A Room with a View - E. M. Forster [98]
It was thus that Mr. Emerson had murdered his wife in the sight of God.
“Oh, how terrible!” said Lucy, forgetting her own affairs at last.
“He was not baptized,” said the old man. “I did hold firm.” And he looked with unwavering eyes at the rows of books, as if—at what cost!—he had won a victory over them. “My boy shall go back to the earth untouched.”
She asked whether young Mr. Emerson was ill.
“Oh—last Sunday.” He started into the present. “George last Sunday—no, not ill: just gone under. He is never ill. But he is his mother’s son. Her eyes were his, and she had that forehead that I think so beautiful, and he will not think it worth while to live. It was always touch and go. He will live; but he will not think it worth while to live. He will never think anything worth while. You remember that church at Florence?”
Lucy did remember, and how she had suggested that George should collect postage stamps.
“After you left Florence—horrible. Then we took the house here, and he goes bathing with your brother, and became better. You saw him bathing?”
“I am so sorry, but it is no good discussing this affair. I am deeply sorry about it.”
“Then there came something about a novel. I didn’t follow it at all; I had to hear so much, and he minded telling me; he finds me too old. Ah, well, one must have failures. George comes down tomorrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can’t bear to be about here, and I must be where he is.”
“Mr. Emerson,” cried the girl, “don’t leave—at least, not on my account. I am going to Greece. Don’t leave your comfortable house.”
It was the first time her voice had been kind and he smiled. “How good every one is! And look at Mr. Beebe housing me—came over this morning and heard I was going! Here I am so comfortable with a fire.”
“Yes, but you won’t go back to London. It’s absurd.”
“I must be with George; I must make him care to live, and down here he can’t. He says the thought of seeing you and of hearing about you—I am not justifying him: I am only saying what has happened.”
“Oh, Mr. Emerson”—she took hold of his hand—“you mustn’t. I’ve been bother enough to the world by now. I can’t have you moving out of your house when you like it, and perhaps losing money through it—all on my account. You must stop! I am just going to Greece.”
“All the way to Greece?”
Her manner altered.
“To Greece?”
“So you must stop. You won’t talk about this business, I know. I can trust you both.”
“Certainly you can. We either have you in our lives, or leave you to the life that you have chosen.”
“I shouldn’t want—”
“I suppose Mr. Vyse is very angry with George? No, it was wrong of George to try. We have pushed our beliefs too far. I fancy that we deserve sorrow.”
She looked at the books again—black, brown, and that acrid theological blue. They surrounded the visitors on every side; they were piled on the tables, they pressed against the very ceiling. To Lucy—who could not see that Mr. Emerson was profoundly religious, and differed from Mr. Beebe chiefly by his acknowledgment of passion—it seemed dreadful that the old man should crawl into such a sanctum, when he was unhappy, and be dependent on the bounty of a clergyman.
More certain than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair.
“No, please sit still. I think I will sit in the carriage.”
“Miss Honeychurch, you do sound tired.”
“Not a bit,” said Lucy, with trembling lips.
“But you are, and there’s a look of George about you. And what were you saying about going abroad?”
She was silent.
“Greece”—and she saw that he was thinking the word over—“Greece; but you were to be married this year, I thought.”
“Not till January, it wasn’t,” said Lucy, clasping her hands. Would she tell an actual lie when it came to the point?
“I suppose that Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope—it isn’t because George spoke that you are both going?”
“No. ”
“I hope that you will enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse.”
“Thank you.”
At that moment Mr.