?""gone under naturally." he beat his palms together in silence; hishead fell on his chest. "i don't understand.""as his mother did."
"but, mr. emerson--mr. emerson--what are you talking about?""when i wouldn't have george baptized," said he.lucy was frightened. "and she agreed that baptism was nothing,but he caught that fever when he was twelve and she turned round.she thought it a judgment." he shuddered. "oh, horrible, when we had given up thatsort of thing and broken away from her parents. oh, horrible--worst of all--worse thandeath, when you have made a little clearing
in the wilderness, planted your littlegarden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! a judgment!and our boy had typhoid because no clergyman had dropped water on him inchurch! is it possible, miss honeychurch? shall we slip back into the darkness forever?" "i don't know," gasped lucy."i don't understand this sort of thing. i was not meant to understand it." "but mr. eager--he came when i was out, andacted according to his principles.
i don't blame him or any one... but by thetime george was well she was ill. he made her think about sin, and she wentunder thinking about it." it was thus that mr. emerson had murderedhis wife in the sight of god. "oh, how terrible!" said lucy, forgettingher own affairs at last. "he was not baptized," said the old man."i did hold firm." and he looked with unwavering eyes at therows of books, as if--at what cost!--he had won a victory over them."my boy shall go back to the earth untouched." she asked whether young mr. emerson wasill.
"oh--last sunday."he started into the present. "george last sunday--no, not ill: just goneunder. he is never ill.but he is his mother's son. her eyes were his, and she had thatforehead that i think so beautiful, and he will not think it worth while to live.it was always touch and go. he will live; but he will not think itworth while to live. he will never think anything worth while.you remember that church at florence?" lucy did remember, and how she hadsuggested that george should collect postage stamps."after you left florence--horrible.
then we took the house here, and he goesbathing with your brother, and became better.you saw him bathing?" "i am so sorry, but it is no gooddiscussing this affair. i am deeply sorry about it.""then there came something about a novel. i didn't follow it at all; i had to hear somuch, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old.ah, well, one must have failures. george comes down to-morrow, and takes meup to his london rooms. he can't bear to be about here, and i mustbe where he is." "mr. emerson," cried the girl, "don't leaveat least, not on my account.
i am going to greece.don't leave your comfortable house." it was the first time her voice had beenkind and he smiled. "how good every one is!and look at mr. beebe housing me--came over this morning and heard i was going! here i am so comfortable with a fire.""yes, but you won't go back to london. it's absurd.""i must be with george; i must make him care to live, and down here he can't. he says the thought of seeing you and ofhearing about you--i am not justifying him: i am only saying what has happened.""oh, mr. emerson"--she took hold of his
hand--"you mustn't. i've been bother enough to the world bynow. i can't have you moving out of your housewhen you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on my account. you must stop!i am just going to greece." "all the way to greece?"her manner altered. "to greece?" "so you must stop.you won't talk about this business, i know. i can trust you both.""certainly you can.
we either have you in our lives, or leaveyou to the life that you have chosen." "i shouldn't want--""i suppose mr. vyse is very angry with george? no, it was wrong of george to try.we have pushed our beliefs too far. i fancy that we deserve sorrow."she looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. they surrounded the visitors on every side;they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. to lucy who could not see that mr. emersonwas profoundly religious, and differed from
mr. beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment ofpassion--it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on thebounty of a clergyman. more certain than ever that she was tired,he offered her his chair. "no, please sit still. i think i will sit in the carriage.""miss honeychurch, you do sound tired." "not a bit," said lucy, with tremblinglips. "but you are, and there's a look of georgeabout you. and what were you saying about goingabroad?"
she was silent. "greece"--and she saw that he was thinkingthe word over--"greece; but you were to be married this year, i thought.""not till january, it wasn't," said lucy, clasping her hands. would she tell an actual lie when it cameto the point? "i suppose that mr. vyse is going with you.i hope--it isn't because george spoke that you are both going?" "no.""i hope that you will enjoy greece with mr. vyse.""thank you."
at that moment mr. beebe came back fromchurch. his cassock was covered with rain."that's all right," he said kindly. "i counted on you two keeping each othercompany. it's pouring again. the entire congregation, which consists ofyour cousin, your mother, and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till thecarriage fetches it. did powell go round?" "i think so; i'll see.""no--of course, i'll see. how are the miss alans?""very well, thank you."
"did you tell mr. emerson about greece?" "i--i did.""don't you think it very plucky of her, mr. emerson, to undertake the two miss alans?now, miss honeychurch, go back--keep warm. i think three is such a courageous numberto go travelling." and he hurried off to the stables."he is not going," she said hoarsely. "i made a slip. mr. vyse does stop behind in england."somehow it was impossible to cheat this old man. to george, to cecil, she would have liedagain; but he seemed so near the end of
things, so dignified in his approach to thegulf, of which he gave one account, and the books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths that he had traversed,that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalry of sex, but the true chivalry thatall the young may show to all the old-- awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that cecil was not her companionto greece. and she spoke so seriously that the riskbecame a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "you are leaving him? you are leaving the man you love?""i--i had to."
"why, miss honeychurch, why?"terror came over her, and she lied again. she made the long, convincing speech thatshe had made to mr. beebe, and intended to make to the world when she announced thather engagement was no more. he heard her in silence, and then said: "mydear, i am worried about you. it seems to me"--dreamily; she was notalarmed--"that you are in a muddle." she shook her head. "take an old man's word; there's nothingworse than a muddle in all the world. it is easy to face death and fate, and thethings that sound so dreadful. it is on my muddles that i look back withhorror--on the things that i might have
avoided.we can help one another but little. i used to think i could teach young peoplethe whole of life, but i know better now, and all my teaching of george has come downto this: beware of muddle. do you remember in that church, when youpretended to be annoyed with me and weren't?do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? those were muddles--little, but ominous--and i am fearing that you are in one now." she was silent."don't trust me, miss honeychurch. though life is very glorious, it isdifficult."
she was still silent. "'life' wrote a friend of mine, 'is apublic performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you goalong.' i think he puts it well. man has to pick up the use of his functionsas he goes along--especially the function of love."then he burst out excitedly; "that's it; that's what i mean. you love george!"and after his long preamble, the three words burst against lucy like waves fromthe open sea.
"but you do," he went on, not waiting forcontradiction. "you love the boy body and soul, plainly,directly, as he loves you, and no other word expresses it. you won't marry the other man for hissake." "how dare you!" gasped lucy, with theroaring of waters in her ears. "oh, how like a man!--i mean, to supposethat a woman is always thinking about a man.""but you are." she summoned physical disgust. "you're shocked, but i mean to shock you.it's the only hope at times.
i can reach you no other way.you must marry, or your life will be wasted. you have gone too far to retreat.i have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the thingsthat really matter, and for which you marry. i know that, with george, you will findthem, and that you love him. then be his wife.he is already part of you. though you fly to greece, and never see himagain, or forget his very name, george will work in your thoughts till you die.it isn't possible to love and to part.
you will wish that it was. you can transmute love, ignore it, muddleit, but you can never pull it out of you. i know by experience that the poets areright: love is eternal." lucy began to cry with anger, and thoughher anger passed away soon, her tears remained. "i only wish poets would say this, too:love is of the body; not the body, but of the body.ah! the misery that would be saved if we confessed that! ah! for a little directness to liberate thesoul!
your soul, dear lucy! i hate the word now, because of all thecant with which superstition has wrapped it round.but we have souls. i cannot say how they came nor whither theygo, but we have them, and i see you ruining yours.i cannot bear it. it is again the darkness creeping in; it ishell." then he checked himself."what nonsense i have talked--how abstract and remote! and i have made you cry!dear girl, forgive my prosiness; marry my
boy. when i think what life is, and how seldomlove is answered by love--marry him; it is one of the moments for which the world wasmade." she could not understand him; the wordswere indeed remote. yet as he spoke the darkness was withdrawn,veil after veil, and she saw to the bottom of her soul. "then, lucy--""you've frightened me," she moaned. "cecil--mr. beebe--the ticket's bought--everything." she fell sobbing into the chair.
"i'm caught in the tangle.i must suffer and grow old away from him. i cannot break the whole of life for hissake. they trusted me." a carriage drew up at the front-door."give george my love--once only. tell him 'muddle.'"then she arranged her veil, while the tears poured over her cheeks inside. "lucy--""no--they are in the hall--oh, please not, mr. emerson--they trust me--""but why should they, when you have deceived them?"
mr. beebe opened the door, saying: "here'smy mother." "you're not worthy of their trust.""what's that?" said mr. beebe sharply. "i was saying, why should you trust herwhen she deceived you?" "one minute, mother."he came in and shut the door. "i don't follow you, mr. emerson. to whom do you refer?trust whom?" "i mean she has pretended to you that shedid not love george. they have loved one another all along." mr. beebe looked at the sobbing girl.he was very quiet, and his white face, with
its ruddy whiskers, seemed suddenlyinhuman. a long black column, he stood and awaitedher reply. "i shall never marry him," quavered lucy.a look of contempt came over him, and he said, "why not?" "mr. beebe--i have misled you--i havemisled myself--" "oh, rubbish, miss honeychurch!""it is not rubbish!" said the old man hotly. "it's the part of people that you don'tunderstand." mr. beebe laid his hand on the old man'sshoulder pleasantly.
lucy!" called voices from the carriage."mr. beebe, could you help me?" he looked amazed at the request, and saidin a low, stern voice: "i am more grieved than i can possibly express. it is lamentable, lamentable--incredible.""what's wrong with the boy?" fired up the other again."nothing, mr. emerson, except that he no longer interests me. marry george, miss honeychurch.he will do admirably." he walked out and left them.they heard him guiding his mother up- stairs.
"lucy!" the voices called.she turned to mr. emerson in despair. but his face revived her.it was the face of a saint who understood. "now it is all dark. now beauty and passion seem never to haveexisted. i know.but remember the mountains over florence and the view. ah, dear, if i were george, and gave youone kiss, it would make you brave. you have to go cold into a battle thatneeds warmth, out into the muddle that you have made yourself; and your mother and allyour friends will despise you, oh, my
darling, and rightly, if it is ever rightto despise. george still dark, all the tussle and themisery without a word from him. am i justified?" into his own eyes tears came."yes, for we fight for more than love or pleasure; there is truth.truth counts, truth does count." "you kiss me," said the girl. "you kiss me.i will try." he gave her a sense of deities reconciled,a feeling that, in gaining the man she loved, she would gain something for thewhole world.
throughout the squalor of her homewarddrive--she spoke at once--his salutation he had robbed the body of its taint, theworld's taunts of their sting; he had shown her the holiness of direct desire. she "never exactly understood," she wouldsay in after years, "how he managed to strengthen her.it was as if he had made her see the whole of everything at once." chapter xx: the end of the middle ages the miss alans did go to greece, but theywent by themselves. they alone of this little company willdouble malea and plough the waters of the
saronic gulf. they alone will visit athens and delphi,and either shrine of intellectual song-- that upon the acropolis, encircled by blueseas; that under parnassus, where the eagles build and the bronze charioteerdrives undismayed towards infinity. trembling, anxious, cumbered with muchdigestive bread, they did proceed to constantinople, they did go round theworld. the rest of us must be contented with afair, but a less arduous, goal. italiam petimus: we return to the pensionbertolini. george said it was his old room.
"no, it isn't," said lucy; "because it isthe room i had, and i had your father's room.i forget why; charlotte made me, for some reason." he knelt on the tiled floor, and laid hisface in her lap. "george, you baby, get up.""why shouldn't i be a baby?" murmured george. unable to answer this question, she putdown his sock, which she was trying to mend, and gazed out through the window.it was evening and again the spring. "oh, bother charlotte," she saidthoughtfully.
"what can such people be made of?""same stuff as parsons are made of." "nonsense!" "quite right.it is nonsense." "now you get up off the cold floor, oryou'll be starting rheumatism next, and you stop laughing and being so silly." "why shouldn't i laugh?" he asked, pinningher with his elbows, and advancing his face to hers."what's there to cry at? kiss me here." he indicated the spot where a kiss would bewelcome.
he was a boy after all. when it came to the point, it was she whoremembered the past, she into whose soul the iron had entered, she who knew whoseroom this had been last year. it endeared him to her strangely that heshould be sometimes wrong. "any letters?" he asked."just a line from freddy." "now kiss me here; then here." then, threatened again with rheumatism, hestrolled to the window, opened it (as the english will), and leant out. there was the parapet, there the river,there to the left the beginnings of the
hills. the cab-driver, who at once saluted himwith the hiss of a serpent, might be that very phaethon who had set this happiness inmotion twelve months ago. a passion of gratitude--all feelings growto passions in the south--came over the husband, and he blessed the people and thethings who had taken so much trouble about a young fool. he had helped himself, it is true, but howstupidly! all the fighting that mattered had beendone by others--by italy, by his father, by his wife.
"lucy, you come and look at the cypresses;and the church, whatever its name is, still shows.""san miniato. i'll just finish your sock." "signorino, domani faremo uno giro," calledthe cabman, with engaging certainty. george told him that he was mistaken; theyhad no money to throw away on driving. and the people who had not meant to help--the miss lavishes, the cecils, the miss bartletts! ever prone to magnify fate, george countedup the forces that had swept him into this contentment."anything good in freddy's letter?"
"not yet." his own content was absolute, but hers heldbitterness: the honeychurches had not forgiven them; they were disgusted at herpast hypocrisy; she had alienated windy corner, perhaps for ever. "what does he say?""silly boy! he thinks he's being dignified. he knew we should go off in the spring--hehas known it for six months--that if mother wouldn't give her consent we should takethe thing into our own hands. they had fair warning, and now he calls itan elopement.
ridiculous boy--""signorino, domani faremo uno giro--" "but it will all come right in the end. he has to build us both up from thebeginning again. i wish, though, that cecil had not turnedso cynical about women. he has, for the second time, quite altered. why will men have theories about women?i haven't any about men. i wish, too, that mr. beebe--""you may well wish that." "he will never forgive us--i mean, he willnever be interested in us again. i wish that he did not influence them somuch at windy corner.
i wish he hadn't--but if we act the truth,the people who really love us are sure to come back to us in the long run.""perhaps." then he said more gently: "well, i actedthe truth--the only thing i did do--and you came back to me.so possibly you know." he turned back into the room. "nonsense with that sock."he carried her to the window, so that she, too, saw all the view. they sank upon their knees, invisible fromthe road, they hoped, and began to whisper one another's names.
ah! it was worth while; it was the greatjoy that they had expected, and countless little joys of which they had never dreamt.they were silent. "signorino, domani faremo--" "oh, bother that man!"but lucy remembered the vendor of photographs and said, "no, don't be rude tohim." then with a catching of her breath, shemurmured: "mr. eager and charlotte, dreadful frozen charlotte.how cruel she would be to a man like that!" "look at the lights going over the bridge." "but this room reminds me of charlotte.how horrible to grow old in charlotte's
way! to think that evening at the rectory thatshe shouldn't have heard your father was in the house. for she would have stopped me going in, andhe was the only person alive who could have made me see sense.you couldn't have made me. when i am very happy"--she kissed him--"iremember on how little it all hangs. if charlotte had only known, she would havestopped me going in, and i should have gone to silly greece, and become different forever." "but she did know," said george; "she didsee my father, surely.
he said so.""oh, no, she didn't see him. she was upstairs with old mrs. beebe, don'tyou remember, and then went straight to the church.she said so." george was obstinate again. "my father," said he, "saw her, and iprefer his word. he was dozing by the study fire, and heopened his eyes, and there was miss a few minutes before you came in.she was turning to go as he woke up. he didn't speak to her." then they spoke of other things--thedesultory talk of those who have been
fighting to reach one another, and whosereward is to rest quietly in each other's arms. it was long ere they returned to missbartlett, but when they did her behaviour seemed more interesting.george, who disliked any darkness, said: "it's clear that she knew. then, why did she risk the meeting?she knew he was there, and yet she went to church."they tried to piece the thing together. as they talked, an incredible solution cameinto lucy's mind. she rejected it, and said: "how likecharlotte to undo her work by a feeble
muddle at the last moment." but something in the dying evening, in theroar of the river, in their very embrace warned them that her words fell short oflife, and george whispered: "or did she mean it?" "mean what?""signorino, domani faremo uno giro--" lucy bent forward and said with gentleness:"lascia, prego, lascia. siamo sposati." "scusi tanto, signora," he replied in tonesas gentle and whipped up his horse. "buona sera--e grazie.""niente."
the cabman drove away singing. "mean what, george?"he whispered: "is it this? is this possible?i'll put a marvel to you. that your cousin has always hoped. that from the very first moment we met, shehoped, far down in her mind, that we should be like this--of course, very far down.that she fought us on the surface, and yet she hoped. i can't explain her any other way.can you? look how she kept me alive in you all thesummer; how she gave you no peace; how
month after month she became more eccentricand unreliable. the sight of us haunted her--or shecouldn't have described us as she did to her friend.there are details--it burnt. i read the book afterwards. she is not frozen, lucy, she is notwithered up all through. she tore us apart twice, but in the rectorythat evening she was given one more chance to make us happy. we can never make friends with her or thankher. but i do believe that, far down in herheart, far below all speech and behaviour,
she is glad." "it is impossible," murmured lucy, andthen, remembering the experiences of her own heart, she said: "no--it is justpossible." youth enwrapped them; the song of phaethonannounced passion requited, love attained. but they were conscious of a love moremysterious than this. the song died away; they heard the river,bearing down the snows of winter into the mediterranean.
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