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 unc
ertain, 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 soo
ner 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.