<p><SPAN name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"></SPAN></p>
<h2> Chapter XV: The Disaster Within </h2>
<p>The Sunday after Miss Bartlett's arrival was a glorious day, like most of
the days of that year. In the Weald, autumn approached, breaking up the
green monotony of summer, touching the parks with the grey bloom of mist,
the beech-trees with russet, the oak-trees with gold. Up on the heights,
battalions of black pines witnessed the change, themselves unchangeable.
Either country was spanned by a cloudless sky, and in either arose the
tinkle of church bells.</p>
<p>The garden of Windy Corners was deserted except for a red book, which lay
sunning itself upon the gravel path. From the house came incoherent
sounds, as of females preparing for worship. "The men say they won't go"—"Well,
I don't blame them"—Minnie says, "need she go?"—"Tell her, no
nonsense"—"Anne! Mary! Hook me behind!"—"Dearest Lucia, may I
trespass upon you for a pin?" For Miss Bartlett had announced that she at
all events was one for church.</p>
<p>The sun rose higher on its journey, guided, not by Phaethon, but by
Apollo, competent, unswerving, divine. Its rays fell on the ladies
whenever they advanced towards the bedroom windows; on Mr. Beebe down at
Summer Street as he smiled over a letter from Miss Catharine Alan; on
George Emerson cleaning his father's boots; and lastly, to complete the
catalogue of memorable things, on the red book mentioned previously. The
ladies move, Mr. Beebe moves, George moves, and movement may engender
shadow. But this book lies motionless, to be caressed all the morning by
the sun and to raise its covers slightly, as though acknowledging the
caress.</p>
<p>Presently Lucy steps out of the drawing-room window. Her new cerise dress
has been a failure, and makes her look tawdry and wan. At her throat is a
garnet brooch, on her finger a ring set with rubies—an engagement
ring. Her eyes are bent to the Weald. She frowns a little—not in
anger, but as a brave child frowns when he is trying not to cry. In all
that expanse no human eye is looking at her, and she may frown unrebuked
and measure the spaces that yet survive between Apollo and the western
hills.</p>
<p>"Lucy! Lucy! What's that book? Who's been taking a book out of the shelf
and leaving it about to spoil?"</p>
<p>"It's only the library book that Cecil's been reading."</p>
<p>"But pick it up, and don't stand idling there like a flamingo."</p>
<p>Lucy picked up the book and glanced at the title listlessly, Under a
Loggia. She no longer read novels herself, devoting all her spare time to
solid literature in the hope of catching Cecil up. It was dreadful how
little she knew, and even when she thought she knew a thing, like the
Italian painters, she found she had forgotten it. Only this morning she
had confused Francesco Francia with Piero della Francesca, and Cecil had
said, "What! you aren't forgetting your Italy already?" And this too had
lent anxiety to her eyes when she saluted the dear view and the dear
garden in the foreground, and above them, scarcely conceivable elsewhere,
the dear sun.</p>
<p>"Lucy—have you a sixpence for Minnie and a shilling for yourself?"</p>
<p>She hastened in to her mother, who was rapidly working herself into a
Sunday fluster.</p>
<p>"It's a special collection—I forget what for. I do beg, no vulgar
clinking in the plate with halfpennies; see that Minnie has a nice bright
sixpence. Where is the child? Minnie! That book's all warped. (Gracious,
how plain you look!) Put it under the Atlas to press. Minnie!"</p>
<p>"Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch—" from the upper regions.</p>
<p>"Minnie, don't be late. Here comes the horse"—it was always the
horse, never the carriage. "Where's Charlotte? Run up and hurry her. Why
is she so long? She had nothing to do. She never brings anything but
blouses. Poor Charlotte—How I do detest blouses! Minnie!"</p>
<p>Paganism is infectious—more infectious than diphtheria or piety—and
the Rector's niece was taken to church protesting. As usual, she didn't
see why. Why shouldn't she sit in the sun with the young men? The young
men, who had now appeared, mocked her with ungenerous words. Mrs.
Honeychurch defended orthodoxy, and in the midst of the confusion Miss
Bartlett, dressed in the very height of the fashion, came strolling down
the stairs.</p>
<p>"Dear Marian, I am very sorry, but I have no small change—nothing
but sovereigns and half crowns. Could any one give me—"</p>
<p>"Yes, easily. Jump in. Gracious me, how smart you look! What a lovely
frock! You put us all to shame."</p>
<p>"If I did not wear my best rags and tatters now, when should I wear them?"
said Miss Bartlett reproachfully. She got into the victoria and placed
herself with her back to the horse. The necessary roar ensued, and then
they drove off.</p>
<p>"Good-bye! Be good!" called out Cecil.</p>
<p>Lucy bit her lip, for the tone was sneering. On the subject of "church and
so on" they had had rather an unsatisfactory conversation. He had said
that people ought to overhaul themselves, and she did not want to overhaul
herself; she did not know it was done. Honest orthodoxy Cecil respected,
but he always assumed that honesty is the result of a spiritual crisis; he
could not imagine it as a natural birthright, that might grow heavenward
like flowers. All that he said on this subject pained her, though he
exuded tolerance from every pore; somehow the Emersons were different.</p>
<p>She saw the Emersons after church. There was a line of carriages down the
road, and the Honeychurch vehicle happened to be opposite Cissie Villa. To
save time, they walked over the green to it, and found father and son
smoking in the garden.</p>
<p>"Introduce me," said her mother. "Unless the young man considers that he
knows me already."</p>
<p>He probably did; but Lucy ignored the Sacred Lake and introduced them
formally. Old Mr. Emerson claimed her with much warmth, and said how glad
he was that she was going to be married. She said yes, she was glad too;
and then, as Miss Bartlett and Minnie were lingering behind with Mr.
Beebe, she turned the conversation to a less disturbing topic, and asked
him how he liked his new house.</p>
<p>"Very much," he replied, but there was a note of offence in his voice; she
had never known him offended before. He added: "We find, though, that the
Miss Alans were coming, and that we have turned them out. Women mind such
a thing. I am very much upset about it."</p>
<p>"I believe that there was some misunderstanding," said Mrs. Honeychurch
uneasily.</p>
<p>"Our landlord was told that we should be a different type of person," said
George, who seemed disposed to carry the matter further. "He thought we
should be artistic. He is disappointed."</p>
<p>"And I wonder whether we ought to write to the Miss Alans and offer to
give it up. What do you think?" He appealed to Lucy.</p>
<p>"Oh, stop now you have come," said Lucy lightly. She must avoid censuring
Cecil. For it was on Cecil that the little episode turned, though his name
was never mentioned.</p>
<p>"So George says. He says that the Miss Alans must go to the wall. Yet it
does seem so unkind."</p>
<p>"There is only a certain amount of kindness in the world," said George,
watching the sunlight flash on the panels of the passing carriages.</p>
<p>"Yes!" exclaimed Mrs. Honeychurch. "That's exactly what I say. Why all
this twiddling and twaddling over two Miss Alans?"</p>
<p>"There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount
of light," he continued in measured tones. "We cast a shadow on something
wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save
things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won't
do harm—yes, choose a place where you won't do very much harm, and
stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine."</p>
<p>"Oh, Mr. Emerson, I see you're clever!"</p>
<p>"Eh—?"</p>
<p>"I see you're going to be clever. I hope you didn't go behaving like that
to poor Freddy."</p>
<p>George's eyes laughed, and Lucy suspected that he and her mother would get
on rather well.</p>
<p>"No, I didn't," he said. "He behaved that way to me. It is his philosophy.
Only he starts life with it; and I have tried the Note of Interrogation
first."</p>
<p>"What DO you mean? No, never mind what you mean. Don't explain. He looks
forward to seeing you this afternoon. Do you play tennis? Do you mind
tennis on Sunday—?"</p>
<p>"George mind tennis on Sunday! George, after his education, distinguish
between Sunday—"</p>
<p>"Very well, George doesn't mind tennis on Sunday. No more do I. That's
settled. Mr. Emerson, if you could come with your son we should be so
pleased."</p>
<p>He thanked her, but the walk sounded rather far; he could only potter
about in these days.</p>
<p>She turned to George: "And then he wants to give up his house to the Miss
Alans."</p>
<p>"I know," said George, and put his arm round his father's neck. The
kindness that Mr. Beebe and Lucy had always known to exist in him came out
suddenly, like sunlight touching a vast landscape—a touch of the
morning sun? She remembered that in all his perversities he had never
spoken against affection.</p>
<p>Miss Bartlett approached.</p>
<p>"You know our cousin, Miss Bartlett," said Mrs. Honeychurch pleasantly.
"You met her with my daughter in Florence."</p>
<p>"Yes, indeed!" said the old man, and made as if he would come out of the
garden to meet the lady. Miss Bartlett promptly got into the victoria.
Thus entrenched, she emitted a formal bow. It was the pension Bertolini
again, the dining-table with the decanters of water and wine. It was the
old, old battle of the room with the view.</p>
<p>George did not respond to the bow. Like any boy, he blushed and was
ashamed; he knew that the chaperon remembered. He said: "I—I'll come
up to tennis if I can manage it," and went into the house. Perhaps
anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went
straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as
clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need
help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of
men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when
George threw her photographs into the River Arno.</p>
<p>"George, don't go," cried his father, who thought it a great treat for
people if his son would talk to them. "George has been in such good
spirits today, and I am sure he will end by coming up this afternoon."</p>
<p>Lucy caught her cousin's eye. Something in its mute appeal made her
reckless. "Yes," she said, raising her voice, "I do hope he will." Then
she went to the carriage and murmured, "The old man hasn't been told; I
knew it was all right." Mrs. Honeychurch followed her, and they drove
away.</p>
<p>Satisfactory that Mr. Emerson had not been told of the Florence escapade;
yet Lucy's spirits should not have leapt up as if she had sighted the
ramparts of heaven. Satisfactory; yet surely she greeted it with
disproportionate joy. All the way home the horses' hoofs sang a tune to
her: "He has not told, he has not told." Her brain expanded the melody:
"He has not told his father—to whom he tells all things. It was not
an exploit. He did not laugh at me when I had gone." She raised her hand
to her cheek. "He does not love me. No. How terrible if he did! But he has
not told. He will not tell."</p>
<p>She longed to shout the words: "It is all right. It's a secret between us
two for ever. Cecil will never hear." She was even glad that Miss Bartlett
had made her promise secrecy, that last dark evening at Florence, when
they had knelt packing in his room. The secret, big or little, was
guarded.</p>
<p>Only three English people knew of it in the world. Thus she interpreted
her joy. She greeted Cecil with unusual radiance, because she felt so
safe. As he helped her out of the carriage, she said:</p>
<p>"The Emersons have been so nice. George Emerson has improved enormously."</p>
<p>"How are my proteges?" asked Cecil, who took no real interest in them, and
had long since forgotten his resolution to bring them to Windy Corner for
educational purposes.</p>
<p>"Proteges!" she exclaimed with some warmth. For the only relationship
which Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He had
no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned.</p>
<p>"You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson is
coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only
don't—" She nearly said, "Don't protect him." But the bell was
ringing for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great
attention to her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.</p>
<p>Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some one
had to be soothed—either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not
visible to the mortal eye—a Being who whispered to her soul: "It
will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to
entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men." But to-day she felt she
had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother
here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning, would never
be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her to play.
She had seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memory the music of
the enchanted garden—the music to which Renaud approaches, beneath
the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never wanes, but
ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such music is not
for the piano, and her audience began to get restive, and Cecil, sharing
the discontent, called out: "Now play us the other garden—the one in
Parsifal."</p>
<p>She closed the instrument.</p>
<p>"Not very dutiful," said her mother's voice.</p>
<p>Fearing that she had offended Cecil, she turned quickly round. There
George was. He had crept in without interrupting her.</p>
<p>"Oh, I had no idea!" she exclaimed, getting very red; and then, without a
word of greeting, she reopened the piano. Cecil should have the Parsifal,
and anything else that he liked.</p>
<p>"Our performer has changed her mind," said Miss Bartlett, perhaps
implying, she will play the music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not know what
to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played a few bars of the Flower
Maidens' song very badly and then she stopped.</p>
<p>"I vote tennis," said Freddy, disgusted at the scrappy entertainment.</p>
<p>"Yes, so do I." Once more she closed the unfortunate piano. "I vote you
have a men's four."</p>
<p>"All right."</p>
<p>"Not for me, thank you," said Cecil. "I will not spoil the set." He never
realized that it may be an act of kindness in a bad player to make up a
fourth.</p>
<p>"Oh, come along Cecil. I'm bad, Floyd's rotten, and so I dare say's
Emerson."</p>
<p>George corrected him: "I am not bad."</p>
<p>One looked down one's nose at this. "Then certainly I won't play," said
Cecil, while Miss Bartlett, under the impression that she was snubbing
George, added: "I agree with you, Mr. Vyse. You had much better not play.
Much better not."</p>
<p>Minnie, rushing in where Cecil feared to tread, announced that she would
play. "I shall miss every ball anyway, so what does it matter?" But Sunday
intervened and stamped heavily upon the kindly suggestion.</p>
<p>"Then it will have to be Lucy," said Mrs. Honeychurch; "you must fall back
on Lucy. There is no other way out of it. Lucy, go and change your frock."</p>
<p>Lucy's Sabbath was generally of this amphibious nature. She kept it
without hypocrisy in the morning, and broke it without reluctance in the
afternoon. As she changed her frock, she wondered whether Cecil was
sneering at her; really she must overhaul herself and settle everything up
before she married him.</p>
<p>Mr. Floyd was her partner. She liked music, but how much better tennis
seemed. How much better to run about in comfortable clothes than to sit at
the piano and feel girt under the arms. Once more music appeared to her
the employment of a child. George served, and surprised her by his anxiety
to win. She remembered how he had sighed among the tombs at Santa Croce
because things wouldn't fit; how after the death of that obscure Italian
he had leant over the parapet by the Arno and said to her: "I shall want
to live, I tell you," He wanted to live now, to win at tennis, to stand
for all he was worth in the sun—the sun which had begun to decline
and was shining in her eyes; and he did win.</p>
<p>Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked! The hills stood out above its
radiance, as Fiesole stands above the Tuscan Plain, and the South Downs,
if one chose, were the mountains of Carrara. She might be forgetting her
Italy, but she was noticing more things in her England. One could play a
new game with the view, and try to find in its innumerable folds some town
or village that would do for Florence. Ah, how beautiful the Weald looked!</p>
<p>But now Cecil claimed her. He chanced to be in a lucid critical mood, and
would not sympathize with exaltation. He had been rather a nuisance all
through the tennis, for the novel that he was reading was so bad that he
was obliged to read it aloud to others. He would stroll round the
precincts of the court and call out: "I say, listen to this, Lucy. Three
split infinitives."</p>
<p>"Dreadful!" said Lucy, and missed her stroke. When they had finished their
set, he still went on reading; there was some murder scene, and really
every one must listen to it. Freddy and Mr. Floyd were obliged to hunt for
a lost ball in the laurels, but the other two acquiesced.</p>
<p>"The scene is laid in Florence."</p>
<p>"What fun, Cecil! Read away. Come, Mr. Emerson, sit down after all your
energy." She had "forgiven" George, as she put it, and she made a point of
being pleasant to him.</p>
<p>He jumped over the net and sat down at her feet asking: "You—and are
you tired?"</p>
<p>"Of course I'm not!"</p>
<p>"Do you mind being beaten?"</p>
<p>She was going to answer, "No," when it struck her that she did mind, so
she answered, "Yes." She added merrily, "I don't see you're such a
splendid player, though. The light was behind you, and it was in my eyes."</p>
<p>"I never said I was."</p>
<p>"Why, you did!"</p>
<p>"You didn't attend."</p>
<p>"You said—oh, don't go in for accuracy at this house. We all
exaggerate, and we get very angry with people who don't."</p>
<p>"'The scene is laid in Florence,'" repeated Cecil, with an upward note.</p>
<p>Lucy recollected herself.</p>
<p>"'Sunset. Leonora was speeding—'"</p>
<p>Lucy interrupted. "Leonora? Is Leonora the heroine? Who's the book by?"</p>
<p>"Joseph Emery Prank. 'Sunset. Leonora speeding across the square. Pray the
saints she might not arrive too late. Sunset—the sunset of Italy.
Under Orcagna's Loggia—the Loggia de' Lanzi, as we sometimes call it
now—'"</p>
<p>Lucy burst into laughter. "'Joseph Emery Prank' indeed! Why it's Miss
Lavish! It's Miss Lavish's novel, and she's publishing it under somebody
else's name."</p>
<p>"Who may Miss Lavish be?"</p>
<p>"Oh, a dreadful person—Mr. Emerson, you remember Miss Lavish?"</p>
<p>Excited by her pleasant afternoon, she clapped her hands.</p>
<p>George looked up. "Of course I do. I saw her the day I arrived at Summer
Street. It was she who told me that you lived here."</p>
<p>"Weren't you pleased?" She meant "to see Miss Lavish," but when he bent
down to the grass without replying, it struck her that she could mean
something else. She watched his head, which was almost resting against her
knee, and she thought that the ears were reddening. "No wonder the novel's
bad," she added. "I never liked Miss Lavish. But I suppose one ought to
read it as one's met her."</p>
<p>"All modern books are bad," said Cecil, who was annoyed at her
inattention, and vented his annoyance on literature. "Every one writes for
money in these days."</p>
<p>"Oh, Cecil—!"</p>
<p>"It is so. I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."</p>
<p>Cecil, this afternoon seemed such a twittering sparrow. The ups and downs
in his voice were noticeable, but they did not affect her. She had dwelt
amongst melody and movement, and her nerves refused to answer to the clang
of his. Leaving him to be annoyed, she gazed at the black head again. She
did not want to stroke it, but she saw herself wanting to stroke it; the
sensation was curious.</p>
<p>"How do you like this view of ours, Mr. Emerson?"</p>
<p>"I never notice much difference in views."</p>
<p>"What do you mean?"</p>
<p>"Because they're all alike. Because all that matters in them is distance
and air."</p>
<p>"H'm!" said Cecil, uncertain whether the remark was striking or not.</p>
<p>"My father"—he looked up at her (and he was a little flushed)—"says
that there is only one perfect view—the view of the sky straight
over our heads, and that all these views on earth are but bungled copies
of it."</p>
<p>"I expect your father has been reading Dante," said Cecil, fingering the
novel, which alone permitted him to lead the conversation.</p>
<p>"He told us another day that views are really crowds—crowds of trees
and houses and hills—and are bound to resemble each other, like
human crowds—and that the power they have over us is sometimes
supernatural, for the same reason."</p>
<p>Lucy's lips parted.</p>
<p>"For a crowd is more than the people who make it up. Something gets added
to it—no one knows how—just as something has got added to
those hills."</p>
<p>He pointed with his racquet to the South Downs.</p>
<p>"What a splendid idea!" she murmured. "I shall enjoy hearing your father
talk again. I'm so sorry he's not so well."</p>
<p>"No, he isn't well."</p>
<p>"There's an absurd account of a view in this book," said Cecil. "Also that
men fall into two classes—those who forget views and those who
remember them, even in small rooms."</p>
<p>"Mr. Emerson, have you any brothers or sisters?"</p>
<p>"None. Why?"</p>
<p>"You spoke of 'us.'"</p>
<p>"My mother, I was meaning."</p>
<p>Cecil closed the novel with a bang.</p>
<p>"Oh, Cecil—how you made me jump!"</p>
<p>"I will inflict Joseph Emery Prank on you no longer."</p>
<p>"I can just remember us all three going into the country for the day and
seeing as far as Hindhead. It is the first thing that I remember."</p>
<p>Cecil got up; the man was ill-bred—he hadn't put on his coat after
tennis—he didn't do. He would have strolled away if Lucy had not
stopped him.</p>
<p>"Cecil, do read the thing about the view."</p>
<p>"Not while Mr. Emerson is here to entertain us."</p>
<p>"No—read away. I think nothing's funnier than to hear silly things
read out loud. If Mr. Emerson thinks us frivolous, he can go."</p>
<p>This struck Cecil as subtle, and pleased him. It put their visitor in the
position of a prig. Somewhat mollified, he sat down again.</p>
<p>"Mr. Emerson, go and find tennis balls." She opened the book. Cecil must
have his reading and anything else that he liked. But her attention
wandered to George's mother, who—according to Mr. Eager—had
been murdered in the sight of God according to her son—had seen as
far as Hindhead.</p>
<p>"Am I really to go?" asked George.</p>
<p>"No, of course not really," she answered.</p>
<p>"Chapter two," said Cecil, yawning. "Find me chapter two, if it isn't
bothering you."</p>
<p>Chapter two was found, and she glanced at its opening sentences.</p>
<p>She thought she had gone mad.</p>
<p>"Here—hand me the book."</p>
<p>She heard her voice saying: "It isn't worth reading—it's too silly
to read—I never saw such rubbish—it oughtn't to be allowed to
be printed."</p>
<p>He took the book from her.</p>
<p>"'Leonora,'" he read, "'sat pensive and alone. Before her lay the rich
champaign of Tuscany, dotted over with many a smiling village. The season
was spring.'"</p>
<p>Miss Lavish knew, somehow, and had printed the past in draggled prose, for
Cecil to read and for George to hear.</p>
<p>"'A golden haze,'" he read. He read: "'Afar off the towers of Florence,
while the bank on which she sat was carpeted with violets. All unobserved
Antonio stole up behind her—'"</p>
<p>Lest Cecil should see her face she turned to George and saw his face.</p>
<p>He read: "'There came from his lips no wordy protestation such as formal
lovers use. No eloquence was his, nor did he suffer from the lack of it.
He simply enfolded her in his manly arms.'"</p>
<p>"This isn't the passage I wanted," he informed them, "there is another
much funnier, further on." He turned over the leaves.</p>
<p>"Should we go in to tea?" said Lucy, whose voice remained steady.</p>
<p>She led the way up the garden, Cecil following her, George last. She
thought a disaster was averted. But when they entered the shrubbery it
came. The book, as if it had not worked mischief enough, had been
forgotten, and Cecil must go back for it; and George, who loved
passionately, must blunder against her in the narrow path.</p>
<p>"No—" she gasped, and, for the second time, was kissed by him.</p>
<p>As if no more was possible, he slipped back; Cecil rejoined her; they
reached the upper lawn alone.</p>
<div style="break-after:column;"></div><br />