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

PART ONE

Chapter I: The Bertolini

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

"And a Cockney, besides!" said Lucy, who had been further saddened bythe Signora's unexpected accent. "It might be London. " She looked at thetwo rows of English people who were sitting at the table; at the rowof white bottles of water and red bottles of wine that ran between theEnglish people; at the portraits of the late Queen and the late PoetLaureate that hung behind the English people, heavily framed; at thenotice of the English church (Rev. Cuthbert Eager, M. A. Oxon. ), thatwas 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 ofother things are just outside. I suppose it is one's being so tired. "

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

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

"Any nook does for me, " Miss Bartlett continued; "but it does seem hardthat 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 firstvacant room in the front--" "You must have it, " said Miss Bartlett, partof whose travelling expenses were paid by Lucy's mother--a piece ofgenerosity 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--alittle peevish. They were tired, and under the guise of unselfishnessthey wrangled. Some of their neighbours interchanged glances, and oneof them--one of the ill-bred people whom one does meet abroad--leantforward over the table and actually intruded into their argument. Hesaid:

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

Miss Bartlett was startled. Generally at a pension people looked themover for a day or two before speaking, and often did not find out thatthey would "do" till they had gone. She knew that the intruder wasill-bred, even before she glanced at him. He was an old man, of heavybuild, with a fair, shaven face and large eyes. There was somethingchildish in those eyes, though it was not the childishness of senility. What exactly it was Miss Bartlett did not stop to consider, for herglance passed on to his clothes. These did not attract her. He wasprobably trying to become acquainted with them before they got into theswim. So she assumed a dazed expression when he spoke to her, and thensaid: "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 viewtoo. "

"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'llhave yours. We'll change. "

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

"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 againrepressed her. 

"But why?" he persisted. "Women like looking at a view; men don't. " Andhe 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'snothing else to say. "

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

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

"Eat your dinner, dear, " she said to Lucy, and began to toy again withthe 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 willmake a change. "

Hardly had she announced this fell decision when she reversed it. Thecurtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stoutbut attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquireddecency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: "Oh, oh! Why, it'sMr. 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: MissBartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when youhelped the Vicar of St. Peter's that very cold Easter. "

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

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

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

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

"Quite right, " said the clergyman. "I move into the Rectory at SummerStreet next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charmingneighbourhood. "

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

"There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it's not oftenwe 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 thanto Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girlwhether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that shehad never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, andhe was first in the field. "Don't neglect the country round, " his adviceconcluded. "The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round bySettignano, or something of that sort. "

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

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

And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People toldthem what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how toget rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter, howmuch 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 ofthe clever lady, crying: "Prato! They must go to Prato. That place istoo sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off thetrammels of respectability, as you know. "

The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returnedmoodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do. Lucy, inthe midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her noextra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold; and when sherose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous littlebow. 

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 acrosssomething. 

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

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

He expressed his regret. 

"Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man who sat opposite usat 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 obligationto 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 aftera few moments added: "All the same, I don't think much harm would havecome 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 youto show gratitude. He has the merit--if it is one--of saying exactlywhat he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you wouldvalue them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation thanhe thought of being polite. It is so difficult--at least, I find itdifficult--to understand people who speak the truth. "

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

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

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

Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitchingof 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 nicecreature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father'smannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist. "

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

"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. "Whydidn't you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I'm sure. I do hope Ihaven't monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, aswell as all dinner-time. "

"He is nice, " exclaimed Lucy. "Just what I remember. He seems to seegood 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 willapprove of Mr. Beebe. "

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

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

"Yes, " said Lucy despondently. 

There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapprovalwas of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at WindyCorner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could notdetermine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. MissBartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added "I amafraid you are finding me a very depressing companion. "

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

Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had beensmiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowedto sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chattergently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifyingsuccess of the plunge, the improvement in her sister's health, thenecessity of closing the bed-room windows at night, and of thoroughlyemptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjectsagreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention thanthe high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceedingtempestuously 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 foundin her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though onebetter than something else. 

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

"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 wasmore 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. Ofcourse, I was holding back on my cousin's account. "

"Of course, " said the little old lady; and they murmured that one couldnot be too careful with a young girl. 

Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. Noone was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticedit. 

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

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

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

She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, lookingextremely 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 whatI did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come andask 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. Imust apologize for my interference. "

Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlettreply: "My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison withyours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked atFlorence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me toturn 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, andthen conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?"

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

"Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish theacceptance 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 thefloor, so low were their chairs. 

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

Miss Bartlett was unequal to the bath. All her barbed civilities cameforth wrong end first. Young Mr. Emerson scored a notable triumph to thedelight 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 tokeep polite. "

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

"Oh, dear!" breathed the little old lady, and shuddered as if all thewinds of heaven had entered the apartment. "Gentlemen sometimes do notrealize--" Her voice faded away, but Miss Bartlett seemed to understandand a conversation developed, in which gentlemen who did not thoroughlyrealize played a principal part. Lucy, not realizing either, was reducedto literature. Taking up Baedeker's Handbook to Northern Italy, shecommitted to memory the most important dates of Florentine History. Forshe was determined to enjoy herself on the morrow. Thus the half-hourcrept profitably away, and at last Miss Bartlett rose with a sigh, andsaid:

"I think one might venture now. No, Lucy, do not stir. I willsuperintend 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 herlife, but really, on this Italian tour, she was surpassing herself. SoLucy felt, or strove to feel. And yet--there was a rebellious spiritin her which wondered whether the acceptance might not have been lessdelicate and more beautiful. At all events, she entered her own roomwithout any feeling of joy. 

"I want to explain, " said Miss Bartlett, "why it is that I have takenthe 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 sureyour mother would not like it. "

Lucy was bewildered. 

"If you are to accept a favour it is more suitable you should be underan obligation to his father than to him. I am a woman of the world, inmy small way, and I know where things lead to. However, Mr. Beebe is aguarantee of a sort that they will not presume on this. "

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

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

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

"What does it mean?" she thought, and she examined it carefully by thelight of a candle. Meaningless at first, it gradually became menacing, obnoxious, portentous with evil. She was seized with an impulse todestroy 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 itcarefully, and put it between two pieces of blotting-paper to keep itclean for him. Then she completed her inspection of the room, sighedheavily 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 brightbare room, with a floor of red tiles which look clean though they arenot; with a painted ceiling whereon pink griffins and blue amorini sportin a forest of yellow violins and bassoons. It was pleasant, too, tofling wide the windows, pinching the fingers in unfamiliar fastenings, to lean out into sunshine with beautiful hills and trees and marblechurches opposite, and close below, the Arno, gurgling against theembankment of the road. 

Over the river men were at work with spades and sieves on the sandyforeshore, and on the river was a boat, also diligently employed forsome mysterious end. An electric tram came rushing underneath thewindow. No one was inside it, except one tourist; but its platforms wereoverflowing with Italians, who preferred to stand. Children tried tohang on behind, and the conductor, with no malice, spat in their facesto make them let go. Then soldiers appeared--good-looking, undersizedmen--wearing each a knapsack covered with mangy fur, and a great-coatwhich had been cut for some larger soldier. Beside them walked officers, looking foolish and fierce, and before them went little boys, turningsomersaults in time with the band. The tramcar became entangled in theirranks, 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 ofan archway. Indeed, if it had not been for the good advice of an old manwho 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 ofGiotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothingbut the blue sky and the men and women who live under it. So it was aswell that Miss Bartlett should tap and come in, and having commented onLucy's leaving the door unlocked, and on her leaning out of the windowbefore she was fully dressed, should urge her to hasten herself, or thebest of the day would be gone. By the time Lucy was ready her cousinhad done her breakfast, and was listening to the clever lady among thecrumbs. 

A conversation then ensued, on not unfamiliar lines. Miss Bartlettwas, after all, a wee bit tired, and thought they had better spend themorning settling in; unless Lucy would at all like to go out? Lucy wouldrather like to go out, as it was her first day in Florence, but, ofcourse, she could go alone. Miss Bartlett could not allow this. Ofcourse she would accompany Lucy everywhere. Oh, certainly not; Lucywould 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 youcan neglect the good person. Being English, Miss Honeychurch will beperfectly safe. Italians understand. A dear friend of mine, ContessaBaroncelli, has two daughters, and when she cannot send a maid to schoolwith them, she lets them go in sailor-hats instead. Every one takesthem for English, you see, especially if their hair is strained tightlybehind. "

Miss Bartlett was unconvinced by the safety of Contessa Baroncelli'sdaughters. She was determined to take Lucy herself, her head not beingso very bad. The clever lady then said that she was going to spend along morning in Santa Croce, and if Lucy would come too, she would bedelighted. 

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

Lucy said that this was most kind, and at once opened the Baedeker, tosee 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 doesnot even dream of it. The true Italy is only to be found by patientobservation. "

This sounded very interesting, and Lucy hurried over her breakfast, andstarted 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 rightalong the sunny Lung' Arno. How delightfully warm! But a wind downthe side streets cut like a knife, didn't it? Ponte alleGrazie--particularly interesting, mentioned by Dante. SanMiniato--beautiful as well as interesting; the crucifix that kisseda murderer--Miss Honeychurch would remember the story. The men on theriver were fishing. (Untrue; but then, so is most information. ) ThenMiss Lavish darted under the archway of the white bullocks, and shestopped, and she cried:

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

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

"One doesn't come to Italy for niceness, " was the retort; "one comes forlife. Buon giorno! Buon giorno!" bowing right and left. "Look at thatadorable 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'sgrace. It was a treat for the girl to be with any one so clever and socheerful; 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 willnever repent of a little civility to your inferiors. That is thetrue democracy. Though I am a real Radical as well. There, now you'reshocked. "

"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 aboutIreland. "

"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 Radicalagain now that Ireland is all right. And as it is, the glass over ourfront door was broken last election, and Freddy is sure it was theTories; but mother says nonsense, a tramp. "

"Shameful! A manufacturing district, I suppose?"

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

Miss Lavish seemed interested, and slackened her trot. 

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

"Very well indeed. "

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

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

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

Miss Lavish was not disgusted, and said it was just the size of heraunt's Suffolk estate. Italy receded. They tried to remember the lastname of Lady Louisa some one, who had taken a house near Summer Streetthe other year, but she had not liked it, which was odd of her. And justas 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 towerof which had been plainly visible from the landing window. But MissLavish had said so much about knowing her Florence by heart, that Lucyhad followed her with no misgivings. 

"Lost! lost! My dear Miss Lucy, during our political diatribes we havetaken 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 iswhat 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 tolook at your Baedeker. Give it to me; I shan't let you carry it. We willsimply drift. "

Accordingly they drifted through a series of those grey-brown streets, neither commodious nor picturesque, in which the eastern quarter of thecity abounds. Lucy soon lost interest in the discontent of LadyLouisa, and became discontented herself. For one ravishing moment Italyappeared. She stood in the Square of the Annunziata and saw in theliving terra-cotta those divine babies whom no cheap reproduction canever stale. There they stood, with their shining limbs bursting fromthe garments of charity, and their strong white arms extended againstcirclets of heaven. Lucy thought she had never seen anything morebeautiful; but Miss Lavish, with a shriek of dismay, dragged herforward, declaring that they were out of their path now by at least amile. 

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

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

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

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

"What would you ask us?"

Miss Lavish laid her hand pleasantly on Lucy's arm, as if to suggestthat she, at all events, would get full marks. In this exalted mood theyreached the steps of the great church, and were about to enter it whenMiss 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 cloakflapping in the wind; nor did she slacken speed till she caught up anold man with white whiskers, and nipped him playfully upon the arm. 

Lucy waited for nearly ten minutes. Then she began to get tired. Thebeggars worried her, the dust blew in her eyes, and she remembered thata young girl ought not to loiter in public places. She descended slowlyinto the Piazza with the intention of rejoining Miss Lavish, who wasreally almost too original. But at that moment Miss Lavish and herlocal-colour box moved also, and disappeared down a side street, bothgesticulating largely. Tears of indignation came to Lucy's eyes partlybecause Miss Lavish had jilted her, partly because she had taken herBaedeker. How could she find her way home? How could she find her wayabout in Santa Croce? Her first morning was ruined, and she might neverbe in Florence again. A few minutes ago she had been all high spirits, talking as a woman of culture, and half persuading herself that shewas full of originality. Now she entered the church depressed andhumiliated, not even able to remember whether it was built by theFranciscans or the Dominicans. Of course, it must be a wonderfulbuilding. But how like a barn! And how very cold! Of course, itcontained frescoes by Giotto, in the presence of whose tactile valuesshe was capable of feeling what was proper. But who was to tellher which they were? She walked about disdainfully, unwilling to beenthusiastic over monuments of uncertain authorship or date. There wasno one even to tell her which, of all the sepulchral slabs that pavedthe nave and transepts, was the one that was really beautiful, the onethat had been most praised by Mr. Ruskin. 

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

"Hateful bishop!" exclaimed the voice of old Mr. Emerson, who had dartedforward 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 oughtto be. Intolerable bishop!"

The child screamed frantically at these words, and at these dreadfulpeople who picked him up, dusted him, rubbed his bruises, and told himnot 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 anItalian lady, who ought to have been saying her prayers, came to therescue. By some mysterious virtue, which mothers alone possess, shestiffened 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 thanall the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe inthose who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of theuniverse--"

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 wasdetermined to be gracious to them, beautiful rather than delicate, and, if possible, to erase Miss Bartlett's civility by some graciousreference to the pleasant rooms. 

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

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

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

"Yes, why shouldn't you come by yourself?" said the son, addressing theyoung 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 worthminding, the loss of a Baedeker. THAT'S worth minding. "

Lucy was puzzled. She was again conscious of some new idea, and was notsure whither it would lead her. 

"If you've no Baedeker, " said the son, "you'd better join us. " Was thiswhere 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 notsuppose that I came to join on to you. I really came to help with thechild, and to thank you for so kindly giving us your rooms last night. Ihope that you have not been put to any great inconvenience. "

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

Now, this was abominably impertinent, and she ought to have beenfurious. But it is sometimes as difficult to lose one's temper as itis 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 otherhand, his son was a young man, and she felt that a girl ought to beoffended with him, or at all events be offended before him. It was athim that she gazed before replying. 

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

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

The chapel was already filled with an earnest congregation, and out ofthem 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, beforeany taint of the Renaissance had appeared. Observe how Giotto in thesefrescoes--now, unhappily, ruined by restoration--is untroubled by thesnares of anatomy and perspective. Could anything be more majestic, morepathetic, beautiful, true? How little, we feel, avails knowledge andtechnical 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 meansthe workmen weren't paid properly. And as for the frescoes, I see notruth in them. Look at that fat man in blue! He must weigh as much as Ido, 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 shifteduneasily, and so did Lucy. She was sure that she ought not to be withthese men; but they had cast a spell over her. They were so serious andso 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 toheaven by myself than be pushed by cherubs; and if I got there I shouldlike 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, willlie at peace in the earth that bore us, and our names will disappear assurely as our work survives. "

"Some of the people can only see the empty grave, not the saint, whoeverhe 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 twoparties. 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. Theyfiled out of the chapel in silence. Amongst them were the two little oldladies 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 lifeof St. Francis. 

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

George went into the next chapel and returned, saying "Perhaps he is. Idon'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 goand 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 theRev. Cuthbert Eager. Lucy, apparently absorbed in a lunette, could hearthe lecture again interrupted, the anxious, aggressive voice of the oldman, the curt, injured replies of his opponent. The son, who took everylittle contretemps as if it were a tragedy, was listening also. 

"My father has that effect on nearly every one, " he informed her. "Hewill 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 peoplebecause he loves them; and they find him out, and are offended, orfrightened. "

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

"Tact!"

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

"Were you snubbed?" asked his son tranquilly. 

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

". .. Full of innate sympathy. .. Quickness to perceive good inothers. .. Vision of the brotherhood of man. .. " Scraps of the lecture onSt. Francis came floating round the partition wall. 

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

"Yes, " said Lucy. "They are lovely. Do you know which is the tombstonethat 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 wanderednot unpleasantly about Santa Croce, which, though it is like a barn, has harvested many beautiful things inside its walls. There were alsobeggars to avoid and guides to dodge round the pillars, and an old ladywith her dog, and here and there a priest modestly edging to hisMass through the groups of tourists. But Mr. Emerson was only halfinterested. He watched the lecturer, whose success he believed he hadimpaired, and then he anxiously watched his son. 

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

"I like Giotto, " she replied. "It is so wonderful what they say abouthis tactile values. Though I like things like the Della Robbia babiesbetter. "

"So you ought. A baby is worth a dozen saints. And my baby's worth thewhole 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 oneto give him? And think how he has been brought up--free from all thesuperstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the nameof God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to growup happy. "

She was no theologian, but she felt that here was a very foolish oldman, as well as a very irreligious one. She also felt that her mothermight not like her talking to that kind of person, and that Charlottewould object most strongly. 

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

Lucy had made no suggestion. Suddenly he said:

"Now don't be stupid over this. I don't require you to fall in love withmy boy, but I do think you might try and understand him. You are nearerhis age, and if you let yourself go I am sure you are sensible. Youmight 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 areinclined to get muddled, if I may judge from last night. Let yourselfgo. 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. Byunderstanding George you may learn to understand yourself. It will begood 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 quotingpoetry, 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 thatwe come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all lifeis perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. Butwhy should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, andwork 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 ofthe everlasting Why there is a Yes--a transitory Yes if you like, but aYes. "

Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholybecause 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 noparticular hobby? Why, I myself have worries, but I can generally forgetthem at the piano; and collecting stamps did no end of good for mybrother. Perhaps Italy bores him; you ought to try the Alps or theLakes. "

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 himand that he was thanking her for it. Indeed, he no longer alarmed herat all; she regarded him as a kind thing, but quite silly. Her feelingswere as inflated spiritually as they had been an hour ago esthetically, before she lost Baedeker. The dear George, now striding towards themover the tombstones, seemed both pitiable and absurd. He approached, hisface in the shadow. He said:

"Miss Bartlett. "

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

"In the nave. "

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

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

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

"Poor girl? I fail to understand the point of that remark. I thinkmyself a very fortunate girl, I assure you. I'm thoroughly happy, andhaving a splendid time. Pray don't waste time mourning over me. There'senough 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! theredoes come my cousin. A delightful morning! Santa Croce is a wonderfulchurch. "

She joined her cousin. 

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

It so happened that Lucy, who found daily life rather chaotic, entereda more solid world when she opened the piano. She was then no longereither deferential or patronizing; no longer either a rebel or a slave. The kingdom of music is not the kingdom of this world; it will acceptthose whom breeding and intellect and culture have alike rejected. Thecommonplace person begins to play, and shoots into the empyrean withouteffort, whilst we look up, marvelling how he has escaped us, andthinking how we could worship him and love him, would he but translatehis visions into human words, and his experiences into human actions. Perhaps he cannot; certainly he does not, or does so very seldom. Lucyhad done so never. 

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

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

Mr. Beebe, sitting unnoticed in the window, pondered this illogicalelement in Miss Honeychurch, and recalled the occasion at TunbridgeWells when he had discovered it. It was at one of those entertainmentswhere the upper classes entertain the lower. The seats were filled witha respectful audience, and the ladies and gentlemen of the parish, underthe auspices of their vicar, sang, or recited, or imitated the drawingof a champagne cork. Among the promised items was "Miss Honeychurch. Piano. Beethoven, " and Mr. Beebe was wondering whether it would beAdelaida, or the march of The Ruins of Athens, when his composurewas disturbed by the opening bars of Opus III. He was in suspense allthrough the introduction, for not until the pace quickens does one knowwhat the performer intends. With the roar of the opening theme he knewthat things were going extraordinarily; in the chords that herald theconclusion he heard the hammer strokes of victory. He was glad that sheonly played the first movement, for he could have paid no attention tothe winding intricacies of the measures of nine-sixteen. The audienceclapped, 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 apiece happy. Beethoven is so usually simple and direct in his appealthat it is sheer perversity to choose a thing like that, which, ifanything, disturbs. "

"Introduce me. "

"She will be delighted. She and Miss Bartlett are full of the praises ofyour 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 ofdark hair and a very pretty, pale, undeveloped face. She loved going toconcerts, she loved stopping with her cousin, she loved iced coffee andmeringues. He did not doubt that she loved his sermon also. But beforehe left Tunbridge Wells he made a remark to the vicar, which he nowmade to Lucy herself when she closed the little piano and moved dreamilytowards him:

"If Miss Honeychurch ever takes to live as she plays, it will be veryexciting 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 shesaid 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 overanything; she thinks I am silly about it. She thinks--I can't makeout. Once, you know, I said that I liked my own playing better than anyone's. She has never got over it. Of course, I didn't mean that I playedwell; I only meant--"

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

"Music--" said Lucy, as if attempting some generality. She could notcomplete it, and looked out absently upon Italy in the wet. The wholelife of the South was disorganized, and the most graceful nation inEurope 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 concealedMiss Lavish and Miss Bartlett, who had chosen this afternoon to visitthe 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, anda tickling cough in her throat. On another day, when the whole world wassinging and the air ran into the mouth, like wine, she would refuse tostir from the drawing-room, saying that she was an old thing, and no fitcompanion for a hearty girl. 

"Miss Lavish has led your cousin astray. She hopes to find the trueItaly 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 ofdefinition. Miss Lavish was so original. Mr. Beebe had his doubts, butthey would have been put down to clerical narrowness. For that, and forother reasons, he held his peace. 

"Is it true, " continued Lucy in awe-struck tone, "that Miss Lavish iswriting 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 wordsherself more admirably than any one I know. "

"I wish Miss Lavish would tell me herself. We started such friends. ButI don't think she ought to have run away with Baedeker that morning inSanta 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 apparentlydissimilar as Miss Bartlett and Miss Lavish. They were always in eachother's company, with Lucy a slighted third. Miss Lavish he believedhe understood, but Miss Bartlett might reveal unknown depths ofstrangeness, though not perhaps, of meaning. Was Italy deflectingher from the path of prim chaperon, which he had assigned to her atTunbridge Wells? All his life he had loved to study maiden ladies;they were his specialty, and his profession had provided him with ampleopportunities for the work. Girls like Lucy were charming to look at, but Mr. Beebe was, from rather profound reasons, somewhat chilly in hisattitude towards the other sex, and preferred to be interested ratherthan enthralled. 

Lucy, for the third time, said that poor Charlotte would be sopped. TheArno was rising in flood, washing away the traces of the little cartsupon the foreshore. But in the south-west there had appeared a dull hazeof yellow, which might mean better weather if it did not mean worse. Sheopened the window to inspect, and a cold blast entered the room, drawinga plaintive cry from Miss Catharine Alan, who entered at the same momentby the door. 

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

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

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

Lucy answered suitably. Mr. Beebe was not able to tell the ladies ofhis adventure at Modena, where the chambermaid burst in upon him in hisbath, exclaiming cheerfully, "Fa niente, sono vecchia. " He contentedhimself with saying: "I quite agree with you, Miss Alan. The Italiansare a most unpleasant people. They pry everywhere, they see everything, and they know what we want before we know it ourselves. We are at theirmercy. They read our thoughts, they foretell our desires. From thecab-driver down to--to Giotto, they turn us inside out, and I resentit. Yet in their heart of hearts they are--how superficial! They have noconception of the intellectual life. How right is Signora Bertolini, whoexclaimed to me the other day: 'Ho, Mr. Beebe, if you knew what I sufferover the children's edjucaishion. HI won't 'ave my little Victoriertaught by a hignorant Italian what can't explain nothink!'"

Miss Alan did not follow, but gathered that she was being mocked in anagreeable way. Her sister was a little disappointed in Mr. Beebe, havingexpected better things from a clergyman whose head was bald and whowore a pair of russet whiskers. Indeed, who would have supposed thattolerance, sympathy, and a sense of humour would inhabit that militantform?

In the midst of her satisfaction she continued to sidle, and at lastthe cause was disclosed. From the chair beneath her she extracteda gun-metal cigarette-case, on which were powdered in turquoise theinitials "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 asyou suppose. She took to it, practically in despair, after herlife's work was carried away in a landslip. Surely that makes it moreexcusable. "

"What was that?" asked Lucy. 

Mr. Beebe sat back complacently, and Miss Alan began as follows: "It wasa 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 saythey nearly always do. Anyhow, she left it almost finished in the Grottoof the Calvary at the Capuccini Hotel at Amalfi while she went for alittle ink. She said: 'Can I have a little ink, please?' But you knowwhat Italians are, and meanwhile the Grotto fell roaring on to thebeach, and the saddest thing of all is that she cannot remember what shehas written. The poor thing was very ill after it, and so got temptedinto cigarettes. It is a great secret, but I am glad to say that she iswriting another novel. She told Teresa and Miss Pole the other day thatshe had got up all the local colour--this novel is to be about modernItaly; the other was historical--but that she could not start till shehad an idea. First she tried Perugia for an inspiration, then she camehere--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 themunexpected beauty, just as in the decaying autumn woods there sometimesrise odours reminiscent of spring. She felt she had made almost too manyallowances, and apologized hurriedly for her toleration. 

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

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

"I don't know, Miss Honeychurch, if you have noticed that Miss Pole, thelady 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 wereendless, went out to order some tea, and she continued to Lucy in ahasty whisper:

"Stomach. He warned Miss Pole of her stomach-acidity, he called it--andhe may have meant to be kind. I must say I forgot myself and laughed; itwas so sudden. As Teresa truly said, it was no laughing matter. But thepoint is that Miss Lavish was positively ATTRACTED by his mentioningS. , and said she liked plain speaking, and meeting different grades ofthought. She thought they were commercial travellers--'drummers' was theword she used--and all through dinner she tried to prove that England, our great and beloved country, rests on nothing but commerce. Teresa wasvery much annoyed, and left the table before the cheese, saying as shedid so: 'There, Miss Lavish, is one who can confute you better than I, 'and pointed to that beautiful picture of Lord Tennyson. Then MissLavish said: 'Tut! The early Victorians. ' Just imagine! 'Tut! The earlyVictorians. ' 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, Iwill hear no breath of censure against our dear Queen. ' It was horriblespeaking. I reminded her how the Queen had been to Ireland when she didnot 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 deepvoice: 'Quite so, quite so! I honour the woman for her Irish visit. ' Thewoman! I tell things so badly; but you see what a tangle we were inby this time, all on account of S. Having been mentioned in the firstplace. But that was not all. After dinner Miss Lavish actually came upand said: 'Miss Alan, I am going into the smoking-room to talk to thosetwo nice men. Come, too. ' Needless to say, I refused such an unsuitableinvitation, and she had the impertinence to tell me that it wouldbroaden my ideas, and said that she had four brothers, all Universitymen, except one who was in the army, who always made a point of talkingto 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 returnedunobtrusively 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 totell, and Mr. Emerson does not think it worth telling. "

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

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

"No; but it is so difficult. Sometimes he is so silly, and then I do notmind 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, afterthat business of the violets. "

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

Mr. Beebe smiled nonchalantly. He had made a gentle effort to introducethe Emersons into Bertolini society, and the effort had failed. He wasalmost the only person who remained friendly to them. Miss Lavish, whorepresented intellect, was avowedly hostile, and now the Miss Alans, who stood for good breeding, were following her. Miss Bartlett, smartingunder an obligation, would scarcely be civil. The case of Lucy wasdifferent. She had given him a hazy account of her adventures in SantaCroce, and he gathered that the two men had made a curious and possiblyconcerted attempt to annex her, to show her the world from their ownstrange standpoint, to interest her in their private sorrows and joys. This was impertinent; he did not wish their cause to be championed by ayoung girl: he would rather it should fail. After all, he knew nothingabout 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 theEmersons were nice; not that she saw anything of them now. Even theirseats at dinner had been moved. 

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

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

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

Mr. Beebe rather felt that they had gone under. They had given up theirattempt--if it was one--to conquer society, and now the father wasalmost as silent as the son. He wondered whether he would not plan apleasant 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'schief pleasures to provide people with happy memories. 

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

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

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

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

"I wish we could. Unluckily I have letters. If you do want to go outalone, 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. Beebeas to say that she would only go for a little walk, and keep to thestreet frequented by tourists. 

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

Chapter IV: Fourth Chapter

Mr. Beebe was right. Lucy never knew her desires so clearly as aftermusic. She had not really appreciated the clergyman's wit, nor thesuggestive twitterings of Miss Alan. Conversation was tedious; shewanted something big, and she believed that it would have come to her onthe wind-swept platform of an electric tram. This she might not attempt. It was unladylike. Why? Why were most big things unladylike? Charlottehad once explained to her why. It was not that ladies were inferiorto men; it was that they were different. Their mission was to inspireothers to achievement rather than to achieve themselves. Indirectly, bymeans of tact and a spotless name, a lady could accomplish much. Butif she rushed into the fray herself she would be first censured, thendespised, and finally ignored. Poems had been written to illustrate thispoint. 

There is much that is immortal in this medieval lady. The dragons havegone, and so have the knights, but still she lingers in our midst. Shereigned in many an early Victorian castle, and was Queen of much earlyVictorian 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 springingup strange desires. She too is enamoured of heavy winds, and vastpanoramas, and green expanses of the sea. She has marked the kingdomof this world, how full it is of wealth, and beauty, and war--a radiantcrust, built around the central fires, spinning towards the recedingheavens. Men, declaring that she inspires them to it, move joyfully overthe surface, having the most delightful meetings with other men, happy, not because they are masculine, but because they are alive. Before theshow breaks up she would like to drop the august title of the EternalWoman, and go there as her transitory self. 

Lucy does not stand for the medieval lady, who was rather an ideal towhich she was bidden to lift her eyes when feeling serious. Nor hasshe any system of revolt. Here and there a restriction annoyed herparticularly, and she would transgress it, and perhaps be sorry that shehad done so. This afternoon she was peculiarly restive. She would reallylike to do something of which her well-wishers disapproved. As she mightnot 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 MissBartlett had persuaded her to do without it. (A pity in art of coursesignified the nude. ) Giorgione's "Tempesta, " the "Idolino, " some ofthe Sistine frescoes and the Apoxyomenos, were added to it. She felta little calmer then, and bought Fra Angelico's "Coronation, " Giotto's"Ascension of St. John, " some Della Robbia babies, and some GuidoReni Madonnas. For her taste was catholic, and she extended uncriticalapproval to every well-known name. 

But though she spent nearly seven lire, the gates of liberty seemedstill unopened. She was conscious of her discontent; it was new to herto be conscious of it. "The world, " she thought, "is certainly fullof beautiful things, if only I could come across them. " It was notsurprising that Mrs. Honeychurch disapproved of music, declaring that italways left her daughter peevish, unpractical, and touchy. 

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

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

Then something did happen. 

Two Italians by the Loggia had been bickering about a debt. "Cinquelire, " they had cried, "cinque lire!" They sparred at each other, andone of them was hit lightly upon the chest. He frowned; he bent towardsLucy 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 betweenthem and trickled down his unshaven chin. 

That was all. A crowd rose out of the dusk. It hid this extraordinaryman from her, and bore him away to the fountain. Mr. George Emersonhappened to be a few paces away, looking at her across the spot wherethe man had been. How very odd! Across something. Even as she caughtsight 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 hadcomplained of dullness, and lo! one man was stabbed, and another heldher in his arms. 

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

"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. Thecries from the fountain--they had never ceased--rang emptily. The wholeworld seemed pale and void of its original meaning. 

"How very kind you have been! I might have hurt myself falling. But nowI 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 outthere in the square. " She looked at him cautiously. "Would you add toyour kindness by fetching them?"

He added to his kindness. As soon as he had turned his back, Lucy arosewith 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; sitdown till you are rested. " She was bewildered, and obeyed him. "Anddon't move till I come back. "

In the distance she saw creatures with black hoods, such as appear indreams. The palace tower had lost the reflection of the declining day, and joined itself to earth. How should she talk to Mr. Emerson when hereturned 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 easytopic. She spoke of the Italian character; she became almost garrulousover the incident that had made her faint five minutes before. Beingstrong physically, she soon overcame the horror of blood. She rosewithout his assistance, and though wings seemed to flutter inside her, she walked firmly enough towards the Arno. There a cabman signalled tothem; they refused him. 

"And the murderer tried to kiss him, you say--how very odd Italiansare!--and gave himself up to the police! Mr. Beebe was saying thatItalians know everything, but I think they are rather childish. When mycousin 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 thatof 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 allthe time we were making conversation I was wondering what to do withthem. " He pointed down-stream. "They've gone. " The river swirled underthe bridge, "I did mind them so, and one is so foolish, it seemed betterthat they should go out to the sea--I don't know; I may just mean thatthey frightened me. " Then the boy verged into a man. "For somethingtremendous has happened; I must face it without getting muddled. Itisn'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 someabstract quest. 

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

They were close to their pension. She stopped and leant her elbowsagainst the parapet of the embankment. He did likewise. There is attimes a magic in identity of position; it is one of the things that havesuggested 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 whatcame over me. "

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

"Well, I owe you a thousand apologies. "

"Oh, all right. "

"And--this is the real point--you know how silly people aregossiping--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 belowthem, almost black in the advancing night. He had thrown her photographsinto it, and then he had told her the reason. It struck her that it washopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm byidle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he mighteven 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 sayto him, "And would you--" and hope that he would complete the sentencefor himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight inthat beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had boughtin Alinari's shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; somethinghad happened to the living: they had come to a situation where charactertells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth. 

"Well, thank you so much, " she repeated, "How quickly these accidents dohappen, 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 Bartlettwould turn. " She was perfectly pleasant and sensible over Lucy'sadventure, found the abridged account of it quite adequate, and paidsuitable tribute to the courtesy of Mr. George Emerson. She and MissLavish had had an adventure also. They had been stopped at the Daziocoming back, and the young officials there, who seemed impudent anddesoeuvre, had tried to search their reticules for provisions. It mighthave been most unpleasant. Fortunately Miss Lavish was a match for anyone. 

For good or for evil, Lucy was left to face her problem alone. Noneof her friends had seen her, either in the Piazza or, later on, bythe embankment. Mr. Beebe, indeed, noticing her startled eyes atdinner-time, had again passed to himself the remark of "Too muchBeethoven. " But he only supposed that she was ready for an adventure, not that she had encountered it. This solitude oppressed her; she wasaccustomed to have her thoughts confirmed by others or, at all events, contradicted; it was too dreadful not to know whether she was thinkingright or wrong. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Serious as the choice had been, Lucy did not repent. Yesterday had beena muddle--queer and odd, the kind of thing one could not write downeasily on paper--but she had a feeling that Charlotte and her shoppingwere preferable to George Emerson and the summit of the Torre delGallo. Since she could not unravel the tangle, she must take care notto re-enter it. She could protest sincerely against Miss Bartlett'sinsinuations. 

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

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

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

"Aha! Miss Honeychurch, come you here I am in luck. Now, you are to tellme absolutely everything that you saw from the beginning. " Lucy poked atthe 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 suitablethat a girl should feel deeply. 

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

She marched cheerfully to the fountain and back, and did a fewcalculations in realism. Then she said that she had been in thePiazza since eight o'clock collecting material. A good deal of it wasunsuitable, but of course one always had to adapt. The two men hadquarrelled over a five-franc note. For the five-franc note she shouldsubstitute a young lady, which would raise the tone of the tragedy, andat 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 whilethe fountain plashed to the satyrs in the morning sun. 

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

"Oh, you wicked woman, " cried Miss Bartlett. "I am sure you are thinkingof 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 goingto paint so far as I can. For I repeat and I insist, and I have alwaysheld most strongly, that a tragedy such as yesterday's is not the lesstragic because it happened in humble life. "

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

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

Lucy assented. At present her great aim was not to get put into it. Herperceptions this morning were curiously keen, and she believed that MissLavish 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 beshocked at her. We had a long talk yesterday. She believes in justiceand truth and human interest. She told me also that she has a highopinion of the destiny of woman--Mr. Eager! Why, how nice! What apleasant surprise!"

"Ah, not for me, " said the chaplain blandly, "for I have been watchingyou 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 remarkwas made to a vender of panoramic photographs who was approaching with acourteous smile. "I am about to venture a suggestion. Would you andMiss Honeychurch be disposed to join me in a drive some day this week--adrive 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 anhour's ramble on the hillside. The view thence of Florence is mostbeautiful--far better than the hackneyed view of Fiesole. It is the viewthat Alessio Baldovinetti is fond of introducing into his pictures. Thatman had a decided feeling for landscape. Decidedly. But who looks at itto-day? Ah, the world is too much for us. "

Miss Bartlett had not heard of Alessio Baldovinetti, but she knewthat Mr. Eager was no commonplace chaplain. He was a member of theresidential colony who had made Florence their home. He knew the peoplewho never walked about with Baedekers, who had learnt to take a siestaafter lunch, who took drives the pension tourists had never heard of, and saw by private influence galleries which were closed to them. Livingin delicate seclusion, some in furnished flats, others in Renaissancevillas on Fiesole's slope, they read, wrote, studied, and exchangedideas, thus attaining to that intimate knowledge, or rather perception, of Florence which is denied to all who carry in their pockets thecoupons 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 itwas his avowed custom to select those of his migratory sheep who seemedworthy, and give them a few hours in the pastures of the permanent. Teaat a Renaissance villa? Nothing had been said about it yet. But if itdid come to that--how Lucy would enjoy it!

A few days ago and Lucy would have felt the same. But the joys of lifewere grouping themselves anew. A drive in the hills with Mr. Eager andMiss Bartlett--even if culminating in a residential tea-party--wasno longer the greatest of them. She echoed the raptures of Charlottesomewhat faintly. Only when she heard that Mr. Beebe was also coming didher thanks become more sincere. 

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

They assented. 

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

"Humiliating indeed, " said Miss Bartlett. "Miss Honeychurch happened tobe 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. "Donot blame her, please, Mr. Eager. The fault is mine: I left herunchaperoned. "

"So you were here alone, Miss Honeychurch?" His voice suggestedsympathetic reproof but at the same time indicated that a few harrowingdetails would not be unacceptable. His dark, handsome face droopedmournfully towards her to catch her reply. 

"Practically. "

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

"For her also it must have been a terrible experience. I trust thatneither 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 remarkablewas this: the ghoulish fashion in which respectable people will nibbleafter 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 thedisgraceful illustrations which the gutter Press--This man is a publicnuisance; he knows that I am a resident perfectly well, and yet he goeson worrying me to buy his vulgar views. "

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

"This is too much!" cried the chaplain, striking petulantly at one ofFra Angelico's angels. She tore. A shrill cry rose from the vendor. Thebook 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 awayfrom the square. 

But an Italian can never be ignored, least of all when he has agrievance. 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 onbread. He waited, he gibbered, he was recompensed, he was dissatisfied, he did not leave them until he had swept their minds clean of allthoughts whether pleasant or unpleasant. 

Shopping was the topic that now ensued. Under the chaplain's guidancethey selected many hideous presents and mementoes--florid littlepicture-frames that seemed fashioned in gilded pastry; other littleframes, more severe, that stood on little easels, and were carven outof oak; a blotting book of vellum; a Dante of the same material; cheapmosaic brooches, which the maids, next Christmas, would never tell fromreal; pins, pots, heraldic saucers, brown art-photographs; Eros andPsyche in alabaster; St. Peter to match--all of which would have costless in London. 

This successful morning left no pleasant impressions on Lucy. She hadbeen a little frightened, both by Miss Lavish and by Mr. Eager, she knewnot why. And as they frightened her, she had, strangely enough, ceasedto respect them. She doubted that Miss Lavish was a great artist. Shedoubted that Mr. Eager was as full of spirituality and culture as shehad been led to suppose. They were tried by some new test, and they werefound wanting. As for Charlotte--as for Charlotte she was exactly thesame. It might be possible to be nice to her; it was impossible to loveher. 

"The son of a labourer; I happen to know it for a fact. A mechanic ofsome sort himself when he was young; then he took to writing for theSocialistic 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 theirsuccess. The desire for education and for social advance--in thesethings there is something not wholly vile. There are some working menwhom one would be very willing to see out here in Florence--little asthey would make of it. "

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

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

"Oh, so he has a wife. "

"Dead, Miss Bartlett, dead. I wonder--yes I wonder how he has theeffrontery to look me in the face, to dare to claim acquaintance withme. 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 hedoes 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 hadinterested his audience more than he had intended. Miss Bartlett wasfull of very natural curiosity. Lucy, though she wished never to see theEmersons again, was not disposed to condemn them on a single word. 

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

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

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

"Perhaps, " said Miss Bartlett, "it is something that we had better nothear. "

"To speak plainly, " said Mr. Eager, "it is. I will say no more. " For thefirst time Lucy's rebellious thoughts swept out in words--for the firsttime 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 wasintolerable that she should disbelieve him. 

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

"How?" she retorted. 

"To all intents and purposes he murdered her. That day in SantaCroce--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 isonly their personal charms that makes you defend them. "

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

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

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

The addition of God was striking. But the chaplain was really tryingto qualify a rash remark. A silence followed which might have beenimpressive, but was merely awkward. Then Miss Bartlett hastily purchasedthe 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 ofthe approaching drive. 

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

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

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

Miss Bartlett, who had intended to lament over the Emersons, waslaunched 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 Iforesee 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. Thetruth must be told; she is too unconventional for him. "

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

Happy Charlotte, who, though greatly troubled over things that did notmatter, seemed oblivious to things that did; who could conjecture withadmirable delicacy "where things might lead to, " but apparently lostsight of the goal as she approached it. Now she was crouching in thecorner trying to extract a circular note from a kind of linen nose-bagwhich hung in chaste concealment round her neck. She had been told thatthis was the only safe way to carry money in Italy; it must onlybe broached within the walls of the English bank. As she groped shemurmured: "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 leaveEleanor out altogether--which they could scarcely do--but in any casewe must be prepared. It is you they really want; I am only asked forappearances. You shall go with the two gentlemen, and I and Eleanor willfollow behind. A one-horse carriage would do for us. Yet how difficultit is!"

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

"What do you think about it?" asked Miss Bartlett, flushed from thestruggle, 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, fullof athletics and biology; one from her mother, delightful as only hermother's letters could be. She had read in it of the crocuses which hadbeen 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-detachedcottages which were ruining Summer Street, and breaking the heart of SirHarry Otway. She recalled the free, pleasant life of her home, where shewas allowed to do everything, and where nothing ever happened to her. The road up through the pine-woods, the clean drawing-room, the viewover the Sussex Weald--all hung before her bright and distinct, butpathetic as the pictures in a gallery to which, after much experience, atraveller returns. 

"And the news?" asked Miss Bartlett. 

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

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

"They're nice people, the Vyses. So clever--my idea of what's reallyclever. 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 comfortingpatches of ruddy brick. By an odd chance--unless we believe in apresiding genius of places--the statues that relieve its severitysuggest, not the innocence of childhood, nor the glorious bewildermentof youth, but the conscious achievements of maturity. Perseus andJudith, Hercules and Thusnelda, they have done or suffered something, and though they are immortal, immortality has come to them afterexperience, not before. Here, not only in the solitude of Nature, mighta hero meet a goddess, or a heroine a god. 

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

Miss Bartlett, with equal vivacity, replied:

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

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

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

It was Phaethon who drove them to Fiesole that memorable day, a youthall irresponsibility and fire, recklessly urging his master's horses upthe stony hill. Mr. Beebe recognized him at once. Neither the Ages ofFaith nor the Age of Doubt had touched him; he was Phaethon in Tuscanydriving a cab. And it was Persephone whom he asked leave to pick up onthe way, saying that she was his sister--Persephone, tall and slenderand pale, returning with the Spring to her mother's cottage, and stillshading her eyes from the unaccustomed light. To her Mr. Eager objected, saying that here was the thin edge of the wedge, and one must guardagainst imposition. But the ladies interceded, and when it had been madeclear that it was a very great favour, the goddess was allowed to mountbeside the god. 

Phaethon at once slipped the left rein over her head, thus enablinghimself 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 theindecorous proceeding, and continued his conversation with Lucy. Theother two occupants of the carriage were old Mr. Emerson and MissLavish. For a dreadful thing had happened: Mr. Beebe, without consultingMr. Eager, had doubled the size of the party. And though Miss Bartlettand Miss Lavish had planned all the morning how the people were to sit, at the critical moment when the carriages came round they lost theirheads, and Miss Lavish got in with Lucy, while Miss Bartlett, withGeorge Emerson and Mr. Beebe, followed on behind. 

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

Lucy, elegantly dressed in white, sat erect and nervous amid theseexplosive ingredients, attentive to Mr. Eager, repressive towards MissLavish, watchful of old Mr. Emerson, hitherto fortunately asleep, thanksto a heavy lunch and the drowsy atmosphere of Spring. She looked on theexpedition as the work of Fate. But for it she would have avoided GeorgeEmerson successfully. In an open manner he had shown that he wished tocontinue their intimacy. She had refused, not because she disliked him, but because she did not know what had happened, and suspected that hedid 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 startledemotion, but of the whole fabric. There was really something blameworthy(she thought) in their joint contemplation of the shadowy stream, in thecommon impulse which had turned them to the house without the passing ofa look or word. This sense of wickedness had been slight at first. Shehad nearly joined the party to the Torre del Gallo. But each time thatshe avoided George it became more imperative that she should avoidhim again. And now celestial irony, working through her cousin and twoclergymen, did not suffer her to leave Florence till she had made thisexpedition with him through the hills. 

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

"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, "likemyself?"

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

"Oh, indeed, " said Mr. Eager. "Are you indeed? If you will not think merude, we residents sometimes pity you poor tourists not a little--handedabout like a parcel of goods from Venice to Florence, from Florence toRome, living herded together in pensions or hotels, quite unconsciousof 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 girlin Punch who says: 'Say, poppa, what did we see at Rome?' And the fatherreplies: '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 tointerrupt his mordant wit. "The narrowness and superficiality of theAnglo-Saxon tourist is nothing less than a menace. "

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

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

But Mr. Eager proceeded to tell Miss Honeychurch that on the right livedMr. Someone Something, an American of the best type--so rare!--and thatthe Somebody Elses were farther down the hill. "Doubtless you knowher monographs in the series of 'Mediaeval Byways'? He is working atGemistus Pletho. Sometimes as I take tea in their beautiful grounds Ihear, over the wall, the electric tram squealing up the new road withits 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, andI 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 eachother disgracefully. Lucy had a spasm of envy. Granted that they wishedto misbehave, it was pleasant for them to be able to do so. They wereprobably the only people enjoying the expedition. The carriage sweptwith agonizing jolts up through the Piazza of Fiesole and into theSettignano road. 

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

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

Now Mr. Eager and Miss Lavish began to talk against each other on thesubject of Alessio Baldovinetti. Was he a cause of the Renaissance, orwas he one of its manifestations? The other carriage was left behind. Asthe pace increased to a gallop the large, slumbering form of Mr. Emersonwas 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 sometime had been endeavouring to kiss Persephone, had just succeeded. 

A little scene ensued, which, as Miss Bartlett said afterwards, wasmost unpleasant. The horses were stopped, the lovers were ordered todisentangle themselves, the boy was to lose his pourboire, the girl wasimmediately 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, butat its manner. At this point Mr. Emerson, whom the shock of stoppinghad awoke, declared that the lovers must on no account be separated, andpatted them on the back to signify his approval. And Miss Lavish, thoughunwilling to ally him, felt bound to support the cause of Bohemianism. 

"Most certainly I would let them be, " she cried. "But I dare say Ishall receive scant support. I have always flown in the face of theconventions 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 istreating 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. Beebecalled out that after this warning the couple would be sure to behavethemselves properly. 

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

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

Mr. Eager, who suffered from an over-fluent tongue rather than aresolute will, was determined to make himself heard. He addressed thedriver 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 whistlingfountain 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. Whyshould he appeal to Lucy?

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

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

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

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

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

"We have tried to buy what cannot be bought with money. He has bargainedto 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 astypically 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 isjustified. 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 ofLorenzo de Medici?"

Miss Lavish bristled. 

"Most certainly I have. Do you refer to Lorenzo il Magnifico, or toLorenzo, Duke of Urbino, or to Lorenzo surnamed Lorenzino on account ofhis 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 gofighting against the Spring. '"

Mr. Eager could not resist the opportunity for erudition. 

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

"The point is, we have warred with it. Look. " He pointed to the Vald'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 supposethere's any difference between Spring in nature and Spring in man? Butthere 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 thecarriages to stop and marshalled the party for their ramble on the hill. A hollow like a great amphitheatre, full of terraced steps and mistyolives, now lay between them and the heights of Fiesole, and the road, still following its curve, was about to sweep on to a promontory whichstood out in the plain. It was this promontory, uncultivated, wet, covered with bushes and occasional trees, which had caught the fancy ofAlessio Baldovinetti nearly five hundred years before. He had ascendedit, that diligent and rather obscure master, possibly with an eye tobusiness, possibly for the joy of ascending. Standing there, he had seenthat view of the Val d'Arno and distant Florence, which he afterwardshad introduced not very effectively into his work. But where exactly hadhe stood? That was the question which Mr. Eager hoped to solve now. AndMiss Lavish, whose nature was attracted by anything problematical, hadbecome equally enthusiastic. 

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

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

The two elder ladies soon threw off the mask. In the audible whisperthat was now so familiar to Lucy they began to discuss, not AlessioBaldovinetti, but the drive. Miss Bartlett had asked Mr. George Emersonwhat his profession was, and he had answered "the railway. " She was verysorry that she had asked him. She had no idea that it would be such adreadful answer, or she would not have asked him. Mr. Beebe had turnedthe conversation so cleverly, and she hoped that the young man was notvery much hurt at her asking him. 

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

"Eleanor, be quiet, " plucking at her vivacious companion. "Hush! They'llhear--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, andthey wouldn't mind if they did. "

Miss Lavish did not seem pleased at this. 

"Miss Honeychurch listening!" she said rather crossly. "Pouf! Wouf! Younaughty 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 boyshave got separated from the girls. Miss Lucy, you are to go. We wish toconverse on high topics unsuited for your ear. "

The girl was stubborn. As her time at Florence drew to its close she wasonly at ease amongst those to whom she felt indifferent. Such a one wasMiss Lavish, and such for the moment was Charlotte. She wished she hadnot called attention to herself; they were both annoyed at her remarkand seemed determined to get rid of her. 

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

Unselfishness with Miss Bartlett had entirely usurped the functions ofenthusiasm. Lucy did not look at the view either. She would not enjoyanything 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 thatprotect 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. ReallyI have not had rheumatism for years. If I do feel it coming on I shallstand. Imagine your mother's feelings if I let you sit in the wetin your white linen. " She sat down heavily where the ground lookedparticularly moist. "Here we are, all settled delightfully. Even if mydress is thinner it will not show so much, being brown. Sit down, dear;you are too unselfish; you don't assert yourself enough. " She clearedher throat. "Now don't be alarmed; this isn't a cold. It's the tiniestcough, and I have had it three days. It's nothing to do with sittinghere at all. "

There was only one way of treating the situation. At the end of fiveminutes Lucy departed in search of Mr. Beebe and Mr. Eager, vanquishedby the mackintosh square. 

She addressed herself to the drivers, who were sprawling in thecarriages, perfuming the cushions with cigars. The miscreant, a bonyyoung man scorched black by the sun, rose to greet her with the courtesyof 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 armswept three-fourths of the horizon. He should just think he did knowwhere. He pressed his finger-tips to his forehead and then pushed themtowards 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 hiscigar. 

"Uno--piu--piccolo, " was her next remark, implying "Has the cigar beengiven 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 makeit stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded hishat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of aminute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way. Itwould seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as achess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as wellas the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is agift from God. 

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

"Ma buoni uomini. "

He bowed. Certainly. Good men first, violets afterwards. They proceededbriskly through the undergrowth, which became thicker and thicker. Theywere nearing the edge of the promontory, and the view was stealing roundthem, but the brown network of the bushes shattered it into countlesspieces. He was occupied in his cigar, and in holding back the pliantboughs. She was rejoicing in her escape from dullness. Not a step, not atwig, was unimportant to her. 

"What is that?"

There was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voiceof Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian's ignorance issometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make himunderstand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view wasforming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, otherhills. 

"Eccolo!" he exclaimed. 

At the same moment the ground gave way, and with a cry she fell out ofthe wood. Light and beauty enveloped her. She had fallen on to a littleopen 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, irrigatingthe hillside with blue, eddying round the tree stems collecting intopools in the hollows, covering the grass with spots of azure foam. Butnever 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 hecontemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. He saw radiantjoy in her face, he saw the flowers beat against her dress in bluewaves. The bushes above them closed. He stepped quickly forward andkissed 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 Bartlettwho stood brown against the view. 

Chapter VII: They Return

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

That last fact was undeniable. He climbed on to the box shivering, withhis collar up, prophesying the swift approach of bad weather. "Let us goimmediately, " 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 theface; perhaps defeat was particularly mortifying for him. He alone hadplayed skilfully, using the whole of his instinct, while the othershad used scraps of their intelligence. He alone had divined what thingswere, and what he wished them to be. He alone had interpreted themessage that Lucy had received five days before from the lips of adying man. Persephone, who spends half her life in the grave--she couldinterpret it also. Not so these English. They gain knowledge slowly, andperhaps too late. 

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

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

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

"No--of course--"

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

Under the rug, Lucy felt the kindly pressure of her cousin's hand. Attimes our need for a sympathetic gesture is so great that we carenot what exactly it signifies or how much we may have to pay for itafterwards. Miss Bartlett, by this timely exercise of her muscles, gained more than she would have got in hours of preaching or crossexamination. 

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

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

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

"Go, Mr. Eager, " said Miss Bartlett, "don't ask our driver; our driver isno 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. "Inthe 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 thedriver-"HE knows everything. Dearest, had we better? Shall I?" She tookout 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 dayas any. But Lucy, a mortal maid, was disappointed in him. 

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

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

"Charlotte, dear Charlotte, kiss me. Kiss me again. Only you canunderstand me. You warned me to be careful. And I--I thought I wasdeveloping. "

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

"I have been obstinate and silly--worse than you know, far worse. Onceby 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 wasworst along the road; but she had been near danger, and so she thoughtit 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 simplyslipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am alittle 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 abook. "

"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 acertain amount of insight she drew her young cousin affectionatelyto her. All the way back Lucy's body was shaken by deep sighs, whichnothing could repress. 

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

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

So they re-entered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to thegirl 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 goodhumour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte aloneshe was sure of--Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight andlove. 

The luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the longevening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how sheshould describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, hermoments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should becarefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence theywould disentangle and interpret them all. 

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

Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed toher the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, withcommendable 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 ratherhysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all eventsto accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartletthad recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentlereproach:

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

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

She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that shewould have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was allthat 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 feltdamp and chilly, One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawersclose to Miss Bartlett's toque, which cast monstrous and fantasticshadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy feltunaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She liftedthem to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless andvague, 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 absolutelytruthful. 

"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 metthe 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 hereand listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do youremember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking oneperson 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 hisdeplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no fartheron with our question. What do you propose to do?"

An idea rushed across Lucy's brain, which, had she thought of it soonerand 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 yousaid--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 heanswers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. Butnow I am not one little bit. "

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

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

Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoningit 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. Shewent 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 seenfrom the road. "

Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin's power. She could not modulate outthe key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of themreferred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George andsettle 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 ishopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for yourbrother! He is young, but I know that his sister's insult would rousein him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are stillleft some men who can reverence woman. "

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

"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 hadgiven 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 theVyses' hotel. Isn't afternoon tea given there for nothing?"

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

They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time tolose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of thediscomforts 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 girlheard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of thoseemotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She onlyfelt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the worldbe happier, if she could give and receive some human love. The impulsehad come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by hercousin's side and took her in her arms. 

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

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

Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience whatforgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified herembrace 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 agedmartyr. 

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

"Please--"

"My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, andwere often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what alady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than wasnecessary. 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 thestraps of Lucy's trunk instead of strapping her own. "Failed to make youhappy; 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 itisn't a disaster either. "

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

"Every right. "

"When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally truethat 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 inany way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will neverspeak of it either to her or to any one. "

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

For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George wouldseem to have behaved like a cad throughout; perhaps that was the viewwhich one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted norcondemned him; she did not pass judgment. At the moment when she wasabout to judge him her cousin's voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, evennow, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall;Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble norinconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time--indeed, for years--she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presentedto the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in whichthe young rush to destruction until they learn better--a shamefacedworld of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do notseem 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 yetdiscovered: diplomatic advantage had been taken of her sincerity, ofher craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration andprecaution against rebuff. And such a wrong may react disastrously uponthe soul. 

The door-bell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reachedthem 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 lookedup, did not see her. 

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

Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At thecritical 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 herwork. 

Lucy cried aloud: "It isn't true. It can't all be true. I want not to bemuddled. 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, forthe carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. Theywere heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the lightthat filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet--none waspresent--might have quoted, "Life like a dome of many coloured glass, "or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered againstthe intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance;within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities ofman. 

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

"Where aren't they?" said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy's brother. "Itell 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 itliterally. 

Freddy did not move or reply. 

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

"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 mighthave got this off her chest in Italy. I don't know how girls managethings, but she can't have said 'No' properly before, or she wouldn'thave to say it again now. Over the whole thing--I can't explain--I dofeel 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 aboutit, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But--'" She stoppedreading, "I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. Hehas always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and soforth. 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 beasked?"

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

"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 itswording, 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 herson, "Still page 322?" Freddy snorted, and turned over two leaves. For abrief space they were silent. Close by, beyond the curtains, the gentlemurmur 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 didgive--that is to say, I said, 'I don't mind'--well, not content withthat, he wanted to know whether I wasn't off my head with joy. Hepractically put it like this: Wasn't it a splendid thing for Lucy andfor Windy Corner generally if he married her? And he would have ananswer--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 astew! I can't help it--had to say it. I had to say no. He ought never tohave asked me. "

"Ridiculous child!" cried his mother. "You think you're so holy andtruthful, but really it's only abominable conceit. Do you suppose thata man like Cecil would take the slightest notice of anything you say? Ihope 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. Itried to laugh as if I didn't mean what I said, and, as Cecil laughedtoo, 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 thesubject, "I shall not keep quiet. You know all that has passed betweenthem in Rome; you know why he is down here, and yet you deliberatelyinsult 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 hatehim, 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'sgood, he's clever, he's rich, he's well connected--Oh, you needn't kickthe piano! He's well connected--I'll say it again if you like: he'swell connected. " She paused, as if rehearsing her eulogy, but her faceremained dissatisfied. She added: "And he has beautiful manners. "

"I liked him till just now. I suppose it's having him spoiling Lucy'sfirst week at home; and it's also something that Mr. Beebe said, notknowing. "

"Mr. Beebe?" said his mother, trying to conceal her interest. "I don'tsee how Mr. Beebe comes in. "

"You know Mr. Beebe's funny way, when you never quite know what hemeans. He said: 'Mr. Vyse is an ideal bachelor. ' I was very cute, Iasked him what he meant. He said 'Oh, he's like me--better detached. ' Icouldn't make him say any more, but it set me thinking. Since Cecil hascome 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 maystop Lucy knitting you silk ties. "

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

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

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

"Don't interrupt so foolishly. Where was I? Oh yes--'Young people mustdecide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes your son, because shetells me everything, and she wrote to me from Rome when he asked herfirst. ' No, I'll cross that last bit out--it looks patronizing. I'llstop 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 mypermission about it, and I should be delighted if Lucy wishes it, andI have told Lucy so. But Lucy seems very uncertain, and in these daysyoung people must decide for themselves. I know that Lucy likes yourson, 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 theHoneychurch habit of sitting in the dark to save the furniture. Instinctively he give the curtains a twitch, and sent them swinging downtheir poles. Light entered. There was revealed a terrace, such as isowned by many villas with trees each side of it, and on it a littlerustic seat, and two flower-beds. But it was transfigured by the viewbeyond, for Windy Corner was built on the range that overlooks theSussex Weald. Lucy, who was in the little seat, seemed on the edge of agreen 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. Hewas medieval. Like a Gothic statue. Tall and refined, with shouldersthat seemed braced square by an effort of the will, and a head thatwas tilted a little higher than the usual level of vision, he resembledthose fastidious saints who guard the portals of a French cathedral. Well educated, well endowed, and not deficient physically, heremained in the grip of a certain devil whom the modern world knowsas self-consciousness, and whom the medieval, with dimmer vision, worshipped as asceticism. A Gothic statue implies celibacy, just asa Greek statue implies fruition, and perhaps this was what Mr. Beebemeant. And Freddy, who ignored history and art, perhaps meant the samewhen he failed to imagine Cecil wearing another fellow's cap. 

Mrs. Honeychurch left her letter on the writing table and moved towardsher 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 Englishmade him flush and smile with pleasure, and look more human. 

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

"Welcome as one of the family!" said Mrs. Honeychurch, waving her handat the furniture. "This is indeed a joyous day! I feel sure that youwill 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 shewas 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 atthem, just as if she was going to ask them to play tennis. Then she sawher brother's face. Her lips parted, and she took him in her arms. Hesaid, "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 aboutit?" 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 theirways--past the shrubbery, and past the tennis-lawn and the dahlia-bed, until they reached the kitchen garden, and there, in the presence of thepotatoes and the peas, the great event would be discussed. 

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

He had known Lucy for several years, but only as a commonplace girlwho happened to be musical. He could still remember his depression thatafternoon at Rome, when she and her terrible cousin fell on him outof the blue, and demanded to be taken to St. Peter's. That day she hadseemed a typical tourist--shrill, crude, and gaunt with travel. ButItaly worked some marvel in her. It gave her light, and--which he heldmore precious--it gave her shadow. Soon he detected in her a wonderfulreticence. She was like a woman of Leonardo da Vinci's, whom we lovenot so much for herself as for the things that she will not tell us, Thethings are assuredly not of this life; no woman of Leonardo's could haveanything so vulgar as a "story. " She did develop most wonderfully day byday. 

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

So now he had asked her once more, and, clear and gentle as ever, shehad accepted him, giving no coy reasons for her delay, but simply sayingthat 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 along account. 

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

Then he lit another cigarette, which did not seem quite as divine asthe first, and considered what might be done to make Windy Cornerdrawing-room more distinctive. With that outlook it should have been asuccessful room, but the trail of Tottenham Court Road was upon it; hecould almost visualize the motor-vans of Messrs. Shoolbred and Messrs. Maple arriving at the door and depositing this chair, those varnishedbook-cases, that writing-table. The table recalled Mrs. Honeychurch'sletter. He did not want to read that letter--his temptations never layin that direction; but he worried about it none the less. It was hisown fault that she was discussing him with his mother; he had wanted hersupport 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 theirpermission. Mrs. Honeychurch had been civil, but obtuse in essentials, while as for Freddy--"He is only a boy, " he reflected. "I represent allthat he despises. Why should he want me for a brother-in-law?"

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

"Mr. Beebe!" said the maid, and the new rector of Summer Street wasshown in; he had at once started on friendly relations, owing to Lucy'spraise 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 thatchair; young Honeychurch has left a bone in it. "

"Pfui!"

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

For Cecil considered the bone and the Maples' furniture separately; hedid not realize that, taken together, they kindled the room into thelife 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 Iam first in the field. He has bought Cissie and Albert from Mr. Flack!"

"Has he indeed?" said Cecil, trying to recover himself. Into what agrotesque mistake had he fallen! Was it likely that a clergyman and agentleman would refer to his engagement in a manner so flippant? But hisstiffness 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 notto have met Cissie and Albert, the semi-detached villas that have beenrun up opposite the church! I'll set Mrs. Honeychurch after you. "

"I'm shockingly stupid over local affairs, " said the young manlanguidly. "I can't even remember the difference between a ParishCouncil and a Local Government Board. Perhaps there is no difference, orperhaps those aren't the right names. I only go into the country to seemy friends and to enjoy the scenery. It is very remiss of me. Italy andLondon 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 mydecadence. My attitude quite an indefensible one--is that so long as Iam no trouble to any one I have a right to do as I like. I know I oughtto be getting money out of people, or devoting myself to things I don'tcare a straw about, but somehow, I've not been able to begin. "

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

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

"I am glad that you approve. I daren't face the healthy person--forexample, 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 sohopelessly contrary? He tried to get right by inquiring effusively afterMr. Beebe's mother, an old lady for whom he had no particular regard. Then he flattered the clergyman, praised his liberal-mindedness, hisenlightened attitude towards philosophy and science. 

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

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

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

"The fault of Euphemia is that she will not, simply will not, chop thesuet 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 ofFreddy. 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 MissHoneychurch. Does it seem reasonable that she should play sowonderfully, and live so quietly? I suspect that one day she will bewonderful 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 wasnot wonderful, and at Florence. Since I came to Summer Street she hasbeen away. You saw her, didn't you, at Rome and in the Alps. Oh, Iforgot; of course, you knew her before. No, she wasn't wonderful inFlorence either, but I kept on expecting that she would be. "

"In what way?"

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

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

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

"But the string never broke?"

"No. I mightn't have seen Miss Honeychurch rise, but I should certainlyhave 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. Hecursed his love of metaphor; had he suggested that he was a star andthat 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 couldnot 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 Lucyherself; yes, he was disappointed. 

Cecil, who naturally preferred congratulations to apologies, drew downhis mouth at the corners. Was this the reception his action would getfrom the world? Of course, he despised the world as a whole; everythoughtful man should; it is almost a test of refinement. But he wassensitive 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 thatLucy's choice does not meet with your approval. "

"Not that. But you ought to have stopped me. I know Miss Honeychurchonly a little as time goes. Perhaps I oughtn't to have discussed her sofreely 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 ofplacing one in the most tiresome positions. He was driven to use theprerogatives of his profession. 

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

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

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

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

"Indeed I have!" he cried. He looked at Lucy. In her presence he couldnot 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, butgenerally I'm too shy. I want to invoke every kind of blessing onthem, grave and gay, great and small. I want them all their lives to besupremely good and supremely happy as husband and wife, as father andmother. And now I want my tea. "

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

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

An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces allwho speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. Away from it, in thesolitude of their rooms, Mr. Beebe, and even Freddy, might again becritical. But in its presence and in the presence of each other theywere sincerely hilarious. It has a strange power, for it compels notonly the lips, but the very heart. The chief parallel to compare onegreat thing with another--is the power over us of a temple of some aliencreed. Standing outside, we deride or oppose it, or at the most feelsentimental. Inside, though the saints and gods are not ours, we becometrue believers, in case any true believer should be present. 

So it was that after the gropings and the misgivings of the afternoonthey pulled themselves together and settled down to a very pleasanttea-party. If they were hypocrites they did not know it, and theirhypocrisy had every chance of setting and of becoming true. Anne, putting down each plate as if it were a wedding present, stimulated themgreatly. They could not lag behind that smile of hers which she gavethem ere she kicked the drawing-room door. Mr. Beebe chirruped. Freddywas at his wittiest, referring to Cecil as the "Fiasco"--family honouredpun on fiance. Mrs. Honeychurch, amusing and portly, promised well asa mother-in-law. As for Lucy and Cecil, for whom the temple had beenbuilt, they also joined in the merry ritual, but waited, as earnestworshippers 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 Lucyand her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, fornaturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying apresentable man. 

Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it wasvery pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and hislong, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulatedMrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleasedher, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffydowagers. 

At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy'sfigured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feignednothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treatedby a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left withthe 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 weredriving 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 rememberthe hang of one of the dresses. 

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

"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 anengagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place whereevery outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old womensmirking!"

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

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

Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were raciallycorrect. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them, rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised thecontinuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised somethingquite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy'sbelief 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 isdeprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have isthat 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 aquiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement, had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far frompossessing. 

"Well, " said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. Thereare certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I mustaccept them. "

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

"Sometimes they are forced on us, though, " said Cecil, who saw from herremark 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 anydifference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the sameplace. "

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

"My dear Cecil, look here. " She spread out her knees and perched hercard-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of thepattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fencecomes 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, "andthat's Mr. Beebe. "

"A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless. "

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

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

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

"Now, a clergyman that I do hate, " said she wanting to say somethingsympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadfulones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was trulyinsincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and soconceited, and he did say such unkind things. "

"What sort of things?"

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

"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 thepoint. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murderedhis wife--had murdered her in the sight of God. "

"Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently. "But isn't it intolerablethat a person whom we're told to imitate should go round spreadingslander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to him that the old man wasdropped. 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 hermother. 

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 blowmy head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil tohate any more clergymen. "

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

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

"I count myself a lucky person, " he concluded, "When I'm in London Ifeel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel thesame about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees andthe sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people wholive amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out often they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman andthe country labourer are each in their way the most depressing ofcompanions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workingsof 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, feltirritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again. 

Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she stilllooked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moralgymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of anAugust wood. 

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

She flushed again and said: "What height?"

"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure livesin height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of thehills?' Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen nomore. 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 wasoccupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingledspire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcelyexceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they werehidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than theshrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two uglylittle villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement, having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy hadbeen 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 gardengates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followedthe semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert"was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums andlobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathedin Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belongingto Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprisingfact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawnwas yellow with dandelions. 

"The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street willnever be the same again. "

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

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

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

"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract wassigned. 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 fullwarning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot beforebuilding commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had knownSummer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it beingspoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and theapparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm. He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder, --a most reasonable andrespectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artisticroof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ, however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leechesto the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he likedto relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that acolumn, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative. 

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

This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadnessas he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his dutiesto 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"--someone really desirable. 

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

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

"You ought to find a tenant at once, " he said maliciously. "It would bea 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 hasimproved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles froma station in these days of bicycles?"

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

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

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

"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 lastweek--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. Theyare quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell themto write to you?"

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

She nodded. 

"My advice, " put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do withLucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve mefrom people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with themthat make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far ratherlet to some one who is going up in the world than to some one who hascome down. "

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

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

"Yes, they are, " said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say theywere 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 mytroubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otwaywill only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but noreal 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 ofcanaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and thenthe mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man. "

"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of herremark. 

"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end ofthem--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 aman--of course, provided he's clean. "

Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open complimentsto their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them muchdistinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, shoulddescend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She wasdelighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such ahouse. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when theywere 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 beamedat them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and thenhastened to unlock the house. 

"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out ofearshot. 

"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 hewould keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wifewould give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the littlegod with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, andevery one--even your mother--is taken in. "

"All that you say is quite true, " said Lucy, though she feltdiscouraged. "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 vulgartenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll noticeit. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let'sforget him. "

This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway andMr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really matteredto her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever, nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, anyminute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would shereply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxietyenough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy sometime, 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 Streetlay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath divergedfrom 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 subduedirritation 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 oncebeen with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?"

"Haven't I? The wood, then, " said Lucy, startled at his queerness, butpretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leaveher in doubt as to his meaning. 

She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he didexplain before they had gone a dozen yards. 

"I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home withme in a room. "

"A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered. 

"Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the realcountry like this. "

"Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of thesort. 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 typeof 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 openair. "

She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?"

As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as toodifficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing everynow and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination ofthe trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Cornerever 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 tinygreen 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 apuddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good dealof water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, andthe pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathethere. He is very fond of it. "

"And you?"

He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathedhere, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row. "

At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths ofprudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the freshair, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her asshe 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 itsown, 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 towardshim. 

"What, Cecil?"

"Hitherto never--not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marryme--"

He became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they wereobserved. 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, youknow. "

At that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Herreply 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. Ashe touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattenedbetween them. 

Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been afailure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forgetcivility 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 manbehind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy wasstanding flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in hisarms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for hismanliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness. 

They left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited forher to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. Atlast 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 hadever had. 

Chapter X: Cecil as a Humourist

The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps novery splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedentsentitled her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had builtWindy Corner, as a speculation at the time the district was opening up, and, falling in love with his own creation, had ended by living therehimself. Soon after his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter. Other houses were built on the brow of that steep southern slope andothers, again, among the pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalkbarrier of the downs. Most of these houses were larger than WindyCorner, and were filled by people who came, not from the district, butfrom London, and who mistook the Honeychurches for the remnants of anindigenous aristocracy. He was inclined to be frightened, but his wifeaccepted the situation without either pride or humility. "I cannot thinkwhat people are doing, " she would say, "but it is extremely fortunatefor the children. " She called everywhere; her calls were returned withenthusiasm, and by the time people found out that she was not exactlyof their milieu, they liked her, and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the satisfaction--which few honest solicitorsdespise--of leaving his family rooted in the best society obtainable. 

The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were ratherdull, and Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy. Hitherto she had accepted their ideals without questioning--their kindlyaffluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags, orange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt tospeak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceiveit, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests andidentical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outsideit were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as theLondon fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps inthe northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warmhimself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished. Her senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might notget to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but notparticularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant'solive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returnedwith new eyes. 

So did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but toirritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, insteadof saying, "Does that very much matter?" he rebelled, and tried tosubstitute for it the society he called broad. He did not realize thatLucy had consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilitiesthat create a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw itsdefects, her heart refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realizea more important point--that if she was too great for this society, shewas too great for all society, and had reached the stage where personalintercourse would alone satisfy her. A rebel she was, but not of thekind he understood--a rebel who desired, not a wider dwelling-room, butequality beside the man she loved. For Italy was offering her the mostpriceless of all possessions--her own soul. 

Playing bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, andaged thirteen--an ancient and most honourable game, which consists instriking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the netand immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost. Thesentence 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 knowingwhat they wanted, and every one so tiresome. "

"But they really are coming now, " said Mr. Beebe. "I wrote to MissTeresa a few days ago--she was wondering how often the butcher called, and my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. Theyare coming. I heard from them this morning. 

"I shall hate those Miss Alans!" Mrs. Honeychurch cried. "Just becausethey're old and silly one's expected to say 'How sweet!' I hatetheir 'if'-ing and 'but'-ing and 'and'-ing. And poor Lucy--serve herright--worn to a shadow. "

Mr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over thetennis-court. Cecil was absent--one did not play bumble-puppy when hewas there. 

"Well, if they are coming--No, Minnie, not Saturn. " Saturn was atennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb wasencircled by a ring. "If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them movein before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause aboutwhitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in thefair 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 theBeautiful 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 herover 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 VittoriaCorombona, please. " But his correction passed unheeded. 

Freddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girlsto fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from awell-mannered child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecilheard them, and, though he was full of entertaining news, he did notcome down to impart it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward andbore necessary pain as well as any man. But he hated the physicalviolence 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 asLucy, who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off herfeet 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 atlast 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 saiddon't interfere with Cissie Villa. I'm always right. I'm quite uneasy atbeing always right so often. "

"It's only another muddle of Freddy's. Freddy doesn't even know the nameof 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 hadnever 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 wasthe proper way to behave if any little thing went wrong. 

Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch fromthe 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 wasdemocratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturallyattracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that thereare different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure. 

"I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy"--she wassitting up again--"I see you looking down your nose and thinking yourmother's a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it'saffectation to pretend there isn't. "

"Emerson's a common enough name, " Lucy remarked. 

She was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could seethe pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateralview. 

"I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were norelations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does thatsatisfy you?"

"Oh, yes, " he grumbled. "And you will be satisfied, too, for they'refriends of Cecil; so"--elaborate irony--"you and the other countryfamilies 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 shebelieved that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she had borne it like a good girl. She might well "screech" whenshe heard that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was atease--something worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasurein thwarting people. The clergyman, knowing this, looked at MissHoneychurch with more than his usual kindness. 

When she exclaimed, "But Cecil's Emersons--they can't possibly be thesame ones--there is that--" he did not consider that the exclamationwas strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the conversationwhile she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:

"The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don't suppose itwill prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friendsof Mr. Vyse's. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerestpeople! For our part we liked them, didn't we?" He appealed to Lucy. "There was a great scene over some violets. They picked violets andfilled all the vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who havefailed to come to Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and sopleased. It used to be one of Miss Catharine's great stories. 'My dearsister loves flowers, ' it began. They found the whole room a mass ofblue--vases and jugs--and the story ends with 'So ungentlemanly and yetso beautiful. ' It is all very difficult. Yes, I always connect thoseFlorentine Emersons with violets. "

"Fiasco's done you this time, " remarked Freddy, not seeing that hissister's face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe sawit, and continued to divert the conversation. 

"These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son--the sona goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but veryimmature--pessimism, et cetera. Our special joy was the father--such asentimental 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 anyrubbish that came into his head. 

"Murdered his wife?" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "Lucy, don't desert us--goon playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have beenthe oddest place. That's the second murderer I've heard of as beingthere. Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really mustask Charlotte here some time. "

Mr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostesswas mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectlysure that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story hadbeen told. The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was thename? She clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. Shestruck 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 itwhen you play. "

As she left them her mother's shout of "Harris!" shivered the tranquilair, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put itright. Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves andmade her connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil's, with a pair ofnondescript tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. Shesaw that for the future she must be more vigilant, and be--absolutelytruthful? Well, at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried upthe garden, still flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would sootheher, she was sure. 

"Cecil!"

"Hullo!" he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. Heseemed in high spirits. "I was hoping you'd come. I heard you allbear-gardening, but there's better fun up here. I, even I, have won agreat victory for the Comic Muse. George Meredith's right--the cause ofComedy and the cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, havefound tenants for the distressful Cissie Villa. Don't be angry! Don't beangry! You'll forgive me when you hear it all. "

He looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled herridiculous forebodings at once. 

"I have heard, " she said. "Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I supposeI 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 nicefriends 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 whereI met these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up tosee my mother last week. "

"What an odd place to meet people!" she said nervously. "I don't quiteunderstand. "

"In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring LucaSignorelli--of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and theyrefreshed me not--a little. They had been to Italy. "

"But, Cecil--" proceeded hilariously. 

"In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a countrycottage--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 tooktheir address and a London reference, found they weren't actualblackguards--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 manwill do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgustingwith 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 withme. There ought to be intermarriage--all sorts of things. I believe indemocracy--"

"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. Youhad no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me lookridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize thatit 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 thoughtthat his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she hadnot minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of valueeducationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, whowas silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he wouldbring 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 notdisdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons toWindy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through thenegotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement, met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans wereduly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they heldresponsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for thenew-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them assoon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse's equipment that shepermitted 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 shadowsbecause there are hills--Lucy was at first plunged into despair, butsettled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least. Now that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her andwere welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whomhe would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bringthe Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a littlethinking, and--so illogical are girls--the event remained rather greaterand rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad thata visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villawhile she was safe in the London flat. 

"Cecil--Cecil darling, " she whispered the evening she arrived, and creptinto his arms. 

Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had beenkindled 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. Acoolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had notcorresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from whatCharlotte would call "the flight to Rome, " and in Rome it had increasedamazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaevalworld becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in theForum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy's, and once, in theBaths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continuetheir tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses--Mrs. Vyse was anacquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan andMiss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandonedsuddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, forLucy, 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 yourparts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturingher tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat verywoebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a dooropen opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his fatherhad just taken the house. He SAID he did not know that you lived in theneighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. DearLucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of hispast behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid himto enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune, and I dare say youhave told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I usedto get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and shouldnot 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 themountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said shewould 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 Cecilthat I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectablepeople--which I do think--and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish notea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at theRectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see thatit would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them, they would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what theyare 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 otherday. We expect to be married in January. 

"Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at WindyCorner at all, but here. Please do not put 'Private' outside yourenvelope again. No one opens my letters. 

"Yours affectionately, "L. M. Honeychurch. "

Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; wecannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and hercousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil's life ifhe discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? MissBartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become agreat thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her motherand her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing. "Emerson, not Harris"; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried totell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautifullady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved soridiculously that she stopped. 

She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolisvisiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her noharm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while societyitself 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 toscrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildrenof famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty wearinessthat impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. Onelaunched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneselfup amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertoliniand Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her Londoncareer would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in thepast. 

The grandchildren asked her to play the piano. 

She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven" called Cecil, when thequerulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and playedSchumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; itwas resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. Thesadness of the incomplete--the sadness that is often Life, but shouldnever be Art--throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves ofthe audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped pianoat 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 pacedup 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 amongmany people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she hadseen 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 oneson, but, so to speak, a filial crowd. 

"Make Lucy one of us, " she said, looking round intelligently at the endof 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 excellentHoneychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quotingservants, or asking one how the pudding is made. "

"Italy has done it. "

"Perhaps, " she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italyto 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 toSchumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right forthis evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall haveour children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest countryfolks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--nottill then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these Londoneducations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, andconcluded, "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'sroom. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought itkind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand onher 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: "Youshould have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more thanever. 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, andthe spirit of youth dwelt in it, though the season was now autumn. Allthat was gracious triumphed. As the motorcars passed through SummerStreet they raised only a little dust, and their stench was soondispersed by the wind and replaced by the scent of the wet birches orof the pines. Mr. Beebe, at leisure for life's amenities, leant over hisRectory 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 newpeople might be feeling a bit busy, and so on, since they had only justmoved in. 

"I suggested we should hinder them, " said Mr. Beebe. "They are worthit. " Unlatching the gate, he sauntered over the triangular green toCissie Villa. "Hullo!" he cried, shouting in at the open door, throughwhich 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 failedto carry up the stairs. Mr. Beebe edged round it with difficulty. Thesitting-room itself was blocked with books. 

"Are these people great readers?" Freddy whispered. "Are they thatsort?"

"I fancy they know how to read--a rare accomplishment. What have theygot? Byron. Exactly. A Shropshire Lad. Never heard of it. The Way ofAll Flesh. Never heard of it. Gibbon. Hullo! dear George reads German. Um--um--Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, and so we go on. Well, I suppose yourgeneration 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 thisinscription: "Mistrust all enterprises that require new clothes. "

"I know. Isn't it jolly? I like that. I'm certain that's the old man'sdoing. "

"How very odd of him!"

"Surely you agree?"

But Freddy was his mother's son and felt that one ought not to go onspoiling 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 thickerthan 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 differentnow, mother thinks. She will read all kinds of books. "

"So will you. "

"Only medical books. Not books that you can talk about afterwards. Cecilis teaching Lucy Italian, and he says her playing is wonderful. Thereare 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'llcome 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 wantedwashing. At all events he greeted him with, "How d'ye do? Come and havea 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 afraidit will only act between men. Can you picture a lady who has beenintroduced to another lady by a third lady opening civilities with 'Howdo you do? Come and have a bathe'? And yet you will tell me that thesexes are equal. "

"I tell you that they shall be, " said Mr. Emerson, who had been slowlydescending the stairs. "Good afternoon, Mr. Beebe. I tell you they shallbe 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 youplace in the past, is really yet to come. We shall enter it when we nolonger 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 bodyless than women do. But not until we are comrades shall we enter thegarden. "

"I say, what about this bathe?" murmured Freddy, appalled at the mass ofphilosophy that was approaching him. 

"I believed in a return to Nature once. But how can we return toNature when we have never been with her? To-day, I believe that we mustdiscover Nature. After many conquests we shall attain simplicity. It isour heritage. "

"Let me introduce Mr. Honeychurch, whose sister you will remember atFlorence. "

"How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George fora bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriageis 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, andarranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I havenot vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, andI was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with theConservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is aglorious country, Honeychurch!"

"Not a bit!" mumbled Freddy. "I must--that is to say, I have to--havethe pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope. "

"CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on yourgrandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a gloriouscountry. "

Mr. Beebe came to the rescue. 

"Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will returnour calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realizedabout the ten days' interval. It does not count that I helped you withthe stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathethis afternoon. "

"Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them backto 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'swell. "

George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell ofone 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 outof the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a littletime the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishesand philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing thebracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could notbear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked likea failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke ofFlorence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slightbut determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of thetree-tops above their heads. 

"And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realizethat 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 ofCoincidence. '"

No enthusiasm. 

"Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than wesuppose. For example, it isn't purely coincidentally that you are herenow, 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 flungtogether by Fate, drawn apart by Fate--flung together, drawn apart. Thetwelve winds blow us--we settle nothing--"

"You have not reflected at all, " rapped the clergyman. "Let me give youa useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don't say, 'I didn'tdo this, ' for you did it, ten to one. Now I'll cross-question you. Wheredid you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?"

"Italy. "

"And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry MissHoneychurch?"

"National Gallery. "

"Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidenceand Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and ourfriends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it. "

"It is Fate that I am here, " persisted George. "But you can call itItaly if it makes you less unhappy. "

Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he wasinfinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George. 

"And so for this and for other reasons my 'History of Coincidence' isstill to write. "

Silence. 

Wishing to round off the episode, he added; "We are all so glad that youhave 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 containthe human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of therains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like abeautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool. 

"It's distinctly successful, as ponds go, " said Mr. Beebe. "No apologiesare necessary for the pond. "

George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced hisboots. 

"Aren't those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb inseed. What's the name of this aromatic plant?"

No one knew, or seemed to care. 

"These abrupt changes of vegetation--this little spongeous tract ofwater plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough orbrittle--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 ofapathy--he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he werea statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use hismuscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, andwatched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads. 

"Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo, " went Freddy, swimming for two strokes ineither direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud. 

"Is it worth it?" asked the other, Michelangelesque on the floodedmargin. 

The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed thequestion 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, andsputtering at the sun. 

"Water's wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do. "

"Apooshoo, kouf. "

Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, lookedaround him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other againstthe blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deansreceded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind--these things noteven the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion ofman?

"I may as well wash too"; and soon his garments made a third little pileon the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water. 

It was ordinary water, nor was there very much of it, and, as Freddysaid, it reminded one of swimming in a salad. The three gentlemenrotated in the pool breast high, after the fashion of the nymphs inGotterdammerung. But either because the rains had given a freshness orbecause the sun was shedding a most glorious heat, or because two of thegentlemen were young in years and the third young in spirit--for somereason or other a change came over them, and they forgot Italy andBotany and Fate. They began to play. Mr. Beebe and Freddy splashed eachother. A little deferentially, they splashed George. He was quiet: theyfeared they had offended him. Then all the forces of youth burst out. Hesmiled, 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 asecond time. Then Mr. Beebe consented to run--a memorable sight. 

They ran to get dry, they bathed to get cool, they played at beingIndians in the willow-herbs and in the bracken, they bathed to getclean. And all the time three little bundles lay discreetly on thesward, proclaiming:

"No. We are what matters. Without us shall no enterprise begin. To usshall all flesh turn in the end. "

"A try! A try!" yelled Freddy, snatching up George's bundle and placingit 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-awakehat on his dripping hair. 

"That'll do!" shouted Mr. Beebe, remembering that after all he was inhis own parish. Then his voice changed as if every pine-tree was a RuralDean. "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 hearMr. 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 somebracken. George whooped in their faces, turned and scudded away down thepath to the pond, still clad in Mr. Beebe's hat. 

"Gracious alive!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch. "Whoever were thoseunfortunate people? Oh, dears, look away! And poor Mr. Beebe, too!Whatever has happened?"

"Come this way immediately, " commanded Cecil, who always felt that hemust lead women, though knew not whither, and protect them, though heknew not against what. He led them now towards the bracken where Freddysat 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 parasoland 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 nonchalantexpression that is suitable for ladies on such occasions. 

"Well, I can't help it, " said a voice close ahead, and Freddy reared afreckled face and a pair of snowy shoulders out of the fronds. "I can'tbe trodden on, can I?"

"Good gracious me, dear; so it's you! What miserable management! Why nothave 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, andif another fellow--"

"Dear, no doubt you're right as usual, but you are in no position toargue. 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 surfacegarments of an intimate nature did float; while George, the world-wearyGeorge, shouted to Freddy that he had hooked a fish. 

"And me, I've swallowed one, " answered he of the bracken. "I'veswallowed a pollywog. It wriggleth in my tummy. I shall die--Emerson youbeast, you've got on my bags. "

"Hush, dears, " said Mrs. Honeychurch, who found it impossible to remainshocked. "And do be sure you dry yourselves thoroughly first. All thesecolds 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 andpersonable 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 thepool had shrunk to its old size and lost its glory. It had been acall to the blood and to the relaxed will, a passing benediction whoseinfluence did not pass, a holiness, a spell, a momentary chalice foryouth. 

Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome

How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she hadalways rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, whichsurely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and Georgewould meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coatsand collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She hadimagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferentor furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she hadnever imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout ofthe morning star. 

Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, shereflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degreeof accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in thescenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to thestage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean toomuch. "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? Togods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed acrossthe rubbish that cumbers the world. 

So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It wasanother of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wantedto see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hearabout hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He didnot want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, andmade long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucysoothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised wellfor their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser todiscover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, thoughnot in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothingsatisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded theteaching as profound, and applied it to her lover. 

"Lucy, " said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matterwith Cecil?"

The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved withcharity 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 gatheringdispleasure--"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 littlegirl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoidfever. 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, seeingtrouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makeshim sometimes seem--"

"Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he getsrid 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 wasaway 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 tocontradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary norintellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture;your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindlyremember. "

"I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he doesnot mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upsethim--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 wedo. "

"Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering andspoiling everyone's pleasure?"

"We mustn't be unjust to people, " faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebledher, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly inLondon, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizationshad clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled andbewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilizationhad blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper throughpine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song. 

She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changedher frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and madethings no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meantto be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew notwhy--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 facednorth, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in thewinter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landingwindow with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighedto herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed toher that every one else was behaving very badly. And she ought not tohave mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; hermother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding up-stairs, andjoined 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 takethem bathing in the Sacred it's much too public. It was all right foryou but most awkward for every one else. Do be more careful. You forgetthe 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 thismuddle. "

"What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I'veordered 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 thepassage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed withtemper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and theyimpeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurchopened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! Ihave something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter fromCharlotte?" 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, andher bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?"

"I can't remember all Charlotte's worries, " said Lucy bitterly. "I shallhave enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil. "

Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Comehere, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me. " And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother andWindy 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, onemember or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despisedtheir methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own. 

Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drewup 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 areply. 

"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 herletter. "

"One thing and another, " said Lucy, wondering whether she would getthrough the meal without a lie. "Among other things, that an awfulfriend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered ifshe'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 handsof females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those womenwho (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notorietyby print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them bewritten by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecilyawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never, " with hisplum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. Butsoon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in thedarkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--thattouch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could benothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But ithad begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter, Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound tohaunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returnednow, 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 preysupon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune withthe meat. "

Cecil laid his hand over his eyes. 

"So would I, " asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up thespirit of her remark rather than the substance. 

"And I have been thinking, " she added rather nervously, "surely we couldsqueeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday whileplumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte forso long. "

It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protestviolently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs. 

"Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte onthe top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy'sgot a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to takein Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't bedone. "

"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, againlaying 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. Youhaven'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; butspoil us by not asking her to come. "

"Hear, hear!" said Cecil. 

Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feelingthan she usually permitted herself, replied: "This isn't very kind ofyou two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full ofbeautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off andplumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, andhowever many books they read, they will never guess what it feels liketo grow old. "

Cecil crumbled his bread. 

"I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called onmy bike, " put in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming till I felt likesuch a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my teajust right. "

"I know, dear. She is kind to every one, and yet Lucy makes thisdifficulty 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 uptreasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither MissBartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: "Ican't help it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's horrid ofme. "

"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 usurpingthe places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be thesame again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to WindyCorner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visibleworld 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 theadmirable cooking. 

"I didn't mean the egg was WELL boiled, " corrected Freddy, "because inpoint of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don'tcare 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 fromour chairs?" he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence. "We don't want nodessert. "

Chapter XIV: How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely

Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt surethat she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferiorspare room--something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And, equally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sundayweek. 

Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she onlyfaced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If attimes strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset hernerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this mightupset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked toGeorge--they met again almost immediately at the Rectory--his voicemoved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if shereally 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 sufferedfrom "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 thetroubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed. 

It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, "She loves youngEmerson. " A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious. Life iseasy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome "nerves"or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She lovedCecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that thephrases should have been reversed?

But the external situation--she will face that bravely. 

The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing betweenMr. 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 hiscrudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into lifegracefully. "

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 theclearest 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 Brightonstation, and had to hire a cab up. No one was at home except Freddyand his friend, who had to stop their tennis and to entertain her fora solid hour. Cecil and Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, withlittle Minnie Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upperlawn for tea. 

"I shall never forgive myself, " said Miss Bartlett, who kept on risingfrom 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 onpaying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate. "

"Our visitors never do such dreadful things, " said Lucy, while herbrother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been trying to convinceCousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half hour. "

"I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor, " said Miss Bartlett, andlooked at her frayed glove. 

"All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob tothe driver. "

Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Couldany one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had fourhalf-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But whoam 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 nothampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the promptsettling of accounts. "

Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need bequoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solutionseemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinkinghis tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turnedround. 

But this did not do, either. 

"Please--please--I know I am a sad spoilsport, but it would make mewretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost. "

"Freddy owes me fifteen shillings, " interposed Cecil. "So it will workout 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 weshall avoid this deplorable gambling. "

Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and renderedup the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. Fora moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred thesmiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefyingtwaddle. 

"But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watchedthe iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have thequid. "

"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. MissHoneychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd'sten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why MissWhat'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 changefor 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 getEuphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing again from thebeginning. "

"Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, andfollowed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her wails and saidquite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?"

"No, I haven't, " replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her tonguefor understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let me see--asovereign's worth of silver. "

She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions weretoo uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every word she spokeor caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about cabs and change hadbeen 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, excepttwo half-crowns. Would you count it? You can settle your debt nicelynow. "

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. Vyseshould come to hear of it from some other source. "

"Oh, no, Charlotte, " said the girl, entering the battle. "George Emersonis all right, and what other source is there?"

Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him lookingthrough the bushes at you, remember he had a violet between his teeth. "

Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our nervesif we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver ever get hold ofCecil?"

"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, buteven if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to laugh atit. "

"To contradict it?"

"No, to laugh at it. " But she knew in her heart that she could not trusthim, for he desired her untouched. 

"Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different to whatthey 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. Iblush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and you so well ableto look after yourself, and so much cleverer in all ways than I am. Youwill 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 witha teaspoon. 

"Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again. Haveyou 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 allright. 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 anynuisance, Charlotte. "

"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion. "

Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so profound--thatthere are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the subconscious. " Shepaused again, to be sure of doing justice to Cecil's profundity. Throughthe window she saw Cecil himself, turning over the pages of a novel. Itwas a new one from Smith's library. Her mother must have returned fromthe station. 

"Once a cad, always a cad, " droned Miss Bartlett. 

"What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell intoall those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don't think weought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see aperson with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does;it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head: he doesn't admireme, or any of that nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, andhas asked him up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He hasimproved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst intotears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of the bigrailways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for week-ends. Papawas 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 wedon't talk about this silly Italian business any more. We want you tohave a nice restful visit at Windy Corner, with no worriting. "

Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have detectedan unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett detected the slip onecannot say, for it is impossible to penetrate into the minds of elderlypeople. She might have spoken further, but they were interrupted by theentrance of her hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst ofthem Lucy escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in herbrain. 

Chapter XV: The Disaster Within

The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like mostof the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking upthe green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom ofmist, the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on theheights, battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselvesunchangeable. Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and ineither arose the tinkle of church bells. 

The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, whichlay sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherentsounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won'tgo"--"Well, I don't blame them"--Minnie says, "need she go?"--"Tellher, no nonsense"--"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"--"Dearest Lucia, may Itrespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that sheat all events was one for church. 

The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but byApollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladieswhenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe downat Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; onGeorge Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete thecatalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. Theladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engendershadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morningby the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging thecaress. 

Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerisedress has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At herthroat is a garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies--anengagement ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns alittle--not in anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying notto cry. In all that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she mayfrown unrebuked and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apolloand the western hills. 

"Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelfand leaving it about to spoil?"

"It's only the library book that Cecil'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 aLoggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare timeto solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadfulhow little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, likethe Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morningshe had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecilhad said, "What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?" And this toohad lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and thedear garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivableelsewhere, 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 aSunday fluster. 

"It's a special collection--I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgarclinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nicebright 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 sheso 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--andthe Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn'tsee why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? Theyoung men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs. Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion MissBartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling downthe stairs. 

"Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change--nothing butsovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me--"

"Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovelyfrock! You put us all to shame. "

"If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wearthem?" said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria andplaced 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 "churchand so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He hadsaid that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want tooverhaul herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxyCecil respected, but he always assumed that honesty is the result of aspiritual crisis; he could not imagine it as a natural birthright, thatmight grow heavenward like flowers. All that he said on this subjectpained her, though he exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow theEmersons were different. 

She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages downthe road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite CissieVilla. To save time, they walked over the green to it, and found fatherand son smoking in the garden. 

"Introduce me, " said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that heknows me already. "

He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced themformally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said howglad he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was gladtoo; and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind withMr. Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, andasked 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. Womenmind such a thing. I am very much upset about it. "

"I believe that there was some misunderstanding, " said Mrs. Honeychurchuneasily. 

"Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person, "said George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "Hethought we should be artistic. He is disappointed. "

"And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer togive it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy. 

"Oh, stop now you have come, " said Lucy lightly. She must avoidcensuring 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 itdoes 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 allthis twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?"

"There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certainamount of light, " he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadowon something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place toplace to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a placewhere you won't do harm--yes, choose a place where you won't do verymuch 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 likethat to poor Freddy. "

George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother wouldget on rather well. 

"No, I didn't, " he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is hisphilosophy. Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note ofInterrogation first. "

"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looksforward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mindtennis on Sunday--?"

"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguishbetween Sunday--"

"Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That'ssettled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be sopleased. "

He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potterabout in these days. 

She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to theMiss Alans. "

"I know, " said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. Thekindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him cameout suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape--a touch of themorning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had neverspoken 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 thegarden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria. Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertoliniagain, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was theold, old battle of the room with the view. 

George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and wasashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I--I'll come upto tennis if I can manage it, " and went into the house. Perhaps anythingthat he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straightto her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy asgirls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. Toone of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was atruth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threwher photographs into the River Arno. 

"George, don't go, " cried his father, who thought it a great treat forpeople if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such goodspirits 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 herreckless. "Yes, " she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will. " Thenshe 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 droveaway. 

Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florenceescapade; yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she hadsighted the ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greetedit with disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang atune to her: "He has not told, he has not told. " Her brain expanded themelody: "He has not told his father--to whom he tells all things. It wasnot an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone. " She raised herhand to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! Buthe has not told. He will not tell. "

She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret betweenus two for ever. Cecil will never hear. " She was even glad that MissBartlett had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening atFlorence, when they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big orlittle, was guarded. 

Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpretedher joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt sosafe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:

"The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improvedenormously. "

"How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them, and had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to WindyCorner for educational purposes. 

"Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationshipwhich Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. Hehad no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned. 

"You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson iscoming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Onlydon't--" She nearly said, "Don't protect him. " But the bell was ringingfor lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention toher remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte. 

Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Someone had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being notvisible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her soul: "Itwill not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London toentertain the grandchildren of celebrated men. " But to-day she felt shehad received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brotherhere. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning, wouldnever be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked herto play. She had seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memorythe music of the enchanted garden--the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, neverwanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Suchmusic is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: "Now play us the othergarden--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. ThereGeorge was. He had crept in without interrupting her. 

"Oh, I had no idea!" she exclaimed, getting very red; and then, withouta word of greeting, she reopened the piano. Cecil should have theParsifal, and anything else that he liked. 

"Our performer has changed her mind, " said Miss Bartlett, perhapsimplying, she will play the music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not knowwhat to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played a few bars of theFlower 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 youhave a men's four. "

"All right. "

"Not for me, thank you, " said Cecil. "I will not spoil the set. " Henever realized that it may be an act of kindness in a bad player to makeup a fourth. 

"Oh, come along Cecil. I'm bad, Floyd's rotten, and so I dare say'sEmerson. "

George corrected him: "I am not bad. "

One looked down one's nose at this. "Then certainly I won't play, " saidCecil, while Miss Bartlett, under the impression that she was snubbingGeorge, added: "I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You had much better notplay. Much better not. "

Minnie, rushing in where Cecil feared to tread, announced that she wouldplay. "I shall miss every ball anyway, so what does it matter?" ButSunday intervened and stamped heavily upon the kindly suggestion. 

"Then it will have to be Lucy, " said Mrs. Honeychurch; "you must fallback on Lucy. There is no other way out of it. Lucy, go and change yourfrock. "

Lucy's Sabbath was generally of this amphibious nature. She kept itwithout hypocrisy in the morning, and broke it without reluctance inthe afternoon. As she changed her frock, she wondered whether Cecil wassneering at her; really she must overhaul herself and settle everythingup before she married him. 

Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but how much better tennisseemed. How much better to run about in comfortable clothes than to sitat the piano and feel girt under the arms. Once more music appeared toher the employment of a child. George served, and surprised her by hisanxiety to win. She remembered how he had sighed among the tombs atSanta Croce because things wouldn't fit; how after the death of thatobscure Italian he had leant over the parapet by the Arno and said toher: "I shall want to live, I tell you, " He wanted to live now, to winat tennis, to stand for all he was worth in the sun--the sun which hadbegun to decline and was shining in her eyes; and he did win. 

Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked! The hills stood out above itsradiance, as Fiesole stands above the Tuscan Plain, and the South Downs, if one chose, were the mountains of Carrara. She might be forgetting herItaly, but she was noticing more things in her England. One could playa new game with the view, and try to find in its innumerable folds sometown or village that would do for Florence. Ah, how beautiful the Wealdlooked!

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 nuisanceall through the tennis, for the novel that he was reading was so badthat he was obliged to read it aloud to others. He would stroll roundthe 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 finishedtheir set, he still went on reading; there was some murder scene, andreally every one must listen to it. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were obliged tohunt 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 yourenergy. " She had "forgiven" George, as she put it, and she made a pointof being pleasant to him. 

He jumped over the net and sat down at her feet asking: "You--and areyou 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 sucha splendid player, though. The light was behind you, and it was in myeyes. "

"I never said I was. "

"Why, you did!"

"You didn't attend. "

"You said--oh, don't go in for accuracy at this house. We allexaggerate, 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. Praythe saints she might not arrive too late. Sunset--the sunset of Italy. Under Orcagna's Loggia--the Loggia de' Lanzi, as we sometimes call itnow--'"

Lucy burst into laughter. "'Joseph Emery Prank' indeed! Why it's MissLavish! It's Miss Lavish's novel, and she's publishing it under somebodyelse's name. "

"Who may Miss Lavish be?"

"Oh, a dreadful person--Mr. Emerson, you remember Miss Lavish?"

Excited by her pleasant afternoon, she clapped her hands. 

George looked up. "Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at SummerStreet. It was she who told me that you lived here. "

"Weren't you pleased?" She meant "to see Miss Lavish, " but when he bentdown to the grass without replying, it struck her that she could meansomething else. She watched his head, which was almost resting againsther knee, and she thought that the ears were reddening. "No wonder thenovel's bad, " she added. "I never liked Miss Lavish. But I suppose oneought to read it as one's met her. "

"All modern books are bad, " said Cecil, who was annoyed at herinattention, and vented his annoyance on literature. "Every one writesfor 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 anddowns in his voice were noticeable, but they did not affect her. She haddwelt amongst melody and movement, and her nerves refused to answer tothe clang of his. Leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the black headagain. She did not want to stroke it, but she saw herself wanting tostroke 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 distanceand 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)--"saysthat there is only one perfect view--the view of the sky straight overour heads, and that all these views on earth are but bungled copies ofit. "

"I expect your father has been reading Dante, " said Cecil, fingering thenovel, which alone permitted him to lead the conversation. 

"He told us another day that views are really crowds--crowds of treesand houses and hills--and are bound to resemble each other, like humancrowds--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 getsadded to it--no one knows how--just as something has got added to thosehills. "

He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs. 

"What a splendid idea!" she murmured. "I shall enjoy hearing your fathertalk 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. "Alsothat men fall into two classes--those who forget views and those whoremember 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 andseeing 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 aftertennis--he didn't do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had notstopped 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 readout loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go. "

This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor inthe position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again. 

"Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls. " She opened the book. Cecilmust have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attentionwandered to George's mother, who--according to Mr. Eager--had beenmurdered in the sight of God according to her son--had seen as far asHindhead. 

"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'tbothering 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 sillyto read--I never saw such rubbish--it oughtn't to be allowed to beprinted. "

He took the book from her. 

"'Leonora, '" he read, "'sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the richchampaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. Theseason 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. Allunobserved 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 formallovers 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 anothermuch 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. Shethought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubberyit came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, hadbeen forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who lovedpassionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path. 

"No--" she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him. 

As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; theyreached the upper lawn alone. 

Chapter XVI: Lying to George

But Lucy had developed since the spring. That is to say, she was nowbetter able to stifle the emotions of which the conventions and theworld disapprove. Though the danger was greater, she was not shaken bydeep sobs. She said to Cecil, "I am not coming in to tea--tell mother--Imust write some letters, " and went up to her room. Then she preparedfor action. Love felt and returned, love which our bodies exact andour hearts have transfigured, love which is the most real thing thatwe shall ever meet, reappeared now as the world's enemy, and she muststifle it. 

She sent for Miss Bartlett. 

The contest lay not between love and duty. Perhaps there never is such acontest. It lay between the real and the pretended, and Lucy's first aimwas to defeat herself. As her brain clouded over, as the memory of theviews grew dim and the words of the book died away, she returned to herold shibboleth of nerves. She "conquered her breakdown. " Tampering withthe truth, she forgot that the truth had ever been. Remembering that shewas engaged to Cecil, she compelled herself to confused remembrancesof George; he was nothing to her; he never had been anything; hehad behaved abominably; she had never encouraged him. The armour offalsehood is subtly wrought out of darkness, and hides a man not onlyfrom others, but from his own soul. In a few moments Lucy was equippedfor battle. 

"Something too awful has happened, " she began, as soon as her cousinarrived. "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 knowabout 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'tput 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 ofmine. "

"So you did tell?"

"I did just happen--when I had tea with her at Rome--in the course ofconversation--"

"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 tellmother?"

"I will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence. "

"Why did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing. "

Why does any one tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was notsurprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. Shehad done wrong--she admitted it, she only hoped that she had not doneharm; 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 werewalking 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 ifyour prospects--"

"I know, " said Lucy, wincing at the word. "I see now why you wanted meto tell Cecil, and what you meant by 'some other source. ' You knew thatyou 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 mein 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 wasa visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stoodwith clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessaryrage. 

"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. NorCecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think Ishall 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 gomaundering 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 allevents. From the very first moment--when he said his father was having abath. "

"Oh, bother the credit and who's been right or wrong! We've both made amuddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is heto be left unpunished, or isn't he? I want to know. "

Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnervedher, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She movedfeebly to the window, and tried to detect the cad's white flannels amongthe 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 youspeak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it allhappened 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. " GeorgeEmerson 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. Iwill speak to him myself. " And immediately she realized that this waswhat her cousin had intended all along. 

"Hullo, Emerson!" called Freddy from below. "Found the lost ball? Goodman! Want any tea?" And there was an irruption from the house on to theterrace. 

"Oh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire you--"

They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over therubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginningto cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! TheEmersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in herblood before saying:

"Freddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going downthe garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in theroom, 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 nothingbut misfortune wherever I go. " Lucy nodded. She remembered theirlast evening at Florence--the packing, the candle, the shadow of MissBartlett's toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos asecond 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 thedining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said:

"No--nothing to eat. "

"You go down to the others, " said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?"

"She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room. "

"That's all right. You go away. "

He went off singing. 

Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughlyfrightened, took up a book and pretended to read. 

She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: "I can'thave 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 shespoke 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'tmean that you are going to marry that man?"

The line was unexpected. 

She shrugged her shoulders, as if his vulgarity wearied her. "You aremerely ridiculous, " she said quietly. 

Then his words rose gravely over hers: "You cannot live with Vyse. He'sonly for an acquaintance. He is for society and cultivated talk. Heshould 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 asthey keep to things--books, pictures--but kill when they come topeople. That's why I'll speak out through all this muddle even now. It'sshocking enough to lose you in any case, but generally a man mustdeny himself joy, and I would have held back if your Cecil had been adifferent person. I would never have let myself go. But I saw him firstin the National Gallery, when he winced because my father mispronouncedthe names of great painters. Then he brings us here, and we find itis to play some silly trick on a kind neighbour. That is the man allover--playing tricks on people, on the most sacred form of life thathe can find. Next, I meet you together, and find him protecting andteaching you and your mother to be shocked, when it was for YOU tosettle whether you were shocked or no. Cecil all over again. He daren'tlet a woman decide. He's the type who's kept Europe back for a thousandyears. Every moment of his life he's forming you, telling you what'scharming 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 beenthe whole of this afternoon. Therefore--not 'therefore I kissed you, 'because the book made me do that, and I wish to goodness I had moreself-control. I'm not ashamed. I don't apologize. But it has frightenedyou, and you may not have noticed that I love you. Or would you havetold me to go, and dealt with a tremendous thing so lightly? Buttherefore--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 forsuggesting 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 ofbrute at bottom. This desire to govern a woman--it lies very deep, andmen 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 evenwhen I hold you in my arms, " He stretched them towards her. "Lucy, bequick--there's no time for us to talk now--come to me as you came in thespring, and afterwards I will be gentle and explain. I have caredfor you since that man died. I cannot live without you, 'No good, ' Ithought; 'she is marrying some one else'; but I meet you again when allthe world is glorious water and sun. As you came through the wood Isaw that nothing else mattered. I called. I wanted to live and have mychance of joy. "

"And Mr. Vyse?" said Lucy, who kept commendably calm. "Does he notmatter? That I love Cecil and shall be his wife shortly? A detail of noimportance, 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 asif he had done all else, he turned to Miss Bartlett, who sat like someportent against the skies of the evening. "You wouldn't stop us thissecond time if you understood, " he said. "I have been into the dark, andI am going back into it, unless you will try to understand. "

Her long, narrow head drove backwards and forwards, as thoughdemolishing some invisible obstacle. She did not answer. 

"It is being young, " he said quietly, picking up his racquet from thefloor and preparing to go. "It is being certain that Lucy cares for mereally. It is that love and youth matter intellectually. "

In silence the two women watched him. His last remark, they knew, wasnonsense, but was he going after it or not? Would not he, the cad, the charlatan, attempt a more dramatic finish? No. He was apparentlycontent. He left them, carefully closing the front door; and when theylooked through the hall window, they saw him go up the drive and beginto climb the slopes of withered fern behind the house. Their tongueswere 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, " shesaid. "Either I'm mad, or else he is, and I'm inclined to think it's thelatter. 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, isit? 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, themore pathetic because they were reminiscent of spring. That something orother mattered intellectually? A leaf, violently agitated, danced pasther, while other leaves lay motionless. That the earth was hastening tore-enter darkness, and the shadows of those trees over Windy Corner?

"Hullo, Lucy! There's still light enough for another set, if you two'llhurry. "

"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, justthis once. "

Cecil's voice came: "My dear Freddy, I am no athlete. As you wellremarked this very morning, 'There are some chaps who are no good foranything but books'; I plead guilty to being such a chap, and will notinflict 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 herengagement. 

Chapter XVII: Lying to Cecil

He was bewildered. He had nothing to say. He was not even angry, butstood, with a glass of whiskey between his hands, trying to think whathad led her to such a conclusion. 

She had chosen the moment before bed, when, in accordance with theirbourgeois habit, she always dispensed drinks to the men. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were sure to retire with their glasses, while Cecil invariablylingered, sipping at his while she locked up the sideboard. 

"I am very sorry about it, " she said; "I have carefully thought thingsover. We are too different. I must ask you to release me, and try toforget that there ever was such a foolish girl. "

It was a suitable speech, but she was more angry than sorry, and hervoice 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, andI am forgetting all that I learnt there. I shall never be able to talkto 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. Youalways 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'tmarry you, and you will thank me for saying so some day. "

"You had that bad headache yesterday--All right"--for she had exclaimedindignantly: "I see it's much more than headaches. But give me amoment's time. " He closed his eyes. "You must excuse me if I say stupidthings, but my brain has gone to pieces. Part of it lives three minutesback, when I was sure that you loved me, and the other part--I find itdifficult--I am likely to say the wrong thing. "

It struck her that he was not behaving so badly, and her irritationincreased. She again desired a struggle, not a discussion. To bring onthe crisis, she said:

"There are days when one sees clearly, and this is one of them. Thingsmust come to a breaking-point some time, and it happens to be to-day. Ifyou want to know, quite a little thing decided me to speak to you--whenyou wouldn't play tennis with Freddy. "

"I never do play tennis, " said Cecil, painfully bewildered; "I nevercould play. I don't understand a word you say. "

"You can play well enough to make up a four. I thought it abominablyselfish of you. "

"No, I can't--well, never mind the tennis. Why couldn't you--couldn'tyou have warned me if you felt anything wrong? You talked of our weddingat lunch--at least, you let me talk. "

"I knew you wouldn't understand, " said Lucy quite crossly. "I might haveknown there would have been these dreadful explanations. Of course, it isn't the tennis--that was only the last straw to all I have beenfeeling for weeks. Surely it was better not to speak until I feltcertain. " She developed this position. "Often before I have wondered ifI was fitted for your wife--for instance, in London; and are you fittedto be my husband? I don't think so. You don't like Freddy, nor mymother. There was always a lot against our engagement, Cecil, but allour relations seemed pleased, and we met so often, and it was no goodmentioning it until--well, until all things came to a point. They haveto-day. I see clearly. I must speak. That's all. "

"I cannot think you were right, " said Cecil gently. "I cannot tellwhy, but though all that you say sounds true, I feel that you are nottreating 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 intoit, as if it would tell him that "little more, " his long, thoughtfulface. 

"Don't open the window; and you'd better draw the curtain, too; Freddyor any one might be outside. " He obeyed. "I really think we had bettergo to bed, if you don't mind. I shall only say things that will make meunhappy afterwards. As you say it is all too horrible, and it is no goodtalking. "

But to Cecil, now that he was about to lose her, she seemed each momentmore desirable. He looked at her, instead of through her, for the firsttime since they were engaged. From a Leonardo she had become a livingwoman, with mysteries and forces of her own, with qualities that eveneluded art. His brain recovered from the shock, and, in a burst ofgenuine devotion, he cried: "But I love you, and I did think you lovedme!"

"I did not, " she said. "I thought I did at first. I am sorry, and oughtto have refused you this last time, too. "

He began to walk up and down the room, and she grew more and more vexedat his dignified behaviour. She had counted on his being petty. It wouldhave made things easier for her. By a cruel irony she was drawing outall that was finest in his disposition. 

"You don't love me, evidently. I dare say you are right not to. But itwould hurt a little less if I knew why. "

"Because"--a phrase came to her, and she accepted it--"you're the sortwho can't know any one intimately. "

A horrified look came into his eyes. 

"I don't mean exactly that. But you will question me, though I beg younot to, and I must say something. It is that, more or less. When wewere only acquaintances, you let me be myself, but now you're alwaysprotecting me. " Her voice swelled. "I won't be protected. I will choosefor myself what is ladylike and right. To shield me is an insult. Can'tI be trusted to face the truth but I must get it second-hand throughyou? A woman's place! You despise my mother--I know you do--becauseshe's conventional and bothers over puddings; but, oh goodness!"--sherose to her feet--"conventional, Cecil, you're that, for you mayunderstand beautiful things, but you don't know how to use them; and youwrap yourself up in art and books and music, and would try to wrap upme. I won't be stifled, not by the most glorious music, for people aremore glorious, and you hide them from me. That's why I break off myengagement. You were all right as long as you kept to things, but whenyou 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. Ifell to pieces the very first day we were engaged. I behaved like a cadto Beebe and to your brother. You are even greater than I thought. " Shewithdrew a step. "I'm not going to worry you. You are far too good tome. I shall never forget your insight; and, dear, I only blame you forthis: you might have warned me in the early stages, before you feltyou wouldn't marry me, and so have given me a chance to improve. I havenever known you till this evening. I have just used you as a peg formy silly notions of what a woman should be. But this evening you are adifferent person: new thoughts--even a new voice--"

"What do you mean by a new voice?" she asked, seized with incontrollableanger. 

"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 withsome one else, you are very much mistaken. "

"Of course I don't think that. You are not that kind, Lucy. "

"Oh, yes, you do think it. It's your old idea, the idea that has keptEurope back--I mean the idea that women are always thinking of men. Ifa girl breaks off her engagement, every one says: 'Oh, she had someone 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 neversay it again. You have taught me better. "

She began to redden, and pretended to examine the windows again. "Ofcourse, there is no question of 'some one else' in this, no 'jilting' orany such nauseous stupidity. I beg your pardon most humbly if my wordssuggested that there was. I only meant that there was a force in youthat I hadn't known of up till now. "

"All right, Cecil, that will do. Don't apologize to me. It was mymistake. "

"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 mustactually thank you for what you have done--for showing me what I reallyam. Solemnly, I thank you for showing me a true woman. Will you shakehands?"

"Of course I will, " said Lucy, twisting up her other hand in thecurtains. "Good-night, Cecil. Good-bye. That's all right. I'm sorryabout 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 banisterspassed over her face like the beat of wings. On the landing he pausedstrong in his renunciation, and gave her a look of memorable beauty. Forall his culture, Cecil was an ascetic at heart, and nothing in his lovebecame him like the leaving of it. 

She could never marry. In the tumult of her soul, that stood firm. Cecilbelieved in her; she must some day believe in herself. She must be oneof the women whom she had praised so eloquently, who care for libertyand not for men; she must forget that George loved her, that George hadbeen thinking through her and gained her this honourable release, thatGeorge 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 uptrying to understand herself, and the vast armies of the benighted, whofollow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny bycatch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But theyhave yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They havesinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife aftervirtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry andtheir piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishnesshypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They havesinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenlyintervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deitieswill be avenged. 

Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did notlove him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The nightreceived her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before. 

Chapter XVIII: Lying to Mr. Beebe, Mrs. Honeychurch, Freddy, and TheServants

Windy Corner lay, not on the summit of the ridge, but a few hundred feetdown the southern slope, at the springing of one of the great buttressesthat 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 ranthe highway into the Weald. 

Whenever Mr. Beebe crossed the ridge and caught sight of these nobledispositions of the earth, and, poised in the middle of them, WindyCorner, --he laughed. The situation was so glorious, the house socommonplace, not to say impertinent. The late Mr. Honeychurch hadaffected the cube, because it gave him the most accommodation for hismoney, 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 andwatch the carts going up and down the road. So impertinent--and yet thehouse "did, " for it was the home of people who loved their surroundingshonestly. Other houses in the neighborhood had been built by expensivearchitects, over others their inmates had fidgeted sedulously, yet allthese suggested the accidental, the temporary; while Windy Corner seemedas inevitable as an ugliness of Nature's own creation. One might laughat the house, but one never shuddered. Mr. Beebe was bicycling overthis Monday afternoon with a piece of gossip. He had heard from the MissAlans. 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 digestivebread; but, after all, we can take that with us, and it is only gettingfirst into a steamer and then into a train. But is there an EnglishChurch?" And the letter went on to say: "I do not expect we shall go anyfurther than Athens, but if you knew of a really comfortable pension atConstantinople, we should be so grateful. "

Lucy would enjoy this letter, and the smile with which Mr. Beebe greetedWindy Corner was partly for her. She would see the fun of it, and someof its beauty, for she must see some beauty. Though she was hopelessabout pictures, and though she dressed so unevenly--oh, that cerisefrock yesterday at church!--she must see some beauty in life, or shecould not play the piano as she did. He had a theory that musicians areincredibly complex, and know far less than other artists what they wantand what they are; that they puzzle themselves as well as their friends;that their psychology is a modern development, and has not yet beenunderstood. This theory, had he known it, had possibly just beenillustrated by facts. Ignorant of the events of yesterday he was onlyriding over to get some tea, to see his niece, and to observe whetherMiss Honeychurch saw anything beautiful in the desire of two old ladiesto visit Athens. 

A carriage was drawn up outside Windy Corner, and just as he caughtsight of the house it started, bowled up the drive, and stopped abruptlywhen it reached the main road. Therefore it must be the horse, whoalways expected people to walk up the hill in case they tired him. Thedoor opened obediently, and two men emerged, whom Mr. Beebe recognizedas Cecil and Freddy. They were an odd couple to go driving; but he sawa trunk beside the coachman's legs. Cecil, who wore a bowler, must begoing away, while Freddy (a cap)--was seeing him to the station. Theywalked rapidly, taking the short cuts, and reached the summit while thecarriage 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 friendsof Miss Honeychurch. " He quoted from it. "Isn't it wonderful? Isn't itromance? most certainly they will go to Constantinople. They are takenin 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 amusedand interested. 

"Isn't Romance capricious! I never notice it in you young people; youdo nothing but play lawn tennis, and say that romance is dead, while theMiss Alans are struggling with all the weapons of propriety against theterrible thing. 'A really comfortable pension at Constantinople!' Sothey call it out of decency, but in their hearts they want a pensionwith magic windows opening on the foam of perilous seas in fairylandforlorn! No ordinary view will content the Miss Alans. They want thePension Keats. "

"I'm awfully sorry to interrupt, Mr. Beebe, " said Freddy, "but have youany matches?"

"I have, " said Cecil, and it did not escape Mr. Beebe's notice that hespoke 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 beento Greece myself, and don't mean to go, and I can't imagine any of myfriends going. It is altogether too big for our little lot. Don't youthink 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 eithercase absolutely out of our suburban focus. All right, Freddy--I amnot being clever, upon my word I am not--I took the idea from anotherfellow; and give me those matches when you've done with them. " He lit acigarette, and went on talking to the two young men. "I was saying, ifour poor little Cockney lives must have a background, let it be Italian. Big enough in all conscience. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel forme. There the contrast is just as much as I can realize. But not theParthenon, not the frieze of Phidias at any price; and here comes thevictoria. "

"You're quite right, " said Cecil. "Greece is not for our little lot";and he got in. Freddy followed, nodding to the clergyman, whom hetrusted not to be pulling one's leg, really. And before they had gone adozen 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 youonly talked about books. Cecil's hard hit. Lucy won't marry him. Ifyou'd gone on about her, as you did about them, he might have brokendown. "

"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 saddleof his bicycle approvingly, "It was the one foolish thing she everdid. Oh, what a glorious riddance!" And, after a little thought, henegotiated the slope into Windy Corner, light of heart. The house wasagain 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 amoment, but went down the garden as requested. There he found a mournfulcompany. It was a blustering day, and the wind had taken and broken thedahlias. Mrs. Honeychurch, who looked cross, was tying them up, while Miss Bartlett, unsuitably dressed, impeded her with offers ofassistance. At a little distance stood Minnie and the "garden-child, " aminute importation, each holding either end of a long piece of bass. 

"Oh, how do you do, Mr. Beebe? Gracious what a mess everything is! Lookat my scarlet pompons, and the wind blowing your skirts about, and theground so hard that not a prop will stick in, and then the carriagehaving to go out, when I had counted on having Powell, who--give everyone their due--does tie up dahlias properly. "

Evidently Mrs. Honeychurch was shattered. 

"How do you do?" said Miss Bartlett, with a meaning glance, as thoughconveying that more than dahlias had been broken off by the autumngales. 

"Here, Lennie, the bass, " cried Mrs. Honeychurch. The garden-child, whodid not know what bass was, stood rooted to the path with horror. Minnieslipped to her uncle and whispered that every one was very disagreeableto-day, and that it was not her fault if dahlia-strings would tearlongways instead of across. 

"Come for a walk with me, " he told her. "You have worried them as muchas they can stand. Mrs. Honeychurch, I only called in aimlessly. I shalltake her up to tea at the Beehive Tavern, if I may. "

"Oh, must you? Yes do. --Not the scissors, thank you, Charlotte, whenboth my hands are full already--I'm perfectly certain that the orangecactus will go before I can get to it. "

Mr. Beebe, who was an adept at relieving situations, invited MissBartlett to accompany them to this mild festivity. 

"Yes, Charlotte, I don't want you--do go; there's nothing to stop aboutfor, either in the house or out of it. "

Miss Bartlett said that her duty lay in the dahlia bed, but when she hadexasperated every one, except Minnie, by a refusal, she turned round andexasperated Minnie by an acceptance. As they walked up the garden, theorange cactus fell, and Mr. Beebe's last vision was of the garden-childclasping 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 amoment, " enunciated Miss Bartlett. 

"Perhaps we ought to send Miss Honeychurch down to her mother. Or willshe 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 forbreakfast, " whispered Minnie, "and Floyd has gone, and Mr. Vyse hasgone, and Freddy won't play with me. In fact, Uncle Arthur, the house isnot 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 attentivelypursuing the Sonatas of Mozart. She stopped when he entered. 

"How do you do? Miss Bartlett and Minnie are coming with me to tea atthe 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 bottomof 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 hadthought 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 foreach 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 havedone 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 asmuch as her daughter pretended, and only for the minute. It was reallya ruse of Lucy's to justify her despondency--a ruse of which she was notherself 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 thathe 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. Teaat 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 anabsurd letter from Miss Alan. That was really what brought me over. Ithought 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. Aftera 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 togo abroad!"

"I want them to start from Venice, and go in a cargo steamer down theIllyrian coast!"

She laughed heartily. "Oh, delightful! I wish they'd take me. "

"Has Italy filled you with the fever of travel? Perhaps George Emersonis right. He says that 'Italy is only an euphuism for Fate. '"

"Oh, not Italy, but Constantinople. I have always longed to go toConstantinople. Constantinople is practically Asia, isn't it?"

Mr. Beebe reminded her that Constantinople was still unlikely, and thatthe Miss Alans only aimed at Athens, "with Delphi, perhaps, if the roadsare safe. " But this made no difference to her enthusiasm. She had alwayslonged 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 wouldgive anything to go with them. "

"Would your mother spare you again so soon? You have scarcely been homethree months. "

"She MUST spare me!" cried Lucy, in growing excitement. "I simply MUSTgo 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--andof 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 Honeychurchrepose in the bosom of her family? Cecil had evidently taken up thedignified line, and was not going to annoy her. Then it struck him thather family itself might be annoying. He hinted this to her, and sheaccepted the hint eagerly. 

"Yes, of course; to go to Constantinople until they are used to the ideaand 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 tellyou the whole truth, since you have heard a little--it was that he isso masterful. I found that he wouldn't let me go my own way. He wouldimprove me in places where I can't be improved. Cecil won't let a womandecide for herself--in fact, he daren't. What nonsense I do talk! butthat is the kind of thing. "

"It is what I gathered from my own observation of Mr. Vyse; it is what Igather from all that I have known of you. I do sympathize and agreemost profoundly. I agree so much that you must let me make one littlecriticism: Is it worth while rushing off to Greece?"

"But I must go somewhere!" she cried. "I have been worrying all themorning, and here comes the very thing. " She struck her knees withclenched fists, and repeated: "I must! And the time I shall have withmother, and all the money she spent on me last spring. You all thinkmuch too highly of me. I wish you weren't so kind. " At this moment MissBartlett entered, and her nervousness increased. "I must get away, everso 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 outof 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, thetinkling 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 evidentlymuch worried, as, of course, she ought to be. I know all about it. Themarriage was so near that it must have been a hard struggle before shecould 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 himselfat Florence, "she might yet reveal depths of strangeness, if not ofmeaning. " But she was so unsympathetic that she must be reliable. Heassumed 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 matterdrop. "

"I wonder. "

"It is of the highest importance that there should be no gossip inSummer Street. It would be DEATH to gossip about Mr. Vyse's dismissal atthe present moment. "

Mr. Beebe raised his eyebrows. Death is a strong word--surely toostrong. There was no question of tragedy. He said: "Of course, MissHoneychurch will make the fact public in her own way, and when shechooses. Freddy only told me because he knew she would not mind. "

"I know, " said Miss Bartlett civilly. "Yet Freddy ought not to have toldeven 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 exaggeratedimportance that they attach to words. A rector lives in a web of pettysecrets, and confidences and warnings, and the wiser he is the less hewill regard them. He will change the subject, as did Mr. Beebe, sayingcheerfully: "Have you heard from any Bertolini people lately? I believeyou keep up with Miss Lavish. It is odd how we of that pension, who seemed such a fortuitous collection, have been working into oneanother's lives. Two, three, four, six of us--no, eight; I had forgottenthe Emersons--have kept more or less in touch. We must really give theSignora a testimonial. "

And, Miss Bartlett not favouring the scheme, they walked up the hill ina silence which was only broken by the rector naming some fern. On thesummit they paused. The sky had grown wilder since he stood there lasthour, giving to the land a tragic greatness that is rare in Surrey. Grey clouds were charging across tissues of white, which stretched andshredded and tore slowly, until through their final layers there gleameda hint of the disappearing blue. Summer was retreating. The wind roared, the trees groaned, yet the noise seemed insufficient for those vastoperations in heaven. The weather was breaking up, breaking, broken, and it is a sense of the fit rather than of the supernatural that equipssuch crises with the salvos of angelic artillery. Mr. Beebe's eyesrested on Windy Corner, where Lucy sat, practising Mozart. No smile cameto his lips, and, changing the subject again, he said: "We shan't haverain, but we shall have darkness, so let us hurry on. The darkness lastnight was appalling. "

They reached the Beehive Tavern at about five o'clock. That amiablehostelry possesses a verandah, in which the young and the unwise dodearly love to sit, while guests of more mature years seek a pleasantsanded room, and have tea at a table comfortably. Mr. Beebe saw thatMiss Bartlett would be cold if she sat out, and that Minnie would bedull if she sat in, so he proposed a division of forces. They would handthe child her food through the window. Thus he was incidentally enabledto discuss the fortunes of Lucy. 

"I have been thinking, Miss Bartlett, " he said, "and, unless youvery much object, I would like to reopen that discussion. " She bowed. "Nothing about the past. I know little and care less about that; I amabsolutely certain that it is to your cousin's credit. She has actedloftily and rightly, and it is like her gentle modesty to say that wethink too highly of her. But the future. Seriously, what do you think ofthis Greek plan?" He pulled out the letter again. "I don't know whetheryou 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 tohesitate, 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 itI 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 tosay--selfish. "

"It is natural, surely--after such painful scenes--that she shoulddesire a change. "

Here, apparently, was one of those points that the male intellectmisses. Mr. Beebe exclaimed: "So she says herself, and since anotherlady agrees with her, I must own that I am partially convinced. Perhapsshe must have a change. I have no sisters or--and I don't understandthese things. But why need she go as far as Greece?"

"You may well ask that, " replied Miss Bartlett, who was evidentlyinterested, 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 thismorning. I cannot help her. I will say no more. Perhaps I have alreadysaid too much. I am not to talk. I wanted her to spend six months withme 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 onLucy's nerves. Our tour was a failure. She wanted to leave Florence, andwhen we got to Rome she did not want to be in Rome, and all the time Ifelt that I was spending her mother's money--. "

"Let us keep to the future, though, " interrupted Mr. Beebe. "I want youradvice. "

"Very well, " said Charlotte, with a choky abruptness that was new tohim, 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 andwhispering through it with a passion, an intensity, that surprised him. "I know--I know. " The darkness was coming on, and he felt that this oddwoman really did know. "She must not stop here a moment, and we mustkeep quiet till she goes. I trust that the servants know nothing. Afterwards--but I may have said too much already. Only, Lucy and I arehelpless 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 beehivetrimmed evenly with bees--creaked in the wind outside as she thankedhim. Mr. Beebe did not quite understand the situation; but then, he didnot desire to understand it, nor to jump to the conclusion of "anotherman" that would have attracted a grosser mind. He only felt that MissBartlett knew of some vague influence from which the girl desired to bedelivered, and which might well be clothed in the fleshly form. Its veryvagueness spurred him into knight-errantry. His belief in celibacy, soreticent, so carefully concealed beneath his tolerance and culture, nowcame to the surface and expanded like some delicate flower. "They thatmarry 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 slightfeeling of pleasure. In the case of Lucy, the feeling was intensifiedthrough dislike of Cecil; and he was willing to go further--to place herout of danger until she could confirm her resolution of virginity. Thefeeling was very subtle and quite undogmatic, and he never imparted itto any other of the characters in this entanglement. Yet it existed, and it alone explains his action subsequently, and his influence on theaction of others. The compact that he made with Miss Bartlett in thetavern, was to help not only Lucy, but religion also. 

They hurried home through a world of black and grey. He conversed onindifferent topics: the Emersons' need of a housekeeper; servants;Italian servants; novels about Italy; novels with a purpose; couldliterature influence life? Windy Corner glimmered. In the garden, Mrs. Honeychurch, now helped by Freddy, still wrestled with the lives of herflowers. 

"It gets too dark, " she said hopelessly. "This comes of putting off. Wemight have known the weather would break up soon; and now Lucy wants togo to Greece. I don't know what the world's coming to. "

"Mrs. Honeychurch, " he said, "go to Greece she must. Come up to thehouse and let's talk it over. Do you, in the first place, mind herbreaking with Vyse?"

"Mr. Beebe, I'm thankful--simply thankful. "

"So am I, " said Freddy. 

"Good. Now come up to the house. "

They conferred in the dining-room for half an hour. 

Lucy would never have carried the Greek scheme alone. It was expensiveand dramatic--both qualities that her mother loathed. Nor wouldCharlotte have succeeded. The honours of the day rested with Mr. Beebe. By his tact and common sense, and by his influence as a clergyman--fora clergyman who was not a fool influenced Mrs. Honeychurch greatly--hebent her to their purpose, "I don't see why Greece is necessary, " shesaid; "but as you do, I suppose it is all right. It must be something Ican't understand. Lucy! Let's tell her. Lucy!"

"She is playing the piano, " Mr. Beebe said. He opened the door, andheard 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 thedrawing-room, and Mr. Beebe heard her kiss Lucy and say: "I am sorry Iwas 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 abit. "

"And you are right, too--Greece will be all right; you can go if theMiss Alans will have you. "

"Oh, splendid! Oh, thank you!"

Mr. Beebe followed. Lucy still sat at the piano with her hands over thekeys. She was glad, but he had expected greater gladness. Her motherbent over her. Freddy, to whom she had been singing, reclined on thefloor with his head against her, and an unlit pipe between his lips. Oddly enough, the group was beautiful. Mr. Beebe, who loved the art ofthe past, was reminded of a favourite theme, the Santa Conversazione, in which people who care for one another are painted chatting togetherabout noble things--a theme neither sensual nor sensational, andtherefore ignored by the art of to-day. Why should Lucy want either tomarry 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 orsomething. "

"I suspected it was unscholarly. It's so beautiful. "

"The tune's right enough, " said Freddy, "but the words are rotten. Whythrow up the sponge?"

"How stupidly you talk!" said his sister. The Santa Conversazione wasbroken up. After all, there was no reason that Lucy should talk aboutGreece 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 usualfelicity 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 hadhelped her. He could not expect to master the details of so big a changein a girl's life. If here and there he was dissatisfied or puzzled, hemust acquiesce; she was choosing the better part. 

 "Vacant heart and hand and eye--"

Perhaps the song stated "the better part" rather too strongly. He halffancied that the soaring accompaniment--which he did not lose in theshout of the gale--really agreed with Freddy, and was gently criticizingthe 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 abeacon in the roaring tides of darkness. 

Chapter XIX: Lying to Mr. Emerson

The Miss Alans were found in their beloved temperance hotel nearBloomsbury--a clean, airless establishment much patronized by provincialEngland. 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, forthey regarded travel as a species of warfare, only to be undertakenby those who have been fully armed at the Haymarket Stores. MissHoneychurch, they trusted, would take care to equip herself duly. Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids; paper soap was a great helptowards freshening up one's face in the train. Lucy promised, a littledepressed. 

"But, of course, you know all about these things, and you have Mr. Vyseto help you. A gentleman is such a stand-by. "

Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town with her daughter, began todrum nervously upon her card-case. 

"We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you, " Miss Catharinecontinued. "It is not every young man who would be so unselfish. Butperhaps he will come out and join you later on. "

"Or does his work keep him in London?" said Miss Teresa, the more acuteand less kindly of the two sisters. 

"However, we shall see him when he sees you off. I do so long to seehim. "

"No one will see Lucy off, " interposed Mrs. Honeychurch. "She doesn'tlike 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 havemet you!"

They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: "That's all right. We just gotthrough that time. "

But her mother was annoyed. "I should be told, dear, that I amunsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn't tell your friends aboutCecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, andalmost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is mostunpleasant. "

Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans'character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news wouldbe 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. Ishall tell them then. It's much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let's turn inhere. "

"Here" was the British Museum. Mrs. Honeychurch refused. If they musttake shelter, let it be in a shop. Lucy felt contemptuous, for she wason the tack of caring for Greek sculpture, and had already borrowed amythical dictionary from Mr. Beebe to get up the names of the goddessesand gods. 

"Oh, well, let it be shop, then. Let's go to Mudie's. I'll buy aguide-book. "

"You know, Lucy, you and Charlotte and Mr. Beebe all tell me I'mso stupid, so I suppose I am, but I shall never understand thishole-and-corner work. You've got rid of Cecil--well and good, and I'mthankful he's gone, though I did feel angry for the minute. But why notannounce 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 quiteeasy to say, "Because George Emerson has been bothering me, and if hehears I've given up Cecil may begin again"--quite easy, and it hadthe incidental advantage of being true. But she could not say it. Shedisliked confidences, for they might lead to self-knowledge and to thatking of terrors--Light. Ever since that last evening at Florence she haddeemed it unwise to reveal her soul. 

Mrs. Honeychurch, too, was silent. She was thinking, "My daughter won'tanswer me; she would rather be with those inquisitive old maids thanwith Freddy and me. Any rag, tag, and bobtail apparently does if shecan leave her home. " And as in her case thoughts never remained unspokenlong, she burst out with: "You're tired of Windy Corner. "

This was perfectly true. Lucy had hoped to return to Windy Corner whenshe escaped from Cecil, but she discovered that her home existed nolonger. It might exist for Freddy, who still lived and thought straight, but not for one who had deliberately warped the brain. She did notacknowledge that her brain was warped, for the brain itself must assistin that acknowledgment, and she was disordering the very instruments oflife. She only felt, "I do not love George; I broke off my engagementbecause I did not love George; I must go to Greece because I do notlove George; it is more important that I should look up gods in thedictionary than that I should help my mother; every one else is behavingvery badly. " She only felt irritable and petulant, and anxious to dowhat she was not expected to do, and in this spirit she proceeded withthe conversation. 

"Oh, mother, what rubbish you talk! Of course I'm not tired of WindyCorner. "

"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. Shebought 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 tobe away in the future more than I have been. You see, I come into mymoney 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 theworld so little--I felt so out of things in Italy. I have seen so littleof life; one ought to come up to London more--not a cheap ticket liketo-day, but to stop. I might even share a flat for a little with someother girl. "

"And mess with typewriters and latch-keys, " exploded Mrs. Honeychurch. "And agitate and scream, and be carried off kicking by the police. Andcall it a Mission--when no one wants you! And call it Duty--whenit means that you can't stand your own home! And call it Work--whenthousands of men are starving with the competition as it is! And thento prepare yourself, find two doddering old ladies, and go abroad withthem. "

"I want more independence, " said Lucy lamely; she knew that she wantedsomething, and independence is a useful cry; we can always say that wehave not got it. She tried to remember her emotions in Florence: thosehad been sincere and passionate, and had suggested beauty rather thanshort skirts and latch-keys. But independence was certainly her cue. 

"Very well. Take your independence and be gone. Rush up and down andround 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 CharlotteBartlett!"

"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 veryleast alike. "

"Well, I see the likeness. The same eternal worrying, the same takingback of words. You and Charlotte trying to divide two apples among threepeople last night might be sisters. "

"What rubbish! And if you dislike Charlotte so, it's rather a pity youasked her to stop. I warned you about her; I begged you, implored younot 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 haveasked Charlotte to stop. I wish you would keep to the point. " And theconversation died off into a wrangle. 

She and her mother shopped in silence, spoke little in the train, littleagain in the carriage, which met them at Dorking Station. It had pouredall day and as they ascended through the deep Surrey lanes showers ofwater fell from the over-hanging beech-trees and rattled on the hood. Lucy complained that the hood was stuffy. Leaning forward, she lookedout into the steaming dusk, and watched the carriage-lamp pass like asearch-light over mud and leaves, and reveal nothing beautiful. "Thecrush when Charlotte gets in will be abominable, " she remarked. Forthey were to pick up Miss Bartlett at Summer Street, where she had beendropped as the carriage went down, to pay a call on Mr. Beebe's oldmother. "We shall have to sit three a side, because the trees drop, andyet it isn't raining. Oh, for a little air!" Then she listened to thehorse's hoofs--"He has not told--he has not told. " That melody wasblurred by the soft road. "CAN'T we have the hood down?" she demanded, and her mother, with sudden tenderness, said: "Very well, old lady, stopthe horse. " And the horse was stopped, and Lucy and Powell wrestled withthe hood, and squirted water down Mrs. Honeychurch's neck. But nowthat the hood was down, she did see something that she would havemissed--there were no lights in the windows of Cissie Villa, and roundthe 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'srheumatism has come on, so he can't stop on alone, so they are trying tolet 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 callfor Miss Bartlett. So the Emersons had gone, and all this bother aboutGreece had been unnecessary. Waste! That word seemed to sum up the wholeof life. Wasted plans, wasted money, wasted love, and she had woundedher mother. Was it possible that she had muddled things away? Quitepossible. Other people had. When the maid opened the door, she wasunable to speak, and stared stupidly into the hall. 

Miss Bartlett at once came forward, and after a long preamble askeda great favour: might she go to church? Mr. Beebe and his mother hadalready gone, but she had refused to start until she obtained herhostess's full sanction, for it would mean keeping the horse waiting agood ten minutes more. 

"Certainly, " said the hostess wearily. "I forgot it was Friday. Let'sall go. Powell can go round to the stables. "

"Lucy dearest--"

"No church for me, thank you. "

A sigh, and they departed. The church was invisible, but up in thedarkness to the left there was a hint of colour. This was a stainedwindow, through which some feeble light was shining, and when the dooropened Lucy heard Mr. Beebe's voice running through the litany to aminute congregation. Even their church, built upon the slope of the hillso artfully, with its beautiful raised transept and its spire of silveryshingle--even their church had lost its charm; and the thing one nevertalked 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 thatone 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 agout-stool. 

"Oh, Miss Honeychurch, that you should come!" he quavered; and Lucy sawan alteration in him since last Sunday. 

Not a word would come to her lips. George she had faced, and could havefaced again, but she had forgotten how to treat his father. 

"Miss Honeychurch, dear, we are so sorry! George is so sorry! He thoughthe had a right to try. I cannot blame my boy, and yet I wish he had toldme 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 lovecomes, that is reality. ' I said: 'Passion does not blind. No. Passionis sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will everreally understand. '" He sighed: "True, everlastingly true, though my dayis 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; thatwhatever 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. Holdingit up to her eyes, she said: "I have no wish to discuss Italy or anysubject 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 judgebehaviour. I--I--suppose he has. "

Feeling a little steadier, she put the book back and turned round tohim. His face was drooping and swollen, but his eyes, though they weresunken deep, gleamed with a child's courage. 

"Why, he has behaved abominably, " she said. "I am glad he is sorry. Doyou know what he did?"

"Not 'abominably, '" was the gentle correction. "He only tried when heshould not have tried. You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you aregoing to marry the man you love. Do not go out of George's life sayinghe 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. Ithink 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 headfell 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 feverwhen he was twelve and she turned round. She thought it a judgment. " Heshuddered. "Oh, horrible, when we had given up that sort of thing andbroken away from her parents. Oh, horrible--worst of all--worse thandeath, when you have made a little clearing in the wilderness, plantedyour little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep inagain! A judgment! And our boy had typhoid because no clergyman haddropped water on him in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shallwe slip back into the darkness for ever?"

"I don't know, " gasped Lucy. "I don't understand this sort of thing. Iwas not meant to understand it. "

"But Mr. Eager--he came when I was out, and acted according to hisprinciples. I don't blame him or any one. .. But by the time Georgewas well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and she went underthinking 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 helooked with unwavering eyes at the rows of books, as if--at whatcost!--he had won a victory over them. "My boy shall go back to theearth 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 andgo. He will live; but he will not think it worth while to live. He willnever think anything worth while. You remember that church at Florence?"

Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should collectpostage stamps. 

"After you left Florence--horrible. Then we took the house here, and hegoes 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 deeplysorry about it. "

"Then there came something about a novel. I didn't follow it at all; Ihad 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 meup to his London rooms. He can't bear to be about here, and I must bewhere 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 goodevery one is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me--came over this morningand 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 hecan't. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you--I amnot justifying him: I am only saying what has happened. "

"Oh, Mr. Emerson"--she took hold of his hand--"you mustn't. I've beenbother enough to the world by now. I can't have you moving out of yourhouse when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it--all on myaccount. 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 cantrust you both. "

"Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to thelife that you have chosen. "

"I shouldn't want--"

"I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong ofGeorge to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that wedeserve sorrow. "

She looked at the books again--black, brown, and that acrid theologicalblue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on thetables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy who could not seethat Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebechiefly by his acknowledgment of passion--it seemed dreadful that theold man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and bedependent 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 yousaying about going abroad?"

She was silent. 

"Greece"--and she saw that he was thinking the word over--"Greece; butyou were to be married this year, I thought. "

"Not till January, it wasn't, " said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would shetell an actual lie when it came to the point?

"I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope--it isn't becauseGeorge 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 coveredwith rain. "That's all right, " he said kindly. "I counted on you twokeeping each other company. It's pouring again. The entire congregation, which consists of your cousin, your mother, and my mother, standswaiting in the church, till the carriage fetches it. Did Powell goround?"

"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 thetwo Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back--keep warm. I think threeis such a courageous number to go travelling. " And he hurried off to thestables. 

"He is not going, " she said hoarsely. "I made a slip. Mr. Vyse does stopbehind 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, sodignified in his approach to the gulf, of which he gave one account, andthe books that surrounded him another, so mild to the rough paths thathe had traversed, that the true chivalry--not the worn-out chivalryof sex, but the true chivalry that all the young may show to all theold--awoke in her, and, at whatever risk, she told him that Cecil wasnot her companion to Greece. And she spoke so seriously that the riskbecame a certainty, and he, lifting his eyes, said: "You are leavinghim? 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, convincingspeech that she had made to Mr. Beebe, and intended to make to the worldwhen she announced that her engagement was no more. He heard her insilence, and then said: "My dear, I am worried about you. It seems tome"--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 theworld. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that soundso dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror--on thethings that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. Iused to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I knowbetter now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: bewareof muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to beannoyed with me and weren't? Do you remember before, when you refusedthe room with the view? Those were muddles--little, but ominous--and Iam 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 publicperformance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as yougo along. ' I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of hisfunctions as he goes along--especially the function of Love. " Then heburst out excitedly; "That's it; that's what I mean. You love George!"And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy likewaves from the open sea. 

"But you do, " he went on, not waiting for contradiction. "You love theboy body and soul, plainly, directly, as he loves you, and no other wordexpresses 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 thinkingabout 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. Ican 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, andthe comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, andfor which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, andthat you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. Thoughyou 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 tolove 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 byexperience that the poets are right: love is eternal. "

Lucy began to cry with anger, and though her anger passed away soon, hertears remained. 

"I only wish poets would say this, too: love is of the body; notthe body, but of the body. Ah! the misery that would be saved if weconfessed that! Ah! for a little directness to liberate the soul! Yoursoul, dear Lucy! I hate the word now, because of all the cant with whichsuperstition has wrapped it round. But we have souls. I cannot say howthey came nor whither they go, but we have them, and I see you ruiningyours. I cannot bear it. It is again the darkness creeping in; itis hell. " Then he checked himself. "What nonsense I have talked--howabstract and remote! And I have made you cry! Dear girl, forgive myprosiness; marry my boy. When I think what life is, and how seldom loveis answered by love--Marry him; it is one of the moments for which theworld was made. "

She could not understand him; the words were indeed remote. Yet as hespoke the darkness was withdrawn, veil after veil, and she saw to thebottom of her soul. 

"Then, Lucy--"

"You've frightened me, " she moaned. "Cecil--Mr. Beebe--the ticket'sbought--everything. " She fell sobbing into the chair. "I'm caught inthe tangle. I must suffer and grow old away from him. I cannot break thewhole 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 arrangedher 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 haveloved one another all along. "

Mr. Beebe looked at the sobbing girl. He was very quiet, and his whiteface, with its ruddy whiskers, seemed suddenly inhuman. A long blackcolumn, 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 peoplethat 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: "Iam 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. MarryGeorge, Miss Honeychurch. He will do admirably. "

He walked out and left them. They heard him guiding his motherup-stairs. 

"Lucy!" the voices called. 

She turned to Mr. Emerson in despair. But his face revived her. It wasthe 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. Youhave to go cold into a battle that needs warmth, out into the muddlethat you have made yourself; and your mother and all your friendswill despise you, oh, my darling, and rightly, if it is ever right todespise. George still dark, all the tussle and the misery without a wordfrom him. Am I justified?" Into his own eyes tears came. "Yes, for wefight 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 gainingthe man she loved, she would gain something for the whole world. Throughout the squalor of her homeward drive--she spoke at once--hissalutation remained. He had robbed the body of its taint, the world'staunts of their sting; he had shown her the holiness of direct desire. She "never exactly understood, " she would say in after years, "how hemanaged to strengthen her. It was as if he had made her see the whole ofeverything at once. "

Chapter XX: The End of the Middle Ages

The Miss Alans did go to Greece, but they went by themselves. They aloneof this little company will double Malea and plough the waters of theSaronic gulf. They alone will visit Athens and Delphi, and either shrineof intellectual song--that upon the Acropolis, encircled by blue seas;that under Parnassus, where the eagles build and the bronze charioteerdrives undismayed towards infinity. Trembling, anxious, cumbered withmuch digestive bread, they did proceed to Constantinople, they did goround the world. The rest of us must be contented with a fair, but aless 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 yourfather'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 wastrying to mend, and gazed out through the window. It was evening andagain the spring. 

"Oh, bother Charlotte, " she said thoughtfully. "What can such people bemade 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 rheumatismnext, and you stop laughing and being so silly. "

"Why shouldn't I laugh?" he asked, pinning her with his elbows, andadvancing his face to hers. "What's there to cry at? Kiss me here. " Heindicated the spot where a kiss would be welcome. 

He was a boy after all. When it came to the point, it was she whoremembered the past, she into whose soul the iron had entered, shewho knew whose room this had been last year. It endeared him to herstrangely 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. Thecab-driver, who at once saluted him with the hiss of a serpent, mightbe that very Phaethon who had set this happiness in motion twelvemonths ago. A passion of gratitude--all feelings grow to passions in theSouth--came over the husband, and he blessed the people and the thingswho 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 hisfather, by his wife. 

"Lucy, you come and look at the cypresses; and the church, whatever itsname is, still shows. "

"San Miniato. I'll just finish your sock. "

"Signorino, domani faremo uno giro, " called the cabman, with engagingcertainty. 

George told him that he was mistaken; they had no money to throw away ondriving. 

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 theforces that had swept him into this contentment. 

"Anything good in Freddy's letter?"

"Not yet. "

His own content was absolute, but hers held bitterness: theHoneychurches had not forgiven them; they were disgusted at her pasthypocrisy; 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 inthe spring--he has known it for six months--that if mother wouldn't giveher consent we should take the thing into our own hands. They had fairwarning, 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 upfrom the beginning again. I wish, though, that Cecil had not turned socynical about women. He has, for the second time, quite altered. Whywill 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 usagain. I wish that he did not influence them so much at Windy Corner. Iwish he hadn't--But if we act the truth, the people who really love usare sure to come back to us in the long run. "

"Perhaps. " Then he said more gently: "Well, I acted the truth--theonly thing I did do--and you came back to me. So possibly you know. " Heturned back into the room. "Nonsense with that sock. " He carried herto the window, so that she, too, saw all the view. They sank upon theirknees, invisible from the road, they hoped, and began to whisper oneanother's names. Ah! it was worth while; it was the great joy that theyhad 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 berude to him. " Then with a catching of her breath, she murmured: "Mr. Eager and Charlotte, dreadful frozen Charlotte. How cruel she would beto a man like that!"

"Look at the lights going over the bridge. "

"But this room reminds me of Charlotte. How horrible to grow old inCharlotte's way! To think that evening at the rectory that she shouldn'thave heard your father was in the house. For she would have stopped megoing in, and he was the only person alive who could have made me seesense. You couldn't have made me. When I am very happy"--she kissedhim--"I remember on how little it all hangs. If Charlotte had onlyknown, she would have stopped me going in, and I should have gone tosilly Greece, and become different for ever. "

"But she did know, " said George; "she did see my father, surely. He saidso. "

"Oh, no, she didn't see him. She was upstairs with old Mrs. Beebe, don'tyou remember, and then went straight to the church. She said so. "

George was obstinate again. "My father, " said he, "saw her, and I preferhis 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 wasturning to go as he woke up. He didn't speak to her. "

Then they spoke of other things--the desultory talk of those who havebeen fighting to reach one another, and whose reward is to rest quietlyin each other's arms. It was long ere they returned to Miss Bartlett, but when they did her behaviour seemed more interesting. George, whodisliked any darkness, said: "It's clear that she knew. Then, whydid she risk the meeting? She knew he was there, and yet she went tochurch. "

They tried to piece the thing together. 

As they talked, an incredible solution came into Lucy's mind. Sherejected it, and said: "How like Charlotte to undo her work by a feeblemuddle at the last moment. " But something in the dying evening, in theroar of the river, in their very embrace warned them that her words fellshort 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 hishorse. 

"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 wemet, she hoped, far down in her mind, that we should be like this--ofcourse, very far down. That she fought us on the surface, and yet shehoped. I can't explain her any other way. Can you? Look how she kept mealive in you all the summer; how she gave you no peace; how month aftermonth she became more eccentric and unreliable. The sight of us hauntedher--or she couldn't have described us as she did to her friend. Thereare 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, butin the rectory that evening she was given one more chance to make ushappy. We can never make friends with her or thank her. But I do believethat, far down in her heart, far below all speech and behaviour, she isglad. "

"It is impossible, " murmured Lucy, and then, remembering the experiencesof 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 thanthis. The song died away; they heard the river, bearing down the snowsof winter into the Mediterranean.