Chapter: The Comic Muse, though able to look after her own interests, did not
disdain the assistance of Mr. Vyse. His idea of bringing the Emersons to
Windy Corner struck her as decidedly good, and she carried through the
negotiations without a hitch. Sir Harry Otway signed the agreement,
met Mr. Emerson, who was duly disillusioned. The Miss Alans were
duly offended, and wrote a dignified letter to Lucy, whom they held
responsible for the failure. Mr. Beebe planned pleasant moments for the
new-comers, and told Mrs. Honeychurch that Freddy must call on them as
soon as they arrived. Indeed, so ample was the Muse's equipment that she
permitted Mr. Harris, never a very robust criminal, to droop his head,
to be forgotten, and to die.

Lucy--to descend from bright heaven to earth, whereon there are shadows
because there are hills--Lucy was at first plunged into despair, but
settled after a little thought that it did not matter the very least.
Now that she was engaged, the Emersons would scarcely insult her and
were welcome into the neighbourhood. And Cecil was welcome to bring whom
he would into the neighbourhood. Therefore Cecil was welcome to bring
the Emersons into the neighbourhood. But, as I say, this took a little
thinking, and--so illogical are girls--the event remained rather greater
and rather more dreadful than it should have done. She was glad that
a visit to Mrs. Vyse now fell due; the tenants moved into Cissie Villa
while she was safe in the London flat.

"Cecil--Cecil darling," she whispered the evening she arrived, and crept
into his arms.

Cecil, too, became demonstrative. He saw that the needful fire had been
kindled in Lucy. At last she longed for attention, as a woman should,
and looked up to him because he was a man.

"So you do love me, little thing?" he murmured.

"Oh, Cecil, I do, I do! I don't know what I should do without you."

Several days passed. Then she had a letter from Miss Bartlett. A
coolness had sprung up between the two cousins, and they had not
corresponded since they parted in August. The coolness dated from what
Charlotte would call "the flight to Rome," and in Rome it had increased
amazingly. For the companion who is merely uncongenial in the mediaeval
world becomes exasperating in the classical. Charlotte, unselfish in the
Forum, would have tried a sweeter temper than Lucy's, and once, in the
Baths of Caracalla, they had doubted whether they could continue
their tour. Lucy had said she would join the Vyses--Mrs. Vyse was an
acquaintance of her mother, so there was no impropriety in the plan and
Miss Bartlett had replied that she was quite used to being abandoned
suddenly. Finally nothing happened; but the coolness remained, and, for
Lucy, was even increased when she opened the letter and read as follows.
It had been forwarded from Windy Corner.


"Tunbridge Wells,

"September.

"Dearest Lucia,

"I have news of you at last! Miss Lavish has been bicycling in your
parts, but was not sure whether a call would be welcome. Puncturing
her tire near Summer Street, and it being mended while she sat very
woebegone in that pretty churchyard, she saw to her astonishment, a door
open opposite and the younger Emerson man come out. He said his father
had just taken the house. He SAID he did not know that you lived in the
neighbourhood (?). He never suggested giving Eleanor a cup of tea. Dear
Lucy, I am much worried, and I advise you to make a clean breast of his
past behaviour to your mother, Freddy, and Mr. Vyse, who will forbid him
to enter the house, etc. That was a great misfortune, and I dare say you
have told them already. Mr. Vyse is so sensitive. I remember how I used
to get on his nerves at Rome. I am very sorry about it all, and should
not feel easy unless I warned you.

"Believe me,

"Your anxious and loving cousin,

"Charlotte."


Lucy was much annoyed, and replied as follows:


"Beauchamp Mansions, S.W.

"Dear Charlotte,

"Many thanks for your warning. When Mr. Emerson forgot himself on the
mountain, you made me promise not to tell mother, because you said she
would blame you for not being always with me. I have kept that promise,
and cannot possibly tell her now. I have said both to her and Cecil
that I met the Emersons at Florence, and that they are respectable
people--which I do think--and the reason that he offered Miss Lavish no
tea was probably that he had none himself. She should have tried at the
Rectory. I cannot begin making a fuss at this stage. You must see that
it would be too absurd. If the Emersons heard I had complained of them,
they would think themselves of importance, which is exactly what they
are not. I like the old father, and look forward to seeing him again.
As for the son, I am sorry for him when we meet, rather than for myself.
They are known to Cecil, who is very well and spoke of you the other
day. We expect to be married in January.

"Miss Lavish cannot have told you much about me, for I am not at Windy
Corner at all, but here. Please do not put 'Private' outside your
envelope again. No one opens my letters.

"Yours affectionately,

"L. M. Honeychurch."


Secrecy has this disadvantage: we lose the sense of proportion; we
cannot tell whether our secret is important or not. Were Lucy and her
cousin closeted with a great thing which would destroy Cecil's life if
he discovered it, or with a little thing which he would laugh at? Miss
Bartlett suggested the former. Perhaps she was right. It had become a
great thing now. Left to herself, Lucy would have told her mother
and her lover ingenuously, and it would have remained a little thing.
"Emerson, not Harris"; it was only that a few weeks ago. She tried to
tell Cecil even now when they were laughing about some beautiful
lady who had smitten his heart at school. But her body behaved so
ridiculously that she stopped.

She and her secret stayed ten days longer in the deserted Metropolis
visiting the scenes they were to know so well later on. It did her no
harm, Cecil thought, to learn the framework of society, while society
itself was absent on the golf-links or the moors. The weather was cool,
and it did her no harm. In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to
scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren
of famous people. The food was poor, but the talk had a witty weariness
that impressed the girl. One was tired of everything, it seemed. One
launched into enthusiasms only to collapse gracefully, and pick oneself
up amid sympathetic laughter. In this atmosphere the Pension Bertolini
and Windy Corner appeared equally crude, and Lucy saw that her London
career would estrange her a little from all that she had loved in the
past.

The grandchildren asked her to play the piano.

She played Schumann. "Now some Beethoven" called Cecil, when the
querulous beauty of the music had died. She shook her head and played
Schumann again. The melody rose, unprofitably magical. It broke; it
was resumed broken, not marching once from the cradle to the grave. The
sadness of the incomplete--the sadness that is often Life, but should
never be Art--throbbed in its disjected phrases, and made the nerves of
the audience throb. Not thus had she played on the little draped piano
at the Bertolini, and "Too much Schumann" was not the remark that Mr.
Beebe had passed to himself when she returned.

When the guests were gone, and Lucy had gone to bed, Mrs. Vyse paced
up and down the drawing-room, discussing her little party with her son.
Mrs. Vyse was a nice woman, but her personality, like many another's,
had been swamped by London, for it needs a strong head to live among
many people. The too vast orb of her fate had crushed her; and she had
seen too many seasons, too many cities, too many men, for her abilities,
and even with Cecil she was mechanical, and behaved as if he was not one
son, but, so to speak, a filial crowd.

"Make Lucy one of us," she said, looking round intelligently at the end
of each sentence, and straining her lips apart until she spoke again.
"Lucy is becoming wonderful--wonderful."

"Her music always was wonderful."

"Yes, but she is purging off the Honeychurch taint, most excellent
Honeychurches, but you know what I mean. She is not always quoting
servants, or asking one how the pudding is made."

"Italy has done it."

"Perhaps," she murmured, thinking of the museum that represented Italy
to her. "It is just possible. Cecil, mind you marry her next January.
She is one of us already."

"But her music!" he exclaimed. "The style of her! How she kept to
Schumann when, like an idiot, I wanted Beethoven. Schumann was right for
this evening. Schumann was the thing. Do you know, mother, I shall have
our children educated just like Lucy. Bring them up among honest country
folks for freshness, send them to Italy for subtlety, and then--not
till then--let them come to London. I don't believe in these London
educations--" He broke off, remembering that he had had one himself, and
concluded, "At all events, not for women."

"Make her one of us," repeated Mrs. Vyse, and processed to bed.

As she was dozing off, a cry--the cry of nightmare--rang from Lucy's
room. Lucy could ring for the maid if she liked but Mrs. Vyse thought it
kind to go herself. She found the girl sitting upright with her hand on
her cheek.

"I am so sorry, Mrs. Vyse--it is these dreams."

"Bad dreams?"

"Just dreams."

The elder lady smiled and kissed her, saying very distinctly: "You
should have heard us talking about you, dear. He admires you more than
ever. Dream of that."

Lucy returned the kiss, still covering one cheek with her hand. Mrs.
Vyse recessed to bed. Cecil, whom the cry had not awoke, snored.
Darkness enveloped the flat.

 Lucy is in London visiting with Cecil's mother when the Emersons move into Cissie Villa. She has convinced herself that the Emersons' arrival does not matter in the least. Things have been quite cold between Lucy and Charlotte since Italy; Charlotte sends a letter telling her that she has heard about the arrival of the Emersons at Cissie. She gives Lucy much unsolicited advice, instructing Lucy to tell her family about the incident in Italy and to stay away from George. Lucy sends Charlotte a polite but frigid response telling her that Lucy intends to follow none of Charlotte's advice. Lucy is quite impressed by the cynicism of Cecil's aristocratic friends. Lucy dines with the almost-famous: "In spite of the season, Mrs. Vyse managed to scrape together a dinner-party consisting entirely of the grandchildren of famous people". She plays piano for them, starting with some Schumann. Cecil calls for some Beethoven, but Lucy tries to play another Shumann piece. She falters and stops playing. After the guests leave, Mrs. Vyse chats with Cecil. She is a woman who is weary without knowing it; the pace and intensity of life in London has robbed her of real vitality. Mrs. Vyse adores Lucy, and she tells her son to "make Lucy one of us". Cecil is clearly enamored with Lucy. Later that night, Mrs. Vyse is woken by a scream from Lucy's room. When she goes to investigate, she learns that Lucy has been having bad dreams. She comforts Lucy, telling the girl that Cecil adores her more than ever. Mrs. Vyse returns to bed; Cecil has slept through the whole incident.

