“No, of course,” said Lucy, ashamed at the reference to Cecil. “‘Abominable’ is much too strong. I am sorry I used it about your son. I think I will go to church, after all. My mother and my cousin have gone. I shall not be so very late—” “Especially as he has gone under,” he said quietly. “What was that?” “Gone under naturally.” He beat his palms together in silence; his head fell on his chest. “I don’t understand.” “As his mother did.” “But, Mr. Emerson—_Mr. Emerson_—what are you talking about?” “When I wouldn’t have George baptized,” said he. Lucy was frightened. “And she agreed that baptism was nothing, but he caught that fever when he was twelve and she turned round. She thought it a judgement.” He shuddered. “Oh, horrible, when we had given up that sort of thing and broken away from her parents. Oh, horrible—worst of all—worse than death, when you have made a little clearing in the wilderness, planted your little garden, let in your sunlight, and then the weeds creep in again! A judgement! And our boy had typhoid because no clergyman had dropped water on him in church! Is it possible, Miss Honeychurch? Shall we slip back into the darkness for ever?” “I don’t know,” gasped Lucy. “I don’t understand this sort of thing. I was not meant to understand it.” “But Mr. Eager—he came when I was out, and acted according to his principles. I don’t blame him or any one... but by the time George was well she was ill. He made her think about sin, and she went under thinking about it.” 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 to-morrow, and takes me up to his London rooms. He can’t bear to be about here, and I must be where he is.”