Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  He turned toward the window, stealing a lingering glance at Lucy’s voluptuous bosom. He would have her, but if he did not regain his inner composure this instant, their secret was sure to be discovered.

  “Yes,” George said, “we insist.”

  Still, he did not look at the ladies as he spoke, but his voice was perplexed and sorrowful.

  He forced himself to slow his breathing and continued to gaze out the window. The view was lush and flawless as Italy, herself, would have it; the canvas lacked only the merged flesh of a man and a woman. If only he could take Lucy now, the two might escape the mundane and meld into an eternal perfection …

  Lucy, too, was perplexed; but she saw that they were in for what is known as “quite a scene,” and she had an odd feeling that whenever these ill-bred tourists spoke the contest widened and deepened till it dealt, not with rooms and views, but with — well, with something quite different, whose existence she had not realized before. Now the old man attacked Miss Bartlett almost violently: Why should she not change? What possible objection had she? They would clear out in half an hour.

  Miss Bartlett, though skilled in the delicacies of conversation, was powerless in the presence of brutality. It was impossible to snub any one so gross. Her face reddened with displeasure. She looked around as much as to say, “Are you all like this?” And two little old ladies, who were sitting further up the table, with shawls hanging over the backs of the chairs, looked back, clearly indicating “We are not; we are genteel.”

  “Eat your dinner, dear,” she said to Lucy, and began to toy again with the meat that she had once censured.

  Lucy mumbled that those seemed very odd people opposite, excepting George, of course. She would most certainly have to give the thought of him more consideration.

  “Eat your dinner, dear. This pension is a failure. Tomorrow we will make a change,” said Miss Bartlett.

  Lucy felt her heart twist. To be forced to leave George whom she had only just met was simply unthinkable. How could Charlotte take her away from him? She would not stand for it.

  Hardly had Miss Bartlett announced this fell decision when she reversed it. She felt her breath catch in her throat as soon as the curtains at the end of the room parted, and revealed a clergyman, stout but pleasingly attractive, who hurried forward to take his place at the table, cheerfully apologizing for his lateness. Lucy, who had not yet acquired decency, at once rose to her feet, exclaiming: “Oh, oh! Why, it’s Mr. Beebe! Oh, how perfectly lovely! Oh, Charlotte, we must stop now, however bad the rooms are. Oh!”

  Miss Bartlett whose head was now beginning to spin with thoughts she had never known said, forcing herself to profess with more restraint:

  “How do you do, Mr. Beebe? I expect that you have forgotten us: Miss Bartlett and Miss Honeychurch, who were at Tunbridge Wells when you helped the Vicar of St. Peter’s that very cold Easter.”

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

  “I AM so glad to see you,” said the girl, who was in a state of spiritual starvation, and would have been glad to see the waiter, if her cousin had permitted it had George not been present. “Just fancy how small the world is. Summer Street, too, makes it so specially funny.” Lucy knew Miss Bartlett would never take her away from the Bertolini, not now, not with the presentation of their new vicar so close at hand.

  “Miss Honeychurch lives in the parish of Summer Street,” said Miss Bartlett, filling up the gap for fear that she might give way to swooning like some silly young girl. “And,” Miss Bartlett continued, “she happened to tell me in the course of conversation that you have just accepted the living — ”

  “Yes, I heard from mother so last week. She didn’t know that I knew you at Tunbridge Wells; but I wrote back at once, and I said: ‘Mr. Beebe is — ’”

  “Quite right,” said the clergyman. “I move into the Rectory at Summer Street next June. I am lucky to be appointed to such a charming neighbourhood.”

  “Oh, how glad I am! The name of our house is Windy Corner.”

  Mr. Beebe bowed.

  “There is mother and me generally, and my brother, though it’s not often we get him to ch — The church is rather far off, I mean.”

  “Lucy, dearest, let Mr. Beebe eat his dinner.” At hearing Lucy prattle on with the vicar, Miss Bartlett had now regained her countenance as her young cousin’s chaperon.

  “I am eating it, thank you, and enjoying it.” Mr. Beebe stole a glance Miss Barlett’s way. A careful observer might have gleaned an added twinkle in his eye, though the vicar was sure to mask any gesture that might appear untoward in polite society.

  To be safe at present, he preferred to talk to Lucy, whose playing he remembered, rather than to Miss Bartlett, who probably remembered his sermons. He asked the girl whether she knew Florence well, and was informed at some length that she had never been there before. It is delightful to advise a newcomer, and he was first in the field. “Don’t neglect the country round,” his advice concluded. “The first fine afternoon drive up to Fiesole, and round by Settignano, or something of that sort.”

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

  “That lady looks so clever,” whispered Miss Bartlett to her cousin. “We are in luck.”

  And, indeed, a perfect torrent of information burst on them. People told them what to see, when to see it, how to stop the electric trams, how to get rid of the beggars, how much to give for a vellum blotter, how much 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 of the clever lady, crying: “Prato! They must go to Prato. That place is too sweetly squalid for words. I love it; I revel in shaking off the trammels of respectability, as you know.”

  The young man named George glanced at the clever lady, and then returned moodily to his plate. Obviously he and his father did not do. Lucy, in the midst of her success, found time to wish they did. It gave her no extra pleasure that any one should be left in the cold: especially George, whom she so longed to be near. When she rose to go, she turned back and gave the two outsiders a nervous little bow.

  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 across something, and Lucy knew exactly why — their kiss.

  She hastened after her cousin, who had already disappeared through the curtains — curtains which smote one in the face, and seemed heavy with more than cloth. Beyond them stood the unreliable Signora, bowing good-evening to her guests, and supported by ‘Enery, her little boy, and Victorier, her daughter. It made a curious little scene, this attempt of the Cockney to convey the grace and geniality of the South. And even more curious was the drawing-room, which attempted to rival the solid comfort of a Bloomsbury boarding-house. Was this really Italy?

  Miss Bartlett was already seated on a tightly stuffed armchair, which had the colour and the contours of a tomato. She was talking to Mr. Beebe, and as she spoke, her long narrow head drove backwards and forwards, slowly, regularly, as though she were demolishing some invisible obstacle. “We are most grateful to you,” she was saying. “The first evening means so much. When you arrived we were in for a peculiarly mauvais quart d’heure.”

  He expressed his regret.

  “I must say it is so delightful to see a friendly face.” Miss Bartlett’s eyes met Mr. Beebe’s and before she thought to check herself, she released a delicate smile.

  Nodding, Mr. Beebe returned the smile.

  Charlotte felt her bosom swell. Again, she was struck with fanciful thoughts usually reserved exclusively for young girls.

  “Do you, by any chance, know the name of an old man w
ho sat opposite us at dinner?” she asked, forcing herself back into her role of restraint.

  “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 obligation to 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 after a few moments added: “All the same, I don’t think much harm would have come of accepting.”

  “No harm, of course. But we could not be under an obligation.” His rather casual response to their becoming obliged to the wrong sort of person beckoned Charlotte to steal dangerous, impure glances at Mr. Beebe. She wondered what knowledge of the world he might harbor. But then she looked away when shame overtook her.

  She scolded herself for allowing her thoughts of the clergyman to roam beyond the boundaries of decent society. Then she forced herself to glance at the severest of paintings mounted on the wall off to the side of Mr. Beebe. Straightening her posture, she smoothed the arm of the chair and reclaimed her matronly position by resting her hands on her lap.

  The vicar continued. “He is rather a peculiar man.” Again he hesitated, and then said gently: “I think he would not take advantage of your acceptance,” he gave Charlotte a peculiar smile, which she did her best to ignore before he continued to say, “nor would he expect you to show gratitude. He has the merit — if it is one — of saying exactly what he means. He has rooms he does not value, and he thinks you would value them. He no more thought of putting you under an obligation than he thought of being polite. It is so difficult — at least, I find it difficult — to understand people who speak the truth.”

  Charlotte stiffened, but spoke not.

  Lucy was pleased, and said: “I was hoping that he was nice; I do so always hope that people will be nice.” Moreover, if Lucy were to sleep in the bed where George slept, she would have heavenly dreams. Lucy felt herself becoming aroused again by the thought of sharing his bed. Was it wrong to think like this when the thoughts came so naturally to her?

  The vicar continued. “I think he is; nice and tiresome. I differ from him on almost every point of any importance, and so, I expect — I may say I hope — you will differ. But his is a type one disagrees with rather than deplores. When he first came here he not unnaturally put people’s backs up. He has no tact and no manners — I don’t mean by that that he has bad manners — and he will not keep his opinions to himself. We nearly complained about him to our depressing Signora, but I am glad to say we thought better of it.”

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

  Mr. Beebe accepted the convenient word, not without a slight twitching of 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.” Lucy listened in silence, but she smiled inwardly when she thought, “he may not know how to talk but he has learnt how to kiss. “He seems a nice creature, and I think he has brains. Of course, he has all his father’s mannerisms, and it is quite possible that he, too, may be a Socialist.”

  “Oh, you relieve me,” said Miss Bartlett. “So you think I ought to have accepted their offer? You feel I have been narrow-minded and suspicious?”

  “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, surprising herself at this sudden, unfamiliar desire for a man’s attention. “Why didn’t you talk, Lucy? He prefers young people, I’m sure. I do hope I haven’t monopolized him. I hoped you would have him all the evening, as well as all dinner-time.”

  “He is nice,” exclaimed Lucy. “Just what I remember. He seems to see good in every one. No one would take him for a clergyman.” Lucy thought how delightful it was that the vicar had seemed so playful, that he would not be one to stand in the way of her having fun with George; but, oh dear, least he should discover her secret. It would be most uncivil, scandalous, to discuss the matter. But this was all assuming Dear George would return to her. Lucy fretted. Oh surely —

  “My dear Lucia — ”

  “Well,” Lucy quickly recovered herself and promptly addressed her cousin’s concerns, “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 will approve of Mr. Beebe.” She secretly hoped so, although she must remember in future to keep such thoughts in check.

  “I’m sure she will; and so will Freddy.”

  “I think every one at Windy Corner will approve; it is the fashionable world. I am used to Tunbridge Wells, where we are all hopelessly behind the times.”

  “Yes,” said Lucy despondently.

  There was a haze of disapproval in the air, but whether the disapproval was of herself, or of Mr. Beebe, or of the fashionable world at Windy Corner, or of the narrow world at Tunbridge Wells, she could not determine. She tried to locate it, but as usual she blundered. Miss Bartlett sedulously denied disapproving of any one, and added, “I am afraid you are finding me a very depressing companion.”

  And the girl again thought: “I must have been selfish or unkind; I must be more careful. It is so dreadful for Charlotte, being poor, and I am certain she has never once in her entire solitary life had a kiss; certainly not like the one I received from my Dear George.”

  Fortunately one of the little old ladies, who for some time had been smiling very benignly, now approached and asked if she might be allowed to sit where Mr. Beebe had sat. Permission granted, she began to chatter gently about Italy, the plunge it had been to come there, the gratifying success of the plunge, the improvement in her sister’s health, the necessity of closing the bedroom windows at night, and of thoroughly emptying the water-bottles in the morning. She handled her subjects agreeably, and they were, perhaps, more worthy of attention than the high discourse upon Guelfs and Ghibellines which was proceeding tempestuously 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 found in her bedroom something that is one worse than a flea, though one better than something else.

  “But here you are as safe as in England. Signora Bertolini is so English.”

  “Yet our rooms smell,” said poor Lucy. “We dread going to bed,” although to bed was exactly where Lucy wanted to go — to George’s bed.

  “Ah, then you look into the court.” She sighed. “If only Mr. Emerson was more 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. Of course, I was holding back on my cousin’s account.”

  “Of course,” said the little old lady; and they murmured that one could not be too careful with a young girl.

  Lucy tried to look demure, but could not help feeling a great fool. No one was careful with her at home; or, at all events, she had not noticed it. And now, Charlotte would spoil her opportunity by trying to do what she thought right.

  “About old Mr. Emerson — I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time — beautiful?”

  “Beautiful?” said Miss Bartlett, puzzled at the word. “Are not beauty and delicacy the same?”

  “So
one would have thought,” said the other helplessly. “But things are so difficult, I sometimes think.” Or do we make them difficult by not following our feelings, thought Lucy.

  She proceeded no further into things, for Mr. Beebe reappeared, looking extremely 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 what I did, I encouraged him to make the offer again. He has let me come and ask 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. I must apologize for my interference.”

  Gravely displeased, he turned to go. Not till then did Miss Bartlett reply: “My own wishes, dearest Lucy, are unimportant in comparison with yours. It would be hard indeed if I stopped you doing as you liked at Florence, when I am only here through your kindness. If you wish me to turn 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, and then conduct him to me, in order that I may thank him personally?”

  She raised her voice as she spoke; it was heard all over the drawing room, and silenced the Guelfs and the Ghibellines. The clergyman, inwardly cursing the female sex, but only for his lack of knowing what pleasures the intimate company of the right woman might bring, bowed, glanced at Charlotte, and then departed the room with her message.

  “Remember, Lucy, I alone am implicated in this. I do not wish the acceptance 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 the floor at the intensity of his eyes, so low were their chairs.