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The Project Gutenberg Etext A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster
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Title:  A Room With A View

Author:  E. M. Forster

May, 2001  [Etext #2641]


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A ROOM WITH A VIEW

by E. M. Forster




CONTENTS:

PART ONE

I.     The Bertolini

II.    In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

III.   Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

IV.    Fourth Chapter

V.     Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

VI.    The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert Eager,
       Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish,
       Miss Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive
       Out in Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them

VII.   They Return

PART TWO

VIII.  Medieval

IX.    Lucy as a Work of Art

X.     Cecil as a Humourist

XI.    In Mrs. Vyse's Well-Appointed Flat

XII.   Twelfth Chapter

XIII.  How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome

XIV.   How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely

XV.    The Disaster Within

XVI.   Lying to George

XVII.  Lying to Cecil

XVIII. Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and the Servants

XIX.   Lying to Mr. Emerson

XX.    The End of the Middle Ages



Chapter I: The Bertolini

The Signora had no business to do it," said Miss Bartlett, "no
business at all. She promised us south rooms with a view close
together, instead of which here are north rooms, looking into a
courtyard, and a long way apart. Oh, Lucy!"

"And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further
saddened by the Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be
London." She looked at the two rows of English people who were
sitting at the table; at the row of white bottles of water and
red bottles of wine that ran between the English people; at the
portraits of the late Queen and the late Poet Laureate that hung
behind the English people, heavily framed; at the notice of the
English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon.), that was the
only other decoration of the wall. "Charlotte, don't you feel,
too, that we might be in London? I can hardly believe that all
kinds of other things are just outside. I suppose it is one's
being so tired."

"This meat has surely been used for soup," said Miss Bartlett,
laying down her fork.

"I want so to see the Arno. The rooms the Signora promised us in
her letter would have looked over the Arno. The Signora had no
business to do it at all. Oh, it is a shame!"

"Any nook does for me," Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does
seem hard that you shouldn't have a view."

Lucy felt that she had been selfish. "Charlotte, you mustn't
spoil me: of course, you must look over the Arno, too. I meant
that. The first vacant room in the front--"

------"You must have it," said Miss Bartlett, part of whose
travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece of
generosity to which she made many a tactful allusion.

"No, no. You must have it."

"I insist on it. Your mother would never forgive me, Lucy."

"She would never forgive me."

The ladies' voices grew animated, and--if the sad truth be
owned--a little peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of
unselfishness they wrangled. Some of their neighbours
interchanged glances, and one of them--one of the ill-bred people
whom one does meet abroad--leant forward over the table and
actually intruded into their argument. He said:

"I have a view, I have a view."

Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people
looked them over for a day or two before speaking, and often did
not find out that they would "do" till they had gone. She knew
that the intruder was ill-bred, even before she glanced at him.
He was an old man, of heavy build, with a fair, shaven face and
large eyes. There was something childish in those eyes, though it
was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was
Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for her glance
passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He was
probably trying to become acquainted with them before they got
into the swim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to
her, and then said: "A view? Oh, a view! How delightful a view
is!"

"This is my son," said the old man; "his name's George. He has a
view too."

"Ah," said Miss Bartlett, repressing Lucy, who was about to
speak.

"What I mean," he continued, "is that you can have our rooms, and
we'll have yours. We'll change."

The better class of tourist was shocked at this, and sympathized
with the new-comers. Miss Bartlett, in reply, opened her mouth as
little as possible, and said "Thank you very much indeed; that is
out of the question."

"Why?" said the old man, with both fists on the table.

"Because it is quite out of the question, thank you."

"You see, we don't like to take--" began Lucy. Her cousin again
repressed her.

"But why?" he persisted. "Women like looking at a view; men
don't." And he thumped with his fists like a naughty child,
and turned to his son, saying, "George, persuade them!"

"It's so obvious they should have the rooms," said the son.
"There's nothing else to say."

He did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was
perplexed and sorrowful. Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw
that they were in for what is known as "quite a scene," and she
had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke
the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms
and views, but with--well, with something quite different, whose
existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked
Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What
possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.

Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation,
was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to
snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She
looked around as much as to say, "Are you all like this?" And two
little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with
shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly
indicating "We are not; we are genteel."

"Eat your dinner, dear," she said to Lucy, and began to toy again
with the meat that she had once censured.

Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite.

"Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. To-morrow we
will make a change."

Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it.
The curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a
clergyman, stout but attractive, who hurried forward to take his
place at the table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness.
Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet,
exclaiming: "Oh, oh! Why, it's Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly
lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, however bad the rooms
are. Oh!"

Miss Bartlett said, with more restraint:

"How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten
us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge
Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter's that very cold
Easter."

The clergyman, who had the air of one on a holiday, did not
remember the ladies quite as clearly as they remembered him. But
he came forward pleasantly enough and accepted the chair into
which he was beckoned by Lucy.

"I AM so glad to see you," said the girl, who was in a state of
spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter
if her cousin had permitted it. "Just fancy how small the world
is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny."

"Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street," said
Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap, "and she happened to tell me
in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the
living--"

"Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn't know that I
knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I
said: 'Mr. Beebe is--'"

"Quite right," said the clergyman. "I move into the Rectory at
Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a
charming neighbourhood."

"Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner." Mr.
Beebe bowed.

"There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it's
not often we get him to ch-- The church is rather far
off, I mean."

"Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner."

"I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it."

He preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather
than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He
asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed
at some length that she had never been there before. It is
delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field.
"Don't neglect the country round," his advice concluded. "The
first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by
Settignano, or something of that sort."

"No!" cried a voice from the top of the table. "Mr. Beebe, you
are wrong. The first fine afternoon your ladies must go to
Prato."

"That lady looks so clever," whispered Miss Bartlett to her
cousin. "We are in luck."

And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them.
People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the
electric trams, how to get rid of the beggars, how much to give
for a vellum blotter, how much the place would grow upon them.
The Pension Bertolini had decided, almost enthusiastically, that
they would do. Whichever way they looked, kind ladies smiled and
shouted at them. And above all rose the voice of the clever lady,
crying: "Prato! They must go to Prato. That place is too sweetly
squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels
of respectability, as you know."

The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then
returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did
not do. Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish
they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be
left in the cold; and when she rose to go, she turned back and
gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.

The father did not see it; the son acknowledged it, not by
another bow, but by raising his eyebrows and smiling; he seemed
to be smiling across something.

She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared
through the curtains--curtains which smote one in the face, and
seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the
unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and
supported by 'Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her
daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the
Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South. And even
more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the
solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really
Italy?

Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed arm-chair,
which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was
talking to Mr. Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head
drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she
were demolishing some invisible obstacle. "We are most grateful
to you," she was saying. "The first evening means so much. When
you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart d'heure."

He expressed his regret.

"Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat
opposite us at dinner?"

"Emerson."

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"We are friendly--as one is in pensions."

"Then I will say no more."

He pressed her very slightly, and she said more.

"I am, as it were," she concluded, "the chaperon of my young
cousin, Lucy, and it would be a serious thing if I put her under
an obligation to people of whom we know nothing. His manner was
somewhat unfortunate. I hope I acted for the best."

"You acted very naturally," said he. He seemed thoughtful, and
after a few moments added: "All the same, I don't think much harm
would have come of accepting."

"No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation."

"He is rather a peculiar man." Again he hesitated, and then said
gently: "I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance,
nor expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one
--of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not
value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of
putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite.
It is so difficult--at least, I find it difficult--to understand
people who speak the truth."

Lucy was pleased, and said: "I was hoping that he was nice; I do
so always hope that people will be nice."

"I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost
every point of any importance, and so, I expect--I may say I
hope--you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with
rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally
put people's backs up. He has no tact and no manners--I don't
mean by that that he has bad manners--and he will not keep his
opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our
depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of
it."

"Am I to conclude," said Miss Bartlett, "that he is a Socialist?"

Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight
twitching of the lips.

"And presumably he has brought up his son to be a Socialist,
too?"

"I hardly know George, for he hasn't learnt to talk yet. He
seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he
has all his father's mannerisms, and it is quite possible that
he, too, may be a Socialist."

"Oh, you relieve me," said Miss Bartlett. "So you think I ought
to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded
and suspicious?"

"Not at all," he answered; "I never suggested that."

"But ought I not to apologize, at all events, for my apparent
rudeness?"

He replied, with some irritation, that it would be quite
unnecessary, and got up from his seat to go to the
smoking-room.

"Was I a bore?" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had
disappeared. "Why didn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people,
I'm sure. I do hope I haven't monopolized him. I hoped you would
have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time."

"He is nice," exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to
see good in every one. No one would take him for a clergyman."

"My dear Lucia--"

"Well, you know what I mean. And you know how clergymen generally
laugh; Mr. Beebe laughs just like an ordinary man."

"Funny girl! How you do remind me of your mother. I wonder if she
will approve of Mr. Beebe."

"I'm sure she will; and so will Freddy."

"I think every one at Windy Corner will approve; it is the
fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all
hopelessly behind the times."

"Yes," said Lucy despondently.

There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the
disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the
fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at
Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it,
but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied
disapproving of any one, and added "I am afraid you are finding
me a very depressing companion."

And the girl again thought: "I must have been selfish or unkind;
I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being
poor."

Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had
been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might
be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted,
she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been
to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the
improvement in her sister's health, the necessity of closing the
bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the
water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably,
and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high
discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding
tempestuously at the other end of the room. It was a real
catastrophe, not a mere episode, that evening of hers at Venice,
when she had found in her bedroom something that is one worse
than a flea, though one better than something else.

"But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so
English."

"Yet our rooms smell," said poor Lucy. "We dread going to bed."

"Ah, then you look into the court." She sighed. "If only Mr.
Emerson was more tactful! We were so sorry for you at dinner."

"I think he was meaning to be kind."

"Undoubtedly he was," said Miss Bartlett.

"Mr. Beebe has just been scolding me for my suspicious nature. Of
course, I was holding back on my cousin's account."

"Of course," said the little old lady; and they murmured that one
could not be too careful with a young girl.

Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great
fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she
had not noticed it.

"About old Mr. Emerson--I hardly know. No, he is not tactful;
yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things
which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time--beautiful?"

"Beautiful?" said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. "Are not
beauty and delicacy the same?"

"So one would have thought," said the other helplessly. "But
things are so difficult, I sometimes think."

She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared,
looking extremely pleasant.

"Miss Bartlett," he cried, "it's all right about the rooms. I'm
so glad. Mr. Emerson was talking about it in the smoking-room,
and knowing what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again.
He has let me come and ask you. He would be so pleased."

"Oh, Charlotte," cried Lucy to her cousin, "we must have the
rooms now. The old man is just as nice and kind as he can be."

Miss Bartlett was silent.

"I fear," said Mr. Beebe, after a pause, "that I have been
officious. I must apologize for my interference."

Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss
Bartlett reply: "My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in
comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you
doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your
kindness. If you wish me to turn these gentlemen out of their
rooms, I will do it. Would you then, Mr. Beebe, kindly tell Mr.
Emerson that I accept his kind offer, and then conduct him to me,
in order that I may thank him personally?"

She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the
drawing-room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The
clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, bowed, and departed
with her message.

"Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the
acceptance to come from you. Grant me that, at all events."

Mr. Beebe was back, saying rather nervously:

"Mr. Emerson is engaged, but here is his son instead."

The young man gazed down on the three ladies, who felt seated on
the floor, so low were their chairs.

"My father," he said, "is in his bath, so you cannot thank him
personally. But any message given by you to me will be given by
me to him as soon as he comes out."

Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities
came forth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable
triumph to the delight of Mr. Beebe and to the secret delight of
Lucy.

"Poor young man!" said Miss Bartlett, as soon as he had gone.

"How angry he is with his father about the rooms! It is all he
can do to keep polite."

"In half an hour or so your rooms will be ready," said Mr. Beebe.
Then looking rather thoughtfully at the two cousins, he retired
to his own rooms, to write up his philosophic diary.

"Oh, dear!" breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all
the winds of heaven had entered the apartment. "Gentlemen
sometimes do not realize--" Her voice faded away, but Miss
Bartlett seemed to understand and a conversation developed, in
which gentlemen who did not thoroughly realize played a principal
part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reduced to literature.
Taking up Baedeker's Handbook to Northern Italy, she committed to
memory the most important dates of Florentine History. For she
was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hour
crept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a
sigh, and said:

"I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I will
superintend the move."

"How you do do everything," said Lucy.

"Naturally, dear. It is my affair."

"But I would like to help you."

"No, dear."

Charlotte's energy! And her unselfishness! She had been thus all
her life, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing
herself. So Lucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet--there was a
rebellious spirit in her which wondered whether the acceptance
might not have been less delicate and more beautiful. At all
events, she entered her own room without any feeling of joy.

"I want to explain," said Miss Bartlett, "why it is that I have
taken the largest room. Naturally, of course, I should have given
it to you; but I happen to know that it belongs to the young man,
and I was sure your mother would not like it."

Lucy was bewildered.

"If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be
under an obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of
the world, in my small way, and I know where things lead to. How-
ever, Mr. Beebe is a guarantee of a sort that they will not
presume on this."

"Mother wouldn't mind I'm sure," said Lucy, but again had the
sense of larger and unsuspected issues.

Miss Bartlett only sighed, and enveloped her in a protecting
embrace as she wished her good-night. It gave Lucy the sensation
of a fog, and when she reached her own room she opened the window
and breathed the clean night air, thinking of the kind old man
who had enabled her to see the lights dancing in the Arno and the
cypresses of San Miniato, and the foot-hills of the Apennines,
black against the rising moon.

Miss Bartlett, in her room, fastened the window-shutters and
locked the door, and then made a tour of the apartment to see
where the cupboards led, and whether there were any oubliettes or
secret entrances. It was then that she saw, pinned up over the
washstand, a sheet of paper on which was scrawled an enormous
note of interrogation. Nothing more.

"What does it mean?" she thought, and she examined it carefully
by the light of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually
became menacing, obnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized
with an impulse to destroy it, but fortunately remembered that
she had no right to do so, since it must be the property of young
Mr. Emerson. So she unpinned it carefully, and put it between two
pieces of blotting-paper to keep it clean for him. Then she
completed her inspection of the room, sighed heavily according to
her habit, and went to bed.



Chapter II: In Santa Croce with No Baedeker

It was pleasant to wake up in Florence, to open the eyes upon a
bright bare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean
though they are not; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins
and blue amorini sport in a forest of yellow violins and
bassoons. It was pleasant, too, to fling wide the windows,
pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into
sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marble churches
opposite, and close below, the Arno, gurgling against the
embankment of the road.

Over the river men were at work with spades and sieves on the
sandy foreshore, and on the river was a boat, also diligently
employed for some mysterious end. An electric tram came rushing
underneath the window. No one was inside it, except one tourist;
but its platforms were overflowing with Italians, who preferred
to stand. Children tried to hang on behind, and the conductor,
with no malice, spat in their faces to make them let go. Then
soldiers appeared--good-looking, undersized men--wearing each a
knapsack covered with mangy fur, and a great-coat which had been
cut for some larger soldier. Beside them walked officers, looking
foolish and fierce, and before them went little boys, turning
somersaults in time with the band. The tramcar became entangled
in their ranks, and moved on painfully, like a caterpillar in a
swarm of ants. One of the little boys fell down, and some white
bullocks came out of an archway. Indeed, if it had not been for
the good advice of an old man who was selling button-hooks, the
road might never have got clear.

Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip
away, and the traveller who has gone to Italy to study the
tactile values of Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may
return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women
who live under it. So it was as well that Miss Bartlett should
tap and come in, and having commented on Lucy's leaving the door
unlocked, and on her leaning out of the window before she was
fully dressed, should urge her to hasten herself, or the best of
the day would be gone. By the time Lucy was ready her cousin had
done her breakfast, and was listening to the clever lady among
the crumbs.

A conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss
Bartlett was, after all, a wee bit tired, and thought they had
better spend the morning settling in; unless Lucy would at all
like to go out? Lucy would rather like to go out, as it was her
first day in Florence, but, of course, she could go alone. Miss
Bartlett could not allow this. Of course she would accompany Lucy
everywhere. Oh, certainly not; Lucy would stop with her cousin.
Oh, no! that would never do. Oh, yes!

At this point the clever lady broke in.

"If it is Mrs. Grundy who is troubling you, I do assure you that
you can neglect the good person. Being English, Miss Honeychurch
will be perfectly safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of
mine, Contessa Baroncelli, has two daughters, and when she cannot
send a maid to school with them, she lets them go in sailor-hats
instead. Every one takes them for English, you see, especially if
their hair is strained tightly behind."

Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety of Contessa
Baroncelli's daughters. She was determined to take Lucy herself,
her head not being so very bad. The clever lady then said that
she was going to spend a long morning in Santa Croce, and if Lucy
would come too, she would be delighted.

"I will take you by a dear dirty back way, Miss Honeychurch, and
if you bring me luck, we shall have an adventure."

Lucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the
Baedeker, to see where Santa Croce was.

"Tut, tut! Miss Lucy! I hope we shall soon emancipate you from
Baedeker. He does but touch the surface of things. As to the true
Italy--he does not even dream of it. The true Italy is only to be
found by patient observation."

This sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her
breakfast, and started with her new friend in high spirits. Italy
was coming at last. The Cockney Signora and her works had
vanished like a bad dream.

Miss Lavish--for that was the clever lady's name--turned to the
right along the sunny Lung' Arno. How delightfully warm! But a
wind down the side streets cut like a knife, didn't it? Ponte
alle Grazie--particularly interesting, mentioned by Dante. San
Miniato--beautiful as well as interesting; the crucifix that
kissed a murderer--Miss Honeychurch would remember the story. The
men on the river were fishing. (Untrue; but then, so is most
information.) Then Miss Lavish darted under the archway of the
white bullocks, and she stopped, and she cried:

"A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you,
has its own smell."

"Is it a very nice smell?" said Lucy, who had inherited from her
mother a distaste to dirt.

"One doesn't come to Italy for niceness," was the retort; "one
comes for life. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!" bowing right and
left. "Look at that adorable wine-cart! How the driver stares at
us, dear, simple soul!"

So Miss Lavish proceeded through the streets of the city of
Florence, short, fidgety, and playful as a kitten, though without
a kitten's grace. It was a treat for the girl to be with any one
so clever and so cheerful; and a blue military cloak, such as an
Italian officer wears, only increased the sense of festivity.

"Buon giorno! Take the word of an old woman, Miss Lucy: you will
never repent of a little civility to your inferiors. That is the
true democracy. Though I am a real Radical as well. There, now
you're shocked."

"Indeed, I'm not!" exclaimed Lucy. "We are Radicals, too, out and
out. My father always voted for Mr. Gladstone, until he was so
dreadful about Ireland."

"I see, I see. And now you have gone over to the enemy."

"Oh, please--! If my father was alive, I am sure he would vote
Radical again now that Ireland is all right. And as it is, the
glass over our front door was broken last election, and Freddy is
sure it was the Tories; but mother says nonsense, a tramp."

"Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?"

"No--in the Surrey hills. About five miles from Dorking, looking
over the Weald."

Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot.

"What a delightful part; I know it so well. It is full of the
very nicest people. Do you know Sir Harry Otway--a Radical if
ever there was?"

"Very well indeed."

"And old Mrs. Butterworth the philanthropist?" "Why, she rents a
field of us! How funny!"

Miss Lavish looked at the narrow ribbon of sky, and murmured:
"Oh, you have property in Surrey?"

"Hardly any," said Lucy, fearful of being thought a snob. "Only
thirty acres--just the garden, all downhill, and some fields."

Miss Lavish was not disgusted, and said it was just the size of
her aunt's Suffolk estate. Italy receded. They tried to remember
the last name of Lady Louisa some one, who had taken a house near
Summer Street the other year, but she had not liked it, which was
odd of her. And just as Miss Lavish had got the name, she broke
off and exclaimed:

"Bless us! Bless us and save us! We've lost the way."

Certainly they had seemed a long time in reaching Santa Croce,
the tower of which had been plainly visible from the landing
window. But Miss Lavish had said so much about knowing her
Florence by heart, that Lucy had followed her with no misgivings.

"Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we
have taken a wrong turning. How those horrid Conservatives would
jeer at us! What are we to do? Two lone females in an unknown
town. Now, this is what I call an adventure."

Lucy, who wanted to see Santa Croce, suggested, as a possible
solution, that they should ask the way there.

"Oh, but that is the word of a craven! And no, you are not, not,
NOT to look at your Baedeker. Give it to me; I shan't let you
carry it. We will simply drift."

Accordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown
streets, neither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern
quarter of the city abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the
discontent of Lady Louisa, and became discontented herself. For
one ravishing moment Italy appeared. She stood in the Square of
the Annunziata and saw in the living terra-cotta those divine
babies whom no cheap reproduction can ever stale. There they
stood, with their shining limbs bursting from the garments of
charity, and their strong white arms extended against circlets of
heaven. Lucy thought she had never seen anything more beautiful;
but Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged her forward,
declaring that they were out of their path now by at least a
mile.

The hour was approaching at which the continental breakfast
begins, or rather ceases, to tell, and the ladies bought some hot
chestnut paste out of a little shop, because it looked so
typical. It tasted partly of the paper in which it was wrapped,
partly of hair oil, partly of the great unknown. But it gave them
strength to drift into another Piazza, large and dusty, on the
farther side of which rose a black-and-white facade of surpassing
ugliness. Miss Lavish spoke to it dramatically. It was Santa
Croce. The adventure was over.

"Stop a minute; let those two people go on, or I shall have to
speak to them. I do detest conventional intercourse. Nasty! they
are going into the church, too. Oh, the Britisher abroad!"

"We sat opposite them at dinner last night. They have given us
their rooms. They were so very kind."

"Look at their figures!" laughed Miss Lavish. "They walk through
my Italy like a pair of cows. It's very naughty of me, but I
would like to set an examination paper at Dover, and turn back
every tourist who couldn't pass it."

"What would you ask us?"

Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy's arm, as if to
suggest that she, at all events, would get full marks. In this
exalted mood they reached the steps of the great church, and were
about to enter it when Miss Lavish stopped, squeaked, flung up
her arms, and cried:

"There goes my local-colour box! I must have a word with him!"

And in a moment she was away over the Piazza, her military cloak
flapping in the wind; nor did she slacken speed till she caught
up an old man with white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon
the arm.

Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then she began to get tired.
The beggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she
remembered that a young girl ought not to loiter in public
places. She descended slowly into the Piazza with the intention
of rejoining Miss Lavish, who was really almost too original. But
at that moment Miss Lavish and her local-colour box moved also,
and disappeared down a side street, both gesticulating largely.
Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes partly because Miss
Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken her Baedeker.
How could she find her way home? How could she find her way about
in Santa Croce? Her first morning was ruined, and she might never
be in Florence again. A few minutes ago she had been all high
spirits, talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading
herself that she was full of originality. Now she entered the
church depressed and humiliated, not even able to remember
whether it was built by the Franciscans or the Dominicans.
Of course, it must be a wonderful building. But how like a barn!
And how very cold! Of course, it contained frescoes by Giotto, in
the presence of whose tactile values she was capable of feeling
what was proper. But who was to tell her which they were? She
walked about disdainfully, unwilling to be enthusiastic over
monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There was no one even
to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that paved the
nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the
one that had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin.

Then the pernicious charm of Italy worked on her, and, instead of
acquiring information, she began to be happy. She puzzled out the
Italian notices--the notices that forbade people to introduce
dogs into the church--the notice that prayed people, in the
interest of health and out of respect to the sacred edifice in
which they found themselves, not to spit. She watched the
tourists; their noses were as red as their Baedekers, so cold was
Santa Croce. She beheld the horrible fate that overtook three
Papists--two he-babies and a she-baby--who began their career by
sousing each other with the Holy Water, and then proceeded to the
Machiavelli memorial, dripping but hallowed. Advancing towards it
very slowly and from immense distances, they touched the stone
with their fingers, with their handkerchiefs, with their heads,
and then retreated. What could this mean? They did it again and
again. Then Lucy realized that they had mistaken Machiavelli for
some saint, hoping to acquire virtue. Punishment followed
quickly. The smallest he-baby stumbled over one of the sepulchral
slabs so much admired by Mr. Ruskin, and entangled his feet in
the features of a recumbent bishop. Protestant as she was, Lucy
darted forward. She was too late. He fell heavily upon the
prelate's upturned toes.

"Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had
darted forward also. "Hard in life, hard in death. Go out into
the sunshine, little boy, and kiss your hand to the sun, for that
is where you ought to be. Intolerable bishop!"

The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these
dreadful people who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his
bruises, and told him not to be superstitious.

"Look at him!" said Mr. Emerson to Lucy. "Here's a mess: a baby
hurt, cold, and frightened! But what else can you expect from a
church?"

The child's legs had become as melting wax. Each time that old
Mr. Emerson and Lucy set it erect it collapsed with a roar.
Fortunately an Italian lady, who ought to have been saying her
prayers, came to the rescue. By some mysterious virtue, which
mothers alone possess, she stiffened the little boy's back-bone
and imparted strength to his knees. He stood. Still gibbering
with agitation, he walked away.

"You are a clever woman," said Mr. Emerson. "You have done more
than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I
do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There
is no scheme of the universe--"

He paused for a phrase.

"Niente," said the Italian lady, and returned to her prayers.

"I'm not sure she understands English," suggested Lucy.

In her chastened mood she no longer despised the Emersons. She
was determined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than
delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by
some gracious reference to the pleasant rooms.

"That woman understands everything," was Mr. Emerson's reply.
"But what are you doing here? Are you doing the church? Are you
through with the church?"

"No," cried Lucy, remembering her grievance. "I came here with
Miss Lavish, who was to explain everything; and just by the door
--it is too bad!--she simply ran away, and after waiting quite a
time, I had to come in by myself."

"Why shouldn't you?" said Mr. Emerson.

"Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son,
addressing the young lady for the first time.

"But Miss Lavish has even taken away Baedeker."

"Baedeker?" said Mr. Emerson. "I'm glad it's THAT you minded.
It's worth minding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth
minding."

Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and
was not sure whither it would lead her.

"If you've no Baedeker," said the son, "you'd better join us."
Was this where the idea would lead? She took refuge in her
dignity.

"Thank you very much, but I could not think of that. I hope you
do not suppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to
help with the child, and to thank you for so kindly giving us
your rooms last night. I hope that you have not been put to any
great inconvenience."

"My dear," said the old man gently, "I think that you are
repeating what you have heard older people say. You are
pretending to be touchy; but you are not really. Stop being so
tiresome, and tell me instead what part of the church you want to
see. To take you to it will be a real pleasure."

Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have been
furious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as
it is difficult at other times to keep it. Lucy could not get
cross. Mr. Emerson was an old man, and surely a girl might humour
him. On the other hand, his son was a young man, and she felt
that a girl ought to be offended with him, or at all events be
offended before him. It was at him that she gazed before
replying.

"I am not touchy, I hope. It is the Giottos that I want to see,
if you will kindly tell me which they are."

The son nodded. With a look of sombre satisfaction, he led the
way to the Peruzzi Chapel. There was a hint of the teacher about
him. She felt like a child in school who had answered a question
rightly.

The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and
out of them rose the voice of a lecturer, directing them how to
worship Giotto, not by tactful valuations, but by the standards
of the spirit.

"Remember," he was saying, "the facts about this church of Santa
Croce; how it was built by faith in the full fervour of
medievalism, before any taint of the Renaissance had appeared.
Observe how Giotto in these frescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by
restoration--is untroubled by the snares of anatomy and
perspective. Could anything be more majestic, more pathetic,
beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge and
technical cleverness against a man who truly feels!"

"No!" exclaimed Mr. Emerson, in much too loud a voice for church.
"Remember nothing of the sort! Built by faith indeed! That simply
means the workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the frescoes,
I see no truth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must
weigh as much as I do, and he is shooting into the sky like an
air balloon."

He was referring to the fresco of the "Ascension of St. John."
Inside, the lecturer's voice faltered, as well it might. The
audience shifted uneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she
ought not to be with these men; but they had cast a spell over
her. They were so serious and so strange that she could not
remember how to behave.

"Now, did this happen, or didn't it? Yes or no?"

George replied:

"It happened like this, if it happened at all. I would rather go
up to heaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got
there I should like my friends to lean out of it, just as they do
here."

"You will never go up," said his father. "You and I, dear boy,
will lie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will
disappear as surely as our work survives."

"Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint,
whoever he is, going up. It did happen like that, if it happened
at all."

"Pardon me," said a frigid voice. "The chapel is somewhat small
for two parties. We will incommode you no longer."

The lecturer was a clergyman, and his audience must be also his
flock, for they held prayer-books as well as guide-books in their
hands. They filed out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were
the two little old ladies of the Pension Bertolini--Miss Teresa
and Miss Catherine Alan.

"Stop!" cried Mr. Emerson. "There's plenty of room for us all.
Stop!"

The procession disappeared without a word.

Soon the lecturer could be heard in the next chapel, describing
the life of St. Francis.

"George, I do believe that clergyman is the Brixton curate."

George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he
is. I don't remember."

"Then I had better speak to him and remind him who I am. It's
that Mr. Eager. Why did he go? Did we talk too loud? How
vexatious. I shall go and say we are sorry. Hadn't I better? Then
perhaps he will come back."

"He will not come back," said George.

But Mr. Emerson, contrite and unhappy, hurried away to apologize
to the Rev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a
lunette, could hear the lecture again interrupted, the anxious,
aggressive voice of the old man, the curt, injured replies of his
opponent. The son, who took every little contretemps as if it
were a tragedy, was listening also.

"My father has that effect on nearly every one," he informed her.
"He will try to be kind."

"I hope we all try," said she, smiling nervously.

"Because we think it improves our characters. But he is kind to
people because he loves them; and they find him out, and are
offended, or frightened."

"How silly of them!" said Lucy, though in her heart she
sympathized; "I think that a kind action done tactfully--"

"Tact!"

He threw up his head in disdain. Apparently she had given the
wrong answer. She watched the singular creature pace up and down
the chapel. For a young man his face was rugged, and--until the
shadows fell upon it--hard. Enshadowed, it sprang into
tenderness. She saw him once again at Rome, on the ceiling of the
Sistine Chapel, carrying a burden of acorns. Healthy and
muscular, he yet gave her the feeling of greyness, of tragedy
that might only find solution in the night. The feeling soon
passed; it was unlike her to have entertained anything so subtle.
Born of silence and of unknown emotion, it passed when Mr.
Emerson returned, and she could re-enter the world of rapid talk,
which was alone familiar to her.

"Were you snubbed?" asked his son tranquilly.

"But we have spoilt the pleasure of I don't know how many people.
They won't come back."

"...full of innate sympathy...quickness to perceive good in
others...vision of the brotherhood of man..." Scraps of the
lecture on St. Francis came floating round the partition wall.

"Don't let us spoil yours," he continued to Lucy. "Have you
looked at those saints?"

"Yes," said Lucy. "They are lovely. Do you know which is the
tombstone that is praised in Ruskin?"

He did not know, and suggested that they should try to guess it.
George, rather to her relief, refused to move, and she and the
old man wandered not unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which,
though it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things
inside its walls. There were also beggars to avoid. and guides to
dodge round the pillars, and an old lady with her dog, and here
and there a priest modestly edging to his Mass through the groups
of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only half interested. He watched
the lecturer, whose success he believed he had impaired, and then
he anxiously watched his son.

"Why will he look at that fresco?" he said uneasily. "I saw
nothing in it."

"I like Giotto," she replied. "It is so wonderful what they say
about his tactile values. Though I like things like the Della
Robbia babies better."

"So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints. And my baby's
worth the whole of Paradise, and as far as I can see he lives in
Hell."

Lucy again felt that this did not do.

"In Hell," he repeated. "He's unhappy."

"Oh, dear!" said Lucy.

"How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is
one to give him? And think how he has been brought up--free from
all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one
another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I
thought he was bound to grow up happy."

She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish
old man, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that
her mother might not like her talking to that kind of person, and
that Charlotte would object most strongly.

"What are we to do with him?" he asked. "He comes out for his
holiday to Italy, and behaves--like that; like the little child
who ought to have been playing, and who hurt himself upon the
tombstone. Eh? What did you say?"

Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:

"Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in
love with my boy, but I do think you might try and understand
him. You are nearer his age, and if you let yourself go I am sure
you are sensible. You might help me. He has known so few women,
and you have the time. You stop here several weeks, I suppose?
But let yourself go. You are inclined to get muddled, if I may
judge from last night. Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths
those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in
the sunlight and know the meaning of them. By understanding
George you may learn to understand yourself. It will be good for
both of you."

To this extraordinary speech Lucy found no answer.

"I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is."

"And what is it?" asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing
tale.

"The old trouble; things won't fit."

"What things?"

"The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't."

"Oh, Mr. Emerson, whatever do you mean?"

In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was
quoting poetry, he said:

  "'From far, from eve and morning,
   And yon twelve-winded sky,
   The stuff of life to knit me
   Blew hither: here am I'

George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We
know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to
them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the
eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us
rather love one another, and work and rejoice. I don't believe in
this world sorrow."

Miss Honeychurch assented.

"Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the
side of the everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if
you like, but a Yes."

Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man
melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a
tangle or a wind, or a Yes, or something!

"I'm very sorry," she cried. "You'll think me unfeeling, but--but
--" Then she became matronly. "Oh, but your son wants employment.
Has he no particular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can
generally forget them at the piano; and collecting stamps did no
end of good for my brother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to
try the Alps or the Lakes."

The old man's face saddened, and he touched her gently with his
hand. This did not alarm her; she thought that her advice had
impressed him and that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no
longer alarmed her at all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but
quite silly. Her feelings were as inflated spiritually as they
had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The
dear George, now striding towards them over the tombstones,
seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, his face in the
shadow. He said:

"Miss Bartlett."

"Oh, good gracious me!" said Lucy, suddenly collapsing and again
seeing the whole of life in a new perspective. "Where? Where?"

"In the nave."

"I see. Those gossiping little Miss Alans must have--" She
checked herself.

"Poor girl!" exploded Mr. Emerson. "Poor girl!"

She could not let this pass, for it was just what she was feeling
herself.

"Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I
think myself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly
happy, and having a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning
over me. There's enough sorrow in the world, isn't there, without
trying to invent it. Good-bye. Thank you both so much for all
your kindness. Ah, yes! there does come my cousin. A delightful
morning! Santa Croce is a wonderful church."

She joined her cousin.



Chapter III: Music, Violets, and the Letter "S"

It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic,
entered a more solid world when she opened the piano. She was
then no longer either deferential or patronizing; no longer
either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the
kingdom of this world; it will accept those whom breeding and
intellect and culture have alike rejected. The commonplace person
begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean without effort,
whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, and thinking
how we could worship him and love him, would he but translate his
visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions.
Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom.
Lucy had done so never.

She was no dazzling executante; her runs were not at all like
strings of pearls, and she struck no more right notes than was
suitable for one of her age and situation. Nor was she the
passionate young lady, who performs so tragically on a summer's
evening with the window open. Passion was there, but it could not
be easily labelled; it slipped between love and hatred and
jealousy, and all the furniture of the pictorial style. And she
was tragical only in the sense that she was great, for she loved
to play on the side of Victory. Victory of what and over what--
that is more than the words of daily life can tell us. But that
some sonatas of Beethoven are written tragic no one can gainsay;
yet they can triumph or despair as the player decides, and Lucy
had decided that they should triumph.

A very wet afternoon at the Bertolini permitted her to do the
thing she really liked, and after lunch she opened the little
draped piano. A few people lingered round and praised her
playing, but finding that she made no reply, dispersed to their
rooms to write up their diaries or to sleep. She took no notice
of Mr. Emerson looking for his son, nor of Miss Bartlett looking
for Miss Lavish, nor of Miss Lavish looking for her
cigarette-case. Like every true performer, she was intoxicated by
the mere feel of the notes: they were fingers caressing her own;
and by touch, not by sound alone, did she come to her desire.

Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this
illogical element in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion
at Tunbridge Wells when he had discovered it. It was at one of
those entertainments where the upper classes entertain the lower.
The seats were filled with a respectful audience, and the ladies
and gentlemen of the parish, under the auspices of their vicar,
sang, or recited, or imitated the drawing of a champagne cork.
Among the promised items was "Miss Honeychurch. Piano.
Beethoven," and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it would be
Adelaida, or the march of The Ruins of Athens, when his composure
was disturbed by the opening bars of Opus III. He was in suspense
all through the introduction, for not until the pace quickens
does one know what the performer intends. With the roar of the
opening theme he knew that things were going extraordinarily; in
the chords that herald the conclusion he heard the hammer strokes
of victory. He was glad that she only played the first movement,
for he could have paid no attention to the winding intricacies of
the measures of nine-sixteen. The audience clapped, no less
respectful. It was Mr. Beebe who started the stamping; it was all
that one could do.

"Who is she?" he asked the vicar afterwards.

"Cousin of one of my parishioners. I do not consider her choice
of a piece happy. Beethoven is so usually simple and direct in
his appeal that it is sheer perversity to choose a thing like
that, which, if anything, disturbs."

"Introduce me."

"She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the
praises of your sermon."

"My sermon?" cried Mr. Beebe. "Why ever did she listen to it?"

When he was introduced he understood why, for Miss Honeychurch,
disjoined from her music stool, was only a young lady with a
quantity of dark hair and a very pretty, pale, undeveloped face.
She loved going to concerts, she loved stopping with her cousin,
she loved iced coffee and meringues. He did not doubt that she
loved his sermon also. But before he left Tunbridge Wells he made
a remark to the vicar, which he now made to Lucy herself when she
closed the little piano and moved dreamily towards him:

"If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be
very exciting both for us and for her."

Lucy at once re-entered daily life.

"Oh, what a funny thing! Some one said just the same to mother,
and she said she trusted I should never live a duet."

"Doesn't Mrs. Honeychurch like music?"

"She doesn't mind it. But she doesn't like one to get excited
over anything; she thinks I am silly about it. She thinks--I
can't make out. Once, you know, I said that I liked my own
playing better than any one's. She has never got over it. Of
course, I didn't mean that I played well; I only meant--"

"Of course," said he, wondering why she bothered to explain.

"Music--" said Lucy, as if attempting some generality. She could
not complete it, and looked out absently upon Italy in the wet.
The whole life of the South was disorganized, and the most
graceful nation in Europe had turned into formless lumps of
clothes.

The street and the river were dirty yellow, the bridge was dirty
grey, and the hills were dirty purple. Somewhere in their folds
were concealed Miss Lavish and Miss Bartlett, who had chosen this
afternoon to visit the Torre del Gallo.

"What about music?" said Mr. Beebe.

"Poor Charlotte will be sopped," was Lucy's reply.

The expedition was typical of Miss Bartlett, who would return
cold, tired, hungry, and angelic, with a ruined skirt, a pulpy
Baedeker, and a tickling cough in her throat. On another day,
when the whole world was singing and the air ran into the mouth.
like wine, she would refuse to stir from the drawing-room, saying
that she was an old thing, and no fit companion for a hearty
girl.

"Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the
true Italy in the wet I believe."

"Miss Lavish is so original," murmured Lucy. This was a stock
remark, the supreme achievement of the Pension Bertolini in the
way of definition. Miss Lavish was so original. Mr. Beebe had his
doubts, but they would have been put down to clerical narrowness.
For that, and for other reasons, he held his peace.

"Is it true," continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, "that Miss
Lavish is writing a book?"

"They do say so."

"What is it about?"

"It will be a novel," replied Mr. Beebe, "dealing with modern
Italy. Let me refer you for an account to Miss Catharine Alan,
who uses words herself more admirably than any one I know."

"I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself. We started such
friends. But I don't think she ought to have run away with
Baedeker that morning in Santa Croce. Charlotte was most annoyed
at finding me practically alone, and so I couldn't help being a
little annoyed with Miss Lavish."

"The two ladies, at all events, have made it up."

He was interested in the sudden friendship between women so
apparently dissimilar as Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish. They were
always in each other's company, with Lucy a slighted third. Miss
Lavish he believed he understood, but Miss Bartlett might reveal
unknown depths of strangeness, though not perhaps, of meaning.
Was Italy deflecting her from the path of prim chaperon, which he
had assigned to her at Tunbridge Wells? All his life he had loved
to study maiden ladies; they were his specialty, and his
profession had provided him with ample opportunities for the
work. Girls like Lucy were charming to look at, but Mr. Beebe
was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in his
attitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested
rather than enthralled.

Lucy, for the third time, said that poor Charlotte would be
sopped. The Arno was rising in flood, washing away the traces of
the little carts upon the foreshore. But in the south-west there
had appeared a dull haze of yellow, which might mean better
weather if it did not mean worse. She opened the window to
inspect, and a cold blast entered the room, drawing a plaintive
cry from Miss Catharine Alan, who entered at the same moment by
the door.

"Oh, dear Miss Honeychurch, you will catch a chill! And Mr. Beebe
here besides. Who would suppose this is Italy? There is my sister
actually nursing the hot-water can; no comforts or proper
provisions."

She sidled towards them and sat down, self-conscious as she
always was on entering a room which contained one man, or a man
and one woman.

"I could hear your beautiful playing, Miss Honeychurch, though I
was in my room with the door shut. Doors shut; indeed, most
necessary. No one has the least idea of privacy in this country.
And one person catches it from another."

Lucy answered suitably. Mr. Beebe was not able to tell the ladies
of his adventure at Modena, where the chambermaid burst in upon
him in his bath, exclaiming cheerfully, "Fa niente, sono
vecchia." He contented himself with saying: "I quite agree with
you, Miss Alan. The Italians are a most unpleasant people. They
pry everywhere, they see everything, and they know what we want
before we know it ourselves. We are at their mercy. They read our
thoughts, they foretell our desires. From the cab-driver down
to--to Giotto, they turn us inside out, and I resent it. Yet in
their heart of hearts they are--how superficial! They have no
conception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora
Bertolini, who exclaimed to me the other day: 'Ho, Mr. Beebe, if
you knew what I suffer over the children's edjucaishion. HI
won't 'ave my little Victorier taught by a hignorant Italian
what can't explain nothink!'"

Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked
in an agreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr.
Beebe, having expected better things from a clergyman whose head
was bald and who wore a pair of russet whiskers. Indeed, who
would have supposed that tolerance, sympathy, and a sense of
humour would inhabit that militant form?

In the midst of her satisfaction she continued to sidle, and at
last the cause was disclosed. From the chair beneath her she
extracted a gun-metal cigarette-case, on which were powdered in
turquoise the initials "E. L."

"That belongs to Lavish." said the clergyman. "A good fellow,
Lavish, but I wish she'd start a pipe."

"Oh, Mr. Beebe," said Miss Alan, divided between awe and mirth.
"Indeed, though it is dreadful for her to smoke, it is not quite
as dreadful as you suppose. She took to it, practically in
despair, after her life's work was carried away in a landslip.
Surely that makes it more excusable."

"What was that?" asked Lucy.

Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows:
"It was a novel--and I am afraid, from what I can gather, not a
very nice novel. It is so sad when people who have abilities
misuse them, and I must say they nearly always do. Anyhow, she
left it almost finished in the Grotto of the Calvary at the
Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she went for a little ink. She
said: 'Can I have a little ink, please?' But you know what
Italians are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to the
beach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember
what she has written. The poor thing was very ill after it, and
so got tempted into cigarettes. It is a great secret, but I am
glad to say that she is writing another novel. She told Teresa
and Miss Pole the other day that she had got up all the local
colour--this novel is to be about modern Italy; the other was
historical--but that she could not start till she had an idea.
First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she came here--
this must on no account get round. And so cheerful through it
all! I cannot help thinking that there is something to admire in
every one, even if you do not approve of them."

Miss Alan was always thus being charitable against her better
judgment. A delicate pathos perfumed her disconnected remarks,
giving them unexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn
woods there sometimes rise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt
she had made almost too many allowances, and apologized hurriedly
for her toleration.

"All the same, she is a little too--I hardly like to say
unwomanly, but she behaved most strangely when the Emersons
arrived."

Mr. Beebe smiled as Miss Alan plunged into an anecdote which he
knew she would be unable to finish in the presence of a
gentleman.

"I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss
Pole, the lady who has so much yellow hair, takes lemonade. That
old Mr. Emerson, who puts things very strangely--"

Her jaw dropped. She was silent. Mr. Beebe, whose social
resources were endless, went out to order some tea, and she
continued to Lucy in a hasty whisper:

"Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called
it--and he may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself
and laughed; it was so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no
laughing matter. But the point is that Miss Lavish was positively
ATTRACTED by his mentioning S., and said she liked plain
speaking, and meeting different grades of thought. She thought
they were commercial travellers--'drummers' was the word she
used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our
great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa
was very much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese,
saying as she did so: 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute
you better than I,' and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord
Tennyson. Then Miss Lavish said: 'Tut! The early Victorians.'
Just imagine! 'Tut! The early Victorians.' My sister had gone,
and I felt bound to speak. I said: 'Miss Lavish, I am an early
Victorian; at least, that is to say, I will hear no breath of
censure against our dear Queen.' It was horrible speaking. I
reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she did not
want to go, and I must say she was dumbfounded, and made no
reply. But, unluckily, Mr. Emerson overheard this part, and
called in his deep voice: 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman
for her Irish visit.' The woman! I tell things so badly; but you
see what a tangle we were in by this time, all on account of S.
having been mentioned in the first place. But that was not all.
After dinner Miss Lavish actually came up and said: 'Miss Alan, I
am going into the smoking-room to talk to those two nice men.
Come, too.' Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitable
invitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it would
broaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all
University men, except one who was in the army, who always made a
point of talking to commercial travellers."

"Let me finish the story," said Mr. Beebe, who had returned.

"Miss Lavish tried Miss Pole, myself, every one, and finally
said: 'I shall go alone.' She went. At the end of five minutes
she returned unobtrusively with a green baize board, and began
playing patience."

"Whatever happened?" cried Lucy.

"No one knows. No one will ever know. Miss Lavish will never dare
to tell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling."

"Mr. Beebe--old Mr. Emerson, is he nice or not nice? I do so want
to know."

Mr. Beebe laughed and suggested that she should settle the
question for herself.

"No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I
do not mind him. Miss Alan, what do you think? Is he nice?"

The little old lady shook her head, and sighed disapprovingly.
Mr. Beebe, whom the conversation amused, stirred her up by
saying:

"I consider that you are bound to class him as nice, Miss Alan,
after that business of the violets."

"Violets? Oh, dear! Who told you about the violets? How do things
get round? A pension is a bad place for gossips. No, I cannot
forget how they behaved at Mr. Eager's lecture at Santa Croce.
Oh, poor Miss Honeychurch! It really was too bad. No, I have quite
changed. I do NOT like the Emersons. They are not nice."

Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to
introduce the Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had
failed. He was almost the only person who remained friendly to
them. Miss Lavish, who represented intellect, was avowedly
hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding,
were following her. Miss Bartlett, smarting under an obligation,
would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy was different. She had
given him a hazy account of her adventures in Santa Croce, and he
gathered that the two men had made a curious and possibly
concerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their
own strange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows
and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be
championed by a young girl: he would rather it should fail. After
all, he knew nothing about them, and pension joys, pension
sorrows, are flimsy things; whereas Lucy would be his
parishioner.

Lucy, with one eye upon the weather, finally said that she
thought the Emersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them
now. Even their seats at dinner had been moved.

"But aren't they always waylaying you to go out with them, dear?"
said the little lady inquisitively.

"Only once. Charlotte didn't like it, and said something--quite
politely, of course."

"Most right of her. They don't understand our ways. They must
find their level."

Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up
their attempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the
father was almost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he
would not plan a pleasant day for these folk before they left--
some expedition, perhaps, with Lucy well chaperoned to be nice to
them. It was one of Mr. Beebe's chief pleasures to provide people
with happy memories.

Evening approached while they chatted; the air became brighter;
the colours on the trees and hills were purified, and the Arno
lost its muddy solidity and began to twinkle. There were a few
streaks of bluish-green among the clouds, a few patches of watery
light upon the earth, and then the dripping facade of San Miniato
shone brilliantly in the declining sun.

"Too late to go out," said Miss Alan in a voice of relief. "All
the galleries are shut."

"I think I shall go out," said Lucy. "I want to go round the town
in the circular tram--on the platform by the driver."

Her two companions looked grave. Mr. Beebe, who felt responsible
for her in the absence of Miss Bartlett, ventured to say:

"I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go
out alone, won't you be better on your feet?"

"Italians, dear, you know," said Miss Alan.

"Perhaps I shall meet some one who reads me through and
through!"

But they still looked disapproval, and she so far conceded to Mr.
Beebe as to say that she would only go for a little walk, and
keep to the street frequented by tourists.

"She oughtn't really to go at all," said Mr. Beebe, as they
watched her from the window, "and she knows it. I put it down to
too much Beethoven."



Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter

Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as
after music. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit,
nor the suggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was
tedious; she wanted something big, and she believed that it would
have come to her on the wind-swept platform of an electric tram.
This she might not attempt. It was unladylike. Why? Why were most
big things unladylike? Charlotte had once explained to her why.
It was not that ladies were inferior to men; it was that they
were different. Their mission was to inspire others to
achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, by
means of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much.
But if she rushed into the fray herself she would be first
censured, then despised, and finally ignored. Poems had been
written to illustrate this point.

There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons
have gone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our
midst. She reigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was
Queen of much early Victorian song. It is sweet to protect her in
the intervals of business, sweet to pay her honour when she has
cooked our dinner well. But alas! the creature grows degenerate.
In her heart also there are springing up strange desires. She too
is enamoured of heavy winds, and vast panoramas, and green
expanses of the sea. She has marked the kingdom of this world,
how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war--a radiant crust,
built around the central fires, spinning towards the receding
heavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move
joyfully over the surface, having the most delightful meetings
with other men, happy, not because they are masculine, but
because they are alive. Before the show breaks up she would like
to drop the august title of the Eternal Woman, and go there as
her transitory self.

Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an
ideal to which she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling
serious. Nor has she any system of revolt. Here and there a
restriction annoyed her particularly, and she would transgress
it, and perhaps be sorry that she had done so. This afternoon she
was peculiarly restive. She would really like to do something of
which her well-wishers disapproved. As she might not go on the
electric tram, she went to Alinari's shop.

There she bought a photograph of Botticelli's "Birth of Venus."
Venus, being a pity, spoilt the picture, otherwise so charming,
and Miss Bartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in
art of course signified the nude.) Giorgione's "Tempesta," the
"Idolino," some of the Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos,
were added to it. She felt a little calmer then, and bought Fra
Angelico's "Coronation," Giotto's "Ascension of St. John," some
Della Robbia babies, and some Guido Reni Madonnas. For her taste
was catholic, and she extended uncritical approval to every
well-known name.

But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty
seemed still unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it
was new to her to be conscious of it. "The world," she thought,
"is certainly full of beautiful things, if only I could come
across them." It was not surprising that Mrs. Honeychurch
disapproved of music, declaring that it always left her daughter
peevish, unpractical, and touchy.

"Nothing ever happens to me," she reflected, as she entered the
Piazza Signoria and looked nonchalantly at its marvels, now
fairly familiar to her. The great square was in shadow; the
sunshine had come too late to strike it. Neptune was already
unsubstantial in the twilight, half god, half ghost, and his
fountain plashed dreamily to the men and satyrs who idled
together on its marge. The Loggia showed as the triple entrance
of a cave, wherein many a deity, shadowy, but immortal, looking
forth upon the arrivals and departures of mankind. It was the
hour of unreality--the hour, that is, when unfamiliar things are
real. An older person at such an hour and in such a place might
think that sufficient was happening to him, and rest content.
Lucy desired more.

She fixed her eyes wistfully on the tower of the palace, which
rose out of the lower darkness like a pillar of roughened gold.
It seemed no longer a tower, no longer supported by earth, but
some unattainable treasure throbbing in the tranquil sky. Its
brightness mesmerized her, still dancing before her eyes when she
bent them to the ground and started towards home.

Then something did happen.

Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt.
"Cinque lire," they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at
each other, and one of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He
frowned; he bent towards Lucy with a look of interest, as if he
had an important message for her. He opened his lips to deliver
it, and a stream of red came out between them and trickled down
his unshaven chin.

That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this
extraordinary man from her, and bore him away to the fountain.
Mr. George Emerson happened to be a few paces away, looking at
her across the spot where the man had been. How very odd! Across
something. Even as she caught sight of him he grew dim; the
palace itself grew dim, swayed above her, fell on to her softly,
slowly, noiselessly, and the sky fell with it.

She thought: "Oh, what have I done?"

"Oh, what have I done?" she murmured, and opened her eyes.

George Emerson still looked at her, but not across anything. She
had complained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and
another held her in his arms.

They were sitting on some steps in the Uffizi Arcade. He must
have carried her. He rose when she spoke, and began to dust his
knees. She repeated:

"Oh, what have I done?"

"You fainted."

"I--I am very sorry."

"How are you now?"

"Perfectly well--absolutely well." And she began to nod and
smile.

"Then let us come home. There's no point in our stopping."

He held out his hand to pull her up. She pretended not to see it.
The cries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily.
The whole world seemed pale and void of its original meaning.

"How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling.
But now I am well. I can go alone, thank you."

His hand was still extended.

"Oh, my photographs!" she exclaimed suddenly.

"What photographs?"

"I bought some photographs at Alinari's. I must have dropped them
out there in the square." She looked at him cautiously. "Would
you add to your kindness by fetching them?"

He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy
arose with the running of a maniac and stole down the arcade
towards the Arno.

"Miss Honeychurch!"

She stopped with her hand on her heart.

"You sit still; you aren't fit to go home alone."

"Yes, I am, thank you so very much."

"No, you aren't. You'd go openly if you were."

"But I had rather--"

"Then I don't fetch your photographs."

"I had rather be alone."

He said imperiously: "The man is dead--the man is probably dead;
sit down till you are rested." She was bewildered, and obeyed
him. "And don't move till I come back."

In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as
appear in dreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the
declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to
Mr. Emerson when he returned from the shadowy square? Again the
thought occurred to her, "Oh, what have I done?"--the thought
that she, as well as the dying man, had crossed some spiritual
boundary.

He returned, and she talked of the murder. Oddly enough, it was
an easy topic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became
almost garrulous over the incident that had made her faint five
minutes before. Being strong physically, she soon overcame the
horror of blood. She rose without his assistance, and though
wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough
towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled to them; they refused
him.

"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd
Italians are!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was
saying that Italians know everything, but I think they are rather
childish. When my cousin and I were at the Pitti yesterday--What
was that?"

He had thrown something into the stream.

"What did you throw in?"

"Things I didn't want," he said crossly.

"Mr. Emerson!"

"Well?"

"Where are the photographs?"

He was silent.

"I believe it was my photographs that you threw away."

"I didn't know what to do with them," he cried. and his voice was
that of an anxious boy. Her heart warmed towards him for the
first time. "They were covered with blood. There! I'm glad I've
told you; and all the time we were making conversation I was
wondering what to do with them." He pointed down-stream. "They've
gone." The river swirled under the bridge, "I did mind them so,
and one is so foolish, it seemed better that they should go out
to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean that they frightened me.
Then the boy verged into a man. "For something tremendous has
happened; I must face it without getting muddled. It isn't
exactly that a man has died."

Something warned Lucy that she must stop him.

"It has happened," he repeated, "and I mean to find out what it
is."

"Mr. Emerson--"

He turned towards her frowning, as if she had disturbed him in
some abstract quest.

"I want to ask you something before we go in."

They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her
elbows against the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise.
There is at times a magic in identity of position; it is one of
the things that have suggested to us eternal comradeship. She
moved her elbows before saying:

"I have behaved ridiculously."

He was following his own thoughts.

"I was never so much ashamed of myself in my life; I cannot think
what came over me."

"I nearly fainted myself," he said; but she felt that her
attitude repelled him.

"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies."

"Oh, all right."

"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people are
gossiping--ladies especially, I am afraid--you understand what I
mean?"

"I'm afraid I don't."

"I mean, would you not mention it to any one, my foolish
behaviour?"

"Your behaviour? Oh, yes, all right--all right."

"Thank you so much. And would you--"

She could not carry her request any further. The river was
rushing below them, almost black in the advancing night. He had
thrown her photographs into it, and then he had told her the
reason. It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry
in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was
trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a
high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like
his behaviour, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to
say to him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the
sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like
the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms,
and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the
photographs that she had bought in Alinari's shop. It was not
exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the
living: they had come to a situation where character tells, and
where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.

"Well, thank you so much," she repeated, "How quickly these
accidents do happen, and then one returns to the old life!"

"I don't."

Anxiety moved her to question him.

His answer was puzzling: "I shall probably want to live."

"But why, Mr. Emerson? What do you mean?"

"I shall want to live, I say."

Leaning her elbows on the parapet, she contemplated the River
Arno, whose roar was suggesting some unexpected melody to her
ears.



Chapter V: Possibilities of a Pleasant Outing

It was a family saying that "you never knew which way Charlotte
Bartlett would turn." She was perfectly pleasant and sensible
over Lucy's adventure, found the abridged account of it quite
adequate, and paid suitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George
Emerson. She and Miss Lavish had had an adventure also. They had
been stopped at the Dazio coming back, and the young officials
there, who seemed impudent and desoeuvre, had tried to search
their reticules for provisions. It might have been most
unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for any one.

For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone.
None of her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later
on, by the embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled
eyes at dinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of
"Too much Beethoven." But he only supposed that she was ready for
an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude
oppressed her; she was accustomed to have her thoughts confirmed
by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful
not to know whether she was thinking right or wrong.

At breakfast next morning she took decisive action. There were
two plans between which she had to choose. Mr. Beebe was walking
up to the Torre del Gallo with the Emersons and some American
ladies. Would Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch join the party?
Charlotte declined for herself; she had been there in the rain
the previous afternoon. But she thought it an admirable idea for
Lucy, who hated shopping, changing money, fetching letters, and
other irksome duties--all of which Miss Bartlett must accomplish
this morning and could easily accomplish alone.

"No, Charlotte!" cried the girl, with real warmth. "It's very
kind of Mr. Beebe, but I am certainly coming with you. I had much
rather."

"Very well, dear," said Miss Bartlett, with a faint flush of
pleasure that called forth a deep flush of shame on the cheeks of
Lucy. How abominably she behaved to Charlotte, now as always! But
now she should alter. All morning she would be really nice to
her.

She slipped her arm into her cousin's, and they started off along
the Lung' Arno. The river was a lion that morning in strength,
voice, and colour. Miss Bartlett insisted on leaning over the
parapet to look at it. She then made her usual remark, which was
"How I do wish Freddy and your mother could see this, too!"

Lucy fidgeted; it was tiresome of Charlotte to have stopped
exactly where she did.

"Look, Lucia! Oh, you are watching for the Torre del Gallo party.
I feared you would repent you of your choice."

Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday
had been a muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not
write down easily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte
and her shopping were preferable to George Emerson and the summit
of the Torre del Gallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle,
she must take care not to re-enter it. She could protest
sincerely against Miss Bartlett's insinuations.

But though she had avoided the chief actor, the scenery
unfortunately remained. Charlotte, with the complacency of fate,
led her from the river to the Piazza Signoria. She could not have
believed that stones, a Loggia, a fountain, a palace tower,
would have such significance. For a moment she understood the
nature of ghosts.

The exact site of the murder was occupied, not by a ghost, but by
Miss Lavish, who had the morning newspaper in her hand. She
hailed them briskly. The dreadful catastrophe of the previous day
had given her an idea which she thought would work up into a
book.

"Oh, let me congratulate you!" said Miss Bartlett. "After your
despair of yesterday! What a fortunate thing!"

"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are
to tell me absolutely everything that you saw from the
beginning." Lucy poked at the ground with her parasol.

"But perhaps you would rather not?"

"I'm sorry--if you could manage without it, I think I would
rather not."

The elder ladies exchanged glances, not of disapproval; it is
suitable that a girl should feel deeply.

"It is I who am sorry," said Miss Lavish. "literary hacks are
shameless creatures. I believe there's no secret of the human
heart into which we wouldn't pry."

She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a few
calculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in the
Piazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it
was unsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two
men had quarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc
note she should substitute a young lady, which would raise the
tone of the tragedy, and at the same time furnish an excellent
plot.

"What is the heroine's name?" asked Miss Bartlett.

"Leonora," said Miss Lavish; her own name was Eleanor.

"I do hope she's nice."

That desideratum would not be omitted.

"And what is the plot?"

Love, murder, abduction, revenge, was the plot. But it all came
while the fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun.

"I hope you will excuse me for boring on like this," Miss Lavish
concluded. "It is so tempting to talk to really sympathetic
people. Of course, this is the barest outline. There will be a
deal of local colouring, descriptions of Florence and the
neighbourhood, and I shall also introduce some humorous
characters. And let me give you all fair warning: I intend to be
unmerciful to the British tourist."

"Oh, you wicked woman," cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are
thinking of the Emersons."

Miss Lavish gave a Machiavellian smile.

"I confess that in Italy my sympathies are not with my own
countrymen. It is the neglected Italians who attract me, and
whose lives I am going to paint so far as I can. For I repeat and
I insist, and I have always held most strongly, that a tragedy
such as yesterday's is not the less tragic because it happened in
humble life."

There was a fitting silence when Miss Lavish had concluded. Then
the cousins wished success to her labours, and walked slowly away
across the square.

"She is my idea of a really clever woman," said Miss Bartlett.
"That last remark struck me as so particularly true. It should be
a most pathetic novel."

Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into
it. Her perceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she
believed that Miss Lavish had her on trial for an ingenue.

"She is emancipated, but only in the very best sense of the
word," continued Miss Bartlett slowly. "None but the superficial
would be shocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She
believes in justice and truth and human interest. She told me
also that she has a high opinion of the destiny of woman--Mr.
Eager! Why, how nice! What a pleasant surprise!"

"Ah, not for me," said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been
watching you and Miss Honeychurch for quite a little time."

"We were chatting to Miss Lavish."

His brow contracted.

"So I saw. Were you indeed? Andate via! sono occupato!" The
last remark was made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was
approaching with a courteous smile. "I am about to venture a
suggestion. Would you and Miss Honeychurch be disposed to join me
in a drive some day this week--a drive in the hills? We might go
up by Fiesole and back by Settignano. There is a point on
that road where we could get down and have an hour's ramble on
the hillside. The view thence of Florence is most beautiful--far
better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the view that
Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures.
That man had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who
looks at it to-day? Ah, the world is too much for us."

Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knew
that Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of
the residential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew
the people who never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt
to take a siesta after lunch, who took drives the pension
tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence
galleries which were closed to them. Living in delicate
seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissance villas
on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchanged
ideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather
perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their
pockets the coupons of Cook.

Therefore an invitation from the chaplain was something to be
proud of. Between the two sections of his flock he was often the
only link, and it was his avowed custom to select those of his
migratory sheep who seemed worthy, and give them a few hours in
the pastures of the permanent. Tea at a Renaissance villa?
Nothing had been said about it yet. But if it did come to that--
how Lucy would enjoy it!

A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of
life were grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr.
Eager and Miss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential
tea-party--was no longer the greatest of them. She echoed the
raptures of Charlotte somewhat faintly. Only when she heard that
Mr. Beebe was also coming did her thanks become more sincere.

"So we shall be a partie carree," said the chaplain. "In these
days of toil and tumult one has great needs of the country and
its message of purity. Andate via! andate presto, presto! Ah,
the town! Beautiful as it is, it is the town."

They assented.

"This very square--so I am told--witnessed yesterday the most
sordid of tragedies. To one who loves the Florence of Dante and
Savonarola there is something portentous in such desecration--
portentous and humiliating."

"Humiliating indeed," said Miss Bartlett. "Miss Honeychurch
happened to be passing through as it happened. She can hardly
bear to speak of it." She glanced at Lucy proudly.

"And how came we to have you here?" asked the chaplain
paternally.

Miss Bartlett's recent liberalism oozed away at the question.
"Do not blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left
her unchaperoned."

"So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?" His voice suggested
sympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few
harrowing details would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome
face drooped mournfully towards her to catch her reply.

"Practically."

"One of our pension acquaintances kindly brought her home," said
Miss Bartlett, adroitly concealing the sex of the preserver.

"For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust
that neither of you was at all--that it was not in your immediate
proximity?"

Of the many things Lucy was noticing to-day, not the least
remarkable was this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable
people will nibble after blood. George Emerson had kept the
subject strangely pure.

"He died by the fountain, I believe," was her reply.

"And you and your friend--"

"Were over at the Loggia."

"That must have saved you much. You have not, of course, seen the
disgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press-- This man is
a public nuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well,
and yet he goes on worrying me to buy his vulgar views."

Surely the vendor of photographs was in league with Lucy--in the
eternal league of Italy with youth. He had suddenly extended his
book before Miss Bartlett and Mr. Eager, binding their hands
together by a long glossy ribbon of churches, pictures, and
views.

"This is too much!" cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at
one of Fra Angelico's angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from
the vendor. The book it seemed, was more valuable than one would
have supposed.

"Willingly would I purchase--" began Miss Bartlett.

"Ignore him," said Mr. Eager sharply, and they all walked rapidly
away from the square.

But an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has a
grievance. His mysterious persecution of Mr. Eager became
relentless; the air rang with his threats and lamentations. He
appealed to Lucy; would not she intercede? He was poor--he
sheltered a family--the tax on bread. He waited, he gibbered, he
was recompensed, he was dissatisfied, he did not leave them until
he had swept their minds clean of all thoughts whether pleasant
or unpleasant.

Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain's
guidance they selected many hideous presents and mementoes--
florid little picture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded
pastry; other little frames, more severe, that stood on little
easels, and were carven out of oak; a blotting book of vellum;
a Dante of the same material; cheap mosaic brooches, which the
maids, next Christmas, would never tell from real; pins, pots,
heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros and Psyche in
alabaster; St. Peter to match--all of which would have cost less
in London.

This successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She
had been a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr.
Eager, she knew not why. And as they frightened her, she had,
strangely enough, ceased to respect them. She doubted that Miss
Lavish was a great artist. She doubted that Mr. Eager was as full
of spirituality and culture as she had been led to suppose. They
were tried by some new test, and they were found wanting. As for
Charlotte--as for Charlotte she was exactly the same. It might be
possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to love her.

"The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A
mechanic of some sort himself when he was young; then he took to
writing for the Socialistic Press. I came across him at Brixton."

They were talking about the Emersons.

"How wonderfully people rise in these days!" sighed Miss
Bartlett, fingering a model of the leaning Tower of Pisa.

"Generally," replied Mr. Eager, "one has only sympathy for their
success. The desire for education and for social advance--in
these things there is something not wholly vile. There are some
working men whom one would be very willing to see out here in
Florence--little as they would make of it."

"Is he a journalist now?" Miss Bartlett asked, "He is not; he
made an advantageous marriage."

He uttered this remark with a voice full of meaning, and ended
with a sigh.

"Oh, so he has a wife."

"Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder--yes I wonder how he has the
effrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance
with me. He was in my London parish long ago. The other day in
Santa Croce, when he was with Miss Honeychurch, I snubbed him.
Let him beware that he does not get more than a snub."

"What?" cried Lucy, flushing.

"Exposure!" hissed Mr. Eager.

He tried to change the subject; but in scoring a dramatic point
he had interested his audience more than he had intended. Miss
Bartlett was full of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she
wished never to see the Emersons again, was not disposed to
condemn them on a single word.

"Do you mean," she asked, "that he is an irreligious man? We know
that already."

"Lucy, dear--" said Miss Bartlett, gently reproving her cousin's
penetration.

"I should be astonished if you knew all. The boy--an innocent
child at the time--I will exclude. God knows what his education
and his inherited qualities may have made him."

"Perhaps," said Miss Bartlett, "it is something that we had
better not hear."

"To speak plainly," said Mr. Eager, "it is. I will say no more."
For the first time Lucy's rebellious thoughts swept out in
words--for the first time in her life.

"You have said very little."

"It was my intention to say very little," was his frigid reply.

He gazed indignantly at the girl, who met him with equal
indignation. She turned towards him from the shop counter; her
breast heaved quickly. He observed her brow, and the sudden
strength of her lips. It was intolerable that she should
disbelieve him.

"Murder, if you want to know," he cried angrily. "That man
murdered his wife!"

"How?" she retorted.

"To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in Santa
Croce--did they say anything against me?"

"Not a word, Mr. Eager--not a single word."

"Oh, I thought they had been libelling me to you. But I suppose
it is only their personal charms that makes you defend them."

"I'm not defending them," said Lucy, losing her courage, and
relapsing into the old chaotic methods. "They're nothing to me."

"How could you think she was defending them?" said Miss Bartlett,
much discomfited by the unpleasant scene. The shopman was
possibly listening.

"She will find it difficult. For that man has murdered his wife
in the sight of God."

The addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really
trying to qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might
have been impressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett
hastily purchased the Leaning Tower, and led the way into the
street.

"I must be going," said he, shutting his eyes and taking out his
watch.

Miss Bartlett thanked him for his kindness, and spoke with
enthusiasm of the approaching drive.

"Drive? Oh, is our drive to come off?"

Lucy was recalled to her manners, and after a little exertion the
complacency of Mr. Eager was restored.

"Bother the drive!" exclaimed the girl, as soon as he had
departed. "It is just the drive we had arranged with Mr. Beebe
without any fuss at all. Why should he invite us in that absurd
manner? We might as well invite him. We are each paying for
ourselves."

Miss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, was
launched by this remark into unexpected thoughts.

"If that is so, dear--if the drive we and Mr. Beebe are going
with Mr. Eager is really the same as the one we are going with
Mr. Beebe, then I foresee a sad kettle of fish."

"How?"

"Because Mr. Beebe has asked Eleanor Lavish to come, too."

"That will mean another carriage."

"Far worse. Mr. Eager does not like Eleanor. She knows it
herself. The truth must be told; she is too unconventional for
him."

They were now in the newspaper-room at the English bank. Lucy
stood by the central table, heedless of Punch and the Graphic,
trying to answer, or at all events to formulate the questions
rioting in her brain. The well-known world had broken up, and
there emerged Florence, a magic city where people thought and did
the most extraordinary things. Murder, accusations of murder,
A lady clinging to one man and being rude to another--were these
the daily incidents of her streets? Was there more in her frank
beauty than met the eye--the power, perhaps, to evoke passions,
good and bad, and to bring them speedily to a fulfillment?

Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that
did not matter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could
conjecture with admirable delicacy "where things might lead to,"
but apparently lost sight of the goal as she approached it. Now
she was crouching in the corner trying to extract a circular note
from a kind of linen nose-bag which hung in chaste concealment
round her neck. She had been told that this was the only safe way
to carry money in Italy; it must only be broached within the
walls of the English bank. As she groped she murmured: "Whether
it is Mr. Beebe who forgot to tell Mr. Eager, or Mr. Eager who
forgot when he told us, or whether they have decided to leave
Eleanor out altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any
case we must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only
asked for appearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I
and Eleanor will follow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for
us. Yet how difficult it is!"

"It is indeed," replied the girl, with a gravity that sounded
sympathetic.

"What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from
the struggle, and buttoning up her dress.

"I don't know what I think, nor what I want."

"Oh, dear, Lucy! I do hope Florence isn't boring you. Speak the
word, and, as you know, I would take you to the ends of the earth
to-morrow."

"Thank you, Charlotte," said Lucy, and pondered over the offer.

There were letters for her at the bureau--one from her brother,
full of athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as
only her mother's letters could be. She had read in it of the
crocuses which had been bought for yellow and were coming up
puce, of the new parlour-maid, who had watered the ferns with
essence of lemonade, of the semi-detached cottages which were
ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of Sir Harry Otway.
She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where she was
allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her.
The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the
view over the Sussex Weald--all hung before her bright and
distinct, but pathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which,
after much experience, a traveller returns.

"And the news?" asked Miss Bartlett.

"Mrs. Vyse and her son have gone to Rome," said Lucy, giving
the news that interested her least. "Do you know the Vyses?"

"Oh, not that way back. We can never have too much of the dear
Piazza Signoria."

"They're nice people, the Vyses. So clever--my idea of what's
really clever. Don't you long to be in Rome?"

"I die for it!"

The Piazza Signoria is too stony to be brilliant. It has no
grass, no flowers, no frescoes, no glittering walls of marble or
comforting patches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance--unless we
believe in a presiding genius of places--the statues that relieve
its severity suggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the
glorious bewilderment of youth, but the conscious achievements of
maturity. Perseus and Judith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have
done or suffered something, and though they are immortal,
immortality has come to them after experience, not before. Here,
not only in the solitude of Nature, might a hero meet a goddess,
or a heroine a god.

"Charlotte!" cried the girl suddenly. "Here's an idea. What if we
popped off to Rome to-morrow--straight to the Vyses' hotel? For
I do know what I want. I'm sick of Florence. No, you said you'd
go to the ends of the earth! Do! Do!"

Miss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:

"Oh, you droll person! Pray, what would become of your drive in
the hills?"

They passed together through the gaunt beauty of the square,
laughing over the unpractical suggestion.



Chapter VI: The Reverend Arthur Beebe, the Reverend Cuthbert
Eager, Mr. Emerson, Mr. George Emerson, Miss Eleanor Lavish, Miss
Charlotte Bartlett, and Miss Lucy Honeychurch Drive Out in
Carriages to See a View; Italians Drive Them.

It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a
youth all irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his
master's horses up the stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at
once. Neither the Ages of Faith nor the Age of Doubt had
touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscany driving a cab. And it was
Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up on the way, saying
that she was his sister--Persephone, tall and slender and pale,
returning with the Spring to her mother's cottage, and still
shading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager
objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and
one must guard against imposition. But the ladies interceded, and
when it had been made clear that it was a very great favour, the
goddess was allowed to mount beside the god.

Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus
enabling himself to drive with his arm round her waist. She did
not mind. Mr. Eager, who sat with his back to the horses, saw
nothing of the indecorous proceeding, and continued his
conversation with Lucy. The other two occupants of the carriage
were old Mr. Emerson and Miss Lavish. For a dreadful thing had
happened: Mr. Beebe, without consulting Mr. Eager, had doubled
the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish
had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the
critical moment when the carriages came round they lost their
heads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett,
with George Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind.

It was hard on the poor chaplain to have his partie carree thus
transformed. Tea at a Renaissance villa, if he had ever meditated
it, was now impossible. Lucy and Miss Bartlett had a certain
style about them, and Mr. Beebe, though unreliable, was a man of
parts. But a shoddy lady writer and a journalist who had murdered
his wife in the sight of God--they should enter no villa at his
introduction.

Lucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid
these explosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive
towards Miss Lavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto
fortunately asleep, thanks to a heavy lunch and the drowsy
atmosphere of Spring. She looked on the expedition as the work of
Fate. But for it she would have avoided George Emerson
successfully. In an open manner he had shown that he wished to
continue their intimacy. She had refused, not because she
disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and
suspected that he did know. And this frightened her.

For the real event--whatever it was--had taken place, not in the
Loggia, but by the river. To behave wildly at the sight of death
is pardonable. But to discuss it afterwards, to pass from
discussion into silence, and through silence into sympathy, that
is an error, not of a startled emotion, but of the whole fabric.
There was really something blameworthy (she thought) in their
joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in the common impulse
which had turned them to the house without the passing of a look
or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. She
had nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each time
that she avoided George it became more imperative that she should
avoid him again. And now celestial irony, working through her
cousin and two clergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence
till she had made this expedition with him through the hills.

Meanwhile Mr. Eager held her in civil converse; their little tiff
was over.

"So, Miss Honeychurch, you are travelling? As a student of art?"

"Oh, dear me, no--oh, no!"

"Perhaps as a student of human nature," interposed Miss Lavish,
"like myself?"

"Oh, no. I am here as a tourist."

"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Eager. "Are you indeed? If you will not
think me rude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists
not a little--handed about like a parcel of goods from Venice to
Florence, from Florence to Rome, living herded together in
pensions or hotels, quite unconscious of anything that is outside
Baedeker, their one anxiety to get 'done' or 'through' and go on
somewhere else. The result is, they mix up towns, rivers, palaces
in one inextricable whirl. You know the American girl in Punch
who says: 'Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?' And the father
replies: 'Why, guess Rome was the place where we saw the yaller
dog.' There's travelling for you. Ha! ha! ha!"

"I quite agree," said Miss Lavish, who had several times tried to
interrupt his mordant wit. "The narrowness and superficiality of
the Anglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace."

"Quite so. Now, the English colony at Florence, Miss Honeychurch
--and it is of considerable size, though, of course, not all
equally--a few are here for trade, for example. But the greater
part are students. Lady Helen Laverstock is at present busy over
Fra Angelico. I mention her name because we are passing her villa
on the left. No, you can only see it if you stand--no, do not
stand; you will fall. She is very proud of that thick hedge.
Inside, perfect seclusion. One might have gone back six hundred
years. Some critics believe that her garden was the scene of The
Decameron, which lends it an additional interest, does it not?"

"It does indeed!" cried Miss Lavish. "Tell me, where do they
place the scene of that wonderful seventh day?"

But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the
right lived Mr. Someone Something, an American of the best type
--so rare!--and that the Somebody Elses were farther down the
hill. "Doubtless you know her monographs in the series of
'Mediaeval Byways'? He is working at Gemistus Pletho. Sometimes
as I take tea in their beautiful grounds I hear, over the wall,
the electric tram squealing up the new road with its loads of hot,
dusty, unintelligent tourists who are going to 'do' Fiesole in an
hour in order that they may say they have been there, and I
think--think--I think how little they think what lies so near
them."

During this speech the two figures on the box were sporting with
each other disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that
they wished to misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to
do so. They were probably the only people enjoying the
expedition. The carriage swept with agonizing jolts up through
the Piazza of Fiesole and into the Settignano road.

"Piano! piano!" said Mr. Eager, elegantly waving his hand over
his head.

"Va bene, signore, va bene, va bene," crooned the driver, and
whipped his horses up again.

Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on
the subject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the
Renaissance, or was he one of its manifestations? The other
carriage was left behind. As the pace increased to a gallop the
large, slumbering form of Mr. Emerson was thrown against the
chaplain with the regularity of a machine.

"Piano! piano!" said he, with a martyred look at Lucy.

An extra lurch made him turn angrily in his seat. Phaethon, who
for some time had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just
succeeded.

A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards,
was most unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were
ordered to disentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his
pourboire, the girl was immediately to get down.

"She is my sister," said he, turning round on them with piteous
eyes.

Mr. Eager took the trouble to tell him that he was a liar.

Phaethon hung down his head, not at the matter of the accusation,
but at its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of
stopping had awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account
be separated, and patted them on the back to signify his
approval. And Miss Lavish, though unwilling to ally him, felt
bound to support the cause of Bohemianism.

"Most certainly I would let them be," she cried. "But I dare say
I shall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of
the conventions all my life. This is what I call an adventure."

"We must not submit," said Mr. Eager. "I knew he was trying it
on. He is treating us as if we were a party of Cook's tourists."

"Surely no!" said Miss Lavish, her ardour visibly decreasing.

The other carriage had drawn up behind, and sensible Mr. Beebe
called out that after this warning the couple would be sure to
behave themselves properly.

"Leave them alone," Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he
stood in no awe. "Do we find happiness so often that we should
turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by
lovers-- A king might envy us, and if we part them it's more
like sacrilege than anything I know."

Here the voice of Miss Bartlett was heard saying that a crowd
had begun to collect.

Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than a
resolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed
the driver again. Italian in the mouth of Italians is a
deep-voiced stream, with unexpected cataracts and boulders to
preserve it from monotony. In Mr. Eager's mouth it resembled
nothing so much as an acid whistling fountain which played ever
higher and higher, and quicker and quicker, and more and more
shrilly, till abruptly it was turned off with a click.

"Signorina!" said the man to Lucy, when the display had ceased.
Why should he appeal to Lucy?

"Signorina!" echoed Persephone in her glorious contralto. She
pointed at the other carriage. Why?

For a moment the two girls looked at each other. Then Persephone
got down from the box.

"Victory at last!" said Mr. Eager, smiting his hands together as
the carriages started again.

"It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat. You have
parted two people who were happy."

Mr. Eager shut his eyes. He was obliged to sit next to Mr.
Emerson, but he would not speak to him. The old man was refreshed
by sleep, and took up the matter warmly. He commanded Lucy to
agree with him; he shouted for support to his son.

"We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has
bargained to drive us, and he is doing it. We have no rights over
his soul."

Miss Lavish frowned. It is hard when a person you have classed as
typically British speaks out of his character.

He was not driving us well," she said. "He jolted us."

"That I deny. It was as restful as sleeping. Aha! he is jolting
us now. Can you wonder? He would like to throw us out, and most
certainly he is justified. And if I were superstitious I'd be
frightened of the girl, too. It doesn't do to injure young
people. Have you ever heard of Lorenzo de Medici?"

Miss Lavish bristled.

"Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or
to Lorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on
account of his diminutive stature?"

"The Lord knows. Possibly he does know, for I refer to Lorenzo
the poet. He wrote a line--so I heard yesterday--which runs like
this: 'Don't go fighting against the Spring.'"

Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition.

"Non fate guerra al Maggio," he murmured. "'War not with the
May' would render a correct meaning."

"The point is, we have warred with it. Look." He pointed to the
Val d'Arno, which was visible far below them, through the
budding trees. "Fifty miles of Spring, and we've come up to
admire them. Do you suppose there's any difference between Spring
in nature and Spring in man? But there we go, praising the one
and condemning the other as improper, ashamed that the same
work eternally through both."

No one encouraged him to talk. Presently Mr. Eager gave a signal
for the carriages to stop and marshalled the party for their
ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of
terraced steps and misty olives, now lay between them and the
heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was
about to sweep on to a promontory which stood out in the plain.
It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes
and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy of Alessio
Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascended
it, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye
to business, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there,
he had seen that view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence,
which he afterwards had introduced not very effectively into his
work. But where exactly had he stood? That was the question which
Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. And Miss Lavish, whose nature was
attracted by anything problematical, had become equally
enthusiastic.

But it is not easy to carry the pictures of Alessio Baldovinetti
in your head, even if you have remembered to look at them before
starting. And the haze in the valley increased the difficulty of
the quest.

The party sprang about from tuft to tuft of grass, their anxiety
to keep together being only equalled by their desire to go
different directions. Finally they split into groups. Lucy clung
to Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish; the Emersons returned to hold
laborious converse with the drivers; while the two clergymen, who
were expected to have topics in common, were left to each other.

The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible
whisper that was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss,
not Alessio Baldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked
Mr. George Emerson what his profession was, and he had answered
"the railway." She was very sorry that she had asked him. She had
no idea that it would be such a dreadful answer, or she would not
have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turned the conversation so
cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was not very much hurt
at her asking him

"The railway!" gasped Miss Lavish. "Oh, but I shall die! Of
course it was the railway!" She could not control her mirth. "He
is the image of a porter--on, on the South-Eastern."

"Eleanor, be quiet," plucking at her vivacious companion. "Hush!
They'll hear--the Emersons--"

"I can't stop. Let me go my wicked way. A porter--"

"Eleanor!"

"I'm sure it's all right," put in Lucy. "The Emersons won't hear,
and they wouldn't mind if they did."

Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this.

"Miss Honeychurch listening!" she said rather crossly. "Pouf!
Wouf! You naughty girl! Go away!"

"Oh, Lucy, you ought to be with Mr. Eager, I'm sure."

"I can't find them now, and I don't want to either."

"Mr. Eager will be offended. It is your party."

"Please, I'd rather stop here with you."

"No, I agree," said Miss Lavish. "It's like a school feast; the
boys have got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go.
We wish to converse on high topics unsuited for your ear."

The girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close
she was only at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent.
Such a one was Miss Lavish, and such for the moment was
Charlotte. She wished she had not called attention to herself;
they were both annoyed at her remark and seemed determined to get
rid of her.

"How tired one gets," said Miss Bartlett. "Oh, I do wish Freddy
and your mother could be here."

Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the
functions of enthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either.
She would not enjoy anything till she was safe at Rome.

"Then sit you down," said Miss Lavish. "Observe my foresight."

With many a smile she produced two of those mackintosh squares
that protect the frame of the tourist from damp grass or cold
marble steps. She sat on one; who was to sit on the other?

"Lucy; without a moment's doubt, Lucy. The ground will do for me.
Really I have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it
coming on I shall stand. Imagine your mother's feelings if I let
you sit in the wet in your white linen." She sat down heavily
where the ground looked particularly moist. "Here we are, all
settled delightfully. Even if my dress is thinner it will not
show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear; you are too unselfish;
you don't assert yourself enough." She cleared her throat. "Now
don't be alarmed; this isn't a cold. It's the tiniest cough, and
I have had it three days. It's nothing to do with sitting here at
all."

There was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of
five minutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager,
vanquished by the mackintosh square.

She addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in the
carriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a
bony young man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with
the courtesy of a host and the assurance of a relative.

"Dove?" said Lucy, after much anxious thought.

His face lit up. Of course he knew where, Not so far either. His
arm swept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he
did know where. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and
then pushed them towards her, as if oozing with visible extract
of knowledge.

More seemed necessary. What was the Italian for "clergyman"?

"Dove buoni uomini?" said she at last.

Good? Scarcely the adjective for those noble beings! He showed
her his cigar.

"Uno--piu--piccolo," was her next remark, implying "Has the
cigar been given to you by Mr. Beebe, the smaller of the two good
men?"

She was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it
to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair,
remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less
than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are
born knowing the way. It would seem that the whole earth lay
before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they
continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares.
Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from
God.

He only stopped once, to pick her some great blue violets. She
thanked him with real pleasure. In the company of this common man
the world was beautiful and direct. For the first time she felt
the influence of Spring. His arm swept the horizon gracefully;
violets, like other things, existed in great profusion there;
would she like to see them?"

"Ma buoni uomini."

He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They
proceeded briskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker
and thicker. They were nearing the edge of the promontory, and
the view was stealing round them, but the brown network of the
bushes shattered it into countless pieces. He was occupied in his
cigar, and in holding back the pliant boughs. She was rejoicing
in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not a twig, was
unimportant to her.

"What is that?"

There was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The
voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian's
ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She
could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the
clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the
river, the golden plain, other hills.

"Eccolo!" he exclaimed.

At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell
out of the wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen
on to a little open terrace, which was covered with violets
from end to end.

"Courage!" cried her companion, now standing some six feet above.
"Courage and love."

She did not answer. From her feet the ground sloped sharply into
view, and violets ran down in rivulets and streams and cataracts,
irrigating the hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems
collecting into pools in the hollows, covering the grass with
spots of azure foam. But never again were they in such profusion;
this terrace was the well-head, the primal source whence beauty
gushed out to water the earth.

Standing at its brink, like a swimmer who prepares, was the good
man. But he was not the good man that she had expected, and he
was alone.

George had turned at the sound of her arrival. For a moment he
contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw
radiant joy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her
dress in blue waves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped
quickly forward and kissed her.

Before she could speak, almost before she could feel, a voice
called, "Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!" The silence of life had been broken
by Miss Bartlett who stood brown against the view.



Chapter VII: They Return

Some complicated game had been playing up and down the hillside
all the afternoon. What it was and exactly how the players
had sided, Lucy was slow to discover. Mr. Eager had met them with
a questioning eye. Charlotte had repulsed him with much small
talk. Mr. Emerson, seeking his son, was told whereabouts to find
him. Mr. Beebe, who wore the heated aspect of a neutral, was
bidden to collect the factions for the return home. There was a
general sense of groping and bewilderment. Pan had been amongst
them--not the great god Pan, who has been buried these two
thousand years, but the little god Pan, who presides over social
contretemps and unsuccessful picnics. Mr. Beebe had lost every
one, and had consumed in solitude the tea-basket which he had
brought up as a pleasant surprise. Miss Lavish had lost Miss
Bartlett. Lucy had lost Mr. Eager. Mr. Emerson had lost George.
Miss Bartlett had lost a mackintosh square. Phaethon had lost the
game.

That last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box
shivering, with his collar up, prophesying the swift approach of
bad weather. "Let us go immediately," he told them. "The
signorino will walk."

"All the way? He will be hours," said Mr. Beebe.

"Apparently. I told him it was unwise." He would look no one in
the face; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He
alone had played skilfully, using the whole of his instinct,
while the others had used scraps of their intelligence. He alone
had divined what things were, and what he wished them to be. He
alone had interpreted the message that Lucy had received five
days before from the lips of a dying man. Persephone, who spends
half her life in the grave--she could interpret it also. Not so
these English. They gain knowledge slowly, and perhaps too late.

The thoughts of a cab-driver, however just, seldom affect the
lives of his employers. He was the most competent of Miss
Bartlett's opponents, but infinitely the least dangerous. Once
back in the town, he and his insight and his knowledge would
trouble English ladies no more. Of course, it was most
unpleasant; she had seen his black head in the bushes; he might
make a tavern story out of it. But after all, what have we to do
with taverns? Real menace belongs to the drawing-room. It was of
drawing-room people that Miss Bartlett thought as she journeyed
downwards towards the fading sun. Lucy sat beside her; Mr. Eager
sat opposite, trying to catch her eye; he was vaguely suspicious.
They spoke of Alessio Baldovinetti.

Rain and darkness came on together. The two ladies huddled
together under an inadequate parasol. There was a lightning
flash, and Miss Lavish who was nervous, screamed from the
carriage in front. At the next flash, Lucy screamed also. Mr.
Eager addressed her professionally:

"Courage, Miss Honeychurch, courage and faith. If I might say so,
there is something almost blasphemous in this horror of the
elements. Are we seriously to suppose that all these clouds, all
this immense electrical display, is simply called into existence
to extinguish you or me?"

"No--of course--"

"Even from the scientific standpoint the chances against our
being struck are enormous. The steel knives, the only articles
which might attract the current, are in the other carriage. And,
in any case, we are infinitely safer than if we were walking.
Courage--courage and faith."

Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's
hand. At times our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great
that we care not what exactly it signifies or how much we may
have to pay for it afterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely
exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in
hours of preaching or cross examination.

She renewed it when the two carriages stopped, half into
Florence.

"Mr. Eager!" called Mr. Beebe. "We want your assistance. Will you
interpret for us?"

"George!" cried Mr. Emerson. "Ask your driver which way George
went. The boy may lose his way. He may be killed."

"Go, Mr. Eager," said Miss Bartlett. don't ask our driver; our
driver is no help. Go and support poor Mr. Beebe--, he is nearly
demented."

"He may be killed!" cried the old man. "He may be killed!"

"Typical behaviour," said the chaplain, as he quitted the
carriage. "In the presence of reality that kind of person
invariably breaks down."

"What does he know?" whispered Lucy as soon as they were alone.
"Charlotte, how much does Mr. Eager know?"

"Nothing, dearest; he knows nothing. But--" she pointed at the
driver-"HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?"
She took out her purse. "It is dreadful to be entangled with
low-class people. He saw it all." Tapping Phaethon's back with her
guide-book, she said, "Silenzio!" and offered him a franc.

"Va bene," he replied, and accepted it. As well this ending to
his day as any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him.

There was an explosion up the road. The storm had struck the
overhead wire of the tramline, and one of the great supports had
fallen. If they had not stopped perhaps they might have been
hurt. They chose to regard it as a miraculous preservation, and
the floods of love and sincerity, which fructify every hour of
life, burst forth in tumult. They descended from the carriages;
they embraced each other. It was as joyful to be forgiven past
unworthinesses as to forgive them. For a moment they realized
vast possibilities of good.

The older people recovered quickly. In the very height of their
emotion they knew it to be unmanly or unladylike. Miss Lavish
calculated that, even if they had continued, they would not have
been caught in the accident. Mr. Eager mumbled a temperate
prayer. But the drivers, through miles of dark squalid road,
poured out their souls to the dryads and the saints, and Lucy
poured out hers to her cousin.

"Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you can
understand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I
was developing."

"Do not cry, dearest. Take your time."

"I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse.
Once by the river--Oh, but he isn't killed--he wouldn't be
killed, would he?"

The thought disturbed her repentance. As a matter of fact, the
storm was worst along the road; but she had been near danger, and
so she thought it must be near to every one.

"I trust not. One would always pray against that."

"He is really--I think he was taken by surprise, just as I was
before. But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe
that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be
really truthful. I am a little to blame. I had silly thoughts.
The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for
a moment he looked like some one in a book."

"In a book?"

"Heroes--gods--the nonsense of schoolgirls."

"And then?"

"But, Charlotte, you know what happened then."

Miss Bartlett was silent. Indeed, she had little more to learn.
With a certain amount of insight she drew her young cousin
affectionately to her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by
deep sighs, which nothing could repress.

"I want to be truthful," she whispered. "It is so hard to be
absolutely truthful."

"Don't be troubled, dearest. Wait till you are calmer. We will
talk it over before bed-time in my room."

So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to
the girl to find how far emotion had ebbed in others. The storm
had ceased, and Mr. Emerson was easier about his son. Mr. Beebe
had regained good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss
Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of--Charlotte, whose
exterior concealed so much insight and love.

The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the
long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of
how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of
courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious
discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And
together in divine confidence they would disentangle and
interpret them all.

"At last," thought she, "I shall understand myself. I shan't
again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I
don't know what."

Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed
to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin,
who, with commendable patience, was listening to a long story
about lost luggage. When it was over she capped it by a story of
her own. Lucy became rather hysterical with the delay. In vain
she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It
was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her
luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:

"Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into
my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair."

With some solemnity the door was shut, and a cane chair placed
for the girl. Then Miss Bartlett said "So what is to be done?"

She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her
that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her
emotions was all that she had counted upon.

"What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can
settle."

The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room
felt damp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of
drawers close to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and
fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the
dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since
dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins
and bassoons were colourless and vague, the very ghosts of joy.

"It has been raining for nearly four hours," she said at last.

Miss Bartlett ignored the remark.

"How do you propose to silence him?"

"The driver?"

"My dear girl, no; Mr. George Emerson."

Lucy began to pace up and down the room.

"I don't understand," she said at last.

She understood very well, but she no longer wished to be
absolutely truthful.

"How are you going to stop him talking about it?"

"I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do."

"I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have
met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to
themselves."

"Exploits?" cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural.

"My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here
and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do
you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that
liking one person is an extra reason for liking another?"

"Yes," said Lucy, whom at the time the argument had pleased.

"Well, I am no prude. There is no need to call him a wicked young
man, but obviously he is thoroughly unrefined. Let us put it down
to his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But
we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to
do?"

An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it
sooner and made it part of her, might have proved victorious.

"I propose to speak to him," said she.

Miss Bartlett uttered a cry of genuine alarm.

"You see, Charlotte, your kindness--I shall never forget it.
But--as you said--it is my affair. Mine and his."

"And you are going to IMPLORE him, to BEG him to keep silence?"

"Certainly not. There would be no difficulty. Whatever you ask
him he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been
frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit."

"But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and
inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you
cannot realize what men can be--how they can take a brutal
pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and
rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived,
what would have happened?"

"I can't think," said Lucy gravely.

Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question,
intoning it more vigorously.

"What would have happened if I hadn't arrived?"

"I can't think," said Lucy again.

"When he insulted you, how would you have replied?"

"I hadn't time to think. You came."

"Yes, but won't you tell me now what you would have done?"

"I should have--" She checked herself, and broke the sentence
off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes
into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done.

"Come away from the window, dear," said Miss Bartlett. "You will
be seen from the road."

Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not
modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started.
Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should
speak to George and settle the matter, whatever it was, with him.

Miss Bartlett became plaintive.

"Oh, for a real man! We are only two women, you and I. Mr. Beebe
is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh,
for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister's
insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not
yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman."

As she spoke, she pulled off her rings, of which she wore
several, and ranged them upon the pin cushion. Then she blew into
her gloves and said:

"It will be a push to catch the morning train, but we must try."

"What train?"

"The train to Rome." She looked at her gloves critically.

The girl received the announcement as easily as it had been
given.

"When does the train to Rome go?"

"At eight."

"Signora Bertolini would be upset."

"We must face that," said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that
she had given notice already.

"She will make us pay for a whole week's pension."

"I expect she will. However, we shall be much more comfortable at
the Vyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"

"Yes, but they pay extra for wine." After this remark she
remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte
throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream.

They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no
time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when
admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more
conscious of the discomforts of packing by candlelight than of a
subtler ill. Charlotte, who was practical without ability, knelt
by the side of an empty trunk, vainly endeavouring to pave it
with books of varying thickness and size. She gave two or three
sighs, for the stooping posture hurt her back, and, for all her
diplomacy, she felt that she was growing old. The girl heard her
as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those
emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause.
She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go
easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some
human love. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so
strongly. She knelt down by her cousin's side and took her in her
arms.

Miss Bartlett returned the embrace with tenderness and warmth.
But she was not a stupid woman, and she knew perfectly well that
Lucy did not love her, but needed her to love. For it was in
ominous tones that she said, after a long pause:

"Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?"

Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what
forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified
her embrace a little, and she said:

"Charlotte dear, what do you mean? As if I have anything to
forgive!"

"You have a great deal, and I have a very great deal to forgive
myself, too. I know well how much I vex you at every turn."

"But no--"

Miss Bartlett assumed her favourite role, that of the prematurely
aged martyr.

"Ah, but yes! I feel that our tour together is hardly the success
I had hoped. I might have known it would not do. You want some
one  younger and stronger and more in sympathy with you. I am too
uninteresting and old-fashioned--only fit to pack and unpack your
things."

"Please--"

"My only consolation was that you found people more to your
taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor
ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict
them on you more than was necessary. You had your own way about
these rooms, at all events."

"You mustn't say these things," said Lucy softly.

She still clung to the hope that she and Charlotte loved each
other, heart and soul. They continued to pack in silence.

"I have been a failure," said Miss Bartlett, as she struggled
with the straps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own.
"Failed to make you happy; failed in my duty to your mother. She
has been so generous to me; I shall never face her again after
this disaster."

"But mother will understand. It is not your fault, this trouble,
and it isn't a disaster either."

"It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and
rightly. Fur instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss
Lavish?"

"Every right."

"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally
true that I have neglected you. Your mother will see this as
clearly as I do, when you tell her."

Lucy, from a cowardly wish to improve the situation, said:

"Why need mother hear of it?"

"But you tell her everything?"

"I suppose I do generally."

"I dare not break your confidence. There is something sacred in
it. Unless you feel that it is a thing you could not tell her."

The girl would not be degraded to this.

"Naturally I should have told her. But in case she should blame
you in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I
will never speak of it either to her or to any one."

Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close.
Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her
good-night, and sent her to her own room.

For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George
would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that
was the view which one would take eventually. At present she
neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgment.
At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin's voice
had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had
dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing
into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really
been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked
like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been
meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the
complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the
young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefaced
world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which
do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have
used them most.

Lucy was suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world
has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her
sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is
not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without
due consideration and precaution against rebuff. And such a wrong
may react disastrously upon the soul.

The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she
reached them she hesitated, turned, and blew out the candle. Thus
it was that, though she saw some one standing in the wet below,
he, though he looked up, did not see her.

To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It
struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that
she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary
intercourse was over.

Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the
critical moment Miss Bartlett opened her own door, and her voice
said:

"I wish one word with you in the drawing-room, Mr. Emerson,
please."

Soon their footsteps returned, and Miss Bartlett said:
"Good-night, Mr. Emerson."

His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had
done her work.

Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want
not to be muddled. I want to grow older quickly."

Miss Bartlett tapped on the wall.

"Go to bed at once, dear. You need all the rest you can get."

In the morning they left for Rome.




Part Two


Chapter VIII: Medieval

The drawing-room curtains at Windy Corner had been pulled to
meet, for the carpet was new and deserved protection
from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to
the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued
and varied. A poet--none was present--might have quoted, "Life
like a dome of many coloured glass," or might have compared the
curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides
of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the
glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.

Two pleasant people sat in the room. One--a boy of nineteen--was
studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a
bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in
his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the
print small, and the human frame fearfully made; and his mother,
who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what
she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and
part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the
carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.

"Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's
brother. "I tell you I'm getting fairly sick."

"For goodness' sake go out of my drawing-room, then?" cried Mrs.
Honeychurch, who hoped to cure her children of slang by taking it
literally.

Freddy did not move or reply.

"I think things are coming to a head," she observed, rather
wanting her son's opinion on the situation if she could obtain it
without undue supplication.

"Time they did."

"I am glad that Cecil is asking her this once more."

"It's his third go, isn't it?"

"Freddy I do call the way you talk unkind."

"I didn't mean to be unkind." Then he added: "But I do think Lucy
might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how
girls manage things, but she can't have said 'No' properly
before, or she wouldn't have to say it again now. Over the whole
thing--I can't explain--I do feel so uncomfortable."

"Do you indeed, dear? How interesting!"

"I feel--never mind."

He returned to his work.

"Just listen to what I have written to Mrs. Vyse. I said: 'Dear
Mrs. Vyse.'"

"Yes, mother, you told me. A jolly good letter."

"I said: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse, Cecil has just asked my permission
about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'"
She stopped reading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my
permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality,
and parents nowhere, and so forth. When it comes to the point, he
can't get on without me."

"Nor me."

"You?"

Freddy nodded.

"What do you mean?"

"He asked me for my permission also."

She exclaimed: "How very odd of him!"

"Why so?" asked the son and heir. "Why shouldn't my permission be
asked?"

"What do you know about Lucy or girls or anything? What ever did
you say?"

"I said to Cecil, 'Take her or leave her; it's no business of
mine!'"

"What a helpful answer!" But her own answer, though more normal
in its wording, had been to the same effect.

"The bother is this," began Freddy.

Then he took up his work again, too shy to say what the bother
was. Mrs. Honeychurch went back to the window.

"Freddy, you must come. There they still are!"

"I don't see you ought to go peeping like that."

"Peeping like that! Can't I look out of my own window?"

But she returned to the writing-table, observing, as she passed
her son, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two
leaves. For a brief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the
curtains, the gentle murmur of a long conversation had never
ceased.

"The bother is this: I have put my foot in it with Cecil most
awfully." He gave a nervous gulp. "Not content with 'permission',
which I did give--that is to say, I said, 'I don't mind'--well,
not content with that, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my
head with joy. He practically put it like this: Wasn't it a
splendid thing for Lucy and for Windy Corner generally if he
married her? And he would have an answer--he said it would
strengthen his hand."

"I hope you gave a careful answer, dear."

"I answered 'No'" said the boy, grinding his teeth. "There! Fly
into a stew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He
ought never to have asked me."

"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy
and truthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you
suppose that a man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of
anything you say? I hope he boxed your ears. How dare you say
no?"

"Oh, do keep quiet, mother! I had to say no when I couldn't say
yes. I tried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as
Cecil laughed too, and went away, it may be all right. But I feel
my foot's in it. Oh, do keep quiet, though, and let a man do some
work."

"No," said Mrs. Honeychurch, with the air of one who has
considered the subject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all
that has passed between them in Rome; you know why he is down
here, and yet you deliberately insult him, and try to turn him
out of my house."

"Not a bit!" he pleaded. "I only let out I didn't like him. I
don't hate him, but I don't like him. What I mind is that he'll
tell Lucy."

He glanced at the curtains dismally.

"Well, I like him," said Mrs. Honeychurch. "I know his mother;
he's good, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you
needn't kick the piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if
you like: he's well connected." She paused, as if rehearsing her
eulogy, but her face remained dissatisfied. She added: "And he
has beautiful manners."

"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling
Lucy's first week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe
said, not knowing."

"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I
don't see how Mr. Beebe comes in."

"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what
he means. He said: 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor.' I was very
cute, I asked him what he meant. He said 'Oh, he's like me--
better detached.' I couldn't make him say any more, but it set me
thinking. Since Cecil has come after Lucy he hasn't been so
pleasant, at least--I can't explain."

"You never can, dear. But I can. You are jealous of Cecil because
he may stop Lucy knitting you silk ties."

The explanation seemed plausible, and Freddy tried to accept it.
But at the back of his brain there lurked a dim mistrust. Cecil
praised one too much for being athletic. Was that it? Cecil made
one talk in one's own way. This tired one. Was that it? And Cecil
was the kind of fellow who would never wear another fellow's cap.
Unaware of his own profundity, Freddy checked himself. He must be
jealous, or he would not dislike a man for such foolish reasons.

"Will this do?" called his mother. "'Dear Mrs. Vyse,--Cecil has
just asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if
Lucy wishes it.' Then I put in at the top, 'and I have told Lucy
so.' I must write the letter out again--'and I have told Lucy so.
But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these days young people
must decide for themselves.' I said that because I didn't want
Mrs. Vyse to think us old-fashioned. She goes in for lectures
and improving her mind, and all the time a thick layer of flue
under the beds, and the maid's dirty thumb-marks where you turn
on the electric light. She keeps that flat abominably--"

"Suppose Lucy marries Cecil, would she live in a flat, or in the
country?"

"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--'Young people
must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son,
because she tells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome
when he asked her first.' No, I'll cross that last bit out--it
looks patronizing. I'll stop at 'because she tells me
everything.' Or shall I cross that out, too?"

"Cross it out, too," said Freddy.

Mrs. Honeychurch left it in.

"Then the whole thing runs: 'Dear Mrs. Vyse.--Cecil has just
asked my permission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy
wishes it, and I have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very
uncertain, and in these days young people must decide for
themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because she tells me
everything. But I do not know--'"

"Look out!" cried Freddy.

The curtains parted.

Cecil's first movement was one of irritation. He couldn't bear
the Honeychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the
furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent
them swinging down their poles. Light entered. There was revealed
a terrace, such as is owned by many villas with trees each side
of it, and on it a little rustic seat, and two flower-beds. But
it was transfigured by the view beyond, for Windy Corner was
built on the range that overlooks the Sussex Weald. Lucy, who was
in the little seat, seemed on the edge of a green magic carpet
which hovered in the air above the tremulous world.

Cecil entered.

Appearing thus late in the story, Cecil must be at once
described. He was medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and
refined, with shoulders that seemed braced square by an effort of
the will, and a head that was tilted a little higher than the
usual level of vision, he resembled those fastidious saints who
guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well
endowed, and not deficient physically, he remained in the grip of
a certain devil whom the modern world knows as self-consciousness,
and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism.
A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just as a Greek statue implies
fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebe meant. And Freddy,
who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the same when he failed
to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap.

Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved
towards her young acquaintance.

"Oh, Cecil!" she exclaimed--"oh, Cecil, do tell me!"

"I promessi sposi," said he.

They stared at him anxiously.

"She has accepted me," he said, and the sound of the thing in
English made him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more
human.

"I am so glad," said Mrs. Honeychurch, while Freddy proffered a
hand that was yellow with chemicals. They wished that they also
knew Italian, for our phrases of approval and of amazement are so
connected with little occasions that we fear to use them on great
ones. We are obliged to become vaguely poetic, or to take refuge
in Scriptural reminiscences.

"Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her
hand at the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure
that you will make our dear Lucy happy."

"I hope so," replied the young man, shifting his eyes to the
ceiling.

"We mothers--" simpered Mrs. Honeychurch, and then realized that
she was affected, sentimental, bombastic--all the things she
hated most. Why could she not be Freddy, who stood stiff in the
middle of the room; looking very cross and almost handsome?

"I say, Lucy!" called Cecil, for conversation seemed to flag.

Lucy rose from the seat. She moved across the lawn and smiled in
at them, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis.
Then she saw her brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took
him in her arms. He said, "Steady on!"

"Not a kiss for me?" asked her mother.

Lucy kissed her also.

"Would you take them into the garden and tell Mrs. Honeychurch
all about it?" Cecil suggested. "And I'd stop here and tell my
mother."

"We go with Lucy?" said Freddy, as if taking orders.

"Yes, you go with Lucy."

They passed into the sunlight. Cecil watched them cross the
terrace, and descend out of sight by the steps. They would
descend--he knew their ways--past the shrubbery, and past the
tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed, until they reached the kitchen
garden, and there, in the presence of the potatoes and the peas,
the great event would be discussed.

Smiling indulgently, he lit a cigarette, and rehearsed the events
that had led to such a happy conclusion.

He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace
girl who happened to be musical. He could still remember his
depression that afternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible
cousin fell on him out of the blue, and demanded to be taken to
St. Peter's. That day she had seemed a typical tourist--shrill,
crude, and gaunt with travel. But Italy worked some marvel in
her. It gave her light, and--which he held more precious--it gave
her shadow. Soon he detected in her a wonderful reticence. She
was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci's, whom we love not so much
for herself as for the things that she will not tell us, The
things are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo's
could have anything so vulgar as a "story." She did develop most
wonderfully day by day.

So it happened that from patronizing civility he had slowly
passed if not to passion, at least to a profound uneasiness.
Already at Rome he had hinted to her that they might be suitable
for each other. It had touched him greatly that she had not
broken away at the suggestion. Her refusal had been clear and
gentle; after it--as the horrid phrase went--she had been exactly
the same to him as before. Three months later, on the margin of
Italy, among the flower-clad Alps, he had asked her again in
bald, traditional language. She reminded him of a Leonardo more
than ever; her sunburnt features were shadowed by fantastic rock;
at his words she had turned and stood between him and the light
with immeasurable plains behind her. He walked home with her
unashamed, feeling not at all like a rejected suitor. The things
that really mattered were unshaken.

So now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever,
she had accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but
simply saying that she loved him and would do her best to make
him happy. His mother, too, would be pleased; she had counselled
the step; he must write her a long account.

Glancing at his hand, in case any of Freddy's chemicals had come
off on it, he moved to the writing table. There he saw "Dear Mrs.
Vyse," followed by many erasures. He recoiled without reading any
more, and after a little hesitation sat down elsewhere, and
pencilled a note on his knee.

Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine
as the first, and considered what might be done to make Windy
Corner drawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should
have been a successful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court
Road was upon it; he could almost visualize the motor-vans of
Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs. Maple arriving at the door and
depositing this chair, those varnished book-cases, that
writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch's letter. He
did not want to read that letter--his temptations never lay in
that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was his
own fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had
wanted her support in his third attempt to win Lucy; he wanted to
feel that others, no matter who they were, agreed with him, and
so he had asked their permission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been
civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy--"He is only
a boy," he reflected. "I represent all that he despises. Why
should he want me for a brother-in-law?"

The Honeychurches were a worthy family, but he began to realize
that Lucy was of another clay; and perhaps--he did not put it
very definitely--he ought to introduce her into more congenial
circles as soon as possible.

"Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street
was shown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing
to Lucy's praise of him in her letters from Florence.

Cecil greeted him rather critically.

"I've come for tea, Mr. Vyse. Do you suppose that I shall get
it?"

"I should say so. Food is the thing one does get here--Don't sit
in that chair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it."

"Pfui!"

"I know," said Cecil. "I know. I can't think why Mrs. Honeychurch
allows it."

For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture
separately; he did not realize that, taken together, they kindled
the room into the life that he desired.

"I've come for tea and for gossip. Isn't this news?"

"News? I don't understand you," said Cecil. "News?"

Mr. Beebe, whose news was of a very different nature, prattled
forward.

"I met Sir Harry Otway as I came up; I have every reason to hope
that I am first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert
from Mr. Flack!"

"Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what
a grotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman
and a gentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so
flippant? But his stiffness remained, and, though he asked who
Cissie and Albert might be, he still thought Mr. Beebe rather a
bounder.

"Unpardonable question! To have stopped a week at Windy Corner
and not to have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas
that have been run up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs.
Honeychurch after you."

"I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs," said the young man
languidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a Parish
Council and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no
difference, or perhaps those aren't the right names. I only go
into the country to see my friends and to enjoy the scenery. It
is very remiss of me. Italy and London are the only places where
I don't feel to exist on sufferance."

Mr. Beebe, distressed at this heavy reception of Cissie and
Albert, determined to shift the subject.

"Let me see, Mr. Vyse--I forget--what is your profession?"

"I have no profession," said Cecil. "It is another example of my
decadence. My attitude quite an indefensible one--is that so long
as I am no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like.
I know I ought to be getting money out of people, or devoting
myself to things I don't care a straw about, but somehow, I've
not been able to begin."

"You are very fortunate," said Mr. Beebe. "It is a wonderful
opportunity, the possession of leisure."

His voice was rather parochial, but he did not quite see his way
to answering naturally. He felt, as all who have regular
occupation must feel, that others should have it also.

"I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--
for example, Freddy Honeychurch."

"Oh, Freddy's a good sort, isn't he?"

"Admirable. The sort who has made England what she is."

Cecil wondered at himself. Why, on this day of all others, was he
so hopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring
effusively after Mr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had
no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised
his liberal-mindedness, his enlightened attitude towards
philosophy and science.

"Where are the others?" said Mr. Beebe at last, "I insist on
extracting tea before evening service."

"I suppose Anne never told them you were here. In this house one
is so coached in the servants the day one arrives. The fault of
Anne is that she begs your pardon when she hears you perfectly,
and kicks the chair-legs with her feet. The faults of Mary--
I forget the faults of Mary, but they are very grave. Shall we
look in the garden?"

"I know the faults of Mary. She leaves the dust-pans standing on
the stairs."

"The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not,
chop the suet sufficiently small."

They both laughed, and things began to go better.

"The faults of Freddy--" Cecil continued.

"Ah, he has too many. No one but his mother can remember the
faults of Freddy. Try the faults of Miss Honeychurch; they are
not innumerable."

"She has none," said the young man, with grave sincerity.

"I quite agree. At present she has none."

"At present?"

"I'm not cynical. I'm only thinking of my pet theory about Miss
Honeychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play so
wonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will
be wonderful in both. The water-tight compartments in her will
break down, and music and life will mingle. Then we shall have
her heroically good, heroically bad--too heroic, perhaps, to be
good or bad."

Cecil found his companion interesting.

"And at present you think her not wonderful as far as life goes?"

"Well, I must say I've only seen her at Tunbridge Wells, where
she was not wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer
Street she has been away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in
the Alps. Oh, I forgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she
wasn't wonderful in Florence either, but I kept on expecting that
she would be."

"In what way?"

Conversation had become agreeable to them, and they were pacing
up and down the terrace.

"I could as easily tell you what tune she'll play next. There was
simply the sense that she had found wings, and meant to use them.
I can show you a beautiful picture in my Italian diary: Miss
Honeychurch as a kite, Miss Bartlett holding the string. Picture
number two: the string breaks."

The sketch was in his diary, but it had been made afterwards,
when he viewed things artistically. At the time he had given
surreptitious tugs to the string himself.

"But the string never broke?"

"No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should
certainly have heard Miss Bartlett fall."

"It has broken now," said the young man in low, vibrating tones.

Immediately he realized that of all the conceited, ludicrous,
contemptible ways of announcing an engagement this was the worst.
He cursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a
star and that Lucy was soaring up to reach him?

"Broken? What do you mean?"

"I meant," said Cecil stiffly, "that she is going to marry me."

The clergyman was conscious of some bitter disappointment which
he could not keep out of his voice.

"I am sorry; I must apologize. I had no idea you were intimate
with her, or I should never have talked in this flippant,
superficial way. Mr. Vyse, you ought to have stopped me." And
down the garden he saw Lucy herself; yes, he was disappointed.

Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew
down his mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action
would get from the world? Of course, he despised the world as a
whole; every thoughtful man should; it is almost a test of
refinement. But he was sensitive to the successive particles of
it which he encountered.

Occasionally he could be quite crude.

"I am sorry I have given you a shock," he said dryly. "I fear
that Lucy's choice does not meet with your approval."

"Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss
Honeychurch only a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn't to
have discussed her so freely with any one; certainly not with
you."

"You are conscious of having said something indiscreet?"

Mr. Beebe pulled himself together. Really, Mr. Vyse had the art
of placing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to
use the prerogatives of his profession.

"No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that
her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I
realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step.
She has taken it. She has learnt--you will let me talk freely, as
I have begun freely--she has learnt what it is to love: the
greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life
provides." It was now time for him to wave his hat at the
approaching trio. He did not omit to do so. "She has learnt
through you," and if his voice was still clerical, it was now
also sincere; "let it be your care that her knowledge is
profitable to her."

"Grazie tante!" said Cecil, who did not like parsons.

"Have you heard?" shouted Mrs. Honeychurch as she toiled up the
sloping garden. "Oh, Mr. Beebe, have you heard the news?"

Freddy, now full of geniality, whistled the wedding march. Youth
seldom criticizes the accomplished fact.

"Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he
could not act the parson any longer--at all events not without
apology. "Mrs. Honeychurch, I'm going to do what I am always
supposed to do, but generally I'm too shy. I want to invoke every
kind of blessing on them, grave and gay, great and small.
I want them all their lives to be supremely good and supremely
happy as husband and wife, as father and mother. And now I want
my tea."

"You only asked for it just in time," the lady retorted. "How
dare you be serious at Windy Corner?"

He took his tone from her. There was no more heavy beneficence,
no more attempts to dignify the situation with poetry or the
Scriptures. None of them dared or was able to be serious any
more.

An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it
reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away
from it, in the solitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even
Freddy, might again be critical. But in its presence and in the
presence of each other they were sincerely hilarious. It has a
strange power, for it compels not only the lips, but the very
heart. The chief parallel to compare one great thing with
another--is the power over us of a temple of some alien creed.
Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feel
sentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we
become true believers, in case any true believer should be
present.

So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the
afternoon they pulled themselves together and settled down to a
very pleasant tea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not
know it, and their hypocrisy had every chance of setting and of
becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a
wedding present, stimulated them greatly. They could not lag
behind that smile of hers which she gave them ere she kicked the
drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddy was at his
wittiest, referring to Cecil as the "Fiasco"--family honoured pun
on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well as
a mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had
been built, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as
earnest worshippers should, for the disclosure of some holier
shrine of joy.



Chapter IX: Lucy As a Work of Art

A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch
made Lucy and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the
neighbourhood, for naturally she wanted to show people that her
daughter was marrying a presentable man.

Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it
was very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy,
and his long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People
congratulated Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social
blunder, but it pleased her, and she introduced Cecil rather
indiscriminately to some stuffy dowagers.

At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over
Lucy's figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her
mother feigned nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to
have the frock treated by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some
time, and Cecil was left with the dowagers. When they returned he
was not as pleasant as he had been.

"Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they
were driving home.

"Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.

"Is it typical of country society?"

"I suppose so. Mother, would it be?"

"Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to
remember the hang of one of the dresses.

Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy
and said:

"To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous."

"I am so sorry that you were stranded."

"Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way
an engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste
place where every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All
those old women smirking!"

"One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so
much next time."

"But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An
engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter,
and should be treated as such."

Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were
racially correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled
through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy
because it promised the continuance of life on earth. To Cecil
and Lucy it promised something quite different--personal love.
Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's belief that his irritation
was just.

"How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?"

"I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood
is deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as
I have is that of the Inglese Italianato."

"Inglese Italianato?"

"E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?"

She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had
spent a quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since
his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness
which he was far from possessing.

"Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me.
There are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them,
and I must accept them."

"We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy.

"Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw
from her remark that she did not quite understand his position.

"How?"

"It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence
ourselves in, or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of
others?"

She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.

"Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't
see any difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are
in the same place."

"We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the
interruption jarred.

"My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched
her card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The
rest of the pattern is the other people. Motives are all very
well, but the fence comes here."

"We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing.

"Oh, I see, dear--poetry."

She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.

"I tell you who has no 'fences,' as you call them," she said,
"and that's Mr. Beebe."

"A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless."

Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to
detect what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped
the feeling that prompted it.

"Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully.

"I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the
average. I only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of
fences again, and was brilliant.

"Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say
something sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and
the most dreadful ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at
Florence. He was truly insincere--not merely the manner
unfortunate. He was a snob, and so conceited, and he did say such
unkind things."

"What sort of things?"

"There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered
his wife."

"Perhaps he had."

"No!"

"Why 'no'?"

"He was such a nice old man, I'm sure."

Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.

"Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come
to the point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had
'practically' murdered his wife--had murdered her in the sight of
God."

"Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it
intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate should go
round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him
that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but
he certainly wasn't that."

"Poor old man! What was his name?"

"Harris," said Lucy glibly.

"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said
her mother.

Cecil nodded intelligently.

"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.

"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I
hate him. Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."

"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll
blow my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you
and Cecil to hate any more clergymen."

He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in
Lucy's moral outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see
the Leonardo on the ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to
her that not here lay her vocation; that a woman's power and
charm reside in mystery, not in muscular rant. But possibly rant
is a sign of vitality: it mars the beautiful creature, but shows
that she is alive. After a moment, he contemplated her flushed
face and excited gestures with a certain approval. He forebore to
repress the sources of youth.

Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He
praised the pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson
leaves that spotted the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of
the turnpike road. The outdoor world was not very familiar to
him, and occasionally he went wrong in a question of fact. Mrs.
Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he spoke of the perpetual green
of the larch.

"I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in
London I feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the
country I feel the same about the country. After all, I do
believe that birds and trees and the sky are the most wonderful
things in life, and that the people who live amongst them must be
the best. It's true that in nine cases out of ten they don't seem
to notice anything. The country gentleman and the country
labourer are each in their way the most depressing of companions.
Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings of Nature
which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.
Honeychurch?"

Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending.
Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria,
felt irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting
again.

Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she
still looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too
much moral gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the
beauties of an August wood.

"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted,
and touched her knee with his own.

She flushed again and said: "What height?"

"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,
What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang).
In height and in the splendour of the hills?'

Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no
more. What's this place?"

"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself.

The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular
meadow. Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and
third side was occupied by a new stone church, expensively
simple, a charming shingled spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the
church. In height it scarcely exceeded the cottages. Some great
mansions were at hand, but they were hidden in the trees. The
scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the shrine and centre of
a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly little villas--
the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been
acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had been
acquired by Cecil.

"Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the
other. These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on
the garden gates, but appeared a second time on the porches,
where they followed the semicircular curve of the entrance arch
in block capitals. "Albert" was inhabited. His tortured garden
was bright with geraniums and lobelias and polished shells. His
little windows were chastely swathed in Nottingham lace. "Cissie"
was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging to Dorking agents,
lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising fact. Her
paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn was
yellow with dandelions.

"The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer
Street will never be the same again."

As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman
came out of her.

"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her
parasol. "Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull
those things down at once!"

Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage
and said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't
turn out Miss Flack."

"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the
contract was signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in
her nephew's time?"

"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very
vulgar, and almost bedridden."

"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely.

Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had
full warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the
plot before building commenced: but he was apathetic and
dilatory. He had known Summer Street for so many years that he
could not imagine it being spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid
the foundation stone, and the apparition of red and cream brick
began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the
local builder,--a most reasonable and respectful man--who agreed
that tiles would have made more artistic roof, but pointed out
that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about
the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches to the
frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked to
relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that
a column, if possible, should be structural as well as
decorative.

Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding,
"and all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage,
another approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs.
Flack's initials--every one different." For he had read his
Ruskin. He built his villas according to his desire; and not until
he had inserted an immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry
buy.

This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with
sadness as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had
failed in his duties to the country-side, and the country-side
was laughing at him as well. He had spent money, and yet Summer
Street was spoilt as much as ever. All he could do now was to
find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some one really desirable.

"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an
easy landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large
for the peasant class and too small for any one the least like
ourselves."

Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or
despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed
the more fruitful.

"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It
would be a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."

"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I
fear, Mr. Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The
train service has improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And
what are five miles from a station in these days of bicycles?"

"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy.

Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness,
replied that the physique of the lower middle classes was
improving at a most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing
at their harmless neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.

"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like
spinsters?"

"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"

"Yes; I met them abroad."

"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from
them last week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really
not joking. They are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows
them, too. May I tell them to write to you?"

"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty
solved already. How delightful it is!  Extra facilities--please
tell them they shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no
agents' fees. Oh, the agents! The appalling people they have sent
me! One woman, when I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking
her to explain her social position to me, replied that she would
pay the rent in advance. As if one cares about that! And several
references I took up were most unsatisfactory--people swindlers,
or not respectable. And oh, the deceit! I have seen a good deal
of the seamy side this last week. The deceit of the most
promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"

She nodded.

"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do
with Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type.
Preserve me from people who have seen better days, and bring
heirlooms with them that make the house smell stuffy. It's a
sad thing, but I'd far rather let to some one who is going up in
the world than to some one who has come down."

"I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a
very sad thing."

"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.

"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say
they were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."

"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."

"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my
troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady
Otway will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite
true, but no real help."

"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"

"Please!"

But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:

"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of
canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages
and then the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a
man."

"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her
remark.

"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an
end of them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If
they're vulgar, they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't
spread so. Give me a man--of course, provided he's clean."

Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open
compliments to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not
leave them much distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch,
if she had time, should descend from the carriage and inspect
"Cissie" for herself. She was delighted. Nature had intended her
to be poor and to live in such a house. Domestic arrangements
always attracted her, especially when they were on a small
scale.

Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.

"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave
you?"

"Certainly!" was her cordial reply.

Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He
beamed at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!"
and then hastened to unlock the house.

"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were
out of earshot,

"Oh, Cecil!"

"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."

"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."

"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In
London he would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless
club, and his wife would give brainless dinner parties. But down
here he acts the little god with his gentility, and his
patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and every one--even your
mother--is taken in."

"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt
discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."

"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that
garden-party. Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll
get some vulgar tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar
that he'll notice it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and
retreating chin! But let's forget him."

This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry
Otway and Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people
who really mattered to her would escape? For instance, Freddy.
Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what
prevented Cecil from saying, any minute, "It would be wrong not
to loathe Freddy"? And what would she reply? Further than Freddy
she did not go, but he gave her anxiety enough. She could only
assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some time, and that
they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps, during the
last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.

"Which way shall we go?" she asked him.

Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer
Street lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a
footpath diverged from the highroad.

"Are there two ways?"

"Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart."

"I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued
irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is
it, Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have
never once been with me in the fields or the wood since we were
engaged?"

"Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his
queerness, but pretty sure that he would explain later; it was
not his habit to leave her in doubt as to his meaning.

She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he
did explain before they had gone a dozen yards.

"I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at
home with me in a room."

"A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.

"Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the
real country like this."

"Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of
the sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person."

"I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a
certain type of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?"

She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:

"Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after
all. When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!"

To her surprise, he seemed annoyed.

"A drawing-room, pray? With no view?"

"Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?"

"I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that connected me with the
open air."

She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?"

As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as
too difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood,
pausing every now and then at some particularly beautiful or
familiar combination of the trees. She had known the wood between
Summer Street and Windy Corner ever since she could walk alone;
she had played at losing Freddy in it, when Freddy was a
purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy, it had lost
none of its charm.

Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another
tiny green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a
shallow pool.

She exclamed, "The Sacred Lake!"

"Why do you call it that?"

"I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's
only a puddle now, but you see that stream going through it?
Well, a good deal of water comes down after heavy rains, and
can't get away at once, and the pool becomes quite large and
beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe there. He is very fond of
it."

"And you?"

He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I
bathed here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row."

At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of
prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the
fresh air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He
looked at her as she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up
smart, as she phrased it, and she reminded him of some brilliant
flower that has no leaves of its own, but blooms abruptly out of
a world of green.

"Who found you out?"

"Charlotte," she murmured. "She was stopping with us. Charlotte--
Charlotte."

"Poor girl!"

She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had
shrank, now appeared practical.

"Lucy!"

"Yes, I suppose we ought to be going," was her reply.

"Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked
before."

At the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly
towards him.

"What, Cecil?"

"Hitherto never--not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to
marry me--"

He became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they
were observed. His courage had gone.

"Yes?"

"Up to now I have never kissed you."

She was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.

"No--more you have," she stammered.

"Then I ask you--may I now?"

"Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can't run at you,
you know."

At that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but
absurdities. Her reply was inadequate. She gave such a
business-like lift to her veil. As he approached her he found
time to wish that he could recoil. As he touched her, his gold
pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened between them.

Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been
a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should
forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a
refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where
there is a right of way. Why could he not do as any labourer or
navvy--nay, as any young man behind the counter would have
done? He recast the scene. Lucy was standing flowerlike by the
water, he rushed up and took her in his arms; she rebuked him,
permitted him and revered him ever after for his manliness. For
he believed that women revere men for their manliness.

They left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He
waited for her to make some remark which should show him her
inmost thoughts. At last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.

"Emerson was the name, not Harris."

"What name?"

"The old man's."

"What old man?"

"That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind
to."

He could not know that this was the most intimate conversation
they had ever had.



Chapter X: Cecil as a Humourist

The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was
perhaps no very splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than
her antecedents entitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local
solicitor, had built Windy Corner, as a speculation at the time
the district was opening up, and, falling in love with his own
creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after his
marriage the social atmosphere began to alter. Other houses were
built on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again,
among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier
of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than Windy Corner,
and were filled by people who came, not from the district, but
from London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants
of an indigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened,
but his wife accepted the situation without either pride or
humility. "I cannot think what people are doing," she would say,
"but it is extremely fortunate for the children." She called
everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the
time people found out that she was not exactly of their milieu,
they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr.
Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction--which few honest
solicitors despise--of leaving his family rooted in the best
society obtainable.

The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather
dull, and Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from
Italy. Hitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning
--their kindly affluence, their inexplosive religion, their
dislike of paper-bags, orange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical
out and out, she learnt to speak with horror of Suburbia. Life,
so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich,
pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes.
In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were
poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the
London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps
in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses
may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of
life vanished. Her senses expanded; she felt that there was no
one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were
irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over
them just as you jump into a peasant's olive-yard in the
Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.

So did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance,
but to irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but,
instead of saying, "Does that very much matter?" he rebelled, and
tried to substitute for it the society he called broad. He did
not realize that Lucy had consecrated her environment by the
thousand little civilities that create a tenderness in time, and
that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart refused to
despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point--
that if she was too great for this society, she was too great for
all society, and had reached the stage where personal intercourse
would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he
understood--a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but
equality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the
most priceless of all possessions--her own soul.

Playing bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and
aged thirteen--an ancient and most honourable game, which
consists in striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they
fall over the net and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs.
Honeychurch; others are lost. The sentence is confused, but the
better illustrates Lucy's state of mind, for she was trying to
talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.

"Oh, it has been such a nuisance--first he, then they--no one
knowing what they wanted, and every one so tiresome."

"But they really are coming now," said Mr. Beebe. "I wrote to
Miss Teresa a few days ago--she was wondering how often the
butcher called, and my reply of once a month must have impressed
her favourably. They are coming. I heard from them this morning.

"I shall hate those Miss Alans!" Mrs. Honeychurch cried. "Just
because they're old and silly one's expected to say 'How sweet!'
I hate their 'if'-ing and 'but'-ing and 'and'-ing. And poor Lucy
--serve her right--worn to a shadow."

Mr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the
tennis-court. Cecil was absent--one did not play bumble-puppy
when he was there.

"Well, if they are coming-- No, Minnie, not Saturn." Saturn was a
tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his
orb was encircled by a ring. "If they are coming, Sir Harry will
let them move in before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out
the clause about whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them
nervous, and put in the fair wear and tear one.--That doesn't
count. I told you not Saturn."

"Saturn's all right for bumble-puppy," cried Freddy, joining
them. "Minnie, don't you listen to her."

"Saturn doesn't bounce."

"Saturn bounces enough."

"No, he doesn't."

"Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil."

"Hush, dear," said Mrs. Honeychurch.

"But look at Lucy--complaining of Saturn, and all the time's got
the Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in.
That's right, Minnie, go for her--get her over the shins with the
racquet--get her over the shins!"

Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.

Mr. Beebe picked it up, and said: "The name of this ball is
Vittoria Corombona, please." But his correction passed
unheeded.

Freddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little
girls to fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie
from a well-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the
house Cecil heard them, and, though he was full of entertaining
news, he did not come down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He
was not a coward and bore necessary pain as well as any man. But
he hated the physical violence of the young. How right it was!
Sure enough it ended in a cry.

"I wish the Miss Alans could see this," observed Mr. Beebe, just
as Lucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted
off her feet by her brother.

"Who are the Miss Alans?" Freddy panted.

"They have taken Cissie Villa."

"That wasn't the name--"

Here his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the
grass. An interval elapses.

"Wasn't what name?" asked Lucy, with her brother's head in her
lap.

"Alan wasn't the name of the people Sir Harry's let to."

"Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it."

"Nonsense yourself! I've this minute seen him. He said to me:
'Ahem! Honeychurch,'"--Freddy was an indifferent mimic--"'ahem!
ahem! I have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.' I
said, 'ooray, old boy!' and slapped him on the back."

"Exactly. The Miss Alans?"

"Rather not. More like Anderson."

"Oh, good gracious, there isn't going to be another muddle!" Mrs.
Honeychurch exclaimed. "Do you notice, Lucy, I'm always right? I
said don't interfere with Cissie Villa. I'm always right. I'm
quite uneasy at being always right so often."

"It's only another muddle of Freddy's. Freddy doesn't even know
the name of the people he pretends have taken it instead."

"Yes, I do. I've got it. Emerson."

"What name?"

"Emerson. I'll bet you anything you like."

"What a weathercock Sir Harry is," said Lucy quietly. "I wish I
had never bothered over it at all."

Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr.
Beebe, whose opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece
that THAT was the proper way to behave if any little thing went
wrong.

Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs.
Honeychurch from the contemplation of her own abilities.

"Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?"

"I don't know whether they're any Emersons," retorted Freddy, who
was democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he
was naturally attracted by the idea of equality, and the
undeniable fact that there are different kinds of Emersons
annoyed him beyond measure.

"I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy"--she
was sitting up again--"I see you looking down your nose and
thinking your mother's a snob. But there is a right sort and a
wrong sort, and it's affectation to pretend there isn't."

"Emerson's a common enough name," Lucy remarked.

She was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she
could see the pine-clad promontories descending one beyond
another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the
more glorious was this lateral view.

"I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were
no relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray,
does that satisfy you?"

"Oh, yes," he grumbled. "And you will be satisfied, too, for
they're friends of Cecil; so--elaborate irony--"you and the other
country families will be able to call in perfect safety."

"CECIL?" exclaimed Lucy.

"Don't be rude, dear," said his mother placidly. "Lucy, don't
screech. It's a new bad habit you're getting into."

"But has Cecil--"

"Friends of Cecil's," he repeated, "'and so really dee-sire-
rebel. Ahem! Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.'"

She got up from the grass.

It was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much.
While she believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from
Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might
well "screech" when she heard that it came partly from her lover.
Mr. Vyse was a tease--something worse than a tease: he took a
malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing
this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his usual
kindness.

When she exclaimed, "But Cecil's Emersons--they can't possibly be
the same ones--there is that--" he did not consider that the
exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of
diverting the conversation while she recovered her composure. He
diverted it as follows:

"The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don't
suppose it will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from
them to friends of Mr. Vyse's. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest
people! The queerest people! For our part we liked them, didn't
we?" He appealed to Lucy. "There was a great scene over some
violets. They picked violets and filled all the vases in the room
of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to Cissie Villa.
Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be one
of Miss Catharine's great stories. 'My dear sister loves
flowers,' it began. They found the whole room a mass of blue
--vases and jugs--and the story ends with 'So ungentlemanly and
yet so beautiful.' It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect
those Florentine Emersons with violets."

"Fiasco's done you this time," remarked Freddy, not seeing that
his sister's face was very red. She could not recover herself.
Mr. Beebe saw it, and continued to divert the conversation.

"These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son--the
son a goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but
very immature--pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the
father--such a sentimental darling, and people declared he had
murdered his wife."

In his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such
gossip, but he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble.
He repeated any rubbish that came into his head.

"Murdered his wife?" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "Lucy, don't desert
us--go on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini
must have been the oddest place. That's the second murderer I've
heard of as being there. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop?
By-the-by, we really must ask Charlotte here some time."

Mr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his
hostess was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She
was perfectly sure that there had been a second tourist of whom
the same story had been told. The name escaped her. What was the
name? Oh, what was the name? She clasped her knees for the name.
Something in Thackeray. She struck her matronly forehead.

Lucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.

"Oh, don't go!" he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.

"I must go," she said gravely. "Don't be silly. You always overdo
it when you play."

As she left them her mother's shout of "Harris!" shivered the
tranquil air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had
never put it right. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered
her nerves and made her connect these Emersons, friends of
Cecil's, with a pair of nondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had
come to her naturally. She saw that for the future she must be
more vigilant, and be--absolutely truthful? Well, at all events,
she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still flushed
with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.

"Cecil!"

"Hullo!" he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He
seemed in high spirits. "I was hoping you'd come. I heard you all
bear-gardening, but there's better fun up here. I, even I, have
won a great victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith's right--
the cause of Comedy and the cause of Truth are really the same;
and I, even I, have found tenants for the distressful Cissie
Villa. Don't be angry! Don't be angry! You'll forgive me when you
hear it all."

He looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he
dispelled her ridiculous forebodings at once.

"I have heard," she said. "Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I
suppose I must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took
for nothing! Certainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and
I'd rather have nice friends of yours. But you oughtn't to tease
one so."

"Friends of mine?" he laughed. "But, Lucy, the whole joke is to
come! Come here." But she remained standing where she was. "Do
you know where I met these desirable tenants? In the National
Gallery, when I was up to see my mother last week."

"What an odd place to meet people!" she said nervously. "I don't
quite understand."

"In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca
Signorelli--of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking,
and they refreshed me not--a little. They had been to Italy."

"But, Cecil--" proceeded hilariously.

"In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a
country cottage--the father to live there, the son to run down
for week-ends. I thought, 'What a chance of scoring off Sir
Harry!' and I took their address and a London reference, found
they weren't actual blackguards--it was great sport--and wrote to
him, making out--"

"Cecil! No, it's not fair. I've probably met them before--"

He bore her down.

"Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old
man will do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too
disgusting with his 'decayed gentlewomen.' I meant to read him a
lesson some time. No, Lucy, the classes ought to mix, and before
long you'll agree with me. There ought to be intermarriage--all
sorts of things. I believe in democracy--"

"No, you don't," she snapped. "You don't know what the word
means."

He stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be
Leonardesque. "No, you don't!"

Her face was inartistic--that of a peevish virago.

"It isn't fair, Cecil. I blame you--I blame you very much indeed.
You had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and
make me look ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but
do you realize that it is all at my expense? I consider it most
disloyal of you."

She left him.

"Temper!" he thought, raising his eyebrows.

No, it was worse than temper--snobbishness. As long as Lucy
thought that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss
Alans, she had not minded. He perceived that these new tenants
might be of value educationally. He would tolerate the father and
draw out the son, who was silent. In the interests of the Comic
Muse and of Truth, he would bring them to Windy Corner.



Chapter XI: In Mrs. Vyse's Well-Appointed Flat

The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did
not disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the
Emersons to Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she
carried through the negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway
signed the agreement, met Mr. Emerson, who was duly
disillusioned. The Miss Alans were duly offended, and wrote a
dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held responsible for the
failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the new-comers,
and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as soon
as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse's equipment that
she permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop
his head, to be forgotten, and to die.

Lucy--to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are
shadows because there are hills--Lucy was at first plunged into
despair, but settled after a little thought that it did not
matter the very least. Now that she was engaged, the Emersons
would scarcely insult her and were welcome into the
neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom he would into
the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring the
Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a
little thinking, and--so illogical are girls--the event remained
rather greater and rather more dreadful than it should have done.
She was glad that a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants
moved into Cissie Villa while she was safe in the London flat.

"Cecil--Cecil darling," she whispered the evening she arrived,
and crept into his arms.

Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire
had been kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a
woman should, and looked up to him because he was a man.

"So you do love me, little thing?" he murmured.

"Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don't know what I should do without
you."

Several days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett.
A coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had
not corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated
from what Charlotte would call "the flight to Rome," and in Rome
it had increased amazingly. For the companion who is merely
uncongenial in the mediaeval world becomes exasperating in the
classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the Forum, would have tried a
sweeter temper than Lucy's, and once, in the Baths of Caracalla,
they had doubted whether they could continue their tour. Lucy had
said she would join the Vyses--Mrs. Vyse was an acquaintance of
her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and Miss
Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned
suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained,
and, for Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and
read as follows. It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.


"Tunbridge Wells,

September.

"Dearest Lucia,

"I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in
your parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome.
Puncturing her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while
she sat very woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her
astonishment, a door open opposite and the younger Emerson man
come out. He said his father had just taken the house. He SAID he
did not know that you lived in the neighbourhood (?). He never
suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear Lucy, I am much
worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his past
behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid
him to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune, and I
dare say you have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I
remember how I used to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry
about it all, and should not feel easy unless I warned you.

"Believe me,

"Your anxious and loving cousin,

Charlotte."


Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:


"Beauchamp Mansions, S.W.

"Dear Charlotte,

"Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on
the mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you
said she would blame you for not being always with me. I have
kept that promise, and cannot possibly tell her now. I have said
both to her and Cecil that I met the Emersons at Florence, and
that they are respectable people--which I do think--and the
reason that he offered Miss Lavish no tea was probably that he
had none himself. She should have tried at the Rectory. I cannot
begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that it would be
too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them, they
would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they
are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him
again. As for the son, I am sorry for him when we meet, rather
than for myself. They are known to Cecil, who is very well and
spoke of you the other day. We expect to be married in January.

"Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at
Windy Corner at all, but here. Please do not put 'Private'
outside your envelope again. No one opens my letters.

"Yours affectionately,

"L. M. Honeychurch."


Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion;
we cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy
and her cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy
Cecil's life if he discovered it, or with a little thing which he
would laugh at? Miss Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she
was right. It had become a great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy
would have told her mother and her lover ingenuously, and it
would have remained a little thing. "Emerson, not Harris"; it was
only that a few weeks ago. She tried to tell Cecil even now when
they were laughing about some beautiful lady who had smitten his
heart at school. But her body behaved so ridiculously that she
stopped.

She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted
Metropolis visiting the scenes they were to know so well later
on. It did her no harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of
society, while society itself was absent on the golf-links or the
moors. The weather was cool, and it did her no harm. In spite of
the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party
consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people. The
food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness that impressed
the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One launched
into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself up
amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension
Bertolini and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw
that her London career would estrange her a little from all that
she had loved in the past.

The grandchildren asked her to play the piano.

She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven" called Cecil, when the
querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and
played Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It
broke; it was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle
to the grave. The sadness of the incomplete--the sadness that is
often Life, but should never be Art--throbbed in its disjected
phrases, and made the nerves of the audience throb. Not thus had
she played on the little draped piano at the Bertolini, and "Too
much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr. Beebe had passed to
himself when she returned.

When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse
paced up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party
with her son. Mrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality,
like many another's, had been swamped by London, for it needs a
strong head to live among many people. The too vast orb of her
fate had crushed her; and she had seen too many seasons, too many
cities, too many men, for her abilities, and even with Cecil she
was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one son, but, so to
speak, a filial crowd.

"Make Lucy one of us," she said, looking round intelligently at
the end of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she
spoke again. "Lucy is becoming wonderful--wonderful."

"Her music always was wonderful."

"Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most
excellent Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not
always quoting servants, or asking one how the pudding is made."

"Italy has done it."

"Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented
Italy to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her
next January. She is one of us already."

"But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to
Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was
right for this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know,
mother, I shall have our children educated just like Lucy. Bring
them up among honest country folks for freshness, send them to
Italy for subtlety, and then--not till then--let them come to
London. I don't believe in these London educations--" He broke
off, remembering that he had had one himself, and concluded, "At
all events, not for women."

"Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.

As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from
Lucy's room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs.
Vyse thought it kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting
upright with her hand on her cheek.

"I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams."

"Bad dreams?"

"Just dreams."

The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly:
"You should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you
more than ever. Dream of that."

Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand.
Mrs. Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke,
snored. Darkness enveloped the flat.



Chapter XII: Twelfth Chapter

It was a Saturday afternoon, gay and brilliant after abundant
rains, and the spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was
now autumn. All that was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars
passed through Summer Street they raised only a little dust, and
their stench was soon dispersed by the wind and replaced by the
scent of the wet birches or of the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure
for life's amenities, leant over his Rectory gate. Freddy leant
by him, smoking a pendant pipe.

"Suppose we go and hinder those new people opposite for a
little."

"M'm."

"They might amuse you."

Freddy, whom his fellow-creatures never amused, suggested that
the new people might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they
had only just moved in.

"I suggested we should hinder them," said Mr. Beebe. "They are
worth it." Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular
green to Cissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open
door, through which much squalor was visible.

A grave voice replied, "Hullo!"

"I've brought some one to see you."

"I'll be down in a minute."

The passage was blocked by a wardrobe, which the removal men had
failed to carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with
difficulty. The sitting-room itself was blocked with books.

"Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they
that sort?"

"I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have
they got? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it.
The Way of All Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear
George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we
go on. Well, I suppose your generation knows its own business,
Honeychurch."

"Mr. Beebe, look at that," said Freddy in awestruck tones.

On the cornice of the wardrobe, the hand of an amateur had
painted this inscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require
new clothes."

"I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old
man's doing."

"How very odd of him!"

"Surely you agree?"

But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go
on spoiling the furniture.

"Pictures!" the clergyman continued, scrambling about the room.
"Giotto--they got that at Florence, I'll be bound."

"The same as Lucy's got."

"Oh, by-the-by, did Miss Honeychurch enjoy London?"

"She came back yesterday."

"I suppose she had a good time?"

"Yes, very," said Freddy, taking up a book. "She and Cecil are
thicker than ever."

"That's good hearing."

"I wish I wasn't such a fool, Mr. Beebe."

Mr. Beebe ignored the remark.

"Lucy used to be nearly as stupid as I am, but it'll be very
different now, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books."

"So will you."

"Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about
afterwards. Cecil is teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her
playing is wonderful. There are all kinds of things in it that we
have never noticed. Cecil says--"

"What on earth are those people doing upstairs? Emerson--we think
we'll come another time."

George ran down-stairs and pushed them into the room without
speaking.

"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, a neighbour."

Then Freddy hurled one of the thunderbolts of youth. Perhaps he
was shy, perhaps he was friendly, or perhaps he thought that
George's face wanted washing. At all events he greeted him with,
"How d'ye do? Come and have a bathe."

"Oh, all right," said George, impassive.

Mr. Beebe was highly entertained.

"'How d'ye do? how d'ye do? Come and have a bathe,'" he chuckled.
"That's the best conversational opening I've ever heard. But I'm
afraid it will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who
has been introduced to another lady by a third lady opening
civilities with 'How do you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet
you will tell me that the sexes are equal."

"I tell you that they shall be," said Mr. Emerson, who had been
slowly descending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell
you they shall be comrades, and George thinks the same."

"We are to raise ladies to our level?" the clergyman inquired.

"The Garden of Eden," pursued Mr. Emerson, still descending,
"which you place in the past, is really yet to come. We shall
enter it when we no longer despise our bodies."

Mr. Beebe disclaimed placing the Garden of Eden anywhere.

"In this--not in other things--we men are ahead. We despise the
body less than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we
enter the garden."

"I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the
mass of philosophy that was approaching him.

"I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return to
Nature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that
we must discover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain
simplicity. It is our heritage."

"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember
at Florence."

"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking
George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going
to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy,
for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by
chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about
this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry
Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to
compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative
attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a
glorious country, Honeychurch!"

"Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--
have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I
hope."

"CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on
your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a
glorious country."

Mr. Beebe came to the rescue.

"Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will
return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you
have realized about the ten days' interval. It does not count
that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not
count that they are going to bathe this afternoon."

"Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them
back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will
do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I
can't believe he's well."

George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar
smell of one who has handled furniture.

"Do you really want this bathe?" Freddy asked him. "It is only a
pond, don't you know. I dare say you are used to something
better."

"Yes--I have said 'Yes' already."

Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way
out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For
a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them
dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only
heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe,
who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was
compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure,
and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of
Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with
slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the
motions of the tree-tops above their heads.

And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you
realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?"

"I did not. Miss Lavish told me."

"When I was a young man, I always meant to write a 'History of
Coincidence.'"

No enthusiasm.

"Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we
suppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are
here now, when one comes to reflect."

To his relief, George began to talk.

"It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are
flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together,
drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--"

"You have not reflected at all," rapped the clergyman. "Let me
give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't
say, 'I didn't do this,' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll
cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and
myself?"

"Italy."

"And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss
Honeychurch?"

"National Gallery."

"Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of
coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and
so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably
we meet again in it."

"It is Fate that I am here," persisted George. "But you can call
it Italy if it makes you less unhappy."

Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject.
But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire
to snub George.

"And so for this and for other reasons my "'History of
Coincidence' is still to write."

Silence.

Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad
that you have come."

Silence.

"Here we are!" called Freddy.

"Oh, good!" exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.

"In there's the pond. I wish it was bigger," he added
apologetically.

They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the
pond, set in its little alp of green--only a pond, but large
enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the
sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the
surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path,
tempting these feet towards the central pool.

"It's distinctly successful, as ponds go," said Mr. Beebe. "No
apologies are necessary for the pond."

George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced
his boots.

"Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb
in seed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?"

No one knew, or seemed to care.

"These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous
tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths
are tough or brittle--heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very
charming, very charming.

"Mr. Beebe, aren't you bathing?" called Freddy, as he stripped
himself.

Mr. Beebe thought he was not.

"Water's wonderful!" cried Freddy, prancing in.

"Water's water," murmured George. Wetting his hair first--a sure
sign of apathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as
indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of
soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary
to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of
the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.

"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo," went Freddy, swimming for two
strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds
or mud.

"Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the
flooded margin.

The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had
weighed the question properly.

"Hee-poof--I've swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water's
wonderful, water's simply ripping."

"Water's not so bad," said George, reappearing from his plunge,
and sputtering at the sun.

"Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do."

"Apooshoo, kouf."

Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible,
looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the
pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each
other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of
motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky,
evergreens, a wind--these things not even the seasons can touch,
and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?

"I may as well wash too"; and soon his garments made a third
little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the
water.

It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as
Freddy said, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three
gentlemen rotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of
the nymphs in Gotterdammerung. But either because the rains had
given a freshness or because the sun was shedding a most glorious
heat, or because two of the gentlemen were young in years and the
third young in spirit--for some reason or other a change came
over them, and they forgot Italy and Botany and Fate. They began
to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed each other. A little
deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: they feared
they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. He
smiled, flung himself at them, splashed them, ducked them, kicked
them, muddied them, and drove them out of the pool.

"Race you round it, then," cried Freddy, and they raced in the
sunshine, and George took a short cut and dirtied his shins, and
had to bathe a second time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a
memorable sight.

They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at
being Indians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed
to get clean. And all the time three little bundles lay
discreetly on the sward, proclaiming:

"No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin.
To us shall all flesh turn in the end."

"A try! A try!" yelled Freddy, snatching up George's bundle and
placing it beside an imaginary goal-post.

"Socker rules," George retorted, scattering Freddy's bundle
with a kick.

"Goal!"

"Goal!"

"Pass!"

"Take care my watch!" cried Mr. Beebe.

Clothes flew in all directions.

"Take care my hat! No, that's enough, Freddy. Dress now. No, I
say!"

But the two young men were delirious. Away they twinkled into the
trees, Freddy with a clerical waistcoat under his arm, George
with a wide-awake hat on his dripping hair.

"That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he
was in his own parish. Then his voice changed as if every
pine-tree was a Rural Dean. "Hi! Steady on! I see people coming
you fellows!"

Yells, and widening circles over the dappled earth.

"Hi! hi! LADIES!"

Neither George nor Freddy was truly refined. Still, they did not
hear Mr. Beebe's last warning or they would have avoided Mrs.
Honeychurch, Cecil, and Lucy, who were walking down to call on
old Mrs. Butterworth. Freddy dropped the waistcoat at their feet,
and dashed into some bracken. George whooped in their faces,
turned and scudded away down the path to the pond, still
clad in Mr. Beebe's hat.

"Gracious alive!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch. "Whoever were those
unfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe,
too! Whatever has happened?"

"Come this way immediately," commanded Cecil, who always felt
that he must lead women, though knew not whither, and protect
them, though he knew not against what. He led them now towards
the bracken where Freddy sat concealed.

"Oh, poor Mr. Beebe! Was that his waistcoat we left in the path?
Cecil, Mr. Beebe's waistcoat--"

No business of ours, said Cecil, glancing at Lucy, who was all
parasol and evidently "minded."

"I fancy Mr. Beebe jumped back into the pond."

"This way, please, Mrs. Honeychurch, this way."

They followed him up the bank attempting the tense yet nonchalant
expression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions.

"Well, I can't help it," said a voice close ahead, and Freddy
reared a freckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the
fronds. "I can't be trodden on, can I?"

"Good gracious me, dear; so it's you! What miserable management!
Why not have a comfortable bath at home, with hot and cold laid
on?"

"Look here, mother, a fellow must wash, and a fellow's got to
dry, and if another fellow--"

"Dear, no doubt you're right as usual, but you are in no position
to argue. Come, Lucy." They turned. "Oh, look--don't look! Oh,
poor Mr. Beebe! How unfortunate again--"

For Mr. Beebe was just crawling out of the pond, On whose surface
garments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the
world-weary George, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish.

"And me, I've swallowed one," answered he of the bracken. "I've
swallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die--
Emerson you beast, you've got on my bags."

"Hush, dears," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to
remain shocked. "And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly
first. All these colds come of not drying thoroughly."

"Mother, do come away," said Lucy. "Oh for goodness' sake, do
come."

"Hullo!" cried George, so that again the ladies stopped.

He regarded himself as dressed. Barefoot, bare-chested, radiant
and personable against the shadowy woods, he called:

"Hullo, Miss Honeychurch! Hullo!"

"Bow, Lucy; better bow. Whoever is it? I shall bow."

Miss Honeychurch bowed.

That evening and all that night the water ran away. On the morrow
the pool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had
been a call to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing
benediction whose influence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a
momentary chalice for youth.



Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome

How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she
had always rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories,
which surely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that
she and George would meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst
an army of coats and collars and boots that lay wounded over the
sunlit earth? She had imagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be
shy or morbid or indifferent or furtively impudent. She was
prepared for all of these. But she had never imagined one who
would be happy and greet her with the shout of the morning star.

Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, she
reflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any
degree of accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A
fault in the scenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the
audience on to the stage, and all our carefully planned gestures
mean nothing, or mean too much. "I will bow," she had thought. "I
will not shake hands with him. That will be just the proper
thing." She had bowed--but to whom? To gods, to heroes, to the
nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed across the rubbish that
cumbers the world.

So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It
was another of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth
had wanted to see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not
want to hear about hydrangeas, why they change their colour at
the seaside. He did not want to join the C. O. S. When cross he
was always elaborate, and made long, clever answers where "Yes"
or "No" would have done. Lucy soothed him and tinkered at the
conversation in a way that promised well for their married peace.
No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser to discover the
imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, though not
in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothing
satisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded the
teaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.

"Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the
matter with Cecil?"

The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had
behaved with charity and restraint.

"No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right."

"Perhaps he's tired."

Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.

"Because otherwise"--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gathering
displeasure--"because otherwise I cannot account for him."

"I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean
that."

"Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a
little girl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you
through the typhoid fever. No--it is just the same thing
everywhere."

"Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?"

"Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?"

"Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy,
seeing trouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that
that makes him sometimes seem--"

"Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he
gets rid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her
the bonnet.

"Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!"

"Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in
that way. No. It is the same with Cecil all over."

"By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while
I was away in London."

This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs.
Honeychurch resented it.

"Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please
him. Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless
to contradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary nor
intellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room
furniture; your father bought it and we must put up with it, will
Cecil kindly remember."

"I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he
does not mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things
that upset him--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not
uncivil to PEOPLE."

"Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?"

"You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as
we do."

"Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and
sneering and spoiling everyone's pleasure?"

"We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had
enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so
perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form.
The two civilizations had clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--
and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that
lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and
bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and
music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the
song is not distinguishable from the comic song.

She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch
changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a
word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the
fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded.
And Lucy--she knew not why--wished that the trouble could have
come at any other time.

"Go and dress, dear; you'll be late."

"All right, mother--"

"Don't say 'All right' and stop. Go."

She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It
faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky.
Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One
connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem
menaced her, but she sighed to herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I
do, what shall I do?" It seemed to her that every one else was
behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss
Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; her mother was
rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh,
dear, should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding up-stairs,
and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved.

"I say, those are topping people."

"My dear baby, how tiresome you've been! You have no business to take
them bathing in the Sacred it's much too public. It was all right
for you but most awkward for every one else. Do be more careful. You
forget the place is growing half suburban."

"I say, is anything on to-morrow week?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis."

"Oh, I wouldn't do that, Freddy, I wouldn't do that with all this
muddle."

"What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and
I've ordered new balls."

"I meant it's better not. I really mean it."

He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down
the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have
screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to
his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water
cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: "Lucy,
what a noise you're making! I have something to say to you. Did
you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?" and Freddy ran
away.

"Yes. I really can't stop. I must dress too."

"How's Charlotte?"

"All right."

"Lucy!"

The unfortunate girl returned.

"You've a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one's
sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?"

"Her WHAT?"

"Don't you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October,
and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible
to-doings?"

"I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly.
"I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with
Cecil."

Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said:
"Come here, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss
me." And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment
that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining
sun were perfect.

So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy
Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged
hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of
oil. Cecil despised their methods--perhaps rightly. At a11
events, they were not his own.

Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they
drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were
hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy
said:

"Lucy, what's Emerson like?"

"I saw him in Florence," said Lucy, hoping that this would pass
for a reply.

"Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?"

"Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here."

"He is the clever sort, like myself," said Cecil.

Freddy looked at him doubtfully.

"How well did you know them at the Bertolini?" asked Mrs.
Honeychurch.

"Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I
did."

"Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in
her letter."

"One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would
get through the meal without a lie. "Among other things, that an
awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street,
wondered if she'd come up and see us, and mercifully didn't."

"Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind."

"She was a novelist," said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy
one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in
the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh
against those women who (instead of minding their houses and
their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: "If
books must be written, let them be written by men"; and she de-
veloped it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played
at "This year, next year, now, never," with his plum-stones, and
Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. But soon the
conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the
darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--
that touch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago;
it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her on a
mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris,
Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one
or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil's very
eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling
vividness.

"I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How
is she?"

"I tore the thing up."

"Didn't she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?"

"Oh, yes I suppose so--no--not very cheerful, I suppose."

"Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water
preys upon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a
misfortune with the meat."

Cecil laid his hand over his eyes.

"So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up
the spirit of her remark rather than the substance.

"And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely
we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice
holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not
seen poor Charlotte for so long."

It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not
protest violently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs.

"Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have
Charlotte on the top of the other things; we're squeezed to death
as it is. Freddy's got a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil,
and you've promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the
diphtheria scare. It simply can't be done."

"Nonsense! It can."

"If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise."

"Minnie can sleep with you."

"I won't have her."

"Then, if you're so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with
Freddy."

"Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett," moaned Cecil,
again laying his hand over his eyes.

"It's impossible," repeated Lucy. "I don't want to make
difficulties, but it really isn't fair on the maids to fill up
the house so."

Alas!

"The truth is, dear, you don't like Charlotte."

"No, I don't. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You
haven't seen her lately, and don't realize how tiresome she can
be, though so good. So please, mother, don't worry us this last
summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come."

"Hear, hear!" said Cecil.

Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more
feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: "This isn't
very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to
walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only
the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and
however clever young people are, and however many books they
read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old."

Cecil crumbled his bread.

"I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I
called on my bike," put in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming
till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an
egg boiled for my tea just right."

"I know, dear. She is kind to every one, and yet Lucy makes this
difficulty when we try to give her some little return."

But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss
Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One
might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched
neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was
reduced to saying: "I can't help it, mother. I don't like
Charlotte. I admit it's horrid of me."

"From your own account, you told her as much."

"Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried--"

The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even
usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake
would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something
would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against
ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories
and emotions alone seemed real.

"I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so
well," said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind,
thanks to the admirable cooking.

"I didn't mean the egg was WELL boiled," corrected Freddy,
"because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a
matter of fact I don't care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind
she seemed."

Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers,
hydrangeas, maids--of such were their lives compact. "May me and
Lucy get down from our chairs?" he asked, with scarcely veiled
insolence. "We don't want no dessert."



Chapter XIV : How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely

0f course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she
felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given
an inferior spare room--something with no view, anything. Her
love to Lucy. And, equally of course, George Emerson could come
to tennis on the Sunday week.

Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she
only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed
inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put
them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer
Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past
foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at
night. When she talked to George--they met again almost
immediately at the Rectory--his voice moved her deeply, and she
wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to
remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which
love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered
from "things that came out of nothing and meant she didn't
know what." Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet
afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world
could be dismissed.

It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, "She loves young
Emerson." A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious.
Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we
welcome "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will cloak our
personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will
the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been
reversed?

But the external situation--she will face that bravely.

The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing
between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate
allusions to Italy, and George had replied. She was anxious to
show that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not seem shy
either.

"A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his
crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life
gracefully."

Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more."

"Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up."

That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences
fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty.
In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to
bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at
Dorking, whither Mrs. Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived
at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No
one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop
their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and
Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie
Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper
lawn for tea.

"I shall never forgive myself," said Miss Bartlett, who kept on
rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company
to remain. "I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people!
But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate."

"Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while
her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown
unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been
trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half
hour."

"I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett,
and looked at her frayed glove

"All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a
bob to the driver."

Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies.
Could any one give her change?  Freddy had half a quid and his
friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys
and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?"

"Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy.

"No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she
is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine
is the prompt settling of accounts."

Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that
need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's
quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been
ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt  the eternal
attraction of Chance, and turned round.

But this did not do, either.

"Please--please--I know I am a sad spoilsport, but it would make
me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost."

"Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will
work out right if you give the pound to me."

"Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that,
Mr. Vyse?"

"Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound,
and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling."

Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and
rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the
other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at
nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face
petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue
his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle.

"But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly
watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to
have the quid."

"Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said
solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound,
you see."

"But I don't see--"

They tried to stifle her with cake.

"No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me.
Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr.
Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see
why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver."'

"I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening.
"Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any
one give me change for half a crown?"

"I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision.

"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign.
I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing
again from the beginning."

"Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and
followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating
hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her
wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?"

"No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her
tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let
me see--a sovereign's worth of silver."

She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions
were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every
word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about
cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.

"No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she
returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all
shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can
settle your debt nicely now."

Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph
of St. John ascending, which had been framed.

"How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr.
Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source."

"Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George
Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?"

Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him
looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet
between his teeth."

Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our
nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver
ever get hold of Cecil?"

"We must think of every possibility."

"Oh, it's all right."

"Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to
know."

"I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter,
but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to
laugh at it."

"To contradict it?"

"No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could
not trust him, for he desired her untouched.

"Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different
to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly
different."

"Now, Charlotte!"  She struck at her playfully. "You kind,
anxious thing.  What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't
tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!"

Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation,
dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and
you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in
all ways than I am. You will never forgive me."

"Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we
don't."

For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being
scalped with a teaspoon.

"Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again.
Have you seen the young one yet?"

"Yes, I have."

"What happened?"

"We met at the Rectory."

"What line is he taking up?"

"No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is
really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad,
to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He
really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."

"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."

Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so
profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the
subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to
Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself,
turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's
library. Her mother must have returned from the station.

"Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett.

"What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I
fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I
don't think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a
difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him
unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference,
and he lost his head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that
nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and has asked him
up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has
improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into
tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of
the big railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for
week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and
has retired. There! Now for the garden." She took hold of her
guest by the arm. "Suppose we don't talk about this silly Italian
business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at
Windy Corner, with no worriting."

Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have
detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett
detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to
penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken
further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her
hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy
escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain.



Chapter XV: The Disaster Within

The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like
most of the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached,
breaking up the green monotony of summer, touching the parks with
the grey bloom of mist, the beech-trees with russet, the
oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights, battalions of black pines
witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable. Either country was
spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the tinkle of
church bells.

The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except 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't blame them"-- Minnie
says, need she go?"-- "Tell her, no nonsense"-- "Anne! Mary!
Hook me behind!"-- "Dearest Lucia, may I trespass upon you for a
pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at all 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 they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on
Mr. Beebe down at Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from
Miss Catharine Alan; on George Emerson cleaning his father's
boots; and lastly, to complete the catalogue 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 be caressed all the morning by
the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging
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 her finger a ring set
with rubies--an engagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald.
She frowns a little--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns
when he is trying not to cry. In all that expanse no human eye is
looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked and measure the
spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western hills.

"Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of
the shelf and leaving it about to spoil?"

"It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading."

"But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo."

Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly,
Under a Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all
her spare time to solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil
up. It was dreadful how little she knew, and even when she
thought she knew a thing, like the Italian painters, she found
she had forgotten it. Only this morning she had confused
Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had
said, "What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?" And this
too had lent anxiety to her eyes when 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 a shilling for
yourself?"

She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself
into a Sunday fluster.

"It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no
vulgar clinking in the plate with 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 the
horse, 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 infectious than 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
the young men? The young men, who had now appeared, mocked her
with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and
in the 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 have no 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 tatters now, 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 they drove off.

"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil.

Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of
"church and so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory
conversation. He had said that people ought to overhaul
themselves, and she did not want to overhaul herself; she did not
know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected, but he always
assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he
could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow
heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained
her, 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 the road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be
opposite Cissie Villa. To save time, they walked over the green
to it, and found father and son smoking in the garden.

"Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers
that he knows me already."

He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced
them formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, 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 the conversation to a
less disturbing topic, and asked him how he liked his new house.

"Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his
voice; she had never known him offended before. He added: "We
find, though, that the Miss Alans 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 some misunderstanding," said Mrs.
Honeychurch uneasily.

"Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of
person," said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter
further. "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 Lucy lightly. She must avoid
censuring Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode
turned, though his name was never mentioned.

"So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall.
Yet it does seem so unkind."

"There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said
George, watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing
carriages.

"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 we stand, and it is no good
moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow
always 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 are worth, 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 to poor Freddy."

George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that 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 your son we
should be so pleased."

He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; 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 arm round his father's neck.
The kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in
him came out suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a
touch of the morning sun? She remembered that in all his
perversities he 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 to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into
the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was
the pension Bertolini again, the dining-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 have pleased Lucy, but
his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods
after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might
suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her
upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a
truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when
George threw her photographs into the River Arno.

"George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great
treat for people if his son would talk to them. "George has been
in such good spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming
up this afternoon."

Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made
her reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope 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 been told of the Florence
escapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she
had sighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she
greeted it with disproportionate joy. All the way home the
horses' hoofs sang a tune to her: "He has not told, he has not
told." Her brain expanded the melody: "He has not told 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 all right. It's a secret
between us two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even
glad that Miss Bartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last
dark evening at Florence, when they had knelt packing in his
room. The secret, big or little, was guarded.

Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she
interpreted her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance,
because she felt so safe. As he helped her out of the carriage,
she said:

"The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved
enormously."

"How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in
them, and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them
to Windy Corner for educational purposes.

"Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only
relationship which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector
and protected. He had no glimpse of the comradeship after which
the girl's soul yearned.

"You shall see for yourself how your proteges 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, as often 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 the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her
soul: "It will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must
go to London to entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men."
But to-day she felt she had received a guarantee. Her mother
would always sit there, her brother here. The sun, though it had
moved a little since the morning, would never be hidden behind
the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play. She had
seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memory the music
of the enchanted garden--the music to which Renaud approaches,
beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains,
never wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of
fairyland. Such music is not for the piano, and her audience
began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called
out: "Now play 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, getting very red; and then,
without a word of greeting, she reopened the piano. Cecil should
have the Parsifal, and anything else that he liked.

"Our performer has changed her mind," said Miss Bartlett, perhaps
implying, she will play the music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not
know what to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played a few
bars of the Flower Maidens' song very badly and then she stopped.

"I vote tennis," said Freddy, disgusted at the 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 of kindness in a bad
player to make up a fourth.

"Oh, come along Cecil. I'm bad, Floyd's rotten, and so I dare
say'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: "I agree 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 heavily upon 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 the morning, and broke it without
reluctance in the afternoon. As she changed her frock, she
wondered whether Cecil was sneering at her; really she must
overhaul herself and settle everything up before she married him.

Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but how much better
tennis seemed. How much better to run about in comfortable
clothes than to sit at the piano and feel girt under the arms.
Once more music appeared to her the employment of a child. George
served, and surprised her by his anxiety to win. She remembered
how he had sighed among the tombs at Santa Croce because things
wouldn't fit; how after the death of that obscure Italian he had
leant over the parapet by the Arno and said to her: "I shall want
to live, I tell you," He wanted to live now, to win at tennis, to
stand for all he was worth in the sun--the sun which had 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, and the South
Downs, if one chose, were the mountains of Carrara. She might be
forgetting her Italy, but she was 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 for
Florence. 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 through the tennis, for the novel that he
was reading was so bad that he was obliged to read it aloud to
others. He would stroll round the precincts of the court and call
out: "I say, listen to this, Lucy. Three split infinitives."

"Dreadful!" said Lucy, and missed her stroke. When they had
finished their set, he still went on reading; there was some
murder scene, and really every one must listen to it. Freddy and
Mr. Floyd were obliged to hunt for 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 it struck her that she did
mind, so she answered, "Yes." She added merrily, "I don't see
you're such a splendid player, though. The light was behind you,
and it was in my eyes."

"I never said I was."

"Why, you did!"

"You didn't attend."

"You said--oh, don't go in for accuracy at this house. We all
exaggerate, and we get very angry with people who don't."

"'The scene is laid in Florence,'" repeated Cecil, 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 too late. 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
Summer Street. It was she who told me that you lived here."

"Weren't you pleased?" She meant "to see Miss Lavish," but when
he bent down to the grass without replying, it struck her that
she could mean something else. She watched his head, which was
almost resting 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's
met her."

"All modern books are bad," said Cecil, who was 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 a twittering sparrow. The ups
and downs in his voice were noticeable, 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 saw herself 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 the remark was striking or
not.

"My father"--he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed)--
"says that there is only one perfect view--the view of the sky
straight over our heads, and that all these views on earth are
but bungled copies of it."

"I expect your father has been reading Dante," said Cecil,
fingering the novel, which alone permitted him to lead the
conversation.

"He told us another day that views are really crowds--crowds of
trees and houses and hills--and are bound to resemble each other,
like human crowds--and that the power they have over us is
sometimes supernatural, 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 knows how--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 in this book," said Cecil.
"Also that men fall into two classes--those who forget views and
those who remember them, even in small rooms."

"Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters?"

"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 going into 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--he hadn'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 hear silly
things read out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can
go."

This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their
visitor in the position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat
down again.

"Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls." She opened the book.
Cecil must have his reading and anything else that he liked. But
her attention wandered to George's mother, who--according to Mr.
Eager--had been murdered in the sight of God according to 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 bothering you."

Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences.

She thought she had gone mad.

"Here--hand me the book."

She heard her voice saying: "It isn't worth reading--it's too
silly to read--I never saw such rubbish--it oughtn't to be
allowed to be printed."

He took the book from her.

"'Leonora,'" he read, "'sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the
rich champaign of Tuscany, 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 to read 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 turned to George and saw his
face.

He read: "'There came from his lips no wordy protestation such as
formal lovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from
the lack of it. He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.'"

"This isn't the passage I wanted," he informed them. "there is
another much funnier, further on." He turned over the leaves.

"Should we go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice remained steady.

She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last.
She thought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the
shrubbery it came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief
enough, had been forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and
George, who loved passionately, must blunder against her in the
narrow path.

"No--" she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him.

As if no more was possible, he slipped back; 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 the conventions
and the world disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was
not shaken by deep sobs. She said to Cecil, "I am not coming in
to tea--tell mother--I must write some letters," and went up to
her room. Then she prepared for action. Love felt and
returned, love which our bodies exact and our hearts have
transfigured, love which is the most real thing that we shall
ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she must
stifle 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 of the views grew dim and the words of the
book died away, she returned to her old shibboleth of nerves. She
"conquered her breakdown." Tampering with the truth, she forgot
that the truth had ever been. Remembering that she was engaged to
Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrances of George;
he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; he had behaved
abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour of falsehood
is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not only from
others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equipped
for battle.

"Something too awful has happened," she began, as soon as her
cousin arrived. "Do you know anything about Miss Lavish's novel?"

Miss Bartlett looked surprised, and said that she had not read
the book, nor known that it was published; Eleanor was a reticent
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 in the 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 growing agitation.

"About that dreadful afternoon in February."

Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. "Oh, Lucy, dearest girl--she
hasn't put that in her book?"

Lucy nodded.

"Not so that one could recognize it. Yes."

"Then never--never--never more shall Eleanor 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 you gave me when we were
packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldn'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 not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in
response. She had done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped
that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest
confidence.

Lucy stamped with irritation.

"Cecil happened to read out the passage aloud 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 a discredited visitor at
that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself
into the necessary rage.

"He must--that man must have such a setting down 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 with a 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 a cad?"

"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, or isn't he? I want to
know."

Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had
unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain.
She moved feebly to the window, and tried to 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 Lucy contemptuously. "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 a gentleman can settle."
George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his
hand.

"Very well," said Lucy, with an angry gesture. "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
house on 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, the sloppy 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 ridiculous question?"

"Poor Lucy--" She stretched out her hand. "I seem to bring
nothing but misfortune wherever I go." Lucy nodded. She
remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the
candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was
not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's
caress, she led the way 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 thoroughly
frightened, 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 into it 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 mean that you are going to marry that man?"

The line was unexpected.

She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You
are merely ridiculous," she said quietly.

Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with
Vyse. He's only for an acquaintance. He is for society and
cultivated talk. He should know no one intimately, least of all 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
as they keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come
to people. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even
now. It's shocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally
a man must deny himself joy, and I would have held back if your
Cecil had been a different person. I would never have let myself
go. But I saw him first in the National Gallery, when he winced
because my father mispronounced the names of great painters. Then
he brings us here, and we find it is to play some silly trick on
a kind neighbour. That is the man all over--playing tricks on
people, on the most sacred form of life that he can find. Next, I
meet you together, and find him protecting and teaching you and
your mother to be shocked, when it was for YOU to settle 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
thinks womanly; and you, you of all women, listen to his voice
instead of to your own. So it was at the Rectory, when I met you
both 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 not
have noticed that I love you. Or would you have told me to go,
and dealt with a tremendous thing so lightly? But therefore--
therefore I settled to fight him."

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 have caught the habit."

And he took the shoddy reproof and touched it into immortality.
He said:

"Yes, I have," and sank down as if suddenly weary. "I'm the same
kind of brute at bottom. This desire to govern a woman--it lies
very deep, and men and women must fight it together before they
shall enter the garden. But I do love you surely in a better way
than he does." He thought. "Yes--really in a better way. I want
you to have your own thoughts even when I hold you in my arms,"
He stretched them towards her. "Lucy, be quick--there's no time
for us to talk now--come to me as you came in the spring, and
afterwards I will be gentle and explain. I have cared for you
since that man died. I cannot live without you, 'No good,' I
thought; 'she is marrying some one else'; but I meet you again
when all the world is glorious water and sun. As you came through
the wood I saw that nothing else mattered. I called. I wanted to
live and have my chance of joy."

"And Mr. Vyse?" said Lucy, who kept commendably 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 turned to Miss Bartlett, who sat
like some portent against the skies of the evening. "You wouldn't
stop us this second time if you understood," he said. "I have
been into the dark, and I am going back into it, unless you will
try to understand."

Her long, narrow head drove backwards and forwards, 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 matter
intellectually."

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 front
door; and when they looked through the hall window, they saw him
go up the drive and begin to climb the slopes of withered fern
behind the house. Their tongues were loosed, and they burst into
stealthy rejoicings.

"Oh, Lucia--come back here--oh, what an awful 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 the roguish:

"Well, it isn't every one who could boast such 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--so unlike
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 the emotion was strong--seized her, and she was
aware of autumn. Summer was ending, and the evening brought her
odours of decay, the more pathetic because they were reminiscent
of spring. That something or other mattered intellectually? A
leaf, violently agitated, danced past her, while other leaves lay
motionless. That the earth was hastening to re-enter darkness,
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 am no athlete. As you well
remarked this very morning, 'There are some chaps who are no good
for anything but books'; I plead guilty to being 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 same evening 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 a glass of whiskey between his hands, trying to
think what had led her to such a conclusion.

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 retire with their glasses,
while Cecil invariably lingered, sipping at his while she locked
up the sideboard.

"I am very sorry about it," she said; "I have carefully thought
things over. We are too different. I must ask you to release me,
and try to forget 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 her knees by the sideboard. "My Italian trip
came too late, and I am forgetting all that I learnt there. I
shall never be able to talk to your friends, 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 they say."

"Well, you sound tired, as if something has worried you."

"What if I do? It doesn't prevent me from realizing the truth. I
can't marry you, and you will thank me for saying so some day."

"You had that bad headache yesterday--All right"--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 I was sure that you loved me,
and the other part--I find it difficult--I am likely to say the
wrong thing."

It struck her that he was not behaving so badly, and her
irritation increased. She again desired a struggle, not a
discussion. To bring on the crisis, she said:

"There are days when one sees clearly, and this is one of them.
Things must come to a breaking-point some time, and it happens to
be to-day. If you want to know, quite a little thing decided 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 warned me if you felt anything wrong? You
talked of our wedding at lunch--at least, you let me talk."

"I knew you wouldn't understand," said Lucy quite crossly. "I
might have known there would have been these dreadful
explanations. Of course, it isn't the tennis--that was only 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, in London; 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 our engagement, Cecil, but all our
relations seemed pleased, and we met so often, and it was 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 Cecil gently. "I cannot
tell why, but though all that you say 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 the window.  From where she
knelt, jangling her keys, she could see a slit of darkness, and,
peering into it, as if it would tell him that "little more," his
long, thoughtful face.

"Don't open the window; and you'd better draw the curtain, too;
Freddy or any one might be outside." He obeyed. "I really think
we had better go to bed, if you don't mind. I shall only say
things that will make me unhappy afterwards. As you say it is all
too horrible, and it is no good talking."

But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, 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 living woman, with mysteries and forces of her own,
with qualities that even eluded art. His brain recovered from the
shock, and, in a 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 you this last time, too."

He began to walk up and down the room, and she 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 all that 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 she accepted 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 you not to, and I must say something. It is that, more or
less. When we were only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but
now you're always protecting me." Her voice swelled. "I won't be
protected. I will choose for myself what is ladylike and 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 to her
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 most glorious 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 to things, 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, before you 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?" she asked, seized with
incontrollable anger.

"I mean that a new person seems speaking through you," said he.

Then she lost her balance. She cried: "If you think I am in love
with some 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
kept Europe back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking
of men. If a girl breaks off her engagement, every one 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 the sake of freedom."

He answered reverently: "I may have said that 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 'some one 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 you that 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 and mine--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 you have done--
for showing me what I really am. Solemnly, I thank you for
showing me a true woman. Will you shake hands?"

"Of course I will," said Lucy, twisting up her 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 the shadows from three
banisters passed over her face like the beat of wings. On the
landing he paused strong in his renunciation, and gave her a
look of memorable beauty. For all his culture, Cecil was an
ascetic at 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 day believe in
herself. She must be one of the women whom she had praised so
eloquently, who care for liberty and not for men; she must forget
that George loved her, that George had been thinking through her
and gained her this honourable release, that George had gone
away 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, and
march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of
pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy
that 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
show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness
hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go.
They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not
by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary course of
nature, those allied deities will be avenged.

Lucy entered this army when she pretended to 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 the ridge, but a few
hundred feet down the southern slope, at the springing of one of
the 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 into the Weald.

Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these
noble dispositions of the earth, and, poised in the middle of
them, Windy Corner,--he laughed. The situation was so glorious,
the house so commonplace, not to say impertinent. The late Mr.
Honeychurch had affected the cube, because it gave him the most
accommodation for his money, and the only addition made by his
widow had been a small turret, shaped like a rhinoceros' horn,
where she could sit in wet weather and watch 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 been built by expensive
architects, over others their inmates had fidgeted sedulously,
yet all these suggested the accidental, the temporary; while
Windy Corner seemed as inevitable as an ugliness of Nature's own
creation. One might laugh at the house, but one never shuddered.
Mr. Beebe was bicycling over this Monday afternoon with a piece
of gossip. He had heard from the Miss Alans. These admirable
ladies, since they could not go to Cissie Villa, had changed
their plans. They were going to Greece instead.

"Since Florence did my poor sister so much good," wrote Miss
Catharine, "we do not see why we should not try Athens this
winter. Of course, Athens is a plunge, and the doctor has ordered
her special digestive bread; but, after all, we can take that
with 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 not expect we shall go any further than
Athens, but if you knew of a really comfortable pension at
Constantinople, we should be so grateful."

Lucy would enjoy this letter, and the smile with 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, and though she dressed so
unevenly--oh, that cerise frock yesterday at church!--she must
see some beauty in life, or she could not play the piano as she
did. He had a theory that musicians are incredibly complex, and
know far less than other artists what they want and what they
are; that they puzzle themselves as well as their friends; that
their psychology is a modern development, and has not yet been
understood. This theory, had he known it, had possibly just been
illustrated by facts. Ignorant of the events of yesterday he was
only riding over to get some tea, to see his niece, and to
observe whether Miss Honeychurch saw anything beautiful in the
desire of two old ladies to visit Athens.

A carriage was drawn up outside Windy Corner, and just as he
caught sight of the house it started, bowled up the drive, and
stopped abruptly when it reached the main road. Therefore it must
be the horse, who always expected people to walk up the hill in
case they tired him. The door opened obediently, and two men
emerged, 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 going away,
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 the road.

They shook hands with the clergyman, but did not speak.

"So you're off for a minute, Mr. Vyse?" he asked.

Cecil said, "Yes," while Freddy edged away.

"I was coming to show you this delightful letter from those
friends of Miss Honeychurch. He quoted from it. "Isn't it
wonderful? Isn't it romance? most certainly they will go 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 was sure that Lucy would be
amused and interested.

"Isn't Romance capricious! I never notice it in you young people;
you do nothing but play lawn tennis, and say that romance is
dead, while the Miss Alans are struggling with all the weapons of
propriety against the terrible thing. 'A really comfortable
pension at Constantinople!' So they call it out of decency, but
in their hearts they want a pension with magic windows opening on
the foam of perilous seas in fairyland forlorn! No ordinary view
will content the Miss Alans. 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 escape Mr. 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't mean 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 or devilish--I am
not sure which, and in either case absolutely out of our suburban
focus. 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
matches when you've done with them." He lit a cigarette, and went
on talking to the two young men. "I was saying, if our poor
little Cockney lives 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 can realize. But
not the Parthenon, not the frieze of Phidias at any price; and
here comes the victoria."

"You're quite right," said Cecil. "Greece is not for our little
lot"; and he got 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 he jumped out, and came running back
for Vyse's match-box, which had not been returned. As he took it,
he said: "I'm so glad you only talked about books. Cecil's hard
hit. Lucy won't marry him. If you'd gone on about her, as you did
about 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 to himself, and struck the
saddle of his bicycle approvingly, "It was the one foolish thing
she ever did. Oh, what a glorious riddance!" And, after a little
thought, he negotiated the 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 the garden.

In the drawing-room Lucy was tinkling at a Mozart Sonata. He
hesitated a moment, but went down the garden 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, was tying them up, while Miss Bartlett, unsuitably
dressed, impeded her with offers of 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 wind blowing your skirts
about, and the ground so hard that not a prop will stick in, and
then the carriage having to go out, when I had counted on having
Powell, who--give every one their due--does tie up dahlias
properly."

Evidently Mrs. Honeychurch was shattered.

"How do you do?" said Miss Bartlett, with a meaning glance, as
though conveying that more than dahlias had been broken off by
the autumn gales.

"Here, Lennie, the bass," cried Mrs. Honeychurch. The
garden-child, who did not know what bass was, stood rooted to the
path with horror. Minnie slipped to her uncle and whispered that
every one was very disagreeable to-day, and that it was not her
fault if dahlia-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 Beehive Tavern, 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
the orange cactus will go before I can get to it."

Mr. Beebe, who was an adept at relieving situations, 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 the dahlia bed, but when
she had exasperated every one, except Minnie, by a refusal, she
turned round and exasperated Minnie by an acceptance. As they
walked up the garden, the orange cactus fell, and Mr. Beebe's
last vision was of the garden-child clasping it like a lover, his
dark head buried in a wealth of blossom.

"It is terrible, this havoc among the flowers," he remarked.

"It is always terrible when the promise of months is destroyed in
a moment," enunciated Miss Bartlett.

"Perhaps we ought to send Miss Honeychurch down 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 Honeychurch because she was late for
breakfast," whispered Minnie, "and Floyd has gone, and Mr. Vyse
has gone, and Freddy won't play with me. In fact, Uncle Arthur,
the house is not AT ALL 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, where Lucy was still
attentively pursuing the Sonatas of Mozart. She stopped when he
entered.

"How do you do? Miss Bartlett and Minnie are coming with me to
tea at the Beehive. Would you come too?"

"I don't think I will, thank you."

"No, I didn't suppose you would care to much."

Lucy turned to the piano and struck a few chords.

"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
thought that 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 it unwise."

"So does mother. Mother minds dreadfully."

"I am very sorry for that," said Mr. Beebe with feeling.

Mrs. Honeychurch, who hated all changes, did mind, but not nearly
as much as her daughter pretended, and only for the minute. It
was really a ruse of Lucy's to justify her despondency--a ruse of
which she was not herself conscious, for she was marching in the
armies of darkness.

"And Freddy minds."

"Still, Freddy never hit it off with Vyse much, 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 Miss Bartlett through the
floor. Tea at the Beehive apparently involved a complete change
of apparel. Mr. Beebe saw that Lucy--very properly--did not wish
to discuss her action, so after a sincere expression of sympathy,
he said, "I have 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, and soon she interrupted
him with "Going abroad? When do they start?"

"Next week, I gather."

"Did Freddy say whether he was driving straight back?"

"No, he didn't."

"Because I do hope he won't go gossiping."

So she did want to talk about her broken engagement. 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 go abroad!"

"I want them to start from Venice, and go in 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 to
Constantinople. Constantinople is practically Asia, isn't it?"

Mr. Beebe reminded her that Constantinople was 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
her enthusiasm. She had always longed to go to Greece even more,
it seemed. He saw, to his surprise, that she was apparently
serious.

"I didn't realize that you and the Miss Alans were still such
friends, after Cissie Villa."

"Oh, that's nothing; I assure you Cissie Villa'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 growing excitement. "I simply
MUST go away. I have to." She ran her fingers hysterically
through her hair. "Don't you see that I HAVE to go away? I didn't
realize at the time--and of course I 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 dignified line, and was not going to annoy her. Then
it struck him that her family itself might be annoying. He hinted
this to her, and she accepted the hint eagerly.

"Yes, of course; to go to Constantinople until they are used to
the idea and everything has calmed down."

"I am afraid it has been a bothersome business," he said gently.

"No, not at all. Cecil was very kind indeed; only--I had better
tell you the whole truth, since you have heard a little--it was
that he is so masterful. I found that he wouldn't let me go my
own way. He would improve me in places where I can't be improved.
Cecil won't let a woman decide for herself--in fact, he daren't.
What nonsense I do talk! but that is the kind of thing."

"It is what I gathered from my own observation 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
make one little criticism: Is it worth while rushing off to
Greece?"

"But I must go somewhere!" she cried. "I have been worrying all
the morning, and here comes the very thing." She struck her knees
with clenched fists, and repeated: "I must! And the time I shall
have with mother, and all 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, and her 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 his relief
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 wind herself up to speak."

Miss Bartlett gave a kind of wriggle, and he 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 no
hesitation 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 will make 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 and to 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, who seemed such a
fortuitous collection, have been working into one another's
lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgotten
the Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really
give the Signora a testimonial."

And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the
hill in a silence which was only broken by the rector naming some
fern. On the summit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since
he stood there last hour, giving to the land a tragic greatness
that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues
of white, which stretched and shredded and tore slowly, until
through their final layers there gleamed a hint of the
disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the
trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vast
operations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking,
broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the
supernatural that equips such crises 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, changing
the subject again, he said: "We shan't have rain, but we shall
have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness last night was
appalling."

They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That
amiable hostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the
unwise do dearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years
seek a pleasant sanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably.
Mr. Beebe saw that Miss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and
that Minnie would be dull if she sat in, so he proposed a division
of forces. They would hand the child her food through the window.
Thus he was incidentally enabled to discuss the fortunes of Lucy.

"I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett," he said, "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; I am absolutely certain that it is to your cousin's credit.
She has acted loftily and rightly, and it is like her gentle
modesty to say that we think too highly of her. But the future.
Seriously, what do you think of this Greek plan?" He pulled out
the letter again. "I don't know whether you overheard, but she
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 I cannot 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 points that 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 Miss Bartlett, 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 unsatisfactory interview
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's nerves. Our tour was a failure. She wanted to leave
Florence, and when we got to Rome she did not want to be in Rome,
and all the time I felt that I was spending her mother's
money--."

"Let us keep to the future, though," interrupted Mr. Beebe. "I
want your advice."

"Very well," said Charlotte, with a choky abruptness 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 whispering through 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 the whole thing up."

Miss Bartlett burst into florid gratitude. The tavern sign--a
beehive trimmed evenly with bees--creaked in the wind outside as
she thanked him. Mr. Beebe did not quite understand the
situation; but then, he did not desire to understand it, nor to
jump to the conclusion of "another man" that would have attracted
a grosser mind. He only felt that Miss Bartlett knew of some
vague influence from which the girl desired to be delivered, and
which might well be clothed in the fleshly form. Its very
vagueness spurred him into knight-errantry. His belief in
celibacy, so reticent, so carefully concealed beneath his
tolerance and culture, now came to the surface and expanded like
some delicate flower. "They that marry do well, but they that
refrain do better." So ran his belief, and he never heard that an
engagement was broken off but with a slight feeling of pleasure.
In the case of Lucy, the feeling was intensified through dislike
of Cecil; and he was willing to go further--to place her out of
danger until she could confirm her resolution of virginity. The
feeling was very subtle and quite undogmatic, and he never
imparted it to any other of the characters in this entanglement.
Yet it existed, and it alone explains his action subsequently,
and his influence on the action of others. The compact that he
made with Miss Bartlett in 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: the Emersons' 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 of her flowers.

"It gets too dark," she said hopelesly. "This comes of putting
off. We might have known the weather would break up soon; and now
Lucy wants to go to Greece. I don't know what the world's coming
to."

"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "go to Greece she must. Come up to
the house and let's talk it over. Do you, in the first place,
mind her breaking 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--both qualities 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 his
influence 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, I suppose 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 of a 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. Honeychurch kindly. 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 it came 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 all right; 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 greater gladness.
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 who care for one another
are painted chatting together about noble things--a theme neither
sensual nor sensational, and therefore ignored by the art of
to-day. Why should Lucy want either to marry or to travel 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 Lucy should
talk about Greece or thank him for persuading her mother, so he
said good-bye.

Freddy lit his bicycle lamp for him in the porch, and with his
usual felicity of phrase, said: "This has been a day and a half."

    "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 quiet die."

"I love weather like this," said Freddy.

Mr. Beebe passed into it.

The two main facts were clear. She had behaved splendidly, and he
had helped her. He could not expect to master the details of so
big a change in a girl's life. If here and there he was
dissatisfied or puzzled, 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 soaring accompaniment--which he did not lose
in the shout of the gale--really agreed with Freddy, and was
gently criticizing the words that it adorned:

  "Vacant heart and hand and eye
   Easy live and quiet die."

However, for the fourth time Windy Corner lay 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 beloved temperance hotel near
Bloomsbury--a clean, airless establishment much patronized by
provincial England. They always perched there before crossing the
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
in Athens, 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 take care 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 town with 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 so unselfish.
But perhaps he will come out and join you later on."

"Or does his work keep him in London?" said Miss 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 am
unsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn't tell your friends
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 most unpleasant."

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 no time.

"But why shouldn't it be everywhere in no time?"

"Because I settled with Cecil not to announce 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 a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous,
for she was on the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had
already borrowed a mythical dictionary from Mr. 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 understand this
hole-and-corner work. You've got rid of Cecil--well and good, and
I'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 George Emerson 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 of terrors--Light. Ever since
that last evening at Florence she had deemed it unwise to reveal
her soul.

Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, "My daughter
won't answer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive old
maids than with Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail
apparently does if she can leave her home." And as in her case
thoughts never remained unspoken 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 she discovered that her home
existed no longer. It might exist for Freddy, who still lived and
thought straight, but not for one who had deliberately warped the
brain. She did not acknowledge that her brain was warped, for the
brain itself must assist in that acknowledgment, and she was
disordering the very instruments of life. She only felt, "I do
not love George; I broke off my engagement because I did not love
George; I must go to Greece because I do not love George; it is
more important that I should look up gods in the dictionary than
that I should help my mother; every one else is behaving very
badly." She only felt irritable and petulant, and anxious to do
what she was not expected to do, and in this spirit she proceeded
with the 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 from your 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 say that 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 is in older people
termed "eccentricity," Lucy determined to make this point clear.
"I've seen the world so little--I felt so out of things in Italy.
I have seen so little of life; one ought to come up to London
more--not a cheap ticket like to-day, but to stop. I might even
share a flat for a little with some other girl."

"And mess with typewriters and latch-keys," exploded Mrs.
Honeychurch. "And agitate and scream, and be carried off kicking
by the police. And call it a Mission--when no one wants you! And
call it Duty--when it means that you can't stand your own home!
And call it Work--when thousands of men are starving with the
competition as it is! And then to prepare yourself, find two
doddering old ladies, and go abroad with them."

"I want more independence," said Lucy lamely; she knew that she
wanted something, and independence is a useful cry; we can always
say that we have not got it. She tried to remember her emotions
in Florence: those had been sincere and passionate, and had
suggested beauty rather than 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, and come back as thin as a lath with the bad
food. Despise the house that your father built and the garden
that he planted, and our dear view--and then share a flat with
another 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
taking back of words. You and Charlotte trying to divide two
apples 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; her very 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 Dorking Station.
It had poured all day and as they ascended through 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 the
steaming dusk, and watched the carriage-lamp pass like a
search-light over mud and leaves, and reveal nothing beautiful.
"The crush when Charlotte gets in will be abominable," she
remarked. For they were to pick up Miss Bartlett at Summer
Street, where she had been dropped as the carriage went down, to
pay a call on Mr. Beebe's old mother. "We shall have to sit three
a side, because the 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 sudden tenderness, said: "Very well, old lady, stop the
horse." And the horse was stopped, and Lucy and Powell wrestled
with the hood, and squirted water down Mrs. Honeychurch's neck.
But now that the hood was down, she did see something that she
would have missed--there were no lights in the windows of Cissie
Villa, and round the garden gate she fancied she saw a padlock.

"Is that house to let again, Powell?" she called.

"Yes, miss," he replied.

"Have they gone?"

"It is too far out of town for the young gentleman, and his
father's rheumatism has come on, so he can't stop on alone, so
they are 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 this
bother 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 things away? Quite possible. Other people had. When
the maid opened the door, she was unable to speak, and stared
stupidly into the hall.

Miss Bartlett at once came forward, and after 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, for it 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
the darkness to the left there was a hint of colour. This was a
stained window, through which some feeble light was shining, and
when the door opened Lucy heard Mr. Beebe's voice running through
the litany to a minute congregation. Even their church, built
upon the slope of the hill so artfully, with its beautiful raised
transept and its spire of silvery shingle--even their church had
lost its charm; and the thing one never talked about--religion--
was fading like all the other 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 heard the 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 should come!" 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 treat his
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 he had 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 at Mr. Beebe's books.

"I taught him," he quavered, "to trust in love. 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 ever really 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 you brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt
you did not mean. Yet"--his voice gathered strength: he spoke
out 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: "I have 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 last Sunday. I never could
judge behaviour. I--I--suppose he has."

Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back and turned round
to him. His face was drooping and swollen, but his eyes, 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 have tried. 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 is abominable."

"No, of course," said Lucy, ashamed at the reference 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 said quietly.

"What was that?"

"Gone under naturally." He beat his palms together in silence;
his head 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 that
sort of thing and broken away from her parents. Oh, horrible--
worst of all--worse than death, when you have made a little
clearing in the wilderness, planted your little garden, 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
in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip back
into the darkness for ever?"

"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, and acted according to
his principles. I don't blame him or any one... but by the time
George was well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and she
went under thinking about it."

It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife in the sight
of God.

"Oh, how terrible!" said Lucy, forgetting her own affairs at
last.

"He was not baptized," said the old man. "I did hold firm." And
he looked with unwavering eyes at the rows 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 was ill.

"Oh--last Sunday." He started into the present. "George last
Sunday--no, not ill: just gone under. He is never ill. But he is
his mother's son. Her eyes were his, and she had that forehead
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 it worth while to live. He will never think anything
worth while. You remember that church at Florence?"

Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should
collect postage stamps.

"After you left Florence--horrible. Then we took the house here,
and he goes bathing with your brother, and became better. You saw
him bathing?"

"I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing 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 so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me
too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down
to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can't bear to
be about here, and I must be where he is."

"Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don't leave at least, not on my
account. I am going to Greece. Don't leave your comfortable
house."

It was the first time her voice had been kind 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 of hearing
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 by now. I can't have you moving
out of your house when 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 leave you
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. Emerson was
profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his
acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that the old man
should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be
dependent on the bounty 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 trembling lips.

"But you are, and there's a look of George about you. And what
were you saying about going abroad?"

She was silent.

"Greece"--and she saw that he was thinking the 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 came to 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 from church. His cassock was
covered with rain. "That's all right," he said kindly. "I counted
on you two keeping each other company. It's pouring again. The
entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother,
and my mother, stands waiting in the church, till the carriage
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 number to 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 lied again; but he seemed so near the end
of things, so dignified in his approach to the gulf, 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
that all the young may show to all the old--awoke in her, and, at
whatever risk, she told him that Cecil was not her companion to
Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the risk became 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 that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to
make to the world when she announced that her engagement was no
more. He heard her in silence, and then said: "My dear, I am
worried about you. It seems to me"--dreamily; she was not
alarmed--"that you are in a muddle."

She shook her head.

"Take an old man's word; there's nothing worse than a muddle in
all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things
that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with
horror--on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one
another but little. I used to think I could teach young people
the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of
George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember
in that church, when you pretended 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 is
difficult." She was still silent. "'Life' wrote a friend of mine,
'is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn
the instrument as you go along.' I think he puts it well. Man has
to pick up the use of his functions as 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 from the
open sea.

"But you do," he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "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
his sake."

"How dare you!" gasped Lucy, with the roaring of waters in her
ears. "Oh, how like a man!--I mean, to suppose that 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
things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that,
with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be
his wife. He is already part of you. Though you fly to Greece,
and never see him again, 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, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I
know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal."

Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her 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 the
soul! Your soul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all
the cant with which superstition has wrapped it round. But we
have souls. I cannot say how they came nor whither they go, but
we have them, and I see you ruining yours. I cannot bear it. It
is again the darkness creeping in; it is hell." 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 seldom love is
answered by love--Marry him; it is one of the moments for which
the world was made."

She could not understand him; the words were 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 his sake. 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's my mother."

"You're not worthy of their trust."

"What's that?" said Mr. Beebe sharply.

"I was saying, why should you trust her when 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 she did 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 suddenly inhuman. A
long black column, he stood and awaited her 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 have misled myself--"

"Oh, rubbish, Miss Honeychurch!"

"It is not rubbish!" said the old man hotly. "It's the part of
people that you don't understand."

Mr. Beebe laid his hand on the old man's shoulder pleasantly.

"Lucy! Lucy!" called voices from the carriage.

"Mr. Beebe, could you help me?"

He looked amazed at the request, and said in 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 have
existed. I know. But remember the mountains over Florence and the
view. Ah, dear, if I were George, and gave you one kiss, it would
make you brave. You have to go cold into a battle that needs
warmth, out into the muddle that you have made yourself; and your
mother and all your friends will despise you, oh, my darling, and
rightly, if it is ever right to despise. George still dark, all
the tussle and the misery 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 the whole
world. Throughout the squalor of her homeward drive--she spoke at
once--his salutation remained. He had robbed the body of its
taint, the world's taunts of their sting; he had shown her the
holiness of direct desire. She "never exactly understood," she
would say 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 they went by themselves.
They alone of this little company will double 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 blue seas; that under Parnassus, where
the eagles build and the bronze charioteer drives undismayed
towards infinity. Trembling, anxious, cumbered with much
digestive bread, they did proceed to Constantinople, they did go
round the world. The rest of us must be contented with a fair,
but a less arduous, goal. Italiam petimus: we return to the
Pension Bertolini.

George said it was his old room.

"No, it isn't," said Lucy; "because it is the 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 his face in her lap.

"George, you baby, get up."

"Why shouldn't I be a baby?" murmured George.

Unable to answer this question, she put down 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 said thoughtfully. "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, or you'll be starting
rheumatism next, and you stop laughing and being so silly."

"Why shouldn't I laugh?" he asked, pinning her 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 be welcome.

He was a boy after all. When it came to the point, it was she who
remembered the past, she into whose soul the iron had entered,
she who knew whose room this had been last year. It endeared him
to her strangely that he should be sometimes wrong.

"Any letters?" he asked.

"Just a line from Freddy."

"Now kiss me here; then here."

Then, threatened again with rheumatism, he strolled 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 him with the hiss
of a serpent, might be that very Phaethon who had set this
happiness in motion twelve months ago. A passion of gratitude--
all feelings grow to passions in the South--came over the
husband, and he blessed the people and the things who had taken
so much trouble about a young fool. He had helped himself, it is
true, but how stupidly!

All the fighting that mattered had been done 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," called the cabman, with
engaging certainty.

George told him that he was mistaken; they had 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
counted up the forces that had swept him into this contentment.

"Anything good in Freddy's letter?"

"Not yet."

His own content was absolute, but hers held bitterness: the
Honeychurches had not forgiven them; they were disgusted at her
past 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--he has known it for six months--that if mother
wouldn't give her consent we should take the thing into our own
hands. They had fair warning, and now he calls it an 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 the beginning again. I wish, though, that Cecil had not
turned so 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 will never be interested in
us again. I wish that he did not influence them so much 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 acted the 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 from the road, they hoped,
and began to whisper one another's names. Ah! it was worth while;
it was the great joy 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 to him." Then with a catching of her breath, she
murmured: "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 that she
shouldn't have heard your father was in the house. For she would
have stopped me going in, and he 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--"I remember on how little it all
hangs. If Charlotte had only known, she would have stopped me
going in, and I should have gone to silly Greece, and become
different for ever."

"But she did know," said George; "she did see my father, surely.
He said so."

"Oh, no, she didn't see him. She was upstairs with old Mrs.
Beebe, don't you remember, and then went straight to the church.
She said so."

George was obstinate again. "My father," said he, "saw her, and I
prefer his word. He was dozing by the study fire, and he opened
his eyes, and there was Miss Bartlett. 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--the desultory talk of those who
have been fighting to reach one another, and whose reward is to
rest quietly in each other's arms. It was long ere they returned
to Miss Bartlett, 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 came into Lucy's mind. She
rejected it, and said: "How like Charlotte to undo her work by a
feeble muddle at the last moment." But something in the dying
evening, in the roar of the river, in their very embrace warned
them that her words fell short of life, 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 tones as 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, she hoped, 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 the summer; how
she gave you no peace; how month after month she became more
eccentric and unreliable. The sight of us haunted her--or she
couldn'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 not withered up all through. She tore us apart
twice, but in the rectory that evening she was given one more
chance to make us happy. We can never make friends with her or
thank her. But I do believe that, far down in her heart, far
below all speech and behaviour, she is glad."

"It is impossible," murmured Lucy, and then, remembering the
experiences of her own heart, she said: "No--it is just
possible."

Youth enwrapped them; the song of Phaethon announced passion
requited, love attained. But they were conscious of a love more
mysterious than this. The song died away; they heard the river,
bearing down the snows of winter into the Mediterranean.





End of The Project Gutenberg Etext A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster