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_ 0f 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 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.
It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, "She loves young
Emerson." A reader in Lucy's place would not find it obvious.
Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we
welcome "nerves" or any other shibboleth that will cloak our
personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will
the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been
reversed?
But the external situation--she will face that bravely.
The meeting at the Rectory had passed off well enough. Standing
between Mr. Beebe and Cecil, she had made a few temperate
allusions to Italy, and George had replied. She was anxious to
show that she was not shy, and was glad that he did not seem shy
either.
"A nice fellow," said Mr. Beebe afterwards "He will work off his
crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life
gracefully."
Lucy said, "He seems in better spirits. He laughs more."
"Yes," replied the clergyman. "He is waking up."
That was all. But, as the week wore on, more of her defences
fell, and she entertained an image that had physical beauty.
In spite of the clearest directions, Miss Bartlett contrived to
bungle her arrival. She was due at the South-Eastern station at
Dorking, whither Mrs. Honeychurch drove to meet her. She arrived
at the London and Brighton station, and had to hire a cab up. No
one was at home except Freddy and his friend, who had to stop
their tennis and to entertain her for a solid hour. Cecil and
Lucy turned up at four o'clock, and these, with little Minnie
Beebe, made a somewhat lugubrious sextette upon the upper
lawn for tea.
"I shall never forgive myself," said Miss Bartlett, who kept on
rising from her seat, and had to be begged by the united company
to remain. "I have upset everything. Bursting in on young people!
But I insist on paying for my cab up. Grant that, at any rate."
"Our visitors never do such dreadful things," said Lucy, while
her brother, in whose memory the boiled egg had already grown
unsubstantial, exclaimed in irritable tones: "Just what I've been
trying to convince Cousin Charlotte of, Lucy, for the last half
hour."
"I do not feel myself an ordinary visitor," said Miss Bartlett,
and looked at her frayed glove
"All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a
bob to the driver."
Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies.
Could any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his
friend had four half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys
and then said: "But who am I to give the sovereign to?"
"Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy.
"No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she
is not hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine
is the prompt settling of accounts."
Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that
need be quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's
quid. A solution seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been
ostentatiously drinking his tea at the view, felt the eternal
attraction of Chance, and turned round.
But this did not do, either.
"Please--please--I know I am a sad spoilsport, but it would make
me wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost."
"Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will
work out right if you give the pound to me."
"Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that,
Mr. Vyse?"
"Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound,
and we shall avoid this deplorable gambling."
Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and
rendered up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the
other youths. For a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at
nonsense among his peers. Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face
petty anxieties had marred the smiles. In January he would rescue
his Leonardo from this stupefying twaddle.
"But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly
watched the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to
have the quid."
"Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said
solemnly. "Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound,
you see."
"But I don't see--"
They tried to stifle her with cake.
"No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me.
Miss Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr.
Floyd's ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see
why Miss What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver."'
"I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening.
"Thank you, dear, for reminding me. A shilling was it? Can any
one give me change for half a crown?"
"I'll get it," said the young hostess, rising with decision.
"Cecil, give me that sovereign. No, give me up that sovereign.
I'll get Euphemia to change it, and we'll start the whole thing
again from the beginning."
"Lucy--Lucy--what a nuisance I am!" protested Miss Bartlett, and
followed her across the lawn. Lucy tripped ahead, simulating
hilarity. When they were out of earshot Miss Bartlett stopped her
wails and said quite briskly: "Have you told him about him yet?"
"No, I haven't," replied Lucy, and then could have bitten her
tongue for understanding so quickly what her cousin meant. "Let
me see--a sovereign's worth of silver."
She escaped into the kitchen. Miss Bartlett's sudden transitions
were too uncanny. It sometimes seemed as if she planned every
word she spoke or caused to be spoken; as if all this worry about
cabs and change had been a ruse to surprise the soul.
"No, I haven't told Cecil or any one," she remarked, when she
returned. "I promised you I shouldn't. Here is your money--all
shillings, except two half-crowns. Would you count it? You can
settle your debt nicely now."
Miss Bartlett was in the drawing-room, gazing at the photograph
of St. John ascending, which had been framed.
"How dreadful!" she murmured, "how more than dreadful, if Mr.
Vyse should come to hear of it from some other source."
"Oh, no, Charlotte," said the girl, entering the battle. "George
Emerson is all right, and what other source is there?"
Miss Bartlett considered. "For instance, the driver. I saw him
looking through the bushes at you, remember he had a violet
between his teeth."
Lucy shuddered a little. "We shall get the silly affair on our
nerves if we aren't careful. How could a Florentine cab-driver
ever get hold of Cecil?"
"We must think of every possibility."
"Oh, it's all right."
"Or perhaps old Mr. Emerson knows. In fact, he is certain to
know."
"I don't care if he does. I was grateful to you for your letter,
but even if the news does get round, I think I can trust Cecil to
laugh at it."
"To contradict it?"
"No, to laugh at it." But she knew in her heart that she could
not trust him, for he desired her untouched.
"Very well, dear, you know best. Perhaps gentlemen are different
to what they were when I was young. Ladies are certainly
different."
"Now, Charlotte!" She struck at her playfully. "You kind,
anxious thing. What WOULD you have me do? First you say 'Don't
tell'; and then you say, 'Tell'. Which is it to be? Quick!"
Miss Bartlett sighed "I am no match for you in conversation,
dearest. I blush when I think how I interfered at Florence, and
you so well able to look after yourself, and so much cleverer in
all ways than I am. You will never forgive me."
"Shall we go out, then. They will smash all the china if we
don't."
For the air rang with the shrieks of Minnie, who was being
scalped with a teaspoon.
"Dear, one moment--we may not have this chance for a chat again.
Have you seen the young one yet?"
"Yes, I have."
"What happened?"
"We met at the Rectory."
"What line is he taking up?"
"No line. He talked about Italy, like any other person. It is
really all right. What advantage would he get from being a cad,
to put it bluntly? I do wish I could make you see it my way. He
really won't be any nuisance, Charlotte."
"Once a cad, always a cad. That is my poor opinion."
Lucy paused. "Cecil said one day--and I thought it so
profound--that there are two kinds of cads--the conscious and the
subconscious." She paused again, to be sure of doing justice to
Cecil's profundity. Through the window she saw Cecil himself,
turning over the pages of a novel. It was a new one from Smith's
library. Her mother must have returned from the station.
"Once a cad, always a cad," droned Miss Bartlett.
"What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I
fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I
don't think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a
difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him
unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference,
and he lost his head: he doesn't admire me, or any of that
nonsense, one straw. Freddy rather likes him, and has asked him
up here on Sunday, so you can judge for yourself. He has
improved; he doesn't always look as if he's going to burst into
tears. He is a clerk in the General Manager's office at one of
the big railways--not a porter! and runs down to his father for
week-ends. Papa was to do with journalism, but is rheumatic and
has retired. There! Now for the garden." She took hold of her
guest by the arm. "Suppose we don't talk about this silly Italian
business any more. We want you to have a nice restful visit at
Windy Corner, with no worriting."
Lucy thought this rather a good speech. The reader may have
detected an unfortunate slip in it. Whether Miss Bartlett
detected the slip one cannot say, for it is impossible to
penetrate into the minds of elderly people. She might have spoken
further, but they were interrupted by the entrance of her
hostess. Explanations took place, and in the midst of them Lucy
escaped, the images throbbing a little more vividly in her brain. _
Read next: Part II: Chapter XV - The Disaster Within
Read previous: Part II: Chapter XIII - How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome
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