Chapter XIII: How Miss Bartlett's Boiler Was So Tiresome
How often had Lucy rehearsed this bow, this interview! But she hadalways rehearsed them indoors, and with certain accessories, whichsurely we have a right to assume. Who could foretell that she and Georgewould meet in the rout of a civilization, amidst an army of coatsand collars and boots that lay wounded over the sunlit earth? She hadimagined a young Mr. Emerson, who might be shy or morbid or indifferentor furtively impudent. She was prepared for all of these. But she hadnever imagined one who would be happy and greet her with the shout ofthe morning star.
Indoors herself, partaking of tea with old Mrs. Butterworth, shereflected that it is impossible to foretell the future with any degreeof accuracy, that it is impossible to rehearse life. A fault in thescenery, a face in the audience, an irruption of the audience on to thestage, and all our carefully planned gestures mean nothing, or mean toomuch. "I will bow," she had thought. "I will not shake hands with him.That will be just the proper thing." She had bowed--but to whom? Togods, to heroes, to the nonsense of school-girls! She had bowed acrossthe rubbish that cumbers the world.
So ran her thoughts, while her faculties were busy with Cecil. It wasanother of those dreadful engagement calls. Mrs. Butterworth had wantedto see him, and he did not want to be seen. He did not want to hearabout hydrangeas, why they change their colour at the seaside. He didnot want to join the C. O. S. When cross he was always elaborate, andmade long, clever answers where "Yes" or "No" would have done. Lucysoothed him and tinkered at the conversation in a way that promised wellfor their married peace. No one is perfect, and surely it is wiser todiscover the imperfections before wedlock. Miss Bartlett, indeed, thoughnot in word, had taught the girl that this our life contains nothingsatisfactory. Lucy, though she disliked the teacher, regarded theteaching as profound, and applied it to her lover.
"Lucy," said her mother, when they got home, "is anything the matterwith Cecil?"
The question was ominous; up till now Mrs. Honeychurch had behaved withcharity and restraint.
"No, I don't think so, mother; Cecil's all right."
"Perhaps he's tired."
Lucy compromised: perhaps Cecil was a little tired.
"Because otherwise"--she pulled out her bonnet-pins with gatheringdispleasure--"because otherwise I cannot account for him."
"I do think Mrs. Butterworth is rather tiresome, if you mean that."
"Cecil has told you to think so. You were devoted to her as a littlegirl, and nothing will describe her goodness to you through the typhoidfever. No--it is just the same thing everywhere."
"Let me just put your bonnet away, may I?"
"Surely he could answer her civilly for one half-hour?"
"Cecil has a very high standard for people," faltered Lucy, seeingtrouble ahead. "It's part of his ideals--it is really that that makeshim sometimes seem--"
"Oh, rubbish! If high ideals make a young man rude, the sooner he getsrid of them the better," said Mrs. Honeychurch, handing her the bonnet.
"Now, mother! I've seen you cross with Mrs. Butterworth yourself!"
"Not in that way. At times I could wring her neck. But not in that way.No. It is the same with Cecil all over."
"By-the-by--I never told you. I had a letter from Charlotte while I wasaway in London."
This attempt to divert the conversation was too puerile, and Mrs.Honeychurch resented it.
"Since Cecil came back from London, nothing appears to please him.Whenever I speak he winces;--I see him, Lucy; it is useless tocontradict me. No doubt I am neither artistic nor literary norintellectual nor musical, but I cannot help the drawing-room furniture;your father bought it and we must put up with it, will Cecil kindlyremember."
"I--I see what you mean, and certainly Cecil oughtn't to. But he doesnot mean to be uncivil--he once explained--it is the things that upsethim--he is easily upset by ugly things--he is not uncivil to PEOPLE."
"Is it a thing or a person when Freddy sings?"
"You can't expect a really musical person to enjoy comic songs as wedo."
"Then why didn't he leave the room? Why sit wriggling and sneering andspoiling everyone's pleasure?"
"We mustn't be unjust to people," faltered Lucy. Something had enfeebledher, and the case for Cecil, which she had mastered so perfectly inLondon, would not come forth in an effective form. The two civilizationshad clashed--Cecil hinted that they might--and she was dazzled andbewildered, as though the radiance that lies behind all civilizationhad blinded her eyes. Good taste and bad taste were only catchwords,garments of diverse cut; and music itself dissolved to a whisper throughpine-trees, where the song is not distinguishable from the comic song.
She remained in much embarrassment, while Mrs. Honeychurch changedher frock for dinner; and every now and then she said a word, and madethings no better. There was no concealing the fact, Cecil had meantto be supercilious, and he had succeeded. And Lucy--she knew notwhy--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 facednorth, so there was little view, and no view of the sky. Now, as in thewinter, the pine-trees hung close to her eyes. One connected the landingwindow with depression. No definite problem menaced her, but she sighedto herself, "Oh, dear, what shall I do, what shall I do?" It seemed toher that everyone else was behaving very badly. And she ought not tohave mentioned Miss Bartlett's letter. She must be more careful; hermother was rather inquisitive, and might have asked what it was about.Oh, dear, what should she do?--and then Freddy came bounding upstairs, andjoined 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 takethem bathing in the Sacred Lake; it's much too public. It was all right foryou but most awkward for everyone else. Do be more careful. You forgetthe place is growing half suburban."
"I say, is anything on to-morrow 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 thismuddle."
"What's wrong with the court? They won't mind a bump or two, and I'veordered 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 thepassage. She pretended not to mind, but she could have screamed withtemper. Cecil glanced at them as he proceeded to his toilet and theyimpeded Mary with her brood of hot-water cans. Then Mrs. Honeychurchopened her door and said: "Lucy, what a noise you're making! Ihave something to say to you. Did you say you had had a letter fromCharlotte?" 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, andher bath cistern cleaned out, and all kinds of terrible to-doings?"
"I can't remember all Charlotte's worries," said Lucy bitterly. "I shallhave enough of my own, now that you are not pleased with Cecil."
Mrs. Honeychurch might have flamed out. She did not. She said: "Comehere, old lady--thank you for putting away my bonnet--kiss me." And,though nothing is perfect, Lucy felt for the moment that her mother andWindy 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, onemember or other of the family poured in a drop of oil. Cecil despisedtheir methods--perhaps rightly. At all events, they were not his own.
Dinner was at half-past seven
. Freddy gabbled the grace, and they drewup 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 areply.
"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."
"Oh, that reminds me--you never told me what Charlotte said in herletter."
"One thing and another," said Lucy, wondering whether she would getthrough the meal without a lie. "Among other things, that an awfulfriend of hers had been bicycling through Summer Street, wondered ifshe'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 handsof females. She would abandon every topic to inveigh against those womenwho (instead of minding their houses and their children) seek notorietyby print. Her attitude was: "If books must be written, let them bewritten by men"; and she developed it at great length, while Cecilyawned and Freddy played at "This year, next year, now, never," with hisplum-stones, and Lucy artfully fed the flames of her mother's wrath. Butsoon the conflagration died down, and the ghosts began to gather in thedarkness. There were too many ghosts about. The original ghost--thattouch of lips on her cheek--had surely been laid long ago; it could benothing to her that a man had kissed her on a mountain once. But ithad begotten a spectral family--Mr. Harris, Miss Bartlett's letter,Mr. Beebe's memories of violets--and one or other of these was bound tohaunt her before Cecil's very eyes. It was Miss Bartlett who returnednow, and with appalling vividness.
"I have been thinking, Lucy, of that letter of Charlotte's. How is she?"
"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 preysupon one's mind. I would rather anything else--even a misfortune withthe meat."
Cecil laid his hand over his eyes.
"So would I," asserted Freddy, backing his mother up--backing up thespirit of her remark rather than the substance.
"And I have been thinking," she added rather nervously, "surely we couldsqueeze Charlotte in here next week, and give her a nice holiday whileplumbers at Tunbridge Wells finish. I have not seen poor Charlotte forso long."
It was more than her nerves could stand. And she could not protestviolently after her mother's goodness to her upstairs.
"Mother, no!" she pleaded. "It's impossible. We can't have Charlotte onthe top of the other things; we're squeezed to death as it is. Freddy'sgot a friend coming Tuesday, there's Cecil, and you've promised to takein Minnie Beebe because of the diphtheria scare. It simply can't bedone."
"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, againlaying 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. Youhaven'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; butspoil us by not asking her to come."
"Hear, hear!" said Cecil.
Mrs. Honeychurch, with more gravity than usual, and with more feelingthan she usually permitted herself, replied: "This isn't very kind ofyou two. You have each other and all these woods to walk in, so full ofbeautiful things; and poor Charlotte has only the water turned off andplumbers. You are young, dears, and however clever young people are, andhowever many books they read, they will never guess what it feels liketo grow old."
Cecil crumbled his bread.
"I must say Cousin Charlotte was very kind to me that year I called onmy bike," put in Freddy. "She thanked me for coming till I felt likesuch a fool, and fussed round no end to get an egg boiled for my teajust right."
"I know, dear. She is kind to everyone, and yet Lucy makes thisdifficulty 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 uptreasure in heaven by the attempt, but one enriched neither MissBartlett nor any one else upon earth. She was reduced to saying: "Ican't help it, mother. I don't like Charlotte. I admit it's horrid ofme."
"From your own account, you told her as much."
"Well, she would leave Florence so stupidly. She flurried--"
The ghosts were returning; they filled Italy, they were even usurpingthe places she had known as a child. The Sacred Lake would never be thesame again, and, on Sunday week, something would even happen to WindyCorner. How would she fight against ghosts? For a moment the visibleworld 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 theadmirable cooking.
"I didn't mean the egg was WELL boiled," corrected Freddy, "because inpoint of fact she forgot to take it off, and as a matter of fact I don'tcare 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 fromour chairs?" he asked, with scarcely veiled insolence. "We don't want nodessert."
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