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diff --git a/2946-h/2946-h.htm b/2946-h/2946-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ec0d076 --- /dev/null +++ b/2946-h/2946-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,17289 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + Howards End, by E. M. Forster + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Howards End, by E. M. Forster + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Howards End + +Author: E. M. Forster + +Release Date: December 22, 2008 [EBook #2946] +[Last updated September 8, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOWARDS END *** + + + + +Produced by Eve Sobol, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + HOWARDS END + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By E. M. Forster + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister. + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p> + “Howards End, + </p> + <p> + “Tuesday. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest Meg, + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t going to be what we expected. It is old and little, and + altogether delightful—red brick. We can scarcely pack in as it is, + and the dear knows what will happen when Paul (younger son) arrives + to-morrow. From hall you go right or left into dining-room or + drawing-room. Hall itself is practically a room. You open another door in + it, and there are the stairs going up in a sort of tunnel to the + first-floor. Three bed-rooms in a row there, and three attics in a row + above. That isn’t all the house really, but it’s all that one notices—nine + windows as you look up from the front garden. + </p> + <p> + “Then there’s a very big wych-elm—to the left as you look up—leaning + a little over the house, and standing on the boundary between the garden + and meadow. I quite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks—no + nastier than ordinary oaks—pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No + silver birches, though. However, I must get on to my host and hostess. I + only wanted to show that it isn’t the least what we expected. Why did we + settle that their house would be all gables and wiggles, and their garden + all gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply because we associate them + with expensive hotels—Mrs. Wilcox trailing in beautiful dresses down + long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying porters, etc. We females are that + unjust. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train later. They are as + angry as I am that you did not come too; really Tibby is too tiresome, he + starts a new mortal disease every month. How could he have got hay fever + in London? and even if he could, it seems hard that you should give up a + visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell him that Charles Wilcox (the son + who is here) has hay fever too, but he’s brave, and gets quite cross when + we inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a power of good. + But you won’t agree, and I’d better change the subject. + </p> + <p> + “This long letter is because I’m writing before breakfast. Oh, the + beautiful vine leaves! The house is covered with a vine. I looked out + earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox was already in the garden. She evidently loves + it. No wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the large red + poppies come out. Then she walked off the lawn to the meadow, whose corner + to the right I can just see. Trail, trail, went her long dress over the + sopping grass, and she came back with her hands full of the hay that was + cut yesterday—I suppose for rabbits or something, as she kept on + smelling it. The air here is delicious. Later on I heard the noise of + croquet balls, and looked out again, and it was Charles Wilcox practising; + they are keen on all games. Presently he started sneezing and had to stop. + Then I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox practising, and then, + ‘a-tissue, a-tissue’: he has to stop too. Then Evie comes out, and does + some calisthenic exercises on a machine that is tacked on to a + green-gage-tree—they put everything to use—and then she says + ‘a-tissue,’ and in she goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears, trail, + trail, still smelling hay and looking at the flowers. I inflict all this + on you because once you said that life is sometimes life and sometimes + only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish tother from which, and up + to now I have always put that down as ‘Meg’s clever nonsense.’ But this + morning, it really does seem not life but a play, and it did amuse me + enormously to watch the W’s. Now Mrs. Wilcox has come in. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wilcox wore an [omission], + and Evie [omission]. So it isn’t exactly a go-as-you-please place, and if + you shut your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we expected. Not + if you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet. There is a great hedge of + them over the lawn—magnificently tall, so that they fall down in + garlands, and nice and thin at the bottom, so that you can see ducks + through it and a cow. These belong to the farm, which is the only house + near us. There goes the breakfast gong. Much love. Modified love to Tibby. + Love to Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and keep you company, but what + a bore. Burn this. Will write again Thursday. + </p> + <p> + “HELEN.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “Howards End + </p> + <p> + “Friday + </p> + <p> + “Dearest Meg, + </p> + <p> + “I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs. Wilcox, if quieter + than in Germany, is sweeter than ever, and I never saw anything like her + steady unselfishness, and the best of it is that the others do not take + advantage of her. They are the very happiest, jolliest family that you can + imagine. I do really feel that we are making friends. The fun of it is + that they think me a noodle, and say so—at least, Mr. Wilcox does—and + when that happens, and one doesn’t mind, it’s a pretty sure test, isn’t + it? He says the most horrid things about woman’s suffrage so nicely, and + when I said I believed in equality he just folded his arms and gave me + such a setting down as I’ve never had. Meg, shall we ever learn to talk + less? I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. I couldn’t point to a + time when men had been equal, nor even to a time when the wish to be equal + had made them happier in other ways. I couldn’t say a word. I had just + picked up the notion that equality is good from some book—probably + from poetry, or you. Anyhow, it’s been knocked into pieces, and, like all + people who are really strong, Mr. Wilcox did it without hurting me. On the + other hand, I laugh at them for catching hay fever. We live like + fighting-cocks, and Charles takes us out every day in the motor—a + tomb with trees in it, a hermit’s house, a wonderful road that was made by + the Kings of Mercia—tennis—a cricket match—bridge and at + night we squeeze up in this lovely house. The whole clan’s here now—it’s + like a rabbit warren. Evie is a dear. They want me to stop over Sunday—I + suppose it won’t matter if I do. Marvellous weather and the views + marvellous—views westward to the high ground. Thank you for your + letter. Burn this. + </p> + <p> + “Your affectionate + </p> + <p> + “HELEN.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “Howards End, + </p> + <p> + “Sunday. + </p> + <p> + “Dearest, dearest Meg,—I do not know what you will say: Paul and I + are in love—the younger son who only came here Wednesday.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + Margaret glanced at her sister’s note and pushed it over the + breakfast-table to her aunt. There was a moment’s hush, and then the + flood-gates opened. + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no more than you do. We met—we + only met the father and mother abroad last spring. I know so little that I + didn’t even know their son’s name. It’s all so—” She waved her hand + and laughed a little. + </p> + <p> + “In that case it is far too sudden.” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?” + </p> + <p> + “But, Margaret, dear, I mean, we mustn’t be unpractical now that we’ve + come to facts. It is too sudden, surely.” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows!” + </p> + <p> + “But, Margaret, dear—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go for her other letters,” said Margaret. “No, I won’t, I’ll finish + my breakfast. In fact, I haven’t them. We met the Wilcoxes on an awful + expedition that we made from Heidelberg to Speyer. Helen and I had got it + into our heads that there was a grand old cathedral at Speyer—the + Archbishop of Speyer was one of the seven electors—you know—‘Speyer, + Maintz, and Koln.’ Those three sees once commanded the Rhine Valley and + got it the name of Priest Street.” + </p> + <p> + “I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + “The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first sight it looked + quite fine. But oh, in five minutes we had seen the whole thing. The + cathedral had been ruined, absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch + left of the original structure. We wasted a whole day, and came across the + Wilcoxes as we were eating our sandwiches in the public gardens. They too, + poor things, had been taken in—they were actually stopping at Speyer—and + they rather liked Helen’s insisting that they must fly with us to + Heidelberg. As a matter of fact, they did come on next day. We all took + some drives together. They knew us well enough to ask Helen to come and + see them—at least, I was asked too, but Tibby’s illness prevented + me, so last Monday she went alone. That’s all. You know as much as I do + now. It’s a young man out of the unknown. She was to have come back + Saturday, but put off till Monday, perhaps on account of—I don’t + know.” + </p> + <p> + She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a London morning. Their house + was in Wickham Place, and fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of + buildings separated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the sense of a + backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the + invisible sea, and ebbed into a profound silence while the waves without + were still beating. Though the promontory consisted of flats—expensive, + with cavernous entrance halls, full of concierges and palms—it + fulfilled its purpose, and gained for the older houses opposite a certain + measure of peace. + </p> + <p> + These, too, would be swept away in time, and another promontory would + arise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higher and higher on the + precious soil of London. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her nieces. She decided that + Margaret was a little hysterical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent + of talk. Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and + declared that never, never should she be so misguided as to visit it, and + added of her own accord that the principles of restoration were ill + understood in Germany. “The Germans,” she said, “are too thorough, and + this is all very well sometimes, but at other times it does not do.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” said Margaret; “Germans are too thorough.” And her eyes began + to shine. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I regard you Schlegels as English,” said Mrs. Munt hastily—“English + to the backbone.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. + </p> + <p> + “And that reminds me—Helen’s letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen’s letter. I know—I + must go down and see her. I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning + to go down.” + </p> + <p> + “But go with some plan,” said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a + note of exasperation. “Margaret, if I may interfere, don’t be taken by + surprise. What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they + likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very + special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is + most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most + important. How old would the son be? She says ‘younger son.’ Would he be + in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you gather—” + </p> + <p> + “I gathered nothing.” + </p> + <p> + They began to talk at once. + </p> + <p> + “Then in that case—” + </p> + <p> + “In that case I can make no plans, don’t you see.” + </p> + <p> + “On the contrary—” + </p> + <p> + “I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn’t a baby.” + </p> + <p> + “Then in that case, my dear, why go down?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she + was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, “I love my dear + sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life.” The affections are + more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she + herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen, would + proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she used + the voiceless language of sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “I consider you odd girls,” continued Mrs. Munt, “and very wonderful + girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But—you won’t be + offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires an + older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage.” She spread + out her plump arms. “I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to this + house whose name I forget instead of you.” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Juley”—she jumped up and kissed her—“I must, must go to + Howards End myself. You don’t exactly understand, though I can never thank + you properly for offering.” + </p> + <p> + “I do understand,” retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. “I go down + in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are + necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a + certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen’s happiness you would + offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous + questions—not that one minds offending them.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen’s writing that she and a man + are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All + the rest isn’t worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but + inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action—no, Aunt Juley, no.” + </p> + <p> + Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with + something that took the place of both qualities—something best + described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all + that she encountered in her path through life. + </p> + <p> + “If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a penniless + clerk—” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good + maids are dusting the banisters.” + </p> + <p> + “—or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter + Paterson, I should have said the same.” Then, with one of those turns that + convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers of + another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: “Though in the + case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long engagement + indeed, I must say.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think so,” said Mrs. Munt; “and, indeed, I can scarcely follow + you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. + I understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how + disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, + slowly in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely + to lead to.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was down on this. + </p> + <p> + “But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off.” + </p> + <p> + “I think probably it must; but slowly.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you break an engagement off slowly?” Her eyes lit up. “What’s an + engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it’s made of some hard stuff + that may snap, but can’t break. It is different to the other ties of life. + They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They’re different.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly so. But won’t you let me just run down to Howards House, and save + you all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so + thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet + look round will be enough for me.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to see + her brother. + </p> + <p> + He was not so well. + </p> + <p> + The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached, his + eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, in a most + unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that made life worth living was + the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary Conversations + she had promised to read at frequent intervals during the day. + </p> + <p> + It was rather difficult. Something must be done about Helen. She must be + assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight. A + telegram to this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed + each moment more impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and said that Tibby + was quite bad. Might it really be best to accept Aunt Juley’s kind offer, + and to send her down to Howards End with a note? + </p> + <p> + Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing rapidly from one decision + to another. Running downstairs into the library, she cried: “Yes, I have + changed my mind; I do wish that you would go.” + </p> + <p> + There was a train from King’s Cross at eleven. At half-past ten Tibby, + with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and Margaret was able to drive her + aunt to the station. + </p> + <p> + “You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into discussing the + engagement. Give my letter to Helen, and say whatever you feel yourself, + but do keep clear of the relatives. We have scarcely got their names + straight yet, and, besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilised and + wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “So uncivilised?” queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she was losing the point + of some brilliant remark. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would you please talk the thing + over only with Helen.” + </p> + <p> + “Only with Helen.” + </p> + <p> + “Because—” But it was no moment to expound the personal nature of + love. Even Margaret shrank from it, and contented herself with stroking + her good aunt’s hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and half + poetically, on the journey that was about to begin from King’s Cross. + </p> + <p> + Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, she had strong + feelings about the various railway termini. They are our gates to the + glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and + sunshine, to them, alas! we return. In Paddington all Cornwall is latent + and the remoter west; down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands + and the illimitable Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston; + Wessex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo. Italians realise this, as is + natural; those of them who are so unfortunate as to serve as waiters in + Berlin call the Anhalt Bahnhof the Stazione d’Italia, because by it they + must return to their homes. And he is a chilly Londoner who does not endow + his stations with some personality, and extend to them, however shyly, the + emotions of fear and love. + </p> + <p> + To Margaret—I hope that it will not set the reader against her—the + station of King’s Cross had always suggested Infinity. Its very situation—withdrawn + a little behind the facile splendours of St. Pancras—implied a + comment on the materialism of life. Those two great arches, colourless, + indifferent, shouldering between them an unlovely clock, were fit portals + for some eternal adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would + certainly not be expressed in the ordinary language of prosperity. If you + think this ridiculous, remember that it is not Margaret who is telling you + about it; and let me hasten to add that they were in plenty of time for + the train; that Mrs. Munt, though she took a second-class ticket, was put + by the guard into a first (only two “seconds” on the train, one smoking + and the other babies—one cannot be expected to travel with babies); + and that Margaret, on her return to Wickham Place, was confronted with the + following telegram: + </p> + <p> + “All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one—, HELEN.” + </p> + <p> + But Aunt Juley was gone—gone irrevocably, and no power on earth + could stop her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission. Her nieces were + independent young women, and it was not often that she was able to help + them. Emily’s daughters had never been quite like other girls. They had + been left motherless when Tibby was born, when Helen was five and Margaret + herself but thirteen. It was before the passing of the Deceased Wife’s + Sister Bill, so Mrs. Munt could without impropriety offer to go and keep + house at Wickham Place. But her brother-in-law, who was peculiar and a + German, had referred the question to Margaret, who with the crudity of + youth had answered, “No, they could manage much better alone.” Five years + later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs. Munt had repeated her offer. + Margaret, crude no longer, had been grateful and extremely nice, but the + substance of her answer had been the same. “I must not interfere a third + time,” thought Mrs. Munt. However, of course she did. She learnt, to her + horror, that Margaret, now of age, was taking her money out of the old + safe investments and putting it into Foreign Things, which always smash. + Silence would have been criminal. Her own fortune was invested in Home + Rails, and most ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her. “Then we + should be together, dear.” Margaret, out of politeness, invested a few + hundreds in the Nottingham and Derby Railway, and though the Foreign + Things did admirably and the Nottingham and Derby declined with the steady + dignity of which only Home Rails are capable, Mrs. Munt never ceased to + rejoice, and to say, “I did manage that, at all events. When the smash + comes poor Margaret will have a nest-egg to fall back upon.” This year + Helen came of age, and exactly the same thing happened in Helen’s case; + she also would shift her money out of Consols, but she, too, almost + without being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it to the Nottingham and + Derby Railway. So far so good, but in social matters their aunt had + accomplished nothing. Sooner or later the girls would enter on the process + known as throwing themselves away, and if they had delayed hitherto, it + was only that they might throw themselves more vehemently in the future. + They saw too many people at Wickham Place—unshaven musicians, an + actress even, German cousins (one knows what foreigners are), + acquaintances picked up at Continental hotels (one knows what they are + too). It was interesting, and down at Swanage no one appreciated culture + more than Mrs. Munt; but it was dangerous, and disaster was bound to come. + How right she was, and how lucky to be on the spot when the disaster came! + </p> + <p> + The train sped northward, under innumerable tunnels. It was only an hour’s + journey, but Mrs. Munt had to raise and lower the window again and again. + She passed through the South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light for a moment, and + entered the North Welwyn Tunnel, of tragic fame. She traversed the immense + viaduct, whose arches span untroubled meadows and the dreamy flow of Tewin + Water. She skirted the parks of politicians. At times the Great North Road + accompanied her, more suggestive of infinity than any railway, awakening, + after a nap of a hundred years, to such life as is conferred by the stench + of motor-cars, and to such culture as is implied by the advertisements of + antibilious pills. To history, to tragedy, to the past, to the future, + Mrs. Munt remained equally indifferent; hers but to concentrate on the end + of her journey, and to rescue poor Helen from this dreadful mess. + </p> + <p> + The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of the large villages that + are strung so frequently along the North Road, and that owe their size to + the traffic of coaching and pre-coaching days. Being near London, it had + not shared in the rural decay, and its long High Street had budded out + right and left into residential estates. For about a mile a series of + tiled and slated houses passed before Mrs. Munt’s inattentive eyes, a + series broken at one point by six Danish tumuli that stood shoulder to + shoulder along the highroad, tombs of soldiers. Beyond these tumuli, + habitations thickened, and the train came to a standstill in a tangle that + was almost a town. + </p> + <p> + The station, like the scenery, like Helen’s letters, struck an + indeterminate note. Into which country will it lead, England or Suburbia? + It was new, it had island platforms and a subway, and the superficial + comfort exacted by business men. But it held hints of local life, personal + intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to discover. + </p> + <p> + “I want a house,” she confided to the ticket boy. “Its name is Howards + Lodge. Do you know where it is?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wilcox!” the boy called. + </p> + <p> + A young man in front of them turned around. + </p> + <p> + “She’s wanting Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing for it but to go forward, though Mrs. Munt was too much + agitated even to stare at the stranger. But remembering that there were + two brothers, she had the sense to say to him, “Excuse me asking, but are + you the younger Mr. Wilcox or the elder?” + </p> + <p> + “The younger. Can I do anything for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well”—she controlled herself with difficulty. “Really. Are you? + I—” She moved; away from the ticket boy and lowered her voice. “I am + Miss Schlegel’s aunt. I ought to introduce myself, oughtn’t I? My name is + Mrs. Munt.” + </p> + <p> + She was conscious that he raised his cap and said quite coolly, “Oh, + rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping with us. Did you want to see her?” + </p> + <p> + “Possibly.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll call you a cab. No; wait a mo—” He thought. “Our motor’s here. + I’ll run you up in it.” + </p> + <p> + “That is very kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, if you’ll just wait till they bring out a parcel from the + office. This way.” + </p> + <p> + “My niece is not with you by any chance?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I came over with my father. He has gone on north in your train. + You’ll see Miss Schlegel at lunch. You’re coming up to lunch, I hope?” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to come UP,” said Mrs. Munt, not committing herself to + nourishment until she had studied Helen’s lover a little more. He seemed a + gentleman, but had so rattled her round that her powers of observation + were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily. + </p> + <p> + To a feminine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp depressions at the + corners of his mouth, or in the rather box-like construction of his + forehead. He was dark, clean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to command. + </p> + <p> + “In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be windy in front.” + </p> + <p> + “In front if I may; then we can talk.” + </p> + <p> + “But excuse me one moment—I can’t think what they’re doing with that + parcel.” He strode into the booking-office, and called with a new voice: + “Hi! hi, you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel for + Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!” + </p> + <p> + Emerging, he said in quieter tones: “This station’s abominably organised; + if I had my way, the whole lot of ’em should get the sack. May I help you + in?” + </p> + <p> + “This is very good of you,” said Mrs. Munt, as she settled herself into a + luxurious cavern of red leather, and suffered her person to be padded with + rugs and shawls. She was more civil than she had intended, but really this + young man was very kind. Moreover, she was a little afraid of him; his + self-possession was extraordinary. “Very good indeed,” she repeated, + adding: “It is just what I should have wished.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good of you to say so,” he replied, with a slight look of surprise, + which, like most slight looks, escaped Mrs. Munt’s attention. “I was just + tooling my father over to catch the down train.” + </p> + <p> + “You see, we heard from Helen this morning.” + </p> + <p> + Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his engine, and performing + other actions with which this story has no concern. The great car began to + rock, and the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang + agreeably up and down among the red cushions. “The mater will be very glad + to see you,” he mumbled. “Hi! I say. Parcel. Parcel for Howards End. Bring + it out. Hi!” + </p> + <p> + A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and an entry book in + the other. With the gathering whir of the motor these ejaculations + mingled: “Sign, must I? Why the — should I sign after all this bother? + Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time I report you to the + station-master. My time’s of value, though yours mayn’t be. Here”—here + being a tip. + </p> + <p> + “Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, Mr. Wilcox.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you object to going through the village? It is rather a longer + spin, but I have one or two commissions.” + </p> + <p> + “I should love going through the village. Naturally I am very anxious to + talk things over with you.” + </p> + <p> + As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was disobeying Margaret’s + instructions. Only disobeying them in the letter, surely. Margaret had + only warned her against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely it + was not “uncivilised or wrong” to discuss it with the young man himself, + since chance had thrown them together. + </p> + <p> + A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by her side, he put on + gloves and spectacles, and off they drove, the bearded porter—life + is a mysterious business—looking after them with admiration. + </p> + <p> + The wind was in their faces down the station road, blowing the dust into + Mrs. Munt’s eyes. But as soon as they turned into the Great North Road she + opened fire. “You can well imagine,” she said, “that the news was a great + shock to us.” + </p> + <p> + “What news?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wilcox,” she said frankly, “Margaret has told me everything—everything. + I have seen Helen’s letter.” + </p> + <p> + He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were fixed on his work; he + was travelling as quickly as he dared down the High Street. But he + inclined his head in her direction, and said: “I beg your pardon; I didn’t + catch.” + </p> + <p> + “About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very exceptional person—I + am sure you will let me say this, feeling towards her as you do—indeed, + all the Schlegels are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference, + but it was a great shock.” + </p> + <p> + They drew up opposite a draper’s. Without replying, he turned round in his + seat, and contemplated the cloud of dust that they had raised in their + passage through the village. It was settling again, but not all into the + road from which he had taken it. Some of it had percolated through the + open windows, some had whitened the roses and gooseberries of the wayside + gardens, while a certain proportion had entered the lungs of the + villagers. “I wonder when they’ll learn wisdom and tar the roads,” was his + comment. Then a man ran out of the draper’s with a roll of oilcloth, and + off they went again. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor Tibby, so I am here + to represent her and to have a good talk.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry to be so dense,” said the young man, again drawing up outside a + shop. “But I still haven’t quite understood.” + </p> + <p> + “Helen, Mr. Wilcox—my niece and you.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, absolutely bewildered. Horror + smote her to the heart, for even she began to suspect that they were at + cross-purposes, and that she had commenced her mission by some hideous + blunder. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schlegel and myself?” he asked, compressing his lips. + </p> + <p> + “I trust there has been no misunderstanding,” quavered Mrs. Munt. “Her + letter certainly read that way.” + </p> + <p> + “What way?” + </p> + <p> + “That you and she—” She paused, then drooped her eyelids. + </p> + <p> + “I think I catch your meaning,” he said stickily. “What an extraordinary + mistake!” + </p> + <p> + “Then you didn’t the least—” she stammered, getting blood-red in the + face, and wishing she had never been born. + </p> + <p> + “Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady.” There was a moment’s + silence, and then he caught his breath and exploded with, “Oh, good God! + Don’t tell me it’s some silliness of Paul’s.” + </p> + <p> + “But you are Paul.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why did you say so at the station?” + </p> + <p> + “I said nothing of the sort.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, you did.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, I did not. My name is Charles.” + </p> + <p> + “Younger” may mean son as opposed to father, or second brother as opposed + to first. There is much to be said for either view, and later on they said + it. But they had other questions before them now. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me that Paul—” + </p> + <p> + But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he was talking to a + porter, and, certain that he had deceived her at the station, she too grew + angry. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your niece—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Munt—such is human nature—determined that she would + champion the lovers. She was not going to be bullied by a severe young + man. “Yes, they care for one another very much indeed,” she said. “I dare + say they will tell you about it by-and-by. We heard this morning.” + </p> + <p> + And Charles clenched his fist and cried, “The idiot, the idiot, the little + fool!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. “If that is your attitude, + Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg you will do no such thing. I take you up this moment to the house. + Let me tell you the thing’s impossible, and must be stopped.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when she did it was only to + protect those whom she loved. On this occasion she blazed out. “I quite + agree, sir. The thing is impossible, and I will come up and stop it. My + niece is a very exceptional person, and I am not inclined to sit still + while she throws herself away on those who will not appreciate her.” + </p> + <p> + Charles worked his jaws. + </p> + <p> + “Considering she has only known your brother since Wednesday, and only met + your father and mother at a stray hotel—” + </p> + <p> + “Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman will overhear.” + </p> + <p> + Esprit de classe—if one may coin the phrase—was strong in Mrs. + Munt. She sat quivering while a member of the lower orders deposited a + metal funnel, a saucepan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth. + </p> + <p> + “Right behind?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” And the lower orders vanished in a cloud of dust. + </p> + <p> + “I warn you: Paul hasn’t a penny; it’s useless.” + </p> + <p> + “No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The warning is all the + other way. My niece has been very foolish, and I shall give her a good + scolding and take her back to London with me.” + </p> + <p> + “He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He couldn’t think of marrying for + years, and when he does it must be a woman who can stand the climate, and + is in other ways—Why hasn’t he told us? Of course he’s ashamed. He + knows he’s been a fool. And so he has—a downright fool.” + </p> + <p> + She grew furious. + </p> + <p> + “Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publishing the news.” + </p> + <p> + “If I were a man, Mr. Wilcox, for that last remark I’d box your ears. + You’re not fit to clean my niece’s boots, to sit in the same room with + her, and you dare—you actually dare—I decline to argue with + such a person.” + </p> + <p> + “All I know is, she’s spread the thing and he hasn’t, and my father’s away + and I—” + </p> + <p> + “And all that I know is—” + </p> + <p> + “Might I finish my sentence, please?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Charles clenched his teeth and sent the motor swerving all over the lane. + </p> + <p> + She screamed. + </p> + <p> + So they played the game of Capping Families, a round of which is always + played when love would unite two members of our race. But they played it + with unusual vigour, stating in so many words that Schlegels were better + than Wilcoxes, Wilcoxes better than Schlegels. They flung decency aside. + The man was young, the woman deeply stirred; in both a vein of coarseness + was latent. Their quarrel was no more surprising than are most quarrels—inevitable + at the time, incredible afterwards. But it was more than usually futile. A + few minutes, and they were enlightened. The motor drew up at Howards End, + and Helen, looking very pale, ran out to meet her aunt. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Margaret; I—I meant to + stop your coming. It isn’t—it’s over.” + </p> + <p> + The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Juley dear, don’t. Don’t let them know I’ve been so silly. It wasn’t + anything. Do bear up for my sake.” + </p> + <p> + “Paul,” cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let them know. They are never to know.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my darling Helen—” + </p> + <p> + “Paul! Paul!” + </p> + <p> + A very young man came out of the house. + </p> + <p> + “Paul, is there any truth in this?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t—I don’t—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did or didn’t Miss Schlegel—” + </p> + <p> + “Charles, dear,” said a voice from the garden. “Charles, dear Charles, one + doesn’t ask plain questions. There aren’t such things.” + </p> + <p> + They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox. + </p> + <p> + She approached just as Helen’s letter had described her, trailing + noiselessly over the lawn, and there was actually a wisp of hay in her + hands. She seemed to belong not to the young people and their motor, but + to the house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew that she + worshipped the past, and that the instinctive wisdom the past can alone + bestow had descended upon her—that wisdom to which we give the + clumsy name of aristocracy. High born she might not be. But assuredly she + cared about her ancestors, and let them help her. When she saw Charles + angry, Paul frightened, and Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors + say, “Separate those human beings who will hurt each other most. The rest + can wait.” So she did not ask questions. Still less did she pretend that + nothing had happened, as a competent society hostess would have done. She + said: “Miss Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your room or to my + room, whichever you think best. Paul, do find Evie, and tell her lunch for + six, but I’m not sure whether we shall all be downstairs for it.” And when + they had obeyed her, she turned to her elder son, who still stood in the + throbbing, stinking car, and smiled at him with tenderness, and without + saying a word, turned away from him towards her flowers. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” he called, “are you aware that Paul has been playing the fool + again?” + </p> + <p> + “It is all right, dear. They have broken off the engagement.” + </p> + <p> + “Engagement—!” + </p> + <p> + “They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put that way,” said Mrs. + Wilcox, stooping down to smell a rose. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + Helen and her aunt returned to Wickham Place in a state of collapse, and + for a little time Margaret had three invalids on her hands. Mrs. Munt soon + recovered. She possessed to a remarkable degree the power of distorting + the past, and before many days were over she had forgotten the part played + by her own imprudence in the catastrophe. Even at the crisis she had + cried, “Thank goodness, poor Margaret is saved this!” which during the + journey to London evolved into, “It had to be gone through by some one,” + which in its turn ripened into the permanent form of “The one time I + really did help Emily’s girls was over the Wilcox business.” But Helen was + a more serious patient. New ideas had burst upon her like a thunderclap, + and by them and by their reverberations she had been stunned. + </p> + <p> + The truth was that she had fallen in love, not with an individual, but + with a family. + </p> + <p> + Before Paul arrived she had, as it were, been tuned up into his key. The + energy of the Wilcoxes had fascinated her, had created new images of + beauty in her responsive mind. To be all day with them in the open air, to + sleep at night under their roof, had seemed the supreme joy of life, and + had led to that abandonment of personality that is a possible prelude to + love. She had liked giving in to Mr. Wilcox, or Evie, or Charles; she had + liked being told that her notions of life were sheltered or academic; that + Equality was nonsense, Votes for Women nonsense, Socialism nonsense, Art + and Literature, except when conducive to strengthening the character, + nonsense. One by one the Schlegel fetiches had been overthrown, and, + though professing to defend them, she had rejoiced. When Mr. Wilcox said + that one sound man of business did more good to the world than a dozen of + your social reformers, she had swallowed the curious assertion without a + gasp, and had leant back luxuriously among the cushions of his motorcar. + When Charles said, “Why be so polite to servants? they don’t understand + it,” she had not given the Schlegel retort of, “If they don’t understand + it, I do.” No; she had vowed to be less polite to servants in the future. + “I am swathed in cant,” she thought, “and it is good for me to be stripped + of it.” And all that she thought or did or breathed was a quiet + preparation for Paul. Paul was inevitable. Charles was taken up with + another girl, Mr. Wilcox was so old, Evie so young, Mrs. Wilcox so + different. Round the absent brother she began to throw the halo of + Romance, to irradiate him with all the splendour of those happy days, to + feel that in him she should draw nearest to the robust ideal. He and she + were about the same age, Evie said. Most people thought Paul handsomer + than his brother. He was certainly a better shot, though not so good at + golf. And when Paul appeared, flushed with the triumph of getting through + an examination, and ready to flirt with any pretty girl, Helen met him + halfway, or more than halfway, and turned towards him on the Sunday + evening. + </p> + <p> + He had been talking of his approaching exile in Nigeria, and he should + have continued to talk of it, and allowed their guest to recover. But the + heave of her bosom flattered him. Passion was possible, and he became + passionate. Deep down in him something whispered, “This girl would let you + kiss her; you might not have such a chance again.” + </p> + <p> + That was “how it happened,” or, rather, how Helen described it to her + sister, using words even more unsympathetic than my own. But the poetry of + that kiss, the wonder of it, the magic that there was in life for hours + after it—who can describe that? It is so easy for an Englishman to + sneer at these chance collisions of human beings. To the insular cynic and + the insular moralist they offer an equal opportunity. It is so easy to + talk of “passing emotion,” and to forget how vivid the emotion was ere it + passed. Our impulse to sneer, to forget, is at root a good one. We + recognise that emotion is not enough, and that men and women are + personalities capable of sustained relations, not mere opportunities for + an electrical discharge. Yet we rate the impulse too highly. We do not + admit that by collisions of this trivial sort the doors of heaven may be + shaken open. To Helen, at all events, her life was to bring nothing more + intense than the embrace of this boy who played no part in it. He had + drawn her out of the house, where there was danger of surprise and light; + he had led her by a path he knew, until they stood under the column of the + vast wych-elm. A man in the darkness, he had whispered “I love you” when + she was desiring love. In time his slender personality faded, the scene + that he had evoked endured. In all the variable years that followed she + never saw the like of it again. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” said Margaret— “at least, I understand as much as + ever is understood of these things. Tell me now what happened on the + Monday morning.” + </p> + <p> + “It was over at once.” + </p> + <p> + “How, Helen?” + </p> + <p> + “I was still happy while I dressed, but as I came downstairs I got + nervous, and when I went into the dining-room I knew it was no good. There + was Evie—I can’t explain—managing the tea-urn, and Mr. Wilcox + reading the Times.” + </p> + <p> + “Was Paul there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; and Charles was talking to him about stocks and shares, and he + looked frightened.” + </p> + <p> + By slight indications the sisters could convey much to each other. + Margaret saw horror latent in the scene, and Helen’s next remark did not + surprise her. + </p> + <p> + “Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened it is too awful. It is + all right for us to be frightened, or for men of another sort—father, + for instance; but for men like that! When I saw all the others so placid, + and Paul mad with terror in case I said the wrong thing, I felt for a + moment that the whole Wilcox family was a fraud, just a wall of newspapers + and motor-cars and golf-clubs, and that if it fell I should find nothing + behind it but panic and emptiness.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being genuine people, + particularly the wife.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t really think that. But Paul was so broad-shouldered; all + kinds of extraordinary things made it worse, and I knew that it would + never do—never. I said to him after breakfast, when the others were + practising strokes, ‘We rather lost our heads,’ and he looked better at + once, though frightfully ashamed. He began a speech about having no money + to marry on, but it hurt him to make it, and I stopped him. Then he said, + ‘I must beg your pardon over this, Miss Schlegel; I can’t think what came + over me last night.’ And I said, ‘Nor what over me; never mind.’ And then + we parted—at least, until I remembered that I had written straight + off to tell you the night before, and that frightened him again. I asked + him to send a telegram for me, for he knew you would be coming or + something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, but Charles and Mr. + Wilcox wanted it to go to the station; and Charles offered to send the + telegram for me, and then I had to say that the telegram was of no + consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it + out several times, he always said people would suspect something. He took + it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down to get cartridges, + and, what with one thing and the other, it was not handed in at the + post-office until too late. It was the most terrible morning. Paul + disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket averages till I nearly + screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other days. At last + Charles and his father started for the station, and then came your + telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul—oh, + rather horrible—said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew.” + </p> + <p> + “Knew what?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known + all along, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, she must have overheard you.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove + up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and + made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. + To think that—” She sighed. + </p> + <p> + “To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must + be all these telegrams and anger,” supplied Margaret. + </p> + <p> + Helen nodded. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve often thought about it, Helen. It’s one of the most interesting + things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that + you and I have never touched—a life in which telegrams and anger + count. Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. + There love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I’m + clear. But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; + often seems the real one—there’s grit in it. It does breed + character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Meg—, that’s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the + Wilcoxes were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the + ropes.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you feel it now?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember Paul at breakfast,” said Helen quietly. “I shall never forget + him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are + the real life, for ever and ever.” + </p> + <p> + “Amen!” + </p> + <p> + So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it memories + of sweetness and horror that mingled, and the sisters pursued the life + that Helen had commended. They talked to each other and to other people, + they filled the tall thin house at Wickham Place with those whom they + liked or could befriend. They even attended public meetings. In their own + fashion they cared deeply about politics, though not as politicians would + have us care; they desired that public life should mirror whatever is good + in the life within. Temperance, tolerance, and sexual equality were + intelligible cries to them; whereas they did not follow our Forward Policy + in Tibet with the keen attention that it merits, and would at times + dismiss the whole British Empire with a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not + out of them are the shows of history erected: the world would be a grey, + bloodless place were it composed entirely of Miss Schlegels. But the world + being what it is, perhaps they shine out in it like stars. + </p> + <p> + A word on their origin. They were not “English to the back-bone,” as their + aunt had piously asserted. But, on the other hand, they were not “Germans + of the dreadful sort.” Their father had belonged to a type that was more + prominent in Germany fifty years ago than now. He was not the aggressive + German, so dear to the English journalist, nor the domestic German, so + dear to the English wit. If one classed him at all it would be as the + countryman of Hegel and Kant, as the idealist, inclined to be dreamy, + whose Imperialism was the Imperialism of the air. Not that his life had + been inactive. He had fought like blazes against Denmark, Austria, France. + But he had fought without visualising the results of victory. A hint of + the truth broke on him after Sedan, when he saw the dyed moustaches of + Napoleon going grey; another when he entered Paris, and saw the smashed + windows of the Tuileries. Peace came—it was all very immense, one + had turned into an Empire—but he knew that some quality had vanished + for which not all Alsace-Lorraine could compensate him. Germany a + commercial Power, Germany a naval Power, Germany with colonies here and a + Forward Policy there, and legitimate aspirations in the other place, might + appeal to others, and be fitly served by them; for his own part, he + abstained from the fruits of victory, and naturalised himself in England. + The more earnest members of his family never forgave him, and knew that + his children, though scarcely English of the dreadful sort, would never be + German to the back-bone. He had obtained work in one of our provincial + universities, and there married Poor Emily (or Die Englanderin, as the + case may be), and as she had money, they proceeded to London, and came to + know a good many people. But his gaze was always fixed beyond the sea. It + was his hope that the clouds of materialism obscuring the Fatherland would + part in time, and the mild intellectual light re-emerge. “Do you imply + that we Germans are stupid, Uncle Ernst?” exclaimed a haughty and + magnificent nephew. Uncle Ernst replied, “To my mind. You use the + intellect, but you no longer care about it. That I call stupidity.” As the + haughty nephew did not follow, he continued, “You only care about the + things that you can use, and therefore arrange them in the following + order: Money, supremely useful; intellect, rather useful; imagination, of + no use at all. No”—for the other had protested—“your + Pan-Germanism is no more imaginative than is our Imperialism over here. It + is the vice of a vulgar mind to be thrilled by bigness, to think that a + thousand square miles are a thousand times more wonderful than one square + mile, and that a million square miles are almost the same as heaven. That + is not imagination. No, it kills it. When their poets over here try to + celebrate bigness they are dead at once, and naturally. Your poets too are + dying, your philosophers, your musicians, to whom Europe has listened for + two hundred years. Gone. Gone with the little courts that nurtured them—gone + with Esterhazy and Weimar. What? What’s that? Your universities? Oh yes, + you have learned men, who collect more facts than do the learned men of + England. They collect facts, and facts, and empires of facts. But which of + them will rekindle the light within?” + </p> + <p> + To all this Margaret listened, sitting on the haughty nephew’s knee. + </p> + <p> + It was a unique education for the little girls. The haughty nephew would + be at Wickham Place one day, bringing with him an even haughtier wife, + both convinced that Germany was appointed by God to govern the world. Aunt + Juley would come the next day, convinced that Great Britain had been + appointed to the same post by the same authority. Were both these + loud-voiced parties right? On one occasion they had met and Margaret with + clasped hands had implored them to argue the subject out in her presence. + Whereat they blushed, and began to talk about the weather. “Papa,” she + cried—she was a most offensive child—“why will they not + discuss this most clear question?” Her father, surveying the parties + grimly, replied that he did not know. Putting her head on one side, + Margaret then remarked, “To me one of two things is very clear; either God + does not know his own mind about England and Germany, or else these do not + know the mind of God.” A hateful little girl, but at thirteen she had + grasped a dilemma that most people travel through life without perceiving. + Her brain darted up and down; it grew pliant and strong. Her conclusion + was, that any human being lies nearer to the unseen than any organisation, + and from this she never varied. + </p> + <p> + Helen advanced along the same lines, though with a more irresponsible + tread. In character she resembled her sister, but she was pretty, and so + apt to have a more amusing time. People gathered round her more readily, + especially when they were new acquaintances, and she did enjoy a little + homage very much. When their father died and they ruled alone at Wickham + Place, she often absorbed the whole of the company, while Margaret—both + were tremendous talkers—fell flat. Neither sister bothered about + this. Helen never apologised afterwards, Margaret did not feel the + slightest rancour. But looks have their influence upon character. The + sisters were alike as little girls, but at the time of the Wilcox episode + their methods were beginning to diverge; the younger was rather apt to + entice people, and, in enticing them, to be herself enticed; the elder + went straight ahead, and accepted an occasional failure as part of the + game. + </p> + <p> + Little need be premised about Tibby. He was now an intelligent man of + sixteen, but dyspeptic and difficile. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + It will be generally admitted that Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is the most + sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man. All sorts and + conditions are satisfied by it. Whether you are like Mrs. Munt, and tap + surreptitiously when the tunes come—of course, not so as to disturb + the others—or like Helen, who can see heroes and shipwrecks in the + music’s flood; or like Margaret, who can only see the music; or like + Tibby, who is profoundly versed in counterpoint, and holds the full score + open on his knee; or like their cousin, Fraulein Mosebach, who remembers + all the time that Beethoven is echt Deutsch; or like Fraulein Mosebach’s + young man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein Mosebach: in any case, + the passion of your life becomes more vivid, and you are bound to admit + that such a noise is cheap at two shillings. It is cheap, even if you hear + it in the Queen’s Hall, dreariest music-room in London, though not as + dreary as the Free Trade Hall, Manchester; and even if you sit on the + extreme left of that hall, so that the brass bumps at you before the rest + of the orchestra arrives, it is still cheap. + </p> + <p> + “Whom is Margaret talking to?” said Mrs. Munt, at the conclusion of the + first movement. She was again in London on a visit to Wickham Place. + </p> + <p> + Helen looked down the long line of their party, and said that she did not + know. + </p> + <p> + “Would it be some young man or other whom she takes an interest in?” + </p> + <p> + “I expect so,” Helen replied. Music enwrapped her, and she could not enter + into the distinction that divides young men whom one takes an interest in + from young men whom one knows. + </p> + <p> + “You girls are so wonderful in always having—Oh dear! one mustn’t + talk.” + </p> + <p> + For the Andante had begun—very beautiful, but bearing a family + likeness to all the other beautiful Andantes that Beethoven had written, + and, to Helen’s mind, rather disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of + the first movement from the heroes and goblins of the third. She heard the + tune through once, and then her attention wandered, and she gazed at the + audience, or the organ, or the architecture. Much did she censure the + attenuated Cupids who encircle the ceiling of the Queen’s Hall, inclining + each to each with vapid gesture, and clad in sallow pantaloons, on which + the October sunlight struck. “How awful to marry a man like those Cupids!” + thought Helen. Here Beethoven started decorating his tune, so she heard + him through once more, and then she smiled at her Cousin Frieda. But + Frieda, listening to Classical Music, could not respond. Herr Liesecke, + too, looked as if wild horses could not make him inattentive; there were + lines across his forehead, his lips were parted, his pince-nez at right + angles to his nose, and he had laid a thick, white hand on either knee. + And next to her was Aunt Juley, so British, and wanting to tap. How + interesting that row of people was! What diverse influences had gone to + the making! Here Beethoven, after humming and hawing with great sweetness, + said “Heigho,” and the Andante came to an end. Applause, and a round of + “wunderschoning” and pracht volleying from the German contingent. Margaret + started talking to her new young man; Helen said to her aunt: “Now comes + the wonderful movement: first of all the goblins, and then a trio of + elephants dancing”; and Tibby implored the company generally to look out + for the transitional passage on the drum. + </p> + <p> + “On the what, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “On the drum, Aunt Juley.” + </p> + <p> + “No; look out for the part where you think you have done with the goblins + and they come back,” breathed Helen, as the music started with a goblin + walking quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. + They were not aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible + to Helen. They merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as + splendour or heroism in the world. After the interlude of elephants + dancing, they returned and made the observation for the second time. Helen + could not contradict them, for, once at all events, she had felt the same, + and had seen the reliable walls of youth collapse. Panic and emptiness! + Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right. Her brother raised his + finger; it was the transitional passage on the drum. + </p> + <p> + For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took hold of the goblins + and made them do what he wanted. He appeared in person. He gave them a + little push, and they began to walk in a major key instead of in a minor, + and then—he blew with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts of + splendour, gods and demigods contending with vast swords, colour and + fragrance broadcast on the field of battle, magnificent victory, + magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the girl, and she even + stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any fate was + titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be + applauded by the angels of the utmost stars. + </p> + <p> + And the goblins—they had not really been there at all? They were + only the phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse + would dispel them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or ex-President Roosevelt, would + say yes. Beethoven knew better. The goblins really had been there. They + might return—and they did. It was as if the splendour of life might + boil over and waste to steam and froth. In its dissolution one heard the + terrible, ominous note, and a goblin, with increased malignity, walked + quietly over the universe from end to end. Panic and emptiness! Panic and + emptiness! Even the flaming ramparts of the world might fall. Beethoven + chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew with + his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He + brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the + magnificence of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman + joy, he led his Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were + there. They could return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can + trust Beethoven when he says other things. + </p> + <p> + Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She desired to be alone. The + music had summed up to her all that had happened or could happen in her + career. + </p> + <p> + She read it as a tangible statement, which could never be superseded. The + notes meant this and that to her, and they could have no other meaning, + and life could have no other meaning. She pushed right out of the building + and walked slowly down the outside staircase, breathing the autumnal air, + and then she strolled home. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret,” called Mrs. Munt, “is Helen all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She is always going away in the middle of a programme,” said Tibby. + </p> + <p> + “The music has evidently moved her deeply,” said Fraulein Mosebach. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me,” said Margaret’s young man, who had for some time been + preparing a sentence, “but that lady has, quite inadvertently, taken my + umbrella.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, good gracious me!—I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Tibby, love, you must go.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t of any consequence,” said the young man, in truth a little + uneasy about his umbrella. + </p> + <p> + “But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!” + </p> + <p> + Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of the + chairs. By the time he had tipped up the seat and had found his hat, and + had deposited his full score in safety, it was “too late” to go after + Helen. The Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move during + their performance. + </p> + <p> + “My sister is so careless,” whispered Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Not at all,” replied the young man; but his voice was dead and cold. + </p> + <p> + “If you would give me your address—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not at all, not at all;” and he wrapped his greatcoat over his knees. + </p> + <p> + Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret’s ears. Brahms, for + all his grumbling and grizzling, had never guessed what it felt like to be + suspected of stealing an umbrella. For this fool of a young man thought + that she and Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence trick on him, + and that if he gave his address they would break into his rooms some + midnight or other and steal his walking-stick too. Most ladies would have + laughed, but Margaret really minded, for it gave her a glimpse into + squalor. To trust people is a luxury in which only the wealthy can + indulge; the poor cannot afford it. As soon as Brahms had grunted himself + out, she gave him her card and said, “That is where we live; if you + preferred, you could call for the umbrella after the concert, but I didn’t + like to trouble you when it has all been our fault.” + </p> + <p> + His face brightened a little when he saw that Wickham Place was W. It was + sad to see him corroded with suspicion, and yet not daring to be impolite, + in case these well-dressed people were honest after all. She took it as a + good sign that he said to her, “It’s a fine programme this afternoon, is + it not?” for this was the remark with which he had originally opened, + before the umbrella intervened. + </p> + <p> + “The Beethoven’s fine,” said Margaret, who was not a female of the + encouraging type. “I don’t like the Brahms, though, nor the Mendelssohn + that came first and ugh! I don’t like this Elgar that’s coming.” + </p> + <p> + “What, what?” called Herr Liesecke, overhearing. “The ‘Pomp and + Circumstance’ will not be fine?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!” cried her aunt. + </p> + <p> + “Here have I been persuading Herr Liesecke to stop for ‘Pomp and + Circumstance,’ and you are undoing all my work. I am so anxious for him to + hear what WE are doing in music. Oh,—you musn’t run down our English + composers, Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + “For my part, I have heard the composition at Stettin,” said Fraulein + Mosebach, “on two occasions. It is dramatic, a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Frieda, you despise English music. You know you do. And English art. And + English literature, except Shakespeare, and he’s a German. Very well, + Frieda, you may go.” + </p> + <p> + The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved by a common impulse, + they rose to their feet and fled from “Pomp and Circumstance.” + </p> + <p> + “We have this call to pay in Finsbury Circus, it is true,” said Herr + Liesecke, as he edged past her and reached the gangway just as the music + started. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret—” loudly whispered by Aunt Juley. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret, Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has left her beautiful little bag + behind her on the seat.” + </p> + <p> + Sure enough, there was Frieda’s reticule, containing her address book, her + pocket dictionary, her map of London, and her money. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a bother—what a family we are! Fr—frieda!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” said all those who thought the music fine. + </p> + <p> + “But it’s the number they want in Finsbury Circus.” + </p> + <p> + “Might I—couldn’t I—” said the suspicious young man, and got + very red. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I would be so grateful.” + </p> + <p> + He took the bag—money clinking inside it—and slipped up the + gangway with it. He was just in time to catch them at the swing-door, and + he received a pretty smile from the German girl and a fine bow from her + cavalier. He returned to his seat upsides with the world. The trust that + they had reposed in him was trivial, but he felt that it cancelled his + mistrust for them, and that probably he would not be “had” over his + umbrella. This young man had been “had” in the past badly, perhaps + overwhelmingly—and now most of his energies went in defending + himself against the unknown. But this afternoon—perhaps on account + of music—he perceived that one must slack off occasionally or what + is the good of being alive? Wickham Place, W., though a risk, was as safe + as most things, and he would risk it. + </p> + <p> + So when the concert was over and Margaret said, “We live quite near; I am + going there now. Could you walk round with me, and we’ll find your + umbrella?” he said, “Thank you,” peaceably, and followed her out of the + Queen’s Hall. She wished that he was not so anxious to hand a lady + downstairs, or to carry a lady’s programme for her—his class was + near enough her own for its manners to vex her. But she found him + interesting on the whole—every one interested the Schlegels on the + whole at that time—and while her lips talked culture, her heart was + planning to invite him to tea. + </p> + <p> + “How tired one gets after music!” she began. + </p> + <p> + “Do you find the atmosphere of Queen’s Hall oppressive?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, horribly.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more oppressive.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you go there much?” + </p> + <p> + “When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the Royal Opera.” + </p> + <p> + Helen would have exclaimed, “So do I. I love the gallery,” and thus have + endeared herself to the young man. Helen could do these things. But + Margaret had an almost morbid horror of “drawing people out,” of “making + things go.” She had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she did not + “attend” it, preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she love + it. So she made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “This year I have been three times—to ‘Faust,’ ‘Tosca,’ and—” + Was it “Tannhouser” or “Tannhoyser”? Better not risk the word. + </p> + <p> + Margaret disliked “Tosca” and “Faust.” And so, for one reason and another, + they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who was + getting into difficulties with her nephew. + </p> + <p> + “I do in a WAY remember the passage, Tibby, but when every instrument is + so beautiful, it is difficult to pick out one thing rather than another. I + am sure that you and Helen take me to the very nicest concerts. Not a dull + note from beginning to end. I only wish that our German friends had stayed + till it finished.” + </p> + <p> + “But surely you haven’t forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low C, + Aunt Juley?” came Tibby’s voice. “No one could. It’s unmistakable.” + </p> + <p> + “A specially loud part?” hazarded Mrs. Munt. “Of course I do not go in for + being musical,” she added, the shot failing. “I only care for music—a + very different thing. But still I will say this for myself—I do know + when I like a thing and when I don’t. Some people are the same about + pictures. They can go into a picture gallery—Miss Conder can—and + say straight off what they feel, all round the wall. I never could do + that. But music is so different from pictures, to my mind. When it comes + to music I am as safe as houses, and I assure you, Tibby, I am by no means + pleased by everything. There was a thing—something about a faun in + French—which Helen went into ecstasies over, but I thought it most + tinkling and superficial, and said so, and I held to my opinion too.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you agree?” asked Margaret. “Do you think music is so different from + pictures?” + </p> + <p> + “I—I should have thought so, kind of,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “So should I. Now, my sister declares they’re just the same. We have great + arguments over it. She says I’m dense; I say she’s sloppy.” Getting under + way, she cried: “Now, doesn’t it seem absurd to you? What is the good of + the Arts if they’re interchangeable? What is the good of the ear if it + tells you the same as the eye? Helen’s one aim is to translate tunes into + the language of painting, and pictures into the language of music. It’s + very ingenious, and she says several pretty things in the process, but + what’s gained, I’d like to know? Oh, it’s all rubbish, radically false. If + Monet’s really Debussy, and Debussy’s really Monet, neither gentleman is + worth his salt—that’s my opinion.” + </p> + <p> + Evidently these sisters quarrelled. + </p> + <p> + “Now, this very symphony that we’ve just been having—she won’t let + it alone. She labels it with meanings from start to finish; turns it into + literature. I wonder if the day will ever return when music will be + treated as music. Yet I don’t know. There’s my brother—behind us. He + treats music as music, and oh, my goodness! He makes me angrier than any + one, simply furious. With him I daren’t even argue.” + </p> + <p> + An unhappy family, if talented. + </p> + <p> + “But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has done more than any man + in the nineteenth century towards the muddling of the arts. I do feel that + music is in a very serious state just now, though extraordinarily + interesting. Every now and then in history there do come these terrible + geniuses, like Wagner, who stir up all the wells of thought at once. For a + moment it’s splendid. Such a splash as never was. But afterwards—such + a lot of mud; and the wells—as it were, they communicate with each + other too easily now, and not one of them will run quite clear. That’s + what Wagner’s done.” + </p> + <p> + Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like birds. If only he + could talk like this, he would have caught the world. Oh, to acquire + culture! Oh, to pronounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well + informed, discoursing at ease on every subject that a lady started! But it + would take one years. With an hour at lunch and a few shattered hours in + the evening, how was it possible to catch up with leisured women, who had + been reading steadily from childhood? His brain might be full of names, he + might have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the trouble was that he could + not string them together into a sentence, he could not make them “tell,” + he could not quite forget about his stolen umbrella. Yes, the umbrella was + the real trouble. Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella persisted, with + the steady beat of a drum. “I suppose my umbrella will be all right,” he + was thinking. “I don’t really mind about it. I will think about music + instead. I suppose my umbrella will be all right.” Earlier in the + afternoon he had worried about seats. Ought he to have paid as much as two + shillings? Earlier still he had wondered, “Shall I try to do without a + programme?” There had always been something to worry him ever since he + could remember, always something that distracted him in the pursuit of + beauty. For he did pursue beauty, and, therefore, Margaret’s speeches did + flutter away from him like birds. + </p> + <p> + Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, “Don’t you think so? don’t you + feel the same?” And once she stopped, and said, “Oh, do interrupt me!” + which terrified him. She did not attract him, though she filled him with + awe. Her figure was meagre, her face seemed all teeth and eyes, her + references to her sister and her brother were uncharitable. For all her + cleverness and culture, she was probably one of those soulless, + atheistical women who have been so shown up by Miss Corelli. It was + surprising (and alarming) that she should suddenly say, “I do hope that + you’ll come in and have some tea. We should be so glad. I have dragged you + so far out of your way.” + </p> + <p> + They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, and the backwater, in + deep shadow, was filling with a gentle haze. To the right the fantastic + sky-line of the flats towered black against the hues of evening; to the + left the older houses raised a square-cut, irregular parapet against the + grey. Margaret fumbled for her latch-key. Of course she had forgotten it. + So, grasping her umbrella by its ferrule, she leant over the area and + tapped at the dining-room window. + </p> + <p> + “Helen! Let us in!” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said a voice. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been taking this gentleman’s umbrella.” + </p> + <p> + “Taken a what?” said Helen, opening the door. “Oh, what’s that? Do come + in! How do you do?” + </p> + <p> + “Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took this gentleman’s umbrella + away from Queen’s Hall, and he has had the trouble of coming round for + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I am so sorry!” cried Helen, all her hair flying. She had pulled off + her hat as soon as she returned, and had flung herself into the big + dining-room chair. “I do nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! + Do come in and choose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? Mine’s a nobbly—at + least, I THINK it is.” + </p> + <p> + The light was turned on, and they began to search the hall, Helen, who had + abruptly parted with the Fifth Symphony, commenting with shrill little + cries. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman’s silk top-hat. Yes, she + did, Aunt Juley. It is a positive fact. She thought it was a muff. Oh, + heavens! I’ve knocked the In-and-Out card down. Where’s Frieda? Tibby, why + don’t you ever—No, I can’t remember what I was going to say. That + wasn’t it, but do tell the maids to hurry tea up. What about this + umbrella?” She opened it. “No, it’s all gone along the seams. It’s an + appalling umbrella. It must be mine.” + </p> + <p> + But it was not. + </p> + <p> + He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks, and then fled, with + the lilting step of the clerk. + </p> + <p> + “But if you will stop—” cried Margaret. “Now, Helen, how stupid + you’ve been!” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever have I done?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you see that you’ve frightened him away? I meant him to stop to + tea. You oughtn’t to talk about stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw + his nice eyes getting so miserable. No, it’s not a bit of good now.” For + Helen had darted out into the street, shouting, “Oh, do stop!” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say it is all for the best,” opined Mrs. Munt. “We know nothing + about the young man, Margaret, and your drawing-room is full of very + tempting little things.” + </p> + <p> + But Helen cried: “Aunt Juley, how can you! You make me more and more + ashamed. I’d rather he had been a thief and taken all the apostle spoons + than that I—Well, I must shut the front-door, I suppose. One more + failure for Helen.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as rent,” said Margaret. + Seeing that her aunt did not understand, she added: “You remember ‘rent’? + It was one of father’s words—Rent to the ideal, to his own faith in + human nature. You remember how he would trust strangers, and if they + fooled him he would say, ‘It’s better to be fooled than to be suspicious’—that + the confidence trick is the work of man, but the want-of-confidence trick + is the work of the devil.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember something of the sort now,” said Mrs. Munt, rather tartly, for + she longed to add, “It was lucky that your father married a wife with + money.” But this was unkind, and she contented herself with, “Why, he + might have stolen the little Ricketts picture as well.” + </p> + <p> + “Better that he had,” said Helen stoutly. + </p> + <p> + “No, I agree with Aunt Juley,” said Margaret. “I’d rather mistrust people + than lose my little Ricketts. There are limits.” + </p> + <p> + Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, had stolen upstairs to + see whether there were scones for tea. He warmed the teapot—almost + too deftly—rejected the orange pekoe that the parlour-maid had + provided, poured in five spoonfuls of a superior blend, filled up with + really boiling water, and now called to the ladies to be quick or they + would lose the aroma. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Auntie Tibby,” called Helen, while Margaret, thoughtful again, + said: “In a way, I wish we had a real boy in the house—the kind of + boy who cares for men. It would make entertaining so much easier.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I,” said her sister. “Tibby only cares for cultured females singing + Brahms.” And when they joined him she said rather sharply: “Why didn’t you + make that young man welcome, Tibby? You must do the host a little, you + know. You ought to have taken his hat and coaxed him into stopping, + instead of letting him be swamped by screaming women.” + </p> + <p> + Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s no good looking superior. I mean what I say.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave Tibby alone!” said Margaret, who could not bear her brother to be + scolded. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s the house a regular hen-coop!” grumbled Helen. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dear!” protested Mrs. Munt. “How can you say such dreadful things! + The number of men you get here has always astonished me. If there is any + danger it’s the other way round.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but it’s the wrong sort of men, Helen means.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t,” corrected Helen. “We get the right sort of man, but the + wrong side of him, and I say that’s Tibby’s fault. There ought to be a + something about the house—an—I don’t know what.” + </p> + <p> + “A touch of the W’s, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + Helen put out her tongue. + </p> + <p> + “Who are the W’s?” asked Tibby. + </p> + <p> + “The W’s are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley know about and you don’t, so + there!” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose that ours is a female house,” said Margaret, “and one must just + accept it. No, Aunt Juley, I don’t mean that this house is full of women. + I am trying to say something much more clever. I mean that it was + irrevocably feminine, even in father’s time. Now I’m sure you understand! + Well, I’ll give you another example. It’ll shock you, but I don’t care. + Suppose Queen Victoria gave a dinner-party, and that the guests had been + Leighton, Millais, Swinburne, Rossetti, Meredith, Fitzgerald, etc. Do you + suppose that the atmosphere of that dinner would have been artistic? + Heavens, no! The very chairs on which they sat would have seen to that. So + with our house—it must be feminine, and all we can do is to see that + it isn’t effeminate. Just as another house that I can mention, but won’t, + sounded irrevocably masculine, and all its inmates can do is to see that + it isn’t brutal.” + </p> + <p> + “That house being the W’s house, I presume,” said Tibby. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not going to be told about the W’s, my child,” Helen cried, “so + don’t you think it. And on the other hand, I don’t the least mind if you + find out, so don’t you think you’ve done anything clever, in either case. + Give me a cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + “You do what you can for the house,” said Margaret. “The drawing-room + reeks of smoke.” + </p> + <p> + “If you smoked too, the house might suddenly turn masculine. Atmosphere is + probably a question of touch and go. Even at Queen Victoria’s dinner-party—if + something had been just a little Different—perhaps if she’d worn a + clinging Liberty tea-gown instead of a magenta satin.” + </p> + <p> + “With an India shawl over her shoulders—” + </p> + <p> + “Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin.” + </p> + <p> + Bursts of disloyal laughter—you must remember that they are half + German—greeted these suggestions, and Margaret said pensively, “How + inconceivable it would be if the Royal Family cared about Art.” And the + conversation drifted away and away, and Helen’s cigarette turned to a spot + in the darkness, and the great flats opposite were sown with lighted + windows which vanished and were relit again, and vanished incessantly. + Beyond them the thoroughfare roared gently—a tide that could never + be quiet, while in the east, invisible behind the smokes of Wapping, the + moon was rising. + </p> + <p> + “That reminds me, Margaret. We might have taken that young man into the + dining-room, at all events. Only the majolica plate—and that is so + firmly set in the wall. I am really distressed that he had no tea.” + </p> + <p> + For that little incident had impressed the three women more than might be + supposed. It remained as a goblin footfall, as a hint that all is not for + the best in the best of all possible worlds, and that beneath these + superstructures of wealth and art there wanders an ill-fed boy, who has + recovered his umbrella indeed, but who has left no address behind him, and + no name. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + WE are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable and only to + be approached by the statistician or the poet. This story deals with + gentlefolk, or with those who are obliged to pretend that they are + gentlefolk. + </p> + <p> + The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of gentility. He was not + in the abyss, but he could see it, and at times people whom he knew had + dropped in, and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, and would admit + it; he would have died sooner than confess any inferiority to the rich. + This may be splendid of him. But he was inferior to most rich people, + there is not the least doubt of it. He was not as courteous as the average + rich man, nor as intelligent, nor as healthy, nor as lovable. His mind and + his body had been alike underfed, because he was poor, and because he was + modern they were always craving better food. Had he lived some centuries + ago, in the brightly coloured civilisations of the past, he would have had + a definite status, his rank and his income would have corresponded. But in + his day the angel of Democracy had arisen, enshadowing the classes with + leathern wings, and proclaiming, “All men are equal—all men, that is + to say, who possess umbrellas,” and so he was obliged to assert gentility, + lest he slip into the abyss where nothing counts, and the statements of + Democracy are inaudible. + </p> + <p> + As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care was to prove that he + was as good as the Miss Schlegels. Obscurely wounded in his pride, he + tried to wound them in return. They were probably not ladies. Would real + ladies have asked him to tea? They were certainly ill-natured and cold. At + each step his feeling of superiority increased. Would a real lady have + talked about stealing an umbrella? Perhaps they were thieves after all, + and if he had gone into the house they would have clapped a chloroformed + handkerchief over his face. He walked on complacently as far as the Houses + of Parliament. There an empty stomach asserted itself, and told him that + he was a fool. + </p> + <p> + “Evening, Mr. Bast.” + </p> + <p> + “Evening, Mr. Dealtry.” + </p> + <p> + “Nice evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Evening.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard stood wondering + whether he would take the tram as far as a penny would take him, or + whether he would walk. He decided to walk—it is no good giving in, + and he had spent money enough at Queen’s Hall—and he walked over + Westminster Bridge, in front of St. Thomas’s Hospital, and through the + immense tunnel that passes under the South-Western main line at Vauxhall. + In the tunnel he paused and listened to the roar of the trains. A sharp + pain darted through his head, and he was conscious of the exact form of + his eye sockets. He pushed on for another mile, and did not slacken speed + until he stood at the entrance of a road called Camelia Road which was at + present his home. + </p> + <p> + Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to right and left, like a + rabbit that is going to bolt into its hole. A block of flats, constructed + with extreme cheapness, towered on either hand. Farther down the road two + more blocks were being built, and beyond these an old house was being + demolished to accommodate another pair. It was the kind of scene that may + be observed all over London, whatever the locality—bricks and mortar + rising and falling with the restlessness of the water in a fountain as the + city receives more and more men upon her soil. Camelia Road would soon + stand out like a fortress, and command, for a little, an extensive view. + Only for a little. Plans were out for the erection of flats in Magnolia + Road also. And again a few years, and all the flats in either road might + be pulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at present unimaginable, + might arise where they had fallen. + </p> + <p> + “Evening, Mr. Bast.” + </p> + <p> + “Evening, Mr. Cunningham.” + </p> + <p> + “Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon?” + </p> + <p> + “Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester,” + repeated Mr. Cunningham, tapping the Sunday paper, in which the calamity + in question had just been announced to him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, yes,” said Leonard, who was not going to let on that he had not + bought a Sunday paper. + </p> + <p> + “If this kind of thing goes on the population of England will be + stationary in 1960.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t say so.” + </p> + <p> + “I call it a very serious thing, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-evening, Mr. Bast.” + </p> + <p> + Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and turned, not upstairs, but + down, into what is known to house agents as a semi-basement, and to other + men as a cellar. He opened the door, and cried, “Hullo!” with the pseudo + geniality of the Cockney. There was no reply. “Hullo!” he repeated. The + sitting-room was empty, though the electric light had been left burning. A + look of relief came over his face, and he flung himself into the armchair. + </p> + <p> + The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair, two other chairs, a + piano, a three-legged table, and a cosy corner. Of the walls, one was + occupied by the window, the other by a draped mantelshelf bristling with + Cupids. Opposite the window was the door, and beside the door a bookcase, + while over the piano there extended one of the masterpieces of Maud + Goodman. It was an amorous and not unpleasant little hole when the + curtains were drawn, and the lights turned on, and the gas-stove unlit. + But it struck that shallow makeshift note that is so often heard in the + dwelling-place. It had been too easily gained, and could be relinquished + too easily. + </p> + <p> + As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred the three-legged table, and + a photograph frame, honourably poised upon it, slid sideways, fell off + into the fireplace, and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of way, and + picked the photograph up. It represented a young lady called Jacky, and + had been taken at the time when young ladies called Jacky were often + photographed with their mouths open. Teeth of dazzling whiteness extended + along either of Jacky’s jaws, and positively weighed her head sideways, + so large were they and so numerous. Take my word for it, that smile was + simply stunning, and it is only you and I who will be fastidious, and + complain that true joy begins in the eyes, and that the eyes of Jacky did + not accord with her smile, but were anxious and hungry. + </p> + <p> + Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, and cut his fingers and + swore again. A drop of blood fell on the frame, another followed, spilling + over on to the exposed photograph. He swore more vigorously, and dashed + into the kitchen, where he bathed his hands. The kitchen was the same size + as the sitting-room; beyond it was a bedroom. This completed his home. He + was renting the flat furnished; of all the objects that encumbered it none + were his own except the photograph frame, the Cupids, and the books. + </p> + <p> + “Damn, damn, damnation!” he murmured, together with such other words as he + had learnt from older men. Then he raised his hand to his forehead and + said, “Oh, damn it all—” which meant something different. He pulled + himself together. He drank a little tea, black and silent, that still + survived upon an upper shelf. He swallowed some dusty crumbs of a cake. + Then he went back to the sitting-room, settled himself anew, and began to + read a volume of Ruskin. + </p> + <p> + “Seven miles to the north of Venice—” + </p> + <p> + How perfectly the famous chapter opens! How supreme its command of + admonition and of poetry! The rich man is speaking to us from his gondola. + </p> + <p> + “Seven miles to the north of Venice the banks of sand which nearer the + city rise little above low-water mark attain by degrees a higher level, + and knit themselves at last into fields of salt morass, raised here and + there into shapeless mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks of sea.” + </p> + <p> + Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin; he understood him to be + the greatest master of English Prose. He read forward steadily, + occasionally making a few notes. + </p> + <p> + “Let us consider a little each of these characters in succession, and + first (for of the shafts enough has been said already), what is very + peculiar to this church—its luminousness.” + </p> + <p> + Was there anything to be learnt from this fine sentence? Could he adapt it + to the needs of daily life? Could he introduce it, with modifications, + when he next wrote a letter to his brother, the lay-reader? For example: + </p> + <p> + “Let us consider a little each of these characters in succession, and + first (for of the absence of ventilation enough has been said already), + what is very peculiar to this flat—its obscurity.” + </p> + <p> + Something told him that the modifications would not do; and that + something, had he known it, was the spirit of English Prose. “My flat is + dark as well as stuffy.” Those were the words for him. + </p> + <p> + And the voice in the gondola rolled on, piping melodiously of Effort and + Self-Sacrifice, full of high purpose, full of beauty, full even of + sympathy and the love of men, yet somehow eluding all that was actual and + insistent in Leonard’s life. For it was the voice of one who had never + been dirty or hungry, and had not guessed successfully what dirt and + hunger are. + </p> + <p> + Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that he was being done good + to, and that if he kept on with Ruskin, and the Queen’s Hall Concerts, and + some pictures by Watts, he would one day push his head out of the grey + waters and see the universe. He believed in sudden conversion, a belief + which may be right, but which is peculiarly attractive to a half-baked + mind. It is the basis of much popular religion; in the domain of business + it dominates the Stock Exchange, and becomes that “bit of luck” by which + all successes and failures are explained. “If only I had a bit of luck, + the whole thing would come straight... He’s got a most magnificent place + down at Streatham and a 20 h.p. Fiat, but then, mind you, he’s had luck... + I’m sorry the wife’s so late, but she never has any luck over catching + trains.” Leonard was superior to these people; he did believe in effort + and in a steady preparation for the change that he desired. But of a + heritage that may expand gradually, he had no conception; he hoped to come + to Culture suddenly, much as the Revivalist hopes to come to Jesus. Those + Miss Schlegels had come to it; they had done the trick; their hands were + upon the ropes, once and for all. And meanwhile, his flat was dark, as + well as stuffy. + </p> + <p> + Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut up Margaret’s card + in the pages of Ruskin, and opened the door. A woman entered, of whom it + is simplest to say that she was not respectable. Her appearance was + awesome. She seemed all strings and bell-pulls—ribbons, chains, bead + necklaces that clinked and caught and a boa of azure feathers hung round + her neck, with the ends uneven. Her throat was bare, wound with a double + row of pearls, her arms were bare to the elbows, and might again be + detected at the shoulder, through cheap lace. Her hat, which was flowery, + resembled those punnets, covered with flannel, which we sowed with mustard + and cress in our childhood, and which germinated here yes, and there no. + She wore it on the back of her head. As for her hair, or rather hairs, + they are too complicated to describe, but one system went down her back, + lying in a thick pad there, while another, created for a lighter destiny, + rippled around her forehead. The face—the face does not signify. It + was the face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were not so + numerous as the photographer had suggested, and certainly not so white. + Yes, Jacky was past her prime, whatever that prime may have been. She was + descending quicker than most women into the colourless years, and the look + in her eyes confessed it. + </p> + <p> + “What ho!” said Leonard, greeting the apparition with much spirit, and + helping it off with its boa. + </p> + <p> + Jacky, in husky tones, replied, “What ho!” + </p> + <p> + “Been out?” he asked. The question sounds superfluous, but it cannot have + been really, for the lady answered, “No,” adding, “Oh, I am so tired.” + </p> + <p> + “You tired?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m tired,” said he, hanging the boa up. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Len, I am so tired.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been to that classical concert I told you about,” said Leonard. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “I came back as soon as it was over.” + </p> + <p> + “Any one been round to our place?” asked Jacky. + </p> + <p> + “Not that I’ve seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, and we passed a few + remarks.” + </p> + <p> + “What, not Mr. Cunningham?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Mr. Cunningham.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been out to tea at a lady friend’s.” + </p> + <p> + Her secret being at last given—to the world, and the name of the + lady friend being even adumbrated, Jacky made no further experiments in + the difficult and tiring art of conversation. She never had been a great + talker. Even in her photographic days she had relied upon her smile and + her figure to attract, and now that she was + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “On the shelf, + On the shelf, + Boys, boys, I’m on the shelf,” + </pre> + <p> + she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts of song (of which + the above is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word + was rare. + </p> + <p> + She sat down on Leonard’s knee, and began to fondle him. She was now a + massive woman of thirty-three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not + very well say anything. Then she said, “Is that a book you’re reading?” + and he said, “That’s a book,” and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. + Margaret’s card fell out of it. It fell face downwards, and he murmured, + “Bookmarker.” + </p> + <p> + “Len—” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of + conversation when she sat upon his knee. + </p> + <p> + “You do love me?” + </p> + <p> + “Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!” + </p> + <p> + “But you do love me, Len, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do.” + </p> + <p> + A pause. The other remark was still due. + </p> + <p> + “Len—” + </p> + <p> + “Well? What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Len, you will make it all right?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t have you ask me that again,” said the boy, flaring up into a + sudden passion. “I’ve promised to marry you when I’m of age, and that’s + enough. My word’s my word. I’ve promised to marry you as soon as ever I’m + twenty-one, and I can’t keep on being worried. I’ve worries enough. It + isn’t likely I’d throw you over, let alone my word, when I’ve spent all + this money. Besides, I’m an Englishman, and I never go back on my word. + Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course I’ll marry you. Only do stop badgering + me.” + </p> + <p> + “When’s your birthday, Len?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve told you again and again, the eleventh of November next. Now get off + my knee a bit; some one must get supper, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see to her hat. This meant + blowing at it with short sharp puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, + and began to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into the slot of + the gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking with metallic fumes. Somehow + he could not recover his temper, and all the time he was cooking he + continued to complain bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “It really is too bad when a fellow isn’t trusted. It makes one feel so + wild, when I’ve pretended to the people here that you’re my wife—all + right, all right, you SHALL be my wife—and I’ve bought you the ring + to wear, and I’ve taken this flat furnished, and it’s far more than I can + afford, and yet you aren’t content, and I’ve also not told the truth when + I’ve written home.” He lowered his voice. “He’d stop it.” In a tone of + horror, that was a little luxurious, he repeated: “My brother’d stop it. + I’m going against the whole world, Jacky. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I am, Jacky. I don’t take any heed of what any one says. I + just go straight forward, I do. That’s always been my way. I’m not one of + your weak knock-kneed chaps. If a woman’s in trouble, I don’t leave her in + the lurch. That’s not my street. No, thank you. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal about improving + myself by means of Literature and Art, and so getting a wider outlook. For + instance, when you came in I was reading Ruskin’s Stones of Venice. I + don’t say this to boast, but just to show you the kind of man I am. I can + tell you, I enjoyed that classical concert this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent. When supper was ready—and + not before—she emerged from the bedroom, saying: “But you do love + me, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + They began with a soup square, which Leonard had just dissolved in some + hot water. It was followed by the tongue—a freckled cylinder of + meat, with a little jelly at the top, and a great deal of yellow fat at + the bottom—ending with another square dissolved in water (jelly: + pineapple), which Leonard had prepared earlier in the day. Jacky ate + contentedly enough, occasionally looking at her man with those anxious + eyes, to which nothing else in her appearance corresponded, and which yet + seemed to mirror her soul. And Leonard managed to convince his stomach + that it was having a nourishing meal. + </p> + <p> + After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged a few statements. She + observed that her “likeness” had been broken. He found occasion to remark, + for the second time, that he had come straight back home after the concert + at Queen’s Hall. Presently she sat upon his knee. The inhabitants of + Camelia Road tramped to and fro outside the window, just on a level with + their heads, and the family in the flat on the ground-floor began to sing, + “Hark, my soul, it is the Lord.” + </p> + <p> + “That tune fairly gives me the hump,” said Leonard. + </p> + <p> + Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she thought it a lovely + tune. + </p> + <p> + “No; I’ll play you something lovely. Get up, dear, for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg. He played badly and + vulgarly, but the performance was not without its effect, for Jacky said + she thought she’d be going to bed. As she receded, a new set of interests + possessed the boy, and he began to think of what had been said about music + by that odd Miss Schlegel—the one that twisted her face about so + when she spoke. Then the thoughts grew sad and envious. There was the girl + named Helen, who had pinched his umbrella, and the German girl who had + smiled at him pleasantly, and Herr some one, and Aunt some one, and the + brother—all, all with their hands on the ropes. They had all passed + up that narrow, rich staircase at Wickham Place to some ample room, + whither he could never follow them, not if he read for ten hours a day. + Oh, it was no good, this continual aspiration. Some are born cultured; the + rest had better go in for whatever comes easy. To see life steadily and to + see it whole was not for the likes of him. + </p> + <p> + From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called, “Len?” + </p> + <p> + “You in bed?” he asked, his forehead twitching. + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + Presently she called him again. + </p> + <p> + “I must clean my boots ready for the morning,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + Presently she called him again. + </p> + <p> + “I rather want to get this chapter done.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + He closed his ears against her. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “All right, Jacky, nothing; I’m reading a book.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” he answered, catching her degraded deafness. + </p> + <p> + Presently she called him again. + </p> + <p> + Ruskin had visited Torcello by this time, and was ordering his gondoliers + to take him to Murano. It occurred to him, as he glided over the + whispering lagoons, that the power of Nature could not be shortened by the + folly, nor her beauty altogether saddened by the misery of such as + Leonard. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret,” cried her aunt next morning, “such a most unfortunate + thing has happened. I could not get you alone.” + </p> + <p> + The most unfortunate thing was not very serious. One of the flats in the + ornate block opposite had been taken furnished by the Wilcox family, + “coming up, no doubt, in the hope of getting into London society.” That + Mrs. Munt should be the first to discover the misfortune was not + remarkable, for she was so interested in the flats, that she watched their + every mutation with unwearying care. In theory she despised them—they + took away that old-world look—they cut off the sun—flats house + a flashy type of person. But if the truth had been known, she found her + visits to Wickham Place twice as amusing since Wickham Mansions had + arisen, and would in a couple of days learn more about them than her + nieces in a couple of months, or her nephew in a couple of years. She + would stroll across and make friends with the porters, and inquire what + the rents were, exclaiming for example: “What! a hundred and twenty for a + basement? You’ll never get it!” And they would answer: “One can but try, + madam.” The passenger lifts, the arrangement for coals (a great temptation + for a dishonest porter), were all familiar matters to her, and perhaps a + relief from the politico-economical-esthetic atmosphere that reigned at + the Schlegels. + </p> + <p> + Margaret received the information calmly, and did not agree that it would + throw a cloud over poor Helen’s life. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but Helen isn’t a girl with no interests,” she explained. “She has + plenty of other things and other people to think about. She made a false + start with the Wilcoxes, and she’ll be as willing as we are to have + nothing more to do with them.” + </p> + <p> + “For a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk. Helen’ll HAVE to + have something more to do with them, now that they’re all opposite. She + may meet that Paul in the street. She cannot very well not bow.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course she must bow. But look here; let’s do the flowers. I was going + to say, the will to be interested in him has died, and what else matters? + I look on that disastrous episode (over which you were so kind) as the + killing of a nerve in Helen. It’s dead, and she’ll never be troubled with + it again. The only things that matter are the things that interest one. + Bowing, even calling and leaving cards, even a dinner-party—we can + do all those things to the Wilcoxes, if they find it agreeable; but the + other thing, the one important thing—never again. Don’t you see?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was making a most questionable + statement—that any emotion, any interest once vividly aroused, can + wholly die. + </p> + <p> + “I also have the honour to inform you that the Wilcoxes are bored with us. + I didn’t tell you at the time—it might have made you angry, and you + had enough to worry you—but I wrote a letter to Mrs. W, and + apologised for the trouble that Helen had given them. She didn’t answer + it.” + </p> + <p> + “How very rude!” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder. Or was it sensible?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Margaret, most rude.” + </p> + <p> + “In either case one can class it as reassuring.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage on the morrow, just as her + nieces were wanting her most. Other regrets crowded upon her: for + instance, how magnificently she would have cut Charles if she had met him + face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order to the porter—and + very common he looked in a tall hat. But unfortunately his back was turned + to her, and though she had cut his back, she could not regard this as a + telling snub. + </p> + <p> + “But you will be careful, won’t you?” she exhorted. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful.” + </p> + <p> + “And Helen must be careful, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Careful over what?” cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room with + her cousin. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing” said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. + </p> + <p> + “Careful over what, Aunt Juley?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. “It is only that a certain family, whom + we know by name but do not mention, as you said yourself last night after + the concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons—where + the plants are in the balcony.” + </p> + <p> + Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by + blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, “What, Helen, + you don’t mind them coming, do you?” and deepened the blush to crimson. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I don’t mind,” said Helen a little crossly. “It is that you and + Meg are both so absurdly grave about it, when there’s nothing to be grave + about at all.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not grave,” protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. + </p> + <p> + “Well, you look grave; doesn’t she, Frieda?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t feel grave, that’s all I can say; you’re going quite on the wrong + tack.” + </p> + <p> + “No, she does not feel grave,” echoed Mrs. Munt. “I can bear witness to + that. She disagrees—” + </p> + <p> + “Hark!” interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. “I hear Bruno entering the hall.” + </p> + <p> + For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call for the two younger + girls. He was not entering the hall—in fact, he did not enter it for + quite five minutes. But Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said + that she and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave + Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. + But, as if to prove that the situation was not delicate really, she + stopped in the doorway and said: + </p> + <p> + “Did you say the Mathesons’ flat, Aunt Juley? How wonderful you are! I + never knew that the name of the woman who laced too tightly was Matheson.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Helen,” said her cousin. + </p> + <p> + “Go, Helen,” said her aunt; and continued to Margaret almost in the same + breath: “Helen cannot deceive me. She does mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hush!” breathed Margaret. “Frieda’ll hear you, and she can be so + tiresome.” + </p> + <p> + “She minds,” persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thoughtfully about the room, and + pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of the vases. “I knew she’d mind—and + I’m sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful coarse-grained + people! I know more about them than you do, which you forget, and if + Charles had taken you that motor drive—well, you’d have reached the + house a perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don’t know what you are in for! + They’re all bottled up against the drawing-room window. There’s Mrs. + Wilcox—I’ve seen her. There’s Paul. There’s Evie, who is a minx. + There’s Charles—I saw him to start with. And who would an elderly + man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wilcox, possibly.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew it. And there’s Mr. Wilcox.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a shame to call his face copper colour,” complained Margaret. “He + has a remarkably good complexion for a man of his age.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to concede Mr. Wilcox his + complexion. She passed on from it to the plan of campaign that her nieces + should pursue in the future. Margaret tried to stop her. + </p> + <p> + “Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but the Wilcox nerve is + dead in her really, so there’s no need for plans.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s as well to be prepared.” + </p> + <p> + “No—it’s as well not to be prepared.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—” + </p> + <p> + Her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. She could not explain + in so many words, but she felt that those who prepare for all the + emergencies of life beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of joy. + It is necessary to prepare for an examination, or a dinner-party, or a + possible fall in the price of stock: those who attempt human relations + must adopt another method, or fail. “Because I’d sooner risk it,” was her + lame conclusion. + </p> + <p> + “But imagine the evenings,” exclaimed her aunt, pointing to the Mansions + with the spout of the watering can. “Turn the electric light on here or + there, and it’s almost the same room. One evening they may forget to draw + their blinds down, and you’ll see them; and the next, you yours, and + they’ll see you. Impossible to sit out on the balconies. Impossible to + water the plants, or even speak. Imagine going out of the front-door, and + they come out opposite at the same moment. And yet you tell me that plans + are unnecessary, and you’d rather risk it.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope to risk things all my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Margaret, most dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “But after all,” she continued with a smile, “there’s never any great risk + as long as you have money.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, shame! What a shocking speech!” + </p> + <p> + “Money pads the edges of things,” said Miss Schlegel. “God help those who + have none.” + </p> + <p> + “But this is something quite new!” said Mrs. Munt, who collected new ideas + as a squirrel collects nuts, and was especially attracted by those that + are portable. + </p> + <p> + “New for me; sensible people have acknowledged it for years. You and I and + the Wilcoxes stand upon money as upon islands. It is so firm beneath our + feet that we forget its very existence. It’s only when we see some one + near us tottering that we realise all that an independent income means. + Last night, when we were talking up here round the fire, I began to think + that the very soul of the world is economic, and that the lowest abyss is + not the absence of love, but the absence of coin.” + </p> + <p> + “I call that rather cynical.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I. But Helen and I, we ought to remember, when we are tempted to + criticise others, that we are standing on these islands, and that most of + the others are down below the surface of the sea. The poor cannot always + reach those whom they want to love, and they can hardly ever escape from + those whom they love no longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last + June, if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people, and couldn’t invoke + railways and motor-cars to part them.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s more like Socialism,” said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “Call it what you like. I call it going through life with one’s hand + spread open on the table. I’m tired of these rich people who pretend to be + poor, and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that + keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred + pounds, and Helen upon the same, and Tibby will stand upon eight, and as + fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea they are renewed—from + the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of + six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and because we don’t want to + steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the sea people do want to + steal them and do steal them sometimes, and that what’s a joke up here is + down there reality.” + </p> + <p> + “There they go—there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Really, for a German + she does dress charmingly. Oh!—” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes’ flat.” + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about + reality?” + </p> + <p> + “I had worked round to myself, as usual,” answered Margaret in tones that + were suddenly preoccupied. + </p> + <p> + “Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?” + </p> + <p> + “Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For + riches. Hurrah for riches!” + </p> + <p> + “For riches!” echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her + nut. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. For riches. Money for ever!” + </p> + <p> + “So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, + but I am surprised that you agree with us.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have + done the flowers.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important + things.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round with me to the + registry office? There’s a housemaid who won’t say yes but doesn’t say + no.” + </p> + <p> + On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes’ flat. Evie was in + the balcony, “staring most rudely,” according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was + a nuisance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against a passing + encounter, but—Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it reawake + the dying nerve if the family were living close against her eyes? And + Frieda Mosebach was stopping with them for another fortnight, and Frieda + was sharp, abominably sharp, and quite capable of remarking, “You love one + of the young gentlemen opposite, yes?” The remark would be untrue, but of + the kind which, if stated often enough, may become true; just as the + remark, “England and Germany are bound to fight,” renders war a little + more likely each time that it is made, and is therefore made the more + readily by the gutter press of either nation. Have the private emotions + also their gutter press? Margaret thought so, and feared that good Aunt + Juley and Frieda were typical specimens of it. They might, by continual + chatter, lead Helen into a repetition of the desires of June. Into a + repetition—they could not do more; they could not lead her into + lasting love. They were—she saw it clearly—Journalism; her + father, with all his defects and wrong-headedness, had been Literature, + and had he lived, he would have persuaded his daughter rightly. + </p> + <p> + The registry office was holding its morning reception. A string of + carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel waited her turn, and finally + had to be content with an insidious “temporary,” being rejected by genuine + housemaids on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure depressed + her, and though she forgot the failure, the depression remained. On her + way home she again glanced up at the Wilcoxes’ flat, and took the rather + matronly step of speaking about the matter to Helen. + </p> + <p> + “Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries you.” + </p> + <p> + “If what?” said Helen, who was washing her hands for lunch. + </p> + <p> + “The Ws’ coming.” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not.” + </p> + <p> + “Really?” + </p> + <p> + “Really.” Then she admitted that she was a little worried on Mrs. Wilcox’s + account; she implied that Mrs. Wilcox might reach backward into deep + feelings, and be pained by things that never touched the other members of + that clan. “I shan’t mind if Paul points at our house and says, ‘There + lives the girl who tried to catch me.’ But she might.” + </p> + <p> + “If even that worries you, we could arrange something. There’s no reason + we should be near people who displease us or whom we displease, thanks to + our money. We might even go away for a little.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I am going away. Frieda’s just asked me to Stettin, and I shan’t be + back till after the New Year. Will that do? Or must I fly the country + altogether? Really, Meg, what has come over you to make such a fuss?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’m getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I minded nothing, but + really I—I should be bored if you fell in love with the same man + twice and”—she cleared her throat—“you did go red, you know, + when Aunt Juley attacked you this morning. I shouldn’t have referred to it + otherwise.” + </p> + <p> + But Helen’s laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy hand to heaven and + swore that never, nowhere and nohow, would she again fall in love with any + of the Wilcox family, down to its remotest collaterals. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was to develop so + quickly and with such strange results, may perhaps have had its beginnings + at Speyer, in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the + vulgar, ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of her husband and + Helen, may have detected in the other and less charming of the sisters a + deeper sympathy, a sounder judgment. She was capable of detecting such + things. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss Schlegels to be + invited to Howards End, and Margaret whose presence she had particularly + desired. All this is speculation; Mrs. Wilcox has left few clear + indications behind her. It is certain that she came to call at Wickham + Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen was going with her cousin + to Stettin. + </p> + <p> + “Helen!” cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones (she was now in her + cousin’s confidence)—“his mother has forgiven you!” And then, + remembering that in England the new-comer ought not to call before she is + called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined that + Mrs. Wilcox was keine Dame. + </p> + <p> + “Bother the whole family!” snapped Margaret. “Helen, stop giggling and + pirouetting, and go and finish your packing. Why can’t the woman leave us + alone?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what I shall do with Meg,” Helen retorted, collapsing upon + the stairs. “She’s got Wilcox and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don’t + love the young gentleman; I don’t love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can + a body speak plainer?” + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly her love has died,” asserted Fraulein Mosebach. + </p> + <p> + “Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being + bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call.” + </p> + <p> + Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who thought her + extremely amusing, did the same. “Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg’s going to + return the call, and I can’t. ‘Cos why? ‘Cos I’m going to German-eye.” + </p> + <p> + “If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren’t, go and call on + the Wilcoxes instead of me.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Meg, Meg, I don’t love the young gentleman; I don’t love the young—O + lud, who’s that coming down the stairs? I vow ‘tis my brother. O crimini!” + </p> + <p> + A male—even such a male as Tibby—was enough to stop the + foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is + still high, and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister + all, and her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was + not prudishness, for she now spoke of “the Wilcox ideal” with laughter, + and even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom + repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the feeling + that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that, however trivial + it was on this side of the barrier, it would become important on that. So + she stopped, or rather began to fool on other subjects, until her + long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs. Fraulein Mosebach followed + her, but lingered to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, “It is + all right—she does not love the young man—he has not been + worthy of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know; thanks very much.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I did right to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ever so many thanks.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the + dining-room, to eat plums. + </p> + <p> + That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and + the fog—we are in November now—pressed against the windows + like an excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. + Tibby, who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. + Margaret sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, + and finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows + what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her + of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did act, + no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily as if + she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she wrote Mrs. + Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale cast of thought + was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath that leaves the + colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MRS. WILCOX, + </p> + <p> + “I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did not + meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, + and, in my sister’s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. So far + as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your son. But it would + not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and it is therefore + right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly, should end. + </p> + <p> + “I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will + not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an instinct + on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, + undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I + hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy. + </p> + <p> + “Believe me, + </p> + <p> + “Yours truly, + </p> + <p> + “M. J. SCHLEGEL.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received the + following reply by hand: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL, + </p> + <p> + “You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that + Paul has gone abroad. + </p> + <p> + “RUTH WILCOX.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret’s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on + fire with shame. Helen had told her that the youth was leaving England, + but other things had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All her + absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place arose the + certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Rudeness affected + Margaret like a bitter taste in the mouth. It poisoned life. At times it + is necessary, but woe to those who employ it without due need. She flung + on a hat and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the fog, + which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter remained in + her hand, and in this state she crossed the street, entered the marble + vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up the stairs till + she reached the second floor. She sent in her name, and to her surprise + was shown straight into Mrs. Wilcox’s bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am more, more ashamed + and sorry than I can say.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did not pretend to the + contrary. She was sitting up in bed, writing letters on an invalid table + that spanned her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. + The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of a + candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands combined to + create a strange atmosphere of dissolution. + </p> + <p> + “I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot.” + </p> + <p> + “He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew—I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much + ashamed.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to have come round so + promptly.” + </p> + <p> + “It does matter,” cried Margaret. “I have been rude to you; and my sister + is not even at home, so there was not even that excuse.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed?” + </p> + <p> + “She has just gone to Germany.” + </p> + <p> + “She gone as well,” murmured the other. “Yes, certainly, it is quite safe—safe, + absolutely, now.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been worrying too!” exclaimed Margaret, getting more and more + excited, and taking a chair without invitation. “How perfectly + extraordinary! I can see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn’t + meet him again.” + </p> + <p> + “I did think it best.” + </p> + <p> + “Now why?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a most difficult question,” said Mrs. Wilcox, smiling, and a + little losing her expression of annoyance. “I think you put it best in + your letter—it was an instinct, which may be wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t that your son still—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no; he often—my Paul is very young, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what was it?” + </p> + <p> + She repeated: “An instinct which may be wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “In other words, they belong to types that can fall in love, but couldn’t + live together. That’s dreadfully probable. I’m afraid that in nine cases + out of ten Nature pulls one way and human nature another.” + </p> + <p> + “These are indeed ‘other words,’” said Mrs. Wilcox. “I had nothing so + coherent in my head. I was merely alarmed when I knew that my boy cared + for your sister.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How DID you know? Helen was so + surprised when our aunt drove up, and you stepped forward and arranged + things. Did Paul tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to be gained by discussing that,” said Mrs. Wilcox after + a moment’s pause. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? I wrote you a letter + and you didn’t answer it.” + </p> + <p> + “I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson’s flat. I knew it was + opposite your house.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s all right now?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so.” + </p> + <p> + “You only think? You aren’t sure? I do love these little muddles tidied + up?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with uneasiness beneath the + clothes. “I always sound uncertain over things. It is my way of speaking.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right, and I’m sure, too.” + </p> + <p> + Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray. They were interrupted, + and when they resumed conversation it was on more normal lines. + </p> + <p> + “I must say good-bye now—you will be getting up.” + </p> + <p> + “No—please stop a little longer—I am taking a day in bed. Now + and then I do.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought of you as one of the early risers.” + </p> + <p> + “At Howards End—yes; there is nothing to get up for in London.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to get up for?” cried the scandalised Margaret. “When there are + all the autumn exhibitions, and Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to + mention people.” + </p> + <p> + “The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the wedding, and then Paul + went off, and, instead of resting yesterday, I paid a round of calls.” + </p> + <p> + “A wedding?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed!” + </p> + <p> + “We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that Paul could get + his African outfit. The flat belongs to a cousin of my husband’s, and she + most kindly offered it to us. So before the day came we were able to make + the acquaintance of Dolly’s people, which we had not yet done.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret asked who Dolly’s people were. + </p> + <p> + “Fussell. The father is in the Indian army—retired; the brother is + in the army. The mother is dead.” + </p> + <p> + So perhaps these were the “chinless sunburnt men” whom Helen had espied + one afternoon through the window. Margaret felt mildly interested in the + fortunes of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on Helen’s + account, and it still clung to her. She asked for more information about + Miss Dolly Fussell that was, and was given it in even, unemotional tones. + Mrs. Wilcox’s voice, though sweet and compelling, had little range of + expression. It suggested that pictures, concerts, and people are all of + small and equal value. Only once had it quickened—when speaking of + Howards End. + </p> + <p> + “Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another some time. They belong + to the same club, and are both devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf too, + though I believe not so well; and they first met in a mixed foursome. We + all like her, and are very much pleased. They were married on the 11th, a + few days before Paul sailed. Charles was very anxious to have his brother + as best man, so he made a great point of having it on the 11th. The + Fussells would have preferred it after Christmas, but they were very nice + about it. There is Dolly’s photograph—in that double frame.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you quite certain that I’m not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, quite.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I will stay. I’m enjoying this.” + </p> + <p> + Dolly’s photograph was now examined. It was signed “For dear Mims,” which + Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as “the name she and Charles had settled that she + should call me.” Dolly looked silly, and had one of those triangular faces + that so often prove attractive to a robust man. She was very pretty. From + her Margaret passed to Charles, whose features prevailed opposite. She + speculated on the forces that had drawn the two together till God parted + them. She found time to hope that they would be happy. + </p> + <p> + “They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon.” + </p> + <p> + “Lucky people!” + </p> + <p> + “I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t he care for travelling?” + </p> + <p> + “He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so. What he enjoys + most is a motor tour in England, and I think that would have carried the + day if the weather had not been so abominable. His father gave him a car + for a wedding present, which for the present is being stored at Howards + End.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you have a garage there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to the west of the + house, not far from the wych-elm, in what used to be the paddock for the + pony.” + </p> + <p> + The last words had an indescribable ring about them. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the pony gone?” asked Margaret after a pause. + </p> + <p> + “The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your sister tell you + about the teeth?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs’ teeth stuck into the trunk, + about four feet from the ground. The country people put them in long ago, + and they think that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the + toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to the + tree.” + </p> + <p> + “I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed in + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it did. It would cure anything—once.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I remember cases—you see I lived at Howards End long, + long before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there.” + </p> + <p> + The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed little more than + aimless chatter. She was interested when her hostess explained that + Howards End was her own property. She was bored when too minute an account + was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles concerning + Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in + Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew inattentive, + played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed Dolly’s glass, + apologised, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon, was pitied, and finally + said she must be going—there was all the housekeeping to do, and she + had to interview Tibby’s riding-master. + </p> + <p> + Then the curious note was struck again. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have cheered + me up.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m so glad!” + </p> + <p> + “I—I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I think of nothing else,” said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand + remain in that of the invalid. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg.” + </p> + <p> + “I’M sure!” + </p> + <p> + “I almost think—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” asked Margaret, for there was a long pause—a pause that was + somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp + upon their hands, the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and + eternal shadows. + </p> + <p> + “I almost think you forget you’re a girl.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. “I’m twenty-nine,” she + remarked. “That’s not so wildly girlish.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox smiled. + </p> + <p> + “What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?” + </p> + <p> + A shake of the head. “I only meant that I am fifty-one, and that to me + both of you—Read it all in some book or other; I cannot put things + clearly.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve got it—inexperience. I’m no better than Helen, you mean, + and yet I presume to advise her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word.” + </p> + <p> + “Inexperience,” repeated Margaret, in serious yet buoyant tones. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, I have everything to learn—absolutely everything—just + as much as Helen. Life’s very difficult and full of surprises. At all + events, I’ve got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go straight + ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember the submerged—well, + one can’t do all these things at once, worse luck, because they’re so + contradictory. It’s then that proportion comes in—to live by + proportion. Don’t BEGIN with proportion. Only prigs do that. Let + proportion come in as a last resource, when the better things have failed, + and a deadlock—Gracious me, I’ve started preaching!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly,” said Mrs. Wilcox, + withdrawing her hand into the deeper shadows. “It is just what I should + have liked to say about them myself.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret much information about + life. And Margaret, on the other hand, has made a fair show of modesty, + and has pretended to an inexperience that she certainly did not feel. She + had kept house for over ten years; she had entertained, almost with + distinction; she had brought up a charming sister, and was bringing up a + brother. Surely, if experience is attainable, she had attained it. Yet the + little luncheon-party that she gave in Mrs. Wilcox’s honour was not a + success. The new friend did not blend with the “one or two delightful + people” who had been asked to meet her, and the atmosphere was one of + polite bewilderment. Her tastes were simple, her knowledge of culture + slight, and she was not interested in the New English Art Club, nor in the + dividing-line between Journalism and Literature, which was started as a + conversational hare. The delightful people darted after it with cries of + joy, Margaret leading them, and not till the meal was half over did they + realise that the principal guest had taken no part in the chase. There was + no common topic. Mrs. Wilcox, whose life had been spent in the service of + husband and sons, had little to say to strangers who had never shared it, + and whose age was half her own. Clever talk alarmed her, and withered her + delicate imaginings; it was the social counterpart of a motor-car, all + jerks, and she was a wisp of hay, a flower. Twice she deplored the + weather, twice criticised the train service on the Great Northern Railway. + They vigorously assented, and rushed on, and when she inquired whether + there was any news of Helen, her hostess was too much occupied in placing + Rothenstein to answer. The question was repeated: “I hope that your sister + is safe in Germany by now.” Margaret checked herself and said, “Yes, thank + you; I heard on Tuesday.” But the demon of vociferation was in her, and + the next moment she was off again. + </p> + <p> + “Only on Tuesday, for they live right away at Stettin. Did you ever know + any one living at Stettin?” + </p> + <p> + “Never,” said Mrs. Wilcox gravely, while her neighbour, a young man low + down in the Education Office, began to discuss what people who lived at + Stettin ought to look like. Was there such a thing as Stettininity? + Margaret swept on. + </p> + <p> + “People at Stettin drop things into boats out of overhanging warehouses. + At least, our cousins do, but aren’t particularly rich. The town isn’t + interesting, except for a clock that rolls its eyes, and the view of the + Oder, which truly is something special. Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, you would love + the Oder! The river, or rather rivers—there seem to be dozens of + them—are intense blue, and the plain they run through an intensest + green.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view, Miss Schlegel.” + </p> + <p> + “So I say, but Helen, who will muddle things, says no, it’s like music. + The course of the Oder is to be like music. It’s obliged to remind her of + a symphonic poem. The part by the landing-stage is in B minor, if I + remember rightly, but lower down things get extremely mixed. There is a + slodgy theme in several keys at once, meaning mud-banks, and another for + the navigable canal, and the exit into the Baltic is in C sharp major, + pianissimo.” + </p> + <p> + “What do the overhanging warehouses make of that?” asked the man, + laughing. + </p> + <p> + “They make a great deal of it,” replied Margaret, unexpectedly rushing off + on a new track. “I think it’s affectation to compare the Oder to music, + and so do you, but the overhanging warehouses of Stettin take beauty + seriously, which we don’t, and the average Englishman doesn’t, and + despises all who do. Now don’t say ‘Germans have no taste,’ or I shall + scream. They haven’t. But—but—such a tremendous but!—they + take poetry seriously. They do take poetry seriously.” + </p> + <p> + “Is anything gained by that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes. The German is always on the lookout for beauty. He may miss it + through stupidity, or misinterpret it, but he is always asking beauty to + enter his life, and I believe that in the end it will come. At Heidelberg + I met a fat veterinary surgeon whose voice broke with sobs as he repeated + some mawkish poetry. So easy for me to laugh—I, who never repeat + poetry, good or bad, and cannot remember one fragment of verse to thrill + myself with. My blood boils—well, I’m half German, so put it down + to patriotism—when I listen to the tasteful contempt of the average + islander for things Teutonic, whether they’re Bocklin or my veterinary + surgeon. ‘Oh, Bocklin,’ they say; ‘he strains after beauty, he peoples + Nature with gods too consciously.’ Of course Bocklin strains, because he + wants something—beauty and all the other intangible gifts that are + floating about the world. So his landscapes don’t come off, and Leader’s + do.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not sure that I agree. Do you?” said he, turning to Mrs. Wilcox. + </p> + <p> + She replied: “I think Miss Schlegel puts everything splendidly;” and a + chill fell on the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nicer than that. It’s such a snub to be + told you put things splendidly.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not mean it as a snub. Your last speech interested me so much. + Generally people do not seem quite to like Germany. I have long wanted to + hear what is said on the other side.” + </p> + <p> + “The other side? Then you do disagree. Oh, good! Give us your side.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no side. But my husband”—her voice softened, the chill + increased—“has very little faith in the Continent, and our children + have all taken after him.” + </p> + <p> + “On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent is in bad form?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox had no idea; she paid little attention to grounds. She was not + intellectual, nor even alert, and it was odd that, all the same, she + should give the idea of greatness. Margaret, zigzagging with her friends + over Thought and Art, was conscious of a personality that transcended + their own and dwarfed their activities. There was no bitterness in Mrs. + Wilcox; there was not even criticism; she was lovable, and no ungracious + or uncharitable word had passed her lips. Yet she and daily life were out + of focus; one or the other must show blurred. And at lunch she seemed more + out of focus than usual, and nearer the line that divides daily life from + a life that may be of greater importance. + </p> + <p> + “You will admit, though, that the Continent—it seems silly to speak + of ‘the Continent,’ but really it is all more like itself than any part of + it is like England. England is unique. Do have another jelly first. I was + going to say that the Continent, for good or for evil, is interested in + ideas. Its Literature and Art have what one might call the kink of the + unseen about them, and this persists even through decadence and + affectation. There is more liberty of action in England, but for liberty + of thought go to bureaucratic Prussia. People will there discuss with + humility vital questions that we here think ourselves too good to touch + with tongs.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not want to go to Prussia,” said Mrs. Wilcox “not even to see that + interesting view that you were describing. And for discussing with + humility I am too old. We never discuss anything at Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you ought to!” said Margaret. “Discussion keeps a house alive. It + cannot stand by bricks and mortar alone.” + </p> + <p> + “It cannot stand without them,” said Mrs. Wilcox, unexpectedly catching on + to the thought, and rousing, for the first and last time, a faint hope in + the breasts of the delightful people. “It cannot stand without them, and I + sometimes think—But I cannot expect your generation to agree, for + even my daughter disagrees with me here.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind us or her. Do say!” + </p> + <p> + “I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and discussion to + men.” + </p> + <p> + There was a little silence. + </p> + <p> + “One admits that the arguments against the suffrage ARE extraordinarily + strong,” said a girl opposite, leaning forward and crumbling her bread. + </p> + <p> + “Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am only too thankful not to + have a vote myself.” + </p> + <p> + “We didn’t mean the vote, though, did we?” supplied Margaret. “Aren’t we + differing on something much wider, Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to + remain what they have been since the dawn of history; or whether, since + men have moved forward so far, they too may move forward a little now. I + say they may. I would even admit a biological change.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “I must be getting back to my overhanging warehouse,” said the man. + “They’ve turned disgracefully strict.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox also rose. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested plays. Do you like + MacDowell? Do you mind his only having two noises? If you must really go, + I’ll see you out. Won’t you even have coffee?” + </p> + <p> + They left the dining-room closing the door behind them, and as Mrs. Wilcox + buttoned up her jacket, she said: “What an interesting life you all lead + in London!” + </p> + <p> + “No, we don’t,” said Margaret, with a sudden revulsion. “We lead the lives + of gibbering monkeys. Mrs. Wilcox—really—We have something + quiet and stable at the bottom. We really have. All my friends have. Don’t + pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it, but forgive me by coming + again, alone, or by asking me to you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am used to young people,” said Mrs. Wilcox, and with each word she + spoke the outlines of known things grew dim. “I hear a great deal of + chatter at home, for we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it is + more sport and politics, but—I enjoyed my lunch very much, Miss + Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, and only wish I could have joined + in more. For one thing, I’m not particularly well just to-day. For + another, you younger people move so quickly that it dazes me. Charles is + the same, Dolly the same. But we are all in the same boat, old and young. + I never forget that.” + </p> + <p> + They were silent for a moment. Then, with a newborn emotion, they shook + hands. The conversation ceased suddenly when Margaret re-entered the + dining-room; her friends had been talking over her new friend, and had + dismissed her as uninteresting. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + Several days passed. + </p> + <p> + Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people—there are many of + them—who dangle intimacy and then withdraw it? They evoke our + interests and affections, and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round + them. Then they withdraw. When physical passion is involved, there is a + definite name for such behaviour—flirting—and if carried far + enough it is punishable by law. But no law—not public opinion even—punishes + those who coquette with friendship, though the dull ache that they + inflict, the sense of misdirected effort and exhaustion, may be as + intolerable. Was she one of these? + </p> + <p> + Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner’s impatience, she wanted + everything to be settled up immediately. She mistrusted the periods of + quiet that are essential to true growth. Desiring to book Mrs. Wilcox as a + friend, she pressed on the ceremony, pencil, as it were, in hand, pressing + the more because the rest of the family were away, and the opportunity + seemed favourable. But the elder woman would not be hurried. She refused + to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to reopen discussion of Helen and + Paul, whom Margaret would have utilised as a short-cut. She took her time, + or perhaps let time take her, and when the crisis did come all was ready. + </p> + <p> + The crisis opened with a message: Would Miss Schlegel come shopping? + Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wilcox felt behindhand with the presents. + She had taken some more days in bed, and must make up for lost time. + Margaret accepted, and at eleven o’clock one cheerless morning they + started out in a brougham. + </p> + <p> + “First of all,” began Margaret, “we must make a list and tick off the + people’s names. My aunt always does, and this fog may thicken up any + moment. Have you any ideas?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought we would go to Harrods or the Haymarket Stores,” said Mrs. + Wilcox rather hopelessly. “Everything is sure to be there. I am not a good + shopper. The din is so confusing, and your aunt is quite right—one + ought to make a list. Take my notebook, then, and write your own name at + the top of the page.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, hooray!” said Margaret, writing it. “How very kind of you to start + with me!” But she did not want to receive anything expensive. Their + acquaintance was singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the + Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact + families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, who would + snatch presents since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed + like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity + of demeanour was best, and she added: “I don’t really want a Yuletide + gift, though. In fact, I’d rather not.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can + buy. I want more people, but no more things.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss + Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight. It + has so happened that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me from + brooding. I am too apt to brood.” + </p> + <p> + “If that is so,” said Margaret, “if I have happened to be of use to you, + which I didn’t know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of something + as we go about.” + </p> + <p> + Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing was written + opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when + they alighted it tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through a + clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox’s vitality was low that morning, and it was + Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for that, + for the rector’s wife a copper warming-tray. “We always give the servants + money.” “Yes, do you, yes, much easier,” replied Margaret but felt the + grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing from a + forgotten manger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys. Vulgarity + reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation against temperance + reform, invited men to “Join our Christmas goose club”—one bottle of + gin, etc., or two, according to subscription. A poster of a woman in + tights heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who had + come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret + was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and + self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her + with amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired + shop-assistants realised that it was a divine event that drew them + together? She realised it, though standing outside in the matter. She was + not a Christian in the accepted sense; she did not believe that God had + ever worked among us as a young artisan. These people, or most of them, + believed it, and if pressed, would affirm it in words. But the visible + signs of their belief were Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud + displaced, a little money spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and + forgotten. Inadequate. But in public who shall express the unseen + adequately? It is private life that holds out the mirror to infinity; + personal intercourse, and that alone, that ever hints at a personality + beyond our daily vision. + </p> + <p> + “No, I do like Christmas on the whole,” she announced. “In its clumsy way, + it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it? I am only used to country Christmases.” + </p> + <p> + “We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour—carols at + the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by + Christmas-tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The + drawing-room does very well for that. We put the tree in the + powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are lighted, and with + the looking-glass behind it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have a + powder-closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be very small, + and the presents don’t hang on it. No; the presents reside in a sort of + rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper.” + </p> + <p> + “You spoke of your ‘next house,’ Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving + Wickham Place?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you been there long?” + </p> + <p> + “All our lives.” + </p> + <p> + “You will be very sorry to leave it.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My father—” She broke + off, for they had reached the stationery department of the Haymarket + Stores, and Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting cards. + </p> + <p> + “If possible, something distinctive,” she sighed. At the counter she found + a friend, bent on the same errand, and conversed with her insipidly, + wasting much time. “My husband and our daughter are motoring.” “Bertha, + too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!” + </p> + <p> + Margaret, though not practical, could shine in such company as this. While + they talked, she went through a volume of specimen cards, and submitted + one for Mrs. Wilcox’s inspection. Mrs. Wilcox was delighted—so + original, words so sweet; she would order a hundred like that, and could + never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just as the assistant was booking + the order, she said: “Do you know, I’ll wait. On second thoughts, I’ll + wait. There’s plenty of time still, isn’t there, and I shall be able to + get Evie’s opinion.” + </p> + <p> + They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when they were in, she + said, “But couldn’t you get it renewed?” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon?” asked Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “The lease, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all the time? How very kind + of you!” + </p> + <p> + “Surely something could be done.” + </p> + <p> + “No; values have risen too enormously. They mean to pull down Wickham + Place, and build flats like yours.” + </p> + <p> + “But how horrible!” + </p> + <p> + “Landlords are horrible.” + </p> + <p> + Then she said vehemently: “It is monstrous, Miss Schlegel; it isn’t right. + I had no idea that this was hanging over you. I do pity you from the + bottom of my heart. To be parted from your house, your father’s house—it + oughtn’t to be allowed. It is worse than dying. I would rather die than—Oh, + poor girls! Can what they call civilisation be right, if people mayn’t die + in the room where they were born? My dear, I am so sorry.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had been overtired by the + shopping, and was inclined to hysteria. + </p> + <p> + “Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It would have killed me.” + </p> + <p> + “I—Howards End must be a very different house to ours. We are fond + of ours, but there is nothing distinctive about it. As you saw, it is an + ordinary London house. We shall easily find another.” + </p> + <p> + “So you think.” + </p> + <p> + “Again my lack of experience, I suppose!” said Margaret, easing away from + the subject. “I can’t say anything when you take up that line, Mrs. + Wilcox. I wish I could see myself as you see me—foreshortened into a + backfisch. Quite the ingenue. Very charming—wonderfully well read + for my age, but incapable—” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. “Come down with me to Howards End now,” + she said, more vehemently than ever. “I want you to see it. You have never + seen it. I want to hear what you say about it, for you do put things so + wonderfully.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the tired face of her + companion. “Later on I should love it,” she continued, “but it’s hardly + the weather for such an expedition, and we ought to start when we’re + fresh. Isn’t the house shut up, too?” + </p> + <p> + She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be annoyed. + </p> + <p> + “Might I come some other day?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. “Back to Wickham Place, + please!” was her order to the coachman. Margaret had been snubbed. + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all.” + </p> + <p> + “It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind—the + Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your choice.” + </p> + <p> + It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn Margaret became annoyed. + </p> + <p> + “My husband and Evie will be back the day after to-morrow. That is why I + dragged you out shopping to-day. I stayed in town chiefly to shop, but got + through nothing, and now he writes that they must cut their tour short, + the weather is so bad, and the police-traps have been so bad—nearly + as bad as in Surrey. Ours is such a careful chauffeur, and my husband + feels it particularly hard that they should be treated like road-hogs.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, naturally he—he isn’t a road-hog.” + </p> + <p> + “He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He must expect to suffer + with the lower animals.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. In growing discomfort they drove homewards. The + city seemed Satanic, the narrower streets oppressing like the galleries of + a mine. + </p> + <p> + No harm was done by the fog to trade, for it lay high, and the lighted + windows of the shops were thronged with customers. It was rather a + darkening of the spirit which fell back upon itself, to find a more + grievous darkness within. Margaret nearly spoke a dozen times, but + something throttled her. She felt petty and awkward, and her meditations + on Christmas grew more cynical. Peace? It may bring other gifts, but is + there a single Londoner to whom Christmas is peaceful? The craving for + excitement and for elaboration has ruined that blessing. Goodwill? Had she + seen any example of it in the hordes of purchasers? Or in herself? She had + failed to respond to this invitation merely because it was a little queer + and imaginative—she, whose birthright it was to nourish imagination! + Better to have accepted, to have tired themselves a little by the journey, + than coldly to reply, “Might I come some other day?” Her cynicism left + her. There would be no other day. This shadowy woman would never ask her + again. + </p> + <p> + They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in after due civilities, and + Margaret watched the tall, lonely figure sweep up the hall to the lift. As + the glass doors closed on it she had the sense of an imprisonment The + beautiful head disappeared first, still buried in the muff; the long + trailing skirt followed. A woman of undefinable rarity was going up + heavenward, like a specimen in a bottle. And into what a heaven—a + vault as of hell, sooty black, from which soot descended! + </p> + <p> + At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence insisted on talking. + Tibby was not ill-natured, but from babyhood something drove him to do the + unwelcome and the unexpected. Now he gave her a long account of the + day-school that he sometimes patronised. The account was interesting, and + she had often pressed him for it before, but she could not attend now, for + her mind was focussed on the invisible. She discerned that Mrs. Wilcox, + though a loving wife and mother, had only one passion in life—her + house—and that the moment was solemn when she invited a friend to + share this passion with her. To answer “another day” was to answer as a + fool. “Another day” will do for brick and mortar, but not for the Holy of + Holies into which Howards End had been transfigured. Her own curiosity was + slight. She had heard more than enough about it in the summer. The nine + windows, the vine, and the wych-elm had no pleasant connections for her, + and she would have preferred to spend the afternoon at a concert. But + imagination triumphed. While her brother held forth she determined to go, + at whatever cost, and to compel Mrs. Wilcox to go, too. When lunch was + over she stepped over to the flats. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox had just gone away for the night. + </p> + <p> + Margaret said that it was of no consequence, hurried downstairs, and took + a hansom to King’s Cross. She was convinced that the escapade was + important, though it would have puzzled her to say why. There was question + of imprisonment and escape, and though she did not know the time of the + train, she strained her eyes for St. Pancras’s clock. + </p> + <p> + Then the clock of King’s Cross swung into sight, a second moon in that + infernal sky, and her cab drew up at the station. There was a train for + Hilton in five minutes. She took a ticket, asking in her agitation for a + single. As she did so, a grave and happy voice saluted her and thanked + her. + </p> + <p> + “I will come if I still may,” said Margaret, laughing nervously. + </p> + <p> + “You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in the morning that my house is + most beautiful. You are coming to stop. I cannot show you my meadow + properly except at sunrise. These fogs”—she pointed at the station + roof—“never spread far. I dare say they are sitting in the sun in + Hertfordshire, and you will never repent joining them.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never repent joining you.” + </p> + <p> + “It is the same.” + </p> + <p> + They began the walk up the long platform. Far at its end stood the train, + breasting the darkness without. They never reached it. Before imagination + could triumph, there were cries of “Mother! mother!” and a heavy-browed + girl darted out of the cloak-room and seized Mrs. Wilcox by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Evie!” she gasped—“Evie, my pet—” + </p> + <p> + The girl called, “Father! I say! look who’s here.” + </p> + <p> + “Evie, dearest girl, why aren’t you in Yorkshire?” + </p> + <p> + “No—motor smash—changed plans—father’s coming.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Ruth!” cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them, “what in the name of all + that’s wonderful are you doing here, Ruth?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Henry dear!—here’s a lovely surprise—but let me introduce—but + I think you know Miss Schlegel.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” he replied, not greatly interested. “But how’s yourself, Ruth?” + </p> + <p> + “Fit as a fiddle,” she answered gaily. + </p> + <p> + “So are we, and so was our car, which ran A1 as far as Ripon, but there a + wretched horse and cart which a fool of a driver—” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another day.” + </p> + <p> + “I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the policeman himself + admits.” + </p> + <p> + “Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “—But as we’ve insured against third party risks, it won’t so much + matter—” + </p> + <p> + “—Cart and car being practically at right angles—” + </p> + <p> + The voices of the happy family rose high. Margaret was left alone. No one + wanted her. Mrs. Wilcox walked out of King’s Cross between her husband and + her daughter, listening to both of them. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + The funeral was over. The carriages had rolled away through the soft mud, + and only the poor remained. They approached to the newly-dug shaft and + looked their last at the coffin, now almost hidden beneath the spadefuls + of clay. It was their moment. Most of them were women from the dead + woman’s district, to whom black garments had been served out by Mr. + Wilcox’s orders. Pure curiosity had brought others. They thrilled with the + excitement of a death, and of a rapid death, and stood in groups or moved + between the graves, like drops of ink. The son of one of them, a + wood-cutter, was perched high above their heads, pollarding one of the + churchyard elms. From where he sat he could see the village of Hilton, + strung upon the North Road, with its accreting suburbs; the sunset beyond, + scarlet and orange, winking at him beneath brows of grey; the church; the + plantations; and behind him an unspoilt country of fields and farms. But + he, too, was rolling the event luxuriously in his mouth. He tried to tell + his mother down below all that he had felt when he saw the coffin + approaching: how he could not leave his work, and yet did not like to go + on with it; how he had almost slipped out of the tree, he was so upset; + the rooks had cawed, and no wonder—it was as if rooks knew too. His + mother claimed the prophetic power herself—she had seen a strange + look about Mrs. Wilcox for some time. London had done the mischief, said + others. She had been a kind lady; her grandmother had been kind, too—a + plainer person, but very kind. Ah, the old sort was dying out! Mr. Wilcox, + he was a kind gentleman. They advanced to the topic again and again, + dully, but with exaltation. The funeral of a rich person was to them what + the funeral of Alcestis or Ophelia is to the educated. It was Art; though + remote from life, it enhanced life’s values, and they witnessed it avidly. + </p> + <p> + The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent of disapproval—they + disliked Charles; it was not a moment to speak of such things, but they + did not like Charles Wilcox—the grave-diggers finished their work + and piled up the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun set over Hilton; + the grey brows of the evening flushed a little, and were cleft with one + scarlet frown. Chattering sadly to each other, the mourners passed through + the lych-gate and traversed the chestnut avenues that led down to the + village. The young wood-cutter stayed a little longer, poised above the + silence and swaying rhythmically. At last the bough fell beneath his saw. + With a grunt, he descended, his thoughts dwelling no longer on death, but + on love, for he was mating. He stopped as he passed the new grave; a sheaf + of tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. “They didn’t ought to have + coloured flowers at buryings,” he reflected. Trudging on a few steps, he + stopped again, looked furtively at the dusk, turned back, wrenched a + chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + After him came silence absolute. The cottage that abutted on the + churchyard was empty, and no other house stood near. Hour after hour the + scene of the interment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds + drifted over it from the west; or the church may have been a ship, + high-prowed, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards + morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth + hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning + after a night of joy, reflected: “They lilies, they chrysants; it’s a pity + I didn’t take them all.” + </p> + <p> + Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat in + the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear to + see a face, breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him + in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was about to eat, his + eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay down the morsel untasted. + </p> + <p> + He remembered his wife’s even goodness during thirty years. Not anything + in detail—not courtship or early raptures—but just the + unvarying virtue, that seemed to him a woman’s noblest quality. So many + women are capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not + so his wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she + had been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her + innocence! The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth + knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her + garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business—“Henry, why + do people who have enough money try to get more money?” Her idea of + politics—“I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could + meet, there would be no more wars,” Her idea of religion—ah, this + had been a cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and + he and his family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of + England. The rector’s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had + expressed a desire for “a more inward light,” adding, “not so much for + myself as for baby” (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he + heard no complaints in later years. They brought up their three children + without dispute. They had never disputed. + </p> + <p> + She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the + more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. + “Why didn’t you tell me you knew of it?” he had moaned, and her faint + voice had answered: “I didn’t want to, Henry—I might have been wrong—and + every one hates illnesses.” He had been told of the horror by a strange + doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town. Was this + altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It was a fault on + her part, and—tears rushed into his eyes—what a little fault! + It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years. + </p> + <p> + He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in + with the letters, and he could meet no one’s eye. Ah yes—she had + been a good woman—she had been steady. He chose the word + deliberately. To him steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at + the wintry garden, is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as + square as his son’s, and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, + retreated a little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a + moustache. But there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if + capable of kindness and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with + tears, were the eyes of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, + was like Charles’s. High and straight, brown and polished, merging + abruptly into temples and skull, it had the effect of a bastion that + protected his head from the world. At times it had the effect of a blank + wall. He had dwelt behind it, intact and happy, for fifty years. “The + post’s come, father,” said Evie awkwardly. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks. Put it down.” + </p> + <p> + “Has the breakfast been all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thanks.” + </p> + <p> + The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what + to do. + </p> + <p> + “Charles says do you want the Times?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’ll read it later.” + </p> + <p> + “Ring if you want anything, father, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve all I want.” + </p> + <p> + Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the + dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “Father’s eaten nothing,” she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows + behind the tea-urn. + </p> + <p> + Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs, opened + the door, and said “Look here father, you must eat, you know;” and having + paused for a reply that did not come, stole down again. “He’s going to + read his letters first, I think,” he said evasively; “I dare say he will + go on with his breakfast afterwards.” Then he took up the Times, and for + some time there was no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of + knife on plate. + </p> + <p> + Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions terrified at the + course of events, and a little bored. She was a rubbishy little creature, + and she knew it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed + of a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word from her husband had + plunged her into mourning. She desired to mourn inwardly as well, but she + wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could have died before the + marriage, for then less would have been expected of her. Crumbling her + toast, and too nervous to ask for the butter, she remained almost + motionless, thankful only for this, that her father-in-law was having his + breakfast upstairs. + </p> + <p> + At last Charles spoke. “They had no business to be pollarding those elms + yesterday,” he said to his sister. + </p> + <p> + “No, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “I must make a note of that,” he continued. “I am surprised that the + rector allowed it.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it may not be the rector’s affair.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose else could it be?” + </p> + <p> + “The lord of the manor.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Butter, Dolly?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Evie dear. Charles—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know one could pollard elms. I thought one only pollarded + willows.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, one can pollard elms.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why oughtn’t the elms in the churchyard to be pollarded?” Charles + frowned a little, and turned again to his sister. + </p> + <p> + “Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no good his saying he is not responsible for those men. He is + responsible.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, rather.” + </p> + <p> + Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus, partly because they + desired to keep Chalkeley up to the mark—a healthy desire in its way—partly + because they avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did. It did + not seem to them of supreme importance. Or it may be as Helen supposed: + they realised its importance, but were afraid of it. Panic and emptiness, + could one glance behind. They were not callous, and they left the + breakfast-table with aching hearts. Their mother never had come in to + breakfast. It was in the other rooms, and especially in the garden, that + they felt her loss most. As Charles went out to the garage, he was + reminded at every step of the woman who had loved him and whom he could + never replace. What battles he had fought against her gentle conservatism! + How she had disliked improvements, yet how loyally she had accepted them + when made! He and his father—what trouble they had had to get this + very garage! With what difficulty had they persuaded her to yield them the + paddock for it—the paddock that she loved more dearly than the + garden itself! The vine—she had got her way about the vine. It still + encumbered the south wall with its unproductive branches. And so with + Evie, as she stood talking to the cook. Though she could take up her + mother’s work inside the house, just as the man could take it up without, + she felt that something unique had fallen out of her life. Their grief, + though less poignant than their father’s, grew from deeper roots, for a + wife may be replaced; a mother never. Charles would go back to the office. + There was little at Howards End. The contents of his mother’s will had + long been known to them. There were no legacies, no annuities, none of the + posthumous bustle with which some of the dead prolong their activities. + Trusting her husband, she had left him everything without reserve. She was + quite a poor woman—the house had been all her dowry, and the house + would come to Charles in time. Her watercolours Mr. Wilcox intended to + reserve for Paul, while Evie would take the jewellery and lace. How easily + she slipped out of life! Charles thought the habit laudable, though he did + not intend to adopt it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen in it an + almost culpable indifference to earthly fame. Cynicism—not the + superficial cynicism that snarls and sneers, but the cynicism that can go + with courtesy and tenderness—that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox’s + will. She wanted not to vex people. That accomplished, the earth might + freeze over her for ever. + </p> + <p> + No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He could not go on with his + honeymoon, so he would go up to London and work—he felt too + miserable hanging about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat while + his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. He could also keep an + eye on his own little house, which was being painted and decorated for him + in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to install himself + soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch in his new motor, + and the town servants, who had come down for the funeral, would go up by + train. + </p> + <p> + He found his father’s chauffeur in the garage, said “Morning” without + looking at the man’s face, and bending over the car, continued: “Hullo! my + new car’s been driven!” + </p> + <p> + “Has it, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Charles, getting rather red; “and whoever’s driven it hasn’t + cleaned it properly, for there’s mud on the axle. Take it off.” + </p> + <p> + The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a chauffeur as ugly as + sin—not that this did him disservice with Charles, who thought charm + in a man rather rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast with + whom they had started. + </p> + <p> + “Charles—” His bride was tripping after him over the hoar-frost, a + dainty black column, her little face and elaborate mourning hat forming + the capital thereof. + </p> + <p> + “One minute, I’m busy. Well, Crane, who’s been driving it, do you + suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t know, I’m sure, sir. No one’s driven it since I’ve been back, but, + of course, there’s the fortnight I’ve been away with the other car in + Yorkshire.” + </p> + <p> + The mud came off easily. + </p> + <p> + “Charles, your father’s down. Something’s happened. He wants you in the + house at once. Oh, Charles!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were + away, Crane?” + </p> + <p> + “The gardener, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir; no one’s had the motor out, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t, of course, say for the time I’ve been in Yorkshire. No more mud + now, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart + had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was + not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, + he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent + story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?” + </p> + <p> + When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was + to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was + correct, for his wife replied, “She wants Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + “Howards End? Now, Crane, just don’t forget to put on the Stepney wheel.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, mind you don’t forget, for I—Come, little woman.” When they + were out of the chauffeur’s sight he put his arm round her waist and + pressed her against him. All his affection and half his attention—it + was what he granted her throughout their happy married life. + </p> + <p> + “But you haven’t listened, Charles.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s wrong?” + </p> + <p> + “I keep on telling you—Howards End. Miss Schlegel’s got it.” + </p> + <p> + “Got what?” said Charles, unclasping her. “What the dickens are you + talking about?” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty—” + </p> + <p> + “Look here, I’m in no mood for foolery. It’s no morning for it either.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you—I keep on telling you—Miss Schlegel—she’s + got it—your mother’s left it to her—and you’ve all got to move + out!” + </p> + <p> + “HOWARDS END?” + </p> + <p> + “HOWARDS END!” she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came + dashing out of the shubbery. + </p> + <p> + “Dolly, go back at once! My father’s much annoyed with you. Charles”—she + hit herself wildly—“come in at once to father. He’s had a letter + that’s too awful.” + </p> + <p> + Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the + gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the unprolific + vine. He exclaimed, “Schlegels again!” and as if to complete chaos, Dolly + said, “Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Come in, all three of you!” cried his father, no longer inert. + </p> + <p> + “Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Wilcox—” + </p> + <p> + “I told you not to go out to the garage. I’ve heard you all shouting in + the garden. I won’t have it. Come in.” + </p> + <p> + He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can’t discuss private matters + in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See + what you make.” + </p> + <p> + Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The + first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, + when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed—it + was from his mother herself. She had written: “To my husband: I should + like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose we’re going to have a talk about this?” he remarked, ominously + calm. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let’s sit down.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Evie, don’t waste time, sit—down.” + </p> + <p> + In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday—indeed, + of this morning suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed + scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were + calming themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure + out loud: “A note in my mother’s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to + my father, sealed. Inside: ‘I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have + Howards End.’ No date, no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that + nursing home. Now, the question is—” + </p> + <p> + Dolly interrupted him. “But I say that note isn’t legal. Houses ought to + be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely.” + </p> + <p> + Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of + either ear—a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she + asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for + permission, who said abstractedly, “Give it her.” She seized it, and at + once exclaimed: “Why, it’s only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never + counts.” + </p> + <p> + “We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly,” said Mr. Wilcox, speaking + from out of his fortress. “We are aware of that. Legally, I should be + justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my + dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be better if you + do not interfere with what you do not understand.” + </p> + <p> + Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: “The + question is—” He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from + plates and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. “The + question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, + whether she unduly—” He stopped. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think that,” said his father, whose nature was nobler than his + son’s. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think what?” + </p> + <p> + “That she would have—that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my + mind the question is the—the invalid’s condition at the time she + wrote.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don’t admit it is my + mother’s writing.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you just said it was!” cried Dolly. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind if I did,” he blazed out; “and hold your tongue.” + </p> + <p> + The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from + her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like + an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the + committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees. + They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but + disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before + them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after + a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed on to the + next point. It is the best—perhaps the only—way of dodging + emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered the + note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad. Considered + item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all went forward + smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and contended with + the white radiance that poured in through the windows. Unnoticed, the sun + occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems, extraordinarily + solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted lawn. It was a + glorious winter morning. Evie’s fox terrier, who had passed for white, was + only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the purity that surrounded him. + He was discredited, but the blackbirds that he was chasing glowed with + Arabian darkness, for all the conventional colouring of life had been + altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. + Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved towards its close. + </p> + <p> + To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator + should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to + Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had + been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship; it + was contrary to the dead woman’s intentions in the past, contrary to her + very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them Howards + End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been a spirit, for + which she sought a spiritual heir. And—pushing one step farther in + these mists—may they not have decided even better than they + supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit can be + bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a wisp + of hay with dew on it—can passion for such things be transmitted + where there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed. + The problem is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a problem. + No; it is natural and fitting that after due debate they should tear the + note up and throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical moralist + may acquit them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper may acquit them—almost. + For one hard fact remains. They did neglect a personal appeal. The woman + who had died did say to them, “Do this,” and they answered, “We will not.” + </p> + <p> + The incident made a most painful impression on them. Grief mounted into + the brain and worked there disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: + “She was a dear mother, a true wife; in our absence she neglected her + health and died.” To-day they thought: “She was not as true, as dear, as + we supposed.” The desire for a more inward light had found expression at + last, the unseen had impacted on the seen, and all that they could say was + “Treachery.” Mrs. Wilcox had been treacherous to the family, to the laws + of property, to her own written word. How did she expect Howards End to be + conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was her husband, to whom it legally belonged, + to make it over to her as a free gift? Was the said Miss Schlegel to have + a life interest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was there to be no + compensation for the garage and other improvements that they had made + under the assumption that all would be theirs some day? Treacherous! + treacherous and absurd! When we think the dead both treacherous and + absurd, we have gone far towards reconciling ourselves to their departure. + That note, scribbled in pencil, sent through the matron, was + unbusinesslike as well as cruel, and decreased at once the value of the + woman who had written it. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well!” said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. “I shouldn’t have + thought it possible.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother couldn’t have meant it,” said Evie, still frowning. + </p> + <p> + “No, my girl, of course not.” + </p> + <p> + “Mother believed so in ancestors too—it isn’t like her to leave + anything to an outsider, who’d never appreciate.” + </p> + <p> + “The whole thing is unlike her,” he announced. “If Miss Schlegel had been + poor, if she had wanted a house, I could understand it a little. But she + has a house of her own. Why should she want another? She wouldn’t have any + use for Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + “That time may prove,” murmured Charles. + </p> + <p> + “How?” asked his sister. + </p> + <p> + “Presumably she knows—mother will have told her. She got twice or + three times into the nursing home. Presumably she is awaiting + developments.” + </p> + <p> + “What a horrid woman!” And Dolly, who had recovered, cried, “Why, she may + be coming down to turn us out now!” + </p> + <p> + Charles put her right. “I wish she would,” he said ominously. “I could + then deal with her.” + </p> + <p> + “So could I,” echoed his father, who was feeling rather in the cold. + Charles had been kind in undertaking the funeral arrangements and in + telling him to eat his breakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a little + dictatorial, and assumed the post of chairman too readily. “I could deal + with her, if she comes, but she won’t come. You’re all a bit hard on Miss + Schlegel.” + </p> + <p> + “That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though.” + </p> + <p> + “I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I said at the time, and + besides, it is quite apart from this business. Margaret Schlegel has been + officious and tiresome during this terrible week, and we have all suffered + under her, but upon my soul she’s honest. She’s NOT in collusion with the + matron. I’m absolutely certain of it. Nor was she with the doctor, I’m + equally certain of that. She did not hide anything from us, for up to that + very afternoon she was as ignorant as we are. She, like ourselves, was a + dupe—” He stopped for a moment. “You see, Charles, in her terrible + pain your mother put us all in false positions. Paul would not have left + England, you would not have gone to Italy, nor Evie and I into Yorkshire, + if only we had known. Well, Miss Schlegel’s position has been equally + false. Take all in all, she has not come out of it badly.” + </p> + <p> + Evie said: “But those chrysanthemums—” + </p> + <p> + “Or coming down to the funeral at all—” echoed Dolly. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t she come down? She had the right to, and she stood far back + among the Hilton women. The flowers—certainly we should not have + sent such flowers, but they may have seemed the right thing to her, Evie, + and for all you know they may be the custom in Germany.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I forget she isn’t really English,” cried Evie. “That would explain a + lot.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a cosmopolitan,” said Charles, looking at his watch. “I admit I’m + rather down on cosmopolitans. My fault, doubtless. I cannot stand them, + and a German cosmopolitan is the limit. I think that’s about all, isn’t + it? I want to run down and see Chalkeley. A bicycle will do. And, by the + way, I wish you’d speak to Crane some time. I’m certain he’s had my new + car out.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he done it any harm?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case I shall let it pass. It’s not worth while having a row.” + </p> + <p> + Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they always parted with an + increased regard for one another, and each desired no doughtier comrade + when it was necessary to voyage for a little past the emotions. So the + sailors of Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first stopped one + another’s ears with wool. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + Charles need not have been anxious. Miss Schlegel had never heard of his + mother’s strange request. She was to hear of it in after years, when she + had built up her life differently, and it was to fit into position as the + headstone of the corner. Her mind was bent on other questions now, and by + her also it would have been rejected as the fantasy of an invalid. + </p> + <p> + She was parting from these Wilcoxes for the second time. Paul and his + mother, ripple and great wave, had flowed into her life and ebbed out of + it for ever. The ripple had left no traces behind; the wave had strewn at + her feet fragments torn from the unknown. A curious seeker, she stood for + a while at the verge of the sea that tells so little, but tells a little, + and watched the outgoing of this last tremendous tide. Her friend had + vanished in agony, but not, she believed, in degradation. Her withdrawal + had hinted at other things besides disease and pain. Some leave our life + with tears, others with an insane frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox had taken the + middle course, which only rarer natures can pursue. She had kept + proportion. She had told a little of her grim secret to her friends, but + not too much; she had shut up her heart—almost, but not entirely. It + is thus, if there is any rule, that we ought to die—neither as + victim nor as fanatic, but as the seafarer who can greet with an equal eye + the deep that he is entering, and the shore that he must leave. + </p> + <p> + The last word—whatever it would be—had certainly not been said + in Hilton churchyard. She had not died there. A funeral is not death, any + more than baptism is birth or marriage union. All three are the clumsy + devices, coming now too late, now too early, by which Society would + register the quick motions of man. In Margaret’s eyes Mrs. Wilcox had + escaped registration. She had gone out of life vividly, her own way, and + no dust was so truly dust as the contents of that heavy coffin, lowered + with ceremonial until it rested on the dust of the earth, no flowers so + utterly wasted as the chrysanthemums that the frost must have withered + before morning. Margaret had once said she “loved superstition.” It was + not true. Few women had tried more earnestly to pierce the accretions in + which body and soul are enwrapped. The death of Mrs. Wilcox had helped her + in her work. She saw a little more clearly than hitherto what a human + being is, and to what he may aspire. Truer relationships gleamed. Perhaps + the last word would be hope—hope even on this side of the grave. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, she could take an interest in the survivors. In spite of her + Christmas duties, in spite of her brother, the Wilcoxes continued to play + a considerable part in her thoughts. She had seen so much of them in the + final week. They were not “her sort,” they were often suspicious and + stupid, and deficient where she excelled; but collision with them + stimulated her, and she felt an interest that verged into liking, even for + Charles. She desired to protect them, and often felt that they could + protect her, excelling where she was deficient. Once past the rocks of + emotion, they knew so well what to do, whom to send for; their hands were + on all the ropes, they had grit as well as grittiness and she valued grit + enormously. They led a life that she could not attain to—the outer + life of “telegrams and anger,” which had detonated when Helen and Paul had + touched in June, and had detonated again the other week. To Margaret this + life was to remain a real force. She could not despise it, as Helen and + Tibby affected to do. It fostered such virtues as neatness, decision, and + obedience, virtues of the second rank, no doubt, but they have formed our + civilisation. They form character, too; Margaret could not doubt it; they + keep the soul from becoming sloppy. How dare Schlegels despise Wilcoxes, + when it takes all sorts to make a world? + </p> + <p> + “Don’t brood too much,” she wrote to Helen, “on the superiority of the + unseen to the seen. It’s true, but to brood on it is medieval. Our + business is not to contrast the two, but to reconcile them.” + </p> + <p> + Helen replied that she had no intention of brooding on such a dull + subject. What did her sister take her for? The weather was magnificent. + She and the Mosebachs had gone tobogganing on the only hill that Pomerania + boasted. It was fun, but over-crowded, for the rest of Pomerania had gone + there too. Helen loved the country, and her letter glowed with physical + exercise and poetry. She spoke of the scenery, quiet, yet august; of the + snow-clad fields, with their scampering herds of deer; of the river and + its quaint entrance into the Baltic Sea; of the Oderberge, only three + hundred feet high, from which one slid all too quickly back into the + Pomeranian plains, and yet these Oderberge were real mountains, with + pine-forests, streams, and views complete. “It isn’t size that counts so + much as the way things are arranged.” In another paragraph she referred to + Mrs. Wilcox sympathetically, but the news had not bitten into her. She had + not realised the accessories of death, which are in a sense more memorable + than death itself. The atmosphere of precautions and recriminations, and + in the midst a human body growing more vivid because it was in pain; the + end of that body in Hilton churchyard; the survival of something that + suggested hope, vivid in its turn against life’s workaday cheerfulness;—all + these were lost to Helen, who only felt that a pleasant lady could now be + pleasant no longer. She returned to Wickham Place full of her own affairs—she + had had another proposal—and Margaret, after a moment’s hesitation, + was content that this should be so. + </p> + <p> + The proposal had not been a serious matter. It was the work of Fraulein + Mosebach, who had conceived the large and patriotic notion of winning back + her cousins to the Fatherland by matrimony. England had played Paul + Wilcox, and lost; Germany played Herr Forstmeister some one—Helen + could not remember his name. Herr Forstmeister lived in a wood, and, + standing on the summit of the Oderberge, he had pointed out his house to + Helen, or rather, had pointed out the wedge of pines in which it lay. She + had exclaimed, “Oh, how lovely! That’s the place for me!” and in the + evening Frieda appeared in her bedroom. “I have a message, dear Helen,” + etc., and so she had, but had been very nice when Helen laughed; quite + understood—a forest too solitary and damp—quite agreed, but + Herr Forstmeister believed he had assurance to the contrary. Germany had + lost, but with good-humour; holding the manhood of the world, she felt + bound to win. “And there will even be some one for Tibby,” concluded + Helen. “There now, Tibby, think of that; Frieda is saving up a little girl + for you, in pig-tails and white worsted stockings but the feet of the + stockings are pink as if the little girl had trodden in strawberries. I’ve + talked too much. My head aches. Now you talk.” + </p> + <p> + Tibby consented to talk. He too was full of his own affairs, for he had + just been up to try for a scholarship at Oxford. The men were down, and + the candidates had been housed in various colleges, and had dined in hall. + Tibby was sensitive to beauty, the experience was new, and he gave a + description of his visit that was almost glowing. The august and mellow + University, soaked with the richness of the western counties that it has + served for a thousand years, appealed at once to the boy’s taste; it was + the kind of thing he could understand, and he understood it all the better + because it was empty. Oxford is—Oxford; not a mere receptacle for + youth, like Cambridge. Perhaps it wants its inmates to love it rather than + to love one another; such at all events was to be its effect on Tibby. His + sisters sent him there that he might make friends, for they knew that his + education had been cranky, and had severed him from other boys and men. He + made no friends. His Oxford remained Oxford empty, and he took into life + with him, not the memory of a radiance, but the memory of a colour scheme. + </p> + <p> + It pleased Margaret to hear her brother and sister talking. They did not + get on overwell as a rule. For a few moments she listened to them, feeling + elderly and benign. + </p> + <p> + Then something occurred to her, and she interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Helen, I told you about poor Mrs. Wilcox; that sad business?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I have had a correspondence with her son. He was winding up the estate, + and wrote to ask me whether his mother had wanted me to have anything. I + thought it good of him, considering I knew her so little. I said that she + had once spoken of giving me a Christmas present, but we both forgot about + it afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope Charles took the hint.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that is to say, her husband wrote later on, and thanked me for + being a little kind to her, and actually gave me her silver vinaigrette. + Don’t you think that is extraordinarily generous? It has made me like him + very much. He hopes that this will not be the end of our acquaintance, but + that you and I will go and stop with Evie some time in the future. I like + Mr. Wilcox. He is taking up his work—rubber—it is a big + business. I gather he is launching out rather. Charles is in it, too. + Charles is married—a pretty little creature, but she doesn’t seem + wise. They took on the flat, but now they have gone off to a house of + their own.” + </p> + <p> + Helen, after a decent pause, continued her account of Stettin. How quickly + a situation changes! In June she had been in a crisis; even in November + she could blush and be unnatural; now it was January and the whole affair + lay forgotten. Looking back on the past six months, Margaret realised the + chaotic nature of our daily life, and its difference from the orderly + sequence that has been fabricated by historians. Actual life is full of + false clues and sign-posts that lead nowhere. With infinite effort we + nerve ourselves for a crisis that never comes. The most successful career + must show a waste of strength that might have removed mountains, and the + most unsuccessful is not that of the man who is taken unprepared, but of + him who has prepared and is never taken. On a tragedy of that kind our + national morality is duly silent. It assumes that preparation against + danger is in itself a good, and that men, like nations, are the better for + staggering through life fully armed. The tragedy of preparedness has + scarcely been handled, save by the Greeks. Life is indeed dangerous, but + not in the way morality would have us believe. It is indeed unmanageable, + but the essence of it is not a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a + romance, and its essence is romantic beauty. Margaret hoped that for the + future she would be less cautious, not more cautious, than she had been in + the past. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + Over two years passed, and the Schlegel household continued to lead its + life of cultured, but not ignoble, ease, still swimming gracefully on the + grey tides of London. Concerts and plays swept past them, money had been + spent and renewed, reputations won and lost, and the city herself, + emblematic of their lives, rose and fell in a continual flux, while her + shallows washed more widely against the hills of Surrey and over the + fields of Hertfordshire. This famous building had arisen, that was doomed. + To-day Whitehall had been transformed; it would be the turn of Regent + Street to-morrow. And month by month the roads smelt more strongly of + petrol, and were more difficult to cross, and human beings heard each + other speak with greater difficulty, breathed less of the air, and saw + less of the sky. Nature withdrew; the leaves were falling by midsummer; + the sun shone through dirt with an admired obscurity. + </p> + <p> + To speak against London is no longer fashionable. The Earth as an artistic + cult has had its day, and the literature of the near future will probably + ignore the country and seek inspiration from the town. One can understand + the reaction. Of Pan and the elemental forces, the public has heard a + little too much—they seem Victorian, while London is Georgian—and + those who care for the earth with sincerity may wait long ere the pendulum + swings back to her again. Certainly London fascinates. One visualises it + as a tract of quivering grey, intelligent without purpose, and excitable + without love; as a spirit that has altered before it can be chronicled; as + a heart that certainly beats, but with no pulsation of humanity. It lies + beyond everything; Nature, with all her cruelty, comes nearer to us than + do these crowds of men. A friend explains himself; the earth is explicable—from + her we came, and we must return to her. But who can explain Westminster + Bridge Road or Liverpool Street in the morning—the city inhaling—or + the same thoroughfares in the evening—the city exhaling her + exhausted air? We reach in desperation beyond the fog, beyond the very + stars, the voids of the universe are ransacked to justify the monster, and + stamped with a human face. London is religion’s opportunity—not the + decorous religion of theologians, but anthropomorphic, crude. Yes, the + continuous flow would be tolerable if a man of our own sort—not any + one pompous or tearful—were caring for us up in the sky. + </p> + <p> + The Londoner seldom understands his city until it sweeps him, too, away + from his moorings, and Margaret’s eyes were not opened until the lease of + Wickham Place expired. She had always known that it must expire, but the + knowledge only became vivid about nine months before the event. Then the + house was suddenly ringed with pathos. It had seen so much happiness. Why + had it to be swept away? In the streets of the city she noted for the + first time the architecture of hurry and heard the language of hurry on + the mouths of its inhabitants—clipped words, formless sentences, + potted expressions of approval or disgust. Month by month things were + stepping livelier, but to what goal? The population still rose, but what + was the quality of the men born? The particular millionaire who owned the + freehold of Wickham Place, and desired to erect Babylonian flats upon it—what + right had he to stir so large a portion of the quivering jelly? He was not + a fool—she had heard him expose Socialism—but true insight + began just where his intelligence ended, and one gathered that this was + the case with most millionaires. What right had such men—But + Margaret checked herself. That way lies madness. Thank goodness, she, too, + had some money, and could purchase a new home. + </p> + <p> + Tibby, now in his second year at Oxford, was down for the Easter vacation, + and Margaret took the opportunity of having a serious talk with him. Did + he at all know where he wanted to live? Tibby didn’t know that he did + know. Did he at all know what he wanted to do? He was equally uncertain, + but when pressed remarked that he should prefer to be quite free of any + profession. Margaret was not shocked, but went on sewing for a few minutes + before she replied: + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me as particularly happy.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es.” said Tibby, and then held his mouth open in a curious + quiver, as if he, too, had thought of Mr. Vyse, had seen round, through, + over, and beyond Mr. Vyse, had weighed Mr. Vyse, grouped him, and finally + dismissed him as having no possible bearing on the Subject under + discussion. That bleat of Tibby’s infuriated Helen. But Helen was now down + in the dining room preparing a speech about political economy. At times + her voice could be heard declaiming through the floor. + </p> + <p> + “But Mr. Vyse is rather a wretched, weedy man, don’t you think? Then + there’s Guy. That was a pitiful business. Besides”—shifting to the + general—“every one is the better for some regular work.” + </p> + <p> + Groans. + </p> + <p> + “I shall stick to it,” she continued, smiling. “I am not saying it to + educate you; it is what I really think. I believe that in the last century + men have developed the desire for work, and they must not starve it. It’s + a new desire. It goes with a great deal that’s bad, but in itself it’s + good, and I hope that for women, too, ‘not to work’ will soon become as + shocking as ‘not to be married’ was a hundred years ago.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no experience of this profound desire to which you allude,” + enunciated Tibby. + </p> + <p> + “Then we’ll leave the subject till you do. I’m not going to rattle you + round. Take your time. Only do think over the lives of the men you like + most, and see how they’ve arranged them.” + </p> + <p> + “I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most,” said Tibby faintly, and leant so far back + in his chair that he extended in a horizontal line from knees to throat. + </p> + <p> + “And don’t think I’m not serious because I don’t use the traditional + arguments—making money, a sphere awaiting you, and so on—all + of which are, for various reasons, cant.” She sewed on. “I’m only your + sister. I haven’t any authority over you, and I don’t want to have any. + Just to put before you what I think the Truth. You see”—she shook + off the pince-nez to which she had recently taken—“in a few years we + shall be the same age practically, and I shall want you to help me. Men + are so much nicer than women.” + </p> + <p> + “Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not marry?” + </p> + <p> + “I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance.” + </p> + <p> + “Has nobody arst you?” + </p> + <p> + “Only ninnies.” + </p> + <p> + “Do people ask Helen?” + </p> + <p> + “Plentifully.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about them.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about your ninnies, then.” + </p> + <p> + “They were men who had nothing better to do,” said his sister, feeling + that she was entitled to score this point. “So take warning; you must + work, or else you must pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work, + work if you’d save your soul and your body. It is honestly a necessity, + dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes, look at Mr. Pembroke. With all their + defects of temper and understanding, such men give me more pleasure than + many who are better equipped, and I think it is because they have worked + regularly and honestly.” + </p> + <p> + “Spare me the Wilcoxes,” he moaned. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not. They are the right sort.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, goodness me, Meg—!” he protested, suddenly sitting up, alert + and angry. Tibby, for all his defects, had a genuine personality. + </p> + <p> + “Well, they’re as near the right sort as you can imagine.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no—oh, no!” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once classed as a ninny, but + who came back so ill from Nigeria. He’s gone out there again, Evie Wilcox + tells me—out to his duty.” + </p> + <p> + “Duty” always elicited a groan. + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t want the money, it is work he wants, though it is beastly work—dull + country, dishonest natives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food... + A nation that can produce men of that sort may well be proud. No wonder + England has become an Empire.” + </p> + <p> + “EMPIRE!” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t bother over results,” said Margaret, a little sadly. “They are + too difficult for me. I can only look at the men. An Empire bores me, so + far, but I can appreciate the heroism that builds it up. London bores me, + but what thousands of splendid people are labouring to make London—” + </p> + <p> + “What it is,” he sneered. + </p> + <p> + “What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civilisation. How + paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “And I,” said Tibby, “want civilisation without activity, which, I expect, + is what we shall find in the other place.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t go as far as the other place, Tibbikins, if you want that. + You can find it at Oxford.” + </p> + <p> + “Stupid—” + </p> + <p> + “If I’m stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I’ll even live in Oxford + if you like—North Oxford. I’ll live anywhere except Bournemouth, + Torquay, and Cheltenham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tunbridge + Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There on no account.” + </p> + <p> + “London, then.” + </p> + <p> + “I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from London. However, there’s + no reason we shouldn’t have a house in the country and also a flat in + town, provided we all stick together and contribute. Though of course—Oh, + how one does maunder on and to think, to think of the people who are + really poor. How do they live? Not to move about the world would kill me.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burst in in a state of + extreme excitement. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my dears, what do you think? You’ll never guess. A woman’s been here + asking me for her husband. Her WHAT?” (Helen was fond of supplying her own + surprise.) “Yes, for her husband, and it really is so.” + </p> + <p> + “Not anything to do with Bracknell?” cried Margaret, who had lately taken + on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots. + </p> + <p> + “I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was Tibby. (Cheer up, + Tibby!) It’s no one we know. I said, ‘Hunt, my good woman; have a good + look round, hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the + antimacassars. Husband? husband?’ Oh, and she so magnificently dressed and + tinkling like a chandelier.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Helen, what did really happen?” + </p> + <p> + “What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door + like a fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. + Then we began—very civilly. ‘I want my husband, what I have reason + to believe is here.’ No—how unjust one is. She said ‘whom,’ not + ‘what.’ She got it perfectly. So I said, ‘Name, please?’ and she said, + ‘Lan, Miss,’ and there we were.” + </p> + <p> + “Lan?” + </p> + <p> + “Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline.” + </p> + <p> + “But what an extraordinary—” + </p> + <p> + “I said, ‘My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. + Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and + never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine.’” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you were pleased,” said Tibby. + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” Helen squeaked. “A perfectly delightful experience. Oh, Mrs. + Lanoline’s a dear—she asked for a husband as if he were an umbrella. + She mislaid him Saturday afternoon—and for a long time suffered no + inconvenience. But all night, and all this morning her apprehensions grew. + Breakfast didn’t seem the same—no, no more did lunch, and so she + strolled up to 2 Wickham Place as being the most likely place for the + missing article.” + </p> + <p> + “But how on earth—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t begin how on earthing. ‘I know what I know,’ she kept repeating, + not uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did + know. Some knew what others knew, and others didn’t, and then others again + had better be careful. Oh dear, she was incompetent! She had a face like a + silkworm, and the dining-room reeks of orris-root. We chatted pleasantly a + little about husbands, and I wondered where hers was too, and advised her + to go to the police. She thanked me. We agreed that Mr. Lanoline’s a + notty, notty man, and hasn’t no business to go on the lardy-da. But I + think she suspected me up to the last. Bags I writing to Aunt Juley about + this. Now, Meg, remember—bags I.” + </p> + <p> + “Bag it by all means,” murmured Margaret, putting down her work. “I’m not + sure that this is so funny, Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking + somewhere, doesn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so—she doesn’t really mind. The admirable creature + isn’t capable of tragedy.” + </p> + <p> + “Her husband may be, though,” said Margaret, moving to the window. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could have married Mrs. + Lanoline.” + </p> + <p> + “Was she pretty?” + </p> + <p> + “Her figure may have been good once.” + </p> + <p> + The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate curtain between + Margaret and the welter of London. Her thoughts turned sadly to + house-hunting. Wickham Place had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, + that her own little flock might be moving into turmoil and squalor, into + nearer contact with such episodes as these. + </p> + <p> + “Tibby and I have again been wondering where we’ll live next September,” + she said at last. + </p> + <p> + “Tibby had better first wonder what he’ll do,” retorted Helen; and that + topic was resumed, but with acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen + went on preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one, too, for they + were going out to a discussion society on the morrow. But her thoughts + were poisoned. Mrs. Lanoline had risen out of the abyss, like a faint + smell, a goblin football, telling of a life where love and hatred had both + decayed. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained. Next day, just as they + were dressed to go out to dinner, a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the + employment of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company. Thus much from his + card. He had come “about the lady yesterday.” Thus much from Annie, who + had shown him into the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “Cheers, children!” cried Helen. “It’s Mrs. Lanoline.” + </p> + <p> + Tibby was interested. The three hurried downstairs, to find, not the gay + dog they expected, but a young man, colourless, toneless, who had already + the mournful eyes above a drooping moustache that are so common in London, + and that haunt some streets of the city like accusing presences. One + guessed him as the third generation, grandson to the shepherd or ploughboy + whom civilisation had sucked into the town; as one of the thousands who + have lost the life of the body and failed to reach the life of the spirit. + Hints of robustness survived in him, more than a hint of primitive good + looks, and Margaret, noting the spine that might have been straight, and + the chest that might have broadened, wondered whether it paid to give up + the glory of the animal for a tail coat and a couple of ideas. Culture had + worked in her own case, but during the last few weeks she had doubted + whether it humanised the majority, so wide and so widening is the gulf + that stretches between the natural and the philosophic man, so many the + good chaps who are wrecked in trying to cross it. She knew this type very + well—the vague aspirations, the mental dishonesty, the familiarity + with the outsides of books. She knew the very tones in which he would + address her. She was only unprepared for an example of her own + visiting-card. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t remember giving me this, Miss Schlegel?” said he, uneasily + familiar. + </p> + <p> + “No; I can’t say I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, that was how it happened, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute I don’t remember.” + </p> + <p> + “It was a concert at the Queen’s Hall. I think you will recollect,” he + added pretentiously, “when I tell you that it included a performance of + the Fifth Symphony of Beethoven.” + </p> + <p> + “We hear the Fifth practically every time it’s done, so I’m not sure—do + you remember, Helen?” + </p> + <p> + “Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the balustrade?” + </p> + <p> + He thought not. + </p> + <p> + “Then I don’t remember. That’s the only Beethoven I ever remember + specially.” + </p> + <p> + “And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, inadvertently of + course.” + </p> + <p> + “Likely enough,” Helen laughed, “for I steal umbrellas even oftener than I + hear Beethoven. Did you get it back?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel.” + </p> + <p> + “The mistake arose out of my card, did it?” interposed Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the mistake arose—it was a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “The lady who called here yesterday thought that you were calling too, and + that she could find you?” she continued, pushing him forward, for, though + he had promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one. + </p> + <p> + “That’s so, calling too—a mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why—?” began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm. + </p> + <p> + “I said to my wife,” he continued more rapidly “I said to Mrs. Bast, ‘I + have to pay a call on some friends,’ and Mrs. Bast said to me, ‘Do go.’ + While I was gone, however, she wanted me on important business, and + thought I had come here, owing to the card, and so came after me, and I + beg to tender my apologies, and hers as well, for any inconvenience we may + have inadvertently caused you.” + </p> + <p> + “No inconvenience,” said Helen; “but I still don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + An air of evasion characterised Mr. Bast. He explained again, but was + obviously lying, and Helen didn’t see why he should get off. She had the + cruelty of youth. Neglecting her sister’s pressure, she said, “I still + don’t understand. When did you say you paid this call?” + </p> + <p> + “Call? What call?” said he, staring as if her question had been a foolish + one, a favourite device of those in mid-stream. + </p> + <p> + “This afternoon call.” + </p> + <p> + “In the afternoon, of course!” he replied, and looked at Tibby to see how + the repartee went. But Tibby was unsympathetic, and said, “Saturday + afternoon or Sunday afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “S—Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” said Helen; “and you were still calling on Sunday, when your + wife came here. A long visit.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t call that fair,” said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There + was fight in his eyes. “I know what you mean, and it isn’t so.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don’t let us mind,” said Margaret, distressed again by odours from + the abyss. + </p> + <p> + “It was something else,” he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking down. + “I was somewhere else to what you think, so there!” + </p> + <p> + “It was good of you to come and explain,” she said. “The rest is naturally + no concern of ours.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I want—I wanted—have you ever read The Ordeal of + Richard Feverel?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret nodded. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the earth, don’t you see, + like Richard does in the end. Or have you ever read Stevenson’s Prince + Otto?” + </p> + <p> + Helen and Tibby groaned gently. + </p> + <p> + “That’s another beautiful book. You get back to the earth in that. I + wanted—” He mouthed affectedly. Then through the mists of his + culture came a hard fact, hard as a pebble. “I walked all the Saturday + night,” said Leonard. “I walked.” A thrill of approval ran through the + sisters. But culture closed in again. He asked whether they had ever read + E. V. Lucas’s Open Road. + </p> + <p> + Said Helen, “No doubt it’s another beautiful book, but I’d rather hear + about your road.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I walked.” + </p> + <p> + “How far?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, nor for how long. It got too dark to see my watch.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you walking alone, may I ask?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, straightening himself; “but we’d been talking it over at + the office. There’s been a lot of talk at the office lately about these + things. The fellows there said one steers by the Pole Star, and I looked + it up in the celestial atlas, but once out of doors everything gets so + mixed.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk to me about the Pole Star,” interrupted Helen, who was + becoming interested. “I know its little ways. It goes round and round, and + you go round after it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps, then the trees, + and towards morning it got cloudy.” + </p> + <p> + Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped from the room. He knew + that this fellow would never attain to poetry, and did not want to hear + him trying. + </p> + <p> + Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother influenced them more than they + knew; in his absence they were stirred to enthusiasm more easily. + </p> + <p> + “Where did you start from?” cried Margaret. “Do tell us more.” + </p> + <p> + “I took the Underground to Wimbledon. As I came out of the office I said + to myself, ‘I must have a walk once in a way. If I don’t take this walk + now, I shall never take it.’ I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon, and then—” + </p> + <p> + “But not good country there, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It was gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night, and being out was + the great thing. I did get into woods, too, presently.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, go on,” said Helen. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve no idea how difficult uneven ground is when it’s dark.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you actually go off the roads?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes. I always meant to go off the roads, but the worst of it is that + it’s more difficult to find one’s way.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bast, you’re a born adventurer,” laughed Margaret. “No professional + athlete would have attempted what you’ve done. It’s a wonder your walk + didn’t end in a broken neck. Whatever did your wife say?” + </p> + <p> + “Professional athletes never move without lanterns and compasses,” said + Helen. “Besides, they can’t walk. It tires them. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how in Virginibus.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but the wood. This ‘ere wood. How did you get out of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I managed one wood, and found a road the other side which went a good bit + uphill. I rather fancy it was those North Downs, for the road went off + into grass, and I got into another wood. That was awful, with gorse + bushes. I did wish I’d never come, but suddenly it got light—just + while I seemed going under one tree. Then I found a road down to a + station, and took the first train I could back to London.” + </p> + <p> + “But was the dawn wonderful?” asked Helen. + </p> + <p> + With unforgettable sincerity he replied, “No.” The word flew again like a + pebble from the sling. Down toppled all that had seemed ignoble or + literary in his talk, down toppled tiresome R. L. S. and the “love of the + earth” and his silk top-hat. In the presence of these women Leonard had + arrived, and he spoke with a flow, an exultation, that he had seldom + known. + </p> + <p> + “The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to mention.” + </p> + <p> + “Just a grey evening turned upside down. I know.” + </p> + <p> + “—and I was too tired to lift up my head to look at it, and so cold + too. I’m glad I did it, and yet at the time it bored me more than I can + say. And besides—you can believe me or not as you choose—I was + very hungry. That dinner at Wimbledon—I meant it to last me all + night like other dinners. I never thought that walking would make such a + difference. Why, when you’re walking you want, as it were, a breakfast and + luncheon and tea during the night as well, and I’d nothing but a packet of + Woodbines. Lord, I did feel bad! Looking back, it wasn’t what you may call + enjoyment. It was more a case of sticking to it. I did stick. I—I + was determined. Oh, hang it all! what’s the good—I mean, the good of + living in a room for ever? There one goes on day after day, same old game, + same up and down to town, until you forget there is any other game. You + ought to see once in a way what’s going on outside, if it’s only nothing + particular after all.” + </p> + <p> + “I should just think you ought,” said Helen, sitting on the edge of + the table. + </p> + <p> + The sound of a lady’s voice recalled him from sincerity, and he said: + “Curious it should all come about from reading something of Richard + Jefferies.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you’re wrong there. It didn’t. It came from + something far greater.” + </p> + <p> + But she could not stop him. Borrow was imminent after Jefferies—Borrow, + Thoreau, and sorrow. R. L. S. brought up the rear, and the outburst ended + in a swamp of books. No disrespect to these great names. The fault is ours, not + theirs. They mean us to use them for sign-posts, and are not to blame if, in our + weakness, we mistake the sign-post for the destination. And Leonard had + reached the destination. He had visited the county of Surrey when darkness + covered its amenities, and its cosy villas had re-entered ancient night. + Every twelve hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go and see + for himself. Within his cramped little mind dwelt something that was greater + than Jefferies’ books—the spirit that led Jefferies to write them; + and his dawn, though revealing nothing but monotones, was part of the + eternal sunrise that shows George Borrow Stonehenge. + </p> + <p> + “Then you don’t think I was foolish?” he asked becoming again the naive + and sweet-tempered boy for whom Nature intended him. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens, no!” replied Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Heaven help us if we do!” replied Helen. + </p> + <p> + “I’m very glad you say that. Now, my wife would never understand—not + if I explained for days.” + </p> + <p> + “No, it wasn’t foolish!” cried Helen, her eyes aflame. “You’ve pushed back + the boundaries; I think it splendid of you.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve not been content to dream as we have—” + </p> + <p> + “Though we have walked, too—” + </p> + <p> + “I must show you a picture upstairs—” + </p> + <p> + Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to take them to their evening + party. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, bother, not to say dash—I had forgotten we were dining out; but + do, do, come round again and have a talk.” “Yes, you must—do,” + echoed Margaret. + </p> + <p> + Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: “No, I shall not. It’s better + like this.” + </p> + <p> + “Why better?” asked Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I shall always look back + on this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really. I + mean this. We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had + better leave it.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s rather a sad view of life, surely.” + </p> + <p> + “Things so often get spoiled.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” flashed Helen, “but people don’t.” + </p> + <p> + He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true + imagination and false. What he said wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t right, and + a false note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might + be in tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever. He thanked + the ladies very much, but he would not call again. There was a moment’s + awkwardness, and then Helen said: “Go, then; perhaps you know best; but + never forget you’re better than Jefferies.” And he went. Their hansom + caught him up at the corner, passed with a waving of hands, and vanished + with its accomplished load into the evening. + </p> + <p> + London was beginning to illuminate herself against the night. Electric + lights sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side + streets glimmered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson + battlefield of spring, but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the + splendour, and the clouds down Oxford Street were a delicately painted + ceiling, which adorned while it did not distract. She had never known the + clear-cut armies of the purer air. Leonard hurried through her tinted + wonders, very much part of the picture. His was a grey life, and to + brighten it he had ruled off a few corners for romance. The Miss Schlegels—or, + to speak more accurately, his interview with them—were to fill such + a corner, nor was it by any means the first time that he had talked + intimately to strangers. The habit was analogous to a debauch, an outlet, + though the worst of outlets, for instincts that would not be denied. + Terrifying him, it would beat down his suspicions and prudence until he + was confiding secrets to people whom he had scarcely seen. It brought him + many fears and some pleasant memories. Perhaps the keenest happiness he + had ever known was during a railway journey to Cambridge, where a + decent-mannered undergraduate had spoken to him. They had got into + conversation, and gradually Leonard flung reticence aside, told some of + his domestic troubles and hinted at the rest. The undergraduate, supposing + they could start a friendship, asked him to “coffee after hall,” which he + accepted, but afterwards grew shy, and took care not to stir from the + commercial hotel where he lodged. He did not want Romance to collide with + the Porphyrion, still less with Jacky, and people with fuller, happier + lives are slow to understand this. To the Schlegels, as to the + undergraduate, he was an interesting creature, of whom they wanted to see + more. But they to him were denizens of Romance, who must keep to the + corner he had assigned them, pictures that must not walk out of their + frames. + </p> + <p> + His behaviour over Margaret’s visiting-card had been typical. His had + scarcely been a tragic marriage. Where there is no money and no + inclination to violence tragedy cannot be generated. He could not leave + his wife, and he did not want to hit her. Petulance and squalor were + enough. Here “that card” had come in. Leonard, though furtive, was untidy, + and left it lying about. Jacky found it, and then began, “What’s that + card, eh?” “Yes, don’t you wish you knew what that card was?” “Len, who’s + Miss Schlegel?” etc. Months passed, and the card, now as a joke, now as a + grievance, was handed about, getting dirtier and dirtier. It followed them + when they moved from Camelia Road to Tulse Hill. It was submitted to third + parties. A few inches of pasteboard, it became the battlefield on which + the souls of Leonard and his wife contended. Why did he not say, “A lady + took my umbrella, another gave me this that I might call for my umbrella”? + Because Jacky would have disbelieved him? Partly, but chiefly because he + was sentimental. No affection gathered round the card, but it symbolised + the life of culture, that Jacky should never spoil. At night he would say + to himself, “Well, at all events, she doesn’t know about that card. Yah! + done her there!” + </p> + <p> + Poor Jacky! she was not a bad sort, and had a great deal to bear. She drew + her own conclusion—she was only capable of drawing one conclusion—and + in the fulness of time she acted upon it. All the Friday Leonard had + refused to speak to her, and had spent the evening observing the stars. On + the Saturday he went up, as usual, to town, but he came not back Saturday + night, nor Sunday morning, nor Sunday afternoon. The inconvenience grew + intolerable, and though she was now of a retiring habit, and shy of women, + she went up to Wickham Place. Leonard returned in her absence. The card, + the fatal card, was gone from the pages of Ruskin, and he guessed what had + happened. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he had exclaimed, greeting her with peals of laughter. “I know + where you’ve been, but you don’t know where I’ve been.” + </p> + <p> + Jacky sighed, said, “Len, I do think you might explain,” and resumed + domesticity. + </p> + <p> + Explanations were difficult at this stage, and Leonard was too silly—or + it is tempting to write, too sound a chap to attempt them. His reticence + was not entirely the shoddy article that a business life promotes, the + reticence that pretends that nothing is something, and hides behind the + Daily Telegraph. The adventurer, also, is reticent, and it is an adventure + for a clerk to walk for a few hours in darkness. You may laugh at him, you + who have slept nights out on the veldt, with your rifle beside you and all + the atmosphere of adventure pat. And you also may laugh who think + adventures silly. But do not be surprised if Leonard is shy whenever he + meets you, and if the Schlegels rather than Jacky hear about the dawn. + </p> + <p> + That the Schlegels had not thought him foolish became a permanent joy. He + was at his best when he thought of them. It buoyed him as he journeyed + home beneath fading heavens. Somehow the barriers of wealth had fallen, + and there had been—he could not phrase it—a general assertion + of the wonder of the world. “My conviction,” says the mystic, “gains + infinitely the moment another soul will believe in it,” and they had + agreed that there was something beyond life’s daily grey. He took off his + top-hat and smoothed it thoughtfully. He had hitherto supposed the unknown + to be books, literature, clever conversation, culture. One raised oneself + by study, and got upsides with the world. But in that quick interchange a + new light dawned. Was that “something” walking in the dark among the + suburban hills? + </p> + <p> + He discovered that he was going bareheaded down Regent Street. London came + back with a rush. Few were about at this hour, but all whom he passed + looked at him with a hostility that was the more impressive because it was + unconscious. He put his hat on. It was too big; his head disappeared like + a pudding into a basin, the ears bending outwards at the touch of the + curly brim. He wore it a little backwards, and its effect was greatly to + elongate the face and to bring out the distance between the eyes and the + moustache. Thus equipped, he escaped criticism. No one felt uneasy as he + titupped along the pavements, the heart of a man ticking fast in his + chest. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> + <!-- --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + The sisters went out to dinner full of their adventure, and when they were + both full of the same subject, there were few dinner-parties that could + stand up against them. This particular one, which was all ladies, had more + kick in it than most, but succumbed after a struggle. Helen at one part of + the table, Margaret at the other, would talk of Mr. Bast and of no one + else, and somewhere about the entree their monologues collided, fell + ruining, and became common property. Nor was this all. The dinner-party + was really an informal discussion club; there was a paper after it, read + amid coffee-cups and laughter in the drawing-room, but dealing more or + less thoughtfully with some topic of general interest. After the paper + came a debate, and in this debate Mr. Bast also figured, appearing now as + a bright spot in civilisation, now as a dark spot, according to the + temperament of the speaker. The subject of the paper had been, “How ought + I to dispose of my money?” the reader professing to be a millionaire on + the point of death, inclined to bequeath her fortune for the foundation of + local art galleries, but open to conviction from other sources. The + various parts had been assigned beforehand, and some of the speeches were + amusing. The hostess assumed the ungrateful role of “the millionaire’s + eldest son,” and implored her expiring parent not to dislocate Society by + allowing such vast sums to pass out of the family. Money was the fruit of + self-denial, and the second generation had a right to profit by the + self-denial of the first. What right had “Mr. Bast” to profit? The + National Gallery was good enough for the likes of him. After property had + had its say—a saying that is necessarily ungracious—the + various philanthropists stepped forward. Something must be done for “Mr. + Bast”; his conditions must be improved without impairing his independence; + he must have a free library, or free tennis-courts; his rent must be paid + in such a way that he did not know it was being paid; it must be made + worth his while to join the Territorials; he must be forcibly parted from + his uninspiring wife, the money going to her as compensation; he must be + assigned a Twin Star, some member of the leisured classes who would watch + over him ceaselessly (groans from Helen); he must be given food but no + clothes, clothes but no food, a third-return ticket to Venice, without + either food or clothes when he arrived there. In short, he might be given + anything and everything so long as it was not the money itself. + </p> + <p> + And here Margaret interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Order, order, Miss Schlegel!” said the reader of the paper. “You are + here, I understand, to advise me in the interests of the Society for the + Preservation of Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. I cannot + have you speaking out of your role. It makes my poor head go round, and I + think you forget that I am very ill.” + </p> + <p> + “Your head won’t go round if only you’ll listen to my argument,” said + Margaret. “Why not give him the money itself? You’re supposed to have + about thirty thousand a year.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I? I thought I had a million.” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t a million your capital? Dear me! we ought to have settled that. + Still, it doesn’t matter. Whatever you’ve got, I order you to give as many + poor men as you can three hundred a year each.” + </p> + <p> + “But that would be pauperising them,” said an earnest girl, who liked the + Schlegels, but thought them a little unspiritual at times. + </p> + <p> + “Not if you gave them so much. A big windfall would not pauperise a man. + It is these little driblets, distributed among too many, that do the harm. + Money’s educational. It’s far more educational than the things it buys.” + There was a protest. “In a sense,” added Margaret, but the protest + continued. “Well, isn’t the most civilized thing going, the man who has + learnt to wear his income properly?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly what your Mr. Basts won’t do.” + </p> + <p> + “Give them a chance. Give them money. Don’t dole them out poetry-books and + railway-tickets like babies. Give them the wherewithal to buy these + things. When your Socialism comes it may be different, and we may think in + terms of commodities instead of cash. Till it comes give people cash, for + it is the warp of civilisation, whatever the woof may be. The imagination + ought to play upon money and realise it vividly, for it’s the—the + second most important thing in the world. It is so slurred over and hushed + up, there is so little clear thinking—oh, political economy, of + course, but so few of us think clearly about our own private incomes, and + admit that independent thoughts are in nine cases out of ten the result of + independent means. Money: give Mr. Bast money, and don’t bother about his + ideals. He’ll pick up those for himself.” + </p> + <p> + She leant back while the more earnest members of the club began to + misconstrue her. The female mind, though cruelly practical in daily life, + cannot bear to hear ideals belittled in conversation, and Miss Schlegel + was asked however she could say such dreadful things, and what it would + profit Mr. Bast if he gained the whole world and lost his own soul. She + answered, “Nothing, but he would not gain his soul until he had gained a + little of the world.” Then they said, “No, we do not believe it,” and she + admitted that an overworked clerk may save his soul in the + superterrestrial sense, where the effort will be taken for the deed, but + she denied that he will ever explore the spiritual resources of this + world, will ever know the rarer joys of the body, or attain to clear and + passionate intercourse with his fellows. Others had attacked the fabric of + Society—Property, Interest, etc.; she only fixed her eyes on a few + human beings, to see how, under present conditions, they could be made + happier. Doing good to humanity was useless: the many-coloured efforts + thereto spreading over the vast area like films and resulting in an + universal grey. To do good to one, or, as in this case, to a few, was the + utmost she dare hope for. + </p> + <p> + Between the idealists, and the political economists, Margaret had a bad + time. Disagreeing elsewhere, they agreed in disowning her, and in keeping + the administration of the millionaire’s money in their own hands. The + earnest girl brought forward a scheme of “personal supervision and mutual + help,” the effect of which was to alter poor people until they became + exactly like people who were not so poor. The hostess pertinently remarked + that she, as eldest son, might surely rank among the millionaire’s + legatees. Margaret weakly admitted the claim, and another claim was at + once set up by Helen, who declared that she had been the millionaire’s + housemaid for over forty years, overfed and underpaid; was nothing to be + done for her, so corpulent and poor? The millionaire then read out her + last will and testament, in which she left the whole of her fortune to the + Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The serious parts of the + discussion had been of higher merit than the playful—in a men’s + debate is the reverse more general?—but the meeting broke up + hilariously enough, and a dozen happy ladies dispersed to their homes. + </p> + <p> + Helen and Margaret walked with the earnest girl as far as Battersea Bridge + Station, arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone they were + conscious of an alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. They + turned back towards Oakley Street. The lamps and the plane-trees, + following the line of the embankment, struck a note of dignity that is + rare in English cities. The seats, almost deserted, were here and there + occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, who had strolled out from the + houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper of the rising tide. There + is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It is an open space + used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. As Margaret + and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast theatre, an + opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they + themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a + little of the second act. + </p> + <p> + “Cold?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Tired?” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + The earnest girl’s train rumbled away over the bridge. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Helen—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “I think we won’t.” + </p> + <p> + “As you like.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The + discussion brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a + spirit of excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn’t play + at friendship. No, it’s no good.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s Mrs. Lanoline, too,” Helen yawned. “So dull.” + </p> + <p> + “Just so, and possibly worse than dull.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to know how he got hold of your card.” + </p> + <p> + “But he said—something about a concert and an umbrella.” + </p> + <p> + “Then did the card see the wife—” + </p> + <p> + “Helen, come to bed.” + </p> + <p> + “No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you + say money is the warp of the world?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what’s the woof?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much what one chooses,” said Margaret. “It’s something that isn’t + money—one can’t say more.” + </p> + <p> + “Walking at night?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably.” + </p> + <p> + “For Tibby, Oxford?” + </p> + <p> + “It seems so.” + </p> + <p> + “For you?” + </p> + <p> + “Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it’s that. For + Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + One’s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting + with friends many seats away, heard this, rose to his feet, and strolled + along towards the speakers. + </p> + <p> + “It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people,” + continued Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Meg? They’re so much nicer generally. I’d rather think of that + forester’s house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Forstmeister who lived + in it.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The + more people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It’s one of + the curses of London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a + place.” + </p> + <p> + Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do?” he cried. “I thought I recognised your voices. Whatever + are you both doing down here?” + </p> + <p> + His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out on + Chelsea Embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but + Margaret accepted it as part of the good man’s equipment. + </p> + <p> + “What an age it is since I’ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the + Tube, though, lately. I hope you have good news of your son.” + </p> + <p> + “Paul?” said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, and sitting down + between them. “Oh, Paul’s all right. We had a line from Madeira. He’ll be + at work again by now.” + </p> + <p> + “Ugh—” said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon?” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?” + </p> + <p> + “Some one’s got to go,” he said simply. “England will never keep her trade + overseas unless she is prepared to make sacrifices. Unless we get firm in + West Africa, Ger—untold complications may follow. Now tell me all + your news.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we’ve had a splendid evening,” cried Helen, who always woke up at the + advent of a visitor. “We belong to a kind of club that reads papers, + Margaret and I—all women, but there is a discussion after. This + evening it was on how one ought to leave one’s money—whether to + one’s family, or to the poor, and if so how—oh, most interesting.” + </p> + <p> + The man of business smiled. Since his wife’s death he had almost doubled + his income. He was an important figure at last, a reassuring name on + company prospectuses, and life had treated him very well. The world seemed + in his grasp as he listened to the River Thames, which still flowed inland + from the sea. So wonderful to the girls, it held no mysteries for him. He + had helped to shorten its long tidal trough by taking shares in the lock + at Teddington, and if he and other capitalists thought good, some day it + could be shortened again. With a good dinner inside him and an amiable but + academic woman on either flank, he felt that his hands were on all the + ropes of life, and that what he did not know could not be worth knowing. + </p> + <p> + “Sounds a most original entertainment!” he exclaimed, and laughed in his + pleasant way. “I wish Evie would go to that sort of thing. But she hasn’t + the time. She’s taken to breeding Aberdeen terriers—jolly little + dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “I expect we’d better be doing the same, really.” + </p> + <p> + “We pretend we’re improving ourselves, you see,” said Helen a little + sharply, for the Wilcox glamour is not of the kind that returns, and she + had bitter memories of the days when a speech such as he had just made + would have impressed her favourably. “We suppose it a good thing to waste + an evening once a fortnight over a debate, but, as my sister says, it may + be better to breed dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all. I don’t agree with your sister. There’s nothing like a debate + to teach one quickness. I often wish I had gone in for them when I was a + youngster. It would have helped me no end.” + </p> + <p> + “Quickness—?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Quickness in argument. Time after time I’ve missed scoring a point + because the other man has had the gift of the gab and I haven’t. Oh, I + believe in these discussions.” + </p> + <p> + The patronising tone, thought Margaret, came well enough from a man who + was old enough to be their father. She had always maintained that Mr. + Wilcox had a charm. In times of sorrow or emotion his inadequacy had + pained her, but it was pleasant to listen to him now, and to watch his + thick brown moustache and high forehead confronting the stars. But Helen + was nettled. The aim of their debates she implied was Truth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, it doesn’t much matter what subject you take,” said he. + </p> + <p> + Margaret laughed and said, “But this is going to be far better than the + debate itself.” Helen recovered herself and laughed too. “No, I won’t go + on,” she declared. “I’ll just put our special case to Mr. Wilcox.” + </p> + <p> + “About Mr. Bast? Yes, do. He’ll be more lenient to a special case.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Mr. Wilcox, do first light another cigarette. It’s this. We’ve just + come across a young fellow, who’s evidently very poor, and who seems + interest—” + </p> + <p> + “What’s his profession?” + </p> + <p> + “Clerk.” + </p> + <p> + “What in?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember, Margaret?” + </p> + <p> + “Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes; the nice people who gave Aunt Juley a new hearth rug. He seems + interesting, in some ways very, and one wishes one could help him. He is + married to a wife whom he doesn’t seem to care for much. He likes books, + and what one may roughly call adventure, and if he had a chance—But + he is so poor. He lives a life where all the money is apt to go on + nonsense and clothes. One is so afraid that circumstances will be too + strong for him and that he will sink. Well, he got mixed up in our debate. + He wasn’t the subject of it, but it seemed to bear on his point. Suppose a + millionaire died, and desired to leave money to help such a man. How + should he be helped? Should he be given three hundred pounds a year + direct, which was Margaret’s plan? Most of them thought this would + pauperise him. Should he and those like him be given free libraries? I + said ‘No!’ He doesn’t want more books to read, but to read books rightly. + My suggestion was he should be given something every year towards a summer + holiday, but then there is his wife, and they said she would have to go + too. Nothing seemed quite right! Now what do you think? Imagine that you + were a millionaire, and wanted to help the poor. What would you do?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox, whose fortune was not so very far below the standard + indicated, laughed exuberantly. “My dear Miss Schlegel, I will not rush in + where your sex has been unable to tread. I will not add another plan to + the numerous excellent ones that have been already suggested. My only + contribution is this: let your young friend clear out of the Porphyrion + Fire Insurance Company with all possible speed.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + He lowered his voice. “This is between friends. It’ll be in the Receiver’s + hands before Christmas. It’ll smash,” he added, thinking that she had not + understood. + </p> + <p> + “Dear me, Helen, listen to that. And he’ll have to get another place!” + </p> + <p> + “WILL have? Let him leave the ship before it sinks. Let him get one now.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather than wait, to make sure?” + </p> + <p> + “Decidedly.” + </p> + <p> + “Why’s that?” + </p> + <p> + Again the Olympian laugh, and the lowered voice. “Naturally the man who’s + in a situation when he applies stands a better chance, is in a stronger + position, that the man who isn’t. It looks as if he’s worth something. I + know by myself—(this is letting you into the State secrets)—it + affects an employer greatly. Human nature, I’m afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “I hadn’t thought of that,” murmured Margaret, while Helen said, “Our + human nature appears to be the other way round. We employ people because + they’re unemployed. The boot man, for instance.” + </p> + <p> + “And how does he clean the boots?” + </p> + <p> + “Not well,” confessed Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “There you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Then do you really advise us to tell this youth—?” + </p> + <p> + “I advise nothing,” he interrupted, glancing up and down the Embankment, + in case his indiscretion had been overheard. “I oughtn’t to have spoken—but + I happen to know, being more or less behind the scenes. The Porphyrion’s a + bad, bad concern—Now, don’t say I said so. It’s outside the Tariff + Ring.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly I won’t say. In fact, I don’t know what that means.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought an insurance company never smashed,” was Helen’s contribution. + “Don’t the others always run in and save them?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re thinking of reinsurance,” said Mr. Wilcox mildly. “It is exactly + there that the Porphyrion is weak. It has tried to undercut, has been + badly hit by a long series of small fires, and it hasn’t been able to + reinsure. I’m afraid that public companies don’t save one another for + love.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Human nature,’ I suppose,” quoted Helen, and he laughed and agreed that + it was. When Margaret said that she supposed that clerks, like every one + else, found it extremely difficult to get situations in these days, he + replied, “Yes, extremely,” and rose to rejoin his friends. He knew by his + own office—seldom a vacant post, and hundreds of applicants for it; + at present no vacant post. + </p> + <p> + “And how’s Howards End looking?” said Margaret, wishing to change the + subject before they parted. Mr. Wilcox was a little apt to think one + wanted to get something out of him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s let.” + </p> + <p> + “Really. And you wandering homeless in longhaired Chelsea? How strange are + the ways of Fate!” + </p> + <p> + “No; it’s let unfurnished. We’ve moved.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I thought of you both as anchored there for ever. Evie never told + me.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say when you met Evie the thing wasn’t settled. We only moved a + week ago. Paul has rather a feeling for the old place, and we held on for + him to have his holiday there; but, really, it is impossibly small. + Endless drawbacks. I forget whether you’ve been up to it?” + </p> + <p> + “As far as the house, never.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Howards End is one of those converted farms. They don’t really do, + spend what you will on them. We messed away with a garage all among the + wych-elm roots, and last year we enclosed a bit of the meadow and + attempted a rockery. Evie got rather keen on Alpine plants. But it didn’t + do—no, it didn’t do. You remember, your sister will remember, the + farm with those abominable guinea-fowls, and the hedge that the old woman + never would cut properly, so that it all went thin at the bottom. And, + inside the house, the beams—and the staircase through a door—picturesque + enough, but not a place to live in.” He glanced over the parapet + cheerfully. “Full tide. And the position wasn’t right either. The + neighbourhood’s getting suburban. Either be in London or out of it, I say; + so we’ve taken a house in Ducie Street, close to Sloane Street, and a + place right down in Shropshire—Oniton Grange. Ever heard of Oniton? + Do come and see us—right away from everywhere, up towards Wales.” + </p> + <p> + “What a change!” said Margaret. But the change was in her own voice, which + had become most sad. “I can’t imagine Howards End or Hilton without you.” + </p> + <p> + “Hilton isn’t without us,” he replied. “Charles is there still.” + </p> + <p> + “Still?” said Margaret, who had not kept up with the Charles’s. “But I + thought he was still at Epsom. They were furnishing that Christmas—one + Christmas. How everything alters! I used to admire Mrs. Charles from our + windows very often. Wasn’t it Epsom?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but they moved eighteen months ago. Charles, the good chap”—his + voice dropped—“thought I should be lonely. I didn’t want him to + move, but he would, and took a house at the other end of Hilton, down by + the Six Hills. He had a motor, too. There they all are, a very jolly party—he + and she and the two grandchildren.” + </p> + <p> + “I manage other people’s affairs so much better than they manage them + themselves,” said Margaret as they shook hands. “When you moved out of + Howards End, I should have moved Mr. Charles Wilcox into it. I should have + kept so remarkable a place in the family.” + </p> + <p> + “So it is,” he replied. “I haven’t sold it, and don’t mean to.” + </p> + <p> + “No; but none of you are there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we’ve got a splendid tenant—Hamar Bryce, an invalid. If Charles + ever wanted it—but he won’t. Dolly is so dependent on modern + conveniences. No, we have all decided against Howards End. We like it in a + way, but now we feel that it is neither one thing nor the other. One must + have one thing or the other.” + </p> + <p> + “And some people are lucky enough to have both. You’re doing yourself + proud, Mr. Wilcox. My congratulations.” + </p> + <p> + “And mine,” said Helen. + </p> + <p> + “Do remind Evie to come and see us—2 Wickham Place. We shan’t be + there very long, either.” + </p> + <p> + “You, too, on the move?” + </p> + <p> + “Next September,” Margaret sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Every one moving! Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + The tide had begun to ebb. Margaret leant over the parapet and watched it + sadly. Mr. Wilcox had forgotten his wife, Helen her lover; she herself was + probably forgetting. Every one moving. Is it worth while attempting the + past when there is this continual flux even in the hearts of men? + </p> + <p> + Helen roused her by saying: “What a prosperous vulgarian Mr. Wilcox has + grown! I have very little use for him in these days. However, he did tell + us about the Porphyrion. Let us write to Mr. Bast as soon as ever we get + home, and tell him to clear out of it at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Do; yes, that’s worth doing. Let us.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday. But he was right; + the visit proved a conspicuous failure. + </p> + <p> + “Sugar?” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Cake?” said Helen. “The big cake or the little deadlies? I’m afraid you + thought my letter rather odd, but we’ll explain—we aren’t odd, + really—nor affected, really. We’re over-expressive—that’s + all.” + </p> + <p> + As a lady’s lap-dog Leonard did not excel. He was not an Italian, still + less a Frenchman, in whose blood there runs the very spirit of persiflage + and of gracious repartee. His wit was the Cockney’s; it opened no doors + into imagination, and Helen was drawn up short by “The more a lady has to + say, the better,” administered waggishly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Ladies brighten—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams. Let me give you a plate.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you like your work?” interposed Margaret. + </p> + <p> + He, too, was drawn up short. He would not have these women prying into his + work. They were Romance, and so was the room to which he had at last + penetrated, with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its walls, and + so were the very tea-cups, with their delicate borders of wild + strawberries. But he would not let romance interfere with his life. There + is the devil to pay then. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well enough,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Your company is the Porphyrion, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s so.”—becoming rather offended. “It’s funny how things + get round.” + </p> + <p> + “Why funny?” asked Helen, who did not follow the workings of his mind. “It + was written as large as life on your card, and considering we wrote to you + there, and that you replied on the stamped paper—” + </p> + <p> + “Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big Insurance Companies?” + pursued Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “It depends on what you call big.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern, that offers a + reasonably good career to its employes.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t say—some would tell you one thing and others another,” + said the employee uneasily. “For my own part”—he shook his head—“I + only believe half I hear. Not that even; it’s safer. Those clever ones + come to the worse grief, I’ve often noticed. Ah, you can’t be too + careful.” + </p> + <p> + He drank, and wiped his moustache, which was going to be one of those + moustaches that always droop into tea-cups—more bother than they’re + worth, surely, and not fashionable either. + </p> + <p> + “I quite agree, and that’s why I was curious to know; is it a solid, + well-established concern?” + </p> + <p> + Leonard had no idea. He understood his own corner of the machine, but + nothing beyond it. He desired to confess neither knowledge nor ignorance, + and under these circumstances, another motion of the head seemed safest. + To him, as to the British public, the Porphyrion was the Porphyrion of the + advertisement—a giant, in the classical style, but draped + sufficiently, who held in one hand a burning torch, and pointed with the + other to St. Paul’s and Windsor Castle. A large sum of money was inscribed + below, and you drew your own conclusions. This giant caused Leonard to do + arithmetic and write letters, to explain the regulations to new clients, + and re-explain them to old ones. A giant was of an impulsive morality—one + knew that much. He would pay for Mrs. Munt’s hearthrug with ostentatious + haste, a large claim he would repudiate quietly, and fight court by court. + But his true fighting weight, his antecedents, his amours with other + members of the commercial Pantheon—all these were as uncertain to + ordinary mortals as were the escapades of Zeus. While the gods are + powerful, we learn little about them. It is only in the days of their + decadence that a strong light beats into heaven. + </p> + <p> + “We were told the Porphyrion’s no go,” blurted Helen. “We wanted to tell + you; that’s why we wrote.” + </p> + <p> + “A friend of ours did think that it is insufficiently reinsured,” said + Margaret. + </p> + <p> + Now Leonard had his clue. + </p> + <p> + He must praise the Porphyrion. “You can tell your friend,” he said, “that + he’s quite wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, good!” + </p> + <p> + The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be wrong was fatal. The + Miss Schlegels did not mind being wrong. They were genuinely glad that + they had been misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil. + </p> + <p> + “Wrong, so to speak,” he added. + </p> + <p> + “How ‘so to speak’?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean I wouldn’t say he’s right altogether.” + </p> + <p> + But this was a blunder. “Then he is right partly,” said the elder woman, + quick as lightning. + </p> + <p> + Leonard replied that every one was right partly, if it came to that. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bast, I don’t understand business, and I dare say my questions are + stupid, but can you tell me what makes a concern ‘right’ or ‘wrong’?” + </p> + <p> + Leonard sat back with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “Our friend, who is also a business man, was so positive. He said before + Christmas—” + </p> + <p> + “And advised you to clear out of it,” concluded Helen. “But I don’t see + why he should know better than you do.” + </p> + <p> + Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say that he knew nothing about + the thing at all. But a commercial training was too strong for him. Nor + could he say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it away; nor yet + that it was good, for this would be giving it away equally. He attempted + to suggest that it was something between the two, with vast possibilities + in either direction, but broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes. + And yet he scarcely distinguished between the two sisters. One was more + beautiful and more lively, but “the Miss Schlegels” still remained a + composite Indian god, whose waving arms and contradictory speeches were + the product of a single mind. + </p> + <p> + “One can but see,” he remarked, adding, “as Ibsen says, ‘things happen.’” + He was itching to talk about books and make the most of his romantic hour. + Minute after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with imperfect skill, + discussed the subject of reinsurance or praised their anonymous friend. + Leonard grew annoyed—perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about + not being one of those who minded their affairs being talked over by + others, but they did not take the hint. Men might have shown more tact. + Women, however tactful elsewhere, are heavy-handed here. They cannot see + why we should shroud our incomes and our prospects in a veil. “How much + exactly have you, and how much do you expect to have next June?” And these + were women with a theory, who held that reticence about money matters is + absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state the exact size of + the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of warp over + which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to the + pattern otherwise? + </p> + <p> + And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. + At last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of + books feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said, + “So YOU like Carlyle” and then the door opened, and “Mr. Wilcox, Miss + Wilcox” entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!” screamed Helen, + falling on her hands and knees. + </p> + <p> + “We brought the little fellows round,” said Mr. Wilcox. + </p> + <p> + “I bred ’em myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got to be going now,” said Leonard sourly. + </p> + <p> + “But play with puppies a little first.” + </p> + <p> + “This is Ahab, that’s Jezebel,” said Evie, who was one of those who name + animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got to be going.” + </p> + <p> + Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba—Must you be really? Good-bye!” + </p> + <p> + “Come again,” said Helen from the floor. + </p> + <p> + Then Leonard’s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of + it? He said roundly: “No, I shan’t; I knew it would be a failure.” + </p> + <p> + Most people would have let him go. “A little mistake. We tried knowing + another class—impossible.” + </p> + <p> + But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had attempted + friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, “I call + that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?” + and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. + </p> + <p> + “You ask me why I turn on you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you want to have me here for?’ + </p> + <p> + “To help you, you silly boy!” cried Helen. “And don’t shout.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want your patronage. I don’t want your tea. I was quite happy. + What do you want to unsettle me for?” He turned to Mr. Wilcox. “I put it + to this gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he + could so well command. “Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any + use, or shall we go?” + </p> + <p> + But Margaret ignored him. + </p> + <p> + “I’m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I + take to be an invitation from these—ladies” (he drawled the word). + “I come, and it’s to have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?” + </p> + <p> + “Highly unfair,” said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that + her father was becoming dangerous. + </p> + <p> + “There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content + with”—pointing at Margaret—“you can’t deny it.” His voice + rose; he was falling into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. “But as soon + as I’m useful it’s a very different thing. ‘Oh yes, send for him. + Cross-question him. Pick his brains.’ Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, + I’m a quiet fellow: I’m law-abiding, I don’t wish any unpleasantness; but + I—I—” + </p> + <p> + “You,” said Margaret—“you—you—” + </p> + <p> + Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. + </p> + <p> + “You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star.” + </p> + <p> + More laughter. + </p> + <p> + “You saw the sunrise.” + </p> + <p> + Laughter. + </p> + <p> + “You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all—away + past books and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home.” + </p> + <p> + “I fail to see the connection,” said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. + </p> + <p> + “So do I.” There was a pause. “You were that last Sunday—you are + this to-day. Mr. Bast! I and my sister have talked you over. We wanted to + help you; we also supposed you might help us. We did not have you here out + of charity—which bores us—but because we hoped there would be + a connection between last Sunday and other days. What is the good of your + stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our + daily lives? They have never entered into mine, but into yours, we thought—Haven’t + we all to struggle against life’s daily greyness, against pettiness, + against mechanical cheerfulness, against suspicion? I struggle by + remembering my friends; others I have known by remembering some place—some + beloved place or tree—we thought you one of these.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if there’s been any misunderstanding,” mumbled Leonard, “all I + can do is to go. But I beg to state—” He paused. Ahab and Jezebel + danced at his boots and made him look ridiculous. “You were picking my + brain for official information—I can prove it—I—” He + blew his nose and left them. + </p> + <p> + “Can I help you now?” said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. “May I have + one quiet word with him in the hall?” + </p> + <p> + “Helen, go after him—do anything—anything—to make the + noodle understand.” + </p> + <p> + Helen hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “But really—” said their visitor. “Ought she to?” + </p> + <p> + At once she went. + </p> + <p> + He resumed. “I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him + off for yourselves—I didn’t interfere. You were splendid, Miss + Schlegel—absolutely splendid. You can take my word for it, but there + are very few women who could have managed him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes,” said Margaret distractedly. + </p> + <p> + “Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me,” cried + Evie. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed,” chuckled her father; “all that part about ‘mechanical + cheerfulness’—oh, fine!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very sorry,” said Margaret, collecting herself. “He’s a nice creature + really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I didn’t mind.” Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might speak + as an old friend, and, permission given, said: “Oughtn’t you really to be + more careful?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. “Do you + realise that it’s all your fault?” she said. “You’re responsible.” + </p> + <p> + “I?” + </p> + <p> + “This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We + warn him, and—look!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. “I hardly consider that a fair deduction,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “Obviously unfair,” said Margaret. “I was only thinking how tangled things + are. It’s our fault mostly—neither yours nor his.” + </p> + <p> + “Not his?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schlegel, you are too kind.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed,” nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know + the world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw + you had not been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a + distance. Otherwise they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren’t our + sort, and one must face the fact.” + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es.” + </p> + <p> + “Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a + gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “I admit it willingly,” said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the + room. “A gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. + </p> + <p> + “What did he suspect you of?” + </p> + <p> + “Of wanting to make money out of him.” + </p> + <p> + “Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding suspicion. One touch of + thought or of goodwill would have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear + that does make men intolerable brutes.” + </p> + <p> + “I come back to my original point. You ought to be more careful, Miss + Schlegel. Your servants ought to have orders not to let such people in.” + </p> + <p> + She turned to him frankly. “Let me explain exactly why we like this man, + and want to see him again.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s your clever way of talking. I shall never believe you like him.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adventure, just as you do. + Yes, you go motoring and shooting; he would like to go camping out. + Secondly, he cares for something special IN adventure. It is quickest to + call that special something poetry—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s one of that writer sort.” + </p> + <p> + “No—oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be loathsome stuff. His + brain is filled with the husks of books, culture—horrible; we want + him to wash out his brain and go to the real thing. We want to show him + how he may get upsides with life. As I said, either friends or the + country, some”—she hesitated—“either some very dear person or + some very dear place seems necessary to relieve life’s daily grey, and to + show that it is grey. If possible, one should have both.” + </p> + <p> + Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them run past. Others he + caught and criticised with admirable lucidity. + </p> + <p> + “Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mistake. This young bounder + has a life of his own. What right have you to conclude it is an + unsuccessful life, or, as you call it, ‘grey’?” + </p> + <p> + “Because—” + </p> + <p> + “One minute. You know nothing about him. He probably has his own joys and + interests—wife, children, snug little home. That’s where we + practical fellows” he smiled—“are more tolerant than you + intellectuals. We live and let live, and assume that things are jogging on + fairly well elsewhere, and that the ordinary plain man may be trusted to + look after his own affairs. I quite grant—I look at the faces of the + clerks in my own office, and observe them to be dull, but I don’t know + what’s going on beneath. So, by the way, with London. I have heard you + rail against London, Miss Schlegel, and it seems a funny thing to say but + I was very angry with you. What do you know about London? You only see + civilisation from the outside. I don’t say in your case, but in too many + cases that attitude leads to morbidity, discontent, and Socialism.” + </p> + <p> + She admitted the strength of his position, though it undermined + imagination. As he spoke, some outposts of poetry and perhaps of sympathy + fell ruining, and she retreated to what she called her “second line”—to + the special facts of the case. + </p> + <p> + “His wife is an old bore,” she said simply. “He never came home last + Saturday night because he wanted to be alone, and she thought he was with + us.” + </p> + <p> + “With YOU?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Evie tittered. “He hasn’t got the cosy home that you assumed. He + needs outside interests.” + </p> + <p> + “Naughty young man!” cried the girl. + </p> + <p> + “Naughty?” said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin. “When + you’re married Miss Wilcox, won’t you want outside interests?” + </p> + <p> + “He has apparently got them,” put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed, father.” + </p> + <p> + “He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that,” said Margaret, pacing away + rather crossly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I dare say!” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wilcox, he was!” + </p> + <p> + “M—m—m—m!” from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the episode + amusing, if risque. With most ladies he would not have discussed it, but + he was trading on Margaret’s reputation as an emancipated woman. + </p> + <p> + “He said so, and about such a thing he wouldn’t lie.” + </p> + <p> + They both began to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “That’s where I differ from you. Men lie about their positions and + prospects, but not about a thing of that sort.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. “Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but I know the type.” + </p> + <p> + “I said before—he isn’t a type. He cares about adventures rightly. + He’s certain that our smug existence isn’t all. He’s vulgar and + hysterical and bookish, but don’t think that sums him up. There’s manhood + in him as well. Yes, that’s what I’m trying to say. He’s a real man.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr. Wilcox’s defences fell. + She saw back to the real man in him. Unwittingly she had touched his + emotions. + </p> + <p> + A woman and two men—they had formed the magic triangle of sex, and + the male was thrilled to jealousy, in case the female was attracted by + another male. Love, say the ascetics, reveals our shameful kinship with + the beasts. Be it so: one can bear that; jealousy is the real shame. It is + jealousy, not love, that connects us with the farmyard intolerably, and + calls up visions of two angry cocks and a complacent hen. Margaret crushed + complacency down because she was civilised. Mr. Wilcox, uncivilised, + continued to feel anger long after he had rebuilt his defences, and was + again presenting a bastion to the world. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schlegel, you’re a pair of dear creatures, but you really MUST be + careful in this uncharitable world. What does your brother say?” + </p> + <p> + “I forget.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely he has some opinion?” + </p> + <p> + “He laughs, if I remember correctly.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s very clever, isn’t he?” said Evie, who had met and detested Tibby at + Oxford. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, pretty well—but I wonder what Helen’s doing.” + </p> + <p> + “She is very young to undertake this sort of thing,” said Mr. Wilcox. + </p> + <p> + Margaret went out to the landing. She heard no sound, and Mr. Bast’s + topper was missing from the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Helen!” she called. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” replied a voice from the library. + </p> + <p> + “You in there?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—he’s gone some time.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret went to her. “Why, you’re all alone,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—it’s all right, Meg. Poor, poor creature—” + </p> + <p> + “Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later—Mr. W much concerned, + and slightly titillated.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve no patience with him. I hate him. Poor dear Mr. Bast! he wanted + to talk literature, and we would talk business. Such a muddle of a man, + and yet so worth pulling through. I like him extraordinarily.” + </p> + <p> + “Well done,” said Margaret, kissing her, “but come into the drawing-room + now, and don’t talk about him to the Wilcoxes. Make light of the whole + thing.” + </p> + <p> + Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that reassured their visitor—this + hen at all events was fancy-free. + </p> + <p> + “He’s gone with my blessing,” she cried, “and now for puppies.” + </p> + <p> + As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to his daughter: + </p> + <p> + “I am really concerned at the way those girls go on. They are as clever as + you make ’em, but unpractical—God bless me! One of these days + they’ll go too far. Girls like that oughtn’t to live alone in London. + Until they marry, they ought to have some one to look after them. We must + look in more often—we’re better than no one. You like them, don’t + you, Evie?” + </p> + <p> + Evie replied: “Helen’s right enough, but I can’t stand the toothy one. And + I shouldn’t have called either of them girls.” + </p> + <p> + Evie had grown up handsome. Dark-eyed, with the glow of youth under + sunburn, built firmly and firm-lipped, she was the best the Wilcoxes could + do in the way of feminine beauty. For the present, puppies and her father + were the only things she loved, but the net of matrimony was being + prepared for her, and a few days later she was attracted to a Mr. Percy + Cahill, an uncle of Mrs. Charles’s, and he was attracted to her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + The Age of Property holds bitter moments even for a proprietor. When a + move is imminent, furniture becomes ridiculous, and Margaret now lay awake + at nights wondering where, where on earth they and all their belongings + would be deposited in September next. Chairs, tables, pictures, books, + that had rumbled down to them through the generations, must rumble forward + again like a slide of rubbish to which she longed to give the final push, + and send toppling into the sea. But there were all their father’s books—they + never read them, but they were their father’s, and must be kept. There was + the marble-topped chiffonier—their mother had set store by it, they + could not remember why. Round every knob and cushion in the house gathered + a sentiment that was at times personal, but more often a faint piety to + the dead, a prolongation of rites that might have ended at the grave. + </p> + <p> + It was absurd, if you came to think of it; Helen and Tibby came to think + of it; Margaret was too busy with the house-agents. The feudal ownership + of land did bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of movables is + reducing us again to a nomadic horde. We are reverting to the civilisation + of luggage, and historians of the future will note how the middle classes + accreted possessions without taking root in the earth, and may find in + this the secret of their imaginative poverty. The Schlegels were certainly + the poorer for the loss of Wickham Place. It had helped to balance their + lives, and almost to counsel them. Nor is their ground-landlord + spiritually the richer. He has built flats on its site, his motor-cars + grow swifter, his exposures of Socialism more trenchant. But he has spilt + the precious distillation of the years, and no chemistry of his can give + it back to society again. + </p> + <p> + Margaret grew depressed; she was anxious to settle on a house before they + left town to pay their annual visit to Mrs. Munt. She enjoyed this visit, + and wanted to have her mind at ease for it. Swanage, though dull, was + stable, and this year she longed more than usual for its fresh air and for + the magnificent downs that guard it on the north. But London thwarted her; + in its atmosphere she could not concentrate. London only stimulates, it + cannot sustain; and Margaret, hurrying over its surface for a house + without knowing what sort of a house she wanted, was paying for many a + thrilling sensation in the past. She could not even break loose from + culture, and her time was wasted by concerts which it would be a sin to + miss, and invitations which it would never do to refuse. At last she grew + desperate; she resolved that she would go nowhere and be at home to no one + until she found a house, and broke the resolution in half an hour. + </p> + <p> + Once she had humorously lamented that she had never been to Simpson’s + restaurant in the Strand. Now a note arrived from Miss Wilcox, asking her + to lunch there. Mr Cahill was coming and the three would have such a jolly + chat, and perhaps end up at the Hippodrome. Margaret had no strong regard + for Evie, and no desire to meet her fiance, and she was surprised that + Helen, who had been far funnier about Simpson’s, had not been asked + instead. But the invitation touched her by its intimate tone. She must + know Evie Wilcox better than she supposed, and declaring that she “simply + must,” she accepted. + </p> + <p> + But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restaurant, staring fiercely + at nothing after the fashion of athletic women, her heart failed her anew. + Miss Wilcox had changed perceptibly since her engagement. Her voice was + gruffer, her manner more downright, and she was inclined to patronise the + more foolish virgin. Margaret was silly enough to be pained at this. + Depressed at her isolation, she saw not only houses and furniture, but the + vessel of life itself slipping past her, with people like Evie and Mr. + Cahill on board. + </p> + <p> + There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us, and one of them came to + her at Simpson’s in the Strand. As she trod the staircase, narrow, but + carpeted thickly, as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of mutton + were being trundled up to expectant clergymen, she had a strong, if + erroneous, conviction of her own futility, and wished she had never come + out of her backwater, where nothing happened except art and literature, + and where no one ever got married or succeeded in remaining engaged. Then + came a little surprise. “Father might be of the party—yes, father + was.” With a smile of pleasure she moved forward to greet him, and her + feeling of loneliness vanished. + </p> + <p> + “I thought I’d get round if I could,” said he. “Evie told me of her little + plan, so I just slipped in and secured a table. Always secure a table + first. Evie, don’t pretend you want to sit by your old father, because you + don’t. Miss Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity. My goodness, but you + look tired! Been worrying round after your young clerks?” + </p> + <p> + “No, after houses,” said Margaret, edging past him into the box. “I’m + hungry, not tired; I want to eat heaps.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good. What’ll you have?” + </p> + <p> + “Fish pie,” said she, with a glance at the menu. + </p> + <p> + “Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson’s. It’s not a bit the + thing to go for here.” + </p> + <p> + “Go for something for me, then,” said Margaret, pulling off her gloves. + Her spirits were rising, and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her + curiously. + </p> + <p> + “Saddle of mutton,” said he after profound reflection; “and cider to + drink. That’s the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in a + way. It is so thoroughly Old English. Don’t you agree?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Margaret, who didn’t. The order was given, the joint rolled + up, and the carver, under Mr. Wilcox’s direction, cut the meat where it + was succulent, and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on + sirloin, but admitted that he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie + soon fell into a conversation of the “No, I didn’t; yes, you did” type—conversation + which, though fascinating to those who are engaged in it, neither desires + nor deserves the attention of others. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere’s my motto.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it does make life more human.” + </p> + <p> + “Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they + remember you from year’s end to year’s end.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you been in the East?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to + Cyprus; some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly + distributed, help to keep one’s memory green. But you, of course, think + this shockingly cynical. How’s your discussion society getting on? Any new + Utopias lately?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I’ve already told you once. Do you + know of any houses?” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what’s the point of being practical if you can’t find two + distressed females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, + and plenty of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house-agent for her!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that, father?” + </p> + <p> + “I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Percy, do you know of anything?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say I do,” said Mr. Cahill. + </p> + <p> + “How like you! You’re never any good.” + </p> + <p> + “Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you aren’t. Miss Schlegel, is he?” + </p> + <p> + The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret, swept + away on its habitual course. She sympathised with it now, for a little + comfort had restored her geniality. Speech and silence pleased her + equally, and while Mr. Wilcox made some preliminary inquiries about + cheese, her eyes surveyed the restaurant, and aired its well-calculated + tributes to the solidity of our past. Though no more Old English than the + works of Kipling, it had selected its reminiscences so adroitly that her + criticism was lulled, and the guests whom it was nourishing for imperial + purposes bore the outer semblance of Parson Adams or Tom Jones. Scraps of + their talk jarred oddly on the ear. “Right you are! I’ll cable out to + Uganda this evening,” came from the table behind. “Their Emperor wants + war; well, let him have it,” was the opinion of a clergyman. She smiled at + such incongruities. “Next time,” she said to Mr. Wilcox, “you shall come + to lunch with me at Mr. Eustace Miles’s.” + </p> + <p> + “With pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you’d hate it,” she said, pushing her glass towards him for some more + cider. “It’s all proteids and body buildings, and people come up to you + and beg your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura.” + </p> + <p> + “A what?” + </p> + <p> + “Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for hours. + Nor of an astral plane?” + </p> + <p> + He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. + </p> + <p> + “Just so. Luckily it was Helen’s aura, not mine, and she had to chaperone + it and do the politenesses. I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth + till the man went.” + </p> + <p> + “Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. No one’s ever asked me + about my—what d’ye call it? Perhaps I’ve not got one.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no + one dares mention it.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural + and all that?” + </p> + <p> + “Too difficult a question.” + </p> + <p> + “Why’s that? Gruyere or Stilton?” + </p> + <p> + “Gruyere, please.” + </p> + <p> + “Better have Stilton. + </p> + <p> + “Stilton. Because, though I don’t believe in auras, and think Theosophy’s + only a halfway-house—” + </p> + <p> + “—Yet there may be something in it all the same,” he concluded, with + a frown. + </p> + <p> + “Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can’t explain. + I don’t believe in all these fads, and yet I don’t like saying that I + don’t believe in them.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed unsatisfied, and said: “So you wouldn’t give me your word that + you DON’T hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?” + </p> + <p> + “I could,” said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance + to him. “Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only + trying to be funny. But why do you want this settled?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am,” “No, you’re not,” burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret + was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject. + </p> + <p> + “How’s your house?” + </p> + <p> + “Much the same as when you honoured it last week.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Why ‘of course’?” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We’re nearly demented.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thought you wanted to be in + town. One bit of advice: fix your district, then fix your price, and then + don’t budge. That’s how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. I said to + myself, ‘I mean to be exactly here,’ and I was, and Oniton’s a place in a + thousand.” + </p> + <p> + “But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to mesmerise houses—cow them with an + eye, and up they come, trembling. Ladies can’t. It’s the houses that are + mesmerising me. I’ve no control over the saucy things. Houses are alive. + No?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m out of my depth,” he said, and added: “Didn’t you talk rather like + that to your office boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Did I?—I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same way to every one—or + try to.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know. And how much of it do you suppose he understood?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s his lookout. I don’t believe in suiting my conversation to my + company. One can doubtless hit upon some medium of exchange that seems to + do well enough, but it’s no more like the real thing than money is like + food. There’s no nourishment in it. You pass it to the lower classes, and + they pass it back to you, and this you call ‘social intercourse’ or + ‘mutual endeavour,’ when it’s mutual priggishness if it’s anything. Our + friends at Chelsea don’t see this. They say one ought to be at all costs + intelligible, and sacrifice—” + </p> + <p> + “Lower classes,” interrupted Mr. Wilcox, as it were thrusting his hand + into her speech. “Well, you do admit that there are rich and poor. That’s + something.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret could not reply. Was he incredibly stupid, or did he understand + her better than she understood herself? + </p> + <p> + “You do admit that, if wealth was divided up equally, in a few years there + would be rich and poor again just the same. The hard-working man would + come to the top, the wastrel sink to the bottom.” + </p> + <p> + “Every one admits that.” + </p> + <p> + “Your Socialists don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “My Socialists do. Yours mayn’t; but I strongly suspect yours of being not + Socialists, but ninepins, which you have constructed for your own + amusement. I can’t imagine any living creature who would bowl over quite + so easily.” + </p> + <p> + He would have resented this had she not been a woman. But women may say + anything—it was one of his holiest beliefs—and he only + retorted, with a gay smile: “I don’t care. You’ve made two damaging + admissions, and I’m heartily with you in both.” + </p> + <p> + In time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who had excused herself from + the Hippodrome, took her leave. Evie had scarcely addressed her, and she + suspected that the entertainment had been planned by the father. He and + she were advancing out of their respective families towards a more + intimate acquaintance. It had begun long ago. She had been his wife’s + friend and, as such, he had given her that silver vinaigrette as a + memento. It was pretty of him to have given that vinaigrette, and he had + always preferred her to Helen—unlike most men. But the advance had + been astonishing lately. They had done more in a week than in two years, + and were really beginning to know each other. + </p> + <p> + She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace Miles, and asked him as + soon as she could secure Tibby as his chaperon. He came, and partook of + body-building dishes with humility. + </p> + <p> + Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They had not succeeded in + finding a new home. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII + </h2> + <p> + As they were seated at Aunt Juley’s breakfast-table at The Bays, parrying + her excessive hospitality and enjoying the view of the bay, a letter came + for Margaret and threw her into perturbation. It was from Mr. Wilcox. It + announced an “important change” in his plans. Owing to Evie’s marriage, he + had decided to give up his house in Ducie Street, and was willing to let + it on a yearly tenancy. It was a businesslike letter, and stated frankly + what he would do for them and what he would not do. Also the rent. If they + approved, Margaret was to come up AT ONCE—the words were underlined, + as is necessary when dealing with women—and to go over the house + with him. If they disapproved, a wire would oblige, as he should put it + into the hands of an agent. + </p> + <p> + The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it meant. If he liked + her, if he had manoeuvred to get her to Simpson’s, might this be a + manoeuvre to get her to London, and result in an offer of marriage? She + put it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that her brain + would cry, “Rubbish, you’re a self-conscious fool!” But her brain only + tingled a little and was silent, and for a time she sat gazing at the + mincing waves, and wondering whether the news would seem strange to the + others. + </p> + <p> + As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. + There could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the + burr of conversation her fears vanished. + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t go though—” began her hostess. + </p> + <p> + “I needn’t, but hadn’t I better? It’s really getting rather serious. We + let chance after chance slip, and the end of it is we shall be bundled out + bag and baggage into the street. We don’t know what we WANT, that’s the + mischief with us—” + </p> + <p> + “No, we have no real ties,” said Helen, helping herself to toast. + </p> + <p> + “Shan’t I go up to town to-day, take the house if it’s the least possible, + and then come down by the afternoon train to-morrow, and start enjoying + myself. I shall be no fun to myself or to others until this business is + off my mind.” + </p> + <p> + “But you won’t do anything rash, Margaret?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing rash to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Who ARE the Wilcoxes?” said Tibby, a question that sounds silly, but was + really extremely subtle as his aunt found to her cost when she tried to + answer it. “I don’t MANAGE the Wilcoxes; I don’t see where they come IN.” + </p> + <p> + “No more do I,” agreed Helen. “It’s funny that we just don’t lose sight of + them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who + has stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far + more interesting people in that time.” + </p> + <p> + “Interesting people don’t get one houses.” + </p> + <p> + “Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle + at you.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a better vein than the cosmopolitan,” said Margaret, getting up. + “Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall + I say yes or shall I say no? Tibby love—which? I’m specially anxious + to pin you both.” + </p> + <p> + “It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word ‘possible’” + </p> + <p> + “It depends on nothing of the sort. Say ‘yes.’” + </p> + <p> + “Say ‘no.’” + </p> + <p> + Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. “I think,” she said, “that our race + is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be + like when we have to settle a big one?” + </p> + <p> + “It will be as easy as eating,” returned Helen. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, + when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends + were Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming + at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he + could change countries and ideals—and we, at our age, can’t change + houses. It’s humiliating.” + </p> + <p> + “Your father may have been able to change countries,” said Mrs. Munt with + asperity, “and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change + houses no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget + what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew it,” cried Helen. “I told you so. It is the little things one + bungles at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come.” + </p> + <p> + “Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect—in fact, you + weren’t there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move + before the lease for Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with + baby—who was Margaret then—and the smaller luggage for London, + without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from + that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went + through getting you into it.” + </p> + <p> + Helen, with her mouth full, cried: + </p> + <p> + “And that’s the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, + and who beat the Germans that were inside himself. And we’re like him.” + </p> + <p> + “Speak for yourself,” said Tibby. “Remember that I am cosmopolitan, + please.” + </p> + <p> + “Helen may be right.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course she’s right,” said Helen. + </p> + <p> + Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. + An interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be + pardoned for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from + the sea and friends. She could not believe that her father had ever felt + the same. Her eyes had been troubling her lately, so that she could not + read in the train and it bored her to look at the landscape, which she had + seen but yesterday. At Southampton she “waved” to Frieda; Frieda was on + her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that + their trains would cross. But Frieda was looking the other way, and + Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-maidish. How like + an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once + visited a spinster—poor, silly, and unattractive—whose mania + it was that every man who approached her fell in love. How Margaret’s + heart had bled for the deluded thing! How she had lectured, reasoned, and + in despair acquiesced! “I may have been deceived by the curate, my dear, + but the young fellow who brings the midday post really is fond of me, and + has, as a matter of fact—” It had always seemed to her the most + hideous corner of old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by the + mere pressure of virginity. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself. She felt certain that he was not + the same as usual; for one thing, he took offence at everything she said. + </p> + <p> + “This is awfully kind of you,” she began, “but I’m afraid it’s not going + to do. The house has not been built that suits the Schlegel family.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Have you come up determined not to deal?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly? In that case let’s be starting.” + </p> + <p> + She lingered to admire the motor, which was new, and a fairer creature + than the vermilion giant that had borne Aunt Juley to her doom three years + before. + </p> + <p> + “Presumably it’s very beautiful,” she said. “How do you like it, Crane?” + </p> + <p> + “Come, let’s be starting,” repeated her host. “How on earth did you know + that my chauffeur was called Crane?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I know Crane; I’ve been for a drive with Evie once. I know that + you’ve got a parlourmaid called Milton. I know all sorts of things.” + </p> + <p> + “Evie!” he echoed in injured tones. “You won’t see her. She’s gone out + with Cahill. It’s no fun, I can tell you, being left so much alone. I’ve + got my work all day—indeed, a great deal too much of it—but + when I come home in the evening, I tell you, I can’t stand the house.” + </p> + <p> + “In my absurd way, I’m lonely too,” Margaret replied. “It’s heart-breaking + to leave one’s old home. I scarcely remember anything before Wickham + Place, and Helen and Tibby were born there. Helen says—” + </p> + <p> + “You, too, feel lonely?” + </p> + <p> + “Horribly. Hullo, Parliament’s back!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox glanced at Parliament contemptuously. The more important ropes + of life lay elsewhere. “Yes, they are talking again,” said he. “But you + were going to say—” + </p> + <p> + “Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it alone endures while men + and houses perish, and that in the end the world will be a desert of + chairs and sofas—just imagine it!—rolling through infinity + with no one to sit upon them.” + </p> + <p> + “Your sister always likes her little joke.” + </p> + <p> + “She says ‘Yes,’ my brother says `No,’ to Ducie Street. It’s no fun + helping us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not as unpractical as you pretend. I shall never believe it.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret laughed. But she was—quite as unpractical. She could not + concentrate on details. Parliament, the Thames, the irresponsive + chauffeur, would flash into the field of house-hunting, and all demand + some comment or response. It is impossible to see modern life steadily and + see it whole, and she had chosen to see it whole. Mr. Wilcox saw steadily. + He never bothered over the mysterious or the private. The Thames might run + inland from the sea, the chauffeur might conceal all passion and + philosophy beneath his unhealthy skin. They knew their own business, and + he knew his. + </p> + <p> + Yet she liked being with him. He was not a rebuke, but a stimulus, and + banished morbidity. Some twenty years her senior, he preserved a gift that + she supposed herself to have already lost—not youth’s creative + power, but its self-confidence and optimism. He was so sure that it was a + very pleasant world. His complexion was robust, his hair had receded but + not thinned, the thick moustache and the eyes that Helen had compared to + brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in them, whether they were turned + towards the slums or towards the stars. Some day—in the millennium—there + may be no need for his type. At present, homage is due to it from those + who think themselves superior, and who possibly are. + </p> + <p> + “At all events you responded to my telegram promptly,” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you don’t despise the goods of this world.” + </p> + <p> + “Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that.” + </p> + <p> + “I am glad, very glad,” he repeated, suddenly softening and turning to + her, as if the remark had pleased him. “There is so much cant talked in + would-be intellectual circles. I am glad you don’t share it. Self-denial + is all very well as a means of strengthening the character. But I can’t + stand those people who run down comforts. They have usually some axe to + grind. Can you?” + </p> + <p> + “Comforts are of two kinds,” said Margaret, who was keeping herself in + hand—“those we can share with others, like fire, weather, or music; + and those we can’t—food, food, for instance. It depends.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn’t like to think that you—” + He bent nearer; the sentence died unfinished. Margaret’s head turned very + stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a + lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half-past twelve, and + the car was passing by the stables of Buckingham Palace. But the + atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seemed to exist on + her account, and she was surprised that Crane did not realise this, and + turn round. Idiot though she might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more—how + should one put it?—more psychological than usual. Always a good + judge of character for business purposes, he seemed this afternoon to + enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and + decision. + </p> + <p> + “I want to go over the whole house,” she announced when they arrived. “As + soon as I get back to Swanage, which will be to-morrow afternoon, I’ll + talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you ‘yes’ or ‘no.’” + </p> + <p> + “Right. The dining-room.” And they began their survey. + </p> + <p> + The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned + aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and + relent, and refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. + After so much self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the + sumptuous dado, the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage + parrots sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy + chairs, that immense sideboard loaded with presentation plate, stood up + against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen + to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, + saw it as an ancient guest-hall, where the lord sat at meat among his + thanes. Even the Bible—the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back + from the Boer War—fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. + </p> + <p> + “Now the entrance-hall.” + </p> + <p> + The entrance-hall was paved. + </p> + <p> + “Here we fellows smoke.” + </p> + <p> + We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car + had spawned. “Oh, jolly!” said Margaret, sinking into one of them. + </p> + <p> + “You do like it?” he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and + surely betraying an almost intimate note. “It’s all rubbish not making + oneself comfortable. Isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?” + </p> + <p> + “Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?” + </p> + <p> + “Does all this furniture come from Howards End?” + </p> + <p> + “The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton.” + </p> + <p> + “Does—However, I’m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How + big is this smoking-room?” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren’t you ever amused at the solemnity with which + we middle classes approach the subject of houses?” + </p> + <p> + They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was + sallow and ineffective. One could visualise the ladies withdrawing to it, + while their lords discussed life’s realities below, to the accompaniment + of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox’s drawing-room at Howards End looked thus? Just + as this thought entered Margaret’s brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his + wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she + nearly fainted. + </p> + <p> + But the proposal was not to rank among the world’s great love scenes. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schlegel”—his voice was firm—“I have had you up on false + pretences. I want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret almost answered: “I know—” + </p> + <p> + “Could you be induced to share my—is it probable—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Wilcox!” she interrupted, taking hold of the piano and averting + her eyes. “I see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may.” + </p> + <p> + He began to stammer. “Miss Schlegel—Margaret you don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes! Indeed, yes!” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “I am asking you to be my wife.” + </p> + <p> + So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, “I am asking you to + be my wife,” she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise + if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It + had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading + happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret + could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room + happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him she realised that the + central radiance had been love. + </p> + <p> + “You aren’t offended, Miss Schlegel?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I be offended?” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment’s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew + it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for + possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, + but he feared them, and she, who had taught herself only to desire, and + could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with + him. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye,” she continued. “You will have a letter from me—I am + going back to Swanage to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, and it’s you I thank.” + </p> + <p> + “I may order the motor round, mayn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “That would be most kind.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at all.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s just one question—” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered as they parted. + </p> + <p> + They parted without shaking hands; she had kept the interview, for his + sake, in tints of the quietest grey. She thrilled with happiness ere she + reached her house. Others had loved her in the past, if one apply to their + brief desires so grave a word, but the others had been “ninnies”—young + men who had nothing to do, old men who could find nobody better. And she + had often ‘loved,’ too, but only so far as the facts of sex demanded: mere + yearnings for the masculine sex to be dismissed for what they were worth, + with a sigh. Never before had her personality been touched. She was not + young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of any standing should + take her seriously. As she sat, trying to do accounts in her empty house, + amidst beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion broke, as if a + tide of passion was flowing through the night air. She shook her head, + tried to concentrate her attention, and failed. In vain did she repeat: + “But I’ve been through this sort of thing before.” She had never been + through it; the big machinery, as opposed to the little, had been set in + motion, and the idea that Mr. Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came + to love him in return. + </p> + <p> + She would come to no decision yet. “Oh, sir, this is so sudden”—that + prudish phrase exactly expressed her when her time came. Premonitions are + not preparation. She must examine more closely her own nature and his; she + must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been a strange love-scene—the + central radiance unacknowledged from first to last. She, in his place, + would have said Ich liebe dich, but perhaps it was not his habit to open + the heart. He might have done it if she had pressed him—as a matter + of duty, perhaps; England expects every man to open his heart once; but + the effort would have jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it, should + he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise against the world. He + must never be bothered with emotional talk, or with a display of sympathy. + He was an elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent to correct + him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost; surveying the scene, + thought Margaret, without one hint of bitterness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX + </h2> + <p> + If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps the wisest course would + be to take him to the final section of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on + their summit, a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after system + of our island would roll together under his feet. Beneath him is the + valley of the Frome, and all the wild lands that come tossing down from + Dorchester, black and gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of + Poole. The valley of the Stour is beyond, unaccountable stream, dirty at + Blandford, pure at Wimborne—the Stour, sliding out of fat fields, to + marry the Avon beneath the tower of Christ church. The valley of the Avon—invisible, + but far to the north the trained eye may see Clearbury Ring that guards + it, and the imagination may leap beyond that on to Salisbury Plain itself, + and beyond the Plain to all the glorious downs of Central England. Nor is + Suburbia absent. Bournemouth’s ignoble coast cowers to the right, + heralding the pine-trees that mean, for all their beauty, red houses, and + the Stock Exchange, and extend to the gates of London itself. So + tremendous is the City’s trail! But the cliffs of Freshwater it shall + never touch, and the island will guard the Island’s purity till the end of + time. Seen from the west the Wight is beautiful beyond all laws of beauty. + It is as if a fragment of England floated forward to greet the foreigner—chalk + of our chalk, turf of our turf, epitome of what will follow. And behind + the fragment lies Southampton, hostess to the nations, and Portsmouth, a + latent fire, and all around it, with double and treble collision of tides, + swirls the sea. How many villages appear in this view! How many castles! + How many churches, vanished or triumphant! How many ships, railways, and + roads! What incredible variety of men working beneath that lucent sky to + what final end! The reason fails, like a wave on the Swanage beach; the + imagination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it becomes geographic and + encircles England. + </p> + <p> + So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke, and mother to her + husband’s baby, was brought up to these heights to be impressed, and, + after a prolonged gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here + than in Pomerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs. Munt apposite. + Poole Harbour was dry, which led her to praise the absence of muddy + foreshore at Friedrich Wilhelms Bad, Rugen, where beech-trees hang over + the tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine. Rather unhealthy + Mrs. Munt thought this would be, water being safer when it moved about. + </p> + <p> + “And your English lakes—Vindermere, Grasmere they, then, unhealthy?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are fresh water, and + different. Salt water ought to have tides, and go up and down a great + deal, or else it smells. Look, for instance, at an aquarium.” + </p> + <p> + “An aquarium! Oh, MEESIS Munt, you mean to tell me that fresh aquariums + stink less than salt? Why, then Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many + tadpoles—” “You are not to say ‘stink,’” interrupted Helen; “at + least, you may say it, but you must pretend you are being funny while you + say it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then ‘smell.’ And the mud of your Pool down there—does it not + smell, or may I say ‘stink,’ ha, ha?” + </p> + <p> + “There always has been mud in Poole Harbour,” said Mrs. Munt, with a + slight frown. “The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable + oyster-fishery depends upon it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that is so,” conceded Frieda; and another international incident was + closed. + </p> + <p> + “‘Bournemouth is,’” resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which + she was much attached—“‘Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to + be the most important town of all and biggest of the three.’ Now, Frau + Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let + us walk backward a little, and look down again at Swanage.” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Juley, wouldn’t that be Meg’s train?” + </p> + <p> + A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing + southwards towards them over the black and the gold. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won’t be overtired.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I do wonder—I do wonder whether she’s taken the house.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope she hasn’t been hasty.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I—oh, SO do I.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?” Frieda asked. + </p> + <p> + “I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All + those Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can’t + think why he doesn’t keep on with it. But it’s really for Evie that he + went there, and now that Evie’s going to be married—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you are!” + </p> + <p> + “But sister to that Paul?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And to that Charles,” said Mrs. Munt with feeling. “Oh, Helen, Helen, + what a time that was!” + </p> + <p> + Helen laughed. “Meg and I haven’t got such tender hearts. If there’s a + chance of a cheap house, we go for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece’s train. You see, it is coming + towards us—coming, coming; and, when it gets to Corfe, it will + actually go THROUGH the downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we + walk over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it + coming on the other side. Shall we?” + </p> + <p> + Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and + exchanged the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, + backed by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the + Isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of + all, and ugliest of the three. Margaret’s train reappeared as promised, + and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the + middle distance, and there it had been planned that Tibby should meet her, + and drive her, and a tea-basket, up to join them. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” continued Helen to her cousin, “the Wilcoxes collect houses as + your Victor collects tadpoles. They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards + End, where my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shropshire; four, + Charles has a house in Hilton; and five, another near Epsom; and six, Evie + will have a house when she marries, and probably a pied-a-terre in the + country—which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa makes + eight. I wish we could get Howards End. That was something like a dear + little house! Didn’t you think so, Aunt Juley?” + </p> + <p> + “I had too much to do, dear, to look at it,” said Mrs. Munt, with a + gracious dignity. “I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles + Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn’t likely I should remember + much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dreadful it all seems! And in the + autumn there began that anti-Pauline movement—you, and Frieda, and + Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox, all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry + Paul.” + </p> + <p> + “You yet may,” said Frieda despondently. + </p> + <p> + Helen shook her head. “The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I’m + certain of anything it’s of that.” + </p> + <p> + “One is certain of nothing but the truth of one’s own emotions.” + </p> + <p> + The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm + round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not + an original remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she + had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that + interest in the universal which the average Teuton possesses and the + average Englishman does not. It was, however illogically, the good, the + beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the + adequate. It was a landscape of Bocklin’s beside a landscape of Leader’s, + strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It + sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation + for what followed. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow + summit of the down. “Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart + coming. I see the pony-cart coming.” + </p> + <p> + They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently + seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little + through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got the house?” they shouted, long before she could possibly + hear. + </p> + <p> + Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track + went thence at right angles alone the ridge of the down. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got the house?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a nuisance! So we’re as we were?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly.” + </p> + <p> + She got out, looking tired. + </p> + <p> + “Some mystery,” said Tibby. “We are to be enlightened presently.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of + marriage from Mr. Wilcox. + </p> + <p> + Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother + might lead the pony through. “It’s just like a widower,” she remarked. + “They’ve cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their + first wife’s friends.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret’s face flashed despair. + </p> + <p> + “That type—” She broke off with a cry. “Meg, not anything wrong with + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait one minute,” said Margaret, whispering always. + </p> + <p> + “But you’ve never conceivably—you’ve never—” She pulled + herself together. “Tibby, hurry up through; I can’t hold this gate + indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and + Frieda; we’ve got to talk houses, and will come on afterwards.” And then, + turning her face to her sister’s, she burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, “Oh, really—” She + felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t,” sobbed Helen, “don’t, don’t, Meg, don’t!” She seemed incapable of + saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the + road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t, don’t do such a thing! I tell you not to—don’t! I know—don’t!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Panic and emptiness,” sobbed Helen. “Don’t!” + </p> + <p> + Then Margaret thought, “Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved + like this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying.” She said: “But + we would still see each other very—often, and you—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not a thing like that,” sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and + wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and + crying. + </p> + <p> + “What’s happened to you?” called Margaret, following through the wind that + gathers at sundown on the northern slopes of hills. “But it’s stupid!” And + suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But + Helen turned back. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what’s happened to either of us,” said Margaret, wiping her + eyes. “We must both have gone mad.” Then Helen wiped hers, and they even + laughed a little. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, sit down.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; I’ll sit down if you’ll sit down.” + </p> + <p> + “There. (One kiss.) Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “I do mean what I said. Don’t; it wouldn’t do.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Helen, stop saying ‘don’t’! It’s ignorant. It’s as if your head + wasn’t out of the slime. ‘Don’t’ is probably what Mrs. Bast says all the + day to Mr. Bast.” + </p> + <p> + Helen was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I’ll have got my head out + of the slime.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s better. Well, where shall I begin? When I arrived at Waterloo—no, + I’ll go back before that, because I’m anxious you should know everything + from the first. The ‘first’ was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. + Bast came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox + became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the + involuntary thing, which men can’t help any more than we can. You know—at + least, I know in my own case—when a man has said to me, ‘So-and-so’s + a pretty girl,’ I am seized with a momentary sourness against So-and-so, + and long to tweak her ear. It’s a tiresome feeling, but not an important + one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn’t only this in Mr. Wilcox’s + case, I gather now.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you love him?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret considered. “It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for + you,” she said. “The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, + I’ve known and liked him steadily for nearly three years.” + </p> + <p> + “But loved him?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyse feelings while + they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With + her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this + country or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated + honestly, and said, “No.” + </p> + <p> + “But you will?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Margaret, “of that I’m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment + he spoke to me.” + </p> + <p> + “And have settled to marry him?” + </p> + <p> + “I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, + Helen? You must try and say.” + </p> + <p> + Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. “It is ever since Paul,” she said + finally. + </p> + <p> + “But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?” + </p> + <p> + “But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to + breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened—the man who loved me + frightened and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was + impossible, because personal relations are the important thing for ever + and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger.” + </p> + <p> + She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, + because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. + </p> + <p> + “That’s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. + Well, we’ve often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest + gulf between my love-making and yours. Yours was romance; mine will be + prose. I’m not running it down—a very good kind of prose, but well + considered, well thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox’s + faults. He’s afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too + little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn’t sympathy + really. I’d even say”—she looked at the shining lagoons—“that, + spiritually, he’s not as honest as I am. Doesn’t that satisfy you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, it doesn’t,” said Helen. “It makes me feel worse and worse. You must + be mad.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret made a movement of irritation. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be all my life—good + heavens, no! There are heaps of things in me that he doesn’t, and shall + never, understand.” + </p> + <p> + Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before + the astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married + couples and the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most + women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her + character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her + future husband. Yet he did alter her character—a little. There was + an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a + social pressure that would have her think conjugally. + </p> + <p> + “So with him,” she continued. “There are heaps of things in him—more + especially things that he does that will always be hidden from me. He has + all those public qualities which you so despise and which enable all this—” + She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. “If + Wilcoxes hadn’t worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and + I couldn’t sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no + trains, no ships to carry us literary people about in, no fields even. + Just savagery. No—perhaps not even that. Without their spirit life + might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to + draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when + it seems to me—” + </p> + <p> + “And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s brutal,” said Margaret. “Mine is an absolutely different case. + I’ve thought things out.” + </p> + <p> + “It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Rubbish!” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole + Harbour. “One would lose something,” murmured Helen, apparently to + herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the + blackened heather. Branksea Island lost its immense foreshores, and became + a sombre episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, + Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards Salisbury, and over the immense + displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. + England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy + through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary + motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what + end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? + Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by other + lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow + seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, + sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world’s fleet accompanying + her towards eternity? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX + </h2> + <p> + Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the + world’s waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does + Love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a + hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the + generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the + ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But Love + cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another’s infinity; he is + conscious only of his own—flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that + asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. + He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by + Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the + assembly of the gods. “Men did produce this” they will say, and, saying, + they will give men immortality. But meanwhile—what agitations + meanwhile! The foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin + rocks; Family Pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing and + refusing to be comforted; Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty + ground swell. Then the lawyers are aroused—cold brood—and + creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they tidy up Property and + Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. Half-guineas are poured on + the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if all has gone well, + Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. + </p> + <p> + Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a + sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous + and the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her + love-affair. Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. + Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage + romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become + a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted + in the acquaintance; and love must confirm an old relation rather than + reveal a new one. + </p> + <p> + In this spirit she promised to marry him. + </p> + <p> + He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. + </p> + <p> + They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt + Juley. Henry dined at The Bays, but had engaged a bedroom in the principal + hotel; he was one of those men who know the principal hotel by instinct. + After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn’t care for a turn on the + Parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor; it would be + her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out + laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books; the joy, + though genuine was different; the mystery an unexpected mystery. For one + thing, Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. + </p> + <p> + For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: “Do you remember the + Embankment at Chelsea? It can’t be ten days ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, laughing. “And you and your sister were head and ears deep + in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!” + </p> + <p> + “I little thought then, certainly. Did you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know about that; I shouldn’t like to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, was it earlier?” she cried. “Did you think of me this way earlier! + How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for + his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He + misliked the very word “interesting,” connoting it with wasted energy and + even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t think of it,” she pursued. “No; when you spoke to me in the + drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from + what it’s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is—how + shall I put it?—a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its + literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal—” + </p> + <p> + “By the way—” + </p> + <p> + “—a suggestion, a seed,” she concluded; and the thought flew away + into darkness. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking, if you didn’t mind, that we ought to spend this evening + in a business talk; there will be so much to settle.” + </p> + <p> + “I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?” + </p> + <p> + “With your brother?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, during cigarettes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well.” + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad,” she answered, a little surprised. “What did you talk + about? Me, presumably.” + </p> + <p> + “About Greece too.” + </p> + <p> + “Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby’s only a boy still, and one has + to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done.” + </p> + <p> + “I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata.” + </p> + <p> + “What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can’t we go there for our + honeymoon?” + </p> + <p> + “What to do?” + </p> + <p> + “To eat the currants. And isn’t there marvellous scenery?” + </p> + <p> + “Moderately, but it’s not the kind of place one could possibly go to with + a lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “No hotels.” + </p> + <p> + “Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked + alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn’t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing + again.” + </p> + <p> + She said more gravely: “You haven’t found time for a talk with Helen yet, + I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Your sister and I have always hit it off,” he said negligently. “But + we’re drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You + know that Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill.” + </p> + <p> + “Dolly’s uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. The girl’s madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow, + but he demands—and rightly—a suitable provision with her. And + in the second place you will naturally understand, there is Charles. + Before leaving town, I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You see, he + has an increasing family and increasing expenses, and the I. and W. A. is + nothing particular just now, though capable of development.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow!” murmured Margaret, looking out to sea, and not + understanding. + </p> + <p> + “Charles being the elder son, some day Charles will have Howards End; but + I am anxious, in my own happiness, not to be unjust to others.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not,” she began, and then gave a little cry. “you mean money. + How stupid I am! Of course not!” + </p> + <p> + Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. “Yes, Money, since you put + it so frankly. I am determined to be just to all—just to you, just + to them. I am determined that my children shall have me.” + </p> + <p> + “Be generous to them,” she said sharply. “Bother justice!” + </p> + <p> + “I am determined—and have already written to Charles to that effect—” + </p> + <p> + “But how much have you got?” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “How much have you a year? I’ve six hundred.” + </p> + <p> + “My income?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We must begin with how much you have, before we can settle how much + you can give Charles. Justice, and even generosity, depend on that.” + </p> + <p> + “I must say you’re a downright young woman,” he observed, patting her arm + and laughing a little. “What a question to spring on a fellow!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know your income? Or don’t you want to tell it me?” + </p> + <p> + “I—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s all right”—now she patted him—“don’t tell me. I don’t + want to know. I can do the sum just as well by proportion. Divide your + income into ten parts. How many parts would you give to Evie, how many to + Charles, how many to Paul?” + </p> + <p> + “The fact is, my dear, I hadn’t any intention of bothering you with + details. I only wanted to let you know that—well, that something + must be done for the others, and you’ve understood me perfectly, so let’s + pass on to the next point.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we’ve settled that,” said Margaret, undisturbed by his strategic + blunderings. “Go ahead; give away all you can, bearing in mind that I’ve a + clear six hundred. What a mercy it is to have all this money about one.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ve none too much, I assure you; you’re marrying a poor man.” + </p> + <p> + “Helen wouldn’t agree with me here,” she continued. “Helen daren’t slang + the rich, being rich herself, but she would like to. There’s an odd + notion, that I haven’t yet got hold of, running about at the back of her + brain, that poverty is somehow ‘real.’ She dislikes all organisation, and + probably confuses wealth with the technique of wealth. Sovereigns in a + stocking wouldn’t bother her; cheques do. Helen is too relentless. One + can’t deal in her high-handed manner with the world.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s this other point, and then I must go back to my hotel and write + some letters. What’s to be done now about the house in Ducie Street?” + </p> + <p> + “Keep it on—at least, it depends. When do you want to marry me?” + </p> + <p> + She raised her voice, as too often, and some youths, who were also taking + the evening air, overheard her. “Getting a bit hot, eh?” said one. Mr. + Wilcox turned on them, and said sharply, “I say!” There was silence. “Take + care I don’t report you to the police.” They moved away quietly enough, + but were only biding their time, and the rest of the conversation was + punctuated by peals of ungovernable laughter. + </p> + <p> + Lowering his voice and infusing a hint of reproof into it, he said: “Evie + will probably be married in September. We could scarcely think of anything + before then.” + </p> + <p> + “The earlier the nicer, Henry. Females are not supposed to say such + things, but the earlier the nicer.” + </p> + <p> + “How about September for us too?” he asked, rather dryly. + </p> + <p> + “Right. Shall we go into Ducie Street ourselves in September? Or shall we + try to bounce Helen and Tibby into it? That’s rather an idea. They are so + unbusinesslike, we could make them do anything by judicious management. + Look here—yes. We’ll do that. And we ourselves could live at Howards + End or Shropshire.” + </p> + <p> + He blew out his cheeks. “Heavens! how you women do fly round! My head’s in + a whirl. Point by point, Margaret. Howards End’s impossible. I let it to + Hamar Bryce on a three years’ agreement last March. Don’t you remember? + Oniton. Well, that is much, much too far away to rely on entirely. You + will be able to be down there entertaining a certain amount, but we must + have a house within easy reach of Town. Only Ducie Street has huge + drawbacks. There’s a mews behind.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first she had heard of the + mews behind Ducie Street. When she was a possible tenant it had suppressed + itself, not consciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox manner, + though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision that is imperative for + truth. When Henry lived in Ducie Street he remembered the mews; when he + tried to let he forgot it; and if any one had remarked that the mews must + be either there or not, he would have felt annoyed, and afterwards have + found some opportunity of stigmatising the speaker as academic. So does my + grocer stigmatise me when I complain of the quality of his sultanas, and + he answers in one breath that they are the best sultanas, and how can I + expect the best sultanas at that price? It is a flaw inherent in the + business mind, and Margaret may do well to be tender to it, considering + all that the business mind has done for England. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious nuisance. The + smoking-room, too, is an abominable little den. The house opposite has + been taken by operatic people. Ducie Street’s going down, it’s my private + opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “How sad! It’s only a few years since they built those pretty houses.” + </p> + <p> + “Shows things are moving. Good for trade.” + </p> + <p> + “I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome of us at our worst—eternal + formlessness; all the qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, streaming + away—streaming, streaming for ever. That’s why I dread it so. I + mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea—” + </p> + <p> + “High tide, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Hoy toid”—from the promenading youths. + </p> + <p> + “And these are the men to whom we give the vote,” observed Mr. Wilcox, + omitting to add that they were also the men to whom he gave work as clerks—work + that scarcely encouraged them to grow into other men. “However, they have + their own lives and interests. Let’s get on.” + </p> + <p> + He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back to The Bays. The + business was over. His hotel was in the opposite direction, and if he + accompanied her his letters would be late for the post. She implored him + not to come, but he was obdurate. + </p> + <p> + “A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in alone!” + </p> + <p> + “But I always do go about alone. Considering I’ve walked over the + Apennines, it’s common sense. You will make me so angry. I don’t the least + take it as a compliment.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed, and lit a cigar. “It isn’t meant as a compliment, my dear. I + just won’t have you going about in the dark. Such people about too! It’s + dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t I look after myself? I do wish—” + </p> + <p> + “Come along, Margaret; no wheedling.” + </p> + <p> + A younger woman might have resented his masterly ways, but Margaret had + too firm a grip of life to make a fuss. She was, in her own way, as + masterly. If he was a fortress she was a mountain peak, whom all might + tread, but whom the snows made nightly virginal. Disdaining the heroic + outfit, excitable in her methods, garrulous, episodical, shrill, she + misled her lover much as she had misled her aunt. He mistook her fertility + for Weakness. He supposed her “as clever as they make them,” but no more, + not realising that she was penetrating to the depths of his soul, and + approving of what she found there. + </p> + <p> + And if insight were sufficient, if the inner life were the whole of life, + their happiness had been assured. + </p> + <p> + They walked ahead briskly. The parade and the road after it were well + lighted, but it was darker in Aunt Juley’s garden. As they were going up + by the side-paths, through some rhododendrons, Mr. Wilcox, who was in + front, said “Margaret” rather huskily, turned, dropped his cigar, and took + her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + She was startled, and nearly screamed, but recovered herself at once, and + kissed with genuine love the lips that were pressed against her own. It + was their first kiss, and when it was over he saw her safely to the door + and rang the bell for her but disappeared into the night before the maid + answered it. On looking back, the incident displeased her. It was so + isolated. Nothing in their previous conversation had heralded it, and, + worse still, no tenderness had ensued. If a man cannot lead up to passion + he can at all events lead down from it, and she had hoped, after her + complaisance, for some interchange of gentle words. But he had hurried + away as if ashamed, and for an instant she was reminded of Helen and Paul. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI + </h2> + <p> + Charles had just been scolding his Dolly. She deserved the scolding, and + had bent before it, but her head, though bloody was unsubdued and her + chirrupings began to mingle with his retreating thunder. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve waked the baby. I knew you would. (Rum-ti-foo, + Rackety-tackety-Tompkin!) I’m not responsible for what Uncle Percy does, + nor for anybody else or anything, so there!” + </p> + <p> + “Who asked him while I was away? Who asked my sister down to meet him? Who + sent them out in the motor day after day?” + </p> + <p> + “Charles, that reminds me of some poem.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it indeed? We shall all be dancing to a very different music + presently. Miss Schlegel has fairly got us on toast.” + </p> + <p> + “I could simply scratch that woman’s eyes out, and to say it’s my fault is + most unfair.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s your fault, and five months ago you admitted it.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You did.” + </p> + <p> + “Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!” exclaimed Dolly, suddenly + devoting herself to the child. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all very well to turn the conversation, but father would never have + dreamt of marrying as long as Evie was there to make him comfortable. But + you must needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill’s too old.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, if you’re going to be rude to Uncle Percy.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards End, and, thanks to + you, she’s got it.” + </p> + <p> + “I call the way you twist things round and make them hang together most + unfair. You couldn’t have been nastier if you’d caught me flirting. Could + he, diddums?” + </p> + <p> + “We’re in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. I shall answer the + pater’s letter civilly. He’s evidently anxious to do the decent thing. But + I do not intend to forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they’re + on their best behaviour—Dolly, are you listening?—we’ll + behave, too. But if I find them giving themselves airs or monopolising my + father, or at all ill-treating him, or worrying him with their artistic + beastliness, I intend to put my foot down, yes, firmly. Taking my mother’s + place! Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say when the news reaches + him.” + </p> + <p> + The interlude closes. It has taken place in Charles’s garden at Hilton. He + and Dolly are sitting in deckchairs, and their motor is regarding them + placidly from its garage across the lawn. A short-frocked edition of + Charles also regards them placidly; a perambulator edition is squeaking; a + third edition is expected shortly. Nature is turning out Wilcoxes in this + peaceful abode, so that they may inherit the earth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII + </h2> + <p> + Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature + as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the + rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. + Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, + unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is + born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober + against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of + these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his + friends shall find easy-going. + </p> + <p> + It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox’s soul. From boyhood he had + neglected them. “I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside.” + Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had + reverted to chaos, ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete + asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the + sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad, a belief that is desirable + only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that + were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other respectable men were the + words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis + into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints and + love the Infinite with a seraphic ardour, but he could be a little ashamed + of loving a wife. Amabat, amare timebat. And it was here that Margaret + hoped to help him. + </p> + <p> + It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her + own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own + soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of + her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be + exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no + longer. Only connect and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation + that is life to either, will die. + </p> + <p> + Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good + “talking.” By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their + lives with beauty. + </p> + <p> + But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never + prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He + simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never + noticed that Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not + interested in currant plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades + that exist in the greyest conversation, the finger-posts, the milestones, + the collisions, the illimitable views. Once—on another occasion—she + scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh: “My motto + is Concentrate. I’ve no intention of frittering away my strength on that + sort of thing.” “It isn’t frittering away the strength,” she protested. + “It’s enlarging the space in which you may be strong.” He answered: + “You’re a clever little woman, but my motto’s Concentrate.” And this + morning he concentrated with a vengeance. + </p> + <p> + They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes + were inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was + with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. + “Here we all are!” she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her + sister’s in the other. + </p> + <p> + “Here we are. Good-morning, Helen.” + </p> + <p> + Helen replied, “Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox.” + </p> + <p> + “Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy. Do you + remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young.” + </p> + <p> + “I have had a letter too. Not a nice one—I want to talk it over with + you”; for Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her + word; the triangle of sex was broken for ever. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks to your hint, he’s clearing out of the Porphyrion.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bad business that Porphyrion,” he said absently, as he took his own + letter out of his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Not a BAD—” she exclaimed, dropping his hand. “Surely, on Chelsea + Embankment—” + </p> + <p> + “Here’s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. + Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don’t + we?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a BAD business?” + </p> + <p> + “No. My letter’s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and + wants to sublet it—I am far from sure that I shall give him + permission. There was no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, + subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant, whom I consider + suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don’t you think + that’s better than subletting?” + </p> + <p> + Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole + party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois + little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just + such a watering-place as Swanage to be built on its margin. + </p> + <p> + The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further + touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for + excursionists. + </p> + <p> + “When there is a sublet I find that damage—” + </p> + <p> + “Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don’t feel easy—might I + just bother you, Henry?” + </p> + <p> + Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little sharply + what she wanted. + </p> + <p> + “You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was a bad concern, so we + advised this clerk to clear out. He writes this morning that he’s taken + our advice, and now you say it’s not a bad concern.” + </p> + <p> + “A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, without securing a + berth somewhere else first, is a fool, and I’ve no pity for him.” + </p> + <p> + “He has not done that. He’s going into a bank in Camden Town, he says. The + salary’s much lower, but he hopes to manage—a branch of Dempster’s + Bank. Is that all right?” + </p> + <p> + “Dempster! Why goodness me, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “More right than the Porphyrion?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses—safer.” + </p> + <p> + “Very many thanks. I’m sorry—if you sublet—?” + </p> + <p> + “If he sublets, I shan’t have the same control. In theory there should be + no more damage done at Howards End; in practice there will be. Things may + be done for which no money can compensate. For instance, I shouldn’t want + that fine wych-elm spoilt. It hangs—Margaret, we must go and see the + old place some time. It’s pretty in its way. We’ll motor down and have + lunch with Charles.” + </p> + <p> + “I should enjoy that,” said Margaret bravely. + </p> + <p> + “What about next Wednesday?” + </p> + <p> + “Wednesday? No, I couldn’t well do that. Aunt Juley expects us to stop + here another week at least.” + </p> + <p> + “But you can give that up now.” + </p> + <p> + “Er—no,” said Margaret, after a moment’s thought. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’ll be all right. I’ll speak to her.” + </p> + <p> + “This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on it year after year. She + turns the house upside down for us; she invites our special friends—she + scarcely knows Frieda, and we can’t leave her on her hands. I missed one + day, and she would be so hurt if I didn’t stay the full ten.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’ll say a word to her. Don’t you bother.” + </p> + <p> + “Henry, I won’t go. Don’t bully me.” + </p> + <p> + “You want to see the house, though?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much—I’ve heard so much about it, one way or the other. Aren’t + there pigs’ teeth in the wych-elm?” + </p> + <p> + “PIGS TEETH?” + </p> + <p> + “And you chew the bark for toothache.” + </p> + <p> + “What a rum notion! Of course not!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great + number of sacred trees in England, it seems.” + </p> + <p> + But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the + distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. + </p> + <p> + “Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion—” she began and went scarlet + all over her face. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right,” called Margaret, catching them up. “Dempster’s Bank’s + better.” + </p> + <p> + “But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before + Christmas.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten + policies. Lately it came in—safe as houses now.” + </p> + <p> + “In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it.” + </p> + <p> + “No, the fellow needn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “—and needn’t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced + salary.” + </p> + <p> + “He only says ‘reduced,’” corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. + </p> + <p> + “With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a + deplorable misfortune.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, + but the last remark made him say: “What? What’s that? Do you mean that I’m + responsible?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re ridiculous, Helen.” + </p> + <p> + “You seem to think—” He looked at his watch. “Let me explain the + point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern + is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed + stage by stage. The Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, ‘I am + trying all I can to get into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall + succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I + am trying.’ My dear Helen—” + </p> + <p> + “Is that your point? A man who had little money has less—that’s + mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day’s work. It’s part of + the battle of life.” + </p> + <p> + “A man who had little money—” she repeated, “has less, owing to us. + Under these circumstances I consider ‘the battle of life’ a happy + expression.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh come, come!” he protested pleasantly, “you’re not to blame. No one’s + to blame.” + </p> + <p> + “Is no one to blame for anything?” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t say that, but you’re taking it far too seriously. Who is this + fellow?” + </p> + <p> + “We have told you about the fellow twice already,” said Helen. “You have + even met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant + imbecile. He is capable of better things. We—we, the upper classes—thought + we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge—and + here’s the result!” + </p> + <p> + He raised his finger. “Now, a word of advice.” + </p> + <p> + “I require no more advice.” + </p> + <p> + “A word of advice. Don’t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. + See that she doesn’t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one’s sorry for + them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to + pinch in places, and it’s absurd to pretend that any one is responsible + personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed + him, nor the directors of the Porphyrion, are to blame for this clerk’s + loss of salary. It’s just the shoe pinching—no one can help it; and + it might easily have been worse.” + </p> + <p> + Helen quivered with indignation. + </p> + <p> + “By all means subscribe to charities—subscribe to them largely—but + don’t get carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good + deal behind the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no + Social Question—except for a few journalists who try to get a living + out of the phrase. There are just rich and poor, as there always have been + and always will be. Point me out a time when men have been equal—” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say—” + </p> + <p> + “Point me out a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No, + no. You can’t. There always have been rich and poor. I’m no fatalist. + Heaven forbid! But our civilisation is moulded by great impersonal forces” + (his voice grew complacent; it always did when he eliminated the + personal), “and there always will be rich and poor. You can’t deny it” + (and now it was a respectful voice)—“and you can’t deny that, in + spite of all, the tendency of civilisation has on the whole been upward.” + </p> + <p> + “Owing to God, I suppose,” flashed Helen. + </p> + <p> + He stared at her. + </p> + <p> + “You grab the dollars. God does the rest.” + </p> + <p> + It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to talk about God in + that neurotic modern way. Fraternal to the last, he left her for the + quieter company of Mrs. Munt. He thought, “She rather reminds me of + Dolly.” + </p> + <p> + Helen looked out at the sea. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ever discuss political economy with Henry,” advised her sister. + “It’ll only end in a cry.” + </p> + <p> + “But he must be one of those men who have reconciled science with + religion,” said Helen slowly. “I don’t like those men. They are scientific + themselves, and talk of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the + salaries of their clerks, and stunt the independence of all who may menace + their comfort, but yet they believe that somehow good—it is always + that sloppy ‘somehow’ will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way + the Mr. Basts of the future will benefit because the Mr. Brits of today + are in pain.” + </p> + <p> + “He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in theory!” + </p> + <p> + “But oh, Meg, what a theory!” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’m an old maid,” said Helen, biting her lip. “I can’t think why + I go on like this myself.” She shook off her sister’s hand and went into + the house. Margaret, distressed at the day’s beginning, followed the + Bournemouth steamer with her eyes. She saw that Helen’s nerves were + exasperated by the unlucky Bast business beyond the bounds of politeness. + There might at any minute be a real explosion, which even Henry would + notice. Henry must be removed. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret!” her aunt called. “Magsy! It isn’t true, surely, what Mr. + Wilcox says, that you want to go away early next week?” + </p> + <p> + “Not ‘want,’” was Margaret’s prompt reply; “but there is so much to be + settled, and I do want to see the Charles’s.” + </p> + <p> + “But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, or even the Lulworth?” + said Mrs. Munt, coming nearer. “Without going once more up Nine Barrows + Down?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid so.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with, “Good! I did the breaking of the ice.” + </p> + <p> + A wave of tenderness came over her. She put a hand on either shoulder, and + looked deeply into the black, bright eyes. What was behind their competent + stare? She knew, but was not disquieted. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII + </h2> + <p> + Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and the evening before + she left Swanage she gave her sister a thorough scolding. She censured + her, not for disapproving of the engagement, but for throwing over her + disapproval a veil of mystery. Helen was equally frank. “Yes,” she said, + with the air of one looking inwards, “there is a mystery. I can’t help it. + It’s not my fault. It’s the way life has been made.” Helen in those days + was over-interested in the subconscious self. She exaggerated the Punch + and Judy aspect of life, and spoke of mankind as puppets, whom an + invisible showman twitches into love and war. Margaret pointed out that if + she dwelt on this she, too, would eliminate the personal. Helen was silent + for a minute, and then burst into a queer speech, which cleared the air. + “Go on and marry him. I think you’re splendid; and if any one can pull it + off, you will.” Margaret denied that there was anything to “pull off,” but + she continued: “Yes, there is, and I wasn’t up to it with Paul. I can do + only what’s easy. I can only entice and be enticed. I can’t, and won’t, + attempt difficult relations. If I marry, it will either be a man who’s + strong enough to boss me or whom I’m strong enough to boss. So I shan’t + ever marry, for there aren’t such men. And Heaven help any one whom I do + marry, for I shall certainly run away from him before you can say ‘Jack + Robinson.’ There! Because I’m uneducated. But you, you’re different; + you’re a heroine.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor Henry as all that?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean to keep proportion, and that’s heroic, it’s Greek, and I don’t + see why it shouldn’t succeed with you. Go on and fight with him and help + him. Don’t ask me for help, or even for sympathy. Henceforward I’m going + my own way. I mean to be thorough, because thoroughness is easy. I mean to + dislike your husband, and to tell him so. I mean to make no concessions to + Tibby. If Tibby wants to live with me, he must lump me. I mean to love you + more than ever. Yes, I do. You and I have built up something real, because + it is purely spiritual. There’s no veil of mystery over us. Unreality and + mystery begin as soon as one touches the body. The popular view is, as + usual, exactly the wrong one. Our bothers are over tangible things—money, + husbands, house-hunting. But Heaven will work of itself.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection, and answered, + “Perhaps.” All vistas close in the unseen—no one doubts it—but + Helen closed them rather too quickly for her taste. At every turn of + speech one was confronted with reality and the absolute. Perhaps Margaret + grew too old for metaphysics, perhaps Henry was weaning her from them, but + she felt that there was something a little unbalanced in the mind that so + readily shreds the visible. The business man who assumes that this life is + everything, and the mystic who asserts that it is nothing, fail, on this + side and on that, to hit the truth. “Yes, I see, dear; it’s about half-way + between,” Aunt Juley had hazarded in earlier years. No; truth, being + alive, was not half-way between anything. It was only to be found by + continuous excursions into either realm, and though proportion is the + final secret, to espouse it at the outset is to insure sterility. + </p> + <p> + Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have talked till midnight, + but Margaret, with her packing to do, focussed the conversation on Henry. + She might abuse Henry behind his back, but please would she always be + civil to him in company? “I definitely dislike him, but I’ll do what I + can,” promised Helen. “Do what you can with my friends in return.” + </p> + <p> + This conversation made Margaret easier. Their inner life was so safe that + they could bargain over externals in a way that would have been incredible + to Aunt Juley, and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There are moments when + the inner life actually “pays,” when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for + no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practical use. Such moments are still + rare in the West; that they come at all promises a fairer future. + Margaret, though unable to understand her sister, was assured against + estrangement, and returned to London with a more peaceful mind. + </p> + <p> + The following morning, at eleven o’clock, she presented herself at the + offices of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company. She was glad to + go there, for Henry had implied his business rather than described it, and + the formlessness and vagueness that one associates with Africa itself had + hitherto brooded over the main sources of his wealth. Not that a visit to + the office cleared things up. There was just the ordinary surface scum of + ledgers and polished counters and brass bars that began and stopped for no + possible reason, of electric-light globes blossoming in triplets, of + little rabbit-hutches faced with glass or wire, of little rabbits. And + even when she penetrated to the inner depths, she found only the ordinary + table and Turkey carpet, and though the map over the fireplace did depict + a helping of West Africa, it was a very ordinary map. Another map hung + opposite, on which the whole continent appeared, looking like a whale + marked out for a blubber, and by its side was a door, shut, but Henry’s + voice came through it, dictating a “strong” letter. She might have been at + the Porphyrion, or Dempster’s Bank, or her own wine-merchant’s. Everything + seems just alike in these days. But perhaps she was seeing the Imperial + side of the company rather than its West African, and Imperialism always + had been one of her difficulties. + </p> + <p> + “One minute!” called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her name. He touched a bell, + the effect of which was to produce Charles. + </p> + <p> + Charles had written his father an adequate letter—more adequate than + Evie’s, through which a girlish indignation throbbed. And he greeted his + future stepmother with propriety. + </p> + <p> + “I hope that my wife—how do you do?—will give you a decent + lunch,” was his opening. “I left instructions, but we live in a + rough-and-ready way. She expects you back to tea, too, after you have had + a look at Howards End. I wonder what you’ll think of the place. I wouldn’t + touch it with tongs myself. Do sit down! It’s a measly little place.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall enjoy seeing it,” said Margaret, feeling, for the first time, + shy. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see it at its worst, for Bryce decamped abroad last Monday without + even arranging for a charwoman to clear up after him. I never saw such a + disgraceful mess. It’s unbelievable. He wasn’t in the house a month.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve more than a little bone to pick with Bryce,” called Henry from the + inner chamber. + </p> + <p> + “Why did he go so suddenly?” + </p> + <p> + “Invalid type; couldn’t sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellow!” + </p> + <p> + “Poor fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. “He had the impudence + to put up notice-boards without as much as saying with your leave or by + your leave. Charles flung them down.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I flung them down,” said Charles modestly. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp one, too. He, and he + in person, is responsible for the upkeep of that house for the next three + years.” + </p> + <p> + “The keys are at the farm; we wouldn’t have the keys.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right.” + </p> + <p> + “Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortunately.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s Mr. Bryce like?” asked Margaret. + </p> + <p> + But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who had no right to sublet; to + have defined him further was a waste of time. On his misdeeds they + descanted profusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong letter + came out with it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature. “Now we’ll be off,” said + he. + </p> + <p> + A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret, awaited her. + Charles saw them in, civil to the last, and in a moment the offices of the + Imperial and West African Rubber Company faded away. But it was not an + impressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to blame, being grey and banked + high with weary clouds. Perhaps Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for + motorists. Did not a gentleman once motor so quickly through Westmoreland + that he missed it? and if Westmoreland can be missed, it will fare ill + with a county whose delicate structure particularly needs the attentive + eye. Hertfordshire is England at its quietest, with little emphasis of + river and hill; it is England meditative. If Drayton were with us again to + write a new edition of his incomparable poem, he would sing the nymphs of + Hertfordshire as indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated by the + London smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and averted from their fate towards + the Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly + flowing Lea. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance; but + they would be real nymphs. + </p> + <p> + The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, for the Great + North Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough for + Margaret, a poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children on the + brain. + </p> + <p> + “They’re all right,” said Mr. Wilcox. “They’ll learn—like the + swallows and the telegraph-wires.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but, while they’re learning—” + </p> + <p> + “The motor’s come to stay,” he answered. “One must get about. There’s a + pretty church—oh, you aren’t sharp enough. Well, look out, if the + road worries you—right outward at the scenery.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently + it congealed. They had arrived. + </p> + <p> + Charles’s house on the left; on the right the swelling forms of the Six + Hills. Their appearance in such a neighbourhood surprised her. They + interrupted the stream of residences that was thickening up towards + Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them she + settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. She hated war and liked + soldiers—it was one of her amiable inconsistencies. + </p> + <p> + But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing at the door to greet + them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in gaily, and + after a long wait in the drawing-room, sat down to the rough-and-ready + lunch, every dish of which concealed or exuded cream. Mr. Bryce was the + chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit with the key, while + her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting all + she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh at Dolly. He chaffed + Margaret too, and Margaret roused from a grave meditation was pleased and + chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised and eyed her curiously. After + lunch the two children came down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off + better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter by + talking sense to him. “Kiss them now, and come away,” said Mr. Wilcox. She + came, but refused to kiss them; it was such hard luck on the little + things, she said, and though Dolly proffered Chorly-worly and + Porgly-woggles in turn, she was obdurate. + </p> + <p> + By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, + and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and + Crane opened the door of the car. + </p> + <p> + “What’s happened?” asked Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “What do you suppose?” said Henry. + </p> + <p> + A little porch was close up against her face. + </p> + <p> + “Are we there already?” + </p> + <p> + “We are.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away.” + </p> + <p> + Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus + carried her to the front-door. She was about to open it, when Henry said: + “That’s no good; it’s locked. Who’s got the key?” + </p> + <p> + As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one + replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a + cow had strayed in from the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then + he said rather crossly: “Margaret, you wait in the dry. I’ll go down for + the key. It isn’t a hundred yards.” + </p> + <p> + “Mayn’t I come too?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I shall be back before I’m gone.” + </p> + <p> + Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the + second time that day she saw the appearance of the earth. + </p> + <p> + There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once described, there the + tennis lawn, there the hedge that would be glorious with dog-roses in + June, but the vision now was of black and palest green. Down by the + dell-hole more vivid colours were awakening, and Lent lilies stood + sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions over the grass. Tulips + were a tray of jewels. She could not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch + of the celebrated vine, studded with velvet knobs had covered the perch. + She was struck by the fertility of the soil; she had seldom been in a + garden where the flowers looked so well, and even the weeds she was idly + plucking out of the porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr. Bryce + fled from all this beauty? For she had already decided that the place was + beautiful. + </p> + <p> + “Naughty cow! Go away!” cried Margaret to the cow, but without + indignation. + </p> + <p> + Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky, and spattering up + from the notice-boards of the house-agents, which lay in a row on the lawn + where Charles had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles in + another world—where one did have interviews. How Helen would revel + in such a notion! Charles dead, all people dead, nothing alive but houses + and gardens. The obvious dead, the intangible alive, and no connection at + all between them! Margaret smiled. Would that her own fancies were as + clear-cut! Would that she could deal as high-handedly with the world! + Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon the door. It opened. The house + was not locked up at all. + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. Ought she to wait for Henry? He felt strongly about + property, and might prefer to show her over himself. On the other hand, he + had told her to keep in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip. So + she went in, and the draught from inside slammed the door behind. + </p> + <p> + Desolation greeted her. Dirty finger-prints were on the hall-windows, flue + and rubbish on its unwashed boards. The civilisation of luggage had been + here for a month, and then decamped. Dining-room and drawing-room—right + and left—were guessed only by their wallpapers. They were just rooms + where one could shelter from the rain. Across the ceiling of each ran a + great beam. The dining-room and hall revealed theirs openly, but the + drawing-room’s was match-boarded—because the facts of life must be + concealed from ladies? Drawing-room, dining-room, and hall—how petty + the names sounded! Here were simply three rooms where children could play + and friends shelter from the rain. Yes, and they were beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Then she opened one of the doors opposite—there were two—and + exchanged wall-papers for whitewash. It was the servants’ part, though she + scarcely realised that: just rooms again, where friends might shelter. The + garden at the back was full of flowering cherries and plums. Farther on + were hints of the meadow and a black cliff of pines. Yes, the meadow was + beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Penned in by the desolate weather, she recaptured the sense of space which + the motor had tried to rob from her. She remembered again that ten square + miles are not ten times as wonderful as one square mile, that a thousand + square miles are not practically the same as heaven. The phantom of + bigness, which London encourages, was laid for ever when she paced from + the hall at Howards End to its kitchen and heard the rain run this way and + that where the watershed of the roof divided it. + </p> + <p> + Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinising half Wessex from the ridge of the + Purbeck Downs, and saying: “You will have to lose something.” She was not + so sure. For instance she would double her kingdom by opening the door + that concealed the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Now she thought of the map of Africa; of empires; of her father; of the + two supreme nations, streams of whose life warmed her blood, but, + mingling, had cooled her brain. She paced back into the hall, and as she + did so the house reverberated. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Henry?” she called. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer, but the house reverberated again. + </p> + <p> + “Henry, have you got in?” + </p> + <p> + But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at first, then loudly, + martially. It dominated the rain. + </p> + <p> + It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished, that is afraid. + Margaret flung open the door to the stairs. A noise as of drums seemed to + deafen her. A woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure erect, with + face impassive, with lips that parted and said dryly: + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret stammered: “I—Mrs. Wilcox—I?” + </p> + <p> + “In fancy, of course—in fancy. You had her way of walking. + Good-day.” And the old woman passed out into the rain. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV + </h2> + <p> + “It gave her quite a turn,” said Mr. Wilcox, when retailing the incident + to Dolly at tea-time. “None of you girls have any nerves, really. Of + course, a word from me put it all right, but silly old Miss Avery—she + frightened you, didn’t she, Margaret? There you stood clutching a bunch of + weeds. She might have said something, instead of coming down the stairs + with that alarming bonnet on. I passed her as I came in. Enough to make + the car shy. I believe Miss Avery goes in for being a character; some old + maids do.” He lit a cigarette. “It is their last resource. Heaven knows + what she was doing in the place; but that’s Bryce’s business, not mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I wasn’t as foolish as you suggest,” said Margaret “She only startled me, + for the house had been silent so long.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you take her for a spook?” asked Dolly, for whom “spooks”’ and “going + to church” summarised the unseen. + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “She really did frighten you,” said Henry, who was far from discouraging + timidity in females. “Poor Margaret! And very naturally. Uneducated + classes are so stupid.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?” Margaret asked, and found herself + looking at the decoration scheme of Dolly’s drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “She’s just one of the crew at the farm. People like that always assume + things. She assumed you’d know who she was. She left all the Howards End + keys in the front lobby, and assumed that you’d seen them as you came in, + that you’d lock up the house when you’d done, and would bring them on down + to her. And there was her niece hunting for them down at the farm. Lack of + education makes people very casual. Hilton was full of women like Miss + Avery once.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t have disliked it, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present,” said Dolly. + </p> + <p> + Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, Margaret was destined + to learn a good deal. + </p> + <p> + “But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she had known his + grandmother.” + </p> + <p> + “As usual, you’ve got the story wrong, my good Dorothea.” + </p> + <p> + “I meant great-grandmother—the one who left Mrs. Wilcox the house. + Weren’t both of them and Miss Avery friends when Howards End, too, was a + farm?” + </p> + <p> + Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His attitude to his dead wife + was curious. He would allude to her, and hear her discussed, but never + mentioned her by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic past. + Dolly was—for the following reason. + </p> + <p> + “Then hadn’t Mrs. Wilcox a brother—or was it an uncle? Anyhow, he + popped the question, and Miss Avery, she said ‘No.’ Just imagine, if she’d + said ‘Yes,’ she would have been Charles’s aunt. (Oh, I say, that’s rather + good! ‘Charlie’s Aunt’! I must chaff him about that this evening.) And the + man went out and was killed. Yes, I’m certain I’ve got it right now. Tom + Howard—he was the last of them.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe so,” said Mr. Wilcox negligently. + </p> + <p> + “I say! Howards End—Howards Ended!” cried Dolly. + “I’m rather on the spot this evening, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you’d ask whether Crane’s ended.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?” + </p> + <p> + “Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go—Dolly’s a good + little woman,” he continued, “but a little of her goes a long way. I + couldn’t live near her if you paid me.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to outsiders, no Wilcox + could live near, or near the possessions of, any other Wilcox. They had + the colonial spirit, and were always making for some spot where the white + man might carry his burden unobserved. Of course, Howards End was + impossible, so long as the younger couple were established in Hilton. His + objections to the house were plain as daylight now. + </p> + <p> + Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the garage, where their car had + been trickling muddy water over Charles’s. The downpour had surely + penetrated the Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless + civilisation. “Curious mounds,” said Henry, “but in with you now; another + time.” He had to be up in London by seven—if possible, by + six-thirty. Once more she lost the sense of space; once more trees, + houses, people, animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness, and + she was at Wickham Place. + </p> + <p> + Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her all the + year disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, + and the hurrying men who know so much and connect so little. She + recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of all earthly beauty, + and, starting from Howards End, she attempted to realise England. She + failed—visions do not come when we try, though they may come through + trying. But an unexpected love of the island awoke in her, connecting on + this side with the joys of the flesh, on that with the inconceivable. + Helen and her father had known this love, poor Leonard Bast was groping + after it, but it had been hidden from Margaret till this afternoon. It had + certainly come through the house and old Miss Avery. Through them: the + notion of “through” persisted; her mind trembled towards a conclusion + which only the unwise have put into words. Then, veering back into warmth, + it dwelt on ruddy bricks, flowering plum-trees, and all the tangible joys + of spring. + </p> + <p> + Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her over his property, and + had explained to her the use and dimensions of the various rooms. He had + sketched the history of the little estate. “It is so unlucky,” ran the + monologue, “that money wasn’t put into it about fifty years ago. Then it + had four—five—times the land—thirty acres at least. One + could have made something out of it then—a small park, or at all + events shrubberies, and rebuilt the house farther away from the road. + What’s the good of taking it in hand now? Nothing but the meadow left, and + even that was heavily mortgaged when I first had to do with things—yes, + and the house too. Oh, it was no joke.” She saw two women as he spoke, one + old, the other young, watching their inheritance melt away. She saw them + greet him as a deliverer. “Mismanagement did it—besides, the days + for small farms are over. It doesn’t pay—except with intensive + cultivation. Small holdings, back to the land—ah! philanthropic + bunkum. Take it as a rule that nothing pays on a small scale. Most of the + land you see (they were standing at an upper window, the only one which + faced west) belongs to the people at the Park—they made their pile + over copper—good chaps. Avery’s Farm, Sishe’s—what they call + the Common, where you see that ruined oak—one after the other fell + in, and so did this, as near as is no matter.” But Henry had saved it as near as is no matter, + without fine feelings or deep insight, but he had saved it, and she loved + him for the deed. “When I had more control I did what I could—sold + off the two and a half animals, and the mangy pony, and the superannuated + tools; pulled down the outhouses; drained; thinned out I don’t know how + many guelder-roses and elder-trees; and inside the house I turned the old + kitchen into a hall, and made a kitchen behind where the dairy was. Garage + and so on came later. But one could still tell it’s been an old farm. And + yet it isn’t the place that would fetch one of your artistic crew.” No, it + wasn’t; and if he did not quite understand it, the artistic crew would + still less; it was English, and the wych-elm that she saw from the window + was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It + was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god; in none of these roles do the + English excel. It was a comrade bending over the house, strength and + adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the + girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end + evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air. It was a + comrade. House and tree transcended any similes of sex. Margaret thought + of them now, and was to think of them through many a windy night and + London day, but to compare either to man, to woman, always dwarfed the + vision. Yet they kept within limits of the human. Their message was not of + eternity, but of hope on this side of the grave. As she stood in the one, + gazing at the other, truer relationship had gleamed. + </p> + <p> + Another touch, and the account of her day is finished. They entered the + garden for a minute, and to Mr. Wilcox’s surprise she was right. Teeth, + pigs’ teeth, could be seen in the bark of the wych-elm tree—just the + white tips of them showing. “Extraordinary!” he cried. “Who told you?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard of it one winter in London,” was her answer, for she, too, + avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by name. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV + </h2> + <p> + Evie heard of her father’s engagement when she was in for a tennis + tournament, and her play went simply to pot. That she should marry and + leave him had seemed natural enough; that he, left alone, should do the + same was deceitful; and now Charles and Dolly said that it was all her + fault. “But I never dreamt of such a thing,” she grumbled. “Dad took me to + call now and then, and made me ask her to Simpson’s. Well, I’m altogether + off dad.” It was also an insult to their mother’s memory; there they were + agreed, and Evie had the idea of returning Mrs. Wilcox’s lace and + jewellery “as a protest.” Against what it would protest she was not clear; + but being only eighteen, the idea of renunciation appealed to her, the + more as she did not care for jewellery or lace. Dolly then suggested that + she and Uncle Percy should pretend to break off their engagement, and then + perhaps Mr. Wilcox would quarrel with Miss Schlegel, and break off his; or + Paul might be cabled for. But at this point Charles told them not to talk + nonsense. So Evie settled to marry as soon as possible; it was no good + hanging about with these Schlegels eyeing her. The date of her wedding was + consequently put forward from September to August, and in the intoxication + of presents she recovered much of her good-humour. + </p> + <p> + Margaret found that she was expected to figure at this function, and to + figure largely; it would be such an opportunity, said Henry, for her to + get to know his set. Sir James Bidder would be there, and all the Cahills + and the Fussells, and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox, had + fortunately got back from her tour round the world. Henry she loved, but + his set promised to be another matter. He had not the knack of surrounding + himself with nice people—indeed, for a man of ability and virtue his + choice had been singularly unfortunate; he had no guiding principle beyond + a certain preference for mediocrity; he was content to settle one of the + greatest things in life haphazard, and so, while his investments went + right, his friends generally went wrong. She would be told, “Oh, + So-and-so’s a good sort—a thundering good sort,” and find, on + meeting him, that he was a brute or a bore. If Henry had shown real + affection, she would have understood, for affection explains everything. + But he seemed without sentiment. The “thundering good sort” might at any + moment become “a fellow for whom I never did have much use, and have less + now,” and be shaken off cheerily into oblivion. Margaret had done the same + as a schoolgirl. Now she never forgot any one for whom she had once cared; + she connected, though the connection might be bitter, and she hoped that + some day Henry would do the same. + </p> + <p> + Evie was not to be married from Ducie Street. She had a fancy for + something rural, and, besides, no one would be in London then, so she left + her boxes for a few weeks at Oniton Grange, and her banns were duly + published in the parish church, and for a couple of days the little town, + dreaming between the ruddy hills, was roused by the clang of our + civilisation, and drew up by the roadside to let the motors pass. Oniton + had been a discovery of Mr. Wilcox’s—a discovery of which he was not + altogether proud. It was up towards the Welsh border, and so difficult of + access that he had concluded it must be something special. A ruined castle + stood in the grounds. But having got there, what was one to do? The + shooting was bad, the fishing indifferent, and womenfolk reported the + scenery as nothing much. The place turned out to be in the wrong part of + Shropshire, and though he never ran down his own property to others, he + was only waiting to get it off his hands, and then to let fly. Evie’s + marriage was its last appearance in public. As soon as a tenant was found, + it became a house for which he never had had much use, and had less now, + and, like Howards End, faded into Limbo. + </p> + <p> + But on Margaret Oniton was destined to make a lasting impression. She + regarded it as her future home, and was anxious to start straight with the + clergy, etc., and, if possible, to see something of the local life. It was + a market-town—as tiny a one as England possesses—and had for + ages served that lonely valley, and guarded our marches against the Celt. + In spite of the occasion, in spite of the numbing hilarity that greeted + her as soon as she got into the reserved saloon at Paddington, her senses + were awake and watching, and though Oniton was to prove one of her + innumerable false starts, she never forgot it, or the things that happened + there. + </p> + <p> + The London party only numbered eight—the Fussells, father and son, + two Anglo-Indian ladies named Mrs. Plynlimmon and Lady Edser, Mrs. + Warrington Wilcox and her daughter, and, lastly, the little girl, very + smart and quiet, who figures at so many weddings, and who kept a watchful + eye on Margaret, the bride-elect. Dolly was absent—a domestic event + detained her at Hilton; Paul had cabled a humorous message; Charles was to + meet them with a trio of motors at Shrewsbury; Helen had refused her + invitation; Tibby had never answered his. The management was excellent, as + was to be expected with anything that Henry undertook; one was conscious + of his sensible and generous brain in the background. They were his guests + as soon as they reached the train; a special label for their luggage; a + courier; a special lunch; they had only to look pleasant and, where + possible, pretty. Margaret thought with dismay of her own nuptials—presumably + under the management of Tibby. “Mr. Theobald Schlegel and Miss Helen + Schlegel request the pleasure of Mrs. Plynlimmon’s company on the occasion + of the marriage of their sister Margaret.” The formula was incredible, but + it must soon be printed and sent, and though Wickham Place need not + compete with Oniton, it must feed its guests properly, and provide them + with sufficient chairs. Her wedding would either be ramshackly or + bourgeois—she hoped the latter. Such an affair as the present, + staged with a deftness that was almost beautiful, lay beyond her powers + and those of her friends. + </p> + <p> + The low rich purr of a Great Western express is not the worst background + for conversation, and the journey passed pleasantly enough. Nothing could + have exceeded the kindness of the two men. They raised windows for some + ladies, and lowered them for others, they rang the bell for the servant, + they identified the colleges as the train slipped past Oxford, they caught + books or bag-purses in the act of tumbling on to the floor. Yet there was + nothing finicking about their politeness—it had the public-school + touch, and, though sedulous, was virile. More battles than Waterloo have + been won on our playing-fields, and Margaret bowed to a charm of which she + did not wholly approve, and said nothing when the Oxford colleges were + identified wrongly. “Male and female created He them”; the journey to + Shrewsbury confirmed this questionable statement, and the long glass + saloon, that moved so easily and felt so comfortable, became a + forcing-house for the idea of sex. + </p> + <p> + At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for sight-seeing, and while + the others were finishing their tea at the Raven, she annexed a motor and + hurried over the astonishing city. Her chauffeur was not the faithful + Crane, but an Italian, who dearly loved making her late. Charles, watch in + hand, though with a level brow, was standing in front of the hotel when + they returned. It was perfectly all right, he told her; she was by no + means the last. And then he dived into the coffee-room, and she heard him + say, “For God’s sake, hurry the women up; we shall never be off,” and + Albert Fussell reply, “Not I; I’ve done my share,” and Colonel Fussell + opine that the ladies were getting themselves up to kill. Presently Myra + (Mrs. Warrington’s daughter) appeared, and as she was his cousin, Charles + blew her up a little; she had been changing her smart travelling hat for a + smart motor hat. Then Mrs. Warrington herself, leading the quiet child; + the two Anglo-Indian ladies were always last. Maids, courier, heavy + luggage, had already gone on by a branch-line to a station nearer Oniton, + but there were five hat-boxes and four dressing-bags to be packed, and + five dust-cloaks to be put on, and to be put off at the last moment, + because Charles declared them not necessary. The men presided over + everything with unfailing good-humour. By half-past five the party was + ready, and went out of Shrewsbury by the Welsh Bridge. + </p> + <p> + Shropshire had not the reticence of Hertfordshire. Though robbed of half + its magic by swift movement, it still conveyed the sense of hills. They + were nearing the buttresses that force the Severn eastward and make it an + English stream, and the sun, sinking over the Sentinels of Wales, was + straight in their eyes. Having picked up another guest, they turned + southward, avoiding the greater mountains, but conscious of an occasional + summit, rounded and mild, whose colouring differed in quality from that of + the lower earth, and whose contours altered more slowly. Quiet mysteries + were in progress behind those tossing horizons: the West, as ever, was + retreating with some secret which may not be worth the discovery, but + which no practical man will ever discover. + </p> + <p> + They spoke of Tariff Reform. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Warrington was just back from the Colonies. Like many other critics + of Empire, her mouth had been stopped with food, and she could only + exclaim at the hospitality with which she had been received, and warn the + Mother Country against trifling with young Titans. “They threaten to cut + the painter,” she cried, “and where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel, + you’ll undertake to keep Henry sound about Tariff Reform? It is our last + hope.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side, and they began to + quote from their respective handbooks while the motor carried them deep + into the hills. Curious these were rather than impressive, for their + outlines lacked beauty, and the pink fields on their summits suggested the + handkerchiefs of a giant spread out to dry. An occasional outcrop of rock, + an occasional wood, an occasional “forest,” treeless and brown, all hinted + at wildness to follow, but the main colour was an agricultural green. The + air grew cooler; they had surmounted the last gradient, and Oniton lay + below them with its church, its radiating houses, its castle, its + river-girt peninsula. Close to the castle was a grey mansion + unintellectual but kindly, stretching with its grounds across the + peninsula’s neck—the sort of mansion that was built all over England + in the beginning of the last century, while architecture was still an + expression of the national character. That was the Grange, remarked + Albert, over his shoulder, and then he jammed the brake on, and the motor + slowed down and stopped. “I’m sorry,” said he, turning round. “Do you mind + getting out—by the door on the right. Steady on.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s happened?” asked Mrs. Warrington. + </p> + <p> + Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of Charles was heard + saying: “Get the women out at once.” There was a concourse of males, and + Margaret and her companions were hustled out and received into the second + car. What had happened? As it started off again, the door of a cottage + opened, and a girl screamed wildly at them. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” the ladies cried. + </p> + <p> + Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said: “It’s + all right. Your car just touched a dog.” + </p> + <p> + “But stop!” cried Margaret, horrified. + </p> + <p> + “It didn’t hurt him.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t really hurt him?” asked Myra. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Do PLEASE stop!” said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up in + the car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. “I want to + go back, please.” + </p> + <p> + Charles took no notice. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve left Mr. Fussell behind,” said another; “and Angelo, and Crane.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but no woman.” + </p> + <p> + “I expect a little of”—Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm—“will + be more to the point than one of us!” + </p> + <p> + “The insurance company see to that,” remarked Charles, “and Albert will do + the talking.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to go back, though, I say!” repeated Margaret, getting angry. + </p> + <p> + Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to + travel very slowly down the hill. “The men are there,” chorused the + others. “They will see to it.” + </p> + <p> + “The men CAN’T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to + stop.” + </p> + <p> + “Stopping’s no good,” drawled Charles. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it?” said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. She fell on + her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of alarm + followed her. “You’ve hurt yourself,” exclaimed Charles, jumping after + her. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I’ve hurt myself!” she retorted. + </p> + <p> + “May I ask what—” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing to ask,” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Your hand’s bleeding.” + </p> + <p> + “I know.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m in for a frightful row from the pater.” + </p> + <p> + “You should have thought of that sooner, Charles.” + </p> + <p> + Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt + who was hobbling away from him—and the sight was too strange to + leave any room for anger. He recovered himself when the others caught them + up: their sort he understood. He commanded them to go back. + </p> + <p> + Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right!” he called. “It was a cat.” + </p> + <p> + “There!” exclaimed Charles triumphantly. “It’s only a rotten cat.” + </p> + <p> + “Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as I saw it wasn’t a + dog; the chauffeurs are tackling the girl.” But Margaret walked forward + steadily. Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering + behind men, men sheltering behind servants—the whole system’s wrong, + and she must challenge it. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Schlegel! ’Pon my word, you’ve hurt your hand.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m just going to see,” said Margaret. “Don’t you wait, Mr. Fussell.” + </p> + <p> + The second motor came round the corner. “It is all right, madam,” said + Crane in his turn. He had taken to calling her madam. + </p> + <p> + “What’s all right? The cat?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for it.” + </p> + <p> + “She was a very ruda girla,” said Angelo from the third motor + thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn’t you have been rude?” + </p> + <p> + The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had not thought of + rudeness, but would produce it if it pleased her. The situation became + absurd. The gentlemen were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers + of assistance, and Lady Edser began to bind up her hand. She yielded, + apologising slightly, and was led back to the car, and soon the landscape + resumed its motion, the lonely cottage disappeared, the castle swelled on + its cushion of turf, and they had arrived. No doubt she had disgraced + herself. But she felt their whole journey from London had been unreal. + They had no part with the earth and its emotions. They were dust, and a + stink, and cosmopolitan chatter, and the girl whose cat had been killed + had lived more deeply than they. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Henry,” she exclaimed, “I have been so naughty,” for she had decided + to take up this line. “We ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, + but I would, and look!” She held out her bandaged hand. “Your poor Meg + went such a flop.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he was standing to welcome + his guests in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Thinking it was a dog,” added Mrs. Warrington. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, a dog’s a companion!” said Colonel Fussell. “ + A dog’ll remember you.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?” + </p> + <p> + “Not to speak about; and it’s my left hand.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, hurry up and change.” + </p> + <p> + She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then turned to his son. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Charles, what’s happened?” + </p> + <p> + Charles was absolutely honest. He described what he believed to have + happened. Albert had flattened out a cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her + nerve, as any woman might. She had been got safely into the other car, but + when it was in motion had leapt out again, in spite of all that they could + say. After walking a little on the road, she had calmed down and had said + that she was sorry. His father accepted this explanation, and neither knew + that Margaret had artfully prepared the way for it. It fitted in too well + with their view of feminine nature. In the smoking-room, after dinner, the + Colonel put forward the view that Miss Schlegel had jumped it out of + devilry. Well he remembered as a young man, in the harbour of Gibraltar + once, how a girl—a handsome girl, too—had jumped overboard for + a bet. He could see her now, and all the lads overboard after her. But + Charles and Mr. Wilcox agreed it was much more probably nerves in Miss + Schlegel’s case. Charles was depressed. That woman had a tongue. She would + bring worse disgrace on his father before she had done with them. He + strolled out on to the castle mound to think the matter over. The evening + was exquisite. On three sides of him a little river whispered, full of + messages from the West; above his head the ruins made patterns against the + sky. He carefully reviewed their dealings with this family, until he + fitted Helen, and Margaret, and Aunt Juley into an orderly conspiracy. + Paternity had made him suspicious. He had two children to look after, and + more coming, and day by day they seemed less likely to grow up rich men. + “It is all very well,” he reflected, “the pater’s saying that he will be + just to all, but one can’t be just indefinitely. Money isn’t elastic. + What’s to happen if Evie has a family? And, come to that, so may the + pater. There’ll not be enough to go round, for there’s none coming in, + either through Dolly or Percy. It’s damnable!” He looked enviously at the + Grange, whose windows poured light and laughter. First and last, this + wedding would cost a pretty penny. Two ladies were strolling up and down + the garden terrace, and as the syllables “Imperialism” were wafted to his + ears, he guessed that one of them was his aunt. She might have helped him, + if she too had not had a family to provide for. “Every one for himself,” + he repeated—a maxim which had cheered him in the past, but which + rang grimly enough among the ruins of Oniton. He lacked his father’s + ability in business, and so had an ever higher regard for money; unless he + could inherit plenty, he feared to leave his children poor. + </p> + <p> + As he sat thinking, one of the ladies left the terrace and walked into the + meadow; he recognised her as Margaret by the white bandage that gleamed on + her arm, and put out his cigar, lest the gleam should betray him. She + climbed up the mound in zigzags, and at times stooped down, as if she was + stroking the turf. It sounds absolutely incredible, but for a moment + Charles thought that she was in love with him, and had come out to tempt + him. Charles believed in temptresses, who are indeed the strong man’s + necessary complement, and having no sense of humour, he could not purge + himself of the thought by a smile. Margaret, who was engaged to his + father, and his sister’s wedding-guest, kept on her way without noticing + him, and he admitted that he had wronged her on this point. But what was + she doing? Why was she stumbling about amongst the rubble and catching her + dress in brambles and burrs? As she edged round the keep, she must have + got to windward and smelt his cigar-smoke, for she exclaimed, “Hullo! + Who’s that?” + </p> + <p> + Charles made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Saxon or Celt?” she continued, laughing in the darkness. “But it doesn’t + matter. Whichever you are, you will have to listen to me. I love this + place. I love Shropshire. I hate London. I am glad that this will be my + home. Ah, dear”—she was now moving back towards the house—“what + a comfort to have arrived!” + </p> + <p> + “That woman means mischief,” thought Charles, and compressed his lips. In + a few minutes he followed her indoors, as the ground was getting damp. + Mists were rising from the river, and presently it became invisible, + though it whispered more loudly. There had been a heavy downpour in the + Welsh hills. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI + </h2> + <p> + Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised well, + and the outline of the castle mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret + watched it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted the rubble + gold, and charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the house + gathered itself together, and fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her + window and mewed. Lastly the river appeared, still holding the mists + between its banks and its overhanging alders, and only visible as far as a + hill, which cut off its upper reaches. + </p> + <p> + Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved it, but it + was rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded Druids of whom + she had caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from them + to England, the carelessly modelled masses of the lower hills, thrilled + her with poetry. The house was insignificant, but the prospect from it + would be an eternal joy, and she thought of all the friends she would have + to stop in it, and of the conversion of Henry himself to a rural life. + Society, too, promised favourably. The rector of the parish had dined with + them last night, and she found that he was a friend of her father’s, and + so knew what to find in her. She liked him. He would introduce her to the + town. While, on her other side, Sir James Bidder sat, repeating that she + only had to give the word, and he would whip up the county families for + twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Garden Seeds, had promised + what he could perform, she doubted, but so long as Henry mistook them for + the county families when they did call, she was content. + </p> + <p> + Charles Wilcox and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going + for a morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-suits. + She had meant to take a stroll herself before breakfast, but saw that the + day was still sacred to men, and amused herself by watching their + contretemps. In the first place the key of the bathing-shed could not be + found. Charles stood by the riverside with folded hands, tragical, while + the servant shouted, and was misunderstood by another servant in the + garden. Then came a difficulty about a springboard, and soon three people + were running backwards and forwards over the meadow, with orders and + counter orders and recriminations and apologies. If Margaret wanted to + jump from a motor-car, she jumped; if Tibby thought paddling would benefit + his ankles, he paddled; if a clerk desired adventure, he took a walk in + the dark. But these athletes seemed paralysed. They could not bathe + without their appliances, though the morning sun was calling and the last + mists were rising from the dimpling stream. Had they found the life of the + body after all? Could not the men whom they despised as milksops beat + them, even on their own ground? + </p> + <p> + She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day—no + worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections + were disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, + but was now watching her watch the men. She called, “Good-morning, dear,” + a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, + and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and + was seen no more. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Wilcox is up—” the child whispered, and then became + unintelligible. + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” it sounded like, “—cut-yoke—sack-back—” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t hear.” + </p> + <p> + “—On the bed—tissue-paper—” + </p> + <p> + Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be + seemly, she went to Evie’s room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a + petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the + other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they + sang, and the dog barked. + </p> + <p> + Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel + that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her + equipment. + </p> + <p> + Evie gasped: “Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just + then!” Then Margaret went down to breakfast. + </p> + <p> + Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in + Margaret’s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion + successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of + his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, + only issuing orders occasionally—orders that promoted the comfort of + his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee + and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a + moment’s awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate their places. + “Burton,” called Henry, “serve tea and coffee from the sideboard!” It + wasn’t genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort—the sort that is as + useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at Board meetings. + Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item, never raising his + eyes to the whole, and “Death, where is thy sting? Love, where is thy + victory?” one would exclaim at the close. + </p> + <p> + After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was always best + to approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he was + going on to shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen in + town. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, dear,” said he. “Of course, I have the time. What do you + want?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “I was afraid something had gone wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk.” + </p> + <p> + Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate. She + heard him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his without + contempt, though all her deeper being might be yearning to help him. She + had abandoned any plan of action. Love is the best, and the more she let + herself love him, the more chance was there that he would set his soul in + order. Such a moment as this, when they sat under fair weather by the + walks of their future home, was so sweet to her that its sweetness would + surely pierce to him. Each lift of his eyes, each parting of the thatched + lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude the tenderness that kills the Monk + and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a hundred times, she still + hoped. She loved him with too clear a vision to fear his cloudiness. + Whether he droned trivialities, as to-day, or sprang kisses on her in the + twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond. + </p> + <p> + “If there is this nasty curve,” she suggested, “couldn’t we walk to the + church? Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us might very well + go on first, and that would mean fewer carriages.” + </p> + <p> + “One can’t have ladies walking through the Market Square. The Fussells + wouldn’t like it; they were awfully particular at Charles’s wedding. My—she—our + party was anxious to walk, and certainly the church was just round the + corner, and I shouldn’t have minded; but the Colonel made a great point of + it.” + </p> + <p> + “You men shouldn’t be so chivalrous,” said Margaret thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + She knew why not, but said that she did not know. He then announced that, + unless she had anything special to say, he must visit the wine-cellar, and + they went off together in search of Burton. Though clumsy and a little + inconvenient, Oniton was a genuine country-house. They clattered down + flagged passages, looking into room after room, and scaring unknown maids + from the performance of obscure duties. The wedding-breakfast must be in + readiness when they come back from church, and tea would be served in the + garden. The sight of so many agitated and serious people made Margaret + smile, but she reflected that they were paid to be serious, and enjoyed + being agitated. Here were the lower wheels of the machine that was tossing + Evie up into nuptial glory. A little boy blocked their way with pig-pails. + His mind could not grasp their greatness, and he said: “By your leave; let + me pass, please.” Henry asked him where Burton was. But the servants were + so new that they did not know one another’s names. In the still-room sat + the band, who had stipulated for champagne as part of their fee, and who + were already drinking beer. Scents of Araby came from the kitchen, mingled + with cries. Margaret knew what had happened there, for it happened at + Wickham Place. One of the wedding dishes had boiled over, and the cook was + throwing cedar-shavings to hide the smell. At last they came upon the + butler. Henry gave him the keys, and handed Margaret down the + cellar-stairs. Two doors were unlocked. She, who kept all her wine at the + bottom of the linen-cupboard, was astonished at the sight. “We shall never + get through it!” she cried, and the two men were suddenly drawn into + brotherhood, and exchanged smiles. She felt as if she had again jumped out + of the car while it was moving. + </p> + <p> + Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small business + to remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an establishment. She must + remain herself, for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife + degrades the husband whom she accompanies; and she must assimilate for + reasons of common honesty, since she had no right to marry a man and make + him uncomfortable. Her only ally was the power of Home. The loss of + Wickham Place had taught her more than its possession. Howards End had + repeated the lesson. She was determined to create new sanctities among + these hills. + </p> + <p> + After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding, + which seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it. + Everything went like one o’clock. Mr. Cahill materialised out of space, + and was waiting for his bride at the church door. No one dropped the ring + or mispronounced the responses, or trod on Evie’s train, or cried. In a + few minutes the clergymen performed their duty, the register was signed, + and they were back in their carriages, negotiating the dangerous curve by + the lych-gate. Margaret was convinced that they had not been married at + all, and that the Norman church had been intent all the time on other + business. + </p> + <p> + There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to eat, + and then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There had been + a great many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair—not + as big as Margaret’s would be. She noted the dishes and the strips of red + carpet, that outwardly she might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly + she hoped for something better than this blend of Sunday church and + fox-hunting. If only some one had been upset! But this wedding had gone + off so particularly well—“quite like a durbar” in the opinion of + Lady Edser, and she thoroughly agreed with her. + </p> + <p> + So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off, + yelling with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards + the hills of Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to + her in the castle meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that he + was pleased. Everything had gone off so well. She felt that he was + praising her, too, and blushed; certainly she had done all she could with + his intractable friends, and had made a special point of kotowing to the + men. They were breaking camp this evening; only the Warringtons and quiet + child would stay the night, and the others were already moving towards the + house to finish their packing. “I think it did go off well,” she agreed. + “Since I had to jump out of the motor, I’m thankful I lighted on my left + hand. I am so very glad about it, Henry dear; I only hope that the guests + at ours may be half as comfortable. You must all remember that we have no + practical person among us, except my aunt, and she is not used to + entertainments on a large scale.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” he said gravely. “Under the circumstances, it would be better to + put everything into the hands of Harrods or Whiteley’s, or even to go to + some hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “You desire a hotel?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, because—well, I mustn’t interfere with you. No doubt you want + to be married from your old home.” + </p> + <p> + “My old home’s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn’t it a + perfect evening—” + </p> + <p> + “The Alexandrina isn’t bad—” + </p> + <p> + “The Alexandrina,” she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke + that were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with + parallels of grey. + </p> + <p> + “It’s off Curzon Street.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it? Let’s be married from off Curzon Street.” + </p> + <p> + Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the + river rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the + bend, and its precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles’s + bathing-shed. She gazed so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they + moved back to the house, she could not recognise the faces of people who + were coming out of it. A parlour-maid was preceding them. + </p> + <p> + “Who are those people?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “They’re callers!” exclaimed Henry. “It’s too late for callers.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps they’re town people who want to see the wedding presents.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not at home yet to townees.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will.” + </p> + <p> + He thanked her. + </p> + <p> + Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were + unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility, + since Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their + rooms. She assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the + group was Helen—Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that + tense, wounding excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery + days. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she called. “Oh, what’s wrong? Is Tibby ill?” + </p> + <p> + Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward + furiously. + </p> + <p> + “They’re starving!” she shouted. “I found them starving!” + </p> + <p> + “Who? Why have you come?” + </p> + <p> + “The Basts.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Helen!” moaned Margaret. “Whatever have you done now?” + </p> + <p> + “He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he’s done + for. We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you’ll tell me it’s + the battle of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in + the train.” + </p> + <p> + “Helen, are you mad?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I’m mad. But I’ve brought them. I’ll stand + injustice no longer. I’ll show up the wretchedness that lies under this + luxury, this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what + we’re too slack to do ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you actually brought two starving people from London to Shropshire, + Helen?” + </p> + <p> + Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated. + “There was a restaurant car on the train,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be absurd. They aren’t starving, and you know it. Now, begin from + the beginning. I won’t have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, + how dare you!” she repeated, as anger filled her, “bursting in to Evie’s + wedding in this heartless way. My goodness! but you’ve a perverted notion + of philanthropy. Look”—she indicated the house—“servants, + people out of the windows. They think it’s some vulgar scandal, and I must + explain, ‘Oh no, it’s only my sister screaming, and only two hangers-on of + ours, whom she has brought here for no conceivable reason.’” + </p> + <p> + “Kindly take back that word ‘hangers-on,’” said Helen, ominously calm. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to + avoid a real quarrel. “I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why + you’ve brought them here, or why you’re here yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry + Henry. + </p> + <p> + “He’s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew it was our last chance.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you do, Mr. Bast?” said Margaret, trying to control her voice. + “This is an odd business. What view do you take of it?” + </p> + <p> + “There is Mrs. Bast, too,” prompted Helen. + </p> + <p> + Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, + ill, and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what + was happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind + last night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with + a dinner and a breakfast, and ordered them to meet her at Paddington next + morning. Leonard had feebly protested, and when the morning came, had + suggested that they shouldn’t go. But she, half mesmerised, had obeyed. + The lady had told them to, and they must, and their bed-sitting-room had + accordingly changed into Paddington, and Paddington into a railway + carriage, that shook, and grew hot, and grew cold, and vanished entirely, + and reappeared amid torrents of expensive scent. “You have fainted,” said + the lady in an awe-struck voice. “Perhaps the air will do you good.” And + perhaps it had, for here she was, feeling rather better among a lot of + flowers. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t want to intrude,” began Leonard, in answer to Margaret’s + question. “But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about + the Porphyrion that I wondered—why, I wondered whether—” + </p> + <p> + “Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,” supplied Helen. + “Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening’s work that was + on Chelsea Embankment.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a + bad concern, didn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right.” + </p> + <p> + “And went into a bank instead?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you all that,” said Helen; “and they reduced their staff after he + had been in a month, and now he’s penniless, and I consider that we and + our informant are directly to blame.” + </p> + <p> + “I hate all this,” Leonard muttered. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it’s no good mincing matters. You have done + yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and + to call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great + mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “I brought them. I did it all,” cried Helen. + </p> + <p> + “I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false + position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It’s too late to get to town, + but you’ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, + and I hope you’ll be my guests there.” + </p> + <p> + “That isn’t what I want, Miss Schlegel,” said Leonard. “You’re very kind, + and no doubt it’s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no + good at all.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s work he wants,” interpreted Helen. “Can’t you see?” + </p> + <p> + Then he said: “Jacky, let’s go. We’re more bother than we’re worth. We’re + costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and + they never will. There’s nothing we’re good enough to do.” + </p> + <p> + “We would like to find you work,” said Margaret rather conventionally. “We + want to—I, like my sister. You’re only down in your luck. Go to the + hotel, have a good night’s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the + bill, if you prefer it.” + </p> + <p> + But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. “You + don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I shall never get work + now. If rich people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I + had my groove, and I’ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of + insurance in one particular office well enough to command a salary, but + that’s all. Poetry’s nothing, Miss Schlegel. One’s thoughts about this and + that are nothing. Your money, too, is nothing, if you’ll understand me. I + mean if a man over twenty once loses his own particular job, it’s all over + with him. I have seen it happen to others. Their friends gave them money + for a little, but in the end they fall over the edge. It’s no good. It’s + the whole world pulling. There always will be rich and poor.” + </p> + <p> + He ceased. “Won’t you have something to eat?” said Margaret. “I don’t know + what to do. It isn’t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad + to see you at any other time—as I say, I don’t know what to do, but + I undertake to do what I can for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try + a sandwich, Mrs. Bast.” + </p> + <p> + They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced + cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained + almost intact; their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. + Jacky thought she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering + together, and had a few more words with Helen. + </p> + <p> + She said: “Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he’s worth helping. I + agree that we are directly responsible.” + </p> + <p> + “No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I’ll do + nothing. No doubt you’re right logically, and are entitled to say a great + many scathing things about Henry. Only, I won’t have it. So choose.” + </p> + <p> + Helen looked at the sunset. + </p> + <p> + “If you promise to take them quietly to the George I will speak to Henry + about them—in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd + screaming about justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a + question of money, we could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that + we can’t give him, but possibly Henry can.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s his duty to,” grumbled Helen. + </p> + <p> + “Nor am I concerned with duty. I’m concerned with the characters of + various people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may + be made a little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours; all + business men do. But I am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, + because I want to make things a little better.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly.” + </p> + <p> + “Take them off to the George, then, and I’ll try. Poor creatures! but they + look tired.” As they parted, she added: “I haven’t nearly done with you, + though, Helen. You have been most self-indulgent. I can’t get over it. You + have less restraint rather than more as you grow older. Think it over and + alter yourself, or we shan’t have happy lives.” + </p> + <p> + She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical + matters were important. “Was it townees?” he asked, greeting her with a + pleasant smile. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll never believe me,” said Margaret, sitting down beside him. “It’s + all right now, but it was my sister.” + </p> + <p> + “Helen here?” he cried, preparing to rise. “But she refused the + invitation. I thought hated weddings.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I’ve bundled her off to + the George.” + </p> + <p> + Inherently hospitable, he protested. + </p> + <p> + “No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them.” + </p> + <p> + “Let ’em all come.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Henry, did you see them?” + </p> + <p> + “I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and + salmon bunch?” + </p> + <p> + “What! are they out bean-feasting?” + </p> + <p> + “No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you + about them.” + </p> + <p> + She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how + tempting it was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of + woman that he desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: “Why later + on? Tell me now. No time like the present.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I?” + </p> + <p> + “If it isn’t a long story.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, not five minutes; but there’s a sting at the end of it, for I want + you to find the man some work in your office.” + </p> + <p> + “What are his qualifications?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. He’s a clerk.” + </p> + <p> + “How old?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty-five, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s his name?” + </p> + <p> + “Bast,” said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at + Wickham Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. + </p> + <p> + “Where was he before?” + </p> + <p> + “Dempster’s Bank.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did he leave?” he asked, still remembering nothing. + </p> + <p> + “They reduced their staff.” + </p> + <p> + “All right; I’ll see him.” + </p> + <p> + It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she + understood why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, + when condemning suffragettes, had said: “The woman who can’t influence her + husband to vote the way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself.” + Margaret had winced, but she was influencing Henry now, and though pleased + at her little victory, she knew that she had won it by the methods of the + harem. + </p> + <p> + “I should be glad if you took him,” she said, “but I don’t know whether + he’s qualified.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn’t be taken as a precedent.” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course—of course—” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer.” + </p> + <p> + “I can promise you he’s the last. He—he’s rather a special case.” + </p> + <p> + “Proteges always are.” + </p> + <p> + She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of + complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf + between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she + herself—hovering as usual between the two, now accepting men as they + are, now yearning with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth—their + warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, and if + they were one, life itself, like the spirits when Prospero was reconciled + to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin air. + </p> + <p> + “Your protege has made us late,” said he. “The Fussells—will just be + starting.” + </p> + <p> + On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as + he had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the + ethics of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been + built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be + but the varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. + Oniton, like herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its + castle ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare between the + Anglo-Saxon and the Celt, between things as they are and as they ought to + be. Once more the west was retreating, once again the orderly stars were + dotting the eastern sky. There is certainly no rest for us on the earth. + But there is happiness, and as Margaret descended the mound on her lover’s + arm, she felt that she was having her share. + </p> + <p> + To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen + had left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. + Margaret found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, + an overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham + Place, and smelt again odours from the abyss—odours the more + disturbing because they were involuntary. For there was no malice in + Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake in one hand, an empty champagne + glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. + </p> + <p> + “She’s overtired,” Margaret whispered. + </p> + <p> + “She’s something else,” said Henry. “This won’t do. I can’t have her in my + garden in this state.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she—” Margaret hesitated to add “drunk.” Now that she was going + to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque + conversations now. + </p> + <p> + Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the + twilight like a puff-ball. + </p> + <p> + “Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel,” he said sharply. + </p> + <p> + Jacky replied: “If it isn’t Hen!” + </p> + <p> + “Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble,” apologised Margaret. “Il est + tout à fait différent.” + </p> + <p> + “Henry!” she repeated, quite distinctly. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. “I congratulate you on your proteges,” he + remarked. + </p> + <p> + “Hen, don’t go. You do love me, dear, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Bless us, what a person!” sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. + </p> + <p> + Jacky pointed with her cake. “You’re a nice boy, you are.” She yawned. + “There now, I love you.” + </p> + <p> + “Henry, I am awfully sorry.” + </p> + <p> + “And pray why?” he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he + was ill. He seemed more scandalised than the facts demanded. + </p> + <p> + “To have brought this down on you.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray don’t apologise.” + </p> + <p> + The voice continued. + </p> + <p> + “Why does she call you ‘Hen’?” said Margaret innocently. “Has she ever + seen you before?” + </p> + <p> + “Seen Hen before!” said Jacky. “Who hasn’t seen Hen? He’s serving you like + me, my boys! You wait—Still we love ’em.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you now satisfied?” Henry asked. + </p> + <p> + Margaret began to grow frightened. “I don’t know what it is all about,” + she said. “Let’s come in.” + </p> + <p> + But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole + life crumbling. “Don’t you indeed?” he said bitingly. “I do. Allow me to + congratulate you on the success of your plan.” + </p> + <p> + “This is Helen’s plan, not mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am + amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right—it was + necessary. I am a man, and have lived a man’s past. I have the honour to + release you from your engagement.” + </p> + <p> + Still she could not understand. She knew of life’s seamy side as a theory; + she could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary—words + unequivocal, undenied. + </p> + <p> + “So that—” burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself + from saying more. + </p> + <p> + “So what?” asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the + hall. + </p> + <p> + “We were saying—Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, + my point being—” Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to + help him on. He protested, and there was a playful little scene. + </p> + <p> + “No, let me do that,” said Henry, following. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks so much! You see—he has forgiven me!” + </p> + <p> + The Colonel said gallantly: “I don’t expect there’s much to forgive.” + </p> + <p> + He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval. Maids, + courier, and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the branch-line. + Still chattering, still thanking their host and patronising their future + hostess, the guests were borne away. + </p> + <p> + Then Margaret continued: “So that woman has been your mistress?” + </p> + <p> + “You put it with your usual delicacy,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “When, please?” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “When, please?” + </p> + <p> + “Ten years ago.” + </p> + <p> + She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it was Mrs. + Wilcox’s. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII + </h2> + <p> + Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of eight pounds in making + some people ill and others angry. Now that the wave of excitement was + ebbing, and had left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the night + in a Shropshire hotel, she asked herself what forces had made the wave + flow. At all events, no harm was done. Margaret would play the game + properly now, and though Helen disapproved of her sister’s methods, she + knew that the Basts would benefit by them in the long-run. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Wilcox is so illogical,” she explained to Leonard, who had put his + wife to bed, and was sitting with her in the empty coffee-room. “If we + told him it was his duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The + fact is, he isn’t properly educated. I don’t want to set you against him, + but you’ll find him a trial.” + </p> + <p> + “I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel,” was all that Leonard + felt equal to. + </p> + <p> + “I believe in personal responsibility. Don’t you? And in personal + everything. I hate—I suppose I oughtn’t to say that—but the + Wilcoxes are on the wrong tack surely. Or perhaps it isn’t their fault. + Perhaps the little thing that says ‘I’ is missing out of the middle of + their heads, and then it’s a waste of time to blame them. There’s a + nightmare of a theory that says a special race is being born which will + rule the rest of us in the future just because it lacks the little thing + that says ‘I.’ Had you heard that?” + </p> + <p> + “I get no time for reading.” + </p> + <p> + “Had you thought it, then? That there are two kinds of people—our + kind, who live straight from the middle of their heads, and the other kind + who can’t, because their heads have no middle? They can’t say ‘I.’ They + AREN’T in fact, and so they’re supermen. Pierpont Morgan has never said + ‘I’ in his life.” + </p> + <p> + Leonard roused himself. If his benefactress wanted intellectual + conversation, she must have it. She was more important than his ruined + past. “I never got on to Nietzsche,” he said. “But I always understood + that those supermen were rather what you may call egoists.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, that’s wrong,” replied Helen. “No superman ever said ‘I want,’ + because ‘I want’ must lead to the question, ‘Who am I?’ and so to Pity and + to Justice. He only says ‘want.’ ‘Want Europe,’ if he’s Napoleon; ‘want + wives,’ if he’s Bluebeard; ‘want Botticelli,’ if he’s Pierpont Morgan. + Never the ‘I’; and if you could pierce through the superman, you’d find + panic and emptiness in the middle.” + </p> + <p> + Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said: “May I take it, Miss + Schlegel, that you and I are both the sort that say ‘I’?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “And your sister, too?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course,” repeated Helen, a little sharply. She was annoyed with + Margaret, but did not want her discussed. “All presentable people say + ‘I.’” + </p> + <p> + “But Mr. Wilcox—he is not perhaps—” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that it’s any good discussing Mr. Wilcox either.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so, quite so,” he agreed. Helen asked herself why she had snubbed + him. Once or twice during the day she had encouraged him to criticise, and + then had pulled him up short. Was she afraid of him presuming? If so, it + was disgusting of her. + </p> + <p> + But he was thinking the snub quite natural. Everything she did was + natural, and incapable of causing offence. While the Miss Schlegels were + together he had felt them scarcely human—a sort of admonitory + whirligig. But a Miss Schlegel alone was different. She was in Helen’s + case unmarried, in Margaret’s about to be married, in neither case an echo + of her sister. A light had fallen at last into this rich upper world, and + he saw that it was full of men and women, some of whom were more friendly + to him than others. Helen had become “his” Miss Schlegel, who scolded him + and corresponded with him, and had swept down yesterday with grateful + vehemence. Margaret, though not unkind, was severe and remote. He would + not presume to help her, for instance. He had never liked her, and began + to think that his original impression was true, and that her sister did + not like her either. Helen was certainly lonely. She, who gave away so + much, was receiving too little. Leonard was pleased to think that he could + spare her vexation by holding his tongue and concealing what he knew about + Mr. Wilcox. Jacky had announced her discovery when he fetched her from the + lawn. After the first shock, he did not mind for himself. By now he had no + illusions about his wife, and this was only one new stain on the face of a + love that had never been pure. To keep perfection perfect, that should be + his ideal, if the future gave him time to have ideals. Helen, and Margaret + for Helen’s sake, must not know. + </p> + <p> + Helen disconcerted him by turning the conversation to his wife. “Mrs. Bast—does + she ever say ‘I’?” she asked, half mischievously, and then, “Is she very + tired?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s better she stops in her room,” said Leonard. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I sit up with her?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you; she does not need company.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?” + </p> + <p> + Leonard blushed up to his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to know my ways by now. Does that question offend you?” + </p> + <p> + “No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I love honesty. Don’t pretend your marriage has been a happy one. + You and she can have nothing in common.” + </p> + <p> + He did not deny it, but said shyly: “I suppose that’s pretty obvious; but + Jacky never meant to do anybody any harm. When things went wrong, or I + heard things, I used to think it was her fault, but, looking back, it’s + more mine. I needn’t have married her, but as I have I must stick to her + and keep her.” + </p> + <p> + “How long have you been married?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly three years.” + </p> + <p> + “What did your people say?” + </p> + <p> + “They will not have anything to do with us. They had a sort of family + council when they heard I was married, and cut us off altogether.” + </p> + <p> + Helen began to pace up and down the room. “My good boy, what a mess!” she + said gently. “Who are your people?” + </p> + <p> + He could answer this. His parents, who were dead, had been in trade; his + sisters had married commercial travellers; his brother was a lay-reader. + </p> + <p> + “And your grandparents?” + </p> + <p> + Leonard told her a secret that he had held shameful up to now. “They were + just nothing at all,” he said “agricultural labourers and that sort.” + </p> + <p> + “So! From which part?” + </p> + <p> + “Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother’s father—he, oddly enough, came + from these parts round here.” + </p> + <p> + “From this very Shropshire. Yes, that is odd. My mother’s people were + Lancashire. But why do your brother and your sisters object to Mrs. Bast?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, you do know. I am not a baby. I can bear anything you tell me, + and the more you tell the more I shall be able to help. Have they heard + anything against her?” + </p> + <p> + He was silent. + </p> + <p> + “I think I have guessed now,” said Helen very gravely. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so, Miss Schlegel; I hope not.” + </p> + <p> + “We must be honest, even over these things. I have guessed. I am + frightfully, dreadfully sorry, but it does not make the least difference + to me. I shall feel just the same to both of you. I blame, not your wife + for these things, but men.” + </p> + <p> + Leonard left it at that—so long as she did not guess the man. She + stood at the window and slowly pulled up the blinds. The hotel looked over + a dark square. The mists had begun. When she turned back to him her eyes + were shining. “Don’t you worry,” he pleaded. “I can’t bear that. We shall + be all right if I get work. If I could only get work—something + regular to do. Then it wouldn’t be so bad again. I don’t trouble after + books as I used. I can imagine that with regular work we should settle + down again. It stops one thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Settle down to what?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just settle down.” + </p> + <p> + “And that’s to be life!” said Helen, with a catch in her throat. “How can + you, with all the beautiful things to see and do—with music—with + walking at night—” + </p> + <p> + “Walking is well enough when a man’s in work,” he answered. “Oh, I did + talk a lot of nonsense once, but there’s nothing like a bailiff in the + house to drive it out of you. When I saw him fingering my Ruskins and + Stevensons, I seemed to see life straight and real, and it isn’t a pretty + sight. My books are back again, thanks to you, but they’ll never be the + same to me again, and I shan’t ever again think night in the woods is + wonderful.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” asked Helen, throwing up the window. + </p> + <p> + “Because I see one must + have money.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’re wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I was wrong, but—the clergyman—he has money of his + own, or else he’s paid; the poet or the musician—just the same; the + tramp—he’s no different. The tramp goes to the workhouse in the end, + and is paid for with other people’s money. Miss Schlegel, the real thing’s + money, and all the rest is a dream.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re still wrong. You’ve forgotten Death.” + </p> + <p> + Leonard could not understand. + </p> + <p> + “If we lived forever, what you say would be true. But we have to die, we + have to leave life presently. Injustice and greed would be the real thing + if we lived for ever. As it is, we must hold to other things, because + Death is coming. I love Death—not morbidly, but because He explains. + He shows me the emptiness of Money. Death and Money are the eternal foes. + Not Death and Life. Never mind what lies behind Death, Mr. Bast, but be + sure that the poet and the musician and the tramp will be happier in it + than the man who has never learnt to say, ‘I am I.’” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder.” + </p> + <p> + “We are all in a mist—I know, but I can help you this far—men + like the Wilcoxes are deeper in the mist than any. Sane, sound Englishmen! + building up empires, levelling all the world into what they call common + sense. But mention Death to them and they’re offended, because Death’s + really Imperial, and He cries out against them for ever.” + </p> + <p> + “I am as afraid of Death as any one.” + </p> + <p> + “But not of the idea of Death.” + </p> + <p> + “But what is the difference?” + </p> + <p> + “Infinite difference,” said Helen, more gravely than before. + </p> + <p> + Leonard looked at her wondering, and had the sense of great things + sweeping out of the shrouded night. But he could not receive them, because + his heart was still full of little things. As the lost umbrella had spoilt + the concert at Queen’s Hall, so the lost situation was obscuring the + diviner harmonies now. Death, Life, and Materialism were fine words, but + would Mr. Wilcox take him on as a clerk? Talk as one would, Mr. Wilcox was + king of this world, the superman, with his own morality, whose head + remained in the clouds. + </p> + <p> + “I must be stupid,” he said apologetically. + </p> + <p> + While to Helen the paradox became clearer and clearer. “Death destroys a + man: the idea of Death saves him.” Behind the coffins and the skeletons + that stay the vulgar mind lies something so immense that all that is great + in us responds to it. Men of the world may recoil from the charnel-house + that they will one day enter, but Love knows better. Death is his foe, but + his peer, and in their age-long struggle the thews of Love have been + strengthened, and his vision cleared, until there is no one who can stand + against him. + </p> + <p> + “So never give in,” continued the girl, and restated again and again the + vague yet convincing plea that the Invisible lodges against the Visible. + Her excitement grew as she tried to cut the rope that fastened Leonard to + the earth. Woven of bitter experience, it resisted her. Presently the + waitress entered and gave her a letter from Margaret. Another note, + addressed to Leonard, was inside. They read them, listening to the + murmurings of the river. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII + </h2> + <p> + For many hours Margaret did nothing; then she controlled herself, and + wrote some letters. She was too bruised to speak to Henry; she could pity + him, and even determine to marry him, but as yet all lay too deep in her + heart for speech. On the surface the sense of his degradation was too + strong. She could not command voice or look, and the gentle words that she + forced out through her pen seemed to proceed from some other person. + </p> + <p> + “My dearest boy,” she began, “this is not to part us. It is everything or + nothing, and I mean it to be nothing. It happened long before we ever met, + and even if it had happened since, I should be writing the same, I hope. I + do understand.” + </p> + <p> + But she crossed out “I do understand”; it struck a false note. Henry could + not bear to be understood. She also crossed out, “It is everything or + nothing.” Henry would resent so strong a grasp of the situation. She must + not comment; comment is unfeminine. + </p> + <p> + “I think that’ll about do,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + Then the sense of his degradation choked her. Was he worth all this + bother? To have yielded to a woman of that sort was everything, yes, it + was, and she could not be his wife. She tried to translate his temptation + into her own language, and her brain reeled. Men must be different even to + want to yield to such a temptation. Her belief in comradeship was stifled, + and she saw life as from that glass saloon on the Great Western which + sheltered male and female alike from the fresh air. Are the sexes really + races, each with its own code of morality, and their mutual love a mere + device of Nature to keep things going? Strip human intercourse of the + proprieties, and is it reduced to this? Her judgment told her no. She knew + that out of Nature’s device we have built a magic that will win us + immortality. Far more mysterious than the call of sex to sex is the + tenderness that we throw into that call; far wider is the gulf between us + and the farmyard than between the farmyard and the garbage that nourishes + it. We are evolving, in ways that Science cannot measure, to ends that + Theology dares not contemplate. “Men did produce one jewel,” the gods will + say, and, saying, will give us immortality. Margaret knew all this, but + for the moment she could not feel it, and transformed the marriage of Evie + and Mr. Cahill into a carnival of fools, and her own marriage—too + miserable to think of that, she tore up the letter, and then wrote + another: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MR. BAST, + </p> + <p> + “I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I promised, and am sorry to say + that he has no vacancy for you. + </p> + <p> + “Yours truly, + </p> + <p> + “M. J. SCHLEGEL.” + </p> + <p> + She enclosed this in a note to Helen, over which she took less trouble + than she might have done; but her head was aching, and she could not stop + to pick her words: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR HELEN, + </p> + <p> + “Give him this. The Basts are no good. Henry found the woman drunk on the + lawn. I am having a room got ready for you here, and will you please come + round at once on getting this? The Basts are not at all the type we should + trouble about. I may go round to them myself in the morning, and do + anything that is fair. + </p> + <p> + “M.” + </p> + <p> + In writing this, Margaret felt that she was being practical. Something + might be arranged for the Basts later on, but they must be silenced for + the moment. She hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman and Helen. + She rang the bell for a servant, but no one answered it; Mr. Wilcox and + the Warringtons were gone to bed, and the kitchen was abandoned to + Saturnalia. Consequently she went over to the George herself. She did not + enter the hotel, for discussion would have been perilous, and, saying that + the letter was important, she gave it to the waitress. As she recrossed + the square she saw Helen and Mr. Bast looking out of the window of the + coffee-room, and feared she was already too late. Her task was not yet + over; she ought to tell Henry what she had done. + </p> + <p> + This came easily, for she saw him in the hall. The night wind had been + rattling the pictures against the wall, and the noise had disturbed him. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s there?” he called, quite the householder. + </p> + <p> + Margaret walked in and past him. + </p> + <p> + “I have asked Helen to sleep,” she said. “She is best here; so don’t lock + the front-door.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought some one had got in,” said Henry. + </p> + <p> + “At the same time I told the man that we could do nothing for him. I don’t + know about later, but now the Basts must clearly go.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after all?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she to be shown up to your room?” + </p> + <p> + “I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going to bed. Will you tell + the servants about Helen? Could some one go to carry her bag?” + </p> + <p> + He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to summon the servants. + </p> + <p> + “You must make more noise than that if you want them to hear.” + </p> + <p> + Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came shouts of laughter. “Far + too much screaming there,” he said, and strode towards it. Margaret went + upstairs, uncertain whether to be glad that they had met, or sorry. They + had behaved as if nothing had happened, and her deepest instincts told her + that this was wrong. For his own sake, some explanation was due. + </p> + <p> + And yet—what could an explanation tell her? A date, a place, a few + details, which she could imagine all too clearly. Now that the first shock + was over, she saw that there was every reason to premise a Mrs. Bast. + Henry’s inner life had long laid open to her—his intellectual + confusion, his obtuseness to personal influence, his strong but furtive + passions. Should she refuse him because his outer life corresponded? + Perhaps. Perhaps, if the dishonour had been done to her, but it was done + long before her day. She struggled against the feeling. She told herself + that Mrs. Wilcox’s wrong was her own. But she was not a barren theorist. + As she undressed, her anger, her regard for the dead, her desire for a + scene, all grew weak. Henry must have it as he liked, for she loved him, + and some day she would use her love to make him a better man. + </p> + <p> + Pity was at the bottom of her actions all through this crisis. Pity, if + one may generalise, is at the bottom of woman. When men like us, it is for + our better qualities, and however tender their liking, we dare not be + unworthy of it, or they will quietly let us go. But unworthiness + stimulates woman. It brings out her deeper nature, for good or for evil. + </p> + <p> + Here was the core of the question. Henry must be forgiven, and made better + by love; nothing else mattered. Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly + ghost, must be left to her own wrong. To her everything was in proportion + now, and she, too, would pity the man who was blundering up and down their + lives. Had Mrs. Wilcox known of his trespass? An interesting question, but + Margaret fell asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled by the murmurs of + the river that descended all the night from Wales. She felt herself at one + with her future home, colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, + for the second time, Oniton Castle conquering the morning mists. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX + </h2> + <p> + “Henry dear—” was her greeting. + </p> + <p> + He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the Times. His + sister-in-law was packing. Margaret knelt by him and took the paper from + him, feeling that it was unusually heavy and thick. Then, putting her face + where it had been, she looked up in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Henry dear, look at me. No, I won’t have you shirking. Look at me. There. + That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re referring to last evening,” he said huskily. “I have released you + from your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won’t. No, I won’t. A + thousand times no. I’m a bad lot, and must be left at that.” + </p> + <p> + Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He + could no longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead + in a lurid past. It was not true repentance. + </p> + <p> + “Leave it where you will, boy. It’s not going to trouble us; I know what + I’m talking about, and it will make no difference.” + </p> + <p> + “No difference?” he inquired. “No difference, when you find that I am not + the fellow you thought?” He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would + have preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. Against + the tide of his sin flowed the feeling that she was not altogether + womanly. Her eyes gazed too straight; they had read books that are + suitable for men only. And though he had dreaded a scene, and though she + had determined against one, there was a scene, all the same. It was + somehow imperative. + </p> + <p> + “I am unworthy of you,” he began. “Had I been worthy, I should not have + released you from your engagement. I know what I am talking about. I can’t + bear to talk of such things. We had better leave it.” + </p> + <p> + She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, rising to his feet, went + on: “You, with your sheltered life, and refined pursuits, and friends, and + books, you and your sister, and women like you—I say, how can you + guess the temptations that lie round a man?” + </p> + <p> + “It is difficult for us,” said Margaret; “but if we are worth marrying, we + do guess.” + </p> + <p> + “Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do you suppose happens + to thousands of young fellows overseas? Isolated. No one near. I know by + bitter experience, and yet you say it makes ‘no difference.’” + </p> + <p> + “Not to me.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the sideboard and helped herself to + one of the breakfast dishes. Being the last down, she turned out the + spirit-lamp that kept them warm. She was tender, but grave. She knew that + Henry was not so much confessing his soul as pointing out the gulf between + the male soul and the female, and she did not desire to hear him on this + point. + </p> + <p> + “Did Helen come?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “But that won’t do at all, at all! We don’t want her gossiping with Mrs. + Bast.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God! no!” he exclaimed, suddenly natural. Then he caught himself up. + “Let them gossip, my game’s up, though I thank you for your unselfishness—little + as my thanks are worth.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t she send me a message or anything?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard of none.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you ring the bell, please?” + </p> + <p> + “What to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, to inquire.” + </p> + <p> + He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal. Margaret poured + herself out some coffee. The butler came, and said that Miss Schlegel had + slept at the George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to the + George? + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go, thank you,” said Margaret, and dismissed him. + </p> + <p> + “It is no good,” said Henry. “Those things leak out; you cannot stop a + story once it has started. I have known cases of other men—I + despised them once, I thought that I’m different, I shall never be + tempted. Oh, Margaret—” He came and sat down near her, improvising + emotion. She could not bear to listen to him. “We fellows all come to + grief once in our time. Will you believe that? There are moments when the + strongest man—‘Let him who standeth, take heed lest he fall.’ That’s + true, isn’t it? If you knew all, you would excuse me. I was far from good + influences—far even from England. I was very, very lonely, and + longed for a woman’s voice. That’s enough. I have told you too much + already for you to forgive me now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s enough, dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I have”—he lowered his voice—“I have been through hell.” + </p> + <p> + Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had he suffered tortures of + remorse, or had it been, “There! that’s over. Now for respectable life + again”? The latter, if she read him rightly. A man who has been through + hell does not boast of his virility. He is humble and hides it, if, + indeed, it still exists. Only in legend does the sinner come forth + penitent, but terrible, to conquer pure woman by his resistless power. + Henry was anxious to be terrible, but had not got it in him. He was a good + average Englishman, who had slipped. The really culpable point—his + faithlessness to Mrs. Wilcox—never seemed to strike him. She longed + to mention Mrs. Wilcox. + </p> + <p> + And bit by bit the story was told her. It was a very simple story. Ten + years ago was the time, a garrison town in Cyprus the place. Now and then + he asked her whether she could possibly forgive him, and she answered, “I + have already forgiven you, Henry.” She chose her words carefully, and so + saved him from panic. She played the girl, until he could rebuild his + fortress and hide his soul from the world. When the butler came to clear + away, Henry was in a very different mood—asked the fellow what he + was in such a hurry for, complained of the noise last night in the + servants’ hall. Margaret looked intently at the butler. He, as a handsome + young man, was faintly attractive to her as a woman—an attraction so + faint as scarcely to be perceptible, yet the skies would have fallen if + she had mentioned it to Henry. + </p> + <p> + On her return from the George the building operations were complete, and + the old Henry fronted her, competent, cynical, and kind. He had made a + clean breast, had been forgiven, and the great thing now was to forget his + failure, and to send it the way of other unsuccessful investments. Jacky + rejoined Howards End and Dude Street, and the vermilion motor-car, and the + Argentine Hard Dollars, and all the things and people for whom he had + never had much use and had less now. Their memory hampered him. He could + scarcely attend to Margaret, who brought back disquieting news from the + George. Helen and her clients had gone. + </p> + <p> + “Well, let them go—the man and his wife, I mean, for the more we see + of your sister the better.” + </p> + <p> + “But they have gone separately—Helen very early, the Basts just + before I arrived. They have left no message. They have answered neither of + my notes. I don’t like to think what it all means.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say in the notes?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you last night.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—ah—yes! Dear, would you like one turn in the garden?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret took his arm. The beautiful weather soothed her. But the wheels + of Evie’s wedding were still at work, tossing the guests outwards as + deftly as they had drawn them in, and she could not be with him long. It + had been arranged that they should motor to Shrewsbury, whence he would go + north, and she back to London with the Warringtons. For a fraction of time + she was happy. Then her brain recommenced. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid there has been gossiping of some kind at the George. Helen + would not have left unless she had heard something. I mismanaged that. It + is wretched. I ought to have parted her from that woman at once.” + </p> + <p> + “Margaret!” he exclaimed, loosing her arm impressively. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes, Henry?” + </p> + <p> + “I am far from a saint—in fact, the reverse—but you have taken + me, for better or worse. Bygones must be bygones. You have promised to + forgive me. Margaret, a promise is a promise. Never mention that woman + again.” + </p> + <p> + “Except for some practical reason—never.” + </p> + <p> + “Practical! You practical!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m practical,” she murmured, stooping over the mowing-machine and + playing with the grass which trickled through her fingers like sand. + </p> + <p> + He had silenced her, but her fears made him uneasy. Not for the first + time, he was threatened with blackmail. He was rich and supposed to be + moral; the Basts knew that he was not, and might find it profitable to + hint as much. + </p> + <p> + “At all events, you mustn’t worry,” he said. “This is a man’s business.” + He thought intently. “On no account mention it to anybody.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret flushed at advice so elementary, but he was really paving the way + for a lie. If necessary he would deny that he had ever known Mrs. Bast, + and prosecute her for libel. Perhaps he never had known her. Here was + Margaret, who behaved as if he had not. There the house. Round them were + half a dozen gardeners, clearing up after his daughter’s wedding. All was + so solid and spruce, that the past flew up out of sight like a + spring-blind, leaving only the last five minutes unrolled. + </p> + <p> + Glancing at these, he saw that the car would be round during the next + five, and plunged into action. Gongs were tapped, orders issued, Margaret + was sent to dress, and the housemaid to sweep up the long trickle of grass + that she had left across the hall. As is Man to the Universe, so was the + mind of Mr. Wilcox to the minds of some men—a concentrated light + upon a tiny spot, a little Ten Minutes moving self-contained through its + appointed years. No Pagan he, who lives for the Now, and may be wiser than + all philosophers. He lived for the five minutes that have past, and the + five to come; he had the business mind. + </p> + <p> + How did he stand now, as his motor slipped out of Oniton and breasted the + great round hills? Margaret had heard a certain rumour, but was all right. + She had forgiven him, God bless her, and he felt the manlier for it. + Charles and Evie had not heard it, and never must hear. No more must Paul. + Over his children he felt great tenderness, which he did not try to track + to a cause; Mrs. Wilcox was too far back in his life. He did not connect + her with the sudden aching love that he felt for Evie. Poor little Evie! + he trusted that Cahill would make her a decent husband. + </p> + <p> + And Margaret? How did she stand? + </p> + <p> + She had several minor worries. Clearly her sister had heard something. She + dreaded meeting her in town. And she was anxious about Leonard, for whom + they certainly were responsible. Nor ought Mrs. Bast to starve. But the + main situation had not altered. She still loved Henry. His actions, not + his disposition, had disappointed her, and she could bear that. And she + loved her future home. Standing up in the car, just where she had leapt + from it two days before, she gazed back with deep emotion upon Oniton. + Besides the Grange and the Castle keep, she could now pick out the church + and the black-and-white gables of the George. There was the bridge, and + the river nibbling its green peninsula. She could even see the + bathing-shed, but while she was looking for Charles’s new spring-board, + the forehead of the hill rose and hid the whole scene. + </p> + <p> + She never saw it again. Day and night the river flows down into England, + day after day the sun retreats into the Welsh mountains, and the tower + chimes, See the Conquering Hero. But the Wilcoxes have no part in the + place, nor in any place. It is not their names that recur in the parish + register. It is not their ghosts that sigh among the alders at evening. + They have swept into the valley and swept out of it, leaving a little dust + and a little money behind. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX + </h2> + <p> + Tibby was now approaching his last year at Oxford. He had moved out of + college, and was contemplating the Universe, or such portions of it as + concerned him, from his comfortable lodgings in Long Wall. He was not + concerned with much. When a young man is untroubled by passions and + sincerely indifferent to public opinion his outlook is necessarily + limited. Tibby wished neither to strengthen the position of the rich nor + to improve that of the poor, and so was well content to watch the elms + nodding behind the mildly embattled parapets of Magdalen. There are worse + lives. Though selfish, he was never cruel; though affected in manner, he + never posed. Like Margaret, he disdained the heroic equipment, and it was + only after many visits that men discovered Schlegel to possess a character + and a brain. He had done well in Mods, much to the surprise of those who + attended lectures and took proper exercise, and was now glancing + disdainfully at Chinese in case he should some day consent to qualify as a + Student Interpreter. To him thus employed Helen entered. A telegram had + preceded her. + </p> + <p> + He noticed, in a distant way, that his sister had altered. + </p> + <p> + As a rule he found her too pronounced, and had never come across this look + of appeal, pathetic yet dignified—the look of a sailor who has lost + everything at sea. + </p> + <p> + “I have come from Oniton,” she began. “There has been a great deal of + trouble there.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s for lunch?” said Tibby, picking up the claret, which was warming in + the hearth. Helen sat down submissively at the table. “Why such an early + start?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Sunrise or something—when I could get away.” + </p> + <p> + “So I surmise. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what’s to be done, Tibby. I am very much upset at a piece of + news that concerns Meg, and do not want to face her, and I am not going + back to Wickham Place. I stopped here to tell you this.” + </p> + <p> + The landlady came in with the cutlets. Tibby put a marker in the leaves of + his Chinese Grammar and helped them. Oxford—the Oxford of the + vacation—dreamed and rustled outside, and indoors the little fire + was coated with grey where the sunshine touched it. Helen continued her + odd story. + </p> + <p> + “Give Meg my love and say that I want to be alone. I mean to go to Munich + or else Bonn.” + </p> + <p> + “Such a message is easily given,” said her brother. + </p> + <p> + “As regards Wickham Place and my share of the furniture, you and she are + to do exactly as you like. My own feeling is that everything may just as + well be sold. What does one want with dusty economic books, which have + made the world no better, or with mother’s hideous chiffoniers? I have + also another commission for you. I want you to deliver a letter.” She got + up. “I haven’t written it yet. Why shouldn’t I post it, though?” She sat + down again. “My head is rather wretched. I hope that none of your friends + are likely to come in.” + </p> + <p> + Tibby locked the door. His friends often found it in this condition. Then + he asked whether anything had gone wrong at Evie’s wedding. + </p> + <p> + “Not there,” said Helen, and burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + He had known her hysterical—it was one of her aspects with which he + had no concern—and yet these tears touched him as something unusual. + They were nearer the things that did concern him, such as music. He laid + down his knife and looked at her curiously. Then, as she continued to sob, + he went on with his lunch. + </p> + <p> + The time came for the second course, and she was still crying. Apple + Charlotte was to follow, which spoils by waiting. “Do you mind Mrs. + Martlett coming in?” he asked, “or shall I take it from her at the door?” + </p> + <p> + “Could I bathe my eyes, Tibby?” + </p> + <p> + He took her to his bedroom, and introduced the pudding in her absence. + Having helped himself, he put it down to warm in the hearth. His hand + stretched towards the Grammar, and soon he was turning over the pages, + raising his eyebrows scornfully, perhaps at human nature, perhaps at + Chinese. To him thus employed Helen returned. She had pulled herself + together, but the grave appeal had not vanished from her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Now for the explanation,” she said. “Why didn’t I begin with it? I have + found out something about Mr. Wilcox. He has behaved very wrongly indeed, + and ruined two people’s lives. It all came on me very suddenly last night; + I am very much upset, and I do not know what to do. Mrs. Bast—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, those people!” + </p> + <p> + Helen seemed silenced. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I lock the door again?” + </p> + <p> + “No thanks, Tibbikins. You’re being very good to me. I want to tell you + the story before I go abroad, you must do exactly what you like—treat + it as part of the furniture. Meg cannot have heard it yet, I think. But I + cannot face her and tell her that the man she is going to marry has + misconducted himself. I don’t even know whether she ought to be told. + Knowing as she does that I dislike him, she will suspect me, and think + that I want to ruin her match. I simply don’t know what to make of such a + thing. I trust your judgment. What would you do?” + </p> + <p> + “I gather he has had a mistress,” said Tibby. + </p> + <p> + Helen flushed with shame and anger. “And ruined two people’s lives. And + goes about saying that personal actions count for nothing, and there + always will be rich and poor. He met her when he was trying to get rich + out in Cyprus—I don’t wish to make him worse than he is, and no + doubt she was ready enough to meet him. But there it is. They met. He goes + his way and she goes hers. What do you suppose is the end of such women?” + </p> + <p> + He conceded that it was a bad business. + </p> + <p> + “They end in two ways: Either they sink till the lunatic asylums and the + workhouses are full of them, and cause Mr. Wilcox to write letters to the + papers complaining of our national degeneracy, or else they entrap a boy + into marriage before it is too late. She—I can’t blame her.” + </p> + <p> + “But this isn’t all,” she continued after a long pause, during which the + landlady served them with coffee. “I come now to the business that took us + to Oniton. We went all three. Acting on Mr. Wilcox’s advice, the man + throws up a secure situation and takes an insecure one, from which he is + dismissed. There are certain excuses, but in the main Mr. Wilcox is to + blame, as Meg herself admitted. It is only common justice that he should + employ the man himself. But he meets the woman, and, like the cur that he + is, he refuses, and tries to get rid of them. He makes Meg write. Two + notes came from her late that evening—one for me, one for Leonard, + dismissing him with barely a reason. I couldn’t understand. Then it comes + out that Mrs. Bast had spoken to Mr. Wilcox on the lawn while we left her + to get rooms, and was still speaking about him when Leonard came back to + her. This Leonard knew all along. He thought it natural he should be + ruined twice. Natural! Could you have contained yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “It is certainly a very bad business,” said Tibby. + </p> + <p> + His reply seemed to calm his sister. “I was afraid that I saw it out of + proportion. But you are right outside it, and you must know. In a day or + two—or perhaps a week—take whatever steps you think fit. I + leave it in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + She concluded her charge. + </p> + <p> + “The facts as they touch Meg are all before you,” she added; and Tibby + sighed and felt it rather hard that, because of his open mind, he should + be empanelled to serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human + beings, for which one must blame him, but he had had rather too much of + them at Wickham Place. Just as some people cease to attend when books are + mentioned, so Tibby’s attention wandered when “personal relations” came + under discussion. Ought Margaret to know what Helen knew the Basts to + know? Similar questions had vexed him from infancy, and at Oxford he had + learned to say that the importance of human beings has been vastly + overrated by specialists. The epigram, with its faint whiff of the + eighties, meant nothing. But he might have let it off now if his sister + had not been ceaselessly beautiful. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Helen—have a cigarette—I don’t see what I’m to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Then there’s nothing to be done. I dare say you are right. Let them + marry. There remains the question of compensation.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you not better consult an + expert?” + </p> + <p> + “This part is in confidence,” said Helen. “It has nothing to do with Meg, + and do not mention it to her. The compensation—I do not see who is + to pay it if I don’t, and I have already decided on the minimum sum. As + soon as possible I am placing it to your account, and when I am in Germany + you will pay it over for me. I shall never forget your kindness, + Tibbikins, if you do this.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the sum?” + </p> + <p> + “Five thousand.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God alive!” said Tibby, and went crimson. + </p> + <p> + “Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through life having done one + thing—to have raised one person from the abyss; not these puny gifts + of shillings and blankets—making the grey more grey. No doubt people + will think me extraordinary.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care an iota what people think!” cried he, heated to unusual + manliness of diction. “But it’s half what you have.” + </p> + <p> + “Not nearly half.” She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt. “I have + far too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a + year is necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a + hundred and fifty between two. It isn’t enough.” He could not recover. He + was not angry or even shocked, and he saw that Helen would still have + plenty to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks people can + make of their lives. His delicate intonations would not work, and he could + only blurt out that the five thousand pounds would mean a great deal of + bother for him personally. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t expect you to understand me.” + </p> + <p> + “I? I understand nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “But you’ll do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Apparently.” + </p> + <p> + “I leave you two commissions, then. The first concerns Mr. Wilcox, and you + are to use your discretion. The second concerns the money, and is to be + mentioned to no one, and carried out literally. You will send a hundred + pounds on account to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + He walked with her to the station, passing through those streets whose + serried beauty never bewildered him and never fatigued. The lovely + creature raised domes and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the + ganglion of vulgarity round Carfax showed how evanescent was the phantom, + how faint its claim to represent England. Helen, rehearsing her + commission, noticed nothing; the Basts were in her brain, and she retold + the crisis in a meditative way, which might have made other men curious. + She was seeing whether it would hold. He asked her once why she had taken + the Basts right into the heart of Evie’s wedding. She stopped like a + frightened animal and said, “Does that seem to you so odd?” Her eyes, the + hand laid on the mouth, quite haunted him, until they were absorbed into + the figure of St. Mary the Virgin, before whom he paused for a moment on + the walk home. + </p> + <p> + It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his duties. Margaret + summoned him the next day. She was terrified at Helen’s flight, and he had + to say that she had called in at Oxford. Then she said: “Did she seem + worried at any rumour about Henry?” He answered, “Yes.” “I knew it was + that!” she exclaimed. “I’ll write to her.” Tibby was relieved. + </p> + <p> + He then sent the cheque to the address that Helen gave him, and stated + that he was instructed to forward later on five thousand pounds. An answer + came back very civil and quiet in tone—such an answer as Tibby + himself would have given. The cheque was returned, the legacy refused, the + writer being in no need of money. Tibby forwarded this to Helen, adding in + the fulness of his heart that Leonard Bast seemed somewhat a monumental + person after all. Helen’s reply was frantic. He was to take no notice. He + was to go down at once and say that she commanded acceptance. He went. A + scurf of books and china ornaments awaited him. The Basts had just been + evicted for not paying their rent, and had wandered no one knew whither. + Helen had begun bungling with her money by this time, and had even sold + out her shares in the Nottingham and Derby Railway. For some weeks she did + nothing. Then she reinvested, and, owing to the good advice of her + stockbrokers, became rather richer than she had been before. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI + </h2> + <p> + Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the + generations of men, some with a tragic roar, some quietly, but to an + after-life in the city of ghosts, while from others—and thus was the + death of Wickham Place—the spirit slips before the body perishes. It + had decayed in the spring, disintegrating the girls more than they knew, + and causing either to accost unfamiliar regions. By September it was a + corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the memories of thirty + years of happiness. Through its round-topped doorway passed furniture, and + pictures, and books, until the last room was gutted and the last van had + rumbled away. It stood for a week or two longer, open-eyed, as if + astonished at its own emptiness. Then it fell. Navvies came, and spilt it + back into the grey. With their muscles and their beery good temper, they + were not the worst of undertakers for a house which had always been human, + and had not mistaken culture for an end. + </p> + <p> + The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into Hertfordshire, Mr. + Wilcox having most kindly offered Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce + had died abroad—an unsatisfactory affair—and as there seemed + little guarantee that the rent would be paid regularly, he cancelled the + agreement, and resumed possession himself. Until he relet the house, the + Schlegels were welcome to stack their furniture in the garage and lower + rooms. Margaret demurred, but Tibby accepted the offer gladly; it saved + him from coming to any decision about the future. The plate and the more + valuable pictures found a safer home in London, but the bulk of the things + went country-ways, and were entrusted to the guardianship of Miss Avery. + </p> + <p> + Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were married. They have + weathered the storm, and may reasonably expect peace. To have no illusions + and yet to love—what stronger surety can a woman find? She had seen + her husband’s past as well as his heart. She knew her own heart with a + thoroughness that commonplace people believe impossible. The heart of Mrs. + Wilcox was alone hidden, and perhaps it is superstitious to speculate on + the feelings of the dead. They were married quietly—really quietly, + for as the day approached she refused to go through another Oniton. Her + brother gave her away, her aunt, who was out of health, presided over a + few colourless refreshments. The Wilcoxes were represented by Charles, who + witnessed the marriage settlement, and by Mr. Cahill. Paul did send a + cablegram. In a few minutes, and without the aid of music, the clergyman + made them man and wife, and soon the glass shade had fallen that cuts off + married couples from the world. She, a monogamist, regretted the cessation + of some of life’s innocent odours; he, whose instincts were polygamous, + felt morally braced by the change and less liable to the temptations that + had assailed him in the past. + </p> + <p> + They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry knew of a reliable hotel + there, and Margaret hoped for a meeting with her sister. In this she was + disappointed. As they came south, Helen retreated over the Brenner, and + wrote an unsatisfactory post-card from the shores of the Lake of Garda, + saying that her plans were uncertain and had better be ignored. Evidently + she disliked meeting Henry. Two months are surely enough to accustom an + outsider to a situation which a wife has accepted in two days, and + Margaret had again to regret her sister’s lack of self-control. In a long + letter she pointed out the need of charity in sexual matters; so little is + known about them; it is hard enough for those who are personally touched + to judge; then how futile must be the verdict of Society. “I don’t say + there is no standard, for that would destroy morality; only that there can + be no standard until our impulses are classified and better understood.” + Helen thanked her for her kind letter—rather a curious reply. She + moved south again, and spoke of wintering in Naples. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed. Helen left him time to + grow skin over his wound. There were still moments when it pained him. Had + he only known that Margaret was awaiting him—Margaret, so lively and + intelligent, and yet so submissive—he would have kept himself + worthier of her. Incapable of grouping the past, he confused the episode + of Jacky with another episode that had taken place in the days of his + bachelorhood. The two made one crop of wild oats, for which he was + heartily sorry, and he could not see that those oats are of a darker stock + which are rooted in another’s dishonour. Unchastity and infidelity were as + confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only moral teacher. Ruth (poor + old Ruth!) did not enter into his calculations at all, for poor old Ruth + had never found him out. + </p> + <p> + His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her cleverness gave him + no trouble, and, indeed, he liked to see her reading poetry or something + about social questions; it distinguished her from the wives of other men. + He had only to call, and she clapped the book up and was ready to do what + he wished. Then they would argue so jollily, and once or twice she had him + in quite a tight corner, but as soon as he grew really serious, she gave + in. Man is for war, woman for the recreation of the warrior, but he does + not dislike it if she makes a show of fight. She cannot win in a real + battle, having no muscles, only nerves. Nerves make her jump out of a + moving motor-car, or refuse to be married fashionably. The warrior may + well allow her to triumph on such occasions; they move not the + imperishable plinth of things that touch his peace. + </p> + <p> + Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the honeymoon. He told + her—casually, as was his habit—that Oniton Grange was let. She + showed her annoyance, and asked rather crossly why she had not been + consulted. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t want to bother you,” he replied. “Besides, I have only heard for + certain this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are we to live?” said Margaret, trying to laugh. “I loved the place + extraordinarily. Don’t you believe in having a permanent home, Henry?” + </p> + <p> + He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is home life that + distinguishes us from the foreigner. But he did not believe in a damp + home. + </p> + <p> + “This is news. I never heard till this minute that Oniton was damp.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear girl!”—he flung out his hand—“have you eyes? have you + a skin? How could it be anything but damp in such a situation? In the + first place, the Grange is on clay, and built where the castle moat must + have been; then there’s that detestable little river, steaming all night + like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; look up under the eaves. Ask Sir + James or any one. Those Shropshire valleys are notorious. The only + possible place for a house in Shropshire is on a hill; but, for my part, I + think the country is too far from London, and the scenery nothing + special.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret could not resist saying, “Why did you go there, then?” + </p> + <p> + “I—because—” He drew his head back and grew rather angry. “Why + have we come to the Tyrol, if it comes to that? One might go on asking + such questions indefinitely.” + </p> + <p> + One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausible answer. Out it + came, and he believed it as soon as it was spoken. + </p> + <p> + “The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don’t let this go any + further.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad + bargain. No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor + little girl! She was so keen on it all, and wouldn’t even wait to make + proper inquiries about the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up—just + like all of your sex. Well, no harm’s done. She has had her country + wedding, and I’ve got rid of my goose to some fellows who are starting a + preparatory school.” + </p> + <p> + “Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux. + London was but a foretaste of this nomadic civilisation which is altering + human nature so profoundly, and throws upon personal relations a stress + greater than they have ever borne before. Under cosmopolitanism, if it + comes, we shall receive no help from the earth. Trees and meadows and + mountains will only be a spectacle, and the binding force that they once + exercised on character must be entrusted to Love alone. May Love be equal + to the task! + </p> + <p> + “It is now what?” continued Henry. “Nearly October. Let us camp for the + winter at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring.” + </p> + <p> + “If possible, something permanent. I can’t be as young as I was, for these + alterations don’t suit me.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear, which would you rather have—alterations or + rheumatism?” + </p> + <p> + “I see your point,” said Margaret, getting up. “If Oniton is really damp, + it is impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the + spring, let us look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not + hurry you. Remember that you have a free hand this time. These endless + moves must be bad for the furniture, and are certainly expensive.” + </p> + <p> + “What a practical little woman it is! What’s it been reading? Theo—theo—how + much?” + </p> + <p> + “Theosophy.” + </p> + <p> + So Ducie Street was her first fate—a pleasant enough fate. The + house, being only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the + immense establishment that was promised in the spring. They were + frequently away, but at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning + Henry went to business, and his sandwich—a relic this of some + prehistoric craving—was always cut by her own hand. He did not rely + upon the sandwich for lunch, but liked to have it by him in case he grew + hungry at eleven. When he had gone, there was the house to look after, and + the servants to humanise, and several kettles of Helen’s to keep on the + boil. Her conscience pricked her a little about the Basts; she was not + sorry to have lost sight of them. No doubt Leonard was worth helping, but + being Henry’s wife, she preferred to help some one else. As for theatres + and discussion societies, they attracted her less and less. She began to + “miss” new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking, + rather to the concern of her Chelsea friends. They attributed the change + to her marriage, and perhaps some deep instinct did warn her not to travel + further from her husband than was inevitable. Yet the main cause lay + deeper still; she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to + things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but + some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself + is to become a creative power. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII + </h2> + <p> + She was looking at plans one day in the following spring—they had + finally decided to go down into Sussex and build—when Mrs. Charles + Wilcox was announced. + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard the news?” Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. + “Charles is so ang—I mean he is sure you know about it, or, rather, + that you don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, Dolly!” said Margaret, placidly kissing her. “Here’s a surprise! How + are the boys and the baby?” + </p> + <p> + Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had + been at the Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people + had tried to get in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, + had said—Charles had said—the tax-collector had said—Charles + had regretted not saying—and she closed the description with, “But + lucky you, with four courts of your own at Midhurst.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be very jolly,” replied Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not.” + </p> + <p> + “Charles has never seen the plans.” + </p> + <p> + “They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor—no, that’s + rather difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and + a picturesque sky-line.” + </p> + <p> + “What makes it smell so funny?” said Dolly, after a moment’s inspection. + She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the paper.” + </p> + <p> + “And WHICH way up is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Just the ordinary way up. That’s the sky-line and the part that smells + strongest is the sky.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, ask me another. Margaret—oh—what was I going to say? + How’s Helen?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite well.” + </p> + <p> + “Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it’s awfully odd + she doesn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “So it is,” said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting + rather sore on this point. “Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away + eight months.” + </p> + <p> + “But hasn’t she any address?” + </p> + <p> + “A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a + line. I will look it up for you.” + </p> + <p> + “No, don’t bother. That’s eight months she has been away, surely?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. She left just after Evie’s wedding. It would be eight months.” + </p> + <p> + “Just when baby was born, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Just so.” + </p> + <p> + Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was + beginning to lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles’s were not + well off, for Mr. Wilcox, having brought up his children with expensive + tastes, believed in letting them shift for themselves. After all, he had + not treated them generously. Yet another baby was expected, she told + Margaret, and they would have to give up the motor. Margaret sympathised, + but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that the stepmother was + urging Mr. Wilcox to make them a more liberal allowance. She sighed again, + and at last the particular grievance was remembered. “Oh, yes,” she cried, + “that is it: Miss Avery has been unpacking your packing-cases.” + </p> + <p> + “Why has she done that? How unnecessary!” + </p> + <p> + “Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to.” + </p> + <p> + “I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did + undertake to light an occasional fire.” + </p> + <p> + “It was far more than an air,” said Dolly solemnly. “The floor sounds + covered with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he + feels certain you don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Books!” cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. “Dolly, are you serious? + Has she been touching our books?” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t she, though! What used to be the hall’s full of them. Charles + thought for certain you knew of it.” + </p> + <p> + “I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Avery? + I must go down about it at once. Some of the books are my brother’s, and + are quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the cases.” + </p> + <p> + “I say she’s dotty. She was the one that never got married, you know. Oh, + I say, perhaps, she thinks your books are wedding-presents to herself. Old + maids are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all like poison + ever since her frightful dust-up with Evie.” + </p> + <p> + “I hadn’t heard of that,” said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its + compensations. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you know she gave Evie a present last August, and Evie returned + it, and then—oh, goloshes! You never read such a letter as Miss + Avery wrote.” + </p> + <p> + “But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn’t like her to do such a + heartless thing.” + </p> + <p> + “But the present was so expensive.” + </p> + <p> + “Why does that make any difference, Dolly?” + </p> + <p> + “Still, when it costs over five pounds—I didn’t see it, but it was a + lovely enamel pendant from a Bond Street shop. You can’t very well accept + that kind of thing from a farm woman. Now, can you?” + </p> + <p> + “You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you were married.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff—not worth a halfpenny. Evie’s + was quite different. You’d have to ask any one to the wedding who gave you + a pendant like that. Uncle Percy and Albert and father and Charles all + said it was quite impossible, and when four men agree, what is a girl to + do? Evie didn’t want to upset the old thing, so thought a sort of joking + letter best, and returned the pendant straight to the shop to save Miss + Avery trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “But Miss Avery said—” + </p> + <p> + Dolly’s eyes grew round. “It was a perfectly awful letter. Charles said it + was the letter of a madman. In the end she had the pendant back again from + the shop and threw it into the duck-pond.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she give any reasons?” + </p> + <p> + “We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so climb into society.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s rather old for that,” said Margaret pensively. + “May she not have given the present to Evie in remembrance of her mother?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a notion. Give every one their due, eh? Well, I suppose I ought to + be toddling. Come along, Mr. Muff—you want a new coat, but I don’t + know who’ll give it you, I’m sure;” and addressing her apparel with + mournful humour, Dolly moved from the room. + </p> + <p> + Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew about Miss Avery’s + rudeness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after the house.” + </p> + <p> + “But she’s only a farm woman,” said Dolly, and her explanation proved + correct. Henry only censured the lower classes when it suited him. He bore + with Miss Avery as with Crane—because he could get good value out of + them. “I have patience with a man who knows his job,” he would say, really + having patience with the job, and not the man. Paradoxical as it may + sound, he had something of the artist about him; he would pass over an + insult to his daughter sooner than lose a good charwoman for his wife. + </p> + <p> + Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble herself. Parties + were evidently ruffled. With Henry’s permission, she wrote a pleasant note + to Miss Avery, asking her to leave the cases untouched. Then, at the first + convenient opportunity, she went down herself, intending to repack her + belongings and store them properly in the local warehouse; the plan had + been amateurish and a failure. Tibby promised to accompany her, but at the + last moment begged to be excused. So, for the second time in her life, she + entered the house alone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII + </h2> + <p> + The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of unclouded happiness + that she was to have for many months. Her anxiety about Helen’s + extraordinary absence was still dormant, and as for a possible brush with + Miss Avery—that only gave zest to the expedition. She had also eluded + Dolly’s invitation to luncheon. Walking straight up from the station, she + crossed the village green and entered the long chestnut avenue that + connects it with the church. The church itself stood in the village once. + But it there attracted so many worshippers that the devil, in a pet, + snatched it from its foundations, and poised it on an inconvenient knoll, + three quarters of a mile away. If this story is true, the chestnut avenue + must have been planted by the angels. No more tempting approach could be + imagined for the lukewarm Christian, and if he still finds the walk too + long, the devil is defeated all the same, Science having built Holy + Trinity, a Chapel of Ease, near the Charles’s and roofed it with tin. + </p> + <p> + Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to watch the sky that + gleamed through the upper branches of the chestnuts, or to finger the + little horseshoes on the lower branches. Why has not England a great + mythology? Our folklore has never advanced beyond daintiness, and the + greater melodies about our country-side have all issued through the pipes + of Greece. Deep and true as the native imagination can be, it seems to + have failed here. It has stopped with the witches and the fairies. It + cannot vivify one fraction of a summer field, or give names to half a + dozen stars. England still waits for the supreme moment of her literature—for + the great poet who shall voice her, or, better still for the thousand + little poets whose voices shall pass into our common talk. + </p> + <p> + At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut avenue opened into a road, + smooth but narrow, which led into the untouched country. She followed it + for over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent + destiny, it strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking no trouble about + the gradients, or about the view, which nevertheless expanded. The great + estates that throttle the south of Hertfordshire were less obtrusive here, + and the appearance of the land was neither aristocratic nor suburban. To + define it was difficult, but Margaret knew what it was not: it was not + snobbish. Though its contours were slight, there was a touch of freedom in + their sweep to which Surrey will never attain, and the distant brow of the + Chilterns towered like a mountain. “Left to itself,” was Margaret’s + opinion, “this county would vote Liberal.” The comradeship, not + passionate, that is our highest gift as a nation, was promised by it, as + by the low brick farm where she called for the key. + </p> + <p> + But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person + received her. “Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, + auntie received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little + place at the present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?” + Followed by: “Of course, auntie does not generally look after your place; + she only does it to oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives + her something to do. She spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband + says to me sometimes, ‘Where’s auntie?’ I say, ‘Need you ask? She’s at + Howards End.’ Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to + accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for you?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this gave her gentility in + the eyes of Miss Avery’s niece. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot let you go on alone. Now don’t. You really mustn’t. I will + direct you myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now”—roguishly—“Mrs. + Wilcox, don’t you move while I’m gone.” + </p> + <p> + Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch + of art nouveau had fallen. But the other rooms looked in keeping, though + they conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an + elder race, to which we look back with disquietude. The country which we + visit at week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, + the deaths, the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest + expression in the heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was + shining without. The thrush sang his two syllables on the budding + guelder-rose. Some children were playing uproariously in heaps of golden + straw. It was the presence of sadness at all that surprised Margaret, and + ended by giving her a feeling of completeness. In these English farms, if + anywhere, one might see life steadily and see it whole, group in one + vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, connect—connect + without bitterness until all men are brothers. But her thoughts were + interrupted by the return of Miss Avery’s niece, and were so + tranquillising that she suffered the interruption gladly. + </p> + <p> + It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations, + they went out by it. The niece was now mortified by innumerable chickens, + who rushed up to her feet for food, and by a shameless and maternal sow. + She did not know what animals were coming to. But her gentility withered + at the touch of the sweet air. The wind was rising, scattering the straw + and ruffling the tails of the ducks as they floated in families over + Evie’s pendant. One of those delicious gales of spring, in which leaves + still in bud seem to rustle, swept over the land and then fell silent. + “Georgie,” sang the thrush. “Cuckoo,” came furtively from the cliff of + pine-trees. “Georgie, pretty Georgie,” and the other birds joined in with + nonsense. The hedge was a half-painted picture which would be finished in + a few days. Celandines grew on its banks, lords and ladies and primroses + in the defended hollows; the wild rose-bushes, still bearing their + withered hips, showed also the promise of blossom. Spring had come, clad + in no classical garb, yet fairer than all springs; fairer even than she + who walks through the myrtles of Tuscany with the graces before her and + the zephyr behind. + </p> + <p> + The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret + was thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a + day, and the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached + Howards End. Petulant cries of “Auntie!” severed the air. There was no + reply, and the front door was locked. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?” asked Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain + inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The + appearance of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember their + being there on her other visit; her impression was that Mr. Bryce had + taken everything away. They tried the back. Here again they received no + answer, and could see nothing; the kitchen-window was fitted with a blind, + while the pantry and scullery had pieces of wood propped up against them, + which looked ominously like the lids of packing-cases. Margaret thought of + her books, and she lifted up her voice also. At the first cry she + succeeded. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well!” replied some one inside the house. “If it isn’t Mrs. Wilcox + come at last!” + </p> + <p> + “Have you got the key, auntie?” + </p> + <p> + “Madge, go away,” said Miss Avery, still invisible. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie, it’s Mrs. Wilcox—” + </p> + <p> + Margaret supported her. “Your niece and I have come together.” + </p> + <p> + “Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat.” + </p> + <p> + The poor woman went red. “Auntie gets more eccentric lately,” she said + nervously. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Avery!” called Margaret. “I have come about the furniture. Could you + kindly let me in?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mrs. Wilcox,” said the voice, “of course.” But after that came + silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house + disconsolately. + </p> + <p> + “I hope Miss Avery is not ill,” hazarded Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Well, if you’ll excuse me,” said Madge, “perhaps I ought to be leaving + you now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at + times.” Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her + departure had loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. + </p> + <p> + Miss Avery said, “Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!” quite pleasantly and + calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you so much,” began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an + umbrella-stand. It was her own. + </p> + <p> + “Come right into the hall first,” said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, + and Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had + happened. The hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from + Wickham Place. The carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near + the window; the bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her + father’s sword—this is what bewildered her particularly—had + been drawn from its scabbard and hung naked amongst the sober volumes. + Miss Avery must have worked for days. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid this isn’t what we meant,” she began. “Mr. Wilcox and I never + intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my + brother’s. We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. + When you kindly undertook to look after things, we never expected you to + do so much.” + </p> + <p> + “The house has been empty long enough,” said the old woman. + </p> + <p> + Margaret refused to argue. “I dare say we didn’t explain,” she said + civilly. “It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house + is Mrs. Wilcox’s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer.” + </p> + <p> + To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mrs. Wilcox’s house, the mother of Mr. Charles.” + </p> + <p> + “Mistake upon mistake,” said Miss Avery. “Mistake upon mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t know,” said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own + chairs. “I really don’t know what’s to be done.” She could not help + laughing. + </p> + <p> + The other said: “Yes, it should be a merry house enough.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. + Yes, that’s all right. Delightful.” + </p> + <p> + “There is still the parlour.” She went through the door opposite and drew + a curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room furniture from Wickham Place. + “And the dining-room.” More curtains were drawn, more windows were flung + open to the spring. “Then through here—” Miss Avery continued + passing and reprising through the hall. Her voice was lost, but Margaret + heard her pulling up the kitchen blind. “I’ve not finished here yet,” she + announced, returning. “There’s still a deal to do. The farm lads will + carry your great wardrobes upstairs, for there is no need to go into + expense at Hilton.” + </p> + <p> + “It is all a mistake,” repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her + foot down. “A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at + Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?” + </p> + <p> + “We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of + this furniture—my part—will go down there presently.” She + looked at Miss Avery intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. + </p> + <p> + Here was no maundering old woman. Her wrinkles were shrewd and humorous. + She looked capable of scathing wit and also of high but unostentatious + nobility. “You think that you won’t come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, + but you will.” + </p> + <p> + “That remains to be seen,” said Margaret, smiling. “We have no intention + of doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. + Circumstances oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day—one + never knows, does one?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Avery retorted: “Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don’t talk about some day. You + are living here now.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I?” + </p> + <p> + “You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask + me.” + </p> + <p> + It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty Margaret + rose from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured. They + went into the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother’s + chiffonier, and upstairs, where many an old god peeped from a new niche. + The furniture fitted extraordinarily well. In the central room—over + the hall, the room that Helen had slept in four years ago—Miss Avery + had placed Tibby’s old bassinette. + </p> + <p> + “The nursery,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Margaret turned away without speaking. + </p> + <p> + At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with + furniture and straw, but, as far as she could make out, nothing had been + broken or scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then they took a + friendly stroll in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The + gravel sweep was weedy, and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the + garage. And Evie’s rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible + for Miss Avery’s oddness. But Margaret suspected that the cause lay + deeper, and that the girl’s silly letter had but loosed the irritation of + years. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a beautiful meadow,” she remarked. It was one of those open-air + drawing-rooms that have been formed, hundreds of years ago, out of the + smaller fields. So the boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right + angles, and at the bottom there was a little green annex—a sort of + powder-closet for the cows. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the maidy’s well enough,” said Miss Avery, “for those, that is, who + don’t suffer from sneezing.” And she cackled maliciously. “I’ve seen + Charlie Wilcox go out to my lads in hay time—oh, they ought to do + this—they mustn’t do that—he’d learn them to be lads. And just + then the tickling took him. He has it from his father, with other things. + There’s not one Wilcox that can stand up against a field in June—I + laughed fit to burst while he was courting Ruth.” + </p> + <p> + “My brother gets hay fever too,” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “This house lies too much on the land for them. Naturally, they were glad + enough to slip in at first. But Wilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see + you’ve found.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret laughed. + </p> + <p> + “They keep a place going, don’t they? Yes, it is just that.” + </p> + <p> + “They keep England going, it is my opinion.” + </p> + <p> + But Miss Avery upset her by replying: “Ay, they breed like rabbits. Well, + well, it’s a funny world. But He who made it knows what He wants in it, I + suppose. If Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn’t for us to + repine.” + </p> + <p> + “They breed and they also work,” said Margaret, conscious of some + invitation to disloyalty, which was echoed by the very breeze and by the + songs of the birds. “It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men + like my husband and his sons govern it, I think it’ll never be a bad one—never + really bad.” + </p> + <p> + “No, better’n nothing,” said Miss Avery, and turned to the wych-elm. + </p> + <p> + On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old friend much more + clearly than before. In the house Margaret had wondered whether she quite + distinguished the first wife from the second. Now she said: “I never saw + much of Ruth after her grandmother died, but we stayed civil. It was a + very civil family. Old Mrs. Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let + any one be turned away without food. Then it was never ‘Trespassers will + be prosecuted’ in their land, but would people please not come in? Mrs. + Howard was never created to run a farm.” + </p> + <p> + “Had they no men to help them?” Margaret asked. + </p> + <p> + Miss Avery replied: “Things went on until there were no men.” + </p> + <p> + “Until Mr. Wilcox came along,” corrected Margaret, anxious that her + husband should receive his dues. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a—no disrespect to you + to say this, for I take it you were intended to get Wilcox any way, + whether she got him first or no.” + </p> + <p> + “Whom should she have married?” + </p> + <p> + “A soldier!” exclaimed the old woman. “Some real soldier.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry’s character far more + trenchant than any of her own. She felt dissatisfied. + </p> + <p> + “But that’s all over,” she went on. “A better time is coming now, though + you’ve kept me long enough waiting. In a couple of weeks I’ll see your + light shining through the hedge of an evening. Have you ordered in coals?” + </p> + <p> + “We are not coming,” said Margaret firmly. She respected Miss Avery too + much to humour her. “No. Not coming. Never coming. It has all been a + mistake. The furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry, but + I am making other arrangements, and must ask you to give me the keys.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox,” said Miss Avery, and resigned her duties with a + smile. + </p> + <p> + Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her compliments to Madge, + Margaret walked back to the station. She had intended to go to the + furniture warehouse and give directions for removal, but the muddle had + turned out more extensive than she expected, so she decided to consult + Henry. It was as well that she did this. He was strongly against employing + the local man whom he had previously recommended, and advised her to store + in London after all. + </p> + <p> + But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fell upon her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV + </h2> + <p> + It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley’s health had been bad all + winter. She had had a long series of colds and coughs, and had been too + busy to get rid of them. She had scarcely promised her niece “to really + take my tiresome chest in hand,” when she caught a chill and developed + acute pneumonia. Margaret and Tibby went down to Swanage. Helen was + telegraphed for, and that spring party that after all gathered in that + hospitable house had all the pathos of fair memories. On a perfect day, + when the sky seemed blue porcelain, and the waves of the discreet little + bay beat gentlest of tattoos upon the sand, Margaret hurried up through + the rhododendrons, confronted again by the senselessness of Death. One + death may explain itself, but it throws no light upon another; the groping + inquiry must begin anew. Preachers or scientists may generalise, but we + know that no generality is possible about those whom we love; not one + heaven awaits them, not even one oblivion. Aunt Juley, incapable of + tragedy, slipped out of life with odd little laughs and apologies for + having stopped in it so long. She was very weak; she could not rise to the + occasion, or realise the great mystery which all agree must await her; it + only seemed to her that she was quite done up—more done up than ever + before; that she saw and heard and felt less every moment; and that, + unless something changed, she would soon feel nothing. Her spare strength + she devoted to plans: could not Margaret take some steamer expeditions? + were mackerel cooked as Tibby liked them? She worried herself about + Helen’s absence, and also that she should be the cause of Helen’s return. + The nurses seemed to think such interests quite natural, and perhaps hers + was an average approach to the Great Gate. But Margaret saw Death stripped + of any false romance; whatever the idea of Death may contain, the process + can be trivial and hideous. + </p> + <p> + “Important—Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes.” + </p> + <p> + “Helen won’t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can + only get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon as you + are well.” + </p> + <p> + “How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Can he spare you?” + </p> + <p> + Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said + so. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took + hold of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without + emotion, as fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret—important,” it went on: “I should like you to have some + companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder.” + </p> + <p> + “But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen.” + </p> + <p> + “I have Tibby, Aunt Juley.” + </p> + <p> + “No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need. + Really, Helen is odd.” + </p> + <p> + “Helen is odd, very,” agreed Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at + once?” + </p> + <p> + “No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us. She has not the least + balance.” + </p> + <p> + That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret’s voice trembled as + she made it. By now she was deeply pained at her sister’s behaviour. It + may be unbalanced to fly out of England, but to stay away eight months + argues that the heart is awry as well as the head. A sick-bed could recall + Helen, but she was deaf to more human calls; after a glimpse at her aunt, + she would retire into her nebulous life behind some poste restante. She + scarcely existed; her letters had become dull and infrequent; she had no + wants and no curiosity. And it was all put down to poor Henry’s account! + Henry, long pardoned by his wife, was still too infamous to be greeted by + his sister-in-law. It was morbid, and, to her alarm, Margaret fancied that + she could trace the growth of morbidity back in Helen’s life for nearly + four years. The flight from Oniton; the unbalanced patronage of the Basts; + the explosion of grief up on the Downs—all connected with Paul, an + insignificant boy whose lips had kissed hers for a fraction of time. + Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox had feared that they might kiss again. Foolishly—the + real danger was reaction. Reaction against the Wilcoxes had eaten into her + life until she was scarcely sane. At twenty-five she had an idee fixe. + What hope was there for her as an old woman? + </p> + <p> + The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed she became. For many + months she had put the subject away, but it was too big to be slighted + now. There was almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen’s actions to be + governed by a tiny mishap, such as may happen to any young man or woman? + Can human nature be constructed on lines so insignificant? The blundering + little encounter at Howards End was vital. It propagated itself where + graver intercourse lay barren; it was stronger than sisterly intimacy, + stronger than reason or books. In one of her moods Helen had confessed + that she still “enjoyed” it in a certain sense. Paul had faded, but the + magic of his caress endured. And where there is enjoyment of the past + there may also be reaction—propagation at both ends. + </p> + <p> + Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such seed-beds, and we + without power to choose the seed. But man is an odd, sad creature as yet, + intent on pilfering the earth, and heedless of the growths within himself. + He cannot be bored about psychology. He leaves it to the specialist, which + is as if he should leave his dinner to be eaten by a steam-engine. He + cannot be bothered to digest his own soul. Margaret and Helen have been + more patient, and it is suggested that Margaret has succeeded—so far + as success is yet possible. She does understand herself, she has some + rudimentary control over her own growth. Whether Helen has succeeded one + cannot say. + </p> + <p> + The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen’s letter arrived. She had posted it + at Munich, and would be in London herself on the morrow. It was a + disquieting letter, though the opening was affectionate and sane. + </p> + <p> + “DEAREST MEG, + </p> + <p> + “Give Helen’s love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that I love, and have loved her + ever since I can remember. I shall be in London Thursday. + </p> + <p> + “My address will be care of the bankers. I have not yet settled on a + hotel, so write or wire to me there and give me detailed news. If Aunt + Juley is much better, or if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good my + coming down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not come. I have + all sorts of plans in my head. I am living abroad at present, and want to + get back as quickly as possible. Will you please tell me where our + furniture is? I should like to take out one or two books; the rest are for + you. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rather a tiresome letter, + but all letters are from your loving + </p> + <p> + “HELEN.” + </p> + <p> + It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to tell a lie. If she + wrote that Aunt Juley was still in danger her sister would come. + Unhealthiness is contagious. We cannot be in contact with those who are in + a morbid state without ourselves deteriorating. To “act for the best” + might do Helen good, but would do herself harm, and, at the risk of + disaster, she kept her colours flying a little longer. She replied that + their aunt was much better, and awaited developments. + </p> + <p> + Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he was a pleasanter + companion than before. Oxford had done much for him. He had lost his + peevishness, and could hide his indifference to people and his interest in + food. But he had not grown more human. The years between eighteen and + twenty-two, so magical for most, were leading him gently from boyhood to + middle age. He had never known young-manliness, that quality which warms + the heart till death, and gives Mr. Wilcox an imperishable charm. He was + frigid, through no fault of his own, and without cruelty. He thought Helen + wrong and Margaret right, but the family trouble was for him what a scene + behind footlights is for most people. He had only one suggestion to make, + and that was characteristic. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you tell Mr. Wilcox?” + </p> + <p> + “About Helen?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “He would do all he could, but—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you know best. But he is practical.” + </p> + <p> + It was the student’s belief in experts. Margaret demurred for one or two + reasons. Presently Helen’s answer came. She sent a telegram requesting the + address of the furniture, as she would now return at once. Margaret + replied, “Certainly not; meet me at the bankers’ at four.” She and Tibby + went up to London. Helen was not at the bankers’, and they were refused + her address. Helen had passed into chaos. + </p> + <p> + Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all that she had left, and + never had he seemed more unsubstantial. + </p> + <p> + “Tibby love, what next?” + </p> + <p> + He replied: “It is extraordinary.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear, your judgment’s often clearer than mine. Have you any notion what’s + at the back?” + </p> + <p> + “None, unless it’s something mental.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—that!” said Margaret. “Quite impossible.” But the suggestion had + been uttered, and in a few minutes she took it up herself. Nothing else + explained. And London agreed with Tibby. The mask fell off the city, and + she saw it for what it really is—a caricature of infinity. The + familiar barriers, the streets along which she moved, the houses between + which she had made her little journeys for so many years, became + negligible suddenly. Helen seemed one with grimy trees and the traffic and + the slowly-flowing slabs of mud. She had accomplished a hideous act of + renunciation and returned to the One. Margaret’s own faith held firm. She + knew the human soul will be merged, if it be merged at all, with the stars + and the sea. Yet she felt that her sister had been going amiss for many + years. It was symbolic the catastrophe should come now, on a London + afternoon, while rain fell slowly. + </p> + <p> + Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He might know of some paths + in the chaos that were hidden from them, and she determined to take + Tibby’s advice and lay the whole matter in his hands. They must call at + his office. He could not well make it worse. She went for a few moments + into St. Paul’s, whose dome stands out of the welter so bravely, as if + preaching the gospel of form. But within, St. Paul’s is as its + surroundings—echoes and whispers, inaudible songs, invisible + mosaics, wet footmarks, crossing and recrossing the floor. Si monumentum + requiris, circumspice; it points us back to London. There was no hope of + Helen here. + </p> + <p> + Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had expected. He was overjoyed + to see her back from Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of a new + trouble. When they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and the + Schlegels generally, and declared that it was “just like Helen” to lead + her relatives a dance. + </p> + <p> + “That is what we all say,” replied Margaret. “But why should it be just + like Helen? Why should she be allowed to be so queer, and to grow + queerer?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ask me. I’m a plain man of business. I live and let live. My advice + to you both is, don’t worry. Margaret, you’ve got black marks again under + your eyes. You know that’s strictly forbidden. First your aunt—then + your sister. No, we aren’t going to have it. Are we, Theobald?” He rang + the bell. “I’ll give you some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie + Street. I can’t have my girl looking as old as her husband.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same, you have not quite seen our point,” said Tibby. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, “I don’t suppose I ever + shall.” He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while + the fire flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her + brother to go on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her. + </p> + <p> + “Margaret’s point is this,” he said. “Our sister may be mad.” + </p> + <p> + Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. + </p> + <p> + “Come in, Charles,” said Margaret kindly. “Could you help us at all? We + are again in trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you + know, in these days.” + </p> + <p> + “The facts are as follows,” replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic + lucidity. “The facts are that she has been in England for three days and + will not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She + refuses to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There + are other facts, but these are the most striking.” + </p> + <p> + “She has never behaved like this before, then?” asked Henry. + </p> + <p> + “Of course not!” said his wife, with a frown. + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, how am I to know?” + </p> + <p> + A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. “You know quite well that + Helen never sins against affection,” she said. “You must have noticed that + much in her, surely.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Henry—can’t you see?—I don’t mean that.” + </p> + <p> + She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and + attentive, he was watching the scene. + </p> + <p> + “I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it + back to the heart in the long-run. She behaved oddly because she cared for + some one, or wanted to help them. There’s no possible excuse for her now. + She is grieving us deeply, and that is why I am sure that she is not well. + ‘Mad’ is too terrible a word, but she is not well. I shall never believe + it. I shouldn’t discuss my sister with you if I thought she was well—trouble + you about her, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + Henry began to grow serious. Ill-health was to him something perfectly + definite. Generally well himself, he could not realise that we sink to it + by slow gradations. The sick had no rights; they were outside the pale; + one could lie to them remorselessly. When his first wife was seized, he + had promised to take her down into Hertfordshire, but meanwhile arranged + with a nursing-home instead. Helen, too, was ill. And the plan that he + sketched out for her capture, clever and well-meaning as it was, drew its + ethics from the wolf-pack. + </p> + <p> + “You want to get hold of her?” he said. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? She + has got to see a doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “For all I know she has seen one already.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes; don’t interrupt.” He rose to his feet and thought intently. The + genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had + carved money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives + for a few bottles of gin. “I’ve got it,” he said at last. “It’s perfectly + easy. Leave it to me. We’ll send her down to Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + “How will you do that?” + </p> + <p> + “After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can + meet her there.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Henry, that’s just what she won’t let me do. It’s part of her—whatever + it is—never to see me.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you won’t tell her you’re going. When she is there, looking at + the cases, you’ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much + the better. But there’ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her + to a specialist in no time.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret shook her head. “It’s quite impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t seem impossible to me,” said Tibby; “it is surely a very tippy + plan.” + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible, because—” She looked at her husband sadly. “It’s + not the particular language that Helen and I talk, if you see my meaning. + It would do splendidly for other people, whom I don’t blame.” + </p> + <p> + “But Helen doesn’t talk,” said Tibby. “That’s our whole difficulty. She + won’t talk your particular language, and on that account you think she’s + ill.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Henry; it’s sweet of you, but I couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” he said; “you have scruples.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + “And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You + could have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And + scruples are all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; + but when it is a case like this, when there is a question of madness—” + </p> + <p> + “I deny it’s madness.” + </p> + <p> + “You said just now—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s madness when I say it, but not when you say it.” + </p> + <p> + Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Margaret! Margaret!” he groaned. “No + education can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do + you want me to help you or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do—” + </p> + <p> + Charles surprised them by interrupting. “Pater, we may as well keep + Howards End out of it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Charles?” + </p> + <p> + Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous + distance, a salutation had passed between them. + </p> + <p> + “The whole house is at sixes and sevens,” he said crossly. “We don’t want + any more mess.” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s ‘we’?” asked his father. “My boy, pray who’s ‘we’?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Charles. “I appear always to be + intruding.” + </p> + <p> + By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. + Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a + satisfactory conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying + hair and eager eyes counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, + and any of her friends might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in + the chase. She wrote her sister a lying letter, at her husband’s + dictation; she said the furniture was all at Howards End, but could be + seen on Monday next at 3 P.M., when a charwoman would be in attendance. It + was a cold letter, and the more plausible for that. Helen would think she + was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry were to lunch with Dolly, + and then ambush themselves in the garden. + </p> + <p> + After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: “I can’t have this sort + of behaviour, my boy. Margaret’s too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for + her.” + </p> + <p> + Charles made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?” + </p> + <p> + “No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ask me.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV + </h2> + <p> + One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children + have only one mood; they are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, + and the whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green embroidery + of the hedges increase, but the same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, + and blue, the same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and + meadow. The morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, and the + afternoon she set out to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single + balance. Time might never have moved, rain never have fallen, and man + alone, with his schemes and ailments, was troubling Nature until he saw + her through a veil of tears. + </p> + <p> + She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or wrong, he was most kind, + and she knew of no other standard by which to judge him. She must trust + him absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, his obtuseness + vanished. He profited by the slightest indications, and the capture of + Helen promised to be staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie. + </p> + <p> + They went down in the morning as arranged, and he discovered that their + victim was actually in Hilton. On his arrival he called at all the + livery-stables in the village, and had a few minutes’ serious conversation + with the proprietors. What he said, Margaret did not know—perhaps + not the truth; but news arrived after lunch that a lady had come by the + London train, and had taken a fly to Howards End. + </p> + <p> + “She was bound to drive,” said Henry. “There will be her books.” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot make it out,” said Margaret for the hundredth time. + </p> + <p> + “Finish your coffee, dear. We must be off.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Margaret, you know you must take plenty,” said Dolly. + </p> + <p> + Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her eyes. Dolly stole + glances at her father-in-law which he did not answer. In the silence the + motor came round to the door. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not fit for it,” he said anxiously. “Let me go alone. I know + exactly what to do.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I am fit,” said Margaret, uncovering her face. “Only most + frightfully worried. I cannot feel that Helen is really alive. Her letters + and telegrams seem to have come from some one else. Her voice isn’t in + them. I don’t believe your driver really saw her at the station. I wish + I’d never mentioned it. I know that Charles is vexed. Yes, he is—” + She seized Dolly’s hand and kissed it. “There, Dolly will forgive me. + There. Now we’ll be off.” + </p> + <p> + Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not like this breakdown. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you want to tidy yourself?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Have I time?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, plenty.” + </p> + <p> + She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as soon as the bolt + slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Dolly, I’m going without her.” + </p> + <p> + Dolly’s eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She followed him on tiptoe out + to the car. + </p> + <p> + “Tell her I thought it best.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see.” + </p> + <p> + “Say anything you like. All right.” + </p> + <p> + The car started well, and with ordinary luck would have got away. But + Porgly-woggles, who was playing in the garden, chose this moment to sit + down in the middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one + wheel over a bed of wallflowers. Dolly screamed. Margaret, hearing the + noise, rushed out hatless, and was in time to jump on the footboard. She + said not a single word; he was only treating her as she had treated Helen, + and her rage at his dishonesty only helped to indicate what Helen would + feel against them. She thought, “I deserve it; I am punished for lowering + my colours.” And she accepted his apologies with a calmness that + astonished him. + </p> + <p> + “I still consider you are not fit for it,” he kept saying. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is spread clearly before + me now.” + </p> + <p> + “I was meaning to act for the best.” + </p> + <p> + “Just lend me your scarf, will you. This wind takes one’s hair so.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?” + </p> + <p> + “Look! My hands have stopped trembling.” + </p> + <p> + “And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her cab should already have + arrived at Howards End. (We’re a little late, but no matter.) Our first + move will be to send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one + doesn’t want a scene before servants. A certain gentleman”—he + pointed at Crane’s back—“won’t drive in, but will wait a little + short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have you still the keys of + the house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, they aren’t wanted. Do you remember how the house stands?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “If we don’t find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. + Our object—” + </p> + <p> + Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main object is not to + frighten Miss Schlegel. The house, as you know, is my property, so it + should seem quite natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently + nervous—wouldn’t you say so, Margaret?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions about Helen. Was she + normal? Was there anything congenital or hereditary? Had anything occurred + that was likely to alienate her from her family? + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” answered Margaret, wondering what would have happened if she + had added: “Though she did resent my husband’s immorality.” + </p> + <p> + “She always was highly strung,” pursued Henry, leaning back in the car as + it shot past the church. “A tendency to spiritualism and those things, + though nothing serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say + normal—a very charming girl.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret’s anger and terror increased every moment. How dare these men + label her sister! What horrors lay ahead! What impertinences that shelter + under the name of science! The pack was turning on Helen, to deny her + human rights, and it seemed to Margaret that all Schlegels were threatened + with her. “Were they normal?” What a question to ask! And it is always + those who know nothing about human nature, who are bored by psychology—and + shocked by physiology, who ask it. However piteous her sister’s state, she + knew that she must be on her side. They would be mad together if the world + chose to consider them so. + </p> + <p> + It was now five minutes past three. The car slowed down by the farm, in + the yard of which Miss Avery was standing. Henry asked her whether a cab + had gone past. She nodded, and the next moment they caught sight of it, at + the end of the lane. The car ran silently like a beast of prey. So + unsuspicious was Helen that she was sitting in the porch, with her back to + the road. She had come. Only her head and shoulders were visible. She sat + framed in the vine, and one of her hands played with the buds. The wind + ruffled her hair, the sun glorified it; she was as she had always been. + </p> + <p> + Margaret was seated next to the door. Before her husband could prevent + her, she slipped out. She ran to the garden gate, which was shut, passed + through it, and deliberately pushed it in his face. The noise alarmed + Helen. Margaret saw her rise with an unfamiliar movement, and, rushing + into the porch, learnt the simple explanation of all their fears—her + sister was with child. + </p> + <p> + “Is the truant all right?” called Henry. + </p> + <p> + She had time to whisper: “Oh, my darling—” The keys of the house + were in her hand. She unlocked Howards End and thrust Helen into it. “Yes, + all right,” she said, and stood with her back to the door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI + </h2> + <p> + “Margaret, you look upset!” said Henry. + </p> + <p> + Mansbridge had followed. Crane was at the gate, and the flyman had stood + up on the box. Margaret shook her head at them; she could not speak any + more. She remained clutching the keys, as if all their future depended on + them. Henry was asking more questions. She shook her head again. His words + had no sense. She heard him wonder why she had let Helen in. “You might + have given me a knock with the gate,” was another of his remarks. + Presently she heard herself speaking. She, or someone for her, said, “Go + away.” Henry came nearer. He repeated, “Margaret, you look upset again. My + dear, give me the keys. What are you doing with Helen?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all.” + </p> + <p> + “Manage what?” + </p> + <p> + He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might have obeyed if it had + not been for the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Stop that at least,” she said piteously; the doctor had turned back, and + was questioning the driver of Helen’s cab. A new feeling came over her; + she was fighting for women against men. She did not care about rights, but + if men came into Howards End, it should be over her body. + </p> + <p> + “Come, this is an odd beginning,” said her husband. + </p> + <p> + The doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox—the + scandal was out. Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot help it,” said Margaret. “Do wait. It’s not my fault. Please all + four of you go away now.” + </p> + <p> + Now the flyman was whispering to Crane. + </p> + <p> + “We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox,” said the young doctor. + “Could you go in and persuade your sister to come out?” + </p> + <p> + “On what grounds?” said Margaret, suddenly looking him straight in the + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured something about a + nervous breakdown. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. You are not qualified + to attend my sister, Mr. Mansbridge. If we require your services, we will + let you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish,” he retorted. + </p> + <p> + “You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, not qualified to attend + my sister.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, come, Margaret!” said Henry, never raising his eyes. “This is a + terrible business, an appalling business. It’s doctor’s orders. Open the + door.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, but I will not.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was silent. + </p> + <p> + “This business is as broad as it’s long,” contributed the doctor. “We had + better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so,” said Henry. + </p> + <p> + “I do not need you in the least,” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + The two men looked at each other anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement.” + </p> + <p> + “Margaret, Margaret!” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a vague feeling that he must + stand firm and support the doctor. He himself might need support, for + there was trouble ahead. + </p> + <p> + “It all turns on affection now,” said Margaret. “Affection. Don’t you + see?” Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with her + finger. “Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much. Mr. + Mansbridge doesn’t know her. That’s all. And affection, when reciprocated, + gives rights. Put that down in your note-book, Mr. Mansbridge. It’s a + useful formula.” + </p> + <p> + Henry told her to be calm. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know what you want yourselves,” said Margaret, folding her + arms. “For one sensible remark I will let you in. But you cannot make it. + You would trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. I’ll + stand here all the day sooner.” + </p> + <p> + “Mansbridge,” said Henry in a low voice, “perhaps not now.” + </p> + <p> + The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went back + into the car. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Henry, you,” she said gently. None of her bitterness had been + directed at him. “Go away now, dear. I shall want your advice later, no + doubt. Forgive me if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go.” + </p> + <p> + He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in a + low voice to him. + </p> + <p> + “I shall soon find you down at Dolly’s,” she called, as the gate at last + clanged between them. The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed, + turned a little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of + farm carts came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for there + was no hurry. When all was over and the car had started, she opened the + door. “Oh, my darling!” she said. “My darling, forgive me.” Helen was + standing in the hall. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII + </h2> + <p> + Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her + sister, but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, + said: + </p> + <p> + “Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have + found nearly everything that I want.” + </p> + <p> + “I told you nothing that was true.” + </p> + <p> + “It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Helen, you wouldn’t think I’d invent that?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose not,” said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. “But + one loses faith in everything after this.” + </p> + <p> + “We thought it was illness, but even then—I haven’t behaved + worthily.” + </p> + <p> + Helen selected another book. + </p> + <p> + “I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have thought + of me?” + </p> + <p> + She did not think of questioning her sister, or of rebuking her. Both + might be necessary in the future, but she had first to purge a greater + crime than any that Helen could have committed—that want of + confidence that is the work of the devil. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am annoyed,” replied Helen. “My wishes should have been respected. + I would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt + Juley recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to + do.” + </p> + <p> + “Come away from those books,” called Margaret. “Helen, do talk to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can’t go + through a great deal of —”—she left out the noun—“without + planning one’s actions in advance. I am going to have a child in June, and + in the first place conversations, discussions, excitement, are not good + for me. I will go through them if necessary, but only then. In the second + place I have no right to trouble people. I cannot fit in with England as I + know it. I have done something that the English never pardon. It would not + be right for them to pardon it. So I must live where I am not known.” + </p> + <p> + “But why didn’t you tell me, dearest?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” replied Helen judicially. “I might have, but decided to wait.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you would never have told me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret glanced out of the window. + </p> + <p> + “By ‘we’ I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and + always wish to be alone.” + </p> + <p> + “I have not heard of Monica.” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t have. She’s an Italian—by birth at least. She makes + her living by journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much + the best person to see me through.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very fond of her, then.” + </p> + <p> + “She has been extraordinarily sensible with me.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret guessed at Monica’s type—“Italiano Inglesiato” they had + named it—the crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but + avoids. And Helen had turned to it in her need! + </p> + <p> + “You must not think that we shall never meet,” said Helen, with a measured + kindness. “I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and + the longer you can be with me the better. But you haven’t understood yet, + Meg, and of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. + It isn’t to me, who have been thinking over our futures for many months, + and they won’t be changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot + live in England.” + </p> + <p> + “Helen, you’ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN’T talk like + this to me if you had.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?” She dropped a book and sighed + wearily. Then, recovering herself, she said: “Tell me, how is it that all + the books are down here?” + </p> + <p> + “Series of mistakes.” + </p> + <p> + “And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked.” + </p> + <p> + “All.” + </p> + <p> + “Who lives here, then?” + </p> + <p> + “No one.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose you are letting it, though.” + </p> + <p> + “The house is dead,” said Margaret, with a frown. “Why worry on about it?” + </p> + <p> + “But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I + am still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn’t the feel of a dead house. The hall + seems more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes’ own + things.” + </p> + <p> + “Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband + lent it on condition we—but by a mistake all our things were + unpacked, and Miss Avery, instead of—” She stopped. “Look here, I + can’t go on like this. I warn you I won’t. Helen, why should you be so + miserably unkind to me, simply because you hate Henry?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t hate him now,” said Helen. “I have stopped being a schoolgirl, + and, Meg, once again, I’m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with + your English life—no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a + visit from me at Ducie Street! It’s unthinkable.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly + moving forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither asserting + innocence nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company of + those who would not blame her. She had been through—how much? + Margaret did not know. But it was enough to part her from old habits as + well as old friends. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me about yourself,” said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was + lingering over the furniture. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing to tell.” + </p> + <p> + “But your marriage has been happy, Meg?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I don’t feel inclined to talk.” + </p> + <p> + “You feel as I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Not that, but I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying.” + </p> + <p> + Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which + henceforward would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already + potent as a spirit. They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered + acutely, and were not comforted by the knowledge that affection survived. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that you want to go away from me?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so—dear old lady! it isn’t any use. I knew we should have + nothing to say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more + yourself than I can say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, dearest.” + </p> + <p> + “For that is all we can do.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen’s common sense; Monica had + been extraordinarily good for her. + </p> + <p> + “I am glad to have seen you and the things.” She looked at the bookcase + lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past. + </p> + <p> + Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: “The car has gone, and here’s + your cab.” + </p> + <p> + She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring had + never seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the gate, + called out, “Please, lady, a message,” and handed her Henry’s + visiting-card through the bars. + </p> + <p> + “How did this come?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Crane had returned with it almost at once. + </p> + <p> + She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in + domestic French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back + for the night to Dolly’s. “Il faut dormir sur ce sujet.” while Helen was + to be found une comfortable chambre a l’hotel. The final sentence + displeased her greatly until she remembered that the Charles’s had only + one spare room, and so could not invite a third guest. + </p> + <p> + “Henry would have done what he could,” she interpreted. + </p> + <p> + Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost + her inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to + table. She grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming. + </p> + <p> + “This IS Mr. Wilcox’s house?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Surely you remember Howards End?” + </p> + <p> + “Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Avery was extraordinary,” said Margaret, her own spirits lightening + a little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it + brought her relief, and she yielded to it. “She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and + would rather furnish her home with our things than think of it empty. In + consequence here are all the library books.” + </p> + <p> + “Not all the books. She hasn’t unpacked the Art books, in which she may + show her sense. And we never used to have the sword here.” + </p> + <p> + “The sword looks well, though.” + </p> + <p> + “Magnificent.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, doesn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the piano, Meg?” + </p> + <p> + “I warehoused that in London. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Curious, too, that the carpet fits.” + </p> + <p> + “The carpet’s a mistake,” announced Helen. “I know that we had it in + London, but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into + the dining-room before you start? There’s no carpet there.” + </p> + <p> + They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, WHAT a place for mother’s chiffonier!” cried Helen. + </p> + <p> + “Look at the chairs, though.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “North-west.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. + Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm.” + </p> + <p> + “But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just—” + </p> + <p> + “Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. + </p> + <p> + “Ye—es. The window’s too high.” + </p> + <p> + “Try a drawing-room chair.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been + match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise.” + </p> + <p> + “Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You’re perfectly right. + It’s a room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. + Men don’t know what we want—” + </p> + <p> + “And never will.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree. In two thousand years they’ll know. Look where Tibby spilt + the soup.” + </p> + <p> + “Coffee. It was coffee surely.” + </p> + <p> + Helen shook her head. “Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given + coffee at that time.” + </p> + <p> + “Was father alive?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much + later—that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley’s, when she didn’t realise + that Tibby had grown up. It was coffee then, for he threw it down on purpose. There was + some rhyme, ‘Tea, coffee—coffee tea,’ that she said to him every + morning at breakfast. Wait a minute—how did it go?” + </p> + <p> + “I know—no, I don’t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!” + </p> + <p> + “But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, that greengage-tree,” cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of + their childhood. “Why do I connect it with dumb-bells? And there come the + chickens. The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret interrupted her. “I have got it,” she announced. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Tea, tea, coffee, tea, + Or chocolaritee.’ +</pre> + <p> + “That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild.” + </p> + <p> + “Tibby is moderately a dear now,” said Helen. + </p> + <p> + “There! I knew you’d say that in the end. Of course he’s a dear.” + </p> + <p> + A bell rang. + </p> + <p> + “Listen! what’s that?” + </p> + <p> + Helen said, “Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege.” + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense—listen!” + </p> + <p> + And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind—the + knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in + common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a + common meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the + time their salvation was lying round them—the past sanctifying the + present; the present, with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would + after all be a future with laughter and the voices of children. Helen, + still smiling, came up to her sister. She said, “It is always Meg.” They + looked into each other’s eyes. The inner life had paid. + </p> + <p> + Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the + kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor + was only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. + </p> + <p> + “Little boy, what do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “Please, I am the milk.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Miss Avery send you?” said Margaret, rather sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, please.” + </p> + <p> + “Then take it back and say we require no milk.” While she called to Helen, + “No, it’s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against + one.” + </p> + <p> + “But I like milk,” cried Helen. “Why send it away?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you? Oh, very well. But we’ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the + can.” + </p> + <p> + “Please, I’m to call in the morning for the can,” said the boy. + </p> + <p> + “The house will be locked up then.” + </p> + <p> + “In the morning would I bring eggs too?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?” + </p> + <p> + The child hung his head. + </p> + <p> + “Well, run away and do it again.” + </p> + <p> + “Nice little boy,” whispered Helen. “I say, what’s your name? Mine’s + Helen.” + </p> + <p> + “Tom.” + </p> + <p> + That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, + but they never told their names in return. + </p> + <p> + “Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we’ve another called Tibby.” + </p> + <p> + “Mine are lop-eareds,” replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.—Isn’t + he charming?” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly,” said Margaret. “He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge + is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I probably agree with you.” + </p> + <p> + “It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live.” + </p> + <p> + “I do agree,” said Helen, as she sipped the milk. “But you said that the + house was dead not half an hour ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Meaning that I was dead. I felt it.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it + is, I can’t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on + our furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I’ve a startling + idea.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Drink some milk to steady you.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret obeyed. + </p> + <p> + “No, I won’t tell you yet,” said Helen, “because you may laugh or be + angry. Let’s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing.” + </p> + <p> + They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the + spring. Curtains blew, picture frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered + cries of excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, + that in its wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved + the wardrobes up. “Then one would see really.” She admired the view. She + was the Helen who had written the memorable letters four years ago. As + they leant out, looking westward, she said: “About my idea. Couldn’t you + and I camp out in this house for the night?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think we could well do that,” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Here are beds, tables, towels—” + </p> + <p> + “I know; but the house isn’t supposed to be slept in, and Henry’s + suggestion was—” + </p> + <p> + “I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it + would give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be + something to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let’s!” + </p> + <p> + “But, Helen, my pet,” said Margaret, “we can’t without getting Henry’s + leave. Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you + couldn’t visit at Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate.” + </p> + <p> + “Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of + people coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom + shall feed us on eggs and milk. Why not? It’s a moon.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret hesitated. “I feel Charles wouldn’t like it,” she said at last. + “Even our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt + Juley’s illness prevented me. I sympathise with Charles. He feels it’s his + mother’s house. He loves it in rather an untaking way. Henry I could + answer for—not Charles.” + </p> + <p> + “I know he won’t like it,” said Helen. “But I am going to pass out of + their lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, + ‘And she even spent the night at Howards End’?” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know you’ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that + twice before.” + </p> + <p> + “Because my plans—” + </p> + <p> + “—which you change in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Then because my life is great and theirs are little,” said Helen, taking + fire. “I know of things they can’t know of, and so do you. We know that + there’s poetry. We know that there’s death. They can only take them on + hearsay. We know this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may + take the title-deeds and the door-keys, but for this one night we are at + home.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be lovely to have you once more alone,” said Margaret. “It may + be a chance in a thousand.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and we could talk.” She dropped her voice. “It won’t be a very + glorious story. But under that wych-elm—honestly, I see little + happiness ahead. Cannot I have this one night with you?” + </p> + <p> + “I needn’t say how much it would mean to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then let us.” + </p> + <p> + “It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get + leave?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we don’t want leave.” + </p> + <p> + But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry—perhaps + on account of them—she could sympathise with the technical attitude + that Henry would adopt. If possible, she would be technical, too. A + night’s lodging—and they demanded no more—need not involve the + discussion of general principles. + </p> + <p> + “Charles may say no,” grumbled Helen. + </p> + <p> + “We shan’t consult him.” + </p> + <p> + “Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave.” + </p> + <p> + It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen’s + character, and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without + leave and escaped to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is + like you to have thought of such a beautiful thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Not a thing, only an ending,” said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of + tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. + </p> + <p> + She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, + however superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove + past the farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII + </h2> + <p> + The tragedy began quietly enough, and, like many another talk, by the + man’s deft assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the + driver, stepped out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, + and then led the way to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been + “told,” ran out with offers of tea. He refused them, and ordered them to + wheel baby’s perambulator away, as they desired to be alone. + </p> + <p> + “But the diddums can’t listen; he isn’t nine months old,” she pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “That’s not what I was saying,” retorted her father-in-law. + </p> + <p> + Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till + later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “Is it what we feared?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It is.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear girl,” he began, “there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and + nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us + through.” Margaret bent her head. “I am obliged to question you on + subjects we’d both prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of + your Bernard Shaws who consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will + pain me, but there are occasions—We are husband and wife, not + children. I am a man of the world, and you are a most exceptional woman.” + </p> + <p> + All Margaret’s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the + Six Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still + more kind. + </p> + <p> + “I see that you feel as I felt when—My poor little wife! Oh, be + brave! Just one or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your + sister wearing a wedding-ring?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret stammered a “No.” + </p> + <p> + There was an appalling silence. + </p> + <p> + “Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + “One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her + seducer.” + </p> + <p> + She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had + ebbed, and she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive + his question thus. + </p> + <p> + “Take your time,” he counselled her. “Remember that this is far worse for + me than for you.” + </p> + <p> + She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she + said slowly: “Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer’s name.” + </p> + <p> + “Would she not tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “I never even asked her who seduced her,” said Margaret, dwelling on the + hateful word thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “That is singular.” Then he changed his mind. “Natural perhaps, dear girl, + that you shouldn’t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. + Sit down. How terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you weren’t fit + for it. I wish I hadn’t taken you.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret answered, “I like to stand, if you don’t mind, for it gives me a + pleasant view of the Six Hills.” + </p> + <p> + “As you like.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?” + </p> + <p> + “Next you must tell me whether you have gathered anything. I have often + noticed your insight, dear. I only wish my own was as good. You may have + guessed something, even though your sister said nothing. The slightest + hint would help us.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is ‘we’?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought it best to ring up Charles.” + </p> + <p> + “That was unnecessary,” said Margaret, growing warmer. “This news will + give Charles disproportionate pain.” + </p> + <p> + “He has at once gone to call on your brother.” + </p> + <p> + “That too was unnecessary.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You don’t think that I and + my son are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen’s interests that we are + acting. It is still not too late to save her name.” + </p> + <p> + Then Margaret hit out for the first time. “Are we to make her seducer + marry her?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “If possible, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already? One has heard of + such cases.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be thrashed + within an inch of his life.” + </p> + <p> + So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What had tempted her to + imperil both of their lives. Henry’s obtuseness had saved her as well as + himself. Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he + told her as much as he thought fit. At last she said: “May I ask you my + question now?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow Helen goes to Munich—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, possibly she is right.” + </p> + <p> + “Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, with your + permission, she would like to sleep at Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have recalled the words as + soon as they were uttered. She had not led up to them with sufficient + care. She longed to warn him that they were far more important than he + supposed. She saw him weighing them, as if they were a business + proposition. + </p> + <p> + “Why Howards End?” he said at last. “Would she not be more comfortable, as + I suggested, at the hotel?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret hastened to give him reasons. “It is an odd request, but you know + what Helen is and what women in her state are.” He frowned, and moved + irritably. “She has the idea that one night in your house would give her + pleasure and do her good. I think she’s right. Being one of those + imaginative girls, the presence of all our books and furniture soothes + her. This is a fact. It is the end of her girlhood. Her last words to me + were, ‘A beautiful ending.’” + </p> + <p> + “She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods + wherever she goes—possibly more than her share, for you are so fond + of her that you’d give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn’t + you? and I’d raise no objection. I could understand it if it was her old + home, because a home, or a house,” he changed the word, designedly; he had + thought of a telling point—“because a house in which one has once + lived becomes in a sort of way sacred, I don’t know why. Associations and + so on. Now Helen has no associations with Howards End, though I and + Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she wants to stay the night there. + She will only catch cold.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave it that you don’t see,” cried Margaret. “Call it fancy. But realise + that fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to.” + </p> + <p> + Then he surprised her—a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. + “If she wants to sleep one night she may want to sleep two. We shall never + get her out of the house, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. “And suppose we don’t + get her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm.” + </p> + <p> + Again the irritated gesture. + </p> + <p> + “No, Henry,” she panted, receding. “I didn’t mean that. We will only + trouble Howards End for this one night. I take her to London to-morrow—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?” + </p> + <p> + “She cannot be left alone.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles.” + </p> + <p> + “I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and + I have no desire to meet him.” + </p> + <p> + “Margaret—my Margaret.” + </p> + <p> + “What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it + concerns you less, and Charles not at all.” + </p> + <p> + “As the future owner of Howards End,” said Mr. Wilcox arching his fingers, + “I should say that it did concern Charles.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way? Will Helen’s condition depreciate the property?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear, you are forgetting yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you yourself recommended plain speaking.” + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet + now. + </p> + <p> + “Helen commands my sympathy,” said Henry. “As your husband, I shall do all + for her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned + against than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I + should be false to my position in society if I did.” + </p> + <p> + She controlled herself for the last time. “No, let us go back to Helen’s + request,” she said. “It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy + girl. Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. + To-night she asks to sleep in your empty house—a house which you do + not care about, and which you have not occupied for over a year. May she? + Will you give my sister leave? Will you forgive her as you hope to be + forgiven, and as you have actually been forgiven? Forgive her for one + night only. That will be enough.” + </p> + <p> + “As I have actually been forgiven—?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,” said Margaret. “Answer my + question.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it + out. Straight from his fortress he answered: “I seem rather + unaccommodating, but I have some experience of life, and know how one + thing leads to another. I am afraid that your sister had better sleep at + the hotel. I have my children and the memory of my dear wife to consider. + I am sorry, but see that she leaves my house at once.” + </p> + <p> + “You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon?” + </p> + <p> + “A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?” + </p> + <p> + “You have not been yourself all day,” said Henry, and rose from his seat + with face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She + was transfigured. + </p> + <p> + “Not any more of this!” she cried. “You shall see the connection if it + kills you, Henry! You have had a mistress—I forgave you. My sister + has a lover—you drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? + Stupid, hypocritical, cruel—oh, contemptible!—a man who + insults his wife when she’s alive and cants with her memory when she’s + dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and casts her off to ruin + other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says he is not + responsible. These men are you. You can’t recognise them, because you + cannot connect. I’ve had enough of your unneeded kindness. I’ve spoilt you + long enough. All your life you have been spoiled. Mrs. Wilcox spoiled you. + No one has ever told what you are—muddled, criminally muddled. Men + like you use repentance as a blind, so don’t repent. Only say to yourself, + ‘What Helen has done, I’ve done.’” + </p> + <p> + “The two cases are different,” Henry stammered. His real retort was not + quite ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little + longer. + </p> + <p> + “In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. + You remain in society, Helen can’t. You have had only pleasure, she may + die. You have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?” + </p> + <p> + Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry’s retort came. + </p> + <p> + “I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon + for a wife to use against her husband. My rule through life has been never + to pay the least attention to threats, and I can only repeat what I said + before: I do not give you and your sister leave to sleep at Howards End.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, wiping first one and + then the other on his handkerchief. For a little she stood looking at the + Six Hills, tombs of warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out + into what was now the evening. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX + </h2> + <p> + Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the latter was staying. Their + interview was short and absurd. They had nothing in common but the English + language, and tried by its help to express what neither of them + understood. Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had singled her out as + the most dangerous of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward + to telling his wife how right he had been. His mind was made up at once; + the girl must be got out of the way before she disgraced them farther. If + occasion offered she might be married to a villain, or, possibly, to a + fool. But this was a concession to morality, it formed no part of his main + scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles’s dislike, and the past spread + itself out very clearly before him; hatred is a skilful compositor. As if + they were heads in a note-book, he ran through all the incidents of the + Schlegels’ campaign: the attempt to compromise his brother, his mother’s + legacy, his father’s marriage, the introduction of the furniture, the + unpacking of the same. He had not yet heard of the request to sleep at + Howards End; that was to be their master-stroke and the opportunity for + his. But he already felt that Howards End was the objective, and, though + he disliked the house, was determined to defend it. + </p> + <p> + Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stood above the conventions: + his sister had a right to do what she thought right. It is not difficult + to stand above the conventions when we leave no hostages among them; men + can always be more unconventional than women, and a bachelor of + independent means need encounter no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, + Tibby had money enough; his ancestors had earned it for him, and if he + shocked the people in one set of lodgings he had only to move into + another. His was the leisure without sympathy—an attitude as fatal + as the strenuous; a little cold culture may be raised on it, but no art. + His sisters had seen the family danger, and had never forgotten to + discount the gold islets that raised them from the sea. Tibby gave all the + praise to himself, and so despised the struggling and the submerged. + </p> + <p> + Hence the absurdity of the interview; the gulf between them was economic + as well as spiritual. But several facts passed; Charles pressed for them + with an impertinence that the undergraduate could not withstand. On what + date had Helen gone abroad? To whom? (Charles was anxious to fasten the + scandal on Germany.) Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly: “I + suppose you realise that you are your sister’s protector?” + </p> + <p> + “In what sense?” + </p> + <p> + “If a man played about with my sister, I’d send a bullet through him, but + perhaps you don’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + “I mind very much,” protested Tibby. + </p> + <p> + “Who d’ye suspect, then? Speak out man. One always suspects some one.” + </p> + <p> + “No one. I don’t think so.” Involuntarily he blushed. He had remembered + the scene in his Oxford rooms. + </p> + <p> + “You are hiding something,” said Charles. As interviews go, he got the + best of this one. “When you saw her last, did she mention any one’s name? + Yes or no!” he thundered, so that Tibby started. + </p> + <p> + “In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called the Basts.” + </p> + <p> + “Who are the Basts?” + </p> + <p> + “People—friends of hers at Evie’s wedding.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t remember. But, by great Scott, I do! My aunt told me about some + rag-tag. Was she full of them when you saw her? Is there a man? Did she + speak of the man? Or—look here—have you had any dealings with + him?” + </p> + <p> + Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had betrayed his sister’s + confidence; he was not enough interested in human life to see where things + will lead to. He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once + given, had always been kept up to now. He was deeply vexed, not only for + the harm he had done Helen, but for the flaw he had discovered in his own + equipment. + </p> + <p> + “I see—you are in his confidence. They met at your rooms. Oh, what a + family, what a family! God help the poor pater—” + </p> + <p> + And Tibby found himself alone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL + </h2> + <p> + Leonard—he would figure at length in a newspaper report, but that + evening he did not count for much. The foot of the tree was in shadow, + since the moon was still hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to + left, down the long meadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard seemed not + a man, but a cause. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it was Helen’s way of falling in love—a curious way to + Margaret, whose agony and whose contempt of Henry were yet imprinted with + his image. Helen forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed her + emotion. She could pity, or sacrifice herself, or have instincts, but had + she ever loved in the noblest way, where man and woman, having lost + themselves in sex, desire to lose sex itself in comradeship? + </p> + <p> + Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This was Helen’s evening. + Troubles enough lay ahead of her—the loss of friends and of social + advantages, the agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is not even + yet a matter of common knowledge. For the present let the moon shine + brightly and the breezes of the spring blow gently, dying away from the + gale of the day, and let the earth, that brings increase, bring peace. Not + even to herself dare she blame Helen. + </p> + <p> + She could not assess her trespass by any moral code; it was everything or + nothing. Morality can tell us that murder is worse than stealing, and + group most sins in an order all must approve, but it cannot group Helen. + The surer its pronouncements on this point, the surer may we be that + morality is not speaking. Christ was evasive when they questioned Him. It + is those that cannot connect who hasten to cast the first stone. + </p> + <p> + This was Helen’s evening—won at what cost, and not to be marred by + the sorrows of others. Of her own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word. + </p> + <p> + “One isolates,” said Helen slowly. “I isolated Mr. Wilcox from the other + forces that were pulling Leonard downhill. Consequently, I was full of + pity, and almost of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and + so, when your letters came—” + </p> + <p> + “I need never have written them,” sighed Margaret. “They never shielded + Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!” + </p> + <p> + “I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts.” + </p> + <p> + “Looking back, that was wrong of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save the + man whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But we both + thought you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his + callousness. Being very much wrought up by this time—and Mrs. Bast + was upstairs. I had not seen her, and had talked for a long time to + Leonard—I had snubbed him for no reason, and that should have warned + me I was in danger. So when the notes came I wanted us to go to you for an + explanation. He said that he guessed the explanation—he knew of it, + and you mustn’t know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one must know; + it was something to do with his wife. Right up to the end we were Mr. Bast + and Miss Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank with me + when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him in two + ways, not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very lonely + myself. He is not to blame. He would have gone on worshipping me. I want + never to see him again, though it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him + money and feel finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known about these + things!” + </p> + <p> + She laid her face against the tree. + </p> + <p> + “The little, too, that is known about growth! Both times it was + loneliness, and the night, and panic afterwards. Did Leonard grow out of + Paul?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was she that her attention + had actually wandered to the teeth—the teeth that had been thrust + into the tree’s bark to medicate it. From where she sat she could see them + gleam. She had been trying to count them. “Leonard is a better growth than + madness,” she said. “I was afraid that you would react against Paul until + you went over the verge.” + </p> + <p> + “I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady now. I shan’t ever + like your Henry, dearest Meg, or even speak kindly about him, but all that + blinding hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any more. I + understand how you married him, and you will now be very happy.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret did not reply. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” repeated Helen, her voice growing more tender, “I do at last + understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands our little movements.” + </p> + <p> + “Because in death—I agree.” + </p> + <p> + “Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are only fragments of that + woman’s mind. She knows everything. She is everything. She is the house, + and the tree that leans over it. People have their own deaths as well as + their own lives, and even if there is nothing beyond death, we shall + differ in our nothingness. I cannot believe that knowledge such as hers + will perish with knowledge such as mine. She knew about realities. She + knew when people were in love, though she was not in the room. I don’t + doubt that she knew when Henry deceived her.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox,” called a voice. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, good-night, Miss Avery.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should Miss Avery work for us?” Helen murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Why, indeed?” + </p> + <p> + Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the hedge that divided it from + the farm. An old gap, which Mr. Wilcox had filled up, had reappeared, and + her track through the dew followed the path that he had turfed over, when + he improved the garden and made it possible for games. + </p> + <p> + “This is not quite our house yet,” said Helen. “When Miss Avery called, I + felt we are only a couple of tourists.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall be that everywhere, and for ever.” + </p> + <p> + “But affectionate tourists.” + </p> + <p> + “But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t pretend very long,” said Helen. “Sitting under this tree one + forgets, but I know that to-morrow I shall see the moon rise out of + Germany. Not all your goodness can alter the facts of the case. Unless you + will come with me.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year she had grown so fond of + England that to leave it was a real grief. Yet what detained her? No doubt + Henry would pardon her outburst, and go on blustering and muddling into a + ripe old age. But what was the good? She had just as soon vanish from his + mind. + </p> + <p> + “Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get on with your Monica?” + </p> + <p> + “You would not, but I am serious in asking you.” + </p> + <p> + “Still, no more plans now. And no more reminiscences.” + </p> + <p> + They were silent for a little. It was Helen’s evening. + </p> + <p> + The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made + music before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but + its song was of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. + Their senses were sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life + passed. The tree rustled again. + </p> + <p> + “Sleep now,” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + The peace of the country was entering into her. It has no commerce with + memory, and little with hope. Least of all is it concerned with the hopes + of the next five minutes. It is the peace of the present, which passes + understanding. Its murmur came “now,” and “now” once more as they trod the + gravel, and “now,” as the moonlight fell upon their father’s sword. They + passed upstairs, kissed, and amidst the endless iterations fell asleep. + The house had enshadowed the tree at first, but as the moon rose higher + the two disentangled, and were clear for a few moments at midnight. + Margaret awoke and looked into the garden. How incomprehensible that + Leonard Bast should have won her this night of peace! Was he also part of + Mrs. Wilcox’s mind? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI + </h2> + <p> + Far different was Leonard’s development. The months after Oniton, whatever + minor troubles they might bring him, were all overshadowed by Remorse. + When Helen looked back she could philosophise, or she could look into the + future and plan for her child. But the father saw nothing beyond his own + sin. Weeks afterwards, in the midst of other occupations, he would + suddenly cry out, “Brute—you brute, I couldn’t have—” and be + rent into two people who held dialogues. Or brown rain would descend, + blotting out faces and the sky. Even Jacky noticed the change in him. Most + terrible were his sufferings when he awoke from sleep. Sometimes he was + happy at first, but grew conscious of a burden hanging to him and weighing + down his thoughts when they would move. Or little irons scorched his body. + Or a sword stabbed him. He would sit at the edge of his bed, holding his + heart and moaning, “Oh what SHALL I do, whatever SHALL I do?” Nothing + brought ease. He could put distance between him and the trespass, but it + grew in his soul. + </p> + <p> + Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The Greeks were right to + dethrone her. Her action is too capricious, as though the Erinyes selected + for punishment only certain men and certain sins. And of all means to + regeneration Remorse is surely the most wasteful. It cuts away healthy + tissues with the poisoned. It is a knife that probes far deeper than the + evil. Leonard was driven straight through its torments and emerged pure, + but enfeebled—a better man, who would never lose control of himself + again, but also a smaller man, who had less to control. Nor did purity + mean peace. The use of the knife can become a habit as hard to shake off + as passion itself, and Leonard continued to start with a cry out of + dreams. + </p> + <p> + He built up a situation that was far enough from the truth. It never + occurred to him that Helen was to blame. He forgot the intensity of their + talk, the charm that had been lent him by sincerity, the magic of Oniton + under darkness and of the whispering river. Helen loved the absolute. + Leonard had been ruined absolutely, and had appeared to her as a man + apart, isolated from the world. A real man, who cared for adventure and + beauty, who desired to live decently and pay his way, who could have + travelled more gloriously through life than the juggernaut car that was + crushing him. Memories of Evie’s wedding had warped her, the starched + servants, the yards of uneaten food, the rustle of overdressed women, + motor-cars oozing grease on the gravel, a pretentious band. She had tasted + the lees of this on her arrival; in the darkness, after failure, they + intoxicated her. She and the victim seemed alone in a world of unreality, + and she loved him absolutely, perhaps for half an hour. + </p> + <p> + In the morning she was gone. The note that she left, tender and hysterical + in tone, and intended to be most kind, hurt her lover terribly. It was as + if some work of art had been broken by him, some picture in the National + Gallery slashed out of its frame. When he recalled her talents and her + social position, he felt that the first passer-by had a right to shoot him + down. He was afraid of the waitress and the porters at the + railway-station. He was afraid at first of his wife, though later he was + to regard her with a strange new tenderness, and to think, “There is + nothing to choose between us, after all.” + </p> + <p> + The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Basts permanently. Helen in her + flight forgot to settle the hotel bill, and took their return tickets away + with her; they had to pawn Jacky’s bangles to get home, and the smash came + a few days afterwards. It is true that Helen offered him five thousand + pounds, but such a sum meant nothing to him. He could not see that the + girl was desperately righting herself, and trying to save something out of + the disaster, if it was only five thousand pounds. But he had to live + somehow. He turned to his family, and degraded himself to a professional + beggar. There was nothing else for him to do. + </p> + <p> + “A letter from Leonard,” thought Blanche, his sister; “and after all this + time.” She hid it, so that her husband should not see, and when he had + gone to his work read it with some emotion, and sent the prodigal a little + money out of her dress allowance. + </p> + <p> + “A letter from Leonard!” said the other sister, Laura, a few days later. + She showed it to her husband. He wrote a cruel, insolent reply, but sent + more money than Blanche, so Leonard soon wrote to him again. + </p> + <p> + And during the winter the system was developed. + </p> + <p> + Leonard realised that they need never starve, because it would be too + painful for his relatives. Society is based on the family, and the clever + wastrel can exploit this indefinitely. Without a generous thought on + either side, pounds and pounds passed. The donors disliked Leonard, and he + grew to hate them intensely. When Laura censured his immoral marriage, he + thought bitterly, “She minds that! What would she say if she knew the + truth?” When Blanche’s husband offered him work, he found some pretext for + avoiding it. He had wanted work keenly at Oniton, but too much anxiety had + shattered him, he was joining the unemployable. When his brother, the + lay-reader, did not reply to a letter, he wrote again, saying that he and + Jacky would come down to his village on foot. He did not intend this as + blackmail. Still the brother sent a postal order, and it became part of + the system. And so passed his winter and his spring. + </p> + <p> + In the horror there are two bright spots. He never confused the past. He + remained alive, and blessed are those who live, if it is only to a sense + of sinfulness. The anodyne of muddledom, by which most men blur and blend + their mistakes, never passed Leonard’s lips— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “And if I drink oblivion of a day, + So shorten I the stature of my soul.” + </pre> + <p> + It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it lies at the root of + all character. + </p> + <p> + And the other bright spot was his tenderness for Jacky. He pitied her with + nobility now—not the contemptuous pity of a man who sticks to a + woman through thick and thin. He tried to be less irritable. He wondered + what her hungry eyes desired—nothing that she could express, or that + he or any man could give her. Would she ever receive the justice that is + mercy—the justice for by-products that the world is too busy to + bestow? She was fond of flowers, generous with money, and not revengeful. + If she had borne him a child he might have cared for her. Unmarried, + Leonard would never have begged; he would have flickered out and died. But + the whole of life is mixed. He had to provide for Jacky, and went down + dirty paths that she might have a few feathers and the dishes of food that + suited her. + </p> + <p> + One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother. He was in St. Paul’s. + He had entered the cathedral partly to avoid the rain and partly to see a + picture that had educated him in former years. But the light was bad, the + picture ill placed, and Time and judgment were inside him now. Death alone + still charmed him, with her lap of poppies, on which all men shall sleep. + He took one glance, and turned aimlessly away towards a chair. Then down + the nave he saw Miss Schlegel and her brother. They stood in the fairway + of passengers, and their faces were extremely grave. He was perfectly + certain that they were in trouble about their sister. + </p> + <p> + Once outside—and he fled immediately—he wished that he had + spoken to them. What was his life? What were a few angry words, or even + imprisonment? He had done wrong—that was the true terror. Whatever + they might know, he would tell them everything he knew. He re-entered St. + Paul’s. But they had moved in his absence, and had gone to lay their + difficulties before Mr. Wilcox and Charles. + </p> + <p> + The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new channels. He desired to + confess, and though the desire is proof of a weakened nature, which is + about to lose the essence of human intercourse, it did not take an ignoble + form. He did not suppose that confession would bring him happiness. It was + rather that he yearned to get clear of the tangle. So does the suicide + yearn. The impulses are akin, and the crime of suicide lies rather in its + disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave behind. Confession need + harm no one—it can satisfy that test—and though it was + un-English, and ignored by our Anglican cathedral, Leonard had a right to + decide upon it. + </p> + <p> + Moreover, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her hardness now. That cold, + intellectual nature of hers would be just, if unkind. He would do whatever + she told him, even if he had to see Helen. That was the supreme punishment + she would exact. And perhaps she would tell him how Helen was. That was + the supreme reward. + </p> + <p> + He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether she was married to Mr. + Wilcox, and tracking her out took several days. That evening he toiled + through the wet to Wickham Place, where the new flats were now appearing. + Was he also the cause of their move? Were they expelled from society on + his account? Thence to a public library, but could find no satisfactory + Schlegel in the directory. On the morrow he searched again. He hung about + outside Mr. Wilcox’s office at lunch time, and, as the clerks came out + said, “Excuse me, sir, but is your boss married?” Most of them stared, + some said, “What’s that to you?” but one, who had not yet acquired + reticence, told him what he wished. Leonard could not learn the private + address. That necessitated more trouble with directories and tubes. Ducie + Street was not discovered till the Monday, the day that Margaret and her + husband went down on their hunting expedition to Howards End. + </p> + <p> + He called at about four o’clock. The weather had changed, and the sun + shone gaily on the ornamental steps—black and white marble in + triangles. Leonard lowered his eyes to them after ringing the bell. He + felt in curious health; doors seemed to be opening and shutting inside his + body, and he had been obliged to sleep sitting up in bed, with his back + propped against the wall. When the parlourmaid came he could not see her + face; the brown rain had descended suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “She’s out,” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + “When will she be back?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll ask,” said the parlourmaid. + </p> + <p> + Margaret had given instructions that no one who mentioned her name should + ever be rebuffed. Putting the door on the chain—for Leonard’s + appearance demanded this—she went through to the smoking-room, which + was occupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He had had a good lunch. Charles + Wilcox had not yet rung him up for the distracting interview. He said + drowsily: “I don’t know. Hilton. Howards End. Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll ask, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “No, don’t bother.” + </p> + <p> + “They have taken the car to Howards End,” said the parlourmaid to Leonard. + </p> + <p> + He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was. + </p> + <p> + “You appear to want to know a good deal,” she remarked. But Margaret had + forbidden her to be mysterious. She told him against her better judgment + that Howards End was in Hertfordshire. + </p> + <p> + “Is it a village, please?” + </p> + <p> + “Village! It’s Mr. Wilcox’s private house—at least, it’s one of + them. Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture there. Hilton is the village.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And when will they be back?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Schlegel doesn’t know. We can’t know everything, can we?” She shut + him out, and went to attend to the telephone, which was ringing furiously. + </p> + <p> + He loitered away another night of agony. Confession grew more difficult. + As soon as possible he went to bed. He watched a patch of moonlight cross + the floor of their lodging, and, as sometimes happens when the mind is + overtaxed, he fell asleep for the rest of the room, but kept awake for the + patch of moonlight. Horrible! Then began one of those disintegrating + dialogues. Part of him said: “Why horrible? It’s ordinary light from the + moon.” “But it moves.” “So does the moon.” “But it is a clenched fist.” + “Why not?” “But it is going to touch me.” “Let it.” And, seeming to gather + motion, the patch ran up his blanket. Presently a blue snake appeared; + then another parallel to it. “Is there life in the moon?” “Of course.” + “But I thought it was uninhabited.” “Not by Time, Death, Judgment, and the + smaller snakes.” “Smaller snakes!” said Leonard indignantly and aloud. + “What a notion!” By a rending effort of the will he woke the rest of the + room up. Jacky, the bed, their food, their clothes on the chair, gradually + entered his consciousness, and the horror vanished outwards, like a ring + that is spreading through water. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Jacky, I’m going out for a bit.” + </p> + <p> + She was breathing regularly. The patch of light fell clear of the striped + blanket, and began to cover the shawl that lay over her feet. Why had he + been afraid? He went to the window, and saw that the moon was descending + through a clear sky. He saw her volcanoes, and the bright expanses that a + gracious error has named seas. They paled, for the sun, who had lit them + up, was coming to light the earth. Sea of Serenity, Sea of Tranquillity, + Ocean of the Lunar Storms, merged into one lucent drop, itself to slip + into the sempiternal dawn. And he had been afraid of the moon! + </p> + <p> + He dressed among the contending lights, and went through his money. It was + running low again, but enough for a return ticket to Hilton. As it + clinked, Jacky opened her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!” + </p> + <p> + “What ho, Jacky! see you again later.” + </p> + <p> + She turned over and slept. + </p> + <p> + The house was unlocked, their landlord being a salesman at Covent Garden. + Leonard passed out and made his way down to the station. The train, though + it did not start for an hour, was already drawn up at the end of the + platform, and he lay down in it and slept. With the first jolt he was in + daylight; they had left the gateways of King’s Cross, and were under blue + sky. Tunnels followed, and after each the sky grew bluer, and from the + embankment at Finsbury Park he had his first sight of the sun. It rolled + along behind the eastern smokes—a wheel, whose fellow was the + descending moon—and as yet it seemed the servant of the blue sky, + not its lord. He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it was day. To the left + fell the shadow of the embankment and its arches; to the right Leonard saw + up into the Tewin Woods and towards the church, with its wild legend of + immortality. Six forest trees—that is a fact—grow out of one + of the graves in Tewin churchyard. The grave’s occupant—that is the + legend—is an atheist, who declared that if God existed, six forest + trees would grow out of her grave. These things in Hertfordshire; and + farther afield lay the house of a hermit—Mrs. Wilcox had known him—who + barred himself up, and wrote prophecies, and gave all he had to the poor. + While, powdered in between, were the villas of business men, who saw life + more steadily, though with the steadiness of the half-closed eye. Over all + the sun was streaming, to all the birds were singing, to all the primroses + were yellow, and the speedwell blue, and the country, however they + interpreted her, was uttering her cry of “now.” She did not free Leonard + yet, and the knife plunged deeper into his heart as the train drew up at + Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful. + </p> + <p> + Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. Leonard noticed the + contrast when he stepped out of it into the country. Here men had been up + since dawn. Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by the + movements of the crops and the sun. That they were men of the finest type + only the sentimentalists can declare. But they kept to the life of + daylight. They are England’s hope. Clumsily they carry forward the torch + of the sun, until such time as the nation sees fit to take it up. Half + clodhopper, half board-school prig, they can still throw back to a nobler + stock, and breed yeomen. + </p> + <p> + At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was another type, whom Nature + favours—the Imperial. Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit + the earth. It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; strong is + the temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman, who carries his country’s + virtue overseas. But the Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He is + a destroyer. He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism, and though his + ambitions may be fulfilled, the earth that he inherits will be grey. + </p> + <p> + To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction of innate + goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he had been taught at + school. Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins stalk over the + universe before joy can be purged of the superficial. It was rather + paradoxical, and arose from his sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea + of death saves him—that is the best account of it that has yet been + given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in us, and + strengthen the wings of love. They can beckon; it is not certain that they + will, for they are not love’s servants. But they can beckon, and the + knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him. + </p> + <p> + As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory notions + stood side by side in his mind. He was terrified but happy, ashamed, but + had done no sin. He knew the confession: “Mrs. Wilcox, I have done wrong,” + but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on a supreme + adventure. + </p> + <p> + He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in + it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. + From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret’s amongst them. His own + name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, “Oh, is he + there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Wilcox,” said Leonard, “I have done wrong.” + </p> + <p> + The man took him by the collar and cried, “Bring me a stick.” Women were + screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it + descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had + sense. + </p> + <p> + “Get some water,” commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. + “He’s shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into + the air.” + </p> + <p> + Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid + Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. + </p> + <p> + “That’s enough,” said Charles. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, murder’s enough,” said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the + sword. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII + </h2> + <p> + When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had + no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, + who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for + Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know where she is, pater” said Charles. “Dolly kept back dinner + nearly an hour for her.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me when she comes in.” + </p> + <p> + Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his + father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not + returned. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. + Isn’t she stopping with her sister at the hotel?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully—“perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Can I do anything for you, sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Not to-night, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son + more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as + little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his + children were left to him. + </p> + <p> + After midnight he tapped on Charles’s door. “I can’t sleep,” he said. “I + had better have a talk with you and get it over.” + </p> + <p> + He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they + paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as + the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her + sister. + </p> + <p> + “She will feel differently in the morning,” said Mr. Wilcox, who had of + course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. “But I cannot let this kind of thing + continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister + at Howards End. The house is mine—and, Charles, it will be yours—and + when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live + there. I won’t have it.” He looked angrily at the moon. “To my mind this + question is connected with something far greater, the rights of property + itself.” + </p> + <p> + “Undoubtedly,” said Charles. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son’s, but somehow liked him less as he + told him more. “I don’t want you to conclude that my wife and I had + anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who + would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding + that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua + non.” + </p> + <p> + “Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?” + </p> + <p> + “Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of + course, use no violence, Charles.” + </p> + <p> + On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, + it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart + disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had + acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through + the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and said there must + be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading his eyes from the + sun. + </p> + <p> + “It has been pretty horrible,” said Charles gravely. “They were there, and + they had the man up there with them too.” + </p> + <p> + “What—what man?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you last night. His name was Bast.” + </p> + <p> + “My God! is it possible?” said Mr. Wilcox. “In your mother’s house! + Charles, in your mother’s house!” + </p> + <p> + “I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is no + need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart disease, + and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went off. The + police are seeing about it at this moment.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. + </p> + <p> + “I got up there—oh, it couldn’t have been more than half-past seven. + The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs. I + waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected, + though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and Mrs. Wilcox + said, ‘Oh yes, I see; yes,’ in that way of hers.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing else?” + </p> + <p> + “I promised to tell you, ‘with her love,’ that she was going to Germany + with her sister this evening. That was all we had time for.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved. + </p> + <p> + “Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for suddenly Mrs. + Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognised it, and I went for him in the + hall. Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little too far.” + </p> + <p> + “Right, my dear boy? I don’t know. But you would have been no son of mine + if you hadn’t. Then did he just—just—crumple up as you said?” + He shrunk from the simple word. + </p> + <p> + “He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down over him. So I merely put + the sword down and carried him into the garden. We all thought he was + shamming. However, he’s dead right enough. Awful business!” + </p> + <p> + “Sword?” cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. “What sword? Whose + sword?” + </p> + <p> + “A sword of theirs.” + </p> + <p> + “What were you doing with it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, didn’t you see, pater, I had to snatch up the first thing handy. I + hadn’t a riding-whip or stick. I caught him once or twice over the + shoulders with the flat of their old German sword.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what?” + </p> + <p> + “He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell,” said Charles, with a + sigh. It was no fun doing errands for his father, who was never quite + satisfied. + </p> + <p> + “But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you’re sure?” + </p> + <p> + “That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest on + such unsavoury topics.” + </p> + <p> + They went in to breakfast. Charles had a racking headache, consequent on + motoring before food. He was also anxious about the future, reflecting + that the police must detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and ferret + the whole thing out. He saw himself obliged to leave Hilton. One could not + afford to live near the scene of a scandal—it was not fair on one’s + wife. His comfort was that the pater’s eyes were opened at last. There + would be a horrible smash-up, and probably a separation from Margaret; + then they would all start again, more as they had been in his mother’s + time. + </p> + <p> + “I think I’ll go round to the police-station,” said his father when + breakfast was over. + </p> + <p> + “What for?” cried Dolly, who had still not been “told.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, sir. Which car will you have?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I’ll walk.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a good half-mile,” said Charles, stepping into the garden. “The + sun’s very hot for April. Shan’t I take you up, and then, perhaps, a + little spin round by Tewin?” + </p> + <p> + “You go on as if I didn’t know my own mind,” said Mr. Wilcox fretfully. + Charles hardened his mouth. “You young fellows’ one idea is to get into a + motor. I tell you, I want to walk; I’m very fond of walking.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right; I’m about the house if you want me for anything. I thought + of not going up to the office to-day, if that is your wish.” + </p> + <p> + “It is, indeed, my boy,” said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a hand on his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + Charles did not like it; he was uneasy about his father, who did not seem + himself this morning. There was a petulant touch about him—more like + a woman. Could it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not + lacking in affection; they had it royally, but they did not know how to + use it. It was the talent in the napkin, and, for a warm-hearted man, + Charles had conveyed very little joy. As he watched his father shuffling + up the road, he had a vague regret—a wish that something had been + different somewhere—a wish (though he did not express it thus) that + he had been taught to say “I” in his youth. He meant to make up for + Margaret’s defection, but knew that his father had been very happy with + her until yesterday. How had she done it? By some dishonest trick, no + doubt—but how? + </p> + <p> + Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. There was to be an + inquest on Leonard’s body to-morrow, and the police required his son to + attend. + </p> + <p> + “I expected that,” said Charles. “I shall naturally be the most important + witness there.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII + </h2> + <p> + Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with Aunt Juley’s illness and + was not even to end with Leonard’s death, it seemed impossible to Margaret + that healthy life should re-emerge. Events succeeded in a logical, yet + senseless, train. People lost their humanity, and took values as arbitrary + as those in a pack of playing-cards. It was natural that Henry should do + this and cause Helen to do that, and then think her wrong for doing it; + natural that she herself should think him wrong; natural that Leonard + should want to know how Helen was, and come, and Charles be angry with him + for coming—natural, but unreal. In this jangle of causes and effects + what had become of their true selves? Here Leonard lay dead in the garden, + from natural causes; yet life was a deep, deep river, death a blue sky, + life was a house, death a wisp of hay, a flower, a tower, life and death + were anything and everything, except this ordered insanity, where the king + takes the queen, and the ace the king. Ah, no; there was beauty and adventure + behind, such as the man at her feet had yearned for; there was hope this + side of the grave; there were truer relationships beyond the limits that + fetter us now. As a prisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning, so she, + from the turmoil and horror of those days, caught glimpses of the diviner + wheels. + </p> + <p> + And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm for the child’s sake, + and Miss Avery, calm, but murmuring tenderly, “No one ever told the lad + he’ll have a child”—they also reminded her that horror is not the + end. To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not know, but there seemed + great chance that a child would be born into the world, to take the great + chances of beauty and adventure that the world offers. She moved through + the sunlit garden, gathering narcissi, crimson-eyed and white. There was + nothing else to be done; the time for telegrams and anger was over and it + seemed wisest that the hands of Leonard should be folded on his breast and + be filled with flowers. Here was the father; leave it at that. Let Squalor + be turned into Tragedy, whose eyes are the stars, and whose hands hold the + sunset and the dawn. + </p> + <p> + And even the influx of officials, even the return of the doctor, vulgar + and acute, could not shake her belief in the eternity of beauty. Science + explained people, but could not understand them. After long centuries + among the bones and muscles it might be advancing to knowledge of the + nerves, but this would never give understanding. One could open the heart + to Mr. Mansbridge and his sort without discovering its secrets to them, + for they wanted everything down in black and white, and black and white + was exactly what they were left with. + </p> + <p> + They questioned her closely about Charles. She never suspected why. Death + had come, and the doctor agreed that it was due to heart disease. They + asked to see her father’s sword. She explained that Charles’s anger was + natural, but mistaken. Miserable questions about Leonard followed, all of + which she answered unfalteringly. Then back to Charles again. “No doubt + Mr. Wilcox may have induced death,” she said; “but if it wasn’t one thing + it would have been another as you know.” At last they thanked her and took + the sword and the body down to Hilton. She began to pick up the books from + the floor. + </p> + <p> + Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place for her, since she had + to wait for the inquest. Though, as if things were not hard enough, Madge + and her husband had raised trouble; they did not see why they should + receive the offscourings of Howards End. And, of course, they were right. + The whole world was going to be right, and amply avenge any brave talk + against the conventions. “Nothing matters,” the Schlegels had said in the + past, “except one’s self-respect and that of one’s friends.” When the time + came, other things mattered terribly. However, Madge had yielded, and + Helen was assured of peace for one day and night, and to-morrow she would + return to Germany. + </p> + <p> + As for herself, she determined to go too. No message came from Henry; + perhaps he expected her to apologise. Now that she had time to think over + her own tragedy, she was unrepentant. She neither forgave him for his + behaviour nor wished to forgive him. Her speech to him seemed perfect. She + would not have altered a word. It had to be uttered once in a life, to + adjust the lopsidedness of the world. It was spoken not only to her + husband, but to thousands of men like him—a protest against the + inner darkness in high places that comes with a commercial age. Though he + would build up his life without hers, she could not apologise. He had + refused to connect, on the clearest issue that can be laid before a man, + and their love must take the consequences. + </p> + <p> + No, there was nothing more to be done. They had tried not to go over the + precipice, but perhaps the fall was inevitable. And it comforted her to + think that the future was certainly inevitable; cause and effect would go + jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none that she could + imagine. At such moments the soul retires within, to float upon the bosom + of a deeper stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees the world’s + glory not diminished, but different in kind to what she has supposed. She + alters her focus until trivial things are blurred. Margaret had been + tending this way all the winter. Leonard’s death brought her to the goal. + Alas! that Henry should fade away as reality emerged, and only her love + for him should remain clear, stamped with his image like the cameos we + rescue out of dreams. + </p> + <p> + With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would soon present a + healthy mind to the world again, and what did he or the world care if he + was rotten at the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times + a little sentimental about women, but emptying his glass with anyone. + Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the rest dependent, and + retire from business reluctantly and at an advanced age. He would settle + down—though she could not realise this. In her eyes Henry was always + moving and causing others to move, until the ends of the earth met. But in + time he must get too tired to move, and settle down. What next? The + inevitable word. The release of the soul to its appropriate Heaven. + </p> + <p> + Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortality for herself. An + eternal future had always seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it + for himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless + levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And + his level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers? + </p> + <p> + Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He sent up Crane in the + motor. Other servants passed like water, but the chauffeur remained, + though impertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it. + </p> + <p> + “Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t say, madam.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t any note for me?” + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t say, madam.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment’s thought she locked up Howards End. It was pitiable to see + in it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She raked + out the fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the + gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains. Henry would + probably sell the place now. + </p> + <p> + She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far + as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday + evening. He was standing a little outside Charles’s gate, and motioned the + car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: “I prefer to discuss + things with you outside.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid,” said Margaret. + “Did you get my message?” + </p> + <p> + “What about?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall + make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you + have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am extremely tired,” said Henry, in injured tones. “I have been walking + about all the morning, and wish to sit down.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass.” + </p> + <p> + The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. + Henry’s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, + wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that + they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly. + </p> + <p> + “Here are your keys,” said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They + fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. + </p> + <p> + “I have something to tell you,” he said gently. + </p> + <p> + She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that + was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to hear it,” she replied. “My sister is going to be ill. My + life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, + she and I and her child.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill.” + </p> + <p> + “After the inquest?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, heart disease.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear; manslaughter.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved + as if it were alive. + </p> + <p> + “Manslaughter,” repeated Mr. Wilcox. “Charles may go to prison. I dare not + tell him. I don’t know what to do—what to do. I’m broken—I’m + ended.” + </p> + <p> + No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her + only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through + that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought + in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he + should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three + years’ imprisonment. Then Henry’s fortress gave way. He could bear no one + but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her to do + what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest—she took him + down to recruit at Howards End. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV + </h2> + <p> + Tom’s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid + whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing + circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. “I + haven’t any idea,” she replied. “Do you suppose baby may, Meg?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. “What was that?” + she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t the least notion,” answered Margaret, and took up her work + again. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not + to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is + not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as + careful as all that?” + </p> + <p> + Tom held out his arms. + </p> + <p> + “That child is a wonderful nursemaid,” remarked Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “He is fond of baby. That’s why he does it!” was Helen’s answer. “They’re + going to be lifelong friends.” + </p> + <p> + “Starting at the ages of six and one?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom.” + </p> + <p> + “It may be a greater thing for baby.” + </p> + <p> + Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End. No + better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red + poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with the little + red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the wheat. These + little events would become part of her year after year. Every summer she + would fear lest the well should give out, every winter lest the pipes + should freeze; every westerly gale might blow the wych-elm down and bring + the end of all things, and so she could not read or talk during a westerly + gale. The air was tranquil now. She and her sister were sitting on the + remains of Evie’s rockery, where the lawn merged into the field. + </p> + <p> + “What a time they all are!” said Helen. “What can they be doing inside?” + Margaret, who was growing less talkative, made no answer. The noise of the + cutter came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by them a + man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes. + </p> + <p> + “I wish Henry was out to enjoy this,” said Helen. “This lovely weather and + to be shut up in the house! It’s very hard.” + </p> + <p> + “It has to be,” said Margaret. “The hay fever is his chief objection + against living here, but he thinks it worth while.” + </p> + <p> + “Meg, is or isn’t he ill? I can’t make out.” + </p> + <p> + “Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all his life, and + noticed nothing. Those are the people who collapse when they do notice a + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle.” + </p> + <p> + “Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, to-day. Still, he + wanted them all to come. It has to be.” + </p> + <p> + “Why does he want them?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry.” + </p> + <p> + “You’d be odd if you didn’t,” said Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “I usen’t to.” + </p> + <p> + “Usen’t!” She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past. + They had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. They were + building up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard was + dead; Charles had two years more in prison. One usen’t always to see + clearly before that time. It was different now. + </p> + <p> + “I like Henry because he does worry.” + </p> + <p> + “And he likes you because you don’t.” + </p> + <p> + Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her face in her hands. + After a time she said: “About love,” a transition less abrupt than it + appeared. + </p> + <p> + Margaret never stopped working. + </p> + <p> + “I mean a woman’s love for a man. I supposed I should hang my life on to + that once, and was driven up and down and about as if something was + worrying through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem cured. That + Herr Forstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writing about, must be a noble + character, but he doesn’t see that I shall never marry him or anyone. It + isn’t shame or mistrust of myself. I simply couldn’t. I’m ended. I used to + be so dreamy about a man’s love as a girl, and think that for good or evil + love must be the great thing. But it hasn’t been; it has been itself a + dream. Do you agree?” + </p> + <p> + “I do not agree. I do not.” + </p> + <p> + “I ought to remember Leonard as my lover,” said Helen, stepping down into + the field. “I tempted him, and killed him, and it is surely the least I + can do. I would like to throw out all my heart to Leonard on such an + afternoon as this. But I cannot. It is no good pretending. I am forgetting + him.” Her eyes filled with tears. “How nothing seems to match—how, + my darling, my precious—” She broke off. “Tommy!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, please?” + </p> + <p> + “Baby’s not to try and stand.—There’s something wanting in me. I see + you loving Henry, and understanding him better daily, and I know that + death wouldn’t part you in the least. But I—Is it some awful, + appalling, criminal defect?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret silenced her. She said: “It is only that people are far more + different than is pretended. All over the world men and women are worrying + because they cannot develop as they are supposed to develop. Here and + there they have the matter out, and it comforts them. Don’t fret yourself, + Helen. Develop what you have; love your child. I do not love children. I + am thankful to have none. I can play with their beauty and charm, but that + is all—nothing real, not one scrap of what there ought to be. And + others—others go farther still, and move outside humanity + altogether. A place, as well as a person, may catch the glow. Don’t you + see that all this leads to comfort in the end? It is part of the battle + against sameness. Differences, eternal differences, planted by God in a + single family, so that there may always be colour; sorrow perhaps, but + colour in the daily grey. Then I can’t have you worrying about Leonard. + Don’t drag in the personal when it will not come. Forget him.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps an adventure.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that enough?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for us. But for him.” + </p> + <p> + Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the sorrel, and the red and + white and yellow clover, and the quaker grass, and the daisies, and the + bents that composed it. She raised it to her face. + </p> + <p> + “Is it sweetening yet?” asked Margaret. + </p> + <p> + “No, only withered.” + </p> + <p> + “It will sweeten to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Helen smiled. “Oh, Meg, you are a person,” she said. “Think of the racket + and torture this time last year. But now I couldn’t stop unhappy if I + tried. What a change—and all through you!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry learnt to understand one + another and to forgive, all through the autumn and the winter.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but who settled us down?” + </p> + <p> + Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and she took off her + pince-nez to watch it. + </p> + <p> + “You!” cried Helen. “You did it all, sweetest, though you’re too stupid to + see. Living here was your plan—I wanted you; he wanted you; and + everyone said it was impossible, but you knew. Just think of our lives + without you, Meg—I and baby with Monica, revolting by theory, he + handed about from Dolly to Evie. But you picked up the pieces, and made us + a home. Can’t it strike you—even for a moment—that your life + has been heroic? Can’t you remember the two months after Charles’s arrest, + when you began to act, and did all?” + </p> + <p> + “You were both ill at the time,” said Margaret. “I did the obvious things. + I had two invalids to nurse. Here was a house, ready furnished and empty. + It was obvious. I didn’t know myself it would turn into a permanent home. + No doubt I have done a little towards straightening the tangle, but things + that I can’t phrase have helped me.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope it will be permanent,” said Helen, drifting away to other + thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards End peculiarly our + own.” + </p> + <p> + “All the same, London’s creeping.” + </p> + <p> + She pointed over the meadow—over eight or nine meadows, but at the + end of them was a red rust. + </p> + <p> + “You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now,” she continued. “I can see + it from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something else, I’m + afraid. Life’s going to be melted down, all over the world.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the + Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot was + being prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. One’s + hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth beating + time? + </p> + <p> + “Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go strong for ever,” she + said. “This craze for motion has only set in during the last hundred + years. It may be followed by a civilisation that won’t be a movement, + because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are against it now, but I + can’t help hoping, and very early in the morning in the garden I feel that + our house is the future as well as the past.” + </p> + <p> + They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for + Helen’s child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret + said, “Oh, take care—!” for something moved behind the window of the + hall, and the door opened. + </p> + <p> + “The conclave’s breaking at last. I’ll go.” + </p> + <p> + It was Paul. + </p> + <p> + Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices + greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black + moustache. + </p> + <p> + “My father has asked for you,” he said with hostility. + </p> + <p> + She took her work and followed him. + </p> + <p> + “We have been talking business,” he continued, “but I dare say you knew + all about it beforehand.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I did.” + </p> + <p> + Clumsy of movement—for he had spent all his life in the saddle—Paul + drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a + little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped + in the hall to take Dolly’s boa and gloves out of a vase. + </p> + <p> + Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by + his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed + in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; + they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. + Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had met + already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said. Averse + to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six. + </p> + <p> + “Is this going to suit everyone?” said Henry in a weary voice. He used the + old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. “Because I don’t + want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been + unfair.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s apparently got to suit us,” said Paul. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the + house to you instead.” + </p> + <p> + Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. “As I’ve + given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look + after the business, it’s no good my settling down here,” he said at last. + “It’s not really the country, and it’s not the town.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, father.” + </p> + <p> + “And you, Dolly?” + </p> + <p> + Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not + steady. “Perfectly splendidly,” she said. “I thought Charles wanted it for + the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly + live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our + name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, + and I can’t think of any other name.” + </p> + <p> + There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that + she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely,” said Henry. “And let + everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and + no surprise.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, + who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through + these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. + </p> + <p> + “In consequence, I leave my wife no money,” said Henry. “That is her own + wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also + giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of + me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. + She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she + intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down in the field. + Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?” + </p> + <p> + Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little + shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: “Down + in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, + piccaninnies included.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Cahill whispered: “Don’t, Paul. You promised you’d take care.” + Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. + </p> + <p> + Her father kissed her. “Good-bye, old girl,” he said; “don’t you worry + about me.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, dad.” + </p> + <p> + Then it was Dolly’s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, + and said: “Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox + should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all.” + </p> + <p> + From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. “Goodbye,” she said to Margaret, + and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Dolly.” + </p> + <p> + “So long, father.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her husband + and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But Dolly’s remark + had interested her. At last she said: “Could you tell me, Henry, what was + that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?” + </p> + <p> + Tranquilly he replied: “Yes, she did. But that is a very old story. When + she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some + return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled ‘Howards End’ on a + piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearly + fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my Margaret would be to me + in the future.” + </p> + <p> + Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses, and + she shivered. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t do wrong, did I?” he asked, bending down. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong.” + </p> + <p> + From the garden came laughter. “Here they are at last!” exclaimed Henry, + disengaging himself with a smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom + by one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were shouts of + infectious joy. + </p> + <p> + “The field’s cut!” Helen cried excitedly—“the big meadow! We’ve seen + to the very end, and it’ll be such a crop of hay as never!” + </p> + <p> + WEYBRIDGE, 1908-1910. <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Howards End, by E. M. Forster + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOWARDS END *** + +***** This file should be named 2946-h.htm or 2946-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/4/2946/ + +Produced by Eve Sobol, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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