ms. It was long ere they returned to Miss Bartlett,
but when they did her behaviour seemed more interesting. George, who
disliked any darkness, said: "It's clear that she knew. Then, why
did she risk the meeting? She knew he was there, and yet she went to
church."

They tried to piece the thing together.

As they talked, an incredible solution came into Lucy's mind. She
rejected it, and said: "How like Charlotte to undo her work by a feeble
muddle at the last moment." But something in the dying evening, in the
roar of the river, in their very embrace warned them that her words fell
short of life, and George whispered: "Or did she mean it?"

"Mean what?"

"Signorino, domani faremo uno giro--"

Lucy bent forward and said with gentleness: "Lascia, prego, lascia.
Siamo sposati."

"Scusi tanto, signora," he replied in tones as gentle and whipped up his
horse.

"Buona sera--e grazie."

"Niente."

The cabman drove away singing.

"Mean what, George?"

He whispered: "Is it this? Is this possible? I'll put a marvel to you.
That your cousin has always hoped. That from the very first moment we
met, she hoped, far down in her mind, that we should be like this--of
course, very far down. That she fought us on the surface, and yet she
hoped. I can't explain her any other way. Can you? Look how she kept me
alive in you all the summer; how she gave you no peace; how month after
month she became more eccentric and unreliable. The sight of us haunted
her--or she couldn't have described us as she did to her friend. There
are details--it burnt. I read the book afterwards. She is not frozen,
Lucy, she is not withered up all through. She tore us apart twice, but
in the rectory that evening she was given one more chance to make us
happy. We can never make friends with her or thank her. But I do believe
that, far down in her heart, far below all speech and behaviour, she is
glad."

"It is impossible," murmured Lucy, and then, remembering the experiences
of her own heart, she said: "No--it is just possible."

Youth enwrapped them; the song of Phaethon announced passion requited,
love attained. But they were conscious of a love more mysterious than
this. The song died away; they heard the river, bearing down the snows
of winter into the Mediterranean.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Room With A View, by E. M. Forster

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