EXECUTION 28
1279 Words
“How do you do? Very glad to see you, and that you are taking George for a bathe. Very glad to hear that your sister is going to marry. Marriage is a duty. I am sure that she will be happy, for we know Mr. Vyse, too. He has been most kind. He met us by chance in the National Gallery, and arranged everything about this delightful house. Though I hope I have not vexed Sir Harry Otway. I have met so few Liberal landowners, and I was anxious to compare his attitude towards the game laws with the Conservative attitude. Ah, this wind! You do well to bathe. Yours is a glorious country, Honeychurch!”
“Not a bit!” mumbled Freddy. “I must—that is to say, I have to—have the pleasure of calling on you later on, my mother says, I hope.”
“CALL, my lad? Who taught us that drawing-room twaddle? Call on your grandmother! Listen to the wind among the pines! Yours is a glorious country.”
Mr. Beebe came to the rescue.
“Mr. Emerson, he will call, I shall call; you or your son will return our calls before ten days have elapsed. I trust that you have realized about the ten days’ interval. It does not count that I helped you with the stair-eyes yesterday. It does not count that they are going to bathe this afternoon.”
“Yes, go and bathe, George. Why do you dawdle talking? Bring them back to tea. Bring back some milk, cakes, honey. The change will do you good. George has been working very hard at his office. I can’t believe he’s well.”
George bowed his head, dusty and sombre, exhaling the peculiar smell of one who has handled furniture.
“Do you really want this bathe?” Freddy asked him. “It is only a pond, don’t you know. I dare say you are used to something better.”
“Yes—I have said ‘Yes’ already.”
Mr. Beebe felt bound to assist his young friend, and led the way out of the house and into the pine-woods. How glorious it was! For a little time the voice of old Mr. Emerson pursued them dispensing good wishes and philosophy. It ceased, and they only heard the fair wind blowing the bracken and the trees. Mr. Beebe, who could be silent, but who could not bear silence, was compelled to chatter, since the expedition looked like a failure, and neither of his companions would utter a word. He spoke of Florence. George attended gravely, assenting or dissenting with slight but determined gestures that were as inexplicable as the motions of the tree-tops above their heads.
“And what a coincidence that you should meet Mr. Vyse! Did you realize that you would find all the Pension Bertolini down here?”
“I did not. Miss Lavish told me.”
“When I was a young man, I always meant to write a ‘History of Coincidence.’”
No enthusiasm.
“Though, as a matter of fact, coincidences are much rarer than we suppose. For example, it isn’t purely coincidentally that you are here now, when one comes to reflect.”
To his relief, George began to talk.
“It is. I have reflected. It is Fate. Everything is Fate. We are flung together by Fate, drawn apart by Fate—flung together, drawn apart. The twelve winds blow us—we settle nothing—”
“You have not reflected at all,” rapped the clergyman. “Let me give you a useful tip, Emerson: attribute nothing to Fate. Don’t say, ‘I didn’t do this,’ for you did it, ten to one. Now I’ll cross-question you. Where did you first meet Miss Honeychurch and myself?”
“Italy.”
“And where did you meet Mr. Vyse, who is going to marry Miss Honeychurch?”
“National Gallery.”
“Looking at Italian art. There you are, and yet you talk of coincidence and Fate. You naturally seek out things Italian, and so do we and our friends. This narrows the field immeasurably we meet again in it.”
“It is Fate that I am here,” persisted George. “But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy.”
Mr. Beebe slid away from such heavy treatment of the subject. But he was infinitely tolerant of the young, and had no desire to snub George.
“And so for this and for other reasons my ‘History of Coincidence’ is still to write.”
Silence.
Wishing to round off the episode, he added; “We are all so glad that you have come.”
Silence.
“Here we are!” called Freddy.
“Oh, good!” exclaimed Mr. Beebe, mopping his brow.
“In there’s the pond. I wish it was bigger,” he added apologetically.
They climbed down a slippery bank of pine-needles. There lay the pond, set in its little alp of green—only a pond, but large enough to contain the human body, and pure enough to reflect the sky. On account of the rains, the waters had flooded the surrounding grass, which showed like a beautiful emerald path, tempting these feet towards the central pool.
“It’s distinctly successful, as ponds go,” said Mr. Beebe. “No apologies are necessary for the pond.”
George sat down where the ground was dry, and drearily unlaced his boots.
“Aren’t those masses of willow-herb splendid? I love willow-herb in seed. What’s the name of this aromatic plant?”
No one knew, or seemed to care.
“These abrupt changes of vegetation—this little spongeous tract of water plants, and on either side of it all the growths are tough or brittle—heather, bracken, hurts, pines. Very charming, very charming.”
“Mr. Beebe, aren’t you bathing?” called Freddy, as he stripped himself.
Mr. Beebe thought he was not.
“Water’s wonderful!” cried Freddy, prancing in.
“Water’s water,” murmured George. Wetting his hair first—a sure sign of apathy—he followed Freddy into the divine, as indifferent as if he were a statue and the pond a pail of soapsuds. It was necessary to use his muscles. It was necessary to keep clean. Mr. Beebe watched them, and watched the seeds of the willow-herb dance chorically above their heads.
“Apooshoo, apooshoo, apooshoo,” went Freddy, swimming for two strokes in either direction, and then becoming involved in reeds or mud.
“Is it worth it?” asked the other, Michelangelesque on the flooded margin.
The bank broke away, and he fell into the pool before he had weighed the question properly.
“Hee-poof—I’ve swallowed a pollywog, Mr. Beebe, water’s wonderful, water’s simply ripping.”
“Water’s not so bad,” said George, reappearing from his plunge, and sputtering at the sun.
“Water’s wonderful. Mr. Beebe, do.”
“Apooshoo, kouf.”
Mr. Beebe, who was hot, and who always acquiesced where possible, looked around him. He could detect no parishioners except the pine-trees, rising up steeply on all sides, and gesturing to each other against the blue. How glorious it was! The world of motor-cars and rural Deans receded inimitably. Water, sky, evergreens, a wind—these things not even the seasons can touch, and surely they lie beyond the intrusion of man?
“I may as well wash too”; and soon his garments made a third little pile on the sward, and he too asserted the wonder of the water.
- Writer
