Chapter: 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.

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.

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.

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.

"Oh, it has been such a nuisance--first he, then they--no one knowing
what they wanted, and everyone so tiresome."

"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.

"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."

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.

"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."

"Saturn's all right for bumble-puppy," cried Freddy, joining them.
"Minnie, don't you listen to her."

"Saturn doesn't bounce."

"Saturn bounces enough."

"No, he doesn't."

"Well; he bounces better than the Beautiful White Devil."

"Hush, dear," said Mrs. Honeychurch.

"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!"

Lucy fell, the Beautiful White Devil rolled from her hand.

Mr. Beebe picked it up, and said: "The name of this ball is Vittoria
Corombona, please." But his correction passed unheeded.

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.

"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.

"Who are the Miss Alans?" Freddy panted.

"They have taken Cissie Villa."

"That wasn't the name--"

Here his foot slipped, and they all fell most agreeably on to the grass.
An interval elapses.

"Wasn't what name?" asked Lucy, with her brother's head in her lap.

"Alan wasn't the name of the people Sir Harry's let to."

"Nonsense, Freddy! You know nothing about it."

"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."

"Exactly. The Miss Alans?"

"Rather not. More like Anderson."

"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."

"It's only another muddle of Freddy's. Freddy doesn't even know the name
of the people he pretends have taken it instead."

"Yes, I do. I've got it. Emerson."

"What name?"

"Emerson. I'll bet you anything you like."

"What a weathercock Sir Harry is," said Lucy quietly. "I wish I had
never bothered over it at all."

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.

Meanwhile the name of the new tenants had diverted Mrs. Honeychurch from
the contemplation of her own abilities.

"Emerson, Freddy? Do you know what Emersons they are?"

"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.

"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."

"Emerson's a common enough name," Lucy remarked.

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.

"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?"

"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."

"CECIL?" exclaimed Lucy.

"Don't be rude, dear," said his mother placidly. "Lucy, don't screech.
It's a new bad habit you're getting into."

"But has Cecil--"

"Friends of Cecil's," he repeated, "'and so really dee-sire-rebel. Ahem!
Honeychurch, I have just telegraphed to them.'"

She got up from the grass.

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.

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:

"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."

"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.

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

Lucy asked her brother whether Cecil was in.

"Oh, don't go!" he cried, and tried to catch her by the ankles.

"I must go," she said gravely. "Don't be silly. You always overdo it
when you play."

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.

"Cecil!"

"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."

He looked very attractive when his face was bright, and he dispelled her
ridiculous forebodings at once.

"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."

"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."

"What an odd place to meet people!" she said nervously. "I don't quite
understand."

"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."

"But, Cecil--" proceeded hilariously.

"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--"

"Cecil! No, it's not fair. I've probably met them before--"

He bore her down.

"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--"

"No, you don't," she snapped. "You don't know what the word means."

He stared at her, and felt again that she had failed to be Leonardesque.
"No, you don't!"

Her face was inartistic--that of a peevish virago.

"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."

She left him.

"Temper!" he thought, raising his eyebrows.

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.

 The narrator explains Lucy's family history. Her father was a successful solicitor, and he built Windy Corner before the neighborhood had really been built up. When rich people from London began moving into the neighborhood, they mistook the Honeychurches for an old aristocratic family with a long history in the area. Without explicitly lying, Mrs. Honeychurch took advantage of their mistake to procure good society for her children; by the time the new neighbors learned the truth about the Honeychurches, they liked them enough so that it did not matter. Lucy has learned to see her old neighbors in a new light since her return from Italy, but although she recognizes that her old neighbors are provincial and silly, she does not want to despise them. Cecil cannot abide the social situation, and seeks to introduce Lucy into high levels of London society. Freddy, Lucy, and Minnie Beebe are playing bumble-puppy, a silly game played with tennis balls. Mrs. Honeychurch and Mr. Beebe are enjoying the fine weather, and Cecil is indoors. Lucy, Mrs. Honeychurch, and Mr. Beebe discuss the imminent arrival of the Miss Alans to Cissie villa. Freddy chimes in that the Miss Alans aren't going to be occupying Cissie at all. He has just spoken to Sir Harry, who told him that he has procured different tenants for the house: some people called the Emersons. Lucy is not sure if they are the same Emersons, but the possibility throws her into a daze. Freddy mentions that Cecil arranged the whole thing. Mr. Beebe and Lucy discuss the possibility that these Emersons might be the same ones from Florence; Mr. Beebe mentions that Mr. Emerson was rumored to have murdered his wife. Mrs. Honeychurch remembers that Lucy told her about another friend, a man named Harris, who supposedly killed his wife. Lucy is mortified at having told a lie without ever correcting it, but the subject is fortunately dropped. Lucy rushes in to confront Cecil: he has arranged this whole thing as a joke on her. Lucy went to a great deal of trouble to arrange an agreement between the Miss Alans and Sir Harry, and now she will be seen by the Miss Alans as having let them down. Cecil's joke goes further: he met the Emersons at the National Gallery in London, and saw that they were exactly the kind of "undesirable" person feared by the snobbish Sir Harry. He did the whole thing as a joke. From Cecil's description, it becomes clear that these Emerson's are indeed Mr. Emerson and George.

