The Project Gutenberg eBook of Howards End, by E. M. Forster

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Title: Howards End

Author: E. M. Forster

Release Date: November, 2001 [eBook #2891]
[Most recently updated: April 14, 2023]

Language: English

Produced by: Richard Fane

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOWARDS END ***




Howards End

by E. M. Forster




Chapter 1


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
tomorrow. 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 bedrooms 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 greengage-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
t’other 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 women’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 view’s 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 2


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 Köln.’ 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 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 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 rise 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 house-tops, but as she only loved 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, was 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
uncivilized and wrong.

“So uncivilized?” 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 only talk
the thing over 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 realize
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 3


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 round.

“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 Schlegels 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, nor 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 organized; 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 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 “uncivilized 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’ll 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 damned 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 a word, turned away from him towards
her flowers.

“Mother,” he called, “are you aware that Paul has been playing the fool
again?”

“It’s 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 4


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 someone,” 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 thunder clap, and by them and by her 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 motor-car. 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 how to forget how vivid the
emotion was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer, to forget, is at root
a good one. We recognize 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 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 Thibet 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
entirely composed 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 backbone,” as
their aunt had piously asserted. But, on the other band, 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 visualizing
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 naturalized 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
backbone. He had obtained work in one of our provincial Universities,
and there married Poor Emily (or Die Engländerin 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 Esterhaz 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 organization, 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 apologized 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 5


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, Fräulein
Mosebach, who remembers all the time that Beethoven is “echt Deutsch”;
or like Fräulein Mosebach’s young man, who can remember nothing but
Fräulein 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.

“Who 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
“wunderschöning” and “prachtvolleying” 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 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 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 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 Fräulein 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 walkingstick
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 mustn’t run down our English composers,
Margaret.”

“For my part, I have heard the composition at Stettin,” said Fräulein
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 play 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!
Fräulein 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 up-sides 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 around 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 would have 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 to 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 to
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 are 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
anyone, 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 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 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.”

“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 of the
fantastic skyline 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 latchkey. 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
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 I 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 Indian 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 football, 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 6


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
civilizations 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
slipped 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 could 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 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 modem 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
weighted 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 to the kitchen, where he bathed his hands. The kitchen was
the same size as the sitting room; through 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 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 bias 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 that 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; someone 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, 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 anyone 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 someone, and
Aunt someone, 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 not 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.

“M’m.”

“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 7


“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
provision 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-æsthetic 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 apologized
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 Fräulein 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 woman who laced too tightly’s name 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.”

“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 someone near us tottering that we realize 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
criticize 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 Fräulein 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 W.’s 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 8


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 Helen
and her husband, 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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 Fräulein 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—0 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 civilized, 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.
Fräulein 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 Elvas 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 luggage 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 excuse
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. As 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 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 scandalized 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 of his own 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, apologized, 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 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 9


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 realize 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 motorcar, all jerks, and she was a
wisp of hay, a flower. Twice she deplored the weather, twice criticized
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 Böcklin or my
veterinary surgeon. ‘Oh, Böcklin,’ they say; ‘he strains after beauty,
he peoples Nature with gods too consciously.’ Of course Böcklin
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 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 Prussian” 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 him 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 today.
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 10


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 utilized
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 behind-hand 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 Harrod’s 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 realized that it
was a divine event that drew them together? She realized 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 realize 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 civilization 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.”

“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 ingénue. 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 tomorrow. That is why I
dragged you out shopping today. 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
roadhogs.”

“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 heaven-ward, like a specimen in a bottle. And into what a
heaven—a vault as of hell, sooty black, from which soots 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 patronized. 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 a
question of imprisonment and escape, and though she did not know the
time of the train, she strained her eyes for the St. Pancras’ 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 A-1 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 11


The funeral was over. The carriages 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 goodfellowship, 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 has 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 him 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 realized 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 to 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 to do at Howards
End. The contents of his mother’s will had been long 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 water-colours 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 to 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 around 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 Schlegels got it.”

“Got what?” asked 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 shrubbery.

“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—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. Calligraphy
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
minimized, 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.” Today 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 of 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 poor 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 12


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 civilization. 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 mediaeval. 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 overcrowded, 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 realized 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 Fräulein
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 Förstmeister someone—Helen
could not remember his name.

Herr Förstmeister 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 Förstmeister
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 someone 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 realized 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 13


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. Today Whitehall had been transformed: it would be the turn of
Regent Street tomorrow. 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 visualizes 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 anyone 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 thoughts 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 who 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 civilization. How
paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven.”

“And I,” said Tibby, “want civilization without activity, which, I
expect, is what we shall find in the other place.”

“You needn’t go as far as the other place, Tibbi-kins, 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 happen really?”

“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 was 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 if they
didn’t, 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 14


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 civilization 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 humanized 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 characterized 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, himself a repartee, 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
naïve and sweet-tempered boy for whom Nature had 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 has 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 Cornelia 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 symbolized 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 on the veldt, with your
rifle beside you and all the atmosphere of adventure past. 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 surburban 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 15


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 civilization, 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 pauperizing 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 pauperize 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 civilization, whatever the woof may be. The
imagination ought to play upon money and realize it vividly, for it’s
the—the second most important thing in the world. It is so sluffed 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 they did 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 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 his, 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 Förstmeister 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 recognized 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?”

“Someone’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 breed 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 is 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 patronizing 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 pauperize 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, than 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 long-haired 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 mockery. Evie got rather keen on Alpine plants. But it
didn’t do—no, it didn’t do. You remember, or 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’. “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—two, 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.”

“Let’s ask him to tea.”




Chapter 16


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—not 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 what you call big.”

“I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern, that offers a
reasonably good career to its employés.”

“I couldn’t say—some would tell you one thing and others another,” said
the employe 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 hearth-rug 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 unsufficiently 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. As 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
today. 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 realize 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 thinking. 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 stiff. 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 criticized 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
civilization 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 risqué.
With most ladies he would not have discussed it, but he was trading on
Margaret’s reputation as an emanicipated 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 I 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
civilized. Mr. Wilcox, uncivilized, 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 into 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 someone 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, and he was attracted to her.




Chapter 17


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 sentiment 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 civilization 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 fiancé, 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 patronize 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 someone 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 sympathized 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 admired 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? Gruyère or Stilton?”

“Gruyère, 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 mesmerize houses—cow them with an
eye, and up they come, trembling. Ladies can’t. It’s the houses that
are mesmerizing 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 do you suppose that he understood of it?”

“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 18


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 buff 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 today, take the house if it’s the least
possible, and then come down by the afternoon train tomorrow, 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 what meaning you attach to the word ‘possi—’”

“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 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, 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
realize 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 tomorrow 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 side-board 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 visualize the ladies withdrawing to
it, while their lords discussed life’s realities below, to the
accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox’s drawing-room looked thus at
Howards End? 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, holding 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 realized 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 tomorrow.

“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 instead. Ought I to have written?”

“Not at all.”

“There’s just one question—”

She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered, and they parted.

They parted without shaking hands: she had kept the interview, for his
sake, in tints of the quietest grey. Yet she thrilled with happiness
ere she reached her own house. Others had loved her in the past, if one
may apply to their brief desires so grave a word, but those 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, to be
dismissed for what they were worth, with a smile. 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 19


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
Christchurch. 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, Rügen, 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—are 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, when 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-à-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 dead it all seems! And in the
autumn there began this 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 Böcklin’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 along 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 I’ll 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—”

“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.

“ Meg—”

“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 analyze 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
county 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 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 20


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 he had engaged a bedroom in the principal
hotel: he was one of those men who knew 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 no case against
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 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
organization, 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 anyone had remarked
that the mews must be either there or not, he would have felt annoyed,
and afterwards have found some opportunity of stigmatizing the speaker
as academic. So does my grocer stigmatize 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 ’em,”
but no more, not realizing 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 has 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 21


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 woken 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 monopolizing 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 deck-chairs, 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 22


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. Catharine 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 grayest 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! My 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 do not 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 civilization moves forward, the
shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it’s absurd to pretend that
anyone 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 civilization 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 civilization 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 even 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—and 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. Basts 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’.”

“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 23


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 anyone 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 only do 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 halfway between,” Aunt Juley had hazarded in earlier years.
No; truth, being alive, was not halfway 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
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 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 in 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 porch. 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 drought 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 civilization of luggage
had been here for a month, and then decamped. Dining-room and drawing
room—right and left—were guessed only by their wall-papers. 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 realized 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
rains run this way and that where the watershed of the roof divided
them.

Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinizing 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 24


“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” summarized 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 mean 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—Howard’s 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
civilization. “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
realize 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; 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 25


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 anyone
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 civilization, 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
women-folk reported the scenery as nothing much. The place turned out
to be in the wrong part of Shropshire, damn it, and though he never
damned his own property aloud, 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
Kelt. 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, nor 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 finicky 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 traveling 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 eastern 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 hand-books 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 out the women 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 sees 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. “Men 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 wasn’t a dog, 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. “lt 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, apologizing 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 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 recognized 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 leeward and smelt his cigar-smoke, for
she exclaimed, “Hullo! Who’s that?”

Charles made no answer.

“Saxon or Kelt?” 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 26


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 and Albert Fussell now crossed the lawn. They were going for a
morning dip, and a servant followed them with their bathing-dresses.
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 spring-board, 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’s 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
side-board!” 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 she 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 tomorrow, 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 today, 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—one of 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 came 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-tails. 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 materialized 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 someone 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
kowtowing 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 Harrod’s 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 recognize 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, tomorrow.”

“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 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 mesmerized, 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 tried.” 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 she despised 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 protégés 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 beanfeasting?”

“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 protégés every day. Business would suffer.”

“I can promise you he’s the last. He—he’s rather a special case.”

“Protégés 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 protégé 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 Kelt, 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 risqué
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,” apologized Margaret. “Il est
tout à fait différent.”

“Henry!” she repeated, quite distinctly.

Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. “I can’t congratulate you on your
protégés,” 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 scandalized than the facts demanded.

“To have brought this down on you.”

“Pray don’t apologize.”

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 dear. These 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
patronizing their future hostess, the guests were home 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 27


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 him, 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
criticize, 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 fuming 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 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 for ever 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 28


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
farm-yard 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 someone 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 someone 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 bargain
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 generalize, 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 29


“Henry dear—” was her greeting.

He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the _Times_. His
sister-in-law was packing. She 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 side-board 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 Ducie 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
springboard, the forehead of the hill rose up 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 30


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 neither wished 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 a damn 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 tomorrow.”

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 later on he was instructed to forward 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 them.
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 31


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 postcard 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 destestable little river, steaming all night
like a kettle. Feel the cellar walls; look up under the eaves. Ask Sir
James or anyone. 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 house 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 civilization 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 the 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 humanize, 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 someone
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 32


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 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 me 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’ 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
sympathized, but in a formal fashion, and Dolly little imagined that
the step-mother 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 anyone 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 duckpond.

“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 not she 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 33


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 luke-warm 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’,
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, nor 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 acquired 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 tranquillizing 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 unnumerable
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 stiff in bud seem to rustle, swept over the
land and then fell silent. “Georgia,” sang the thrush. “Cuckoo,” came
furtively from the cliff of pine-trees. “Georgia, pretty Georgia,” 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 them 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 someone 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 and 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 repassing 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 anyone 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 lights 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 34


It was not unexpected entirely. Aunt Juley’s health had been bad all
the 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 generalize, 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 realize 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 could 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 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 stop 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 idée 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 someone, 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 realize 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 up 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 35


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 someone 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 tip-toe
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 on 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 36


“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 to 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 notebook, 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 37


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 anyone. What would our father have
thought of me?”

She did not think of questioning her sister, nor 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 missed 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 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 the 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 à l’hôtel.” The final
sentence displeased her greatly until she remembered that the Charles’
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 house 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 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.”

“But the chairs show up wonderfully. 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 realize
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 have 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 dumbbells? 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-eared,” 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 sympathize 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 doorkeys, 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 sympathize 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 38


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 her 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.”

“Tomorrow Helen goes to Munich—”

“Well, possibly she is right.”

“Henry, let a lady finish. Tomorrow she goes; tonight, 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
realize 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 tomorrow—”

“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. Tonight 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 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, man, are you. You can’t recognize them, because you
cannot connect. I’ve had enough of your unweeded 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 39


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 realize 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 someone.”

“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 anyone’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 tag-rag. 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 40


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 even
yet not 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, who 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 tomorrow 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 nestled 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 41


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 philosophize, 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, 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, rubbish on 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
passerby 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 thousands 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 realized 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 foot
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 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 steep 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 room.” “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 Convent
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 sentimentalist 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 42


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 tonight, 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 over-wrought, 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 tomorrow 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 recognized 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 into 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 today, 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 tomorrow, and the police required his son to
attend.

“I expected that,” said Charles. “I shall naturally be the most
important witness there.”




Chapter 43


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 yourselves
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 tomorrow she would return to Germany.

As for herself, she determined to go too. No message came from Henry;
perhaps he expected her to apologize. 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
apologize. 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 realize 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 realized. 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 realized 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 was 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, being made in his image,
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 44


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 mockery, 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, today. 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: “Above 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 Förstmeister, 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 tomorrow.”

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
every one 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 civilization 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 every one?” 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
every one 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—to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that clear? Does every one
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. “Good-bye,” 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.




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