A Room with a View Read online

  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 everyone, 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 everyone.

  "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 someone 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 lugg
age.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 someone 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. For 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 judgement. 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 someone 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.