Part 2 · Chapter 19Lying to Mr. Emerson

Lying to Mr. Emerson. The Miss Alans were at their favorite temperance hotel near Bloomsbury - a super clean, but kinda stuffy place that a lot of people from the countryside loved.

They always stopped there before heading across the ocean, and for a couple of weeks would stress over clothes, guidebooks, waterproof jackets, digestive biscuits, and all the other things you needed for Europe.

It never even crossed their minds that you could buy stuff abroad, even in Athens, because they thought traveling was like going to war - you had to be totally prepared from the Haymarket Stores.

Miss Honeychurch, they figured, would make sure she was properly stocked.

Quinine came in tablets now, which was a huge improvement, and paper soap made freshening up on the train way easier. Lucy promised, feeling a little bummed.

"But, of course, you know all about this stuff, and you’ve got Mr. Vyse to help you. A guy like that is a lifesaver."

Mrs. Honeychurch, who had come up to London with her daughter, started drumming her fingers on her card holder.

"We think it’s really good of Mr. Vyse to let you go," Miss Catharine continued. " Not every young man would be so selfless. But maybe he’ll come out and join you later."

"Or is his job keeping him in London?" said Miss Teresa, the sharper and less friendly of the two sisters.

"Well, we’re sure we’ll see him when he drops you off. I’m dying to see him."

"Nobody’s seeing Lucy off," Mrs. Honeychurch chimed in. " She hates it."

"Ugh, I totally hate goodbyes," said Lucy.

"Really? That’s so funny! I would have thought that in this case - "

"Oh, Mrs. Honeychurch, are you not coming? It’s been so nice to meet you!"

They bolted, and Lucy sighed with relief: "Phew, that’s over."

But her mom was annoyed. " Seriously, you should have told me I was being insensitive. But I don’t get why you didn’t just tell your friends about Cecil and be done with it.

We were sitting there, practically lying, and getting exposed, which is so awkward."

Lucy had a lot to say in response. She described the Miss Alans’ personalities: they were total gossips, and if you told them something, it would be everywhere in a flash.

"But why shouldn’t it be everywhere in a flash?"

"Because I agreed with Cecil not to announce it until I left England. I’ll tell them then. It’s way more chill. It’s pouring! Let’s duck in here."

"Here" was the British Museum.

Mrs. Honeychurch said no way. If they had to take shelter, it had to be in a shop. Lucy rolled her eyes - she was obsessed with Greek sculptures and had already borrowed a mythology dictionary from Mr.

Beebe to learn the names of all the gods and goddesses.

"Fine, let’s go to a shop then. Let’s go to Mudie’s. I’ll grab a guidebook."

"You know, Lucy, you, Charlotte, and Mr. Beebe all make me feel so clueless, so I guess I am, but I’m never going to understand this hush-hush stuff. You’ve ditched Cecil - good, I’m glad he’s gone, though I was a little mad at first.

But why not announce it?"

"Why all the sneaking around?" "It’s just for a few days." "But why at all?"

Lucy was quiet. She was drifting away from her mom. It was easy to say, "Because George Emerson has been bugging me, and if he hears I’ve moved on, Cecil might start up again" - easy, and it was even true. But she couldn’t say it.

She hated sharing personal stuff, because it might lead to self-reflection and that ultimate fear - exposure. Ever since that last night in Florence, she’s decided it was best to keep things to herself.

Mrs. Honeychurch was also quiet. She was thinking, "My daughter isn’t answering me; she’s rather be with those old maids than with Freddy and me. Anything will do if she can just get away from home."

And because her thoughts always came out eventually, she blurted out: "You’re tired of Windy Corner."

That was totally true. Lucy had hoped to head back to Windy Corner when she got away from Cecil, but she found out her home was gone.

It might exist for Freddy, who was still thinking straight, but not for someone who had intentionally messed with their brain.

She didn't admit her brain was messed up, because your brain has to acknowledge that itself, and she was messing with the very things that kept her going.

She just felt, "I don’t love George; I broke off my engagement because I didn’t love George; I have to go to Greece because I don’t love George; it’s more important to look up gods in the dictionary than to help my mom; everyone else is acting crazy."

She just felt annoyed and bratty, and eager to do what people weren't expecting her to do, and with that attitude, she continued the conversation.

"Oh, Mom, that’s ridiculous! Of course I’m not tired of Windy Corner."

"Then why don’t you just say it instead of dragging it out for half an hour?"

She laughed softly, "Half a minute would be closer."

"Maybe you’d want to stay away from home altogether?"

"Shush, Mom! People will hear you"; because they had walked into Mudie’s.

She bought a Baedeker, and then said, "Of course I want to live at home, but while we’re talking about it, I’m going to be away more than I have been. You see, I’ll be getting my money next year."

Tears welled up in her mom’s eyes.

Driven by a weird feeling, by what older people call eccentricity, Lucy decided to make this point clear. I’ve seen so little of the world - I felt so out of the loop in Italy.

I’m still figuring out life; I should spend more time in London - not just a cheap trip like today, but actually stay.

"I could even share a flat with another girl for a bit."

"And deal with typewriters and spare keys," Mrs. Honeychurch blurted out. " And stir things up and freak out, and get hauled off by the cops kicking and screaming. And call it a Mission - when nobody wants you!

And call it Duty - when it means you can’t stand your own home!"

"And call it Work - when thousands of guys are struggling with competition as it is! And then to prepare, find two doddering old ladies, and go abroad with them."

"I want more independence," Lucy mumbled; she knew she wanted something, and independence is a handy excuse.

She tried to remember her feelings in Florence: those had been genuine and intense, and had suggested beauty instead of short skirts and spare keys. But independence was definitely her line.

"Fine. Take your independence and go. Run around and all over the world, and come back as skinny as a pencil with all the bad food.

Despise the house your dad built and the garden he planted, and our amazing view - and then share a flat with another girl."

Lucy pursed her lips and said, "Maybe I spoke too soon."

"Oh, for goodness sake!" her mom snapped. " You remind me so much of Charlotte Bartlett!"

"Charlotte?" Lucy flashed back, finally feeling a sharp pang of hurt. "More every moment."

"I don’t know what you mean, Mom; Charlotte and I aren’t even remotely alike."

"Well, I see the resemblance. The same constant worrying, the same taking back of words. You and Charlotte trying to divide two apples among three people last night could be sisters."

"That’s ridiculous! And if you dislike Charlotte so much, it’s kind of a bummer you asked her to stay. I warned you; I begged you, pleaded with you not to, but of course, nobody listened." "There you go." "I beg your pardon?"

"Charlotte again, dear; that’s all; her very words."

Lucy clenched her teeth. " My point is that you shouldn’t have asked Charlotte to stay. I wish you would stick to the point." And the conversation fizzled out into an argument.

She and her mom shopped in silence, barely spoke on the train, and hardly said a word in the car that picked them up at Dorking Station.

It had rained all day, and as they drove through the deep Surrey lanes, showers of water dripped from the beech trees and rattled on the car's roof.

Lucy complained that the roof was stuffy.

Leaning forward, she looked out into the misty dusk, watching the car's headlight sweep over the mud and leaves, revealing nothing pretty. " It’s gonna be a total mess when Charlotte gets here," she said.

They were picking up Miss Bartlett at Summer Street, where she’s been dropped off to pay a visit to Mr.

Beebe’s elderly mom. " We’re gonna have to squeeze three across because the trees are dropping stuff, even though it’s not really raining. Ugh, I need some air!"

Then she listened to the horse’s hooves - "He hasn’t told...he hasn’t told." That melody was blurred by the smooth road. " Can we put the roof down?" she demanded, and her mom, suddenly gentle, said, "Okay, old lady, stop the car."

And the car stopped, and Lucy and Powell struggled with the roof, spraying water down Mrs. Honeychurch’s neck.

But now that the roof was down, she actually noticed something she would have missed - there were no lights on in Cissie Villa, and around the garden gate, she thought she saw a padlock.

"Is that place for rent again, Powell?" she called. "Yeah, miss," he replied. "Did they leave?"

"It’s too far from town for the young gentleman, and his dad’s arthritis has flared up, so he can’t stay on his own, so they’re trying to let it furnished," was the answer. "They’re gone, then?" "Yeah, miss, they’re gone."

Lucy sank back. The car stopped at the Rectory. She got out to call for Miss Bartlett. So the Emersons were gone, and all that fuss about Greece was totally unnecessary. Waste! That word felt like it summed up everything.

Wasted plans, wasted money, wasted love, and she’s hurt her mom.

Could she have messed things up? Totally possible. Other people have. When the maid opened the door, she couldn’t speak, just stared blankly into the hallway.

Miss Bartlett immediately stepped forward and after a long intro, asked for a huge favor: could she go to church? Mr.

Beebe and his mom had already gone, but she refused to leave until she got her hostess’s full approval, because it would mean making the horse wait another ten minutes.

"Sure," said the hostess wearily. " I totally forgot it was Friday. Let’s all go. Powell can head to the stables." "Lucy dearest - " "No church for me, thanks."

A sigh, and they left. The church was hidden, but up in the darkness to the left, there was a hint of color. It was a stained-glass window, with some faint light shining through it, and when the door opened, Lucy heard Mr.

Beebe’s voice reciting the litany to a tiny group of people.

Even their church, built cleverly on the hillside with its beautiful raised side section and its spire covered in silvery shingles - even their church had lost its appeal; and the thing nobody ever talked about - religion - was fading like everything else.

She followed the maid into the Rectory.

Would she mind sitting in Mr. Beebe’s study? There was only one fireplace. She didn’t mind.

Someone was already there, because Lucy heard the words, "A lady to wait, sir."

Old Mr. Emerson was sitting by the fire, with his foot on a gout stool.

"Oh, Miss Honeychurch, you came!" he quavered; and Lucy noticed a change in him since last Sunday.

Not a word came to her lips. George, she’d faced him, and could face him again, but she’d forgotten how to deal with his dad.

"Miss Honeychurch, dear, we’re so sorry! George is so sorry! He thought he had a right to try. I can’t blame my boy, and yet I wish he’s told me first. He shouldn’t have tried. I knew nothing about it at all."

If only she could remember how to act!

He held up his hand. " But you really shouldn’t scold him."

Lucy turned away and started looking at Mr. Beebe’s books.

"I taught him," he said, his voice shaky, "to trust in love. I told him, ‘When love comes, that's the real deal. I said, ‘Passion doesn’t cloud your judgment. Nope.

Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she’s the only person you’ll ever truly understand.’"

He sighed: "It’s true, always true, even though my time is over, and there's been a fallout. Poor boy! He’s so sorry! He said he knew it was crazy when you brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt, you didn’t mean it."

Then his voice strengthened: he spoke clearly to make sure she understood, "Miss Honeychurch, do you remember Italy?"

Lucy picked up a book - a volume of Old Testament commentaries. Holding it up to her eyes, she said, "I don’t want to talk about Italy or anything connected to your son." "But you do remember it?"

"He’s been acting out from the start."

"I just heard he was in love with you last Sunday. I’m never good at judging behavior. I - I guess he has."

Feeling a bit calmer, she put the book back and turned to him. His face was droopy and swollen, but his eyes, though deep-set, sparkled with a kid's courage.

"He’s acted terribly," she said. " I’m glad he’s sorry. Do you know what he did?"

"Not ‘terribly,’" he corrected gently. " He just tried when he shouldn’t have. You’ve got everything you want, Miss Honeychurch: you’re marrying the man you love. Don’t leave George’s life saying he’s terrible."

"No, of course," said Lucy, feeling embarrassed about mentioning Cecil. "‘ Terrible’ is too much. I’m sorry I said that about your son. I think I’ve got to go to church, after all. My mom and my cousin have already gone.

I won’t be too late - "

"Especially since he’s checked out," he said quietly. "What was that?"

"Just...given up." He clapped his hands together silently; his head fell onto his chest. "I don’t get it." "Like his mom did."

"But, Mr. Emerson - Mr. Emerson - what are you talking about?"

"When I wouldn’t let George get baptized," he said. Lucy was scared.

"And she agreed that baptism wasn’t a big deal, but he got that fever when he was twelve and she flipped out. She thought it was a punishment.

He shuddered. " Oh, it was horrible, when we’d finally moved on from that kind of thing and broken away from his parents."

Oh, horrible - worse than anything - worse than death, when you’ve made a little clearing in the wilderness, planted your little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep back in! A punishment!

And our boy had typhoid because no priest had sprinkled water on him in church!

"Is that even possible, Miss Honeychurch? Are we going to slip back into the darkness forever?"

"I don’t know," she gasped. " I don’t understand this stuff. I wasn’t meant to understand it."

"But Mr. Eager - he came when I was out, and acted according to his beliefs. I don’t blame him or anyone... but by the time George was better, she was sick. He made her think about sin, and she just gave up thinking about it."

That’s how Mr. Emerson had basically destroyed his wife in front of God.

"Oh, that’s awful!" said Lucy, forgetting her own problems for a moment.

"He wasn’t baptized," said the old man. " I stood firm." And he looked at the rows of books with unwavering eyes, as if - at what cost! -

he’s won a victory over them. " My boy will go back to the earth untouched."

She asked if young Mr. Emerson was ill.

"Oh - last Sunday. He snapped back to the present. " George last Sunday - no, not sick: just checked out. He’s never really sick. But he’s his mother’s son.

Her eyes were his, and she had that forehead I think is so beautiful, and he won’t think it’s worth living. It was always touch and go."

He’ll live; but he won’t think it’s worth living. He’ll never think anything’s worth living." You remember that church at Florence?"

Lucy did remember, and how she’s suggested that George should collect postage stamps.

"After you left Florence - it was rough. Then we got this house here, and he started going swimming with your brother, and got better. You saw him swimming?"

"I’m so sorry, but it’s pointless to even talk about it. I’m genuinely sorry."

"Then there was something about a novel. I didn’t really follow it; I had to hear so much, and he wasn't really telling me - he thinks I’m too old. Ah, well, everyone has their failures.

George is coming down tomorrow and taking me up to his London rooms."

"He can’t stand being here, and I have to be where he is."

"Mr. Emerson," cried the girl, "don’t leave, at least not because of me. I’m going to Greece. Don’t leave your chill house."

It was the first time her voice had been nice, and he smiled. " Everyone’s so sweet! And look at Mr. Beebe letting me crash - came over this morning and heard I was leaving! I’m so comfortable here with a fire."

"Yeah, but you’re not going back to London. It’s ridiculous."

"I have to be with George; I have to make him want to live, and he can’t down here. He says the thought of seeing you and hearing about you - I’m not trying to defend him: I’m just saying what happened."

Oh, Mr. Emerson - she grabbed his hand - you can’t. I’ve caused enough trouble for everyone already. I can’t have you moving out of your place when you like it and maybe losing money because of it - all because of me. You have to stop!

I’m just going to Greece.

All the way to Greece? Her vibe changed. To Greece?

"So you have to stop. You aren’t going to talk about this mess, I know. I can trust you both."

"Absolutely. We’re either in your lives, or you’re living the life you’ve chosen." "I wouldn’t want - "

"I suppose Mr. Vyse is really mad at George? No, it was wrong of George to even try. We’re pushing our beliefs too far. I think we deserve some heartache."

She looked at the books again - black, brown, and that weird, intense theological blue. They were everywhere; piled on the tables, practically touching the ceiling.

To Lucy, who couldn’t see that Mr. Emerson was super religious and just differed from Mr.

Beebe by acknowledging his feelings - it seemed awful that the old man would retreat to such a place when he was unhappy, and be reliant on the kindness of a priest.

More sure than ever that she was tired, he offered her his chair.

"Nah, please sit still. I think I’ll sit in the carriage."

"Miss Honeychurch, you sound exhausted."

"Not at all," said Lucy, her voice shaking a little.

"But you are, and you’re giving off a total George vibe. And what were you saying about going abroad?" She was quiet.

"Greece" - and she saw he was thinking the word over - "Greece; but you were supposed to be getting married this year, right?"

"Not till January, actually," said Lucy, clasping her hands.

Would she tell a lie when it really mattered?

"I guess Mr. Vyse is going with you. I hope - it’s not because George said something that you’re both going?" "No."

"I hope you enjoy Greece with Mr. Vyse." "Thanks."

Just then, Mr. Beebe came back from church. His robe was soaked from the rain. All good, he said kindly. I figured you two would keep each other company. It’s pouring again.

"The entire congregation - your cousin, your mom, and my mom - is waiting in the church, till the carriage gets them. Did Powell go around?" "I think so; I’ll check."

"Nah, I got it. How are the Miss Alans doing?" "They’re good, thanks."

"Did you tell Mr. Emerson about Greece?" "I - I did."

"Don’t you think it’s brave of her to take on the two Miss Alans? Now, Miss Honeychurch, go back - keep warm. I think three is such a courageous number to go traveling." And he hurried off to the stables.

"He’s not going," she said, her voice shaky. " I messed up. Mr. Vyse is staying in England."

It was impossible to pull one over on this old man.

She’d lie to George, to Cecil - she probably still would - but he seemed so close to the end, so calm about what was coming, so gentle considering all he's been through, that a sense of respect - not the outdated chivalry about men and women, but the real kind of respect you owe to older people - hit her.

No matter the risk, she told him Cecil wasn’t her travel buddy to Greece. She was so serious that it felt like a done deal, and he looked up, saying, "You’re leaving him? You’re leaving the guy you love? "I - I had to.

"Why, Miss Honeychurch, why?"

"Panic washed over her, and she lied again. She launched into the long, convincing speech she’d given to Mr. Beebe, the one she planned to tell the world when she announced her engagement was off.

He listened in silence, then said, "My dear, I’m worried about you.

It seems to me - dreamily, she wasn’t even scared - that you’re in a total mess. She shook her head.

"Trust an old man; there’s nothing worse than being in a mess. It’s easy to face Death and Fate, and all the scary stuff. I look back on my own messes with horror - the things I could have avoided.

We can’t really help each other that much."

I used to think I could teach young people everything about life, but I was wrong. All my advice to George boils down to this: avoid messes. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me when you weren’t?

Do you remember before, when you turned down the room with the view?

Those were little messes - but they felt important - and I’m afraid you’re in one now." He paused. " Don’t trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Even though life is amazing, it’s complicated." He was silent again. "‘

Life’ a friend of mine wrote, ‘is like playing the violin in public - you learn as you go. I think he nailed it. We have to figure out how to use our abilities as we go - especially when it comes to love.

Then he blurted out excitedly, "That’s it! That’s what I mean.

You’re in love with George!" And after his long intro, those three words hit Lucy like waves crashing in."

"But you are," he continued, not waiting for a denial. " You love the boy, body and soul, just as he loves you, and that’s the only way to describe it. You won’t marry the other guy because of him."

"How dare you!" Lucy gasped, feeling like she was drowning. " Oh, how typical of a man! - I mean, assuming a woman is always thinking about a man." "But you are." She made a disgusted face.

"You’re shocked, but I’m trying to shock you. It’s the only way I can get through to you. You need to get married, or you’re wasting your life. You’ve come too far to turn back.

I don’t have time for tenderness, friendship, poetry, and all the things that really matter, and what you marry for."

I know you’ll find them with George, and that you’re in love with him. So, be his wife. He’s already a part of you.

Even if you run off to Greece and never see him again, or even forget his name, George will be in your thoughts until you die. It’s not possible to love and then split up.

"You’ll wish it were. You can change love, ignore it, mess it up, but you can’t get rid of it. I’m speaking from experience: the poets are right, love is forever."

Lucy started to cry out of anger, and even though her anger faded quickly, her tears lingered.

"I just wish poets would say this too: love comes from the body - it’s not about the body itself, but of the body. Ugh, the heartbreak we could avoid if we just admitted that! Seriously, a little honesty would set your soul free!

Your soul, dear Lucy!"

I hate that word now, because of all the weird, superstitious stuff wrapped around it. But we have souls, you know? I don’t know where they come from or where they go, but we have them, and I see you wrecking yours. I can’t stand it.

It’s that darkness creeping back in - it’s like hell." Then he stopped himself. " What am I even saying - so abstract and distant! And I made you cry! Sweetheart, forgive me for being so awkward; marry my boy.

"When I think about life and how rarely love is returned - Marry him; it's one of those moments the world was made for."

She couldn’t quite follow him; the words felt so far away. But as he spoke, the darkness started to fade, layer by layer, and she saw the truth of her own soul. "Then, Lucy - "

"You’re freaking me out," she moaned. " Cecil - Mr. Beebe - the ticket’s bought - everything’s done. She burst into tears, collapsing into the chair. " I’m stuck in this mess. I have to suffer and grow old without him.

I can’t just bail on everyone for his sake. They trusted me."

A car pulled up to the front door.

"Give George my love - just once. Tell him ‘muddle.’" Then she smoothed her veil, while tears streamed down her face. "Lucy - "

"No - they’re in the hall - oh, please not, Mr. Emerson - they trusted me - "

"But why should they, when you’ve been deceiving them?"

Mr. Beebe opened the door, saying: "Here’s my mom."

"You’re not worthy of their trust."

"What’s that?" said Mr. Beebe sharply.

"I was saying, why should they trust you when you’ve deceived them?"

"One minute, mom." He came in and shut the door.

"I don’t follow you, Mr. Emerson. Who are you even talking about? Trust whom?"

"I mean she pretended to you that she didn’t love George. They’ve been in love all along."

Mr. Beebe looked at the sobbing girl. He seemed totally frozen, his face pale with red whiskers, like something inhuman. A tall, dark shadow, he stood and waited for her answer.

"I’m not going to marry him," she stammered.

A look of disgust came over him, and he asked, "Why not?"

"Mr. Beebe - I’ve misled you - I’ve misled myself - " "Oh, please," he scoffed.

"It’s not a joke!" said the old man hotly. " It’s about the part of people you don’t understand."

Mr. Beebe put his hand on the old man’s shoulder gently.

"Lucy! Lucy!" voices called from the car. "Mr. Beebe, can you help me?"

He looked stunned by the request, and said in a low, serious voice: "I’m more upset than I can say. It’s awful, really awful - unbelievable."

"What’s wrong with the boy?" the other fired up again.

"Nothing, Mr. Emerson, except that he doesn’t interest me anymore. Marry George, Miss Honeychurch. He’s perfectly fine."

He walked out, leaving them. They heard him helping his mother up the stairs. "Lucy!" voices called again.

She turned to Mr. Emerson in despair. But his face gave her hope. It was the face of someone who understood.

"Now it all feels dark. Now, Beauty and Passion seem like they never existed. I know. But remember the mountains over Florence and the view. Oh, sweetheart, if I were George, and gave you one kiss, it would give you courage."

You have to go into a battle that needs warmth, out into the mess you’ve made; and your mom and all your friends will hate you, oh, my darling, and they’re probably right to if it's ever right to hate.

George still dark, all the struggle and the sadness without a word from him.

Am I being fair? Tears welled in his own eyes. Yes, because we fight for more than Love or Pleasure; there’s Truth. Truth matters, Truth really matters.

"You kiss me," said the girl. " You kiss me. I’ll try."

He gave her this feeling, like the universe finally made sense. It was this sense that, by being with the guy she loved, she’s somehow leveling up everything for everyone. Even the drive home - it was rough - his greeting stuck with her.

He’s taken away the grossness, the world’s mean comments - they just didn't sting anymore. He’s shown her that wanting something is totally okay. " I honestly don’t even know," she’d say later, "how he made me feel so strong.

It was like he just showed me the whole picture, all at once."