A Room With a View E. M. Forster (romantic books to read .txt) đ
- Author: E. M. Forster
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âTold her what?â she asked, with growing agitation.
âAbout that dreadful afternoon in February.â
Miss Bartlett was genuinely moved. âOh, Lucy, dearest girlâ âshe hasnât put that in her book?â
Lucy nodded.
âNot so that one could recognize it. Yes.â
âThen neverâ âneverâ ânever more shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine.â
âSo you did tell?â
âI did just happenâ âwhen I had tea with her at Romeâ âin the course of conversationâ ââ
âBut Charlotteâ âwhat about the promise you gave me when we were packing? Why did you tell Miss Lavish, when you wouldnât even let me tell mother?â
âI will never forgive Eleanor. She has betrayed my confidence.â
âWhy did you tell her, though? This is a most serious thing.â
Why does anyone tell anything? The question is eternal, and it was not surprising that Miss Bartlett should only sigh faintly in response. She had done wrongâ âshe admitted it, she only hoped that she had not done harm; she had told Eleanor in the strictest confidence.
Lucy stamped with irritation.
âCecil happened to read out the passage aloud to me and to Mr. Emerson; it upset Mr. Emerson and he insulted me again. Behind Cecilâs back. Ugh! Is it possible that men are such brutes? Behind Cecilâs back as we were walking up the garden.â
Miss Bartlett burst into self-accusations and regrets.
âWhat is to be done now? Can you tell me?â
âOh, Lucyâ âI shall never forgive myself, never to my dying day. Fancy if your prospectsâ ââ
âI know,â said Lucy, wincing at the word. âI see now why you wanted me to tell Cecil, and what you meant by âsome other source.â You knew that you had told Miss Lavish, and that she was not reliable.â
It was Miss Bartlettâs turn to wince. âHowever,â said the girl, despising her cousinâs shiftiness, âWhatâs doneâs done. You have put me in a most awkward position. How am I to get out of it?â
Miss Bartlett could not think. The days of her energy were over. She was a visitor, not a chaperon, and a discredited visitor at that. She stood with clasped hands while the girl worked herself into the necessary rage.
âHe mustâ âthat man must have such a setting down that he wonât forget. And whoâs to give it him? I canât tell mother nowâ âowing to you. Nor Cecil, Charlotte, owing to you. I am caught up every way. I think I shall go mad. I have no one to help me. Thatâs why Iâve sent for you. Whatâs wanted is a man with a whip.â
Miss Bartlett agreed: one wanted a man with a whip.
âYesâ âbut itâs no good agreeing. Whatâs to be done? We women go maundering on. What does a girl do when she comes across a cad?â
âI always said he was a cad, dear. Give me credit for that, at all events. From the very first momentâ âwhen he said his father was having a bath.â
âOh, bother the credit and whoâs been right or wrong! Weâve both made a muddle of it. George Emerson is still down the garden there, and is he to be left unpunished, or isnât he? I want to know.â
Miss Bartlett was absolutely helpless. Her own exposure had unnerved her, and thoughts were colliding painfully in her brain. She moved feebly to the window, and tried to detect the cadâs white flannels among the laurels.
âYou were ready enough at the Bertolini when you rushed me off to Rome. Canât you speak again to him now?â
âWillingly would I move heaven and earthâ ââ
âI want something more definite,â said Lucy contemptuously. âWill you speak to him? It is the least you can do, surely, considering it all happened because you broke your word.â
âNever again shall Eleanor Lavish be a friend of mine.â
Really, Charlotte was outdoing herself.
âYes or no, please; yes or no.â
âIt is the kind of thing that only a gentleman can settle.â George Emerson was coming up the garden with a tennis ball in his hand.
âVery well,â said Lucy, with an angry gesture. âNo one will help me. I will speak to him myself.â And immediately she realized that this was what her cousin had intended all along.
âHullo, Emerson!â called Freddy from below. âFound the lost ball? Good man! Want any tea?â And there was an irruption from the house on to the terrace.
âOh, Lucy, but that is brave of you! I admire youâ ââ
They had gathered round George, who beckoned, she felt, over the rubbish, the sloppy thoughts, the furtive yearnings that were beginning to cumber her soul. Her anger faded at the sight of him. Ah! The Emersons were fine people in their way. She had to subdue a rush in her blood before saying:
âFreddy has taken him into the dining-room. The others are going down the garden. Come. Let us get this over quickly. Come. I want you in the room, of course.â
âLucy, do you mind doing it?â
âHow can you ask such a ridiculous question?â
âPoor Lucyâ ââ She stretched out her hand. âI seem to bring nothing but misfortune wherever I go.â Lucy nodded. She remembered their last evening at Florenceâ âthe packing, the candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlettâs toque on the door. She was not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousinâs caress, she led the way downstairs.
âTry the jam,â Freddy was saying. âThe jamâs jolly good.â
George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said:
âNoâ ânothing to eat.â
âYou go down to the others,â said Lucy; âCharlotte and I will give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Whereâs mother?â
âSheâs started on her Sunday writing. Sheâs in the drawing-room.â
âThatâs all right. You go away.â
He went off singing.
Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly frightened, took up a book and pretended to read.
She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said: âI canât have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live hereâ ââ flushing as she spoke and pointing to the
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