A Room with a View
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