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<h2> Chapter X: Cecil as a Humourist </h2>
<p>The society out of which Cecil proposed to rescue Lucy was perhaps no very
splendid affair, yet it was more splendid than her antecedents entitled
her to. Her father, a prosperous local solicitor, had built Windy Corner,
as a speculation at the time the district was opening up, and, falling in
love with his own creation, had ended by living there himself. Soon after
his marriage the social atmosphere began to alter. Other houses were built
on the brow of that steep southern slope and others, again, among the
pine-trees behind, and northward on the chalk barrier of the downs. Most
of these houses were larger than Windy Corner, and were filled by people
who came, not from the district, but from London, and who mistook the
Honeychurches for the remnants of an indigenous aristocracy. He was
inclined to be frightened, but his wife accepted the situation without
either pride or humility. "I cannot think what people are doing," she
would say, "but it is extremely fortunate for the children." She called
everywhere; her calls were returned with enthusiasm, and by the time
people found out that she was not exactly of their milieu, they liked her,
and it did not seem to matter. When Mr. Honeychurch died, he had the
satisfaction—which few honest solicitors despise—of leaving
his family rooted in the best society obtainable.</p>
<p>The best obtainable. Certainly many of the immigrants were rather dull,
and Lucy realized this more vividly since her return from Italy. Hitherto
she had accepted their ideals without questioning—their kindly
affluence, their inexplosive religion, their dislike of paper-bags,
orange-peel, and broken bottles. A Radical out and out, she learnt to
speak with horror of Suburbia. Life, so far as she troubled to conceive
it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and
identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it
were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London
fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern
hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in
equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished. Her senses
expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like,
that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly
high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant's olive-yard in
the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes.</p>
<p>So did Cecil; but Italy had quickened Cecil, not to tolerance, but to
irritation. He saw that the local society was narrow, but, instead of
saying, "Does that very much matter?" he rebelled, and tried to substitute
for it the society he called broad. He did not realize that Lucy had
consecrated her environment by the thousand little civilities that create
a tenderness in time, and that though her eyes saw its defects, her heart
refused to despise it entirely. Nor did he realize a more important point—that
if she was too great for this society, she was too great for all society,
and had reached the stage where personal intercourse would alone satisfy
her. A rebel she was, but not of the kind he understood—a rebel who
desired, not a wider dwelling-room, but equality beside the man she loved.
For Italy was offering her the most priceless of all possessions—her
own soul.</p>
<p>Playing bumble-puppy with Minnie Beebe, niece to the rector, and aged
thirteen—an ancient and most honourable game, which consists in
striking tennis-balls high into the air, so that they fall over the net
and immoderately bounce; some hit Mrs. Honeychurch; others are lost. The
sentence is confused, but the better illustrates Lucy's state of mind, for
she was trying to talk to Mr. Beebe at the same time.</p>
<p>"Oh, it has been such a nuisance—first he, then they—no one
knowing what they wanted, and every one so tiresome."</p>
<p>"But they really are coming now," said Mr. Beebe. "I wrote to Miss Teresa
a few days ago—she was wondering how often the butcher called, and
my reply of once a month must have impressed her favourably. They are
coming. I heard from them this morning.</p>
<p>"I shall hate those Miss Alans!" Mrs. Honeychurch cried. "Just because
they're old and silly one's expected to say 'How sweet!' I hate their
'if'-ing and 'but'-ing and 'and'-ing. And poor Lucy—serve her right—worn
to a shadow."</p>
<p>Mr. Beebe watched the shadow springing and shouting over the tennis-court.
Cecil was absent—one did not play bumble-puppy when he was there.</p>
<p>"Well, if they are coming—No, Minnie, not Saturn." Saturn was a
tennis-ball whose skin was partially unsewn. When in motion his orb was
encircled by a ring. "If they are coming, Sir Harry will let them move in
before the twenty-ninth, and he will cross out the clause about
whitewashing the ceilings, because it made them nervous, and put in the
fair wear and tear one.—That doesn't count. I told you not Saturn."</p>
<p>"Saturn's all right for bumble-puppy," cried Freddy, joining them.
"Minnie, don't you listen to her."</p>
<p>"Saturn doesn't bounce."</p>
<p>"Saturn bounces enough."</p>
<p>"No, he doesn't."</p>
<p>"Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil."</p>
<p>"Hush, dear," said Mrs. Honeychurch.</p>
<p>"But look at Lucy—complaining of Saturn, and all the time's got the
Beautiful White Devil in her hand, ready to plug it in. That's right,
Minnie, go for her—get her over the shins with the racquet—get
her over the shins!"</p>
<p>Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.</p>
<p>Mr. Beebe picked it up, and said: "The name of this ball is Vittoria
Corombona, please." But his correction passed unheeded.</p>
<p>Freddy possessed to a high degree the power of lashing little girls to
fury, and in half a minute he had transformed Minnie from a well-mannered
child into a howling wilderness. Up in the house Cecil heard them, and,
though he was full of entertaining news, he did not come down to impart
it, in case he got hurt. He was not a coward and bore necessary pain as
well as any man. But he hated the physical violence of the young. How
right it was! Sure enough it ended in a cry.</p>
<p>"I wish the Miss Alans could see this," observed Mr. Beebe, just as Lucy,
who was nursing the injured Minnie, was in turn lifted off her feet by her
brother.</p>
<p>"Who are the Miss Alans?" Freddy panted.</p>
<p>"They have taken Cissie Villa."</p>
<p>"That wasn't the name—"</p>
<p>Here his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass.
An interval elapses.</p>
<p>"Wasn't what name?" asked Lucy, with her brother's head in her lap.</p>
<p>"Alan wasn't the name of the people Sir Harry's let to."</p>
<p>"Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it."</p>
<p>"Nonsense yourself! I've this minute seen him. He said to me: 'Ahem!
Honeychurch,'"—Freddy was an indifferent mimic—"'ahem! ahem! I
have at last procured really dee-sire-rebel tenants.' I said, 'ooray, old
boy!' and slapped him on the back."</p>
<p>"Exactly. The Miss Alans?"</p>
<p>"Rather not. More like Anderson."</p>
<p>"Oh, good gracious, there isn't going to be another muddle!" Mrs.
Honeychurch exclaimed. "Do you notice, Lucy, I'm always right? I said
don't interfere with Cissie Villa. I'm always right. I'm quite uneasy at
being always right so often."</p>
<p>"It's only another muddle of Freddy's. Freddy doesn't even know the name
of the people he pretends have taken it instead."</p>
<p>"Yes, I do. I've got it. Emerson."</p>
<p>"What name?"</p>
<p>"Emerson. I'll bet you anything you like."</p>
<p>"What a weathercock Sir Harry is," said Lucy quietly. "I wish I had never
bothered over it at all."</p>
<p>Then she lay on her back and gazed at the cloudless sky. Mr. Beebe, whose
opinion of her rose daily, whispered to his niece that THAT was the proper
way to behave if any little thing went wrong.</p>
<p>Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from
the contemplation of her own abilities.</p>
<p>"Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?"</p>
<p>"I don't know whether they're any Emersons," retorted Freddy, who was
democratic. Like his sister and like most young people, he was naturally
attracted by the idea of equality, and the undeniable fact that there are
different kinds of Emersons annoyed him beyond measure.</p>
<p>"I trust they are the right sort of person. All right, Lucy"—she was
sitting up again—"I see you looking down your nose and thinking your
mother's a snob. But there is a right sort and a wrong sort, and it's
affectation to pretend there isn't."</p>
<p>"Emerson's a common enough name," Lucy remarked.</p>
<p>She was gazing sideways. Seated on a promontory herself, she could see the
pine-clad promontories descending one beyond another into the Weald. The
further one descended the garden, the more glorious was this lateral view.</p>
<p>"I was merely going to remark, Freddy, that I trusted they were no
relations of Emerson the philosopher, a most trying man. Pray, does that
satisfy you?"</p>
<p>"Oh, yes," he grumbled. "And you will be satisfied, too, for they're
friends of Cecil; so"—elaborate irony—"you and the other
country families will be able to call in perfect safety."</p>
<p>"CECIL?" exclaimed Lucy.</p>
<p>"Don't be rude, dear," said his mother placidly. "Lucy, don't screech.
It's a new bad habit you're getting into."</p>
<p>"But has Cecil—"</p>
<p>"Friends of Cecil's," he repeated, "'and so really dee-sire-rebel. Ahem!
Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.'"</p>
<p>She got up from the grass.</p>
<p>It was hard on Lucy. Mr. Beebe sympathized with her very much. While she
believed that her snub about the Miss Alans came from Sir Harry Otway, she
had borne it like a good girl. She might well "screech" when she heard
that it came partly from her lover. Mr. Vyse was a tease—something
worse than a tease: he took a malicious pleasure in thwarting people. The
clergyman, knowing this, looked at Miss Honeychurch with more than his
usual kindness.</p>
<p>When she exclaimed, "But Cecil's Emersons—they can't possibly be the
same ones—there is that—" he did not consider that the
exclamation was strange, but saw in it an opportunity of diverting the
conversation while she recovered her composure. He diverted it as follows:</p>
<p>"The Emersons who were at Florence, do you mean? No, I don't suppose it
will prove to be them. It is probably a long cry from them to friends of
Mr. Vyse's. Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, the oddest people! The queerest people!
For our part we liked them, didn't we?" He appealed to Lucy. "There was a
great scene over some violets. They picked violets and filled all the
vases in the room of these very Miss Alans who have failed to come to
Cissie Villa. Poor little ladies! So shocked and so pleased. It used to be
one of Miss Catharine's great stories. 'My dear sister loves flowers,' it
began. They found the whole room a mass of blue—vases and jugs—and
the story ends with 'So ungentlemanly and yet so beautiful.' It is all
very difficult. Yes, I always connect those Florentine Emersons with
violets."</p>
<p>"Fiasco's done you this time," remarked Freddy, not seeing that his
sister's face was very red. She could not recover herself. Mr. Beebe saw
it, and continued to divert the conversation.</p>
<p>"These particular Emersons consisted of a father and a son—the son a
goodly, if not a good young man; not a fool, I fancy, but very immature—pessimism,
et cetera. Our special joy was the father—such a sentimental
darling, and people declared he had murdered his wife."</p>
<p>In his normal state Mr. Beebe would never have repeated such gossip, but
he was trying to shelter Lucy in her little trouble. He repeated any
rubbish that came into his head.</p>
<p>"Murdered his wife?" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "Lucy, don't desert us—go
on playing bumble-puppy. Really, the Pension Bertolini must have been the
oddest place. That's the second murderer I've heard of as being there.
Whatever was Charlotte doing to stop? By-the-by, we really must ask
Charlotte here some time."</p>
<p>Mr. Beebe could recall no second murderer. He suggested that his hostess
was mistaken. At the hint of opposition she warmed. She was perfectly sure
that there had been a second tourist of whom the same story had been told.
The name escaped her. What was the name? Oh, what was the name? She
clasped her knees for the name. Something in Thackeray. She struck her
matronly forehead.</p>
<p>Lucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.</p>
<p>"Oh, don't go!" he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.</p>
<p>"I must go," she said gravely. "Don't be silly. You always overdo it when
you play."</p>
<p>As she left them her mother's shout of "Harris!" shivered the tranquil
air, and reminded her that she had told a lie and had never put it right.
Such a senseless lie, too, yet it shattered her nerves and made her
connect these Emersons, friends of Cecil's, with a pair of nondescript
tourists. Hitherto truth had come to her naturally. She saw that for the
future she must be more vigilant, and be—absolutely truthful? Well,
at all events, she must not tell lies. She hurried up the garden, still
flushed with shame. A word from Cecil would soothe her, she was sure.</p>
<p>"Cecil!"</p>
<p>"Hullo!" he called, and leant out of the smoking-room window. He seemed in
high spirits. "I was hoping you'd come. I heard you all bear-gardening,
but there's better fun up here. I, even I, have won a great victory for
the Comic Muse. George Meredith's right—the cause of Comedy and the
cause of Truth are really the same; and I, even I, have found tenants for
the distressful Cissie Villa. Don't be angry! Don't be angry! You'll
forgive me when you hear it all."</p>
<p>He looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her
ridiculous forebodings at once.</p>
<p>"I have heard," she said. "Freddy has told us. Naughty Cecil! I suppose I
must forgive you. Just think of all the trouble I took for nothing!
Certainly the Miss Alans are a little tiresome, and I'd rather have nice
friends of yours. But you oughtn't to tease one so."</p>
<p>"Friends of mine?" he laughed. "But, Lucy, the whole joke is to come! Come
here." But she remained standing where she was. "Do you know where I met
these desirable tenants? In the National Gallery, when I was up to see my
mother last week."</p>
<p>"What an odd place to meet people!" she said nervously. "I don't quite
understand."</p>
<p>"In the Umbrian Room. Absolute strangers. They were admiring Luca
Signorelli—of course, quite stupidly. However, we got talking, and
they refreshed me not—a little. They had been to Italy."</p>
<p>"But, Cecil—" proceeded hilariously.</p>
<p>"In the course of conversation they said that they wanted a country
cottage—the father to live there, the son to run down for week-ends.
I thought, 'What a chance of scoring off Sir Harry!' and I took their
address and a London reference, found they weren't actual blackguards—it
was great sport—and wrote to him, making out—"</p>
<p>"Cecil! No, it's not fair. I've probably met them before—"</p>
<p>He bore her down.</p>
<p>"Perfectly fair. Anything is fair that punishes a snob. That old man will
do the neighbourhood a world of good. Sir Harry is too disgusting with his
'decayed gentlewomen.' I meant to read him a lesson some time. No, Lucy,
the classes ought to mix, and before long you'll agree with me. There
ought to be intermarriage—all sorts of things. I believe in
democracy—"</p>
<p>"No, you don't," she snapped. "You don't know what the word means."</p>
<p>He stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque.
"No, you don't!"</p>
<p>Her face was inartistic—that of a peevish virago.</p>
<p>"It isn't fair, Cecil. I blame you—I blame you very much indeed. You
had no business to undo my work about the Miss Alans, and make me look
ridiculous. You call it scoring off Sir Harry, but do you realize that it
is all at my expense? I consider it most disloyal of you."</p>
<p>She left him.</p>
<p>"Temper!" he thought, raising his eyebrows.</p>
<p>No, it was worse than temper—snobbishness. As long as Lucy thought
that his own smart friends were supplanting the Miss Alans, she had not
minded. He perceived that these new tenants might be of value
educationally. He would tolerate the father and draw out the son, who was
silent. In the interests of the Comic Muse and of Truth, he would bring
them to Windy Corner.</p>
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