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 h
er 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.