A Room with a View
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; everyone
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!