Literary Love

by Gabrielle Vigot

  Mr. Beebe continued. “If I may.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Be frank, Miss Bartlett, you have nothing to fear for I am a man of convictions. Rest assured your confidence is safe with me.”

  Charlotte paused a moment and then spoke in earnest. “I dare say, Mr. Beebe, you do so appeal to my sensibilities as one of like mind.”

  He nodded cordially, not quite understanding her meaning.

  “It’s just that, well, you and I are of the same station in life.”

  “Oh, I rather see.”

  “We have both led rather chaste and safe lives.”

  “Rather,” said Mr. Beebe. He must have been amused by the direction of this conversation; otherwise, he would never have bid Miss Bartlett to go forward.

  “Well, I have something rather discrete to ask.”

  Mr. Beebe turned to Minnie. “Dearest child, won’t you be a dear and go fetch the matron.”

  Minnie leaned to the opening in the window. “How do you say, uncle?”

  “The matron.” He nodded in the matron’s direction.

  “Yes, of course,” said Minnie and immediately left.

  “Do,” Mr. Beebe began again, “do continue, Miss Bartlett.”

  With no hesitation and without regard for preamble or decorum, Charlotte said, “Don’t you ever get lonely, Mr. Beebe? I fear that I need your friendship and counsel on the matter. Perhaps we might take the opportunity now … upstairs?”

  The air caught in his throat. “Oh, you mistake my disposition.”

  “No, I am certain I do not.”

  “Perhaps I might say more delicately, I am not the sort who fancies a close relationship, though that option I did have in the beginning before taking my vows.”

  “You might venture to try.”

  “I can hardly admit to you my preference in these matters.”

  “Do you find my company pleasing?”

  “Yes, of course, though that is certainly not for me to judge.”

  “Am I not attractive for a woman of my station?”

  “Of course, though I must warn you that I have only made a study of these matters, I have no experience.”

  “Then I implore you.”

  “My dear madam, I don’t think you realize — ”

  “Yes, I do. For that reason alone, I find you safe.”

  “Well, if I must say, you do strike me as rather the stronger sort of your fair sex.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Are you suggesting?”

  “Quite.”

  “I … ” Mr. Beebe was taken aback.

  “What would be the harm in having a try, despite your peculiar preferences? I presume it is not like you have ever tried.”

  “Indeed?” He seemed intrigued by the very idea and his expression became one of bemusement.

  “Yes.”

  Mr. Beebe screwed up his mouth. “I might fail you … for I … ”

  “I have been my whole life failed, I would not know wiser. Let us seek counsel in private.”

  “I dare say, you do amuse me. May I call you Charlotte?”

  “There you are.” It was Freddy.

  “Freddy, what brings you around?” Mr. Beebe asked.

  “Mother’s sent me on a fool’s errand to the nursery. She’s in quite the state about her garden.”

  “Freddy, I didn’t know you were coming round.” It was Minnie.

  “Just on my way actually,” he said.

  “I’ve finished my tea and biscuits,” Minnie said.

  “Then join me, you can help carry the lot,” Freddy said.

  Minnie turned to Mr. Beebe and Miss Bartlett. “Is it all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” Miss Bartlett replied.

  After the two set off, Charlotte and Mr. Beebe escaped to a room upstairs for private counsel …

  “I hardly know where to begin,” Mr. Beebe said, thinking this situation all very ludicrous. He had only made study of women, though never desired to consummate any relation with the fairer sex.

  Charlotte began to undress. “Perhaps our first endeavor is to rid ourselves of the clothing, wouldn’t you say?”

  Mr. Beebe laughed heartily.

  “Perhaps we should reconsider, Charlotte.”

  “I dare say we may never have opportunity again. Would you send me to my grave without the joy of your manhood?”

  “Well, I — ”

  “The secret is quite safe with me I can assure you, Mr. Beebe. We both have much to lose should I violate your confidence.”

  “To be sure.”

  “I am quite certain,” she said as she looked to the ceiling, believing the gates of heaven were opening, “you will be forgiven, for you will do me a great kindness and joy.”

  Indeed by this act, he would be sinning against the oath of the cloth, his very vow of celibacy. Yet Charlotte had whetted his appetite for adventure, and he hoped that God would be merciful enough to allow this one indiscretion. “I fear that we may not have the glow of our youth.”

  “Then let us remain as we are and I shall face away.” Charlotte turned around and faced the other direction while gathering her skirts in her arms to expose the lace of her matronly undergarment. “Do make it quick as the others will wonder why we’ve been away so long.”

  Mr. Beebe began to run for the door.

  Hearing his steps, Charlotte released her dress, turned, and hurried toward him. Just as he reached for the door handle, she grabbed him by the waist and swung him around.

  Escaping her clutches, Mr. Beebe raced to the other side of the room.

  “You cannot evade me,” Charlotte said, beginning to laugh.

  “Dear me,” Mr. Beebe gulped as he continued making his escape. Nearing the bed, he scrambled upon it and began crawling across the top of it.

  Charlotte snagged one of his ankles.

  “Madame!”

  “Stop you sneaky devil you. I say stop. Would you lead me here and cuckold me?”

  Mr. Beebe joined her in laughter as he attempted to wriggle free. “I’m afraid I can’t. Oh dear.”

  “You will,” she cried as he slinked off the edge of the bed, though she still had a hold of his leg and so she slinked right along with him to the floor. Across the rug, they did crawl with Charlotte not loosening her grasp. When Mr. Beebe reached the door, he tried to reach for the lone handle. Yet Charlotte was not to be denied. Availing herself of the opportunity that Mr. Beebe’s moment of hesitation had given her, she managed to clasp both of his ankles. With the strength of a woman infused with a lifetime of pent-up passion, she pulled him upon his robust belly back deeper inside the room.

  Out of breath, Mr. Beebe gave up the fight.

  Charlotte climbed on his back and began tickling his ribs, in response to which Mr. Beebe laughed incredibly loud, as he was overwhelmingly ticklish. They laughed as children until Charlotte fell upon his back. With great ruckus, they soon found themselves rolling along the floor, continuing to cry out with laughter and ease.

  Then Mr. Beebe was struck with lust. He grasped Charlotte in his arms and began kissing her wildly, though he had no knowledge of proper method. His tongue slipped in and around her mouth and across her face, for he was inexperienced and knew not what to do. Yet Charlotte complained not, and eventually their tongues bathed the other in the most peculiar of ways.

  “Oh, Beebe!”

  On their sides, Mr. Beebe reached for the edge of her skirts and with not so delicate of hand, he yanked her dress up to reveal her matronly undergarment, the working of which escaped his understanding. He fumbled at it mightily. “Let me,” Charlotte cried, and deftly peeled the garment off her voluptuous flesh. Next, she reached for his trousers, and once having loosened them, immediately reached a hand inside and found his attentive and long-neglected manhood, now rampant with lust.

  Mr. Beebe did somewhat shriek the moment he felt her touch, though it ended with a groan as her hand began to slide up and down the length of his member.


  “I shouldn’t know what to do, not exactly,” he said with his eyes closed.

  Charlotte gently rolled him to his back. “Just lie there. I’ll work it out. You’ll see.”

  Charlotte held up her skirts and straddled him while continuing to massage his member. A moment later, he felt her rise above him, though he dared not open his eyes — the pleasure might slip away. She lowered herself and mounted his rod, and then plunged downward, engulfing him in the velvety glove of her sheath.

  “Dear Lord,” he said with his words catching in his throat. “Dear, dear Lord,” he repeated now completely robbed of his breath.

  She began to rock, taking him deeper and deeper into her passion. He was helpless, defenseless against her onslaught of lust. Still, his eyes remained tight.

  She did not speak but only rocked smoothly, sliding gently to and fro.

  “Dear … ” His words were lost, the sensation she was evoking in his loins was all-consuming. He began to match her rhythm and found himself more excited and hurried the pace.

  He reached for her waist and held her as she continued to glide, keeping his pace. She sighed at his touch and began to moan. Her passion intensified his excitement and he joined her with a series of groans. Like musicians tuning their instruments, Charlotte and Mr. Beebe groaned and moaned, moaned and groaned, until a dog below the window began to profligately howl in sympathy.

  Then Charlotte began to moan as though howling herself, to which Mr. Beebe responded in kind. The more they vocalized, the more excited they grew and at once, Charlotte cried, “I-I am undone, Mr. Beebe.”

  To which he erupted and released, spilling his seed into her vessel.

  “Dear God,” they cried in unison as they took a long moment to collect themselves and regain their sense of nerve and composure.

  “We know now the pleasures of the flesh,” Charlotte said, sliding his member from her vessel. Then she quickly stood and dressed herself in the lace matronly undergarment that she had recklessly tossed to the side.

  The dog continued to howl, despite the fact that the vocality of Mr. Beebe’s and Charlotte’s impassioned symphony had now ceased.

  “Come now, Mr. Beebe, we must be quick.”

  He finally opened his eyes. “I fear I must have fainted.” He glanced down and saw for himself that he was rather exposed. He began to chuckle.

  “Indeed. Now be quick,” Charlotte warned as she was already dressed and ready to resume the matronly position expected of her in life. “I shall see you downstairs.” She nodded rather sternly to Mr. Beebe and departed the room.

  When Mr. Beebe joined her downstairs, they hurried home through a world of black and grey. He conversed on indifferent topics: the Emersons’ need of a housekeeper; servants; Italian servants; novels about Italy; novels with a purpose; could literature influence life? However, on their seemingly casual jaunt back to Windy Corner, Mr. Beebe did carry a lighter step in his stride. For the first time in his life, he felt strangely satisfied. Perhaps his disposition was mixed, not entirely one-sided, he began to consider. Windy Corner actually glimmered when they arrived back. In the garden, Mrs. Honeychurch, now helped by Freddy and Minnie, still wrestled with the lives of her flowers.

  “It gets too dark,” she said hopelessly. “This comes of putting off. We might have known the weather would break up soon; and now Lucy wants to go to Greece. I don’t know what the world’s coming to.”

  “Mrs. Honeychurch,” he said, “go to Greece she must. Come up to the house and let’s talk it over. Do you, in the first place, mind her breaking with Vyse?”

  “Mr. Beebe, I’m thankful — simply thankful.”

  “So am I,” said Freddy.

  “Good. Now come up to the house.”

  They conferred in the dining-room for half an hour.

  Lucy would never have carried the Greek scheme alone. It was expensive and dramatic — both qualities that her mother loathed. Nor would Charlotte have succeeded. The honours of the day rested with Mr. Beebe. By his tact and common sense, and by his influence as a clergyman — for a clergyman who was not a fool influenced Mrs. Honeychurch greatly — he bent her to their purpose, “I don’t see why Greece is necessary,” she said; “but as you do, I suppose it is all right. It must be something I can’t understand. Lucy! Let’s tell her. Lucy!”

  “She is playing the piano,” Mr. Beebe said. He opened the door, and heard the words of a song:

  “Look not thou on beauty’s charming.”

  “I didn’t know that Miss Honeychurch sang, too.”

  “Sit thou still when kings are arming, Taste not when the wine-cup glistens — ”

  “It’s a song that Cecil gave her. How odd girls are!”

  “What’s that?” called Lucy, stopping short.

  “All right, dear,” said Mrs. Honeychurch kindly. She went into the drawing-room, and Mr. Beebe heard her kiss Lucy and say: “I am sorry I was so cross about Greece, but it came on the top of the dahlias.”

  Rather a hard voice said: “Thank you, mother; that doesn’t matter a bit.”

  “And you are right, too — Greece will be all right; you can go if the Miss Alans will have you.”

  “Oh, splendid! Oh, thank you!”

  Mr. Beebe followed. Lucy still sat at the piano with her hands over the keys. She was glad, but he had expected greater gladness. Her mother bent over her. Freddy, to whom she had been singing, reclined on the floor with his head against her, and an unlit pipe between his lips. Oddly enough, the group was beautiful. Mr. Beebe, who loved the art of the past, was reminded of a favourite theme, the Santa Conversazione, in which people who care for one another are painted chatting together about noble things — a theme neither sensual nor sensational, and therefore ignored by the art of to-day. Why should Lucy want either to marry or to travel when she had such friends at home?

  “Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, Speak not when the people listens,” she continued.

  “Here’s Mr. Beebe.”

  “Mr. Beebe knows my rude ways.”

  “It’s a beautiful song and a wise one,” said he. “Go on.”

  “It isn’t very good,” she said listlessly. “I forget why — harmony or something.”

  “I suspected it was unscholarly. It’s so beautiful.”

  “The tune’s right enough,” said Freddy, “but the words are rotten. Why throw up the sponge?”

  “How stupidly you talk!” said his sister. The Santa Conversazione was broken up. After all, there was no reason that Lucy should talk about Greece or thank him for persuading her mother, so he said goodbye.

  Freddy lit his bicycle lamp for him in the porch, and with his usual felicity of phrase, said: “This has been a day and a half.”

  “Stop thine ear against the singer — ”

  “Wait a minute; she is finishing.”

  “From the red gold keep thy finger; Vacant heart and hand and eye Easy live and quiet die.”

  “I love weather like this,” said Freddy.

  Mr. Beebe passed into it.

  The two main facts were clear. She had behaved splendidly, and he had helped her. He could not expect to master the details of so big a change in a girl’s life. If here and there he was dissatisfied or puzzled, he must acquiesce; she was choosing the better part.

  “Vacant heart and hand and eye — ”

  Perhaps the song stated “the better part” rather too strongly. He half fancied that the soaring accompaniment — which he did not lose in the shout of the gale — really agreed with Freddy, and was gently criticizing the words that it adorned:

  “Vacant heart and hand and eye Easy live and quiet die.”

  However, for the fourth time Windy Corner lay poised below him — now as a beacon in the roaring tides of darkness.

  Chapter XIX: Lying to Mr. Emerson

  The Miss Alans were found in their beloved temperance hotel near Bloomsbury — a clean, airless establishment much patronized by provincial England. They always perched the
re before crossing the great seas, and for a week or two would fidget gently over clothes, guide-books, mackintosh squares, digestive bread, and other Continental necessaries. That there are shops abroad, even in Athens, never occurred to them, for they regarded travel as a species of warfare, only to be undertaken by those who have been fully armed at the Haymarket Stores. Miss Honeychurch, they trusted, would take care to equip herself duly. Quinine could now be obtained in tabloids; paper soap was a great help towards freshening up one’s face in the train. Lucy promised, a little depressed.

  “But, of course, you know all about these things, and you have Mr. Vyse to help you. A gentleman is such a standby.”

  Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to town with her daughter, began to drum nervously upon her card-case.

  “We think it so good of Mr. Vyse to spare you,” Miss Catharine continued. “It is not every young man who would be so unselfish. But perhaps he will come out and join you later on.”

  “Or does his work keep him in London?” said Miss Teresa, the more acute and less kindly of the two sisters.

  “However, we shall see him when he sees you off. I do so long to see him.”

  “No one will see Lucy off,” interposed Mrs. Honeychurch. “She doesn’t like it.”

  “No, I hate seeings-off,” said Lucy.

  “Really? How funny! I should have thought that in this case — ”

  “Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, you aren’t going? It is such a pleasure to have met you!”

  They escaped, and Lucy said with relief: “That’s all right. We just got through that time.”

  But her mother was annoyed. “I should be told, dear, that I am unsympathetic. But I cannot see why you didn’t tell your friends about Cecil and be done with it. There all the time we had to sit fencing, and almost telling lies, and be seen through, too, I dare say, which is most unpleasant.”

  Lucy had plenty to say in reply. She described the Miss Alans’ character: they were such gossips, and if one told them, the news would be everywhere in no time.

  “But why shouldn’t it be everywhere in no time?”

  “Because I settled with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I shall tell them then. It’s much pleasanter. How wet it is! Let’s turn in here.”