Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  So they reentered the city with hands clasped. It was a shock to the girl 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 good humour, and Mr. Eager was already snubbing Miss Lavish. Charlotte alone she was sure of — Charlotte, whose exterior concealed so much insight and love. She knew of Lucy’s indiscretion, although she seemed bound by a mysterious duty not to reveal it. Charlotte meant to protect her.

  As for Lucy’s peace of mind, the luxury of self-exposure kept her almost happy through the long evening. She thought not so much of what had happened as of how she should describe it. All her sensations, her spasms of courage, her moments of unreasonable joy, her mysterious discontent, should be carefully laid before her cousin. And together in divine confidence they would disentangle and interpret them all.

  “At last,” thought she, “I shall understand myself. I shan’t again be troubled by things that come out of nothing, and mean I don’t know what.”

  Miss Alan asked her to play. She refused vehemently. Music seemed to her the employment of a child. She sat close to her cousin, who, with commendable 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 rather hysterical with the delay. In vain she tried to check, or at all events to accelerate, the tale. It was not till a late hour that Miss Bartlett had recovered her luggage and could say in her usual tone of gentle reproach:

  “Well, dear, I at all events am ready for Bedfordshire. Come into my room, and I will give a good brush to your hair.”

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

  She was unprepared for the question. It had not occurred to her that she would have to do anything. A detailed exhibition of her emotions was all that she had counted upon. She had expected Charlotte’s complete confidence and assurances that all would be put to right.

  “What is to be done? A point, dearest, which you alone can settle,” Charlotte said.

  The rain was streaming down the black windows, and the great room felt damp and chilly. One candle burnt trembling on the chest of drawers close to Miss Bartlett’s toque, which cast monstrous and fantastic shadows on the bolted door. A tram roared by in the dark, and Lucy felt unaccountably sad, though she had long since dried her eyes. She lifted them to the ceiling, where the griffins and bassoons were colourless and vague, 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 absolutely truthful. However could she possibly disclose that she had enjoyed and basked in the passionate lovemaking of George? Dear George.

  “How are you going to stop him talking about it?” Charlotte insisted.

  “I have a feeling that talk is a thing he will never do.”

  “I, too, intend to judge him charitably. But unfortunately I have met the type before. They seldom keep their exploits to themselves.”

  “Exploits?” cried Lucy, wincing under the horrible plural. This was no exploit; she had yearned for this moment her entire life. Exploits were villainous; she loved George body and soul, though she would not so admit, not now, not to Charlotte.

  “My poor dear, did you suppose that this was his first? Come here and listen to me. I am only gathering it from his own remarks. Do you remember that day at lunch when he argued with Miss Alan that liking one person 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 his deplorable antecedents and education, if you wish. But we are no farther on with our question. What do you propose to do?”

  An idea rushed across Lucy’s brain, which, had she thought of it sooner and 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 you said — 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 he answers, yes or no; then it is over. I have been frightened of him. But now I am not one little bit.”

  “But we fear him for you, dear. You are so young and inexperienced, you have lived among such nice people, that you cannot realize what men can be — how they can take a brutal pleasure in insulting a woman whom her sex does not protect and rally round. This afternoon, for example, if I had not arrived, what would have happened?”

  “I can’t think,” said Lucy gravely, hiding her face and the truth.

  Something in her voice made Miss Bartlett repeat her question, intoning it more vigorously.

  “What would have happened if I hadn’t arrived?”

  “I can’t think,” said Lucy again, still ignoring her cousin.

  “When he insulted you, how would you have replied?”

  “I hadn’t time to think. You came.” There was so little Charlotte understood, and now with her attitude, she would never understand more, not from Lucy.

  “Yes, but won’t you tell me now what you would have done?”

  “I should have — ” She checked herself, and broke the sentence off. She went up to the dripping window and strained her eyes into the darkness. She could not think what she would have done had she not invited his affections; had it been quite the opposite.

  “Come away from the window, dear,” said Miss Bartlett. “You will be seen from the road.”

  Lucy obeyed. She was in her cousin’s power. She could not modulate out the key of self-abasement in which she had started. Neither of them referred again to her suggestion that she should speak to George and settle 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 is hopeless. There is Mr. Eager, but you do not trust him. Oh, for your brother! He is young, but I know that his sister’s insult would rouse in him a very lion. Thank God, chivalry is not yet dead. There are still left some men who can reverence woman.”

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

  “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. What choice had she; to stay would only lead to more chances with George. Though Lucy welcomed his affections in her heart, she had to accept that open behavior of that sort was quite liberal, perhaps too liberal even among the Italians. Young women of rank did not cavort freely without blemishing not only their own names, but also their families’ names as well. Lucy turned, thinking of George lying on top of her; it only made her heart patter and dance. Dear George.

  “When does the train to Rome go?” Lucy finally asked.

  “At eight.”

  “Signora Bertolini would be upset.”

  “We must face that,” said Miss Bartlett, not liking to say that she had given 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 the Vyses’ hotel. Isn’t afternoon tea given there for nothing?”

  “
Yes, but they pay extra for wine.” After this remark she remained motionless and silent. To her tired eyes Charlotte throbbed and swelled like a ghostly figure in a dream. There was nothing she could do to stop their departure.

  They began to sort their clothes for packing, for there was no time to lose, if they were to catch the train to Rome. Lucy, when admonished, began to move to and fro between the rooms, more conscious of the discomforts 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 girl heard her as she entered the room, and was seized with one of those emotional impulses to which she could never attribute a cause. She only felt that the candle would burn better, the packing go easier, the world be happier, if she could give and receive some human love. Dear George, how she would ache when absent from him. The impulse had come before to-day, but never so strongly. She knelt down by her cousin’s side and took her in her arms; though the embrace was not for love of Charlotte. Her heart was breaking and she needed comfort.

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

  “Dearest Lucy, how will you ever forgive me?”

  Lucy was on her guard at once, knowing by bitter experience what forgiving Miss Bartlett meant. Her emotion relaxed, she modified her embrace 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 aged martyr.

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

  “Please — ”

  “My only consolation was that you found people more to your taste, and were often able to leave me at home. I had my own poor ideas of what a lady ought to do, but I hope I did not inflict them on you more than was necessary. 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 the straps of Lucy’s trunk instead of strapping her own. “Failed to make you happy; 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 it isn’t a disaster either.”

  “It is my fault, it is a disaster. She will never forgive me, and rightly. For instance, what right had I to make friends with Miss Lavish and leave you to the whims of George Emerson?”

  “Every right.”

  “When I was here for your sake? If I have vexed you it is equally true that 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 in any way, I promise I will not, I am very willing not to. I will never speak of it either to her or to any one.”

  Her promise brought the long-drawn interview to a sudden close. Miss Bartlett pecked her smartly on both cheeks, wished her goodnight, and sent her to her own room.

  For a moment the original trouble was in the background. George would seem to have behaved like a cad throughout so Charlotte would have her to believe, though presently she would not accept her wishes; perhaps that was the view which one would take eventually. At present she neither acquitted nor condemned him; she did not pass judgment. She loved George Emerson as though he were one body and soul with her. His sweet passionate love had bonded them forever and now to leave him was disastrous. Dear George. At the moment when she was about to judge him her cousin’s voice had intervened, and, ever since, it was Miss Bartlett who had dominated; Miss Bartlett who, even now, could be heard sighing into a crack in the partition wall; Miss Bartlett, who had really been neither pliable nor humble nor inconsistent. She had worked like a great artist; for a time — indeed, for years — she had been meaningless, but at the end there was presented to the girl the complete picture of a cheerless, loveless world in which the young rush to destruction until they learn better — a shamefaced world of precautions and barriers which may avert evil, but which do not seem to bring good, if we may judge from those who have used them most.

  Lucy was not suffering from the most grievous wrong which this world has yet discovered: diplomatic advantage had not been taken of her sincerity, of her craving for sympathy and love. Such a wrong is not easily forgotten; had it been so, she would lie with George again, forever, as he might desire. Never again did she expose herself without due consideration and precaution against rebuff and certainly not to Charlotte who failed in all aspects to understand the depth of love between her and George. And such a wrong by her cousin may react disastrously upon the soul.

  The doorbell rang, and she started to the shutters. Before she reached them 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 looked up, did not see her.

  To reach his room he had to go by hers. She was still dressed. It struck her that she might slip into the passage and just say that she would be gone before he was up, and that their extraordinary intercourse was over. That her heart was broken, though what choice did she have but to leave at her cousin’s insistence?

  Whether she would have dared to do this was never proved. At the critical 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: “Goodnight, Mr. Emerson.”

  His heavy, tired breathing was the only reply; the chaperon had done her work.

  Lucy cried aloud: “It isn’t true. It can’t all be true. I want not to be muddled. 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, for the carpet was new and deserved protection from the August sun. They were heavy curtains, reaching almost to the ground, and the light that filtered through them was subdued and varied. A poet — none was present — might have quoted, “Life like a dome of many coloured glass,” or might have compared the curtains to sluice-gates, lowered against the intolerable tides of heaven. Without was poured a sea of radiance; within, the glory, though visible, was tempered to the capacities of man.

  Two pleasant people sat in the room. One — a boy of nineteen — was studying a small manual of anatomy, and peering occasionally at a bone which lay upon the piano. From time to time he bounced in his chair and puffed and groaned, for the day was hot and the print small, and the human frame fearfully m
ade; and his mother, who was writing a letter, did continually read out to him what she had written. And continually did she rise from her seat and part the curtains so that a rivulet of light fell across the carpet, and make the remark that they were still there.

  “Where aren’t they?” said the boy, who was Freddy, Lucy’s brother. “I tell 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 it literally.

  Freddy did not move or reply.

  “I think things are coming to a head,” she observed, rather wanting her son’s opinion on the situation if she could obtain it without undue supplication.

  “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 might have got this off her chest in Italy. I don’t know how girls manage things, but she can’t have said ‘No’ properly before, or she wouldn’t have to say it again now. Over the whole thing — I can’t explain — I do feel 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 about it, and I should be delighted, if Lucy wishes it. But — ’“ She stopped reading, “I was rather amused at Cecil asking my permission at all. He has always gone in for unconventionality, and parents nowhere, and so forth. 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!”