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diff --git a/2946-0.txt b/2946-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3481cb1 --- /dev/null +++ b/2946-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,13884 @@ +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 + +Posting Date: December 22, 2008 [EBook #2946] +Release Date: November, 2001 +[Last updated September 8, 2020] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOWARDS END *** + + + + +Produced by Eve Sobol + + + + + +HOWARDS END + +By E. M. Forster + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister. + + +“Howards End, + +“Tuesday. + +“Dearest Meg, + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“HELEN.” + + + +“Howards End + +“Friday + +“Dearest Meg, + +“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. + +“Your affectionate + +“HELEN.” + + + +“Howards End, + +“Sunday. + +“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.” + + + +CHAPTER II + +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. + +“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. + +“In that case it is far too sudden.” + +“Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?” + +“But, Margaret, dear, I mean, we mustn’t be unpractical now that we’ve +come to facts. It is too sudden, surely.” + +“Who knows!” + +“But, Margaret, dear--” + +“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.” + +“I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Margaret.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Exactly,” said Margaret; “Germans are too thorough.” And her eyes began +to shine. + +“Of course I regard you Schlegels as English,” said Mrs. Munt +hastily--“English to the backbone.” + +Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. + +“And that reminds me--Helen’s letter.” + +“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.” + +“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--” + +“I gathered nothing.” + +They began to talk at once. + +“Then in that case--” + +“In that case I can make no plans, don’t you see.” + +“On the contrary--” + +“I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn’t a baby.” + +“Then in that case, my dear, why go down?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a +penniless clerk--” + +“Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good +maids are dusting the banisters.” + +“--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.” + +“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.” + +Margaret was down on this. + +“But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off.” + +“I think probably it must; but slowly.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to +see her brother. + +He was not so well. + +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. + +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? + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“So uncivilised?” queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she was losing the +point of some brilliant remark. + +“Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would you please talk the +thing over only with Helen.” + +“Only with Helen.” + +“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. + +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. + +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: + +“All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one--, HELEN.” + +But Aunt Juley was gone--gone irrevocably, and no power on earth could +stop her. + + + +CHAPTER III + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I want a house,” she confided to the ticket boy. “Its name is Howards +Lodge. Do you know where it is?” + +“Mr. Wilcox!” the boy called. + +A young man in front of them turned around. + +“She’s wanting Howards End.” + +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?” + +“The younger. Can I do anything for you?” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“Possibly.” + +“I’ll call you a cab. No; wait a mo--” He thought. “Our motor’s here. +I’ll run you up in it.” + +“That is very kind.” + +“Not at all, if you’ll just wait till they bring out a parcel from the +office. This way.” + +“My niece is not with you by any chance?” + +“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?” + +“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. + +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. + +“In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be windy in front.” + +“In front if I may; then we can talk.” + +“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!” + +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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You see, we heard from Helen this morning.” + +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!” + +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. + +“Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt.” + +“Not at all, Mr. Wilcox.” + +“And do you object to going through the village? It is rather a longer +spin, but I have one or two commissions.” + +“I should love going through the village. Naturally I am very anxious to +talk things over with you.” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“What news?” + +“Mr. Wilcox,” she said frankly, “Margaret has told me +everything--everything. I have seen Helen’s letter.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor Tibby, so I am here +to represent her and to have a good talk.” + +“I’m sorry to be so dense,” said the young man, again drawing up outside +a shop. “But I still haven’t quite understood.” + +“Helen, Mr. Wilcox--my niece and you.” + +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. + +“Miss Schlegel and myself?” he asked, compressing his lips. + +“I trust there has been no misunderstanding,” quavered Mrs. Munt. “Her +letter certainly read that way.” + +“What way?” + +“That you and she--” She paused, then drooped her eyelids. + +“I think I catch your meaning,” he said stickily. “What an extraordinary +mistake!” + +“Then you didn’t the least--” she stammered, getting blood-red in the +face, and wishing she had never been born. + +“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.” + +“But you are Paul.” + +“I’m not.” + +“Then why did you say so at the station?” + +“I said nothing of the sort.” + +“I beg your pardon, you did.” + +“I beg your pardon, I did not. My name is Charles.” + +“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. + +“Do you mean to tell me that Paul--” + +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. + +“Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your niece--” + +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.” + +And Charles clenched his fist and cried, “The idiot, the idiot, the +little fool!” + +Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. “If that is your +attitude, Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +Charles worked his jaws. + +“Considering she has only known your brother since Wednesday, and only +met your father and mother at a stray hotel--” + +“Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman will overhear.” + +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. + +“Right behind?” + +“Yes, sir.” And the lower orders vanished in a cloud of dust. + +“I warn you: Paul hasn’t a penny; it’s useless.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +She grew furious. + +“Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publishing the news.” + +“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.” + +“All I know is, she’s spread the thing and he hasn’t, and my father’s +away and I--” + +“And all that I know is--” + +“Might I finish my sentence, please?” + +“No.” + +Charles clenched his teeth and sent the motor swerving all over the +lane. + +She screamed. + +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. + +“Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Margaret; I--I meant to +stop your coming. It isn’t--it’s over.” + +The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst into tears. + +“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.” + +“Paul,” cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off. + +“Don’t let them know. They are never to know.” + +“Oh, my darling Helen--” + +“Paul! Paul!” + +A very young man came out of the house. + +“Paul, is there any truth in this?” + +“I didn’t--I don’t--” + +“Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did or didn’t Miss +Schlegel--” + +“Charles, dear,” said a voice from the garden. “Charles, dear Charles, +one doesn’t ask plain questions. There aren’t such things.” + +They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox. + +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. + +“Mother,” he called, “are you aware that Paul has been playing the fool +again?” + +“It is all right, dear. They have broken off the engagement.” + +“Engagement--!” + +“They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put that way,” said Mrs. +Wilcox, stooping down to smell a rose. + + + +CHAPTER IV + +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. + +The truth was that she had fallen in love, not with an individual, but +with a family. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“It was over at once.” + +“How, Helen?” + +“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.” + +“Was Paul there?” + +“Yes; and Charles was talking to him about stocks and shares, and he +looked frightened.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I don’t think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being genuine people, +particularly the wife.” + +“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.” + +“Knew what?” + +“Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known +all along, I think.” + +“Oh, she must have overheard you.” + +“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. + +“To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must +be all these telegrams and anger,” supplied Margaret. + +Helen nodded. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Don’t you feel it now?” + +“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.” + +“Amen!” + +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. + +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?” + +To all this Margaret listened, sitting on the haughty nephew’s knee. + +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. + +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. + +Little need be premised about Tibby. He was now an intelligent man of +sixteen, but dyspeptic and difficile. + + + +CHAPTER V + +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. + +“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. + +Helen looked down the long line of their party, and said that she did +not know. + +“Would it be some young man or other whom she takes an interest in?” + +“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. + +“You girls are so wonderful in always having--Oh dear! one mustn’t +talk.” + +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. + +“On the what, dear?” + +“On the drum, Aunt Juley.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Margaret,” called Mrs. Munt, “is Helen all right?” + +“Oh yes.” + +“She is always going away in the middle of a programme,” said Tibby. + +“The music has evidently moved her deeply,” said Fraulein Mosebach. + +“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.” + +“Oh, good gracious me!--I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen.” + +“I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do.” + +“Tibby, love, you must go.” + +“It isn’t of any consequence,” said the young man, in truth a little +uneasy about his umbrella. + +“But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!” + +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. + +“My sister is so careless,” whispered Margaret. + +“Not at all,” replied the young man; but his voice was dead and cold. + +“If you would give me your address--” + +“Oh, not at all, not at all;” and he wrapped his greatcoat over his +knees. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“What, what?” called Herr Liesecke, overhearing. “The ‘Pomp and +Circumstance’ will not be fine?” + +“Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!” cried her aunt. + +“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.” + +“For my part, I have heard the composition at Stettin,” said Fraulein +Mosebach, “on two occasions. It is dramatic, a little.” + +“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.” + +The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved by a common impulse, +they rose to their feet and fled from “Pomp and Circumstance.” + +“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. + +“Margaret--” loudly whispered by Aunt Juley. + +“Margaret, Margaret! Fraulein Mosebach has left her beautiful little bag +behind her on the seat.” + +Sure enough, there was Frieda’s reticule, containing her address book, +her pocket dictionary, her map of London, and her money. + +“Oh, what a bother--what a family we are! Fr--frieda!” + +“Hush!” said all those who thought the music fine. + +“But it’s the number they want in Finsbury Circus.” + +“Might I--couldn’t I--” said the suspicious young man, and got very red. + +“Oh, I would be so grateful.” + +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. + +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. + +“How tired one gets after music!” she began. + +“Do you find the atmosphere of Queen’s Hall oppressive?” + +“Yes, horribly.” + +“But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more oppressive.” + +“Do you go there much?” + +“When my work permits, I attend the gallery for the Royal Opera.” + +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. + +“This year I have been three times--to ‘Faust,’ ‘Tosca,’ and--” Was it +“Tannhouser” or “Tannhoyser”? Better not risk the word. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Do you agree?” asked Margaret. “Do you think music is so different from +pictures?” + +“I--I should have thought so, kind of,” he said. + +“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.” + +Evidently these sisters quarrelled. + +“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.” + +An unhappy family, if talented. + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“Helen! Let us in!” + +“All right,” said a voice. + +“You’ve been taking this gentleman’s umbrella.” + +“Taken a what?” said Helen, opening the door. “Oh, what’s that? Do come +in! How do you do?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +But it was not. + +He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks, and then fled, with +the lilting step of the clerk. + +“But if you will stop--” cried Margaret. “Now, Helen, how stupid you’ve +been!” + +“Whatever have I done?” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Better that he had,” said Helen stoutly. + +“No, I agree with Aunt Juley,” said Margaret. “I’d rather mistrust +people than lose my little Ricketts. There are limits.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his forehead. + +“Oh, it’s no good looking superior. I mean what I say.” + +“Leave Tibby alone!” said Margaret, who could not bear her brother to be +scolded. + +“Here’s the house a regular hen-coop!” grumbled Helen. + +“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.” + +“Yes, but it’s the wrong sort of men, Helen means.” + +“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.” + +“A touch of the W’s, perhaps?” + +Helen put out her tongue. + +“Who are the W’s?” asked Tibby. + +“The W’s are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley know about and you don’t, +so there!” + +“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.” + +“That house being the W’s house, I presume,” said Tibby. + +“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.” + +“You do what you can for the house,” said Margaret. “The drawing-room +reeks of smoke.” + +“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.” + +“With an India shawl over her shoulders--” + +“Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Evening, Mr. Bast.” + +“Evening, Mr. Dealtry.” + +“Nice evening.” + +“Evening.” + +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. + +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. + +“Evening, Mr. Bast.” + +“Evening, Mr. Cunningham.” + +“Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester.” + +“I beg your pardon?” + +“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. + +“Ah, yes,” said Leonard, who was not going to let on that he had not +bought a Sunday paper. + +“If this kind of thing goes on the population of England will be +stationary in 1960.” + +“You don’t say so.” + +“I call it a very serious thing, eh?” + +“Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham.” + +“Good-evening, Mr. Bast.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Seven miles to the north of Venice--” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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: + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What ho!” said Leonard, greeting the apparition with much spirit, and +helping it off with its boa. + +Jacky, in husky tones, replied, “What ho!” + +“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.” + +“You tired?” + +“Eh?” + +“I’m tired,” said he, hanging the boa up. + +“Oh, Len, I am so tired.” + +“I’ve been to that classical concert I told you about,” said Leonard. + +“What’s that?” + +“I came back as soon as it was over.” + +“Any one been round to our place?” asked Jacky. + +“Not that I’ve seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, and we passed a few +remarks.” + +“What, not Mr. Cunningham?” + +“Yes.” + +“Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham.” + +“Yes. Mr. Cunningham.” + +“I’ve been out to tea at a lady friend’s.” + +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 + + “On the shelf, + On the shelf, + Boys, boys, I’m on the shelf,” + +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. + +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.” + +“Len--” + +“What is it?” he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of +conversation when she sat upon his knee. + +“You do love me?” + +“Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!” + +“But you do love me, Len, don’t you?” + +“Of course I do.” + +A pause. The other remark was still due. + +“Len--” + +“Well? What is it?” + +“Len, you will make it all right?” + +“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.” + +“When’s your birthday, Len?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +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. + +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.” + +“That tune fairly gives me the hump,” said Leonard. + +Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she thought it a +lovely tune. + +“No; I’ll play you something lovely. Get up, dear, for a minute.” + +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. + +From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called, “Len?” + +“You in bed?” he asked, his forehead twitching. + +“All right.” + +Presently she called him again. + +“I must clean my boots ready for the morning,” he answered. + +Presently she called him again. + +“I rather want to get this chapter done.” + +“What?” + +He closed his ears against her. + +“What’s that?” + +“All right, Jacky, nothing; I’m reading a book.” + +“What?” + +“What?” he answered, catching her degraded deafness. + +Presently she called him again. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER VII + +“Oh, Margaret,” cried her aunt next morning, “such a most unfortunate +thing has happened. I could not get you alone.” + +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. + +Margaret received the information calmly, and did not agree that it +would throw a cloud over poor Helen’s life. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“How very rude!” + +“I wonder. Or was it sensible?” + +“No, Margaret, most rude.” + +“In either case one can class it as reassuring.” + +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. + +“But you will be careful, won’t you?” she exhorted. + +“Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful.” + +“And Helen must be careful, too.” + +“Careful over what?” cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room +with her cousin. + +“Nothing” said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. + +“Careful over what, Aunt Juley?” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I’m not grave,” protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. + +“Well, you look grave; doesn’t she, Frieda?” + +“I don’t feel grave, that’s all I can say; you’re going quite on the +wrong tack.” + +“No, she does not feel grave,” echoed Mrs. Munt. “I can bear witness to +that. She disagrees--” + +“Hark!” interrupted Fraulein Mosebach. “I hear Bruno entering the hall.” + +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: + +“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.” + +“Come, Helen,” said her cousin. + +“Go, Helen,” said her aunt; and continued to Margaret almost in the same +breath: “Helen cannot deceive me. She does mind.” + +“Oh, hush!” breathed Margaret. “Frieda’ll hear you, and she can be so +tiresome.” + +“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?” + +“Mr. Wilcox, possibly.” + +“I knew it. And there’s Mr. Wilcox.” + +“It’s a shame to call his face copper colour,” complained Margaret. “He +has a remarkably good complexion for a man of his age.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“It’s as well to be prepared.” + +“No--it’s as well not to be prepared.” + +“Why?” + +“Because--” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I hope to risk things all my life.” + +“Oh, Margaret, most dangerous.” + +“But after all,” she continued with a smile, “there’s never any great +risk as long as you have money.” + +“Oh, shame! What a shocking speech!” + +“Money pads the edges of things,” said Miss Schlegel. “God help those +who have none.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“I call that rather cynical.” + +“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.” + +“That’s more like Socialism,” said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. + +“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.” + +“There they go--there goes Fraulein Mosebach. Really, for a German she +does dress charmingly. Oh!--” + +“What is it?” + +“Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes’ flat.” + +“Why shouldn’t she?” + +“I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about +reality?” + +“I had worked round to myself, as usual,” answered Margaret in tones +that were suddenly preoccupied. + +“Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?” + +“Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For +riches. Hurrah for riches!” + +“For riches!” echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her +nut. + +“Yes. For riches. Money for ever!” + +“So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, +but I am surprised that you agree with us.” + +“Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have +done the flowers.” + +“Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important +things.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries you.” + +“If what?” said Helen, who was washing her hands for lunch. + +“The Ws’ coming.” + +“No, of course not.” + +“Really?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +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. + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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?” + +“Most certainly her love has died,” asserted Fraulein Mosebach. + +“Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being +bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call.” + +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.” + +“If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren’t, go and call on +the Wilcoxes instead of me.” + +“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!” + +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.” + +“Yes, I know; thanks very much.” + +“I thought I did right to tell you.” + +“Ever so many thanks.” + +“What’s that?” asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the +dining-room, to eat plums. + +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. + + +“DEAR MRS. WILCOX, + +“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. + +“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. + +“Believe me, + +“Yours truly, + +“M. J. SCHLEGEL.” + + +Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received +the following reply by hand: + + +“DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL, + +“You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that +Paul has gone abroad. + +“RUTH WILCOX.” + + +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. + +“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am more, more +ashamed and sorry than I can say.” + +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. + +“I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot.” + +“He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa.” + +“I knew--I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much +ashamed.” + +Mrs. Wilcox did not answer. + +“I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me.” + +“It doesn’t matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to have come round +so promptly.” + +“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.” + +“Indeed?” + +“She has just gone to Germany.” + +“She gone as well,” murmured the other. “Yes, certainly, it is quite +safe--safe, absolutely, now.” + +“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.” + +“I did think it best.” + +“Now why?” + +“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.” + +“It wasn’t that your son still--” + +“Oh no; he often--my Paul is very young, you see.” + +“Then what was it?” + +She repeated: “An instinct which may be wrong.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“There is nothing to be gained by discussing that,” said Mrs. Wilcox +after a moment’s pause. + +“Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? I wrote you a +letter and you didn’t answer it.” + +“I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson’s flat. I knew it was +opposite your house.” + +“But it’s all right now?” + +“I think so.” + +“You only think? You aren’t sure? I do love these little muddles tidied +up?” + +“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.” + +“That’s all right, and I’m sure, too.” + +Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray. They were +interrupted, and when they resumed conversation it was on more normal +lines. + +“I must say good-bye now--you will be getting up.” + +“No--please stop a little longer--I am taking a day in bed. Now and then +I do.” + +“I thought of you as one of the early risers.” + +“At Howards End--yes; there is nothing to get up for in London.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“A wedding?” + +“Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married.” + +“Indeed!” + +“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.” + +Margaret asked who Dolly’s people were. + +“Fussell. The father is in the Indian army--retired; the brother is in +the army. The mother is dead.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Are you quite certain that I’m not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?” + +“Yes, quite.” + +“Then I will stay. I’m enjoying this.” + +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. + +“They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon.” + +“Lucky people!” + +“I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy.” + +“Doesn’t he care for travelling?” + +“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.” + +“I suppose you have a garage there?” + +“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.” + +The last words had an indescribable ring about them. + +“Where’s the pony gone?” asked Margaret after a pause. + +“The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago.” + +“The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree.” + +“It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your sister tell you +about the teeth?” + +“No.” + +“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.” + +“I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions.” + +“Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed +in it?” + +“Of course it did. It would cure anything--once.” + +“Certainly I remember cases--you see I lived at Howards End long, long +before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there.” + +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. + +Then the curious note was struck again. + +“Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have +cheered me up.” + +“I’m so glad!” + +“I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?” + +“I think of nothing else,” said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand +remain in that of the invalid. + +“I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg.” + +“I’M sure!” + +“I almost think--” + +“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. + +“I almost think you forget you’re a girl.” + +Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. “I’m twenty-nine,” she +remarked. “That’s not so wildly girlish.” + +Mrs. Wilcox smiled. + +“What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?” + +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.” + +“Oh, I’ve got it--inexperience. I’m no better than Helen, you mean, and +yet I presume to advise her.” + +“Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word.” + +“Inexperience,” repeated Margaret, in serious yet buoyant tones. + +“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!” + +“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.” + + + +CHAPTER IX + +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. + +“Only on Tuesday, for they live right away at Stettin. Did you ever know +any one living at Stettin?” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view, Miss Schlegel.” + +“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.” + +“What do the overhanging warehouses make of that?” asked the man, +laughing. + +“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.” + +“Is anything gained by that?” + +“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.” + +“I am not sure that I agree. Do you?” said he, turning to Mrs. Wilcox. + +She replied: “I think Miss Schlegel puts everything splendidly;” and a +chill fell on the conversation. + +“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nicer than that. It’s such a snub to be +told you put things splendidly.” + +“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.” + +“The other side? Then you do disagree. Oh, good! Give us your side.” + +“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.” + +“On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent is in bad form?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Then you ought to!” said Margaret. “Discussion keeps a house alive. It +cannot stand by bricks and mortar alone.” + +“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.” + +“Never mind us or her. Do say!” + +“I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and discussion to +men.” + +There was a little silence. + +“One admits that the arguments against the suffrage ARE extraordinarily +strong,” said a girl opposite, leaning forward and crumbling her bread. + +“Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am only too thankful not to +have a vote myself.” + +“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.” + +“I don’t know, I don’t know.” + +“I must be getting back to my overhanging warehouse,” said the man. +“They’ve turned disgracefully strict.” + +Mrs. Wilcox also rose. + +“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?” + +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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER X + +Several days passed. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Why?” + +“Because I’ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money +can buy. I want more people, but no more things.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of +something as we go about.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Is it? I am only used to country Christmases.” + +“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.” + +“You spoke of your ‘next house,’ Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving +Wickham Place?” + +“Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must.” + +“Have you been there long?” + +“All our lives.” + +“You will be very sorry to leave it.” + +“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. + +“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!” + +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.” + +They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when they were in, she +said, “But couldn’t you get it renewed?” + +“I beg your pardon?” asked Margaret. + +“The lease, I mean.” + +“Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all the time? How very +kind of you!” + +“Surely something could be done.” + +“No; values have risen too enormously. They mean to pull down Wickham +Place, and build flats like yours.” + +“But how horrible!” + +“Landlords are horrible.” + +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.” + +Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had been overtired by the +shopping, and was inclined to hysteria. + +“Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It would have killed me.” + +“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.” + +“So you think.” + +“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--” + +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.” + +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?” + +She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be annoyed. + +“Might I come some other day?” + +Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. “Back to Wickham Place, +please!” was her order to the coachman. Margaret had been snubbed. + +“A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help.” + +“Not at all.” + +“It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind--the +Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your choice.” + +It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn Margaret became +annoyed. + +“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.” + +“Why?” + +“Well, naturally he--he isn’t a road-hog.” + +“He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He must expect to suffer +with the lower animals.” + +Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. In growing discomfort they drove homewards. +The city seemed Satanic, the narrower streets oppressing like the +galleries of a mine. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +Mrs. Wilcox had just gone away for the night. + +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. + +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. + +“I will come if I still may,” said Margaret, laughing nervously. + +“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.” + +“I shall never repent joining you.” + +“It is the same.” + +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. + +“Evie!” she gasped--“Evie, my pet--” + +The girl called, “Father! I say! look who’s here.” + +“Evie, dearest girl, why aren’t you in Yorkshire?” + +“No--motor smash--changed plans--father’s coming.” + +“Why, Ruth!” cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them, “what in the name of all +that’s wonderful are you doing here, Ruth?” + +Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself. + +“Oh, Henry dear!--here’s a lovely surprise--but let me introduce--but I +think you know Miss Schlegel.” + +“Oh yes,” he replied, not greatly interested. “But how’s yourself, +Ruth?” + +“Fit as a fiddle,” she answered gaily. + +“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--” + +“Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another day.” + +“I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the policeman himself +admits.” + +“Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course.” + +“--But as we’ve insured against third party risks, it won’t so much +matter--” + +“--Cart and car being practically at right angles--” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XI + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Thanks. Put it down.” + +“Has the breakfast been all right?” + +“Yes, thanks.” + +The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what +to do. + +“Charles says do you want the Times?” + +“No, I’ll read it later.” + +“Ring if you want anything, father, won’t you?” + +“I’ve all I want.” + +Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the +dining-room. + +“Father’s eaten nothing,” she announced, sitting down with wrinkled +brows behind the tea-urn. + +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. + +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. + +At last Charles spoke. “They had no business to be pollarding those elms +yesterday,” he said to his sister. + +“No, indeed.” + +“I must make a note of that,” he continued. “I am surprised that the +rector allowed it.” + +“Perhaps it may not be the rector’s affair.” + +“Whose else could it be?” + +“The lord of the manor.” + +“Impossible.” + +“Butter, Dolly?” + +“Thank you, Evie dear. Charles--” + +“Yes, dear?” + +“I didn’t know one could pollard elms. I thought one only pollarded +willows.” + +“Oh no, one can pollard elms.” + +“Then why oughtn’t the elms in the churchyard to be pollarded?” Charles +frowned a little, and turned again to his sister. + +“Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley.” + +“Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley.” + +“It’s no good his saying he is not responsible for those men. He is +responsible.” + +“Yes, rather.” + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +“Has it, sir?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“One minute, I’m busy. Well, Crane, who’s been driving it, do you +suppose?” + +“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.” + +The mud came off easily. + +“Charles, your father’s down. Something’s happened. He wants you in the +house at once. Oh, Charles!” + +“Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were +away, Crane?” + +“The gardener, sir.” + +“Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?” + +“No, sir; no one’s had the motor out, sir.” + +“Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?” + +“I can’t, of course, say for the time I’ve been in Yorkshire. No more +mud now, sir.” + +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. + +“Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?” + +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.” + +“Howards End? Now, Crane, just don’t forget to put on the Stepney +wheel.” + +“No, sir.” + +“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. + +“But you haven’t listened, Charles.” + +“What’s wrong?” + +“I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel’s got it.” + +“Got what?” said Charles, unclasping her. “What the dickens are you +talking about?” + +“Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty--” + +“Look here, I’m in no mood for foolery. It’s no morning for it either.” + +“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!” + +“HOWARDS END?” + +“HOWARDS END!” she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came +dashing out of the shubbery. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Come in, all three of you!” cried his father, no longer inert. + +“Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?” + +“Oh, Mr. Wilcox--” + +“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.” + +He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“I suppose we’re going to have a talk about this?” he remarked, +ominously calm. + +“Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--” + +“Well, let’s sit down.” + +“Come, Evie, don’t waste time, sit--down.” + +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--” + +Dolly interrupted him. “But I say that note isn’t legal. Houses ought to +be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I don’t think that,” said his father, whose nature was nobler than his +son’s. + +“Don’t think what?” + +“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.” + +“My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don’t admit it is +my mother’s writing.” + +“Why, you just said it was!” cried Dolly. + +“Never mind if I did,” he blazed out; “and hold your tongue.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“Ah, well!” said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. “I shouldn’t have +thought it possible.” + +“Mother couldn’t have meant it,” said Evie, still frowning. + +“No, my girl, of course not.” + +“Mother believed so in ancestors too--it isn’t like her to leave +anything to an outsider, who’d never appreciate.” + +“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.” + +“That time may prove,” murmured Charles. + +“How?” asked his sister. + +“Presumably she knows--mother will have told her. She got twice or three +times into the nursing home. Presumably she is awaiting developments.” + +“What a horrid woman!” And Dolly, who had recovered, cried, “Why, she +may be coming down to turn us out now!” + +Charles put her right. “I wish she would,” he said ominously. “I could +then deal with her.” + +“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.” + +“That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though.” + +“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.” + +Evie said: “But those chrysanthemums--” + +“Or coming down to the funeral at all--” echoed Dolly. + +“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.” + +“Oh, I forget she isn’t really English,” cried Evie. “That would explain +a lot.” + +“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.” + +“Has he done it any harm?” + +“No.” + +“In that case I shall let it pass. It’s not worth while having a row.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +Then something occurred to her, and she interrupted. + +“Helen, I told you about poor Mrs. Wilcox; that sad business?” + +“Yes.” + +“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.” + +“I hope Charles took the hint.” + +“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.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me as particularly happy.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +Groans. + +“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.” + +“I have no experience of this profound desire to which you allude,” + enunciated Tibby. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not marry?” + +“I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance.” + +“Has nobody arst you?” + +“Only ninnies.” + +“Do people ask Helen?” + +“Plentifully.” + +“Tell me about them.” + +“No.” + +“Tell me about your ninnies, then.” + +“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.” + +“Spare me the Wilcoxes,” he moaned. + +“I shall not. They are the right sort.” + +“Oh, goodness me, Meg--!” he protested, suddenly sitting up, alert and +angry. Tibby, for all his defects, had a genuine personality. + +“Well, they’re as near the right sort as you can imagine.” + +“No, no--oh, no!” + +“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.” + +“Duty” always elicited a groan. + +“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.” + +“EMPIRE!” + +“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--” + +“What it is,” he sneered. + +“What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civilisation. How +paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven.” + +“And I,” said Tibby, “want civilisation without activity, which, I +expect, is what we shall find in the other place.” + +“You needn’t go as far as the other place, Tibbikins, if you want that. +You can find it at Oxford.” + +“Stupid--” + +“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.” + +“London, then.” + +“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.” + +As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burst in in a state of +extreme excitement. + +“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.” + +“Not anything to do with Bracknell?” cried Margaret, who had lately +taken on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots. + +“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.” + +“Now, Helen, what did really happen?” + +“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.” + +“Lan?” + +“Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline.” + +“But what an extraordinary--” + +“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.’” + +“I hope you were pleased,” said Tibby. + +“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.” + +“But how on earth--” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“I don’t think so--she doesn’t really mind. The admirable creature isn’t +capable of tragedy.” + +“Her husband may be, though,” said Margaret, moving to the window. + +“Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could have married Mrs. +Lanoline.” + +“Was she pretty?” + +“Her figure may have been good once.” + +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. + +“Tibby and I have again been wondering where we’ll live next September,” + she said at last. + +“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. + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +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. + +“Cheers, children!” cried Helen. “It’s Mrs. Lanoline.” + +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. + +“You wouldn’t remember giving me this, Miss Schlegel?” said he, uneasily +familiar. + +“No; I can’t say I do.” + +“Well, that was how it happened, you see.” + +“Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute I don’t remember.” + +“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.” + +“We hear the Fifth practically every time it’s done, so I’m not sure--do +you remember, Helen?” + +“Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the balustrade?” + +He thought not. + +“Then I don’t remember. That’s the only Beethoven I ever remember +specially.” + +“And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, inadvertently of +course.” + +“Likely enough,” Helen laughed, “for I steal umbrellas even oftener than +I hear Beethoven. Did you get it back?” + +“Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel.” + +“The mistake arose out of my card, did it?” interposed Margaret. + +“Yes, the mistake arose--it was a mistake.” + +“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. + +“That’s so, calling too--a mistake.” + +“Then why--?” began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm. + +“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.” + +“No inconvenience,” said Helen; “but I still don’t understand.” + +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?” + +“Call? What call?” said he, staring as if her question had been a +foolish one, a favourite device of those in mid-stream. + +“This afternoon call.” + +“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?” + +“S--Saturday.” + +“Really!” said Helen; “and you were still calling on Sunday, when your +wife came here. A long visit.” + +“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.” + +“Oh, don’t let us mind,” said Margaret, distressed again by odours from +the abyss. + +“It was something else,” he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking +down. “I was somewhere else to what you think, so there!” + +“It was good of you to come and explain,” she said. “The rest is +naturally no concern of ours.” + +“Yes, but I want--I wanted--have you ever read The Ordeal of Richard +Feverel?” + +Margaret nodded. + +“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?” + +Helen and Tibby groaned gently. + +“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. + +Said Helen, “No doubt it’s another beautiful book, but I’d rather hear +about your road.” + +“Oh, I walked.” + +“How far?” + +“I don’t know, nor for how long. It got too dark to see my watch.” + +“Were you walking alone, may I ask?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps, then the +trees, and towards morning it got cloudy.” + +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. + +Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother influenced them more than +they knew; in his absence they were stirred to enthusiasm more easily. + +“Where did you start from?” cried Margaret. “Do tell us more.” + +“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--” + +“But not good country there, is it?” + +“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.” + +“Yes, go on,” said Helen. + +“You’ve no idea how difficult uneven ground is when it’s dark.” + +“Did you actually go off the roads?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Professional athletes never move without lanterns and compasses,” said +Helen. “Besides, they can’t walk. It tires them. Go on.” + +“I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how in Virginibus.” + +“Yes, but the wood. This ‘ere wood. How did you get out of it?” + +“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.” + +“But was the dawn wonderful?” asked Helen. + +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. + +“The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to mention.” + +“Just a grey evening turned upside down. I know.” + +“--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.” + +“I should just think you ought,” said Helen, sitting on the edge of the +table. + +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.” + +“Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you’re wrong there. It didn’t. It came from +something far greater.” + +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. + +“Then you don’t think I was foolish?” he asked becoming again the naive +and sweet-tempered boy for whom Nature intended him. + +“Heavens, no!” replied Margaret. + +“Heaven help us if we do!” replied Helen. + +“I’m very glad you say that. Now, my wife would never understand--not if +I explained for days.” + +“No, it wasn’t foolish!” cried Helen, her eyes aflame. “You’ve pushed +back the boundaries; I think it splendid of you.” + +“You’ve not been content to dream as we have--” + +“Though we have walked, too--” + +“I must show you a picture upstairs--” + +Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to take them to their +evening party. + +“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. + +Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: “No, I shall not. It’s better +like this.” + +“Why better?” asked Margaret. + +“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.” + +“That’s rather a sad view of life, surely.” + +“Things so often get spoiled.” + +“I know,” flashed Helen, “but people don’t.” + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +Jacky sighed, said, “Len, I do think you might explain,” and resumed +domesticity. + +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. + +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? + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +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. + +And here Margaret interrupted. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Have I? I thought I had a million.” + +“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.” + +“But that would be pauperising them,” said an earnest girl, who liked +the Schlegels, but thought them a little unspiritual at times. + +“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?” + +“Exactly what your Mr. Basts won’t do.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Cold?” + +“No.” + +“Tired?” + +“Doesn’t matter.” + +The earnest girl’s train rumbled away over the bridge. + +“I say, Helen--” + +“Well?” + +“Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“I think we won’t.” + +“As you like.” + +“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.” + +“There’s Mrs. Lanoline, too,” Helen yawned. “So dull.” + +“Just so, and possibly worse than dull.” + +“I should like to know how he got hold of your card.” + +“But he said--something about a concert and an umbrella.” + +“Then did the card see the wife--” + +“Helen, come to bed.” + +“No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you +say money is the warp of the world?” + +“Yes.” + +“Then what’s the woof?” + +“Very much what one chooses,” said Margaret. “It’s something that isn’t +money--one can’t say more.” + +“Walking at night?” + +“Probably.” + +“For Tibby, Oxford?” + +“It seems so.” + +“For you?” + +“Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it’s that. +For Mrs. Wilcox it was certainly Howards End.” + +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. + +“It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than +people,” continued Margaret. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. + +“How do you do?” he cried. “I thought I recognised your voices. Whatever +are you both doing down here?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Ugh--” said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. + +“I beg your pardon?” + +“Isn’t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I expect we’d better be doing the same, really.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Quickness--?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Oh yes, it doesn’t much matter what subject you take,” said he. + +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.” + +“About Mr. Bast? Yes, do. He’ll be more lenient to a special case.” + +“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--” + +“What’s his profession?” + +“Clerk.” + +“What in?” + +“Do you remember, Margaret?” + +“Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company.” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“Why?” said Margaret. + +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. + +“Dear me, Helen, listen to that. And he’ll have to get another place!” + +“WILL have? Let him leave the ship before it sinks. Let him get one +now.” + +“Rather than wait, to make sure?” + +“Decidedly.” + +“Why’s that?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“And how does he clean the boots?” + +“Not well,” confessed Margaret. + +“There you are!” + +“Then do you really advise us to tell this youth--?” + +“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.” + +“Certainly I won’t say. In fact, I don’t know what that means.” + +“I thought an insurance company never smashed,” was Helen’s +contribution. “Don’t the others always run in and save them?” + +“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.” + +“‘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. + +“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. + +“It’s let.” + +“Really. And you wandering homeless in longhaired Chelsea? How strange +are the ways of Fate!” + +“No; it’s let unfurnished. We’ve moved.” + +“Why, I thought of you both as anchored there for ever. Evie never told +me.” + +“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?” + +“As far as the house, never.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Hilton isn’t without us,” he replied. “Charles is there still.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“So it is,” he replied. “I haven’t sold it, and don’t mean to.” + +“No; but none of you are there.” + +“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.” + +“And some people are lucky enough to have both. You’re doing yourself +proud, Mr. Wilcox. My congratulations.” + +“And mine,” said Helen. + +“Do remind Evie to come and see us--2 Wickham Place. We shan’t be there +very long, either.” + +“You, too, on the move?” + +“Next September,” Margaret sighed. + +“Every one moving! Good-bye.” + +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? + +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.” + +“Do; yes, that’s worth doing. Let us.” + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday. But he was right; +the visit proved a conspicuous failure. + +“Sugar?” said Margaret. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Oh yes,” she said. + +“Ladies brighten--” + +“Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams. Let me give you a +plate.” + +“How do you like your work?” interposed Margaret. + +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. + +“Oh, well enough,” he answered. + +“Your company is the Porphyrion, isn’t it?” + +“Yes, that’s so.”--becoming rather offended. “It’s funny how things get +round.” + +“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--” + +“Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big Insurance Companies?” + pursued Margaret. + +“It depends on what you call big.” + +“I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern, that offers a +reasonably good career to its employes.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I quite agree, and that’s why I was curious to know; is it a solid, +well-established concern?” + +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. + +“We were told the Porphyrion’s no go,” blurted Helen. “We wanted to tell +you; that’s why we wrote.” + +“A friend of ours did think that it is insufficiently reinsured,” said +Margaret. + +Now Leonard had his clue. + +He must praise the Porphyrion. “You can tell your friend,” he said, +“that he’s quite wrong.” + +“Oh, good!” + +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. + +“Wrong, so to speak,” he added. + +“How ‘so to speak’?” + +“I mean I wouldn’t say he’s right altogether.” + +But this was a blunder. “Then he is right partly,” said the elder woman, +quick as lightning. + +Leonard replied that every one was right partly, if it came to that. + +“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’?” + +Leonard sat back with a sigh. + +“Our friend, who is also a business man, was so positive. He said before +Christmas--” + +“And advised you to clear out of it,” concluded Helen. “But I don’t see +why he should know better than you do.” + +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. + +“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? + +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. + +“Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!” screamed Helen, +falling on her hands and knees. + +“We brought the little fellows round,” said Mr. Wilcox. + +“I bred ’em myself.” + +“Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies.” + +“I’ve got to be going now,” said Leonard sourly. + +“But play with puppies a little first.” + +“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. + +“I’ve got to be going.” + +Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. + +“Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba--Must you be really? Good-bye!” + +“Come again,” said Helen from the floor. + +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.” + +Most people would have let him go. “A little mistake. We tried knowing +another class--impossible.” + +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. + +“You ask me why I turn on you?” + +“Yes.” + +“What do you want to have me here for?’ + +“To help you, you silly boy!” cried Helen. “And don’t shout.” + +“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?” + +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?” + +But Margaret ignored him. + +“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?” + +“Highly unfair,” said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew +that her father was becoming dangerous. + +“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--” + +“You,” said Margaret--“you--you--” + +Laughter from Evie as at a repartee. + +“You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star.” + +More laughter. + +“You saw the sunrise.” + +Laughter. + +“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.” + +“I fail to see the connection,” said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Can I help you now?” said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. “May I have +one quiet word with him in the hall?” + +“Helen, go after him--do anything--anything--to make the noodle +understand.” + +Helen hesitated. + +“But really--” said their visitor. “Ought she to?” + +At once she went. + +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.” + +“Oh yes,” said Margaret distractedly. + +“Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me,” cried +Evie. + +“Yes, indeed,” chuckled her father; “all that part about ‘mechanical +cheerfulness’--oh, fine!” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. “Do you +realise that it’s all your fault?” she said. “You’re responsible.” + +“I?” + +“This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We +warn him, and--look!” + +Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. “I hardly consider that a fair deduction,” he +said. + +“Obviously unfair,” said Margaret. “I was only thinking how tangled +things are. It’s our fault mostly--neither yours nor his.” + +“Not his?” + +“No.” + +“Miss Schlegel, you are too kind.” + +“Yes, indeed,” nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. + +“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.” + +“Ye--es.” + +“Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a +gentleman.” + +“I admit it willingly,” said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the +room. “A gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself.” + +Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. + +“What did he suspect you of?” + +“Of wanting to make money out of him.” + +“Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +She turned to him frankly. “Let me explain exactly why we like this man, +and want to see him again.” + +“That’s your clever way of talking. I shall never believe you like him.” + +“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--” + +“Oh, he’s one of that writer sort.” + +“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.” + +Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them run past. Others he +caught and criticised with admirable lucidity. + +“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’?” + +“Because--” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“With YOU?” + +“Yes.” Evie tittered. “He hasn’t got the cosy home that you assumed. He +needs outside interests.” + +“Naughty young man!” cried the girl. + +“Naughty?” said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin. “When +you’re married Miss Wilcox, won’t you want outside interests?” + +“He has apparently got them,” put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. + +“Yes, indeed, father.” + +“He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that,” said Margaret, pacing +away rather crossly. + +“Oh, I dare say!” + +“Miss Wilcox, he was!” + +“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. + +“He said so, and about such a thing he wouldn’t lie.” + +They both began to laugh. + +“That’s where I differ from you. Men lie about their positions and +prospects, but not about a thing of that sort.” + +He shook his head. “Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but I know the type.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“Miss Schlegel, you’re a pair of dear creatures, but you really MUST be +careful in this uncharitable world. What does your brother say?” + +“I forget.” + +“Surely he has some opinion?” + +“He laughs, if I remember correctly.” + +“He’s very clever, isn’t he?” said Evie, who had met and detested Tibby +at Oxford. + +“Yes, pretty well--but I wonder what Helen’s doing.” + +“She is very young to undertake this sort of thing,” said Mr. Wilcox. + +Margaret went out to the landing. She heard no sound, and Mr. Bast’s +topper was missing from the hall. + +“Helen!” she called. + +“Yes!” replied a voice from the library. + +“You in there?” + +“Yes--he’s gone some time.” + +Margaret went to her. “Why, you’re all alone,” she said. + +“Yes--it’s all right, Meg. Poor, poor creature--” + +“Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later--Mr. W much concerned, and +slightly titillated.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that reassured their +visitor--this hen at all events was fancy-free. + +“He’s gone with my blessing,” she cried, “and now for puppies.” + +As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to his daughter: + +“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?” + +Evie replied: “Helen’s right enough, but I can’t stand the toothy one. +And I shouldn’t have called either of them girls.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“No, after houses,” said Margaret, edging past him into the box. “I’m +hungry, not tired; I want to eat heaps.” + +“That’s good. What’ll you have?” + +“Fish pie,” said she, with a glance at the menu. + +“Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson’s. It’s not a bit the +thing to go for here.” + +“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. + +“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?” + +“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. + +“It’s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere’s my motto.” + +“Perhaps it does make life more human.” + +“Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, +they remember you from year’s end to year’s end.” + +“Have you been in the East?” + +“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?” + +“No, I’m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I’ve already told you once. Do +you know of any houses?” + +“Afraid I don’t.” + +“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.” + +“Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house-agent for +her!” + +“What’s that, father?” + +“I want a new home in September, and some one must find it. I can’t.” + +“Percy, do you know of anything?” + +“I can’t say I do,” said Mr. Cahill. + +“How like you! You’re never any good.” + +“Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!” + +“Well, you aren’t. Miss Schlegel, is he?” + +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.” + +“With pleasure.” + +“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.” + +“A what?” + +“Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for +hours. Nor of an astral plane?” + +He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You’re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no +one dares mention it.” + +“Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the +supernatural and all that?” + +“Too difficult a question.” + +“Why’s that? Gruyere or Stilton?” + +“Gruyere, please.” + +“Better have Stilton. + +“Stilton. Because, though I don’t believe in auras, and think +Theosophy’s only a halfway-house--” + +“--Yet there may be something in it all the same,” he concluded, with a +frown. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know.” + +“Yes, I am,” “No, you’re not,” burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret +was silent for a moment, and then changed the subject. + +“How’s your house?” + +“Much the same as when you honoured it last week.” + +“I don’t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course.” + +“Why ‘of course’?” + +“Can’t you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We’re nearly demented.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“I’m out of my depth,” he said, and added: “Didn’t you talk rather like +that to your office boy?” + +“Did I?--I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same way to every +one--or try to.” + +“Yes, I know. And how much of it do you suppose he understood?” + +“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--” + +“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.” + +Margaret could not reply. Was he incredibly stupid, or did he understand +her better than she understood herself? + +“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.” + +“Every one admits that.” + +“Your Socialists don’t.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They had not succeeded in +finding a new home. + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“You needn’t go though--” began her hostess. + +“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--” + +“No, we have no real ties,” said Helen, helping herself to toast. + +“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.” + +“But you won’t do anything rash, Margaret?” + +“There’s nothing rash to do.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Interesting people don’t get one houses.” + +“Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the +treacle at you.” + +“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.” + +“It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word ‘possible’” + +“It depends on nothing of the sort. Say ‘yes.’” + +“Say ‘no.’” + +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?” + +“It will be as easy as eating,” returned Helen. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +Helen, with her mouth full, cried: + +“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.” + +“Speak for yourself,” said Tibby. “Remember that I am cosmopolitan, +please.” + +“Helen may be right.” + +“Of course she’s right,” said Helen. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“What! Have you come up determined not to deal?” + +“Not exactly.” + +“Not exactly? In that case let’s be starting.” + +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. + +“Presumably it’s very beautiful,” she said. “How do you like it, Crane?” + +“Come, let’s be starting,” repeated her host. “How on earth did you know +that my chauffeur was called Crane?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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--” + +“You, too, feel lonely?” + +“Horribly. Hullo, Parliament’s back!” + +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--” + +“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.” + +“Your sister always likes her little joke.” + +“She says ‘Yes,’ my brother says `No,’ to Ducie Street. It’s no fun +helping us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you.” + +“You are not as unpractical as you pretend. I shall never believe it.” + +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. + +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. + +“At all events you responded to my telegram promptly,” he remarked. + +“Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it.” + +“I’m glad you don’t despise the goods of this world.” + +“Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.’” + +“Right. The dining-room.” And they began their survey. + +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. + +“Now the entrance-hall.” + +The entrance-hall was paved. + +“Here we fellows smoke.” + +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. + +“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?” + +“Ye--es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?” + +“Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?” + +“Does all this furniture come from Howards End?” + +“The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton.” + +“Does--However, I’m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big +is this smoking-room?” + +“Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half.” + +“Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren’t you ever amused at the solemnity with +which we middle classes approach the subject of houses?” + +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. + +But the proposal was not to rank among the world’s great love scenes. + +“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.” + +Margaret almost answered: “I know--” + +“Could you be induced to share my--is it probable--” + +“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.” + +He began to stammer. “Miss Schlegel--Margaret you don’t understand.” + +“Oh yes! Indeed, yes!” said Margaret. + +“I am asking you to be my wife.” + +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. + +“You aren’t offended, Miss Schlegel?” + +“How could I be offended?” + +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. + +“Good-bye,” she continued. “You will have a letter from me--I am going +back to Swanage to-morrow.” + +“Thank you.” + +“Good-bye, and it’s you I thank.” + +“I may order the motor round, mayn’t I?” + +“That would be most kind.” + +“I wish I had written. Ought I to have written?” + +“Not at all.” + +“There’s just one question--” + +She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered as they parted. + +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. + +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. + +Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost; surveying the +scene, thought Margaret, without one hint of bitterness. + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +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. + +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. + +“And your English lakes--Vindermere, Grasmere they, then, unhealthy?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Then ‘smell.’ And the mud of your Pool down there--does it not smell, +or may I say ‘stink,’ ha, ha?” + +“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.” + +“Yes, that is so,” conceded Frieda; and another international incident +was closed. + +“‘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.” + +“Aunt Juley, wouldn’t that be Meg’s train?” + +A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing +southwards towards them over the black and the gold. + +“Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won’t be overtired.” + +“Oh, I do wonder--I do wonder whether she’s taken the house.” + +“I hope she hasn’t been hasty.” + +“So do I--oh, SO do I.” + +“Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?” Frieda asked. + +“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--” + +“Ah!” + +“You’ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you +are!” + +“But sister to that Paul?” + +“Yes.” + +“And to that Charles,” said Mrs. Munt with feeling. “Oh, Helen, Helen, +what a time that was!” + +Helen laughed. “Meg and I haven’t got such tender hearts. If there’s a +chance of a cheap house, we go for it.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You yet may,” said Frieda despondently. + +Helen shook her head. “The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I’m +certain of anything it’s of that.” + +“One is certain of nothing but the truth of one’s own emotions.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Have you got the house?” they shouted, long before she could possibly +hear. + +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. + +“Have you got the house?” + +Margaret shook her head. + +“Oh, what a nuisance! So we’re as we were?” + +“Not exactly.” + +She got out, looking tired. + +“Some mystery,” said Tibby. “We are to be enlightened presently.” + +Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal +of marriage from Mr. Wilcox. + +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.” + +Margaret’s face flashed despair. + +“That type--” She broke off with a cry. “Meg, not anything wrong with +you?” + +“Wait one minute,” said Margaret, whispering always. + +“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. + +Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, “Oh, really--” She +felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. + +“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. + +“Don’t, don’t do such a thing! I tell you not to--don’t! I know--don’t!” + +“What do you know?” + +“Panic and emptiness,” sobbed Helen. “Don’t!” + +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--” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“Look here, sit down.” + +“All right; I’ll sit down if you’ll sit down.” + +“There. (One kiss.) Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?” + +“I do mean what I said. Don’t; it wouldn’t do.” + +“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.” + +Helen was silent. + +“Well?” + +“Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I’ll have got my head out +of the slime.” + +“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.” + +“Then you love him?” + +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.” + +“But loved him?” + +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.” + +“But you will?” + +“Yes,” said Margaret, “of that I’m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the +moment he spoke to me.” + +“And have settled to marry him?” + +“I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, +Helen? You must try and say.” + +Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. “It is ever since Paul,” she said +finally. + +“But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?” + +“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.” + +She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood +it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. + +“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?” + +“No, it doesn’t,” said Helen. “It makes me feel worse and worse. You +must be mad.” + +Margaret made a movement of irritation. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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--” + +“And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul.” + +“That’s brutal,” said Margaret. “Mine is an absolutely different case. +I’ve thought things out.” + +“It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same.” + +“Rubbish!” + +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? + + + +CHAPTER XX + +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. + +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. + +In this spirit she promised to marry him. + +He was in Swanage on the morrow bearing the engagement ring. + +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. + +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.” + +“Yes,” he said, laughing. “And you and your sister were head and ears +deep in some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!” + +“I little thought then, certainly. Did you?” + +“I don’t know about that; I shouldn’t like to say.” + +“Why, was it earlier?” she cried. “Did you think of me this way earlier! +How extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me.” + +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. + +“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--” + +“By the way--” + +“--a suggestion, a seed,” she concluded; and the thought flew away +into darkness. + +“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.” + +“I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?” + +“With your brother?” + +“Yes, during cigarettes.” + +“Oh, very well.” + +“I am so glad,” she answered, a little surprised. “What did you talk +about? Me, presumably.” + +“About Greece too.” + +“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.” + +“I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata.” + +“What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can’t we go there for our +honeymoon?” + +“What to do?” + +“To eat the currants. And isn’t there marvellous scenery?” + +“Moderately, but it’s not the kind of place one could possibly go to +with a lady.” + +“Why not?” + +“No hotels.” + +“Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have +walked alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?” + +“I wasn’t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing +again.” + +She said more gravely: “You haven’t found time for a talk with Helen +yet, I suppose?” + +“No.” + +“Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends.” + +“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.” + +“Dolly’s uncle.” + +“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.” + +“Poor fellow!” murmured Margaret, looking out to sea, and not +understanding. + +“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.” + +“Of course not,” she began, and then gave a little cry. “you mean money. +How stupid I am! Of course not!” + +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.” + +“Be generous to them,” she said sharply. “Bother justice!” + +“I am determined--and have already written to Charles to that effect--” + +“But how much have you got?” + +“What?” + +“How much have you a year? I’ve six hundred.” + +“My income?” + +“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.” + +“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!” + +“Don’t you know your income? Or don’t you want to tell it me?” + +“I--” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“We’ve none too much, I assure you; you’re marrying a poor man.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Keep it on--at least, it depends. When do you want to marry me?” + +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. + +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.” + +“The earlier the nicer, Henry. Females are not supposed to say such +things, but the earlier the nicer.” + +“How about September for us too?” he asked, rather dryly. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“How sad! It’s only a few years since they built those pretty houses.” + +“Shows things are moving. Good for trade.” + +“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--” + +“High tide, yes.” + +“Hoy toid”--from the promenading youths. + +“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.” + +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. + +“A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in alone!” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Can’t I look after myself? I do wish--” + +“Come along, Margaret; no wheedling.” + +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. + +And if insight were sufficient, if the inner life were the whole of +life, their happiness had been assured. + +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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +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. + +“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!” + +“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?” + +“Charles, that reminds me of some poem.” + +“Does it indeed? We shall all be dancing to a very different music +presently. Miss Schlegel has fairly got us on toast.” + +“I could simply scratch that woman’s eyes out, and to say it’s my fault +is most unfair.” + +“It’s your fault, and five months ago you admitted it.” + +“I didn’t.” + +“You did.” + +“Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!” exclaimed Dolly, suddenly +devoting herself to the child. + +“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.” + +“Of course, if you’re going to be rude to Uncle Percy.” + +“Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards End, and, thanks to +you, she’s got it.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Here we are. Good-morning, Helen.” + +Helen replied, “Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Thanks to your hint, he’s clearing out of the Porphyrion.” + +“Not a bad business that Porphyrion,” he said absently, as he took his +own letter out of his pocket. + +“Not a BAD--” she exclaimed, dropping his hand. “Surely, on Chelsea +Embankment--” + +“Here’s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. +Good-morning, Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don’t +we?” + +“Not a BAD business?” + +“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?” + +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. + +The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further +touch of insipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for +excursionists. + +“When there is a sublet I find that damage--” + +“Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don’t feel easy--might I just +bother you, Henry?” + +Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little +sharply what she wanted. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“Dempster! Why goodness me, yes.” + +“More right than the Porphyrion?” + +“Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses--safer.” + +“Very many thanks. I’m sorry--if you sublet--?” + +“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.” + +“I should enjoy that,” said Margaret bravely. + +“What about next Wednesday?” + +“Wednesday? No, I couldn’t well do that. Aunt Juley expects us to stop +here another week at least.” + +“But you can give that up now.” + +“Er--no,” said Margaret, after a moment’s thought. + +“Oh, that’ll be all right. I’ll speak to her.” + +“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.” + +“But I’ll say a word to her. Don’t you bother.” + +“Henry, I won’t go. Don’t bully me.” + +“You want to see the house, though?” + +“Very much--I’ve heard so much about it, one way or the other. Aren’t +there pigs’ teeth in the wych-elm?” + +“PIGS TEETH?” + +“And you chew the bark for toothache.” + +“What a rum notion! Of course not!” + +“Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a +great number of sacred trees in England, it seems.” + +But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in +the distance; to be intercepted himself by Helen. + +“Oh. Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion--” she began and went scarlet all +over her face. + +“It’s all right,” called Margaret, catching them up. “Dempster’s Bank’s +better.” + +“But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before +Christmas.” + +“Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten +policies. Lately it came in--safe as houses now.” + +“In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it.” + +“No, the fellow needn’t.” + +“--and needn’t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary.” + +“He only says ‘reduced,’” corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. + +“With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a +deplorable misfortune.” + +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?” + +“You’re ridiculous, Helen.” + +“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--” + +“Is that your point? A man who had little money has less--that’s mine.” + +“I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day’s work. It’s part +of the battle of life.” + +“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.” + +“Oh come, come!” he protested pleasantly, “you’re not to blame. No one’s +to blame.” + +“Is no one to blame for anything?” + +“I wouldn’t say that, but you’re taking it far too seriously. Who is +this fellow?” + +“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!” + +He raised his finger. “Now, a word of advice.” + +“I require no more advice.” + +“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.” + +Helen quivered with indignation. + +“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--” + +“I didn’t say--” + +“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.” + +“Owing to God, I suppose,” flashed Helen. + +He stared at her. + +“You grab the dollars. God does the rest.” + +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.” + +Helen looked out at the sea. + +“Don’t ever discuss political economy with Henry,” advised her sister. +“It’ll only end in a cry.” + +“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.” + +“He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in theory!” + +“But oh, Meg, what a theory!” + +“Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?” + +“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. + +“Margaret!” her aunt called. “Magsy! It isn’t true, surely, what Mr. +Wilcox says, that you want to go away early next week?” + +“Not ‘want,’” was Margaret’s prompt reply; “but there is so much to be +settled, and I do want to see the Charles’s.” + +“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?” + +“I’m afraid so.” + +Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with, “Good! I did the breaking of the ice.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +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.” + +“Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor Henry as all that?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +“One minute!” called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her name. He touched a +bell, the effect of which was to produce Charles. + +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. + +“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.” + +“I shall enjoy seeing it,” said Margaret, feeling, for the first time, +shy. + +“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.” + +“I’ve more than a little bone to pick with Bryce,” called Henry from the +inner chamber. + +“Why did he go so suddenly?” + +“Invalid type; couldn’t sleep.” + +“Poor fellow!” + +“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.” + +“Yes, I flung them down,” said Charles modestly. + +“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.” + +“The keys are at the farm; we wouldn’t have the keys.” + +“Quite right.” + +“Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortunately.” + +“What’s Mr. Bryce like?” asked Margaret. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“They’re all right,” said Mr. Wilcox. “They’ll learn--like the swallows +and the telegraph-wires.” + +“Yes, but, while they’re learning--” + +“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.” + +She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently +it congealed. They had arrived. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“What’s happened?” asked Margaret. + +“What do you suppose?” said Henry. + +A little porch was close up against her face. + +“Are we there already?” + +“We are.” + +“Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away.” + +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?” + +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.” + +“Mayn’t I come too?” + +“No; I shall be back before I’m gone.” + +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. + +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. + +“Naughty cow! Go away!” cried Margaret to the cow, but without +indignation. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Is that you, Henry?” she called. + +There was no answer, but the house reverberated again. + +“Henry, have you got in?” + +But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at first, then +loudly, martially. It dominated the rain. + +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: + +“Oh! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox.” + +Margaret stammered: “I--Mrs. Wilcox--I?” + +“In fancy, of course--in fancy. You had her way of walking. Good-day.” + And the old woman passed out into the rain. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +“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.” + +“I wasn’t as foolish as you suggest,” said Margaret “She only startled +me, for the house had been silent so long.” + +“Did you take her for a spook?” asked Dolly, for whom “spooks”’ and +“going to church” summarised the unseen. + +“Not exactly.” + +“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.” + +“Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?” Margaret asked, and found herself +looking at the decoration scheme of Dolly’s drawing-room. + +“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.” + +“I shouldn’t have disliked it, perhaps.” + +“Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present,” said Dolly. + +Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, Margaret was +destined to learn a good deal. + +“But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she had known his +grandmother.” + +“As usual, you’ve got the story wrong, my good Dorothea.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“I believe so,” said Mr. Wilcox negligently. + +“I say! Howards End--Howards Ended!” cried Dolly. “I’m rather on the +spot this evening, eh?” + +“I wish you’d ask whether Crane’s ended.” + +“Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you?” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“I heard of it one winter in London,” was her answer, for she, too, +avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by name. + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +They spoke of Tariff Reform. + +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.” + +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.” + +“What’s happened?” asked Mrs. Warrington. + +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. + +“What is it?” the ladies cried. + +Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said: “It’s +all right. Your car just touched a dog.” + +“But stop!” cried Margaret, horrified. + +“It didn’t hurt him.” + +“Didn’t really hurt him?” asked Myra. + +“No.” + +“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.” + +Charles took no notice. + +“We’ve left Mr. Fussell behind,” said another; “and Angelo, and Crane.” + +“Yes, but no woman.” + +“I expect a little of”--Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm--“will be +more to the point than one of us!” + +“The insurance company see to that,” remarked Charles, “and Albert will +do the talking.” + +“I want to go back, though, I say!” repeated Margaret, getting angry. + +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.” + +“The men CAN’T see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to +stop.” + +“Stopping’s no good,” drawled Charles. + +“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. + +“Of course I’ve hurt myself!” she retorted. + +“May I ask what--” + +“There’s nothing to ask,” said Margaret. + +“Your hand’s bleeding.” + +“I know.” + +“I’m in for a frightful row from the pater.” + +“You should have thought of that sooner, Charles.” + +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. + +Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. + +“It’s all right!” he called. “It was a cat.” + +“There!” exclaimed Charles triumphantly. “It’s only a rotten cat.” + +“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. + +“Miss Schlegel! ’Pon my word, you’ve hurt your hand.” + +“I’m just going to see,” said Margaret. “Don’t you wait, Mr. Fussell.” + +The second motor came round the corner. “It is all right, madam,” said +Crane in his turn. He had taken to calling her madam. + +“What’s all right? The cat?” + +“Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for it.” + +“She was a very ruda girla,” said Angelo from the third motor +thoughtfully. + +“Wouldn’t you have been rude?” + +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. + +“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.” + +Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he was standing to +welcome his guests in the hall. + +“Thinking it was a dog,” added Mrs. Warrington. + +“Ah, a dog’s a companion!” said Colonel Fussell. “A dog’ll remember you.” + +“Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?” + +“Not to speak about; and it’s my left hand.” + +“Well, hurry up and change.” + +She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then turned to his son. + +“Now, Charles, what’s happened?” + +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. + +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?” + +Charles made no answer. + +“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!” + +“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. + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +“Miss Wilcox is up--” the child whispered, and then became +unintelligible. + +“What is that?” it sounded like, “--cut-yoke--sack-back--” + +“I can’t hear.” + +“--On the bed--tissue-paper--” + +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. + +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. + +Evie gasped: “Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just +then!” Then Margaret went down to breakfast. + +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. + +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. + +“Certainly, dear,” said he. “Of course, I have the time. What do you +want?” + +“Nothing.” + +“I was afraid something had gone wrong.” + +“No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“You men shouldn’t be so chivalrous,” said Margaret thoughtfully. + +“Why not?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“You desire a hotel?” + +“Yes, because--well, I mustn’t interfere with you. No doubt you want to +be married from your old home.” + +“My old home’s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn’t it +a perfect evening--” + +“The Alexandrina isn’t bad--” + +“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. + +“It’s off Curzon Street.” + +“Is it? Let’s be married from off Curzon Street.” + +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. + +“Who are those people?” she asked. + +“They’re callers!” exclaimed Henry. “It’s too late for callers.” + +“Perhaps they’re town people who want to see the wedding presents.” + +“I’m not at home yet to townees.” + +“Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will.” + +He thanked her. + +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. + +“What is it?” she called. “Oh, what’s wrong? Is Tibby ill?” + +Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward +furiously. + +“They’re starving!” she shouted. “I found them starving!” + +“Who? Why have you come?” + +“The Basts.” + +“Oh, Helen!” moaned Margaret. “Whatever have you done now?” + +“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.” + +“Helen, are you mad?” + +“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.” + +“Have you actually brought two starving people from London to +Shropshire, Helen?” + +Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated. +“There was a restaurant car on the train,” she said. + +“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.’” + +“Kindly take back that word ‘hangers-on,’” said Helen, ominously calm. + +“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.” + +“It’s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox.” + +Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to +worry Henry. + +“He’s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him.” + +“Yes, to-morrow.” + +“I knew it was our last chance.” + +“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?” + +“There is Mrs. Bast, too,” prompted Helen. + +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. + +“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--” + +“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.” + +Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. + +“I don’t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was +a bad concern, didn’t you?” + +“That’s right.” + +“And went into a bank instead?” + +“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.” + +“I hate all this,” Leonard muttered. + +“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.” + +“I brought them. I did it all,” cried Helen. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It’s work he wants,” interpreted Helen. “Can’t you see?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +She said: “Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he’s worth helping. I +agree that we are directly responsible.” + +“No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox.” + +“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.” + +Helen looked at the sunset. + +“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.” + +“It’s his duty to,” grumbled Helen. + +“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.” + +“Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“You’ll never believe me,” said Margaret, sitting down beside him. “It’s +all right now, but it was my sister.” + +“Helen here?” he cried, preparing to rise. “But she refused the +invitation. I thought hated weddings.” + +“Don’t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I’ve bundled her off to +the George.” + +Inherently hospitable, he protested. + +“No; she has two of her proteges with her and must keep with them.” + +“Let ’em all come.” + +“My dear Henry, did you see them?” + +“I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly.” + +“The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and +salmon bunch?” + +“What! are they out bean-feasting?” + +“No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you +about them.” + +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.” + +“Shall I?” + +“If it isn’t a long story.” + +“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.” + +“What are his qualifications?” + +“I don’t know. He’s a clerk.” + +“How old?” + +“Twenty-five, perhaps.” + +“What’s his name?” + +“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. + +“Where was he before?” + +“Dempster’s Bank.” + +“Why did he leave?” he asked, still remembering nothing. + +“They reduced their staff.” + +“All right; I’ll see him.” + +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. + +“I should be glad if you took him,” she said, “but I don’t know whether +he’s qualified.” + +“I’ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn’t be taken as a +precedent.” + +“No, of course--of course--” + +“I can’t fit in your proteges every day. Business would suffer.” + +“I can promise you he’s the last. He--he’s rather a special case.” + +“Proteges always are.” + +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. + +“Your protege has made us late,” said he. “The Fussells--will just be +starting.” + +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. + +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. + +“She’s overtired,” Margaret whispered. + +“She’s something else,” said Henry. “This won’t do. I can’t have her in +my garden in this state.” + +“Is she--” Margaret hesitated to add “drunk.” Now that she was going +to marry him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risque +conversations now. + +Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the +twilight like a puff-ball. + +“Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel,” he said sharply. + +Jacky replied: “If it isn’t Hen!” + +“Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble,” apologised Margaret. “Il est +tout à fait différent.” + +“Henry!” she repeated, quite distinctly. + +Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. “I congratulate you on your proteges,” he +remarked. + +“Hen, don’t go. You do love me, dear, don’t you?” + +“Bless us, what a person!” sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. + +Jacky pointed with her cake. “You’re a nice boy, you are.” She yawned. +“There now, I love you.” + +“Henry, I am awfully sorry.” + +“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. + +“To have brought this down on you.” + +“Pray don’t apologise.” + +The voice continued. + +“Why does she call you ‘Hen’?” said Margaret innocently. “Has she ever +seen you before?” + +“Seen Hen before!” said Jacky. “Who hasn’t seen Hen? He’s serving you +like me, my boys! You wait--Still we love ’em.” + +“Are you now satisfied?” Henry asked. + +Margaret began to grow frightened. “I don’t know what it is all about,” + she said. “Let’s come in.” + +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.” + +“This is Helen’s plan, not mine.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“So that--” burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself +from saying more. + +“So what?” asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the +hall. + +“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. + +“No, let me do that,” said Henry, following. + +“Thanks so much! You see--he has forgiven me!” + +The Colonel said gallantly: “I don’t expect there’s much to forgive.” + +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. + +Then Margaret continued: “So that woman has been your mistress?” + +“You put it with your usual delicacy,” he replied. + +“When, please?” + +“Why?” + +“When, please?” + +“Ten years ago.” + +She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy; it was Mrs. +Wilcox’s. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + +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. + +“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.” + +“I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel,” was all that +Leonard felt equal to. + +“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?” + +“I get no time for reading.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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’?” + +“Of course.” + +“And your sister, too?” + +“Of course,” repeated Helen, a little sharply. She was annoyed with +Margaret, but did not want her discussed. “All presentable people say +‘I.’” + +“But Mr. Wilcox--he is not perhaps--” + +“I don’t know that it’s any good discussing Mr. Wilcox either.” + +“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. + +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. + +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?” + +“It’s better she stops in her room,” said Leonard. + +“Shall I sit up with her?” + +“No, thank you; she does not need company.” + +“Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?” + +Leonard blushed up to his eyes. + +“You ought to know my ways by now. Does that question offend you?” + +“No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no.” + +“Because I love honesty. Don’t pretend your marriage has been a happy +one. You and she can have nothing in common.” + +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.” + +“How long have you been married?” + +“Nearly three years.” + +“What did your people say?” + +“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.” + +Helen began to pace up and down the room. “My good boy, what a mess!” + she said gently. “Who are your people?” + +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. + +“And your grandparents?” + +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.” + +“So! From which part?” + +“Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother’s father--he, oddly enough, came +from these parts round here.” + +“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?” + +“Oh, I don’t know.” + +“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?” + +He was silent. + +“I think I have guessed now,” said Helen very gravely. + +“I don’t think so, Miss Schlegel; I hope not.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Settle down to what?” + +“Oh, just settle down.” + +“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--” + +“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.” + +“Why not?” asked Helen, throwing up the window. + +“Because I see one must have money.” + +“Well, you’re wrong.” + +“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.” + +“You’re still wrong. You’ve forgotten Death.” + +Leonard could not understand. + +“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.’” + +“I wonder.” + +“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.” + +“I am as afraid of Death as any one.” + +“But not of the idea of Death.” + +“But what is the difference?” + +“Infinite difference,” said Helen, more gravely than before. + +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. + +“I must be stupid,” he said apologetically. + +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. + +“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. + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“I think that’ll about do,” she thought. + +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: + + +“DEAR MR. BAST, + +“I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I promised, and am sorry to +say that he has no vacancy for you. + +“Yours truly, + +“M. J. SCHLEGEL.” + + +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: + + +“DEAR HELEN, + +“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. + +“M.” + + +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. + +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. + +“Who’s there?” he called, quite the householder. + +Margaret walked in and past him. + +“I have asked Helen to sleep,” she said. “She is best here; so don’t +lock the front-door.” + +“I thought some one had got in,” said Henry. + +“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.” + +“Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after all?” + +“Probably.” + +“Is she to be shown up to your room?” + +“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?” + +He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to summon the servants. + +“You must make more noise than that if you want them to hear.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXIX + +“Henry dear--” was her greeting. + +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. + +“Henry dear, look at me. No, I won’t have you shirking. Look at me. +There. That’s all.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“It is difficult for us,” said Margaret; “but if we are worth marrying, +we do guess.” + +“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.’” + +“Not to me.” + +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. + +“Did Helen come?” she asked. + +He shook his head. + +“But that won’t do at all, at all! We don’t want her gossiping with Mrs. +Bast.” + +“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.” + +“Didn’t she send me a message or anything?” + +“I heard of none.” + +“Would you ring the bell, please?” + +“What to do?” + +“Why, to inquire.” + +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? + +“I’ll go, thank you,” said Margaret, and dismissed him. + +“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.” + +“Yes, that’s enough, dear.” + +“I have”--he lowered his voice--“I have been through hell.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, let them go--the man and his wife, I mean, for the more we see of +your sister the better.” + +“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.” + +“What did you say in the notes?” + +“I told you last night.” + +“Oh--ah--yes! Dear, would you like one turn in the garden?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Margaret!” he exclaimed, loosing her arm impressively. + +“Yes--yes, Henry?” + +“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.” + +“Except for some practical reason--never.” + +“Practical! You practical!” + +“Yes, I’m practical,” she murmured, stooping over the mowing-machine and +playing with the grass which trickled through her fingers like sand. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +And Margaret? How did she stand? + +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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXX + +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. + +He noticed, in a distant way, that his sister had altered. + +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. + +“I have come from Oniton,” she began. “There has been a great deal of +trouble there.” + +“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. + +“Sunrise or something--when I could get away.” + +“So I surmise. Why?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Give Meg my love and say that I want to be alone. I mean to go to +Munich or else Bonn.” + +“Such a message is easily given,” said her brother. + +“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.” + +Tibby locked the door. His friends often found it in this condition. +Then he asked whether anything had gone wrong at Evie’s wedding. + +“Not there,” said Helen, and burst into tears. + +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. + +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?” + +“Could I bathe my eyes, Tibby?” + +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. + +“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--” + +“Oh, those people!” + +Helen seemed silenced. + +“Shall I lock the door again?” + +“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?” + +“I gather he has had a mistress,” said Tibby. + +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?” + +He conceded that it was a bad business. + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“It is certainly a very bad business,” said Tibby. + +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.” + +She concluded her charge. + +“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. + +“You see, Helen--have a cigarette--I don’t see what I’m to do.” + +“Then there’s nothing to be done. I dare say you are right. Let them +marry. There remains the question of compensation.” + +“Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you not better consult an +expert?” + +“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.” + +“What is the sum?” + +“Five thousand.” + +“Good God alive!” said Tibby, and went crimson. + +“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.” + +“I don’t care an iota what people think!” cried he, heated to unusual +manliness of diction. “But it’s half what you have.” + +“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. + +“I didn’t expect you to understand me.” + +“I? I understand nobody.” + +“But you’ll do it?” + +“Apparently.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXXI + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I didn’t want to bother you,” he replied. “Besides, I have only heard +for certain this morning.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“This is news. I never heard till this minute that Oniton was damp.” + +“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.” + +Margaret could not resist saying, “Why did you go there, then?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don’t let this go any +further.” + +“Certainly not.” + +“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.” + +“Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere.” + +“I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?” + +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! + +“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.” + +“If possible, something permanent. I can’t be as young as I was, for +these alterations don’t suit me.” + +“But, my dear, which would you rather have--alterations or rheumatism?” + +“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.” + +“What a practical little woman it is! What’s it been reading? +Theo--theo--how much?” + +“Theosophy.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXXII + +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. + +“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.” + +“Why, Dolly!” said Margaret, placidly kissing her. “Here’s a surprise! +How are the boys and the baby?” + +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.” + +“It will be very jolly,” replied Margaret. + +“Are those the plans? Does it matter my seeing them?” + +“Of course not.” + +“Charles has never seen the plans.” + +“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.” + +“What makes it smell so funny?” said Dolly, after a moment’s inspection. +She was incapable of understanding plans or maps. + +“I suppose the paper.” + +“And WHICH way up is it?” + +“Just the ordinary way up. That’s the sky-line and the part that smells +strongest is the sky.” + +“Well, ask me another. Margaret--oh--what was I going to say? How’s +Helen?” + +“Quite well.” + +“Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it’s awfully odd +she doesn’t.” + +“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.” + +“But hasn’t she any address?” + +“A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a +line. I will look it up for you.” + +“No, don’t bother. That’s eight months she has been away, surely?” + +“Exactly. She left just after Evie’s wedding. It would be eight months.” + +“Just when baby was born, then?” + +“Just so.” + +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.” + +“Why has she done that? How unnecessary!” + +“Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to.” + +“I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did +undertake to light an occasional fire.” + +“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.” + +“Books!” cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. “Dolly, are you +serious? Has she been touching our books?” + +“Hasn’t she, though! What used to be the hall’s full of them. Charles +thought for certain you knew of it.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“I hadn’t heard of that,” said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its +compensations. + +“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.” + +“But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn’t like her to do such a +heartless thing.” + +“But the present was so expensive.” + +“Why does that make any difference, Dolly?” + +“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?” + +“You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you were married.” + +“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.” + +“But Miss Avery said--” + +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.” + +“Did she give any reasons?” + +“We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so climb into society.” + +“She’s rather old for that,” said Margaret pensively. “May she not have +given the present to Evie in remembrance of her mother?” + +“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. + +Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew about Miss Avery’s +rudeness. + +“Oh yes.” + +“I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after the house.” + +“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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this gave her gentility in +the eyes of Miss Avery’s niece. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?” asked Margaret. + +“Oh, yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily.” + +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. + +“Well, well!” replied some one inside the house. “If it isn’t Mrs. +Wilcox come at last!” + +“Have you got the key, auntie?” + +“Madge, go away,” said Miss Avery, still invisible. + +“Auntie, it’s Mrs. Wilcox--” + +Margaret supported her. “Your niece and I have come together.” + +“Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat.” + +The poor woman went red. “Auntie gets more eccentric lately,” she said +nervously. + +“Miss Avery!” called Margaret. “I have come about the furniture. Could +you kindly let me in?” + +“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox,” said the voice, “of course.” But after that came +silence. They called again without response. They walked round the house +disconsolately. + +“I hope Miss Avery is not ill,” hazarded Margaret. + +“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. + +Miss Avery said, “Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!” quite pleasantly +and calmly. + +“Thank you so much,” began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an +umbrella-stand. It was her own. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“The house has been empty long enough,” said the old woman. + +Margaret refused to argue. “I dare say we didn’t explain,” she said +civilly. “It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake.” + +“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.” + +To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: + +“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox’s house, the mother of Mr. Charles.” + +“Mistake upon mistake,” said Miss Avery. “Mistake upon mistake.” + +“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. + +The other said: “Yes, it should be a merry house enough.” + +“I don’t know--I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, +that’s all right. Delightful.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Oh, indeed! On account of his hay fever?” + +“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. + +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.” + +“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?” + +Miss Avery retorted: “Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don’t talk about some day. +You are living here now.” + +“Am I?” + +“You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask +me.” + +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. + +“The nursery,” she said. + +Margaret turned away without speaking. + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“My brother gets hay fever too,” said Margaret. + +“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.” + +Margaret laughed. + +“They keep a place going, don’t they? Yes, it is just that.” + +“They keep England going, it is my opinion.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +“No, better’n nothing,” said Miss Avery, and turned to the wych-elm. + +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.” + +“Had they no men to help them?” Margaret asked. + +Miss Avery replied: “Things went on until there were no men.” + +“Until Mr. Wilcox came along,” corrected Margaret, anxious that her +husband should receive his dues. + +“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.” + +“Whom should she have married?” + +“A soldier!” exclaimed the old woman. “Some real soldier.” + +Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry’s character far more +trenchant than any of her own. She felt dissatisfied. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox,” said Miss Avery, and resigned her duties with +a smile. + +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. + +But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fell upon her. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV + +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. + +“Important--Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes.” + +“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.” + +“How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox--” + +“Yes, dear?” + +“Can he spare you?” + +Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret +said so. + +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. + +“Margaret--important,” it went on: “I should like you to have some +companion to take walks with. Do try Miss Conder.” + +“I have been for a little walk with Miss Conder.” + +“But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen.” + +“I have Tibby, Aunt Juley.” + +“No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need. +Really, Helen is odd.” + +“Helen is odd, very,” agreed Margaret. + +“Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at +once?” + +“No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us. She has not the +least balance.” + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + + +“DEAREST MEG, + +“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. + +“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. + +“Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rather a tiresome letter, +but all letters are from your loving + +“HELEN.” + + +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. + +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. + +“Why don’t you tell Mr. Wilcox?” + +“About Helen?” + +“Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing.” + +“He would do all he could, but--” + +“Oh, you know best. But he is practical.” + +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. + +Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all that she had left, +and never had he seemed more unsubstantial. + +“Tibby love, what next?” + +He replied: “It is extraordinary.” + +“Dear, your judgment’s often clearer than mine. Have you any notion +what’s at the back?” + +“None, unless it’s something mental.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“All the same, you have not quite seen our point,” said Tibby. + +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. + +“Margaret’s point is this,” he said. “Our sister may be mad.” + +Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. + +“Come in, Charles,” said Margaret kindly. “Could you help us at all? We +are again in trouble.” + +“I’m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, +you know, in these days.” + +“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.” + +“She has never behaved like this before, then?” asked Henry. + +“Of course not!” said his wife, with a frown. + +“Well, my dear, how am I to know?” + +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.” + +“Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together.” + +“No, Henry--can’t you see?--I don’t mean that.” + +She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid +and attentive, he was watching the scene. + +“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.” + +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. + +“You want to get hold of her?” he said. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? +She has got to see a doctor.” + +“For all I know she has seen one already.” + +“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.” + +“How will you do that?” + +“After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you +can meet her there.” + +“But, Henry, that’s just what she won’t let me do. It’s part of +her--whatever it is--never to see me.” + +“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.” + +Margaret shook her head. “It’s quite impossible.” + +“Why?” + +“It doesn’t seem impossible to me,” said Tibby; “it is surely a very +tippy plan.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“No, Henry; it’s sweet of you, but I couldn’t.” + +“I see,” he said; “you have scruples.” + +“I suppose so.” + +“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--” + +“I deny it’s madness.” + +“You said just now--” + +“It’s madness when I say it, but not when you say it.” + +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?” + +“Not in that way.” + +“Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do--” + +Charles surprised them by interrupting. “Pater, we may as well keep +Howards End out of it,” he said. + +“Why, Charles?” + +Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous +distance, a salutation had passed between them. + +“The whole house is at sixes and sevens,” he said crossly. “We don’t +want any more mess.” + +“Who’s ‘we’?” asked his father. “My boy, pray who’s ‘we’?” + +“I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Charles. “I appear always to be +intruding.” + +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. + +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.” + +Charles made no answer. + +“Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?” + +“No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon.” + +“How?” + +“Don’t ask me.” + + + +CHAPTER XXXV + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“She was bound to drive,” said Henry. “There will be her books.” + +“I cannot make it out,” said Margaret for the hundredth time. + +“Finish your coffee, dear. We must be off.” + +“Yes, Margaret, you know you must take plenty,” said Dolly. + +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. + +“You’re not fit for it,” he said anxiously. “Let me go alone. I know +exactly what to do.” + +“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.” + +Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not like this breakdown. + +“Don’t you want to tidy yourself?” he asked. + +“Have I time?” + +“Yes, plenty.” + +She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as soon as the bolt +slipped, Mr. Wilcox said quietly: + +“Dolly, I’m going without her.” + +Dolly’s eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She followed him on tiptoe +out to the car. + +“Tell her I thought it best.” + +“Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see.” + +“Say anything you like. All right.” + +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. + +“I still consider you are not fit for it,” he kept saying. + +“Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is spread clearly +before me now.” + +“I was meaning to act for the best.” + +“Just lend me your scarf, will you. This wind takes one’s hair so.” + +“Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?” + +“Look! My hands have stopped trembling.” + +“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?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, they aren’t wanted. Do you remember how the house stands?” + +“Yes.” + +“If we don’t find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. +Our object--” + +Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. + +“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?” + +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? + +“Nothing,” answered Margaret, wondering what would have happened if she +had added: “Though she did resent my husband’s immorality.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Is the truant all right?” called Henry. + +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. + + +CHAPTER XXXVI + +“Margaret, you look upset!” said Henry. + +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?” + +“Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all.” + +“Manage what?” + +He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might have obeyed if it had +not been for the doctor. + +“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. + +“Come, this is an odd beginning,” said her husband. + +The doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox--the +scandal was out. Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth. + +“I cannot help it,” said Margaret. “Do wait. It’s not my fault. Please +all four of you go away now.” + +Now the flyman was whispering to Crane. + +“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?” + +“On what grounds?” said Margaret, suddenly looking him straight in the +eyes. + +Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured something about a +nervous breakdown. + +“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.” + +“I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish,” he retorted. + +“You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, not qualified to +attend my sister.” + +“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.” + +“Forgive me, but I will not.” + +“I don’t agree.” + +Margaret was silent. + +“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.” + +“Quite so,” said Henry. + +“I do not need you in the least,” said Margaret. + +The two men looked at each other anxiously. + +“No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement.” + +“Margaret, Margaret!” + +“Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now?” + +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. + +“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.” + +Henry told her to be calm. + +“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.” + +“Mansbridge,” said Henry in a low voice, “perhaps not now.” + +The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went +back into the car. + +“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.” + +He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in +a low voice to him. + +“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. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII + +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: + +“Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have +found nearly everything that I want.” + +“I told you nothing that was true.” + +“It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?” + +“Helen, you wouldn’t think I’d invent that?” + +“I suppose not,” said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. +“But one loses faith in everything after this.” + +“We thought it was illness, but even then--I haven’t behaved worthily.” + +Helen selected another book. + +“I ought not to have consulted any one. What would our father have +thought of me?” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Come away from those books,” called Margaret. “Helen, do talk to me.” + +“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.” + +“But why didn’t you tell me, dearest?” + +“Yes,” replied Helen judicially. “I might have, but decided to wait.” + +“I believe you would never have told me.” + +“Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich.” + +Margaret glanced out of the window. + +“By ‘we’ I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and +always wish to be alone.” + +“I have not heard of Monica.” + +“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.” + +“You are very fond of her, then.” + +“She has been extraordinarily sensible with me.” + +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! + +“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.” + +“Helen, you’ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You COULDN’T talk like +this to me if you had.” + +“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?” + +“Series of mistakes.” + +“And a great deal of furniture has been unpacked.” + +“All.” + +“Who lives here, then?” + +“No one.” + +“I suppose you are letting it, though.” + +“The house is dead,” said Margaret, with a frown. “Why worry on about +it?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Tell me about yourself,” said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was +lingering over the furniture. + +“There’s nothing to tell.” + +“But your marriage has been happy, Meg?” + +“Yes, but I don’t feel inclined to talk.” + +“You feel as I do.” + +“Not that, but I can’t.” + +“No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying.” + +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. + +“Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?” + +“You mean that you want to go away from me?” + +“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.” + +“Certainly, dearest.” + +“For that is all we can do.” + +It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen’s common sense; Monica had +been extraordinarily good for her. + +“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. + +Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: “The car has gone, and here’s +your cab.” + +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. + +“How did this come?” she asked. + +Crane had returned with it almost at once. + +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. + +“Henry would have done what he could,” she interpreted. + +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. + +“This IS Mr. Wilcox’s house?” she inquired. + +“Surely you remember Howards End?” + +“Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“The sword looks well, though.” + +“Magnificent.” + +“Yes, doesn’t it?” + +“Where’s the piano, Meg?” + +“I warehoused that in London. Why?” + +“Nothing.” + +“Curious, too, that the carpet fits.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. + +“Oh, WHAT a place for mother’s chiffonier!” cried Helen. + +“Look at the chairs, though.” + +“Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn’t it?” + +“North-west.” + +“Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. +Feel. Their dear little backs are quite warm.” + +“But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just--” + +“Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn.” + +Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. + +“Ye--es. The window’s too high.” + +“Try a drawing-room chair.” + +“No, I don’t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been +match-boarded. It would have been so beautiful otherwise.” + +“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--” + +“And never will.” + +“I don’t agree. In two thousand years they’ll know. Look where Tibby +spilt the soup.” + +“Coffee. It was coffee surely.” + +Helen shook her head. “Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given +coffee at that time.” + +“Was father alive?” + +“Yes.” + +“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?” + +“I know--no, I don’t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!” + +“But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could put up with it.” + +“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.” + +Margaret interrupted her. “I have got it,” she announced. + + “‘Tea, tea, coffee, tea, + Or chocolaritee.’ + +“That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild.” + +“Tibby is moderately a dear now,” said Helen. + +“There! I knew you’d say that in the end. Of course he’s a dear.” + +A bell rang. + +“Listen! what’s that?” + +Helen said, “Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege.” + +“What nonsense--listen!” + +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. + +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. + +“Little boy, what do you want?” + +“Please, I am the milk.” + +“Did Miss Avery send you?” said Margaret, rather sharply. + +“Yes, please.” + +“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.” + +“But I like milk,” cried Helen. “Why send it away?” + +“Do you? Oh, very well. But we’ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the +can.” + +“Please, I’m to call in the morning for the can,” said the boy. + +“The house will be locked up then.” + +“In the morning would I bring eggs too?” + +“Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?” + +The child hung his head. + +“Well, run away and do it again.” + +“Nice little boy,” whispered Helen. “I say, what’s your name? Mine’s +Helen.” + +“Tom.” + +That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, +but they never told their names in return. + +“Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we’ve another called Tibby.” + +“Mine are lop-eareds,” replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. + +“You’re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come +again.--Isn’t he charming?” + +“Undoubtedly,” said Margaret. “He is probably the son of Madge, and +Madge is dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“I don’t know.” + +“Because I probably agree with you.” + +“It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live.” + +“I do agree,” said Helen, as she sipped the milk. “But you said that the +house was dead not half an hour ago.” + +“Meaning that I was dead. I felt it.” + +“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.” + +“What is it?” + +“Drink some milk to steady you.” + +Margaret obeyed. + +“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.” + +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?” + +“I don’t think we could well do that,” said Margaret. + +“Here are beds, tables, towels--” + +“I know; but the house isn’t supposed to be slept in, and Henry’s +suggestion was--” + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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’?” + +“How do you know you’ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that +twice before.” + +“Because my plans--” + +“--which you change in a moment.” + +“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.” + +“It would be lovely to have you once more alone,” said Margaret. “It may +be a chance in a thousand.” + +“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?” + +“I needn’t say how much it would mean to me.” + +“Then let us.” + +“It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get +leave?” + +“Oh, we don’t want leave.” + +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. + +“Charles may say no,” grumbled Helen. + +“We shan’t consult him.” + +“Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII + +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. + +“But the diddums can’t listen; he isn’t nine months old,” she pleaded. + +“That’s not what I was saying,” retorted her father-in-law. + +Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till +later years. It was now the turn of Margaret. + +“Is it what we feared?” he asked. + +“It is.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +Margaret stammered a “No.” + +There was an appalling silence. + +“Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End.” + +“One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her +seducer.” + +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. + +“Take your time,” he counselled her. “Remember that this is far worse +for me than for you.” + +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.” + +“Would she not tell you?” + +“I never even asked her who seduced her,” said Margaret, dwelling on the +hateful word thoughtfully. + +“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.” + +Margaret answered, “I like to stand, if you don’t mind, for it gives me +a pleasant view of the Six Hills.” + +“As you like.” + +“Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?” + +“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.” + +“Who is ‘we’?” + +“I thought it best to ring up Charles.” + +“That was unnecessary,” said Margaret, growing warmer. “This news will +give Charles disproportionate pain.” + +“He has at once gone to call on your brother.” + +“That too was unnecessary.” + +“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.” + +Then Margaret hit out for the first time. “Are we to make her seducer +marry her?” she asked. + +“If possible, yes.” + +“But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already? One has heard +of such cases.” + +“In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be thrashed +within an inch of his life.” + +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?” + +“Certainly, my dear.” + +“To-morrow Helen goes to Munich--” + +“Well, possibly she is right.” + +“Henry, let a lady finish. To-morrow she goes; to-night, with your +permission, she would like to sleep at Howards End.” + +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. + +“Why Howards End?” he said at last. “Would she not be more comfortable, +as I suggested, at the hotel?” + +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.’” + +“She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact.” + +“Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with +it.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +Again the irritated gesture. + +“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--” + +“Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?” + +“She cannot be left alone.” + +“That’s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles.” + +“I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, +and I have no desire to meet him.” + +“Margaret--my Margaret.” + +“What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it +concerns you less, and Charles not at all.” + +“As the future owner of Howards End,” said Mr. Wilcox arching his +fingers, “I should say that it did concern Charles.” + +“In what way? Will Helen’s condition depreciate the property?” + +“My dear, you are forgetting yourself.” + +“I think you yourself recommended plain speaking.” + +They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet +now. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“As I have actually been forgiven--?” + +“Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,” said Margaret. “Answer +my question.” + +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.” + +“You have mentioned Mrs. Wilcox.” + +“I beg your pardon?” + +“A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?” + +“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. + +“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.’” + +“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. + +“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?” + +Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry’s retort came. + +“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.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“In what sense?” + +“If a man played about with my sister, I’d send a bullet through him, +but perhaps you don’t mind.” + +“I mind very much,” protested Tibby. + +“Who d’ye suspect, then? Speak out man. One always suspects some one.” + +“No one. I don’t think so.” Involuntarily he blushed. He had remembered +the scene in his Oxford rooms. + +“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. + +“In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called the Basts.” + +“Who are the Basts?” + +“People--friends of hers at Evie’s wedding.” + +“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?” + +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. + +“I see--you are in his confidence. They met at your rooms. Oh, what a +family, what a family! God help the poor pater--” + +And Tibby found himself alone. + + + +CHAPTER XL + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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--” + +“I need never have written them,” sighed Margaret. “They never shielded +Henry. How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!” + +“I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts.” + +“Looking back, that was wrong of me.” + +“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!” + +She laid her face against the tree. + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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.” + +Margaret did not reply. + +“Yes,” repeated Helen, her voice growing more tender, “I do at last +understand.” + +“Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands our little movements.” + +“Because in death--I agree.” + +“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.” + +“Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox,” called a voice. + +“Oh, good-night, Miss Avery.” + +“Why should Miss Avery work for us?” Helen murmured. + +“Why, indeed?” + +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. + +“This is not quite our house yet,” said Helen. “When Miss Avery called, +I felt we are only a couple of tourists.” + +“We shall be that everywhere, and for ever.” + +“But affectionate tourists.” + +“But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get on with your Monica?” + +“You would not, but I am serious in asking you.” + +“Still, no more plans now. And no more reminiscences.” + +They were silent for a little. It was Helen’s evening. + +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. + +“Sleep now,” said Margaret. + +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? + + + +CHAPTER XLI + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +And during the winter the system was developed. + +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. + +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-- + + “And if I drink oblivion of a day, + So shorten I the stature of my soul.” + +It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it lies at the root of +all character. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?” he asked. + +“She’s out,” was the answer. + +“When will she be back?” + +“I’ll ask,” said the parlourmaid. + +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?” + +“I’ll ask, sir.” + +“No, don’t bother.” + +“They have taken the car to Howards End,” said the parlourmaid to +Leonard. + +He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was. + +“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. + +“Is it a village, please?” + +“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.” + +“Yes. And when will they be back?” + +“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. + +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. + +“I say, Jacky, I’m going out for a bit.” + +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! + +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. + +“Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!” + +“What ho, Jacky! see you again later.” + +She turned over and slept. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“Mrs. Wilcox,” said Leonard, “I have done wrong.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid +Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. + +“That’s enough,” said Charles. + +“Yes, murder’s enough,” said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with +the sword. + + + +CHAPTER XLII + +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. + +“I don’t know where she is, pater” said Charles. “Dolly kept back dinner +nearly an hour for her.” + +“Tell me when she comes in.” + +Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his +father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not +returned. + +“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?” + +“Perhaps,” said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--“perhaps.” + +“Can I do anything for you, sir?” + +“Not to-night, my boy.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“Undoubtedly,” said Charles. + +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.” + +“Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?” + +“Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of +course, use no violence, Charles.” + +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. + +“It has been pretty horrible,” said Charles gravely. “They were there, +and they had the man up there with them too.” + +“What--what man?” + +“I told you last night. His name was Bast.” + +“My God! is it possible?” said Mr. Wilcox. “In your mother’s house! +Charles, in your mother’s house!” + +“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.” + +Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. + +“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.” + +“Nothing else?” + +“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.” + +Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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!” + +“Sword?” cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. “What sword? Whose +sword?” + +“A sword of theirs.” + +“What were you doing with it?” + +“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.” + +“Then what?” + +“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. + +“But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you’re sure?” + +“That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest +on such unsavoury topics.” + +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. + +“I think I’ll go round to the police-station,” said his father when +breakfast was over. + +“What for?” cried Dolly, who had still not been “told.” + +“Very well, sir. Which car will you have?” + +“I think I’ll walk.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“It is, indeed, my boy,” said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a hand on his sleeve. + +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? + +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. + +“I expected that,” said Charles. “I shall naturally be the most +important witness there.” + + + +CHAPTER XLIII + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +“Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?” she asked. + +“He didn’t say, madam.” + +“You haven’t any note for me?” + +“He didn’t say, madam.” + +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. + +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.” + +“It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid,” said Margaret. +“Did you get my message?” + +“What about?” + +“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.” + +“I am extremely tired,” said Henry, in injured tones. “I have been +walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down.” + +“Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass.” + +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. + +“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. + +“I have something to tell you,” he said gently. + +She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that +was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male. + +“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.” + +“Where are you going?” + +“Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill.” + +“After the inquest?” + +“Yes.” + +“Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?” + +“Yes, heart disease.” + +“No, my dear; manslaughter.” + +Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved +as if it were alive. + +“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.” + +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. + + + +CHAPTER XLIV + +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?” + +Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. “What was that?” + she asked. + +“Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?” + +“I haven’t the least notion,” answered Margaret, and took up her work +again. + +“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?” + +Tom held out his arms. + +“That child is a wonderful nursemaid,” remarked Margaret. + +“He is fond of baby. That’s why he does it!” was Helen’s answer. +“They’re going to be lifelong friends.” + +“Starting at the ages of six and one?” + +“Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom.” + +“It may be a greater thing for baby.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“It has to be,” said Margaret. “The hay fever is his chief objection +against living here, but he thinks it worth while.” + +“Meg, is or isn’t he ill? I can’t make out.” + +“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.” + +“I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle.” + +“Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, to-day. Still, +he wanted them all to come. It has to be.” + +“Why does he want them?” + +Margaret did not answer. + +“Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry.” + +“You’d be odd if you didn’t,” said Margaret. + +“I usen’t to.” + +“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. + +“I like Henry because he does worry.” + +“And he likes you because you don’t.” + +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. + +Margaret never stopped working. + +“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?” + +“I do not agree. I do not.” + +“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!” + +“Yes, please?” + +“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?” + +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.” + +“Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?” + +“Perhaps an adventure.” + +“Is that enough?” + +“Not for us. But for him.” + +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. + +“Is it sweetening yet?” asked Margaret. + +“No, only withered.” + +“It will sweeten to-morrow.” + +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!” + +“Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry learnt to understand one +another and to forgive, all through the autumn and the winter.” + +“Yes, but who settled us down?” + +Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and she took off her +pince-nez to watch it. + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“I hope it will be permanent,” said Helen, drifting away to other +thoughts. + +“I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards End peculiarly our +own.” + +“All the same, London’s creeping.” + +She pointed over the meadow--over eight or nine meadows, but at the end +of them was a red rust. + +“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.” + +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? + +“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.” + +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. + +“The conclave’s breaking at last. I’ll go.” + +It was Paul. + +Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices +greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black +moustache. + +“My father has asked for you,” he said with hostility. + +She took her work and followed him. + +“We have been talking business,” he continued, “but I dare say you knew +all about it beforehand.” + +“Yes, I did.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“It’s apparently got to suit us,” said Paul. + +“I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the +house to you instead.” + +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.” + +“Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?” + +“Of course, father.” + +“And you, Dolly?” + +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.” + +There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that +she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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.” + +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. + +Her father kissed her. “Good-bye, old girl,” he said; “don’t you worry +about me.” + +“Good-bye, dad.” + +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.” + +From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. “Goodbye,” she said to Margaret, +and kissed her. + +And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. + +“Good-bye.” + +“Good-bye, Dolly.” + +“So long, father.” + +“Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself.” + +“Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox.” + +“Good-bye.” + +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?” + +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.” + +Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses, +and she shivered. + +“I didn’t do wrong, did I?” he asked, bending down. + +“You didn’t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong.” + +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. + +“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!” + +WEYBRIDGE, 1908-1910. + + + + + +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 2946-0.txt or 2946-0.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 + +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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. 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