Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  “We mustn’t be unjust to people,” faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebled her, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly in London, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizations had clashed — Cecil hinted that they might — and she was dazzled and bewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilization had blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords, garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper through pine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song.

  She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changed her frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and made things no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meant to be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy — she knew not why — wished that the trouble could have come at any other time.

  “Go and dress, dear; you’ll be late.”

  “All right, mother — ”

  “Don’t say ‘All right’ and stop. Go.”

  She obeyed, but loitered disconsolately at the landing window. It faced north, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in the winter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landing window with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighed to herself, “Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?” It seemed to her that every one else was behaving very badly. And she ought not to have mentioned Miss Bartlett’s letter. She must be more careful; her mother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about. Oh, dear, should she do? — and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, and joined the ranks of the ill-behaved.

  “I say, those are topping people.”

  “My dear baby, how tiresome you’ve been! You have no business to take them bathing in the Sacred it’s much too public. It was all right for you but most awkward for every one else. Do be more careful. You forget the place is growing half suburban.”

  “I say, is anything on tomorrow week?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then I want to ask the Emersons up to Sunday tennis.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Freddy, I wouldn’t do that with all this muddle.”

  “What’s wrong with the court? They won’t mind a bump or two, and I’ve ordered new balls.”

  “I meant it’s better not. I really mean it.”

  He seized her by the elbows and humorously danced her up and down the passage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed with temper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and they impeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurch opened her door and said: “Lucy, what a noise you’re making! I have something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter from Charlotte?” and Freddy ran away.

  “Yes. I really can’t stop. I must dress too.”

  “How’s Charlotte?”

  “All right.”

  “Lucy!”

  The unfortunate girl returned.

  “You’ve a bad habit of hurrying away in the middle of one’s sentences. Did Charlotte mention her boiler?”

  “Her WHAT?”

  “Don’t you remember that her boiler was to be had out in October, and her bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible todoings?”

  “I can’t remember all Charlotte’s worries,” said Lucy bitterly. “I shall have enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil.”

  Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: “Come here, old lady — thank you for putting away my bonnet — kiss me.” And, though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother and Windy Corner and the Weald in the declining sun were perfect.

  So the grittiness went out of life. It generally did at Windy Corner. At the last minute, when the social machine was clogged hopelessly, one member or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despised their methods — perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own.

  Dinner was at half-past seven. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drew up their heavy chairs and fell to. Fortunately, the men were hungry. Nothing untoward occurred until the pudding. Then Freddy said:

  “Lucy, what’s Emerson like?”

  “I saw him in Florence,” said Lucy, hoping that this would pass for a reply. Her secret affair with George must remain hidden at all costs.

  “Is he the clever sort, or is he a decent chap?”

  “Ask Cecil; it is Cecil who brought him here.”

  “He is the clever sort, like myself,” said Cecil.

  Freddy looked at him doubtfully.

  “How well did you know them at the Bertolini?” asked Mrs. Honeychurch.

  “Oh, very slightly. I mean, Charlotte knew them even less than I did.” How Lucy despised herself for having to lie.

  “Oh, that reminds me — you never told me what Charlotte said in her letter.”

  “One thing and another,” said Lucy, wondering whether she would get through the meal without another lie. “Among other things, that an awful friend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered if she’d come up and see us, and mercifully didn’t.”

  “Lucy, I do call the way you talk unkind.”

  “She was a novelist,” said Lucy craftily. The remark was a happy one, for nothing roused Mrs. Honeychurch so much as literature in the hands of females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those women who (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notoriety by print. Her attitude was: “If books must be written, let them be written by men”; and she developed it at great length, while Cecil yawned and Freddy played at “This year, next year, now, never,” with his plum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother’s wrath. But soon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in the darkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost — that touch of lips on her cheek — had surely been laid long ago; it could be nothing to her that a man had kissed her and made passionate love to her on a mountain once. But it had begotten a spectral family — Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett’s letter, Mr. Beebe’s memories of violets — and one or other of these was bound to haunt her before Cecil’s very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returned now, and with appalling vividness. If she came to Windy Corner and dared speak one word of the hillside or violets, Lucy’s and George’s secret was sure to be unveiled. Then there was George. Could he keep to himself and not say a word? How maddening lies can be. Owing to a simple moment when she felt as free to follow her impulses as violets growing towards the sun, she would be forever compelled to fret over what might come next.

  Still, Lucy could not help but think back to that beautiful hillside in Italy. The sun was brilliant and warm. It shone down upon Earth with its ribbons of gold. The breeze echoed with laughter and had a joyous way of tickling and taunting the senses of all that breathed. The ground lay blanketed with violets that were bluer than the sky and more fragrant than perfume. It was nature at its best. This day will forever be pressed in Lucy’s memory and upon her heart because this was the day that her sweet Dear George made love to her.

  Lucy remembered how George had plucked several violets and placed them in her hair as he kissed her ever so sweetly. He was the kindest, most gentle man she had ever known. She would never forget his loving caresses and how he tended to her every need, letting her flower. This was the day she blossomed into a woman. And this was the day she gave away her heart, believing that life couldn’t be more perfect.

  Stealing back to that special place in time, Lucy began to let her thoughts roam free, imagining she was back on that hillside with George …

  “George, my Dear George, how you take my breath away every time we are here.”

  “And you me.” He plucked another violet from the earth and placed it into her hair as she laid on her back.

  “I want you to dress me in flowers.”

  “And dress you I will.” He smiled lovingly into her face and then kissed her quickly before rising up to pl
uck more flowers. One by one, he placed the violets upon her body, covering her from head to toe with delicate petals of purple and blue.

  Lucy laughed with simple joy as she watched George scamper to and fro, collecting the blooms to place upon her naked flesh.

  “It tickles so, George,” she said as he added more.

  He was careful to place the violets upon her arms and legs, across her stomach, down her legs, between her toes, and in her hair and over her ears, and especially not forgetting to place them within the curls of her feminine form.

  And finally, when she was fully covered, he said, “Alas, my love, you are my finished garden, my flower.”

  “And if I am your violet, you are my what, George?”

  “The sun, of course.” He spread his arms to each side of her and then carefully leaned over and kissed her lips.

  “Yes, my sun,” she agreed as soon as their lips parted. “And how shall we nourish our garden?”

  “Like this,” he said as he slipped a hand between her thighs and began thrumming his fingers one at a time through her intimate folds, though he was careful not to disturb the flowers he had laid upon her body.

  “Yes.” She laughed lightly, enjoying his touch.

  “We have plenty of nourishment,” he said.

  Lucy became more aroused as he nourished her more and more. She giggled lightly at first until she began to pant with overwhelming desire.

  “And how, Dearest George, shall we make our union, the two of us, flower and sun?”

  “Easily.”

  “Oh?”

  “Shall I show you?”

  “Yes, of course, we do mean to grow and flourish, do we not?”

  “To be the brightest flower in the field,” he said as he spread open her legs so that his fingers were freer to explore.

  “Oh George.” She drew in a breath. “The flowers,” she said, feeling the violets begin to slip from her legs as she began to move to his touch.

  “Yes, my lovely flower,” he said and before she spoke again, his fingers found the fully exposed orchid that made up her feminine form. Without a moment’s hesitation, he slipped the tips of his fingers through her perfumed passion, mixing her honey. Her lips parted and she began to take gasping breaths as he circled his fingers through her petals, tending to every care of her garden.

  “How you do feed me, George.” She arched her back, moving to his touch with more flowers slipping from her bosom.

  He smiled as he continued to slip the tips of his fingers round and round, gently caressing her.

  “Oh, George. How I need you. I need you forever.”

  Her heart raced wildly, and she began to moan louder and louder. Lightly at first, but the more aroused she became the louder her song grew, until finally she released an impassioned sigh.

  “I need you, I need you,” she said, moving to his touch, feeling the violets slip from her abdomen and feminine curls. When the last flower slipped from her navel, she finally lay as George’s flower alone.

  Responding to her desires, he slipped his finger inside of her sheath and circled round and round as he dipped in and out. And with his thumb, he massaged the budding flower of her pearl until she cried, “Taste me, George.”

  Obeying her, George positioned himself between her thighs and grasped them tightly before he slid a hot tongue across the honey of her loins.

  “Yes, yes,” she repeated as he pleasured her more and more.

  He slid his tongue to her pearl and swirled until she began to sing uninhibitedly, like the birds above.

  “Oh, George, Dear George,” she said, finally crying out with utter elation. “Yes, yes, oh George. Yes.” Arching her back, she crested. Then her body collapsed against her weight and she felt the intensity of her release pour through her every limb.

  George rose up above her and smiled.

  “Make love to me, George,” she said, for she was not yet satiated. To which he once again obeyed.

  He rose above her, taking her into his arms, and with his rampant member, he slowly entered her sheath, and there, he began planting his garden of love.

  “Yes, yes,” she breathed, basking in the joy of his sun.

  Together, they made love until the fruit of their loins overflowed with seed in one harmonious joyous single bursting bloom …

  Lucy would never ever be able to think of another violet without remembering how she lay with her Dear George upon that lovely hillside in Italy.

  “I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte’s. How is she?” Mrs. Honeychurch begged.

  “I tore the thing up.”

  “Didn’t she say how she was? How does she sound? Cheerful?”

  “Oh, yes I suppose so — no — not very cheerful, I suppose.”

  “Then, depend upon it, it IS the boiler. I know myself how water preys upon one’s mind. I would rather anything else — even a misfortune with the meat.”

  Cecil laid his hand over his eyes.

  “So would I,” asserted Freddy, backing his mother up — backing up the spirit of her remark rather than the substance.

  “And I have been thinking,” she added rather nervously, “surely we could squeeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday while plumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte for so long.”

  It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protest violently after her mother’s goodness to her upstairs.

  “Mother, no!” she pleaded. “It’s impossible. We can’t have Charlotte on the top of the other things; we’re squeezed to death as it is. Freddy’s got a friend coming Tuesday, there’s Cecil, and you’ve promised to take in Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can’t be done.”

  “Nonsense! It can.”

  “If Minnie sleeps in the bath. Not otherwise.”

  “Minnie can sleep with you.”

  “I won’t have her.”

  “Then, if you’re so selfish, Mr. Floyd must share a room with Freddy.”

  “Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett, Miss Bartlett,” moaned Cecil, again laying his hand over his eyes.

  “It’s impossible,” repeated Lucy. “I don’t want to make difficulties, but it really isn’t fair on the maids to fill up the house so.”

  Alas!

  “The truth is, dear, you don’t like Charlotte.”

  “No, I don’t. And no more does Cecil. She gets on our nerves. You haven’t seen her lately, and don’t realize how tiresome she can be, though so good. So please, mother, don’t worry us this last summer; but spoil us by not asking her to come.”

  “Hear, hear!” said Cecil.

  Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feeling than she usually permitted herself, replied: “This isn’t very kind of you two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full of beautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off and plumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, and however many books they read, they will never guess what it feels like to grow old.”

  Cecil crumbled his bread.

  “I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called on my bike,” put in Freddy. “She thanked me for coming till I felt like such a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my tea just right.”

  “I know, dear. She is kind to every one, and yet Lucy makes this difficulty when we try to give her some little return.”

  But Lucy hardened her heart. It was no good being kind to Miss Bartlett. She had tried herself too often and too recently. One might lay up treasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither Miss Bartlett nor any one else upon earth, and though she would not admit it, she feared Charlotte would reveal her secret. She was reduced to saying: “I can’t help it, mother. I don’t like Charlotte. I admit it’s horrid of me.”

  “From your own account, you told her as much.”

  “Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried — ”
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br />   The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurping the places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be the same again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to Windy Corner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visible world faded away, and memories and emotions alone seemed real.

  “I suppose Miss Bartlett must come, since she boils eggs so well,” said Cecil, who was in rather a happier frame of mind, thanks to the admirable cooking.

  “I didn’t mean the egg was WELL boiled,” corrected Freddy, “because in point of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don’t care for eggs. I only meant how jolly kind she seemed.”

  Cecil frowned again. Oh, these Honeychurches! Eggs, boilers, hydrangeas, maids — of such were their lives compact. “May me and Lucy get down from our chairs?” he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence. “We don’t want no dessert.”

  Chapter XIV: How Lucy Faced the External Situation Bravely

  Of course Miss Bartlett accepted. And, equally of course, she felt sure that she would prove a nuisance, and begged to be given an inferior spare room — something with no view, anything. Her love to Lucy. And, equally of course, George Emerson could come to tennis on the Sunday week. Lucy was beside herself learning the news. How would she survive Charlotte and George seeing each other? How would she keep her secret?

  Lucy faced the situation bravely, though, like most of us, she only faced the situation that encompassed her. She never gazed inwards. If at times strange images rose from the depths, she put them down to nerves. When Cecil brought the Emersons to Summer Street, it had upset her nerves. Charlotte would burnish up past foolishness, and this might upset her nerves. She was nervous at night. When she talked to George — they met again almost immediately at the Rectory — his voice moved her deeply, and she wished to remain near him. How dreadful if she really wished to remain near him! Of course, the wish was due to nerves, which love to play such perverse tricks upon us. Once she had suffered from “things that came out of nothing and meant she didn’t know what.” Now Cecil had explained psychology to her one wet afternoon, and all the troubles of youth in an unknown world could be dismissed.