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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 Koln.' Those three sees once -commanded the Rhine Valley and got it the name of Priest Street." - -"I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Margaret." - -"The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first -sight it looked quite fine. But oh, in five minutes we had -seen the whole thing. The cathedral had been ruined, -absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch left of the -original structure. We wasted a whole day, and came across -the Wilcoxes as we were eating our sandwiches in the public -gardens. They too, poor things, had been taken in--they -were actually stopping at Speyer--and they rather liked -Helen 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 Englanderin as the case may -be), and as she had money, they proceeded to London, and -came to know a good many people. But his gaze was always -fixed beyond the sea. It was his hope that the clouds of -materialism obscuring the Fatherland would part in time, and -the mild intellectual light re-emerge. "Do you imply that -we Germans are stupid, Uncle Ernst?" exclaimed a haughty and -magnificent nephew. Uncle Ernst replied, "To my mind. You -use the intellect, but you no longer care about it. That I -call stupidity." As the haughty nephew did not follow, he -continued, "You only care about the' things that you can -use, and therefore arrange them in the following order: -Money, supremely useful; intellect, rather useful; -imagination, of no use at all. No"--for the other had -protested--"your Pan-Germanism is no more imaginative than -is our Imperialism over here. It is the vice of a vulgar -mind to be thrilled by bigness, to think that a thousand -square miles are a thousand times more wonderful than one -square mile, and that a million square miles are almost the -same as heaven. That is not imagination. No, it kills it. -When their poets over here try to celebrate bigness they are -dead at once, and naturally. Your poets too are dying, your -philosophers, your musicians, to whom Europe has listened -for two hundred years. Gone. Gone with the little courts -that nurtured them--gone with 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, Fraulein Mosebach, who remembers all -the time that Beethoven is "echt Deutsch"; or like Fraulein -Mosebach's young man, who can remember nothing but Fraulein -Mosebach: in any case, the passion of your life becomes more -vivid, and you are bound to admit that such a noise is cheap -at two shillings. It is cheap, even if you hear it in the -Queen's Hall, dreariest music-room in London, though not as -dreary as the Free Trade Hall, Manchester; and even if you -sit on the extreme left of that hall, so that the brass -bumps at you before the rest of the orchestra arrives, it is -still cheap. - -"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 "wunderschoning" 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 -Fraulein Mosebach. - -"Excuse me," said Margaret's young man, who had for some -time been preparing a sentence, "but that lady has, quite -inadvertently, taken my umbrella." - -"Oh, good gracious me! --I am so sorry. Tibby, run -after Helen." - -"I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do." - -"Tibby love, you must go." - -"It isn't of any consequence," said the young man, in -truth a little uneasy about his umbrella. - -"But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!" - -Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person -on the backs of the chairs. By the time he had tipped up -the seat and had found his hat, and had deposited his full -score in safety, it was "too late" to go after Helen. The -Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move during -their performance. - -"My sister is so careless," whispered Margaret. - -"Not at all," replied the young man; but his voice was -dead and cold. - -"If you would give me your address--" - -"Oh, not at all, not at all;" and he wrapped his -greatcoat over his knees. - -Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret's -ears. Brahms, for all his grumbling and grizzling, had -never guessed what it felt like to be suspected of stealing -an umbrella. For this fool of a young man thought that she -and Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence trick on -him, and that if he gave his address they would break into -his rooms some midnight or other and steal his 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 Fraulein Mosebach. "On two occasions. It is dramatic, -a little." - -"Frieda, you despise English music. You know you do. -And English art. And English Literature, except Shakespeare -and he's a German. Very well, Frieda, you may go." - -The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved by -a common impulse, they rose to their feet and fled from POMP -AND CIRCUMSTANCE. - -"We have this call to 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! Fraulein Mosebach has left her beautiful little -bag behind her on the seat." - -Sure enough, there was Frieda's reticule, containing her -address book, her pocket dictionary, her map of London, and -her money. - -"Oh, what a bother--what a family we are! Fr-Frieda!" - -"Hush!" said all those who thought the music fine. - -"But it's the number they want in Finsbury Circus--" - -"Might I--couldn't I--" said the suspicious young man, -and got very red. - -"Oh, I would be so grateful." - -He took the bag--money clinking inside it--and slipped -up the gangway with it. He was just in time to catch them -at the swing-door, and he received a pretty smile from the -German girl and a fine bow from her cavalier. He returned -to his seat 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. Cunnginham?" - -"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-aesthetic 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 Fraulein Mosebach. "I hear Bruno -entering the hall." - -For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call for -the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall--in -fact, he did not enter it for quite five minutes. But -Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she and -Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave -Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging the flowers. -Helen acquiesced. But, as if to prove that the situation -was not delicate really, she stopped in the doorway and said: - -"Did you say the Mathesons' flat, Aunt Juley? How -wonderful you are! I never knew that the 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 Fraulein Mosebach. Really, -for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh--!" - -"What is it?" - -"Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes' flat." - -"Why shouldn't she?" - -"I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you -were saying about reality?" - -"I had worked round to myself, as usual," answered -Margaret in tones that were suddenly preoccupied. - -"Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich -or for the poor?" - -"Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or -for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches!" - -"For riches!" echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at -last secured her nut. - -"Yes. For riches. Money for ever!" - -"So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my -acquaintances at Swanage, but I am surprised that you agree -with us." - -"Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked -theories, you have done the flowers." - -"Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in -more important things." - -"Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round -with me to the registry office? There's a housemaid who -won't say yes but doesn't say no." - -On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes' -flat. Evie was in the balcony, "staring most rudely," -according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a nuisance, there -was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against a passing -encounter but--Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it -reawake the dying nerve if the family were living close -against her eyes? And Frieda Mosebach was stopping with -them for another fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably -sharp, and quite capable of remarking, "You love one of the -young gentlemen opposite, yes?" The remark would be untrue, -but of the kind which, if stated often enough, may become -true; just as the remark, "England and Germany are bound to -fight," renders war a little more likely each time that it -is made, and is therefore made the more readily by the -gutter press of either nation. Have the private emotions -also their gutter press? Margaret thought so, and feared -that good Aunt Juley and Frieda were typical specimens of -it. They might, by continual chatter, lead Helen into a -repetition of the desires of June. Into a repetition--they -could not do more; they could not lead her into lasting -love. They were--she saw it clearly--Journalism; her -father, with all his defects and wrong-headedness, had been -Literature, and had he lived, he would have persuaded his -daughter rightly. - -The registry office was holding its morning reception. -A string of carriages filled the street. Miss Schlegel -waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an -insidious "temporary," being rejected by genuine housemaids -on the ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure depressed -her, and though she forgot the failure, the depression -remained. On her way home she again glanced up at the -Wilcoxes' flat, and took the rather matronly step of -speaking about the matter to Helen. - -"Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries you." - -"If what?" said Helen, who was washing her hands for lunch. - -"The 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 Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones (she -was now in her cousin's confidence)--"his mother has -forgiven you!" And then, remembering that in England the -new-comer ought not to call before she is called upon, she -changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined that -Mrs. Wilcox was "keine Dame." - -"Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. "Helen, -stop giggling and pirouetting, and go and finish your -packing. Why can't the woman leave us alone?" - -"I don't know what I shall do with Meg," Helen retorted, -collapsing upon the stairs. "She's got Wilcox and Box upon -the brain. Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman; I -don't love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can a body speak plainer?" - -"Most certainly her love has died," asserted Fraulein Mosebach. - -"Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not -prevent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return -the call." - -Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who -thought her extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! -boo hoo hoo! Meg's going to return the call, and I can't. -'Cos why? 'Cos I'm going to German-eye." - -"If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you -aren't, go and call on the Wilcoxes instead of me." - -"But, Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman; I -don't love the young--0 lud, who's that coming down the -stairs? I vow 'tis my brother. 0 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. Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered -to say heavily over the banisters to Margaret, "It is all -right--she does not love the young man--he has not been -worthy of her." - -"Yes, I know; thanks very much." - -"I thought I did right to tell you." - -"Ever so many thanks." - -"What's that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he -proceeded into the dining-room, to eat 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 -Bocklin or my veterinary surgeon. 'Oh, Bocklin,' they say; -'he strains after beauty, he peoples Nature with gods too -consciously.' Of course Bocklin strains, because he wants -something--beauty and all the other intangible gifts that -are floating about the world. So his landscapes don't come -off, and Leader's do." - -"I am not sure that I agree. Do you?" said he, turning -to Mrs. Wilcox. - -She replied: "I think Miss Schlegel puts everything -splendidly"; and a chill fell on the conversation. - -"Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nicer than that. It's -such a snub to be told you put things splendidly. " - -"I do not mean it as a snub. Your last speech -interested me so much. Generally people do not seem quite -to like Germany. I have long wanted to hear what is said on -the other side." - -"The other side? Then you do disagree. Oh, good! Give -us your side." - -"I have no side. But my husband"--her voice softened, -the chill increased--"has very little faith in the -Continent, and our children have all taken after him." - -"On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent is in -bad form?" - -Mrs. Wilcox had no idea; she paid little attention to -grounds. She was not intellectual, nor even alert, and it -was odd that, all the same, she should give the idea of -greatness. Margaret, zigzagging with her friends over -Thought and Art, was conscious of a personality that -transcended their own and dwarfed their activities. There -was no bitterness in Mrs. Wilcox; there was not even -criticism; she was lovable, and no ungracious or -uncharitable word had passed her lips. Yet she and daily -life were out of focus: one or the other must show blurred. -And at lunch she seemed more out of focus than usual, and -nearer the line that divides 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 ingenue. Very charming--wonderfully well read for my -age, but incapable--" - -Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. "Come down with me -to Howards End now," she said, more vehemently than ever. -"I want you to see it. You have never seen it. I want to -hear what you say about it, for you do put things so wonderfully." - -Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the -tired face of her companion. "Later on I should love it," -she continued, "but it's hardly the weather for such an -expedition, and we ought to start when we're fresh. Isn't -the house shut up, too?" - -She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be annoyed. - -"Might I come some other day?" - -Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. "Back to -Wickham Place, please!" was her order to the coachman. -Margaret had been snubbed. - -"A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help." - -"Not at all." - -"It is such a comfort to get the presents off my -mind--the Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your choice." - -It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn -Margaret became annoyed. - -"My husband and Evie will be back the day after -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 Fraulein Mosebach, who had conceived the large and -patriotic notion of winning back her cousins to the -Fatherland by matrimony. England had played Paul Wilcox, -and lost; Germany played Herr Forstmeister someone--Helen -could not remember his name. - -Herr Forstmeister lived in a wood, and standing on the -summit of the Oderberge, he had pointed out his house to -Helen, or rather, had pointed out the wedge of pines in -which it lay. She had exclaimed, "Oh, how lovely! That's -the place for me!" and in the evening Frieda appeared in her -bedroom. "I have a message, dear Helen," etc., and so she -had, but had been very nice when Helen laughed; quite -understood--a forest too solitary and damp--quite agreed, -but Herr Forstmeister believed he had assurance to the -contrary. Germany had lost, but with good-humour; holding -the manhood of the world, she felt bound to win. "And there -will even be 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 naive 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 Forstmeister who lived in it." - -"I believe we shall come to care about people less and -less, Helen. The more people one knows the easier it -becomes to replace them. It's one of the curses of London. -I quite expect to end my life caring most for a place." - -Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks -since they had met. - -"How do you do?" he cried. "I thought I 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 employes." - -"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 risque. 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 fiance, and she -was surprised that Helen, who had been far funnier about -Simpson's, had not been asked instead. But the invitation -touched her by its intimate tone. She must know Evie Wilcox -better than she supposed, and declaring that she "simply -must," she accepted. - -But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restaurant, -staring fiercely at nothing after the fashion of athletic -women, her heart failed her anew. Miss Wilcox had changed -perceptibly since her engagement. Her voice was gruffer, -her manner more downright, and she was inclined to 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? Gruyere or Stilton?" - -"Gruyere, please." - -"Better have Stilton." - -"Stilton. Because, though I don't believe in auras, and -think Theosophy's only a halfway-house--" - -"--Yet there may be something in it all the same," he -concluded, with a frown. - -"Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong -direction. I can't explain. I don't believe in all these -fads, and yet I don't like saying that I don't believe in them." - -He seemed unsatisfied, and said: "So you wouldn't give -me your word that you DON'T hold with astral bodies and all -the rest of it?" - -"I could," said Margaret, surprised that the point was -of any importance to him. "Indeed, I will. When I talked -about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying to be funny. But -why do you want this settled?" - -"I don't know." - -"Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know." - -"Yes, I am," "No, you're not," burst from the lovers -opposite. Margaret was silent for a moment, and then -changed the subject. - -"How's your house?" - -"Much the same as when you honoured it last week." - -"I don't mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course." - -"Why 'of course'?" - -"Can't you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We're -nearly demented." - -"Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thought -you wanted to be in town. One bit of advice: fix your -district, then fix your price, and then don't budge. That's -how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. I said to myself, -'I mean to be exactly here,' and I was, and Oniton's a place -in a thousand." - -"But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to 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, -Rugen, where beech-trees hang over the tideless Baltic, and -cows may contemplate the brine. Rather unhealthy Mrs. Munt -thought this would be, water being safer when it moved about. - -"And your English lakes--Vindermere, Grasmere--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-a-terre in the country--which makes seven. Oh yes, and -Paul a hut in Africa makes eight. I wish we could get -Howards End. That was something like a dear little house! -Didn't you think so, Aunt Juley?" - -" I had too much to do, dear, to look at it," said Mrs. -Munt, with a gracious dignity. "I had everything to settle -and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place -besides. It isn't likely I should remember much. I just -remember having lunch in your bedroom." - -"Yes so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how 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 Bocklin's beside a landscape of Leader's, -strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural -life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have -been a bad preparation for what followed. - -"Look!" cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from -generalities over the narrow summit of the down. "Stand -where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see -the pony-cart coming." - -They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and -Tibby were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the -outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through the -budding lanes, and then began the ascent. - -"Have you got the house?" they shouted, long before she -could possibly hear. - -Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a -saddle, and a track went thence at right angles 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 proteges with her, and must keep -with them." - -"Let 'em all come." - -"My dear Henry, did you see them?" - -"I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly. - -"The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a -sea-green and salmon bunch?" - -"What! are they out 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 proteges every day. Business would -suffer." - -"I can promise you he's the last. He--he's rather a -special case." - -"Proteges always are." - -She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra -touch of complacency, and held out his hand to help her up. -How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and Henry as Helen -thought he ought to be! And she herself--hovering as usual -between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning -with her sister for Truth. Love and Truth--their warfare -seems eternal. Perhaps the whole visible world rests on it, -and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits when -Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into -air, into thin air. - -"Your protege has made us late," said he. "The Fussells -will just be starting." - -On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry -would save the Basts as he had saved Howards End, while -Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics of -salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has -been built slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river -and sunset may be but the varnish with which the unskilled -artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like herself, was -imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle -ruinous. It, too, had suffered in the border warfare -between the Anglo Saxon and the 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 risque conversations now. - -Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which -gleamed in the twilight like a puff-ball. - -"Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel," he -said sharply. - -Jacky replied: "If it isn't Hen!" - -"Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble," apologized -Margaret. "Il est tout a fait different." - -"Henry!" she repeated, quite distinctly. - -Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. "I can't congratulate you -on your proteges," he remarked. - -"Hen, don't go. You do love me, dear, don't you?" - -"Bless us, what a person!" sighed Margaret, gathering up -her skirts. - -Jacky pointed with her cake. "You're a nice boy, you -are." She yawned. "There now, I love you." - -"Henry, I am awfully sorry." - -"And pray why?" he asked, and looked at her so sternly -that she feared he was ill. He seemed more 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 idee fixe. What hope was there for -her as an old woman? - -The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed she -became. For many months she had put the subject away, but -it was too big to be slighted now. There was almost a taint -of madness. Were all Helen's actions to be governed by a -tiny mishap, such as may happen to any young man or woman? -Can human nature be constructed on lines so insignificant? -The blundering little encounter at Howards End was vital. -It propagated itself where graver intercourse lay barren; it -was stronger than sisterly intimacy, stronger than reason or -books. In one of her moods Helen had confessed that she -still "enjoyed" it in a certain sense. Paul had faded, but -the magic of his caress endured. And where there is -enjoyment of the past there may also be -reaction--propagation at both ends. - -Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such -seed-beds, and we without power to choose the seed. But man -is an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on pilfering the -earth, and heedless of the growths within himself. He -cannot be bored about psychology. He leaves it to the -specialist, which is as if he should leave his dinner to be -eaten by a steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to digest -his own soul. Margaret and Helen have been more patient, -and it is suggested that Margaret has succeeded--so far as -success is yet possible. She does understand herself, she -has some rudimentary control over her own growth. Whether -Helen has succeeded one cannot say. - -The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen's letter arrived. -She had posted it at Munich, and would be in London herself -on the morrow. It was a disquieting letter, though the -opening was affectionate and sane. - - -Dearest Meg, - -Give Helen's love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that I -love, and have loved, her ever since I can remember. I -shall be in London Thursday. - -My address will be care of the bankers. I have not -yet settled on a hotel, so write or wire to me there and -give me detailed news. If Aunt Juley is much better, or -if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good my coming -down to Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not -come. I have all sorts of plans in my head. I am living -abroad at present, and want to get back as quickly as -possible. Will you please tell me where our furniture -is. I should like to take out one or two books; the rest -are for you. - -Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rather -a tiresome letter, but all letters are from your loving - - Helen - - -It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to -tell a lie. If she wrote that Aunt Juley was still in -danger her sister would come. Unhealthiness is contagious. -We cannot be in contact with those who are in a morbid state -without ourselves deteriorating. To "act for the best" -might do Helen good, but would do herself harm, and, at the -risk of disaster, she kept her colours flying a little -longer. She replied that their aunt was much better, and -awaited developments. - -Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he was -a pleasanter companion than before. Oxford had done much -for him. He had lost his peevishness, and could hide his -indifference to people and his interest in food. But he had -not grown more human. The years between eighteen and -twenty-two, so magical for most, were leading him gently -from boyhood to middle age. He had never known -young-manliness, that quality which warms the heart till -death, and gives Mr. Wilcox an imperishable charm. He was -frigid, through no fault of his own, and without cruelty. -He thought Helen wrong and Margaret right, but the family -trouble was for him what a scene behind footlights is for -most people. He had only one suggestion to make, and that -was characteristic. - -"Why don't you tell Mr. Wilcox?" - -"About Helen?" - -"Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing." - -"He would do all he could, but--" - -"Oh, you know best. But he is practical." - -It was the student's belief in experts. Margaret -demurred for one or two reasons. Presently Helen's answer -came. She sent a telegram requesting the address of the -furniture, as she would now return at once. Margaret -replied, "Certainly not; meet me at the bankers at four." -She and Tibby went up to London. Helen was not at the -bankers, and they were refused her address. Helen had -passed into chaos. - -Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all that -she had left, and never had he seemed more unsubstantial. - -"Tibby love, what next?" - -He replied: "It is extraordinary." - -"Dear, your judgment's often clearer than mine. Have -you any notion what's at the back?" - -"None, unless it's something mental." - -"Oh--that!" said Margaret. "Quite impossible." But the -suggestion had been uttered, and in a few minutes she took -it up herself. Nothing else explained. And London agreed -with Tibby. The mask fell off the city, and she saw it for -what it really is--a caricature of infinity. The familiar -barriers, the streets along which she moved, the houses -between which she had made her little journeys for so many -years, became negligible suddenly. Helen seemed one with -grimy trees and the traffic and the slowly-flowing slabs of -mud. She had accomplished a hideous act of renunciation and -returned to the One. Margaret's own faith held firm. She -knew the human soul will be merged, if it be merged at all, -with the stars and the sea. Yet she felt that her sister -had been going amiss for many years. It was symbolic the -catastrophe should come now, on a London afternoon, while -rain fell slowly. - -Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He might -know of some paths in the chaos that were hidden from them, -and she determined to take Tibby's advice and lay the whole -matter in his hands. They must call at his office. He -could not well make it worse. She went for a few moments -into St. Paul's, whose dome stands out of the welter so -bravely, as if preaching the gospel of form. But within, -St. Paul's is as its surroundings--echoes and whispers, -inaudible songs, invisible mosaics, wet footmarks crossing -and recrossing the floor. Si monumentum requiris, -circumspice: it points us back to London. There was no hope -of Helen here. - -Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had -expected. He was overjoyed to see her back from Swanage, -and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble. When they -told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and the -Schlegels generally, and declared that it was "just like -Helen" to lead her relatives a dance. - -"That is what we all say," replied Margaret. "But why -should it be just like Helen? Why should she be allowed to -be so queer, and to grow queerer?" - -"Don't ask me. I'm a plain man of business. I live and -let live. My advice to you both is, don't worry. Margaret, -you've got black marks again under your eyes. You know -that's strictly forbidden. First your aunt--then your -sister. No, we aren't going to have it. Are we, -Theobald?" He rang the bell. "I'll give you some tea, and -then you go straight to Ducie Street. I can't have my girl -looking as old as her husband." - -"All the same, you have not quite seen our point," said Tibby. - -Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, "I don't -suppose I ever shall." He leant back, laughing at the -gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire flickered over -the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to go -on. Rather diffident, he obeyed her. - -"Margaret's point is this," he said. "Our sister may be -mad." - -Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. - -"Come in, Charles," said Margaret kindly. "Could you -help us at all? We are again in trouble." - -"I'm afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all -mad more or less, you know, in these days." - -"The facts are as follows," replied Tibby, who had at -times a pedantic lucidity. "The facts are that she has been -in England for three days and will not see us. She has -forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses -to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters -colourless. There are other facts, but these are the most -striking." - -"She has never behaved like this before, then?" asked Henry. - -"Of course not!" said his wife, with a frown. - -"Well, my dear, how am I to know?" - -A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. "You know -quite well that Helen never sins against affection," she -said. "You must have noticed that much in her, surely." - -"Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together." - -"No, Henry--can't you see? --I don't mean that." - -She recovered herself, but not before Charles had -observed her. Stupid and attentive, he was watching the scene. - -"I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, -one could trace it back to the heart in the long run. She -behaved oddly because she cared for 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 a l'hotel." 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,<BR> - 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 -Forstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writing about, must be a -noble character, but he doesn't see that I shall never marry -him or anyone. It isn't shame or mistrust of myself. I -simply couldn't. I'm ended. I used to be so dreamy about a -man's love as a girl, and think that for good or evil love -must be the great thing. But it hasn't been; it has been -itself a dream. Do you agree?" - -"I do not agree. I do not." - -"I ought to remember Leonard as my lover," said Helen, -stepping down into the field. "I tempted him, and killed -him and it is surely the least I can do. I would like to -throw out all my heart to Leonard on such an afternoon as -this. But I cannot. It is no good pretending. I am -forgetting him." Her eyes filled with tears. "How nothing -seems to match--how, my darling, my precious--" She broke -off. "Tommy!" - -"Yes, please?" - -"Baby's not to try and stand.--There's something wanting -in me. I see you loving Henry, and understanding him better -daily, and I know that death wouldn't part you in the -least. But I--Is it some awful appalling, criminal defect?" - -Margaret silenced her. She said: "It is only that -people are far more different than is pretended. All over -the world men and women are worrying because they cannot -develop as they are supposed to develop. Here and there -they have the matter out, and it comforts them. Don't fret -yourself, Helen. Develop what you have; love your child. I -do not love children. I am thankful to have none. I can -play with their beauty and charm, but that is all--nothing -real, not one scrap of what there ought to be. And -others--others go farther still, and move outside humanity -altogether. A place, as well as a person, may catch the -glow. Don't you see that all this leads to comfort in the -end? It is part of the battle against sameness. -Differences--eternal differences, planted by God in a single -family, so that there may always be colour; sorrow perhaps, -but colour in the daily grey. Then I can't have you -worrying about Leonard. Don't drag in the personal when it -will not come. Forget him." - -"Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?" - -"Perhaps an adventure." - -"Is that enough?" - -"Not for us. But for him." - -Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the -sorrel, and the red and white and yellow clover, and the -quaker grass, and the daisies, and the bents that composed -it. She raised it to her face. - -"Is it sweetening yet?" asked Margaret. - -"No, only withered." - -"It will sweeten 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. - - - - - -End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Howards End, by E. M. Forster - diff --git a/old/2891.zip b/old/2891.zip Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 1dfe723..0000000 --- a/old/2891.zip +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old-2025-01-21/2891-0.txt b/old/old-2025-01-21/2891-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a3e204f..0000000 --- a/old/old-2025-01-21/2891-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14064 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Howards End, by E. M. Forster - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -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. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOWARDS END *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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M. Forster</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Howards End</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: E. M. Forster</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November, 2001 [eBook #2891]<br /> -[Most recently updated: April 14, 2023]</div> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Richard Fane</div> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOWARDS END ***</div> - -<h1>Howards End</h1> - -<h2 class="no-break">by E. M. Forster</h2> - -<hr /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 1</h2> - -<p> -One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister. -</p> - -<p class="right"> -Howards End,<br/> -Tuesday. -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p> -Dearest Meg, -</p> - -<p> -It isn’t going to be what we expected. It is old and little, and altogether -delightful—red brick. We can scarcely pack in as it is, and the dear knows what -will happen when Paul (younger son) arrives 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. -</p> - -<p> -Then there’s a very big wych-elm—to the left as you look up—leaning a little -over the house, and standing on the boundary between the garden and meadow. I -quite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks—no nastier than ordinary -oaks—pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No silver birches, though. However, I -must get on to my host and hostess. I only wanted to show that it isn’t the -least what we expected. Why did we settle that their house would be all gables -and wiggles, and their garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply -because we associate them with expensive hotels—Mrs. Wilcox trailing in -beautiful dresses down long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying porters, etc. We -females are that unjust. -</p> - -<p> -I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train later. They are as angry as I -am that you did not come too; really Tibby is too tiresome, he starts a new -mortal disease every month. How could he have got hay fever in London? and even -if he could, it seems hard that you should give up a visit to hear a schoolboy -sneeze. Tell him that Charles Wilcox (the son who is here) has hay fever too, -but he’s brave, and gets quite cross when we inquire after it. Men like the -Wilcoxes would do Tibby a power of good. But you won’t agree, and I’d better -change the subject. -</p> - -<p> -This long letter is because I’m writing before breakfast. Oh, the beautiful -vine leaves! The house is covered with a vine. I looked out earlier, and Mrs. -Wilcox was already in the garden. She evidently loves it. No wonder she -sometimes looks tired. She was watching the large red poppies come out. Then -she walked off the lawn to the meadow, whose corner to the right I can just -see. Trail, trail, went her long dress over the sopping grass, and she came -back with her hands full of the hay that was cut yesterday—I suppose for -rabbits or something, as she kept on smelling it. The air here is delicious. -Later on I heard the noise of croquet balls, and looked out again, and it was -Charles Wilcox practising; they are keen on all games. Presently he started -sneezing and had to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox -practising, and then, ‘a-tissue, a-tissue’: he has to stop too. Then Evie comes -out, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine that is tacked on to a -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. -</p> - -<p> -I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wilcox wore an [omission], and -Evie [omission]. So it isn’t exactly a go-as-you-please place, and if you shut -your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we expected. Not if you open -them. The dog-roses are too sweet. There is a great hedge of them over the -lawn—magnificently tall, so that they fall down in garlands, and nice and thin -at the bottom, so that you can see ducks through it and a cow. These belong to -the farm, which is the only house near us. There goes the breakfast gong. Much -love. Modified love to Tibby. Love to Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and -keep you company, but what a bore. Burn this. Will write again Thursday. -</p> -</div> - -<p class="right"> -<i>Helen</i> -</p> - -<p class="right"> -Howards End,<br/> -Friday. -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p> -Dearest Meg, -</p> - -<p> -I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs. Wilcox, if quieter than in -Germany, is sweeter than ever, and I never saw anything like her steady -unselfishness, and the best of it is that the others do not take advantage of -her. They are the very happiest, jolliest family that you can imagine. I do -really feel that we are making friends. The fun of it is that they think me a -noodle, and say so—at least Mr. Wilcox does—and when that happens, and one -doesn’t mind, it’s a pretty sure test, isn’t it? He says the most horrid things -about 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. -</p> -</div> - -<p class="right"> -Your affectionate<br/> -Helen -</p> - -<p class="right"> -Howards End,<br/> -Sunday. -</p> - -<p class="letter"> -Dearest, dearest Meg,—I do not know what you will say: Paul and I are in -love—the younger son who only came here Wednesday. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 2</h2> - -<p> -Margaret glanced at her sister’s note and pushed it over the breakfast-table to -her aunt. There was a moment’s hush, and then the flood-gates opened. -</p> - -<p> -“I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no more than you do. We met—we only -met the father and mother abroad last spring. I know so little that I didn’t -even know their son’s name. It’s all so—” She waved her hand and laughed a -little. -</p> - -<p> -“In that case it is far too sudden.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?” -</p> - -<p> -“But, Margaret dear, I mean we mustn’t be unpractical now that we’ve come to -facts. It is too sudden, surely.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who knows!” -</p> - -<p> -“But Margaret dear—” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll go for her other letters,” said Margaret. “No, I won’t, I’ll finish my -breakfast. In fact, I haven’t them. We met the Wilcoxes on an awful expedition -that we made from Heidelberg to Speyer. Helen and I had got it into our heads -that there was a grand old cathedral at Speyer—the Archbishop of Speyer was one -of the seven electors—you know—‘Speyer, Maintz, and Köln.’ Those three -sees once commanded the Rhine Valley and got it the name of Priest Street.” -</p> - -<p> -“I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Margaret.” -</p> - -<p> -“The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first sight it looked quite -fine. But oh, in five minutes we had seen the whole thing. The cathedral had -been ruined, absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an inch left of the -original structure. We wasted a whole day, and came across the Wilcoxes as we -were eating our sandwiches in the public gardens. They too, poor things, had -been taken in—they were actually stopping at Speyer—and they rather liked Helen -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. -</p> - -<p> -She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a London morning. Their house was -in Wickham Place, and fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of buildings -separated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the sense of a backwater, or -rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the invisible sea, and ebbed -into a profound silence while the waves without were still beating. Though the -promontory consisted of flats—expensive, with cavernous entrance halls, full of -concierges and palms—it fulfilled its purpose, and gained for the older houses -opposite a certain measure of peace. 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. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her nieces. She decided that -Margaret was a little hysterical, and was trying to gain time by a torrent of -talk. Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of Speyer, and declared -that never, never should she be so misguided as to visit it, and added of her -own accord that the principles of restoration were ill understood in Germany. -“The Germans,” she said, “are too thorough, and this is all very well -sometimes, but at other times it does not do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly,” said Margaret; “Germans are too thorough.” And her eyes began to -shine. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I regard you Schlegels as English,” said Mrs. Munt hastily—“English -to the backbone.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand. -</p> - -<p> -“And that reminds me—Helen’s letter—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen’s letter. I know—I -must go down and see her. I am thinking about her all right. I am meaning to go -down.” -</p> - -<p> -“But go with some plan,” said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice a note -of exasperation. “Margaret, if I may interfere, don’t be taken by surprise. -What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they likely people? -Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very special sort of person? -Do they care about Literature and Art? That is most important when you come to -think of it. Literature and Art. Most important. How old would the son be? She -says ‘younger son.’ Would he be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make -Helen happy? Did you gather—” -</p> - -<p> -“I gathered nothing.” -</p> - -<p> -They began to talk at once. -</p> - -<p> -“Then in that case—” -</p> - -<p> -“In that case I can make no plans, don’t you see.” -</p> - -<p> -“On the contrary—” -</p> - -<p> -“I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn’t a baby.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then in that case, my dear, why go down?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down, she was -not going to tell her. She was not going to say “I love my dear sister; I must -be near her at this crisis of her life.” The affections are more reticent than -the passions, and their expression more subtle. If she herself should ever fall -in love with a man, she, like Helen, would proclaim it from the house-tops, but -as she only loved a sister she used the voiceless language of sympathy. -</p> - -<p> -“I consider you odd girls,” continued Mrs. Munt, “and very wonderful girls, and -in many ways far older than your years. But—you won’t be offended?—frankly I -feel you are not up to this business. It requires an older person. Dear, I have -nothing to call me back to Swanage.” She spread out her plump arms. “I am all -at your disposal. Let me go down to this house whose name I forget instead of -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Aunt Juley”—she jumped up and kissed her—“I must, must go to Howards End -myself. You don’t exactly understand, though I can never thank you properly for -offering.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do understand,” retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. “I go down in -no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are necessary. Now, -I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to a certainty you would. -In your anxiety for Helen’s happiness you would offend the whole of these -Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous questions—not that one minds offending -them.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen’s writing that she and a man are -in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to that. All the rest -isn’t worth a straw. A long engagement if you like, but inquiries, questions, -plans, lines of action—no, Aunt Juley, no.” -</p> - -<p> -Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled with -something that took the place of both qualities—something best described as a -profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to all that she encountered -in her path through life. -</p> - -<p> -“If Helen had written the same to me about a shop-assistant or a penniless -clerk—” -</p> - -<p> -“Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good maids are -dusting the banisters.” -</p> - -<p> -“—or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson, I should -have said the same.” Then, with one of those turns that convinced her aunt that -she was not mad really and convinced observers of another type that she was not -a barren theorist, she added: “Though in the case of Carter Paterson I should -want it to be a very long engagement indeed, I must say.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should think so,” said Mrs. Munt; “and, indeed, I can scarcely follow you. -Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the Wilcoxes. I -understand it, but most good people would think you mad. Imagine how -disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will go slowly, slowly -in this business, and see how things are and where they are likely to lead to.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was down on this. -</p> - -<p> -“But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think probably it must; but slowly.” -</p> - -<p> -“Can you break an engagement off slowly?” Her eyes lit up. “What’s an -engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it’s made of some hard stuff, that -may snap, but can’t break. It is different to the other ties of life. They -stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They’re different.” -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly so. But won’t you let me just run down to Howards House, and save you -all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so thoroughly -understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one quiet look round will -be enough for me.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to see her -brother. -</p> - -<p> -He was not so well. -</p> - -<p> -The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached, his eyes -were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, was in a most unsatisfactory -condition. The only thing that made life worth living was the thought of Walter -Savage Landor, from whose <i>Imaginary Conversations</i> she had promised to -read at frequent intervals during the day. -</p> - -<p> -It was rather difficult. Something must be done about Helen. She must be -assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight. A telegram to -this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit seemed each moment more -impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and said that Tibby was quite bad. Might it -really be best to accept Aunt Juley’s kind offer, and to send her down to -Howards End with a note? -</p> - -<p> -Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing rapidly from one decision to -another. Running downstairs into the library, she cried—“Yes, I have changed my -mind; I do wish that you would go.” -</p> - -<p> -There was a train from King’s Cross at eleven. At half-past ten Tibby, with -rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and Margaret was able to drive her aunt to -the station. -</p> - -<p> -“You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into discussing the engagement. -Give my letter to Helen, and say whatever you feel yourself, but do keep clear -of the relatives. We have scarcely got their names straight yet, and besides, -that sort of thing is so uncivilized and wrong. -</p> - -<p> -“So uncivilized?” queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she was losing the point of -some brilliant remark. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would you please only talk the thing -over with Helen.” -</p> - -<p> -“Only with Helen.” -</p> - -<p> -“Because—” But it was no moment to expound the personal nature of love. Even -Margaret shrank from it, and contented herself with stroking her good aunt’s -hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and half poetically, on the journey -that was about to begin from King’s Cross. -</p> - -<p> -Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, she had strong -feelings about the various railway termini. They are our gates to the glorious -and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and sunshine, to them -alas! we return. In Paddington all Cornwall is latent and the remoter west; -down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands and the illimitable Broads; -Scotland is through the pylons of Euston; Wessex behind the poised chaos of -Waterloo. Italians 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. -</p> - -<p> -To Margaret—I hope that it will not set the reader against her—the station of -King’s Cross had always suggested Infinity. Its very situation—withdrawn a -little behind the facile splendours of St. Pancras—implied a comment on the -materialism of life. Those two great arches, colourless, indifferent, -shouldering between them an unlovely clock, were fit portals for some eternal -adventure, whose issue might be prosperous, but would certainly not be -expressed in the ordinary language of prosperity. If you think this ridiculous, -remember that it is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let me hasten -to add that they were in plenty of time for the train; that Mrs. Munt, though -she took a second-class ticket, was put by the guard into a first (only two -seconds on the train, one smoking and the other babies—one cannot be expected -to travel with babies); and that Margaret, on her return to Wickham Place, was -confronted with the following telegram: -</p> - -<p class="letter"> -All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one. -</p> - -<p class="right"> -—Helen -</p> - -<p> -But Aunt Juley was gone—gone irrevocably, and no power on earth could stop her. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 3</h2> - -<p> -Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission. Her nieces were -independent young women, and it was not often that she was able to help them. -Emily’s daughters had never been quite like other girls. They had been left -motherless when Tibby was born, when Helen was five and Margaret herself but -thirteen. It was before the passing of the Deceased Wife’s Sister Bill, so Mrs. -Munt could without impropriety offer to go and keep house at Wickham Place. But -her brother-in-law, who was peculiar and a German, had referred the question to -Margaret, who with the crudity of youth had answered, “No, they could manage -much better alone.” Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs. Munt -had repeated her offer. Margaret, crude no longer, had been grateful and -extremely nice, but the substance of her answer had been the same. “I must not -interfere a third time,” thought Mrs. Munt. However, of course she did. She -learnt, to her horror, that Margaret, now of age, was taking her money out of -the old safe investments and putting it into Foreign Things, which always -smash. Silence would have been criminal. Her own fortune was invested in Home -Rails, and most ardently did she beg her niece to imitate her. “Then we should -be together, dear.” Margaret, out of politeness, invested a few hundreds in the -Nottingham and Derby Railway, and though the Foreign Things did admirably and -the Nottingham and Derby declined with the steady dignity of which only Home -Rails are capable, Mrs. Munt never ceased to rejoice, and to say, “I did manage -that, at all events. When the smash comes poor Margaret will have a nest-egg to -fall back upon.” This year Helen came of age, and exactly the same thing -happened in Helen’s case; she also would shift her money out of Consols, but -she, too, almost without being pressed, consecrated a fraction of it to the -Nottingham and Derby Railway. So far so good, but in social matters their aunt -had accomplished nothing. Sooner or later the girls would enter on the process -known as throwing themselves away, and if they had delayed hitherto, it was -only that they might throw themselves more vehemently in the future. They saw -too many people at Wickham Place—unshaven musicians, an actress even, German -cousins (one knows what foreigners are), acquaintances picked up at Continental -hotels (one knows what they are too). It was interesting, and down at Swanage -no one appreciated culture more than Mrs. Munt; but it was dangerous, and -disaster was bound to come. How right she was, and how lucky to be on the spot -when the disaster came! -</p> - -<p> -The train sped northward, under innumerable tunnels. It was only an hour’s -journey, but Mrs. Munt had to raise and lower the window again and again. She -passed through the South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light for a moment, and entered the -North Welwyn Tunnel, of tragic fame. She traversed the immense viaduct, whose -arches span untroubled meadows and the dreamy flow of Tewin Water. She skirted -the parks of politicians. At times the Great North Road accompanied her, more -suggestive of infinity than any railway, awakening, after a nap of a hundred -years, to such life as is conferred by the stench of motor-cars, and to such -culture as is implied by the advertisements of antibilious pills. To history, -to tragedy, to the past, to the future, Mrs. Munt remained equally indifferent; -hers but to concentrate on the end of her journey, and to rescue poor Helen -from this dreadful mess. -</p> - -<p> -The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of the large villages that are -strung so frequently along the North Road, and that owe their size to the -traffic of coaching and pre-coaching days. Being near London, it had not shared -in the rural decay, and its long High Street had budded out right and left into -residential estates. For about a mile a series of tiled and slated houses -passed before Mrs. Munt’s inattentive eyes, a series broken at one point by six -Danish tumuli that stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad, tombs of -soldiers. Beyond these tumuli habitations thickened, and the train came to a -standstill in a tangle that was almost a town. -</p> - -<p> -The station, like the scenery, like Helen’s letters, struck an indeterminate -note. Into which country will it lead, England or Suburbia? It was new, it had -island platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort exacted by business -men. But it held hints of local life, personal intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt -was to discover. -</p> - -<p> -“I want a house,” she confided to the ticket boy. “Its name is Howards Lodge. -Do you know where it is?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Wilcox!” the boy called. -</p> - -<p> -A young man in front of them turned round. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s wanting Howards End.” -</p> - -<p> -There was nothing for it but to go forward, though Mrs. Munt was too much -agitated even to stare at the stranger. But remembering that there were two -brothers, she had the sense to say to him, “Excuse me asking, but are you the -younger Mr. Wilcox or the elder?” -</p> - -<p> -“The younger. Can I do anything for you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, well”—she controlled herself with difficulty. “Really. Are you? I—” She -moved away from the ticket boy and lowered her voice. “I am Miss Schlegels -aunt. I ought to introduce myself, oughtn’t I? My name is Mrs. Munt.” -</p> - -<p> -She was conscious that he raised his cap and said quite coolly, “Oh, rather; -Miss Schlegel is stopping with us. Did you want to see her?” -</p> - -<p> -“Possibly—” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll call you a cab. No; wait a mo—” He thought. “Our motor’s here. I’ll run -you up in it.” -</p> - -<p> -“That is very kind—” -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all, if you’ll just wait till they bring out a parcel from the office. -This way.” -</p> - -<p> -“My niece is not with you by any chance?” -</p> - -<p> -“No; I came over with my father. He has gone on north in your train. You’ll see -Miss Schlegel at lunch. You’re coming up to lunch, I hope?” -</p> - -<p> -“I should like to come <i>up</i>,” 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. -</p> - -<p> -“In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be windy in front.” -</p> - -<p> -“In front if I may; then we can talk.” -</p> - -<p> -“But excuse me one moment—I can’t think what they’re doing with that parcel.” -He strode into the booking-office and called with a new voice: “Hi! hi, you -there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel for Wilcox, Howards -End. Just look sharp!” 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?” -</p> - -<p> -“This is very good of you,” said Mrs. Munt, as she settled herself into a -luxurious cavern of red leather, and suffered her person to be padded with rugs -and shawls. She was more civil than she had intended, but really this young man -was very kind. Moreover, she was a little afraid of him: his self-possession -was extraordinary. “Very good indeed,” she repeated, adding: “It is just what I -should have wished.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very good of you to say so,” he replied, with a slight look of surprise, -which, like most slight looks, escaped Mrs. Munt’s attention. “I was just -tooling my father over to catch the down train.” -</p> - -<p> -“You see, we heard from Helen this morning.” -</p> - -<p> -Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his engine, and performing other -actions with which this story has no concern. The great car began to rock, and -the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang agreeably up and down -among the red cushions. “The mater will be very glad to see you,” he mumbled. -“Hi! I say. Parcel for Howards End. Bring it out. Hi!” -</p> - -<p> -A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and an entry book in the -other. With the gathering whir of the motor these ejaculations mingled: “Sign, -must I? Why the—should I sign after all this bother? Not even got a pencil on -you? Remember next time I report you to the station-master. My time’s of value, -though yours mayn’t be. Here”—here being a tip. -</p> - -<p> -“Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all, Mr. Wilcox.” -</p> - -<p> -“And do you object to going through the village? It is rather a longer spin, -but I have one or two commissions.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should love going through the village. Naturally I am very anxious to talk -things over with you.” -</p> - -<p> -As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was disobeying Margaret’s -instructions. Only disobeying them in the letter, surely. Margaret had only -warned her against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely it was not -“uncivilized or wrong” to discuss it with the young man himself, since chance -had thrown them together. -</p> - -<p> -A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by her side, he put on gloves and -spectacles, and off they drove, the bearded porter—life is a mysterious -business—looking after them with admiration. -</p> - -<p> -The wind was in their faces down the station road, blowing the dust into Mrs. -Munt’s eyes. But as soon as they turned into the Great North Road she opened -fire. “You can well imagine,” she said, “that the news was a great shock to -us.” -</p> - -<p> -“What news?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Wilcox,” she said frankly. “Margaret has told me everything—everything. I -have seen Helen’s letter.” -</p> - -<p> -He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were fixed on his work; he was -travelling as quickly as he dared down the High Street. But he inclined his -head in her direction, and said, “I beg your pardon; I didn’t catch.” -</p> - -<p> -“About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very exceptional person—I am sure -you will let me say this, feeling towards her as you do—indeed, all the -Schlegels are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference, but it was a -great shock.” -</p> - -<p> -They drew up opposite a draper’s. Without replying, he turned round in his -seat, and contemplated the cloud of dust that they had raised in their passage -through the village. It was settling again, but not all into the road from -which he had taken it. Some of it had percolated through the open windows, some -had whitened the roses and gooseberries of the wayside gardens, while a certain -proportion had entered the lungs of the villagers. “I wonder when they’ll learn -wisdom and tar the roads,” was his comment. Then a man ran out of the draper’s -with a roll of oilcloth, and off they went again. -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor Tibby, so I am here to -represent her and to have a good talk.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m sorry to be so dense,” said the young man, again drawing up outside a -shop. “But I still haven’t quite understood.” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, Mr. Wilcox—my niece and you.” -</p> - -<p> -He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, absolutely bewildered. Horror smote -her to the heart, for even she began to suspect that they were at -cross-purposes, and that she had commenced her mission by some hideous blunder. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Schlegel and myself.” he asked, compressing his lips. -</p> - -<p> -“I trust there has been no misunderstanding,” quavered Mrs. Munt. “Her letter -certainly read that way.” -</p> - -<p> -“What way?” -</p> - -<p> -“That you and she—” She paused, then drooped her eyelids. -</p> - -<p> -“I think I catch your meaning,” he said stickily. “What an extraordinary -mistake!” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you didn’t the least—” she stammered, getting blood-red in the face, and -wishing she had never been born. -</p> - -<p> -“Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady.” There was a moment’s -silence, and then he caught his breath and exploded with, “Oh, good God! Don’t -tell me it’s some silliness of Paul’s.” -</p> - -<p> -“But you are Paul.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then why did you say so at the station?” -</p> - -<p> -“I said nothing of the sort.” -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon, you did.” -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon, I did not. My name is Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -“Younger” may mean son as opposed to father, or second brother as opposed to -first. There is much to be said for either view, and later on they said it. But -they had other questions before them now. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean to tell me that Paul—” -</p> - -<p> -But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he was talking to a porter, -and, certain that he had deceived her at the station, she too grew angry. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your niece—” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Munt—such is human nature—determined that she would champion the lovers. -She was not going to be bullied by a severe young man. “Yes, they care for one -another very much indeed,” she said. “I dare say they will tell you about it -by-and-by. We heard this morning.” -</p> - -<p> -And Charles clenched his fist and cried, “The idiot, the idiot, the little -fool!” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. “If that is your attitude, Mr. -Wilcox, I prefer to walk.” -</p> - -<p> -“I beg you will do no such thing. I’ll take you up this moment to the house. -Let me tell you the thing’s impossible, and must be stopped.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when she did it was only to -protect those whom she loved. On this occasion she blazed out. “I quite agree, -sir. The thing is impossible, and I will come up and stop it. My niece is a -very exceptional person, and I am not inclined to sit still while she throws -herself away on those who will not appreciate her.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles worked his jaws. -</p> - -<p> -“Considering she has only known your brother since Wednesday, and only met your -father and mother at a stray hotel—” -</p> - -<p> -“Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman will overhear.” -</p> - -<p> -“Esprit de classe”—if one may coin the phrase—was strong in Mrs. Munt. She sat -quivering while a member of the lower orders deposited a metal funnel, a -saucepan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth. -</p> - -<p> -“Right behind?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, sir.” And the lower orders vanished in a cloud of dust. -</p> - -<p> -“I warn you: Paul hasn’t a penny; it’s useless.” -</p> - -<p> -“No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The warning is all the other -way. My niece has been very foolish, and I shall give her a good scolding and -take her back to London with me.” -</p> - -<p> -“He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He couldn’t think of marrying for years -and when he does it must be a woman who can stand the climate, and is in other -ways—Why hasn’t he told us? Of course he’s ashamed. He knows he’s been a fool. -And so he has—a damned fool.” -</p> - -<p> -She grew furious. -</p> - -<p> -“Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publishing the news.” -</p> - -<p> -“If I were a man, Mr. Wilcox, for that last remark I’d box your ears. You’re -not fit to clean my niece’s boots, to sit in the same room with her, and you -dare—you actually dare—I decline to argue with such a person.” -</p> - -<p> -“All I know is, she’s spread the thing and he hasn’t, and my father’s away and -I—” -</p> - -<p> -“And all that I know is—” -</p> - -<p> -“Might I finish my sentence, please?” -</p> - -<p> -“No.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles clenched his teeth and sent the motor swerving all over the lane. -</p> - -<p> -She screamed. -</p> - -<p> -So they played the game of Capping Families, a round of which is always played -when love would unite two members of our race. But they played it with unusual -vigour, stating in so many words that Schlegels were better than Wilcoxes, -Wilcoxes better than Schlegels. They flung decency aside. The man was young, -the woman deeply stirred; in both a vein of coarseness was latent. Their -quarrel was no more surprising than are most quarrels—inevitable at the time, -incredible afterwards. But it was more than usually futile. A few minutes, and -they were enlightened. The motor drew up at Howards End, and Helen, looking -very pale, ran out to meet her aunt. -</p> - -<p> -“Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Margaret; I—I meant to stop your -coming. It isn’t—it’s over.” -</p> - -<p> -The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst into tears. -</p> - -<p> -“Aunt Juley dear, don’t. Don’t let them know I’ve been so silly. It wasn’t -anything. Do bear up for my sake.” -</p> - -<p> -“Paul,” cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t let them know. They are never to know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, my darling Helen—” -</p> - -<p> -“Paul! Paul!” -</p> - -<p> -A very young man came out of the house. -</p> - -<p> -“Paul, is there any truth in this?” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t—I don’t—” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did or didn’t Miss Schlegel—” -</p> - -<p> -“Charles dear,” said a voice from the garden. “Charles, dear Charles, one -doesn’t ask plain questions. There aren’t such things.” -</p> - -<p> -They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox. -</p> - -<p> -She approached just as Helen’s letter had described her, trailing noiselessly -over the lawn, and there was actually a wisp of hay in her hands. She seemed to -belong not to the young people and their motor, but to the house, and to the -tree that overshadowed it. One knew that she worshipped the past, and that the -instinctive wisdom the past can alone bestow had descended upon her—that wisdom -to which we give the clumsy name of aristocracy. High born she might not be. -But assuredly she cared about her ancestors, and let them help her. When she -saw Charles angry, Paul frightened, and Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her -ancestors say, “Separate those human beings who will hurt each other most. The -rest can wait.” So she did not ask questions. Still less did she pretend that -nothing had happened, as a competent society hostess would have done. She said, -“Miss Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your room or to my room, -whichever you think best. Paul, do find Evie, and tell her lunch for six, but -I’m not sure whether we shall all be downstairs for it.” And when they had -obeyed her, she turned to her elder son, who still stood in the throbbing -stinking car, and smiled at him with tenderness, and without a word, turned -away from him towards her flowers. -</p> - -<p> -“Mother,” he called, “are you aware that Paul has been playing the fool again?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all right, dear. They have broken off the engagement.” -</p> - -<p> -“Engagement—!” -</p> - -<p> -“They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put that way,” said Mrs. Wilcox, -stooping down to smell a rose. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 4</h2> - -<p> -Helen and her aunt returned to Wickham Place in a state of collapse, and for a -little time Margaret had three invalids on her hands. Mrs. Munt soon recovered. -She possessed to a remarkable degree the power of distorting the past, and -before many days were over she had forgotten the part played by her own -imprudence in the catastrophe. Even at the crisis she had cried, “Thank -goodness, poor Margaret is saved this!” which during the journey to London -evolved into, “It had to be gone through by 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. -</p> - -<p> -The truth was that she had fallen in love, not with an individual, but with a -family. -</p> - -<p> -Before Paul arrived she had, as it were, been tuned up into his key. The energy -of the Wilcoxes had fascinated her, had created new images of beauty in her -responsive mind. To be all day with them in the open air, to sleep at night -under their roof, had seemed the supreme joy of life, and had led to that -abandonment of personality that is a possible prelude to love. She had liked -giving in to Mr. Wilcox, or Evie, or Charles; she had liked being told that her -notions of life were sheltered or academic; that Equality was nonsense, Votes -for Women nonsense, Socialism nonsense, Art and Literature, except when -conducive to strengthening the character, nonsense. One by one the Schlegel -fetiches had been overthrown, and, though professing to defend them, she had -rejoiced. When Mr. Wilcox said that one sound man of business did more good to -the world than a dozen of your social reformers, she had swallowed the curious -assertion without a gasp, and had leant back luxuriously among the cushions of -his 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. -</p> - -<p> -He had been talking of his approaching exile in Nigeria, and he should have -continued to talk of it, and allowed their guest to recover. But the heave of -her bosom flattered him. Passion was possible, and he became passionate. Deep -down in him something whispered, “This girl would let you kiss her; you might -not have such a chance again.” -</p> - -<p> -That was “how it happened,” or, rather, how Helen described it to her sister, -using words even more unsympathetic than my own. But the poetry of that kiss, -the wonder of it, the magic that there was in life for hours after it—who can -describe that? It is so easy for an Englishman to sneer at these chance -collisions of human beings. To the insular cynic and the insular moralist they -offer an equal opportunity. It is so easy to talk of “passing emotion,” and 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. -</p> - -<p> -“I understand,” said Margaret—“at least, I understand as much as ever is -understood of these things. Tell me now what happened on the Monday morning.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was over at once.” -</p> - -<p> -“How, Helen?” -</p> - -<p> -“I was still happy while I dressed, but as I came downstairs I got nervous, and -when I went into the dining-room I knew it was no good. There was Evie—I can’t -explain—managing the tea-urn, and Mr. Wilcox reading the <i>Times</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“Was Paul there?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; and Charles was talking to him about Stocks and Shares, and he looked -frightened.” -</p> - -<p> -By slight indications the sisters could convey much to each other. Margaret saw -horror latent in the scene, and Helen’s next remark did not surprise her. -</p> - -<p> -“Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened it is too awful. It is all -right for us to be frightened, or for men of another sort—father, for instance; -but for men like that! When I saw all the others so placid, and Paul mad with -terror in case I said the wrong thing, I felt for a moment that the whole -Wilcox family was a fraud, just a wall of newspapers and motor-cars and -golf-clubs, and that if it fell I should find nothing behind it but panic and -emptiness.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being genuine people, -particularly the wife.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I don’t really think that. But Paul was so broad-shouldered; all kinds of -extraordinary things made it worse, and I knew that it would never do—never. I -said to him after breakfast, when the others were practising strokes, ‘We -rather lost our heads,’ and he looked better at once, though frightfully -ashamed. He began a speech about having no money to marry on, but it hurt him -to make it, and I—stopped him. Then he said, ‘I must beg your pardon over this, -Miss Schlegel; I can’t think what came over me last night.’ And I said, ‘Nor -what over me; never mind.’ And then we parted—at least, until I remembered that -I had written straight off to tell you the night before, and that frightened -him again. I asked him to send a telegram for me, for he knew you would be -coming or something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, but Charles and Mr. -Wilcox wanted it to go to the station; and Charles offered to send the telegram -for me, and then I had to say that the telegram was of no consequence, for Paul -said Charles might read it, and though I wrote it out several times, he always -said people would suspect something. He took it himself at last, pretending -that he must walk down to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the -other, it was not handed in at the Post Office until too late. It was the most -terrible morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket -averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the other -days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and then came -your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that train, and Paul—oh, -rather horrible—said that I had muddled it. But Mrs. Wilcox knew.” -</p> - -<p> -“Knew what?” -</p> - -<p> -“Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and had known all along, -I think.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, she must have overheard you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley drove up, -calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the garden and made -everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a disgusting business. To think -that—” She sighed. -</p> - -<p> -“To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must be all -these telegrams and anger,” supplied Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -Helen nodded. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve often thought about it, Helen. It’s one of the most interesting things in -the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that you and I have -never touched—a life in which telegrams and anger count. Personal relations, -that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There love means marriage -settlements, death, death duties. So far I’m clear. But here my difficulty. -This outer life, though obviously horrid, often seems the real one—there’s grit -in it. It does breed character. Do personal relations lead to sloppiness in the -end?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Meg, that’s what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes were so -competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you feel it now?” -</p> - -<p> -“I remember Paul at breakfast,” said Helen quietly. “I shall never forget him. -He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal relations are the real -life, for ever and ever. -</p> - -<p> -“Amen!” -</p> - -<p> -So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it memories of -sweetness and horror that mingled, and the sisters pursued the life that Helen -had commended. They talked to each other and to other people, they filled the -tall thin house at Wickham Place with those whom they liked or could befriend. -They even attended public meetings. In their own fashion they cared deeply -about politics, though not as politicians would have us care; they desired that -public life should mirror whatever is good in the life within. Temperance, -tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible cries to them; whereas they -did not follow our Forward Policy in 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. -</p> - -<p> -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?” -</p> - -<p> -To all this Margaret listened, sitting on the haughty nephew’s knee. -</p> - -<p> -It was a unique education for the little girls. The haughty nephew would be at -Wickham Place one day, bringing with him an even haughtier wife, both convinced -that Germany was appointed by God to govern the world. Aunt Juley would come -the next day, convinced that Great Britain had been appointed to the same post -by the same authority. Were both these loud-voiced parties right? On one -occasion they had met, and Margaret with clasped hands had implored them to -argue the subject out in her presence. Whereat they blushed, and began to talk -about the weather. “Papa” she cried—she was a most offensive child—“why will -they not discuss this most clear question?” Her father, surveying the parties -grimly, replied that he did not know. Putting her head on one side, Margaret -then remarked, “To me one of two things is very clear; either God does not know -his own mind about England and Germany, or else these do not know the mind of -God.” A hateful little girl, but at thirteen she had grasped a dilemma that -most people travel through life without perceiving. Her brain darted up and -down; it grew pliant and strong. Her conclusion was, that any human being lies -nearer to the unseen than any organization, and from this she never varied. -</p> - -<p> -Helen advanced along the same lines, though with a more irresponsible tread. In -character she resembled her sister, but she was pretty, and so apt to have a -more amusing time. People gathered round her more readily, especially when they -were new acquaintances, and she did enjoy a little homage very much. When their -father died and they ruled alone at Wickham Place, she often absorbed the whole -of the company, while Margaret—both were tremendous talkers—fell flat. Neither -sister bothered about this. Helen never 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. -</p> - -<p> -Little need be premised about Tibby. He was now an intelligent man of sixteen, -but dyspeptic and difficile. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 5</h2> - -<p> -It will be generally admitted that Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is the most -sublime noise that has ever penetrated into the ear of man. All sorts and -conditions are satisfied by it. Whether you are like Mrs. Munt, and tap -surreptitiously when the tunes come—of course, not so as to disturb the -others—; or like Helen, who can see heroes and shipwrecks in the music’s flood; -or like Margaret, who can only see the music; or like Tibby, who is profoundly -versed in counterpoint, and holds the full score open on his knee; or like -their cousin, 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. -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -Helen looked down the long line of their party, and said that she did not know. -</p> - -<p> -“Would it be some young man or other whom she takes an interest in?” -</p> - -<p> -“I expect so,” Helen replied. Music enwrapped her, and she could not enter into -the distinction that divides young men whom one takes an interest in from young -men whom one knows. -</p> - -<p> -“You girls are so wonderful in always having—Oh dear! one mustn’t talk.” -</p> - -<p> -For the Andante had begun—very beautiful, but bearing a family likeness to all -the other beautiful Andantes that Beethoven had written, and, to Helen’s mind, -rather disconnecting the heroes and shipwrecks of the first movement from the -heroes and goblins of the third. She heard the tune through once, and then her -attention wandered, and she gazed at the audience, or the organ, or the -architecture. Much did she censure the attenuated Cupids who encircle the -ceiling of the Queen’s Hall, inclining each to each with vapid gesture, and -clad in sallow pantaloons, on which the October sunlight struck. “How awful to -marry a man like those Cupids!” thought Helen. Here Beethoven started -decorating his tune, so she heard him through once more, and then she smiled at -her cousin Frieda. But Frieda, listening to Classical Music, could not respond. -Herr Liesecke, too, looked as if wild horses could not make him inattentive; -there were lines across his forehead, his lips were parted, his pince-nez at -right angles to his nose, and he had laid a thick, white hand on either knee. -And next to her was Aunt Juley, so British, and wanting to tap. How interesting -that row of people was! What diverse influences had gone to the making! Here -Beethoven, after humming and hawing with great sweetness, said “Heigho,” and -the Andante came to an end. Applause, and a round of “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. -</p> - -<p> -“On the what, dear?” -</p> - -<p> -“On the <i>drum</i>, Aunt Juley.” -</p> - -<p> -“No; look out for the part where you think you have done with the goblins and -they come back,” breathed Helen, as the music started with a goblin walking -quietly over the universe, from end to end. Others followed him. They were not -aggressive creatures; it was that that made them so terrible to Helen. They -merely observed in passing that there was no such thing as splendour or heroism -in the world. After the interlude of elephants dancing, they returned and made -the observation for the second time. Helen could not contradict them, for, once -at all events, she had felt the same, and had seen the reliable walls of youth -collapse. Panic and emptiness! Panic and emptiness! The goblins were right. -</p> - -<p> -Her brother raised his finger: it was the transitional passage on the drum. -</p> - -<p> -For, as if things were going too far, Beethoven took hold of the goblins and -made them do what he wanted. He appeared in person. He gave them a little push, -and they began to walk in major key instead of in a minor, and then—he blew -with his mouth and they were scattered! Gusts of splendour, gods and demigods -contending with vast swords, colour and fragrance broadcast on the field of -battle, magnificent victory, magnificent death! Oh, it all burst before the -girl, and she even stretched out her gloved hands as if it was tangible. Any -fate was titanic; any contest desirable; conqueror and conquered would alike be -applauded by the angels of the utmost stars. -</p> - -<p> -And the goblins—they had not really been there at all? They were only the -phantoms of cowardice and unbelief? One healthy human impulse would dispel -them? Men like the Wilcoxes, or 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. -</p> - -<p> -Beethoven chose to make all right in the end. He built the ramparts up. He blew -with his mouth for the second time, and again the goblins were scattered. He -brought back the gusts of splendour, the heroism, the youth, the magnificence -of life and of death, and, amid vast roarings of a superhuman joy, he led his -Fifth Symphony to its conclusion. But the goblins were there. They could -return. He had said so bravely, and that is why one can trust Beethoven when he -says other things. -</p> - -<p> -Helen pushed her way out during the applause. She desired to be alone. The -music 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret,” called Mrs. Munt, “is Helen all right?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“She is always going away in the middle of a programme,” said Tibby. -</p> - -<p> -“The music has evidently moved her deeply,” said Fräulein Mosebach. -</p> - -<p> -“Excuse me,” said Margaret’s young man, who had for some time been preparing a -sentence, “but that lady has, quite inadvertently, taken my umbrella.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, good gracious me!—I am so sorry. Tibby, run after Helen.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall miss the Four Serious Songs if I do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tibby love, you must go.” -</p> - -<p> -“It isn’t of any consequence,” said the young man, in truth a little uneasy -about his umbrella. -</p> - -<p> -“But of course it is. Tibby! Tibby!” -</p> - -<p> -Tibby rose to his feet, and wilfully caught his person on the backs of the -chairs. By the time he had tipped up the seat and had found his hat, and had -deposited his full score in safety, it was “too late” to go after Helen. The -Four Serious Songs had begun, and one could not move during their performance. -</p> - -<p> -“My sister is so careless,” whispered Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all,” replied the young man; but his voice was dead and cold. -</p> - -<p> -“If you would give me your address—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, not at all, not at all;” and he wrapped his greatcoat over his knees. -</p> - -<p> -Then the Four Serious Songs rang shallow in Margaret’s ears. Brahms, for all -his grumbling and grizzling, had never guessed what it felt like to be -suspected of stealing an umbrella. For this fool of a young man thought that -she and Helen and Tibby had been playing the confidence trick on him, and that -if he gave his address they would break into his rooms some midnight or other -and steal his 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.” -</p> - -<p> -His face brightened a little when he saw that Wickham Place was W. It was sad -to see him corroded with suspicion, and yet not daring to be impolite, in case -these well-dressed people were honest after all. She took it as a good sign -that he said to her, “It’s a fine programme this afternoon, is it not?” for -this was the remark with which he had originally opened, before the umbrella -intervened. -</p> - -<p> -“The Beethoven’s fine,” said Margaret, who was not a female of the encouraging -type. “I don’t like the Brahms, though, nor the Mendelssohn that came first—and -ugh! I don’t like this Elgar that’s coming.” -</p> - -<p> -“What, what?” called Herr Liesecke, overhearing. “The <i>Pomp and -Circumstance</i> will not be fine?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Margaret, you tiresome girl!” cried her aunt. “Here have I been persuading -Herr Liesecke to stop for <i>Pomp and Circumstance</i>, 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“For my part, I have heard the composition at Stettin,” said Fräulein -Mosebach. “On two occasions. It is dramatic, a little.” -</p> - -<p> -“Frieda, you despise English music. You know you do. And English art. And -English Literature, except Shakespeare and he’s a German. Very well, Frieda, -you may go.” -</p> - -<p> -The lovers laughed and glanced at each other. Moved by a common impulse, they -rose to their feet and fled from <i>Pomp and Circumstance</i>. -</p> - -<p> -“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. -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret—” loudly whispered by Aunt Juley. “Margaret, Margaret! Fräulein -Mosebach has left her beautiful little bag behind her on the seat.” -</p> - -<p> -Sure enough, there was Frieda’s reticule, containing her address book, her -pocket dictionary, her map of London, and her money. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, what a bother—what a family we are! Fr-Frieda!” -</p> - -<p> -“Hush!” said all those who thought the music fine. -</p> - -<p> -“But it’s the number they want in Finsbury Circus—” -</p> - -<p> -“Might I—couldn’t I—” said the suspicious young man, and got very red. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I would be so grateful.” -</p> - -<p> -He took the bag—money clinking inside it—and slipped up the gangway with it. He -was just in time to catch them at the swing-door, and he received a pretty -smile from the German girl and a fine bow from her cavalier. He returned to his -seat 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“How tired one gets after music!” she began. -</p> - -<p> -“Do you find the atmosphere of Queen’s Hall oppressive?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, horribly.” -</p> - -<p> -“But surely the atmosphere of Covent Garden is even more oppressive.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you go there much?” -</p> - -<p> -“When my work permits, I attend the gallery for, the Royal Opera.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen would have exclaimed, “So do I. I love the gallery,” and thus have -endeared herself to the young man. Helen could do these things. But Margaret -had an almost morbid horror of “drawing people out,” of “making things go.” She -had been to the gallery at Covent Garden, but she did not “attend” it, -preferring the more expensive seats; still less did she love it. So she made no -reply. -</p> - -<p> -“This year I have been three times—to <i>Faust</i>, <i>Tosca</i>, and—” Was it -“Tannhouser” or “Tannhoyser”? Better not risk the word. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret disliked <i>Tosca</i> and <i>Faust</i>. And so, for one reason and -another, they walked on in silence, chaperoned by the voice of Mrs. Munt, who -was getting into difficulties with her nephew. -</p> - -<p> -“I do in a <i>way</i> 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“But surely you haven’t forgotten the drum steadily beating on the low C, Aunt -Juley?” came Tibby’s voice. “No one could. It’s unmistakable.” -</p> - -<p> -“A specially loud part?” hazarded Mrs. Munt. “Of course I do not go in for -being musical,” she added, the shot failing. “I only care for music—a very -different thing. But still I will say this for myself—I do know when I like a -thing and when I don’t. Some people are the same about pictures. They can go -into a picture gallery—Miss Conder can—and say straight off what they feel, all -round the wall. I never could do that. But music is so different 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you agree?” asked Margaret. “Do you think music is so different to -pictures?” -</p> - -<p> -“I—I should have thought so, kind of,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“So should I. Now, my sister declares they’re just the same. We have great -arguments over it. She says I’m dense; I say she’s sloppy.” Getting under way, -she cried: “Now, doesn’t it seem absurd to you? What is the good of the Arts if -they 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. -</p> - -<p> -Evidently these sisters quarrelled. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, this very symphony that we’ve just been having—she won’t let it alone. -She labels it with meanings from start to finish; turns it into literature. I -wonder if the day will ever return when music will be treated as music. Yet I -don’t know. There’s my brother—behind us. He treats music as music, and oh, my -goodness! He makes me angrier than anyone, simply furious. With him I daren’t -even argue.” -</p> - -<p> -An unhappy family, if talented. -</p> - -<p> -“But, of course, the real villain is Wagner. He has done more than any man in -the nineteenth century towards the muddling of arts. I do feel that music is in -a very serious state just now, though extraordinarily interesting. Every now -and then in history there do come these terrible geniuses, like Wagner, who -stir up all the wells of thought at once. For a moment it’s splendid. Such a -splash as never was. But afterwards—such a lot of mud; and the wells—as it -were, they communicate with each other too easily now, and not one of them will -run quite clear. That’s what Wagner’s done.” -</p> - -<p> -Her speeches fluttered away from the young man like birds. If only he could -talk like this, he would have caught the world. Oh to acquire culture! Oh, to -pronounce foreign names correctly! Oh, to be well informed, discoursing at ease -on every subject that a lady started! But it would take one years. With an hour -at lunch and a few shattered hours in the evening, how was it possible to catch -up with leisured women, who had been reading steadily from childhood? His brain -might be full of names, he might have even heard of Monet and Debussy; the -trouble was that he could not string them together into a sentence, he could -not make them “tell,” he could not quite forget about his stolen umbrella. Yes, -the umbrella was the real trouble. Behind Monet and Debussy the umbrella -persisted, with the steady beat of a drum. “I suppose my umbrella will be all -right,” he was thinking. “I don’t really mind about it. I will think about -music instead. I suppose my umbrella will be all right.” Earlier in the -afternoon he had worried about seats. Ought he to have paid as much as two -shillings? Earlier still he had wondered, “Shall I try to do without a -programme?” There had always been something to worry him ever since he could -remember, always something that distracted him in the pursuit of beauty. For he -did pursue beauty, and therefore, Margaret’s speeches did flutter away from him -like birds. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret talked ahead, occasionally saying, “Don’t you think so? don’t you feel -the same?” And once she stopped, and said “Oh, do interrupt me!” which -terrified him. She did not attract him, though she filled him with awe. Her -figure was meagre, her face seemed all teeth and eyes, her references to her -sister and 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do hope that you’ll come in and have some tea. We should be so glad. I have -dragged you so far out of your way.” -</p> - -<p> -They had arrived at Wickham Place. The sun had set, and the backwater, in deep -shadow, was filling with a gentle haze. To the right 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Helen! Let us in!” -</p> - -<p> -“All right,” said a voice. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve been taking this gentleman’s umbrella.” -</p> - -<p> -“Taken a what?” said Helen, opening the door. “Oh, what’s that? Do come in! How -do you do?” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, you must not be so ramshackly. You took this gentleman’s umbrella away -from Queen’s Hall, and he has had the trouble of coming for it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I am so sorry!” cried Helen, all her hair flying. She had pulled off her -hat as soon as she returned, and had flung herself into the big dining-room -chair. “I do nothing but steal umbrellas. I am so very sorry! Do come in and -choose one. Is yours a hooky or a nobbly? Mine’s a nobbly—at least, I -<i>think</i> it is.” -</p> - -<p> -The light was turned on, and they began to search the hall, Helen, who had -abruptly parted with the Fifth Symphony, commenting with shrill little cries. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you talk, Meg! You stole an old gentleman’s silk top-hat. Yes, she did, -Aunt Juley. It is a positive fact. She thought it was a muff. Oh, heavens! I’ve -knocked the In and Out card down. Where’s Frieda? Tibby, why don’t you ever—No, -I can’t remember what I was going to say. That wasn’t it, but do tell the maids -to hurry tea up. What about this umbrella?” She opened it. “No, it’s all gone -along the seams. It’s an appalling umbrella. It must be mine.” -</p> - -<p> -But it was not. -</p> - -<p> -He took it from her, murmured a few words of thanks, and then fled, with the -lilting step of the clerk. -</p> - -<p> -“But if you will stop—” cried Margaret. “Now, Helen, how stupid you’ve been!” -</p> - -<p> -“Whatever have I done?” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you see that you’ve frightened him away? I meant him to stop to tea. You -oughtn’t to talk about stealing or holes in an umbrella. I saw his nice eyes -getting so miserable. No, it’s not a bit of good now.” For Helen had darted out -into the street, shouting, “Oh, do stop!” -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say it is all for the best,” opined Mrs. Munt. “We know nothing about -the young man, Margaret, and your drawing-room is full of very tempting little -things.” -</p> - -<p> -But Helen cried: “Aunt Juley, how can you! You make me more and more ashamed. -I’d rather he <i>had</i> been a thief and taken all the apostle spoons than -that I—Well, I must shut the front-door, I suppose. One more failure for -Helen.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I think the apostle spoons could have gone as rent,” said Margaret. -Seeing that her aunt did not understand, she added: “You remember ‘rent.’ It -was one of father’s words—Rent to the ideal, to his own faith in human nature. -You remember how he would trust strangers, and if they fooled him he would say, -‘It’s better to be fooled than to be suspicious’—that the confidence trick is -the work of man, but the want-of-confidence-trick is the work of the devil.” -</p> - -<p> -“I remember something of the sort now,” said Mrs. Munt, rather tartly, for she -longed to add, “It was lucky that your father married a wife with money.” But -this was unkind, and she contented herself with, “Why, he might have stolen the -little Ricketts picture as well.” -</p> - -<p> -“Better that he had,” said Helen stoutly. -</p> - -<p> -“No, I agree with Aunt Juley,” said Margaret. “I’d rather mistrust people than -lose my little Ricketts. There are limits.” -</p> - -<p> -Their brother, finding the incident commonplace, had stolen upstairs to see -whether there were scones for tea. He warmed the teapot—almost too -deftly—rejected the Orange Pekoe that the parlour-maid had provided, poured in -five spoonfuls of a superior blend, filled up with really boiling water, and -now called to the ladies to be quick or they would lose the aroma. -</p> - -<p> -“All right, Auntie Tibby,” called Helen, while Margaret, thoughtful again, -said: “In a way, I wish we had a real boy in the house—the kind of boy who -cares for men. It would make entertaining so much easier.” -</p> - -<p> -“So do I,” said her sister. “Tibby only cares for cultured females singing -Brahms.” And when they joined him she said rather sharply: “Why didn’t you make -that young man welcome, Tibby? You must do the host a little, you know. You -ought to have taken his hat and coaxed him into stopping, instead of letting -him be swamped by screaming women.” -</p> - -<p> -Tibby sighed, and drew a long strand of hair over his forehead. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, it’s no good looking superior. I mean what I say.” -</p> - -<p> -“Leave Tibby alone!” said Margaret, who could not bear her brother to be -scolded. -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s the house a regular hen-coop!” grumbled Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, my dear!” protested Mrs. Munt. “How can you say such dreadful things! The -number of men you get here has always astonished me. If there is any danger -it’s the other way round.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but it’s the wrong sort of men, Helen means.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I don’t,” corrected Helen. “We get the right sort of man, but the wrong -side of him, and I say that’s Tibby’s fault. There ought to be a something -about the house—an—I don’t know what.” -</p> - -<p> -“A touch of the W.’s, perhaps?” -</p> - -<p> -Helen put out her tongue. -</p> - -<p> -“Who are the W.’s?” asked Tibby. -</p> - -<p> -“The W.’s are things I and Meg and Aunt Juley know about and you don’t, so -there!” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose that ours is a female house,” said Margaret, “and one must just -accept it. No, Aunt Juley, I don’t mean that this house is full of women. I am -trying to say something much more clever. I mean that it was irrevocably -feminine, even in father’s time. Now I’m sure you understand! Well, I’ll give -you another example. It’ll shock you, but I don’t care. Suppose Queen Victoria -gave a dinner-party, and that the guests had been Leighton, Millais, Swinburne, -Rossetti, Meredith, Fitzgerald, etc. Do you suppose that the atmosphere of that -dinner would have been artistic? Heavens no! The very chairs on which they sat -would have seen to that. So with our house—it must be feminine, and all we can -do is to see that it isn’t effeminate. Just as another house that I can -mention, but I won’t, sounded irrevocably masculine, and all its inmates can do -is to see that it isn’t brutal.” -</p> - -<p> -“That house being the W.’s house, I presume,” said Tibby. -</p> - -<p> -“You’re not going to be told about the W.’s, my child,” Helen cried, “so don’t -you think it. And on the other hand, I don’t the least mind if you find out, so -don’t you think you’ve done anything clever, in either case. Give me a -cigarette.” -</p> - -<p> -“You do what you can for the house,” said Margaret. “The drawing-room reeks of -smoke.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you smoked too, the house might suddenly turn masculine. Atmosphere is -probably a question of touch and go. Even at Queen Victoria’s dinner-party—if -something had been just a little different—perhaps if she’d worn a clinging -Liberty tea-gown instead of a magenta satin—” -</p> - -<p> -“With an Indian shawl over her shoulders—” -</p> - -<p> -“Fastened at the bosom with a Cairngorm-pin—” -</p> - -<p> -Bursts of disloyal laughter—you must remember that they are half German—greeted -these suggestions, and Margaret said pensively, “How inconceivable it would be -if the Royal Family cared about Art.” And the conversation drifted away and -away, and Helen’s cigarette turned to a spot in the darkness, and the great -flats opposite were sown with lighted windows, which vanished and were relit -again, and vanished incessantly. Beyond them the thoroughfare roared gently—a -tide that could never be quiet, while in the east, invisible behind the smokes -of Wapping, the moon was rising. -</p> - -<p> -“That reminds me, Margaret. We might have taken that young man into the -dining-room, at all events. Only the majolica plate—and that is so firmly set -in the wall. I am really distressed that he had no tea.” -</p> - -<p> -For that little incident had impressed the three women more than might be -supposed. It remained as a goblin 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. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 6</h2> - -<p> -We are not concerned with the very poor. They are unthinkable, and only to be -approached by the statistician or the poet. This story deals with gentlefolk, -or with those who are obliged to pretend that they are gentlefolk. -</p> - -<p> -The boy, Leonard Bast, stood at the extreme verge of gentility. He was not in -the abyss, but he could see it, and at times people whom he knew had dropped -in, and counted no more. He knew that he was poor, and would admit it: he would -have died sooner than confess any inferiority to the rich. This may be splendid -of him. But he was inferior to most rich people, there is not the least doubt -of it. He was not as courteous as the average rich man, nor as intelligent, nor -as healthy, nor as lovable. His mind and his body had been alike underfed, -because he was poor, and because he was modern they were always craving better -food. Had he lived some centuries ago, in the brightly coloured 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. -</p> - -<p> -As he walked away from Wickham Place, his first care was to prove that he was -as good as the Miss Schlegels. Obscurely wounded in his pride, he tried to -wound them in return. They were probably not ladies. Would real ladies have -asked him to tea? They were certainly ill-natured and cold. At each step his -feeling of superiority increased. Would a real lady have talked about stealing -an umbrella? Perhaps they were thieves after all, and if he had gone into the -house they 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Evening, Mr. Bast.” -</p> - -<p> -“Evening, Mr. Dealtry.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nice evening.” -</p> - -<p> -“Evening.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Dealtry, a fellow clerk, passed on, and Leonard stood wondering whether he -would take the tram as far as a penny would take him, or whether he would walk. -He decided to walk—it is no good giving in, and he had spent money enough at -Queen’s Hall—and he walked over Westminster Bridge, in front of St. Thomas’s -Hospital, and through the immense tunnel that passes under the South-Western -main line at Vauxhall. In the tunnel he paused and listened to the roar of the -trains. A sharp pain darted through his head, and he was conscious of the exact -form of his eye sockets. He pushed on for another mile, and did not slacken -speed until he stood at the entrance of a road called Camelia Road, which was -at present his home. -</p> - -<p> -Here he stopped again, and glanced suspiciously to right and left, like a -rabbit that is going to bolt into its hole. A block of flats, constructed with -extreme cheapness, towered on either hand. Farther down the road two more -blocks were being built, and beyond these an old house was being demolished to -accommodate another pair. It was the kind of scene that may be observed all -over London, whatever the locality—bricks and mortar rising and falling with -the restlessness of the water in a fountain, as the city receives more and more -men upon her soil. Camelia Road would soon stand out like a fortress, and -command, for a little, an extensive view. Only for a little. Plans were out for -the erection of flats in Magnolia Road also. And again a few years, and all the -flats in either road might be pulled down, and new buildings, of a vastness at -present unimaginable, might arise where they had fallen. -</p> - -<p> -“Evening, Mr. Bast.” -</p> - -<p> -“Evening, Mr. Cunningham.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester.” -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon?” -</p> - -<p> -“Very serious thing this decline of the birth-rate in Manchester,” repeated Mr. -Cunningham, tapping the Sunday paper, in which the calamity in question had -just been announced to him. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, yes,” said Leonard, who was not going to let on that he had not bought a -Sunday paper. -</p> - -<p> -“If this kind of thing goes on the population of England will be stationary in -1960.” -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t say so.” -</p> - -<p> -“I call it a very serious thing, eh?” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-evening, Mr. Cunningham.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-evening, Mr. Bast.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Leonard entered Block B of the flats, and turned, not upstairs, but down, -into what is known to house agents as a semi-basement, and to other men as a -cellar. He opened the door, and cried “Hullo!” with the pseudo-geniality of the -Cockney. There was no reply. “Hullo!” he repeated. The sitting-room was empty, -though the electric light had been left burning. A look of relief came over his -face, and he flung himself into the armchair. -</p> - -<p> -The sitting-room contained, besides the armchair, two other chairs, a piano, a -three-legged table, and a cosy corner. Of the walls, one was occupied by the -window, the other by a draped mantelshelf bristling with Cupids. Opposite the -window was the door, and beside the door a bookcase, while over the piano there -extended one of the masterpieces of Maud Goodman. It was an amorous and not -unpleasant little hole when the curtains were drawn, and the lights turned on, -and the gas-stove unlit. But it struck that shallow makeshift note that is so -often heard in the modem dwelling-place. It had been too easily gained, and -could be relinquished too easily. -</p> - -<p> -As Leonard was kicking off his boots he jarred the three-legged table, and a -photograph frame, honourably poised upon it, slid sideways, fell off into the -fireplace, and smashed. He swore in a colourless sort of way, and picked the -photograph up. It represented a young lady called Jacky, and had been taken at -the time when young ladies called Jacky were often photographed with their -mouths open. Teeth of dazzling whiteness extended along either of Jacky’s jaws, -and positively 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. -</p> - -<p> -Leonard tried to pull out the fragments of glass, and cut his fingers and swore -again. A drop of blood fell on the frame, another followed, spilling over on to -the exposed photograph. He swore more vigorously, and dashed 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Damn, damn, damnation!” he murmured, together with such other words as he had -learnt from older men. Then he raised his hand to his forehead and said, “Oh, -damn it all—” which meant something different. He pulled himself together. He -drank a little tea, black and silent, that still survived upon an upper shelf. -He swallowed some dusty crumbs of cake. Then he went back to the sitting-room, -settled himself anew, and began to read a volume of Ruskin. -</p> - -<p> -“Seven miles to the north of Venice—” -</p> - -<p> -How perfectly the famous chapter opens! How supreme its command of admonition -and of poetry! The rich man is speaking to us from his gondola. -</p> - -<p> -“Seven miles to the north of Venice the banks of sand which nearer the city -rise little above low-water mark attain by degrees a higher level, and knit -themselves at last into fields of salt morass, raised here and there into -shapeless mounds, and intercepted by narrow creeks of sea.” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard was trying to form his style on Ruskin: he understood him to be the -greatest master of English Prose. He read forward steadily, occasionally making -a few notes. -</p> - -<p> -“Let us consider a little each of these characters in succession, and first -(for of the shafts enough has been said already), what is very peculiar to this -church—its luminousness.” -</p> - -<p> -Was there anything to be learnt from this fine sentence? Could he adapt it to -the needs of daily life? Could he introduce it, with modifications, when he -next wrote a letter to his brother, the lay-reader? For example— -</p> - -<p> -“Let us consider a little each of these characters in succession, and first -(for of the absence of ventilation enough has been said already), what is very -peculiar to this flat—its obscurity.” -</p> - -<p> -Something told him that the modifications would not do; and that something, had -he known it, was the spirit of English Prose. “My flat is dark as well as -stuffy.” Those were the words for him. -</p> - -<p> -And the voice in the gondola rolled on, piping melodiously of Effort and -Self-Sacrifice, full of high purpose, full of beauty, full even of sympathy and -the love of men, yet somehow eluding all that was actual and insistent in -Leonard’s life. For it was the voice of one who had never been dirty or hungry, -and had not guessed successfully what dirt and hunger are. -</p> - -<p> -Leonard listened to it with reverence. He felt that he was being done good to, -and that if he kept on with Ruskin, and the Queen’s Hall Concerts, and some -pictures by Watts, he would one day push his head out of the grey waters and -see the universe. He believed in sudden conversion, a belief which may be -right, but which is peculiarly attractive to a half-baked mind. It is the 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. -</p> - -<p> -Presently there was a noise on the staircase. He shut up Margaret’s card in the -pages of Ruskin, and opened the door. A woman entered, of whom it is simplest -to say that she was not respectable. Her appearance was awesome. She seemed all -strings and bell-pulls—ribbons, chains, bead necklaces that clinked and -caught—and a boa of azure feathers hung round her neck, with the ends uneven. -Her throat was bare, wound with a double row of pearls, her arms were bare to -the elbows, and might again be detected at the shoulder, through cheap lace. -Her hat, which was flowery, resembled those punnets, covered with flannel, -which we sowed with mustard and cress in our childhood, and which germinated -here yes, and there no. She wore it on the back of her head. As for her hair, -or rather hairs, they are too complicated to describe, but one system went down -her back, lying in a thick pad there, while another, created for a lighter -destiny, rippled around her forehead. The face—the face does not signify. It -was the face of the photograph, but older, and the teeth were not so numerous -as the photographer had suggested, and certainly not so white. Yes, Jacky was -past her prime, whatever that prime may have been. She was descending quicker -than most women into the colourless years, and the look in her eyes confessed -it. -</p> - -<p> -“What ho!” said Leonard, greeting that apparition with much spirit, and helping -it off with its boa. -</p> - -<p> -Jacky, in husky tones, replied, “What ho!” -</p> - -<p> -“Been out?” he asked. The question sounds superfluous, but it cannot have been -really, for the lady answered, “No,” adding, “Oh, I am so tired.” -</p> - -<p> -“You tired?” -</p> - -<p> -“Eh?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m tired,” said he, hanging the boa up. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Len, I am so tired.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve been to that classical concert I told you about,” said Leonard. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s that?” -</p> - -<p> -“I came back as soon as it was over.” -</p> - -<p> -“Any one been round to our place?” asked Jacky. -</p> - -<p> -“Not that I’ve seen. I met Mr. Cunningham outside, and we passed a few -remarks.” -</p> - -<p> -“What, not Mr. Cunningham?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you mean Mr. Cunningham.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Mr. Cunningham.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve been out to tea at a lady friend’s.” -</p> - -<p> -Her secret being at last given to the world, and the name of the lady-friend -being even adumbrated, Jacky made no further experiments in the difficult and -tiring art of conversation. She never had been a great talker. Even in her -photographic days she had relied upon her smile and her figure to attract, and -now that she was— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -“On the shelf,<br/> -On the shelf,<br/> -Boys, boys, I’m on the shelf,” -</p> - -<p class="noindent"> -she was not likely to find her tongue. Occasional bursts of song (of which the -above is an example) still issued from her lips, but the spoken word was rare. -</p> - -<p> -She sat down on Leonard’s knee, and began to fondle him. She was now a massive -woman of thirty-three, and her weight hurt him, but he could not very well say -anything. Then she said, “Is that a book you’re reading?” and he said, “That’s -a book,” and drew it from her unreluctant grasp. Margaret’s card fell out of -it. It fell face downwards, and he murmured, “Bookmarker.” -</p> - -<p> -“Len—” -</p> - -<p> -“What is it?” he asked, a little wearily, for she only had one topic of -conversation when she sat upon his knee. -</p> - -<p> -“You do love me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Jacky, you know that I do. How can you ask such questions!” -</p> - -<p> -“But you do love me, Len, don’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I do.” -</p> - -<p> -A pause. The other remark was still due. -</p> - -<p> -“Len—” -</p> - -<p> -“Well? What is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Len, you will make it all right?” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t have you ask me that again,” said the boy, flaring up into a sudden -passion. “I’ve promised to marry you when I’m of age, and that’s enough. My -word’s my word. I’ve promised to marry you as soon as ever I’m twenty-one, and -I can’t keep on being worried. I’ve worries enough. It isn’t likely I’d throw -you over, let alone my word, when I’ve spent all this money. Besides, I’m an -Englishman, and I never go back on my word. Jacky, do be reasonable. Of course -I’ll marry you. Only do stop badgering me.” -</p> - -<p> -“When’s your birthday, Len?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve told you again and again, the eleventh of November next. Now get off my -knee a bit; someone must get supper, I suppose.” -</p> - -<p> -Jacky went through to the bedroom, and began to see to her hat. This meant -blowing at it with short sharp puffs. Leonard tidied up the sitting-room, and -began to prepare their evening meal. He put a penny into the slot of the -gas-meter, and soon the flat was reeking with metallic fumes. Somehow he could -not recover his temper, and all the time he was cooking he continued to -complain bitterly. -</p> - -<p> -“It really is too bad when a fellow isn’t trusted. It makes one feel so wild, -when I’ve pretended to the people here that you’re my wife—all right, you shall -be my wife—and I’ve bought you the ring to wear, and I’ve taken this flat -furnished, and it’s far more than I can afford, and yet you aren’t content, and -I’ve also not told the truth when I’ve written home.” He lowered his voice. -“He’d stop it.” In a tone of horror, that was a little luxurious, he repeated: -“My brother’d stop it. I’m going against the whole world, Jacky. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s what I am, Jacky. I don’t take any heed of what 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. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll tell you another thing too. I care a good deal about improving myself by -means of Literature and Art, and so getting a wider outlook. For instance, when -you came in I was reading Ruskin’s <i>Stones of Venice</i>. I don’t say this to -boast, but just to show you the kind of man I am. I can tell you, I enjoyed -that classical concert this afternoon.” -</p> - -<p> -To all his moods Jacky remained equally indifferent. When supper was ready—and -not before—she emerged from the bedroom, saying: “But you do love me, don’t -you?” -</p> - -<p> -They began with a soup square, which Leonard had just dissolved in some hot -water. It was followed by the tongue—a freckled cylinder of meat, with a little -jelly at the top, and a great deal of yellow fat at the bottom—ending with -another square dissolved in water (jelly: pineapple), which Leonard had -prepared earlier in the day. Jacky ate contentedly enough, occasionally looking -at her man with those anxious eyes, to which nothing else in her appearance -corresponded, and which yet seemed to mirror her soul. And Leonard managed to -convince his stomach that it was having a nourishing meal. -</p> - -<p> -After supper they smoked cigarettes and exchanged a few statements. She -observed that her “likeness” had been broken. He found occasion to remark, for -the second time, that he had come straight back home after the concert at -Queen’s Hall. Presently she sat upon his knee. The inhabitants of Camelia Road -tramped to and fro outside the window, just on a level with their heads, and -the family in the flat on the ground-floor began to sing, “Hark, my soul, it is -the Lord.” -</p> - -<p> -“That tune fairly gives me the hump,” said Leonard. -</p> - -<p> -Jacky followed this, and said that, for her part, she thought it a lovely tune. -</p> - -<p> -“No; I’ll play you something lovely. Get up, dear, for a minute.” -</p> - -<p> -He went to the piano and jingled out a little Grieg. He played badly and -vulgarly, but the performance was not without its effect, for Jacky said she -thought she’d be going to bed. As she receded, a new set of interests possessed -the boy, and he began to think of what had been said about music by that odd -Miss Schlegel—the one that twisted her face about so when she spoke. Then the -thoughts grew sad and envious. There was the girl named Helen, who had pinched -his umbrella, and the German girl who had smiled at him pleasantly, and Herr -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. -</p> - -<p> -From the darkness beyond the kitchen a voice called, “Len?” -</p> - -<p> -“You in bed?” he asked, his forehead twitching. -</p> - -<p> -“M’m.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right.” -</p> - -<p> -Presently she called him again. -</p> - -<p> -“I must clean my boots ready for the morning,” he answered. -</p> - -<p> -Presently she called him again. -</p> - -<p> -“I rather want to get this chapter done.” -</p> - -<p> -“What?” -</p> - -<p> -He closed his ears against her. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s that?” -</p> - -<p> -“All right, Jacky, nothing; I’m reading a book.” -</p> - -<p> -“What?” -</p> - -<p> -“What?” he answered, catching her degraded deafness. -</p> - -<p> -Presently she called him again. -</p> - -<p> -Ruskin had visited Torcello by this time, and was ordering his gondoliers to -take him to Murano. It occurred to him, as he glided over the whispering -lagoons, that the power of Nature could not be shortened by the folly, nor her -beauty altogether saddened by the misery, of such as Leonard. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 7</h2> - -<p> -“Oh, Margaret,” cried her aunt next morning, “such a most unfortunate thing has -happened. I could not get you alone.” -</p> - -<p> -The most unfortunate thing was not very serious. One of the flats in the ornate -block opposite had been taken furnished by the Wilcox family, “coming up, no -doubt, in the hope of getting into London society.” That Mrs. Munt should be -the first to discover the misfortune was not remarkable, for she was so -interested in the flats, that she watched their every mutation with unwearying -care. In theory she despised them—they took away that old-world look—they cut -off the sun—flats house a flashy type of person. But if the truth had been -known, she found her visits to Wickham Place twice as amusing since Wickham -Mansions had arisen, and would in a couple of days learn more about them than -her nieces in a couple of months, or her nephew in a couple of years. She would -stroll across and make friends with the porters, and inquire what the rents -were, exclaiming for example: “What! a hundred and twenty for a basement? -You’ll never get it!” And they would answer: “One can but try, madam.” The -passenger lifts, the 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’. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret received the information calmly, and did not agree that it would throw -a cloud over poor Helen’s life. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, but Helen isn’t a girl with no interests,” she explained. “She has plenty -of other things and other people to think about. She made a false start with -the Wilcoxes, and she’ll be as willing as we are to have nothing more to do -with them.” -</p> - -<p> -“For a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk. Helen’ll <i>have</i> to -have something more to do with them, now that they’re all opposite. She may -meet that Paul in the street. She cannot very well not bow.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course she must bow. But look here; let’s do the flowers. I was going to -say, the will to be interested in him has died, and what else matters? I look -on that disastrous episode (over which you were so kind) as the killing of a -nerve in Helen. It’s dead, and she’ll never be troubled with it again. The only -things that matter are the things that interest one. Bowing, even calling and -leaving cards, even a dinner-party—we can do all those things to the Wilcoxes, -if they find it agreeable; but the other thing, the one important thing—never -again. Don’t you see?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Margaret was making a most questionable -statement—that any emotion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die. -</p> - -<p> -“I also have the honour to inform you that the Wilcoxes are bored with us. I -didn’t tell you at the time—it might have made you angry, and you had enough to -worry you—but I wrote a letter to Mrs. W., and apologized for the trouble that -Helen had given them. She didn’t answer it.” -</p> - -<p> -“How very rude!” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder. Or was it sensible?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, Margaret, most rude.” -</p> - -<p> -“In either case one can class it as reassuring.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage on the morrow, just as her -nieces were wanting her most. Other regrets crowded upon her: for instance, how -magnificently she would have cut Charles if she had met him face to face. She -had already seen him, giving an order to the porter—and very common he looked -in a tall hat. But unfortunately his back was turned to her, and though she had -cut his back, she could not regard this as a telling snub. -</p> - -<p> -“But you will be careful, won’t you?” she exhorted. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, certainly. Fiendishly careful.” -</p> - -<p> -“And Helen must be careful, too,” -</p> - -<p> -“Careful over what?” cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room with her -cousin. -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing,” said Margaret, seized with a momentary awkwardness. -</p> - -<p> -“Careful over what, Aunt Juley?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic air. “It is only that a certain family, whom we -know by name but do not mention, as you said yourself last night after the -concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons—where the plants are -in the balcony.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by blushing. -Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, “What, Helen, you don’t mind -them coming, do you?” and deepened the blush to crimson. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I don’t mind,” said Helen a little crossly. “It is that you and Meg -are both so absurdly grave about it, when there’s nothing to be grave about at -all.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m not grave,” protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you look grave; doesn’t she, Frieda?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t feel grave, that’s all I can say; you’re going quite on the wrong -tack.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, she does not feel grave,” echoed Mrs. Munt. “I can bear witness to that. -She disagrees—” -</p> - -<p> -“Hark!” interrupted Fräulein Mosebach. “I hear Bruno entering the hall.” -</p> - -<p> -For Herr Liesecke was due at Wickham Place to call for the two younger girls. -He was not entering the hall—in fact, he did not enter it for quite five -minutes. But Frieda detected a delicate situation, and said that she and Helen -had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to -finish arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But, as if to prove that the -situation was not delicate really, she stopped in the doorway and said: -</p> - -<p> -“Did you say the Mathesons’ flat, Aunt Juley? How wonderful you are! I never -knew that the woman who laced too tightly’s name was Matheson.” -</p> - -<p> -“Come, Helen,” said her cousin. -</p> - -<p> -“Go, Helen,” said her aunt; and continued to Margaret almost in the same -breath: “Helen cannot deceive me, She does mind.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, hush!” breathed Margaret. “Frieda’ll hear you, and she can be so -tiresome.” -</p> - -<p> -“She minds,” persisted Mrs. Munt, moving thoughtfully about the room, and -pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of the vases. “I knew she’d mind—and I’m -sure a girl ought to! Such an experience! Such awful coarse-grained people! I -know more about them than you do, which you forget, and if Charles had taken -you that motor drive—well, you’d have reached the house a perfect wreck. Oh, -Margaret, you don’t know what you are in for. They’re all bottled up against -the drawing-room window. There’s Mrs. Wilcox—I’ve seen her. There’s Paul. -There’s Evie, who is a minx. There’s Charles—I saw him to start with. And who -would an elderly man with a moustache and a copper-coloured face be?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Wilcox, possibly.” -</p> - -<p> -“I knew it. And there’s Mr. Wilcox.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s a shame to call his face copper colour,” complained Margaret. “He has a -remarkably good complexion for a man of his age.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to concede Mr. Wilcox his -complexion. She passed on from it to the plan of campaign that her nieces -should pursue in the future. Margaret tried to stop her. -</p> - -<p> -“Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but the Wilcox nerve is dead -in her really, so there’s no need for plans.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s as well to be prepared.” -</p> - -<p> -“No—it’s as well not to be prepared.” -</p> - -<p> -“Because—” -</p> - -<p> -Her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. She could not explain in so -many words, but she felt that those who prepare for all the emergencies of life -beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of joy. It is necessary to -prepare for an examination, or a dinner-party, or a possible fall in the price -of stock: those who attempt human relations must adopt another method, or fail. -“Because I’d sooner risk it,” was her lame conclusion. -</p> - -<p> -“But imagine the evenings,” exclaimed her aunt, pointing to the Mansions with -the spout of the watering-can. “Turn the electric light on here or there, and -it’s almost the same room. One evening they may forget to draw their blinds -down, and you’ll see them; and the next, you yours, and they’ll see you. -Impossible to sit out on the balconies. Impossible to water the plants, or even -speak. Imagine going out of the front-door, and they come out opposite at the -same moment. And yet you tell me that plans are unnecessary, and you’d rather -risk it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hope to risk things all my life.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Margaret, most dangerous.” -</p> - -<p> -“But after all,” she continued with a smile, “there’s never any great risk as -long as you have money.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, shame! What a shocking speech!” -</p> - -<p> -“Money pads the edges of things,” said Miss Schlegel. “God help those who have -none.” -</p> - -<p> -“But this is something quite new!” said Mrs. Munt, who collected new ideas as a -squirrel collects nuts, and was especially attracted by those that are -portable. -</p> - -<p> -“New for me; sensible people have acknowledged it for years. You and I and the -Wilcoxes stand upon money as upon islands. It is so firm beneath our feet that -we forget its very existence. It’s only when we see 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“I call that rather cynical.” -</p> - -<p> -“So do I. But Helen and I, we ought to remember, when we are tempted to -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.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s more like Socialism,” said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. -</p> - -<p> -“Call it what you like. I call it going through life with one’s hand spread -open on the table. I’m tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor, and -think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet -above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred pounds, and Helen upon the -same, and Tibby will stand upon eight, and as fast as our pounds crumble away -into the sea they are renewed—from the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our -thoughts are the thoughts of six-hundred-pounders, and all our speeches; and -because we don’t want to steal umbrellas ourselves, we forget that below the -sea people do want to steal them, and do steal them sometimes, and that what’s -a joke up here is down there reality—” -</p> - -<p> -“There they go—there goes Fräulein Mosebach. Really, for a German she does -dress charmingly. Oh—!” -</p> - -<p> -“What is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen was looking up at the Wilcoxes’ flat.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why shouldn’t she?” -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon, I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about -reality?” -</p> - -<p> -“I had worked round to myself, as usual,” answered Margaret in tones that were -suddenly preoccupied. -</p> - -<p> -“Do tell me this, at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor?” -</p> - -<p> -“Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. -Hurrah for riches!” -</p> - -<p> -“For riches!” echoed Mrs. Munt, having, as it were, at last secured her nut. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. For riches. Money for ever!” -</p> - -<p> -“So am I, and so, I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage, but I -am surprised that you agree with us.” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you so much, Aunt Juley. While I have talked theories, you have done the -flowers.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important things.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round with me to the registry -office? There’s a housemaid who won’t say yes but doesn’t say no.” -</p> - -<p> -On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcoxes’ flat. Evie was in the -balcony, “staring most rudely,” according to Mrs. Munt. Oh yes, it was a -nuisance, there was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against a passing encounter -but—Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if the -family were living close against her eyes? And Frieda Mosebach was stopping -with them for another fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, and -quite capable of remarking, “You love one of the young gentlemen opposite, -yes?” The remark would be untrue, but of the kind which, if stated often -enough, may become true; just as the remark, “England and Germany are bound to -fight,” renders war a little more likely each time that it is made, and is -therefore made the more readily by the gutter press of either nation. Have the -private emotions also their gutter press? Margaret thought so, and feared that -good Aunt Juley and Frieda were typical specimens of it. They might, by -continual chatter, lead Helen into a repetition of the desires of June. Into a -repetition—they could not do more; they could not lead her into lasting love. -They were—she saw it clearly—Journalism; her father, with all his defects and -wrong-headedness, had been Literature, and had he lived, he would have -persuaded his daughter rightly. -</p> - -<p> -The registry office was holding its morning reception. A string of carriages -filled the street. Miss Schlegel waited her turn, and finally had to be content -with an insidious “temporary,” being rejected by genuine housemaids on the -ground of her numerous stairs. Her failure depressed her, and though she forgot -the failure, the depression remained. On her way home she again glanced up at -the Wilcoxes’ flat, and took the rather matronly step of speaking about the -matter to Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries you.” -</p> - -<p> -“If what?” said Helen, who was washing her hands for lunch. -</p> - -<p> -“The W.’s coming.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, of course not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Really?” -</p> - -<p> -“Really.” Then she admitted that she was a little worried on Mrs. Wilcox’s -account; she implied that Mrs. Wilcox might reach backward into deep feelings, -and be pained by things that never touched the other members of that clan. “I -shan’t mind if Paul points at our house and says, ‘There lives the girl who -tried to catch me.’ But she might.” -</p> - -<p> -“If even that worries you, we could arrange something. There’s no reason we -should be near people who displease us or whom we displease, thanks to our -money. We might even go away for a little.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I am going away. Frieda’s just asked me to Stettin, and I shan’t be back -till after the New Year. Will that do? Or must I fly the country altogether? -Really, Meg, what has come over you to make such a fuss?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I’m getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I minded nothing, but really -I—I should be bored if you fell in love with the same man twice and”—she -cleared her throat—“you did go red, you know, when Aunt Juley attacked you this -morning. I shouldn’t have referred to it otherwise.” -</p> - -<p> -But Helen’s laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy hand to heaven and swore -that never, nowhere and nohow, would she again fall in love with any of the -Wilcox family, down to its remotest collaterals. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 8</h2> - -<p> -The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was to develop -so—quickly and with such strange results, may perhaps have had its beginnings -at Speyer, in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the vulgar, -ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of 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. -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Bother the whole family!” snapped Margaret. “Helen, stop giggling and -pirouetting, and go and finish your packing. Why can’t the woman leave us -alone?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know what I shall do with Meg,” Helen retorted, collapsing upon the -stairs. “She’s got Wilcox and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don’t love the -young gentleman; I don’t love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg. Can a body speak -plainer?” -</p> - -<p> -“Most certainly her love has died,” asserted Fräulein Mosebach. -</p> - -<p> -“Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being bored -with the Wilcoxes if I return the call.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Helen simulated tears, and 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren’t, go and call on the -Wilcoxes instead of me.” -</p> - -<p> -“But, Meg, Meg, I don’t love the young gentleman; I don’t love the young—0 lud, -who’s that coming down the stairs? I vow ’tis my brother. O crimini!” -</p> - -<p> -A male—even such a male as Tibby—was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of -sex, though decreasing among the 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I know; thanks very much.” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought I did right to tell you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ever so many thanks.” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s that?” asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the -dining-room, to eat Elvas plums. -</p> - -<p> -That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet, and the -fog—we are in November now—pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost. -Frieda and Helen and all their 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. -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p> -Dear Mrs. Wilcox, -</p> - -<p> -I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did not meet. -Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your family, and, in my -sister’s case, the grounds for displeasure might recur. 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. -</p> - -<p> -I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you will not, -since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only an instinct on my -part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister would, undoubtedly, say -that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge, and I hope that you will not -associate her with my discourtesy. -</p> -</div> - -<p class="right"> -Believe me,<br/> -Yours truly,<br/> -M. J. Schlegel -</p> - -<p> -Margaret sent this letter round by post. Next morning she received the -following reply by hand: -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p> -Dear Miss Schlegel, -</p> - -<p> -You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that Paul -has gone abroad. -</p> - -<p class="right"> -Ruth Wilcox -</p> -</div> - -<p> -Margaret’s cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on fire -with shame. Helen had told her that the youth was leaving England, but other -things had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All her absurd -anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place arose the certainty that she -had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Rudeness affected Margaret like a bitter taste in -the mouth. It poisoned life. At times it is necessary, but woe to those who -employ it without due need. She flung on a hat and shawl, just like a poor -woman, and plunged into the fog, which still continued. Her lips were -compressed, the letter remained in her hand, and in this state she crossed the -street, entered the marble vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and -ran up the stairs till she reached the second-floor. -</p> - -<p> -She sent in her name, and to her surprise was shown straight into Mrs. Wilcox’s -bedroom. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am more, more ashamed and -sorry than I can say.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did not pretend to the -contrary. She was sitting up in bed, writing letters on an invalid table that -spanned her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside her. The light -of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of a candle-lamp, which -threw a quivering halo round her hands, combined to create a strange atmosphere -of dissolution. -</p> - -<p> -“I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot.” -</p> - -<p> -“He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa.” -</p> - -<p> -“I knew—I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much ashamed.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox did not answer. -</p> - -<p> -“I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me.” -</p> - -<p> -“It doesn’t matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to have come round so -promptly.” -</p> - -<p> -“It does matter,” cried Margaret. “I have been rude to you; and my sister is -not even at home, so there was not even that excuse. -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed?” -</p> - -<p> -“She has just gone to Germany.” -</p> - -<p> -“She gone as well,” murmured the other. “Yes, certainly, it is quite safe—safe, -absolutely, now.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve been worrying too!” exclaimed Margaret, getting more and more excited, -and taking a chair without invitation. “How perfectly extraordinary! I can see -that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn’t meet him again.” -</p> - -<p> -“I did think it best.” -</p> - -<p> -“Now why?” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s a most difficult question,” said Mrs. Wilcox, smiling, and a little -losing her expression of annoyance. “I think you put it best in your letter—it -was an instinct, which may be wrong.” -</p> - -<p> -“It wasn’t that your son still—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh no; he often—my Paul is very young, you see.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then what was it?” -</p> - -<p> -She repeated: “An instinct which may be wrong.” -</p> - -<p> -“In other words, they belong to types that can fall in love, but couldn’t live -together. That’s dreadfully probable. I’m afraid that in nine cases out of ten -Nature pulls one way and human nature another.” -</p> - -<p> -“These are indeed ‘other words,’” said Mrs. Wilcox.” I had nothing so coherent -in my head. I was merely alarmed when I knew that my boy cared for your -sister.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How did you know? Helen was so -surprised when our aunt drove up, and you stepped forward and arranged things. -Did Paul tell you?” -</p> - -<p> -“There is nothing to be gained by discussing that,” said Mrs. Wilcox after a -moment’s pause. -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? I wrote you a letter and -you didn’t answer it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson’s flat. I knew it was opposite -your house.” -</p> - -<p> -“But it’s all right now?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think so.” -</p> - -<p> -“You only think? You aren’t sure? I do love these little muddles tidied up?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with uneasiness beneath the -clothes. “I always sound uncertain over things. It is my way of speaking.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s all right, and I’m sure too.” -</p> - -<p> -Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray. They were interrupted, and -when they resumed conversation it was on more normal lines. -</p> - -<p> -“I must say good-bye now—you will be getting up.” -</p> - -<p> -“No—please stop a little longer—I am taking a day in bed. Now and then I do.” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought of you as one of the early risers.” -</p> - -<p> -“At Howards End—yes; there is nothing to get up for in London.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing to get up for?” cried the scandalized Margaret. “When there are all -the autumn exhibitions, and Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to mention -people.” -</p> - -<p> -“The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the wedding, and then Paul went -off, and, instead of resting yesterday, I paid a round of calls.” -</p> - -<p> -“A wedding?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed!” -</p> - -<p> -“We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that Paul could get his -African outfit. The flat belongs to a cousin of my husband’s, and she most -kindly offered it to us. So before the day came we were able to make the -acquaintance of Dolly’s people, which we had not yet done.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret asked who Dolly’s people were. -</p> - -<p> -“Fussell. The father is in the Indian army—retired; the brother is in the army. -The mother is dead.” -</p> - -<p> -So perhaps these were the “chinless sunburnt men” whom Helen had espied one -afternoon through the window. Margaret felt mildly interested in the fortunes -of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on Helen’s account, and it -still clung to her. She asked for more information about Miss Dolly Fussell -that was, and was given it in even, unemotional tones. Mrs. Wilcox’s voice, -though sweet and compelling, had little range of expression. It suggested that -pictures, concerts, and people are all of small and equal value. Only once had -it quickened—when speaking of Howards End. -</p> - -<p> -“Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another some time. They belong to -the same club, and are both devoted to golf. Dolly plays golf too, though I -believe not so well, and they first met in a mixed foursome. We all like her, -and are very much pleased. They were married on the 11th, a few days before -Paul sailed. Charles was very anxious to have his brother as best man, so he -made a great point of having it on the 11th. The Fussells would have preferred -it after Christmas, but they were very nice about it. There is Dolly’s -photograph—in that double frame.” -</p> - -<p> -“Are you quite certain that I’m not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, quite.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then I will stay. I’m enjoying this.” -</p> - -<p> -Dolly’s photograph was now examined. It was signed “For dear Mims,” which Mrs. -Wilcox interpreted as “the name she and Charles had settled that she should -call me.” Dolly looked silly, and had one of those triangular faces that so -often prove attractive to a robust man. She was very pretty. From her Margaret -passed to Charles, whose features prevailed opposite. She speculated on the -forces that had drawn the two together till God parted them. She found time to -hope that they would be happy. -</p> - -<p> -“They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon.” -</p> - -<p> -“Lucky people!” -</p> - -<p> -“I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Doesn’t he care for travelling?” -</p> - -<p> -“He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so. What he enjoys most is -a motor tour in England, and I think that would have carried the day if the -weather had not been so abominable. His father gave him a car of his own for a -wedding present, which for the present is being stored at Howards End.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you have a garage there?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to the west of the house, -not far from the wych-elm, in what used to be the paddock for the pony.” -</p> - -<p> -The last words had an indescribable ring about them. -</p> - -<p> -“Where’s the pony gone?” asked Margaret after a pause. -</p> - -<p> -“The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago.” “The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke -of it as a very splendid tree.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your sister tell you about the -teeth?” -</p> - -<p> -“No.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs’ teeth stuck into the trunk, about -four feet from the ground. The country people put them in long ago, and they -think that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure the toothache. The -teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to the tree.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed in it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course it did. It would cure anything—once.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly I remember cases—you see I lived at Howards End long, long before -Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there.” -</p> - -<p> -The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed little more than aimless -chatter. She was interested when her hostess explained that Howards End was her -own property. She was bored when too minute an account was given of the Fussell -family, of the anxieties of Charles concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. -Wilcox and Evie, who were motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being -bored. She grew inattentive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, -smashed Dolly’s glass, 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. -</p> - -<p> -Then the curious note was struck again. -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have cheered me -up.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m so glad!” -</p> - -<p> -“I—I wonder whether you ever think about yourself.?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think of nothing else,” said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand remain -in that of the invalid. -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>I’m</i> sure!” -</p> - -<p> -“I almost think—” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes?” asked Margaret, for there was a long pause—a pause that was somehow akin -to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp upon their hands, -the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting and eternal shadows. -</p> - -<p> -“I almost think you forget you’re a girl.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. “I’m twenty-nine,” she remarked. -“That not so wildly girlish.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox smiled. -</p> - -<p> -“What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?” -</p> - -<p> -A shake of the head. “I only meant that I am fifty-one, and that to me both of -you—Read it all in some book or other; I cannot put things clearly.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I’ve got it—inexperience. I’m no better than Helen, you mean, and yet I -presume to advise her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word.” -</p> - -<p> -“Inexperience,” repeated Margaret, in serious yet buoyant tones. “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 <i>begin</i> with proportion. Only prigs do -that. Let proportion come in as a last resource, when the better things have -failed, and a deadlock—Gracious me, I’ve started preaching!” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly,” said Mrs. Wilcox, -withdrawing her hand into the deeper shadows. “It is just what I should have -liked to say about them myself.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 9</h2> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret much information about life. -And Margaret, on the other hand, has made a fair show of modesty, and has -pretended to an inexperience that she certainly did not feel. She had kept -house for over ten years; she had entertained, almost with distinction; she had -brought up a charming sister, and was bringing up a brother. Surely, if -experience is attainable, she had attained it. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Only on Tuesday, for they live right away at Stettin. Did you ever know any -one living at Stettin?” -</p> - -<p> -“Never,” said Mrs. Wilcox gravely, while her neighbour, a young man low down in -the Education Office, began to discuss what people who lived at Stettin ought -to look like. Was there such a thing as Stettininity? Margaret swept on. -</p> - -<p> -“People at Stettin drop things into boats out of overhanging warehouses. At -least, our cousins do, but aren’t particularly rich. The town isn’t -interesting, except for a clock that rolls its eyes, and the view of the Oder, -which truly is something special. Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, you would love the Oder! The -river, or rather rivers—there seem to be dozens of them—are intense blue, and -the plain they run through an intensest green.” -</p> - -<p> -“Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view, Miss Schlegel.” -</p> - -<p> -“So I say, but Helen, who will muddle things, says no, it’s like music. The -course of the Oder is to be like music. It’s obliged to remind her of a -symphonic poem. The part by the landing-stage is in B minor, if I remember -rightly, but lower down things get extremely mixed. There is a slodgy theme in -several keys at once, meaning mud-banks, and another for the navigable canal, -and the exit into the Baltic is in C sharp major, pianissimo.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do the overhanging warehouses make of that?” asked the man, laughing. -</p> - -<p> -“They make a great deal of it,” replied Margaret, unexpectedly rushing off on a -new track. “I think it’s affectation to compare the Oder to music, and so do -you, but the overhanging warehouses of Stettin take beauty seriously, which we -don’t, and the average Englishman doesn’t, and despises all who do. Now don’t -say ‘Germans have no taste,’ or I shall scream. They haven’t. But—but—such a -tremendous but!—they take poetry seriously. They do take poetry seriously. -</p> - -<p> -“Is anything gained by that?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes. The German is always on the lookout for beauty. He may miss it -through stupidity, or misinterpret it, but he is always asking beauty to enter -his life, and I believe that in the end it will come. At Heidelberg I met a fat -veterinary surgeon whose voice broke with sobs as he repeated some mawkish -poetry. So easy for me to laugh—I, who never repeat poetry, good or bad, and -cannot remember one fragment of verse to thrill myself with. My blood -boils—well, I’m half German, so put it down to patriotism—when I listen to the -tasteful contempt of the average islander for things Teutonic, whether they’re -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.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am not sure that I agree. Do you?” said he, turning to Mrs. Wilcox. -</p> - -<p> -She replied: “I think Miss Schlegel puts everything splendidly”; and a chill -fell on the conversation. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nicer than that. It’s such a snub to be told -you put things splendidly.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not mean it as a snub. Your last speech interested me so much. Generally -people do not seem quite to like Germany. I have long wanted to hear what is -said on the other side.” -</p> - -<p> -“The other side? Then you do disagree. Oh, good! Give us your side.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have no side. But my husband”—her voice softened, the chill increased—“has -very little faith in the Continent, and our children have all taken after him.” -</p> - -<p> -“On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent is in bad form?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox had no idea; she paid little attention to grounds. She was not -intellectual, nor even alert, and it was odd that, all the same, she should -give the idea of greatness. Margaret, zigzagging with her friends over Thought -and Art, was conscious of a personality that transcended their own and dwarfed -their activities. There was no bitterness in Mrs. Wilcox; there was not even -criticism; she was lovable, and no ungracious or uncharitable word had passed -her lips. Yet she and daily life were out of focus: one or the other must show -blurred. And at lunch she seemed more out of focus than usual, and nearer the -line that divides life from a life that may be of greater importance. -</p> - -<p> -“You will admit, though, that the Continent—it seems silly to speak of ‘the -Continent,’ but really it is all more like itself than any part of it is like -England. England is unique. Do have another jelly first. I was going to say -that the Continent, for good or for evil, is interested in ideas. Its -Literature and Art have what one might call the kink of the unseen about them, -and this persists even through decadence and affectation. There is more liberty -of action in England, but for liberty of thought go to bureaucratic Prussia. -People will there discuss with humility vital questions that we here think -ourselves too good to touch with tongs.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not want to go to 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you ought to!” said Margaret. “Discussion keeps a house alive. It cannot -stand by bricks and mortar alone.” -</p> - -<p> -“It cannot stand without them,” said Mrs. Wilcox, unexpectedly catching on to -the thought, and rousing, for the first and last time, a faint hope in the -breasts of the delightful people. “It cannot stand without them, and I -sometimes think—But I cannot expect your generation to agree, for even my -daughter disagrees with me here.” -</p> - -<p> -“Never mind us or her. Do say!” -</p> - -<p> -“I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and discussion to men.” -</p> - -<p> -There was a little silence. -</p> - -<p> -“One admits that the arguments against the suffrage are extraordinarily -strong,” said a girl opposite, leaning forward and crumbling her bread. -</p> - -<p> -“Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am only too thankful not to have a -vote myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“We didn’t mean the vote, though, did we?” supplied Margaret. “Aren’t we -differing on something much wider, Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to remain -what they have been since the dawn of history; or whether, since men have moved -forward so far, they too may move forward a little now. I say they may. I would -even admit a biological change.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know, I don’t know.” -</p> - -<p> -“I must be getting back to my overhanging warehouse,” said the man. “They’ve -turned disgracefully strict. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox also rose. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested plays. Do you like MacDowell? -Do you mind him only having two noises? If you must really go, I’ll see you -out. Won’t you even have coffee?” -</p> - -<p> -They left the dining-room, closing the door behind them, and as Mrs. Wilcox -buttoned up her jacket, she said: “What an interesting life you all lead in -London!” -</p> - -<p> -“No, we don’t,” said Margaret, with a sudden revulsion. “We lead the lives of -gibbering monkeys. Mrs. Wilcox—really—We have something quiet and stable at the -bottom. We really have. All my friends have. Don’t pretend you enjoyed lunch, -for you loathed it, but forgive me by coming again, alone, or by asking me to -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am used to young people,” said Mrs. Wilcox, and with each word she spoke the -outlines of known things grew dim. “I hear a great deal of chatter at home, for -we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it is more sport and politics, -but—I enjoyed my lunch very much, Miss Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, -and only wish I could have joined in more. For one thing, I’m not particularly -well just 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.” -</p> - -<p> -They were silent for a moment. Then, with a newborn emotion, they shook hands. -The conversation ceased suddenly when Margaret re-entered the dining-room: her -friends had been talking over her new friend, and had dismissed her as -uninteresting. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 10</h2> - -<p> -Several days passed. -</p> - -<p> -Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people—there are many of them—who -dangle intimacy and then withdraw it? They evoke our interests and affections, -and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round them. Then they withdraw. When -physical passion is involved, there is a definite name for such -behaviour—flirting—and if carried far enough it is punishable by law. But no -law—not public opinion even—punishes those who coquette with friendship, though -the dull ache that they inflict, the sense of misdirected effort and -exhaustion, may be as intolerable. Was she one of these? -</p> - -<p> -Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner’s impatience, she wanted -everything to be settled up immediately. She mistrusted the periods of quiet -that are essential to true growth. Desiring to book Mrs. Wilcox as a friend, -she pressed on the ceremony, pencil, as it were, in hand, pressing the more -because the rest of the family were away, and the opportunity seemed -favourable. But the elder woman would not be hurried. She refused to fit in -with the Wickham Place set, or to reopen discussion of Helen and Paul, whom -Margaret would have utilized as a short-cut. She took her time, or perhaps let -time take her, and when the crisis did come all was ready. -</p> - -<p> -The crisis opened with a message: would Miss Schlegel come shopping? Christmas -was nearing, and Mrs. Wilcox felt 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. -</p> - -<p> -“First of all,” began Margaret, “we must make a list and tick off the people’s -names. My aunt always does, and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you -any ideas?” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought we would go to 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, hooray!” said Margaret, writing it. “How very kind of you to start with -me!” But she did not want to receive anything expensive. Their acquaintance was -singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the Wilcox clan would -resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact families do. She did not -want to be thought a second Helen, who would snatch presents since she could -not snatch young men, nor to be exposed, like a second Aunt Juley, to the -insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanour was best, and she added: -“I don’t really want a Yuletide gift, though. In fact, I’d rather not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because I’ve odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money can buy. -I want more people, but no more things.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss Schlegel, in -memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight. It has so happened -that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me from brooding. I am too -apt to brood.” -</p> - -<p> -“If that is so,” said Margaret, “if I have happened to be of use to you, which -I didn’t know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible.” -</p> - -<p> -“ I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of something as -we go about.” -</p> - -<p> -Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing was written opposite it. -They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when they alighted it -tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through a clot of grey. Mrs. -Wilcox’s vitality was low that morning, and it was Margaret who decided on a -horse for this little girl, a golliwog for that, for the rector’s wife a copper -warming-tray. “We always give the servants money.” “Yes, do you, yes, much -easier,” replied Margaret, but felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the -seen, and saw issuing from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem this torrent of -coins and toys. Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual -exhortation against temperance reform, invited men to “Join our Christmas goose -club”—one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to subscription. A poster of a -woman in tights heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little red devils, who -had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the Christmas-cards. Margaret -was no morbid idealist. She did not wish this spate of business and -self-advertisement checked. It was only the occasion of it that struck her with -amazement annually. How many of these vacillating shoppers and tired -shop-assistants 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. -</p> - -<p> -“No, I do like Christmas on the whole,” she announced. “In its clumsy way, it -does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every year.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it? I am only used to country Christmases.” -</p> - -<p> -“We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour—carols at the Abbey, -clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by Christmas-tree and -dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen. The drawing-room does very -well for that. We put the tree in the powder-closet, and draw a curtain when -the candles are lighted, and with the looking-glass behind it looks quite -pretty. I wish we might have a powder-closet in our next house. Of course, the -tree has to be very small, and the presents don’t hang on it. No; the presents -reside in a sort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper.” -</p> - -<p> -“You spoke of your ‘next house,’ Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving Wickham -Place?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you been there long?” -</p> - -<p> -“All our lives.” -</p> - -<p> -“You will be very sorry to leave it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose so. We scarcely 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. -</p> - -<p> -“If possible, something distinctive,” she sighed. At the counter she found a -friend, bent on the same errand, and conversed with her insipidly, wasting much -time. “My husband and our daughter are motoring.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when they were in, she said, -“But couldn’t you get it renewed?” -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon?” asked Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“The lease, I mean.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all the time? How very kind of -you!” -</p> - -<p> -“Surely something could be done.” -</p> - -<p> -“No; values have risen too enormously. They mean to pull down Wickham Place, -and build flats like yours.” -</p> - -<p> -“But how horrible!” -</p> - -<p> -“Landlords are horrible.” -</p> - -<p> -Then she said vehemently: “It is monstrous, Miss Schlegel; it isn’t right. I -had no idea that this was hanging over you. I do pity you from the bottom of my -heart. To be parted from your house, your father’s house—it oughtn’t to be -allowed. It is worse than dying. I would rather die than—Oh, poor girls! Can -what they call civilization be right, if people mayn’t die in the room where -they were born? My dear, I am so sorry—” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had been overtired by the -shopping, and was inclined to hysteria. -</p> - -<p> -“Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It would have killed me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Howards End must be a very different house to ours. We are fond of ours, but -there is nothing distinctive about it. As you saw, it is an ordinary London -house. We shall easily find another.” -</p> - -<p> -“So you think.” -</p> - -<p> -“Again my lack of experience, I suppose!” said Margaret, easing away from the -subject. “I can’t say anything when you take up that line, Mrs. Wilcox. I wish -I could see myself as you see me—foreshortened into a backfisch. Quite the -ingénue. Very charming—wonderfully well read for my age, but incapable—” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. “Come down with me to Howards End now,” she -said, more vehemently than ever. “I want you to see it. You have never seen it. -I want to hear what you say about it, for you do put things so wonderfully.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the tired face of her -companion. “Later on I should love it,” she continued, “but it’s hardly the -weather for such an expedition, and we ought to start when we’re fresh. Isn’t -the house shut up, too?” -</p> - -<p> -She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be annoyed. -</p> - -<p> -“Might I come some other day?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. “Back to Wickham Place, please!” -was her order to the coachman. Margaret had been snubbed. -</p> - -<p> -“A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind—the Christmas-cards -especially. I do admire your choice.” -</p> - -<p> -It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn Margaret became annoyed. -</p> - -<p> -“My husband and Evie will be back the day after 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, naturally he—he isn’t a road-hog.” -</p> - -<p> -“He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He must expect to suffer with -the lower animals.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. In growing discomfort they drove homewards. The city -seemed Satanic, the narrower streets oppressing like the galleries of a mine. -No harm was done by the fog to trade, for it lay high, and the lighted windows -of the shops were thronged with customers. It was rather a darkening of the -spirit which fell back upon itself, to find a more grievous darkness within. -Margaret nearly spoke a dozen times, but something throttled her. She felt -petty and awkward, and her meditations on Christmas grew more cynical. Peace? -It may bring other gifts, but is there a single Londoner to whom Christmas is -peaceful? The craving for excitement and for elaboration has ruined that -blessing. Goodwill? Had she seen any example of it in the hordes of purchasers? -Or in herself. She had failed to respond to this invitation merely because it -was a little queer and imaginative—she, whose birthright it was to nourish -imagination! Better to have accepted, to have tired themselves a little by the -journey, than coldly to reply, “Might I come some other day?” Her cynicism left -her. There would be no other day. This shadowy woman would never ask her again. -</p> - -<p> -They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in after due civilities, and -Margaret watched the tall, lonely figure sweep up the hall to the lift. As the -glass doors closed on it she had the sense of an imprisonment. The beautiful -head disappeared first, still buried in the muff, the long trailing skirt -followed. A woman of undefinable rarity was going up heaven-ward, like a -specimen in a bottle. And into what a heaven—a vault as of hell, sooty black, -from which soots descended! -</p> - -<p> -At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence, insisted on talking. -Tibby was not ill-natured, but from babyhood something drove him to do the -unwelcome and the unexpected. Now he gave her a long account of the day-school -that he sometimes 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. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox had just gone away for the night. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret said that it was of no consequence, hurried downstairs, and took a -hansom to King’s Cross. She was convinced that the escapade was important, -though it would have puzzled her to say why. There was 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. -</p> - -<p> -Then the clock of King’s Cross swung into sight, a second moon in that infernal -sky, and her cab drew up at the station. There was a train for Hilton in five -minutes. She took a ticket, asking in her agitation for a single. As she did -so, a grave and happy voice saluted her and thanked her. -</p> - -<p> -“I will come if I still may,” said Margaret, laughing nervously. -</p> - -<p> -“You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in the morning that my house is most -beautiful. You are coming to stop. I cannot show you my meadow properly except -at sunrise. These fogs”—she pointed at the station roof—“never spread far. I -dare say they are sitting in the sun in Hertfordshire, and you will never -repent joining them. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall never repent joining you.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is the same.” -</p> - -<p> -They began the walk up the long platform. Far at its end stood the train, -breasting the darkness without. They never reached it. Before imagination could -triumph, there were cries of “Mother! Mother!” and a heavy-browed girl darted -out of the cloak-room and seized Mrs. Wilcox by the arm. -</p> - -<p> -“Evie!” she gasped. “Evie, my pet—” -</p> - -<p> -The girl called, “Father! I say! look who’s here.” -</p> - -<p> -“Evie, dearest girl, why aren’t you in Yorkshire?” -</p> - -<p> -“No—motor smash—changed plans—Father’s coming.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, Ruth!” cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them. “What in the name of all that’s -wonderful are you doing here, Ruth?” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Henry dear!—here’s a lovely surprise—but let me introduce—but I think you -know Miss Schlegel.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, yes,” he replied, not greatly interested. “But how’s yourself, Ruth?” -</p> - -<p> -“Fit as a fiddle,” she answered gaily. -</p> - -<p> -“So are we and so was our car, which ran A-1 as far as Ripon, but there a -wretched horse and cart which a fool of a driver—” -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another day.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the policeman himself admits—” -</p> - -<p> -“Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“—But as we’ve insured against third party risks, it won’t so much matter—” -</p> - -<p> -“—Cart and car being practically at right angles—” -</p> - -<p> -The voices of the happy family rose high. Margaret was left alone. No one -wanted her. Mrs. Wilcox walked out of King’s Cross between her husband and her -daughter, listening to both of them. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 11</h2> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent of disapproval—they disliked -Charles; it was not a moment to speak of such things, but they did not like -Charles Wilcox—the grave-diggers finished their work and piled up the wreaths -and crosses above it. The sun set over Hilton: the grey brows of the evening -flushed a little, and were cleft with one scarlet frown. Chattering sadly to -each other, the mourners passed through the lych-gate and traversed the -chestnut avenues that led down to the village. The young wood-cutter stayed a -little longer, poised above the silence and swaying rhythmically. At last the -bough fell beneath his saw. With a grunt, he descended, his thoughts dwelling -no longer on death, but on love, for he was mating. He stopped as he passed the -new grave; a sheaf of tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye. “They didn’t -ought to have coloured flowers at buryings,” he reflected. Trudging on a few -steps, he stopped again, looked furtively at the dusk, turned back, wrenched a -chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it in his pocket. -</p> - -<p> -After him came silence absolute. The cottage that abutted on the churchyard was -empty, and no other house stood near. Hour after hour the scene of the -interment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds drifted over it from -the west; or the church may have been a ship, high-prowed, steering with all -its company towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky -clearer, the surface of the earth hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. -The wood-cutter, returning after a night of joy, reflected: “They lilies, they -chrysants; it’s a pity I didn’t take them all.” -</p> - -<p> -Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat in the -dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear to see a face, -breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over him in spasms, as if -it was physical, and even while he was about to eat, his eyes would fill with -tears, and he would lay down the morsel untasted. -</p> - -<p> -He remembered his wife’s even goodness during thirty years. Not anything in -detail—not courtship or early raptures—but just the unvarying virtue, that -seemed to him a woman’s noblest quality. So many women are capricious, breaking -into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so his wife. Year after year, -summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had been the same, he had always -trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence! The wonderful innocence that was -hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom -than did the flowers in her garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of -business—“Henry, why do people who have enough money try to get more money?” -Her idea of politics—“I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could -meet, there would be no more wars.” Her idea of religion—ah, this had been a -cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his -family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The -rector’s sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a desire for -“a more inward light,” adding, “not so much for myself as for baby” (Charles). -Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no complaints in later years. -They brought up their three children without dispute. They had never disputed. -</p> - -<p> -She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going the more -bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike her. “Why didn’t -you tell me you knew of it?” he had moaned, and her faint voice had answered: -“I didn’t want to, Henry—I might have been wrong—and every one hates -illnesses.” He had been told of the horror by a strange doctor, whom she had -consulted during his absence from town. Was this altogether just? Without fully -explaining, she had died. It was a fault on her part, and—tears rushed into his -eyes—what a little fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those -thirty years. -</p> - -<p> -He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in with the -letters, and he could meet no one’s eye. Ah yes—she had been a good woman—she -had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him steadiness included all -praise. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“The post’s come, Father,” said Evie awkwardly. -</p> - -<p> -“Thanks. Put it down.” -</p> - -<p> -“Has the breakfast been all right?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, thanks.” -</p> - -<p> -The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what to do. -</p> - -<p> -“Charles says do you want the <i>Times</i>?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I’ll read it later.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ring if you want anything, Father, won’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve all I want.” -</p> - -<p> -Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the dining-room. -</p> - -<p> -“Father’s eaten nothing,” she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows -behind the tea-urn— -</p> - -<p> -Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs, opened the -door, and said: “Look here, Father, you must eat, you know”; and having paused -for a reply that did not come, stole down again. “He’s going to read his -letters first, I think,” he said evasively; “I dare say he will go on with his -breakfast afterwards.” Then he took up the <i>Times</i>, and for some time -there was no sound except the clink of cup against saucer and of knife on -plate. -</p> - -<p> -Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions, terrified at the course of -events, and a little bored. She was a rubbishy little creature, and she knew -it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to the death-bed of a woman whom she -had scarcely known. A word from her husband had plunged her into mourning. She -desired to mourn inwardly as well, but she wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated -to die, could have died before the marriage, for then less would have been -expected of her. Crumbling her toast, and too nervous to ask for the butter, -she remained almost motionless, thankful only for this, that her father-in-law -was having his breakfast upstairs. -</p> - -<p> -At last Charles spoke. “They had no business to be pollarding those elms -yesterday,” he said to his sister. -</p> - -<p> -“No indeed.” -</p> - -<p> -“I must make a note of that,” he continued. “I am surprised that the rector -allowed it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps it may not be the rector’s affair.” -</p> - -<p> -“Whose else could it be?” -</p> - -<p> -“The lord of the manor.” -</p> - -<p> -“Impossible.” -</p> - -<p> -“Butter, Dolly?” -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you, Evie dear. Charles—” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, dear?” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t know one could pollard elms. I thought one only pollarded willows.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh no, one can pollard elms.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then why oughtn’t the elms in the churchyard to be pollarded?” -</p> - -<p> -Charles frowned a little, and turned again to his sister. “Another point. I -must speak to Chalkeley.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s no good him saying he is not responsible for those men. He is -responsible.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, rather.” -</p> - -<p> -Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus, partly because they -desired to keep Chalkeley up to the mark—a healthy desire in its way—partly -because they avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes did. It did not -seem to them of supreme importance. Or it may be as Helen supposed: they -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He could not go on with his -honeymoon, so he would go up to London and work—he felt too miserable hanging -about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat while his father rested -quietly in the country with Evie. He could also keep an eye on his own little -house, which was being painted and decorated for him in one of the Surrey -suburbs, and in which he hoped to install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, he -would go up after lunch in his new motor, and the town servants, who had come -down for the funeral, would go up by train. -</p> - -<p> -He found his father’s chauffeur in the garage, said, “Morning” without looking -at the man’s face, and, bending over the car, continued: “Hullo! my new car’s -been driven!” -</p> - -<p> -“Has it, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said Charles, getting rather red; “and whoever’s driven it hasn’t -cleaned it properly, for there’s mud on the axle. Take it off.” -</p> - -<p> -The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a chauffeur as ugly as -sin—not that this did him disservice with Charles, who thought charm in a man -rather rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast with whom they had -started. -</p> - -<p> -“Charles—” His bride was tripping after him over the hoar-frost, a dainty black -column, her little face and elaborate mourning hat forming the capital thereof. -</p> - -<p> -“One minute, I’m busy. Well, Crane, who’s been driving it, do you suppose?” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t know, I’m sure, sir. No one’s driven it since I’ve been back, but, of -course, there’s the fortnight I’ve been away with the other car in Yorkshire.” -</p> - -<p> -The mud came off easily. -</p> - -<p> -“Charles, your father’s down. Something’s happened. He wants you in the house -at once. Oh, Charles!” -</p> - -<p> -“Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key to the garage while you were away, -Crane?” -</p> - -<p> -“The gardener, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir; no one’s had the motor out, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t, of course, say for the time I’ve been in Yorkshire. No more mud now, -sir.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart had not -been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it was not a -morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after lunch, he joined -his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some incoherent story about a -letter and a Miss Schlegel. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?” -</p> - -<p> -When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want was to -him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was correct, for -his wife replied, “She wants Howards End.” -</p> - -<p> -“Howards End? Now, Crane, just don’t forget to put on the Stepney wheel.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, mind you don’t forget, for I—Come, little woman.” When they were out of -the chauffeur’s sight he put his arm 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. -</p> - -<p> -“But you haven’t listened, Charles—” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s wrong?” -</p> - -<p> -“I keep on telling you—Howards End. Miss Schlegels got it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Got what?” asked Charles, unclasping her. “What the dickens are you talking -about?” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty—” -</p> - -<p> -“Look here, I’m in no mood for foolery. It’s no morning for it either.” -</p> - -<p> -“I tell you—I keep on telling you—Miss Schlegel—she’s got it—your mother’s left -it to her—and you’ve all got to move out!” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Howards End?</i>” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Howards End!</i>” she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came -dashing out of the shrubbery. -</p> - -<p> -“Dolly, go back at once! My father’s much annoyed with you. Charles”—she hit -herself wildly—“come in at once to Father. He’s had a letter that’s too awful.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across the -gravel path. There the house was—the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He -exclaimed, “Schlegels again!” and as if to complete chaos, Dolly said, “Oh no, -the matron of the nursing home has written instead of her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Come in, all three of you!” cried his father, no longer inert. “Dolly, why -have you disobeyed me?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Mr. Wilcox—” -</p> - -<p> -“I told you not to go out to the garage. I’ve heard you all shouting in the -garden. I won’t have it. Come in.” -</p> - -<p> -He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand. -</p> - -<p> -“Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can’t discuss private matters in -the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read these. See what you -make.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession. The -first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired her, when -the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The enclosed—it was from -his mother herself. She had written: “To my husband: I should like Miss -Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose we’re going to have a talk about this?” he remarked, ominously calm. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly—” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, let’s sit down.” -</p> - -<p> -“Come, Evie, don’t waste time, sit down.” -</p> - -<p> -In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of yesterday—indeed, -of this morning—suddenly receded into a past so remote that they seemed -scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings were heard. They were calming -themselves. Charles, to steady them further, read the enclosure out loud: “A -note in my mother’s handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. -Inside: ‘I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.’ No date, -no signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the -question is—” -</p> - -<p> -Dolly interrupted him. “But I say that note isn’t legal. Houses ought to be -done by a lawyer, Charles, surely.” -</p> - -<p> -Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either -ear—a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she asked whether she -might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said -abstractedly, “Give it her.” She seized it, and at once exclaimed: “Why, it’s -only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never counts.” -</p> - -<p> -“We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly,” said Mr. Wilcox, speaking from -out of his fortress. “We are aware of that. Legally, I should be justified in -tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of course, my dear, we consider -you as one of the family, but it will be better if you do not interfere with -what you do not understand.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: “The question -is—” He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates and knives, so -that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. “The question is whether Miss -Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all away, whether she unduly—” He -stopped. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t think that,” said his father, whose nature was nobler than his son’s -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t think what?” -</p> - -<p> -“That she would have—that it is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the -question is the—the invalid’s condition at the time she wrote.” -</p> - -<p> -“My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don’t admit it is my -mother’s writing.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, you just said it was!” cried Dolly. -</p> - -<p> -“Never mind if I did,” he blazed out; “and hold your tongue.” -</p> - -<p> -The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief from her -pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling like an angry -boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the committee-room. They -were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the -mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by -item, sharply. 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. -</p> - -<p> -To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator should -step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to Margaret? I -think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it had been written in -illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship; it was contrary to the -dead woman’s intentions in the past, contrary to her very nature, so far as -that nature was understood by them. To them Howards End was a house: they could -not know that to her it had been a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual -heir. And—pushing one step farther in these mists—may they not have decided -even better than they supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the -spirit can be bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a -vine, a wisp of hay with dew on it—can passion for such things be transmitted -where there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed. The -problem is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a problem. No; it is -natural and fitting that after due debate they should tear the note up and -throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical moralist may acquit them -absolutely. He who strives to look deeper may acquit them—almost. For one hard -fact remains. They did neglect a personal appeal. The woman who had died did -say to them, “Do this,” and they answered, “We will not.” -</p> - -<p> -The incident made a most painful impression on them. Grief mounted into the -brain and worked there disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented: “She was a -dear mother, a true wife: in our absence she neglected her health and died.” -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, well!” said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. “I shouldn’t have thought -it possible.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mother couldn’t have meant it,” said Evie, still frowning. -</p> - -<p> -“No, my girl, of course not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mother believed so in ancestors too—it isn’t like her to leave anything to an -outsider, who’d never appreciate.” -</p> - -<p> -“The whole thing is unlike her,” he announced. “If Miss Schlegel had been poor, -if she had wanted a house, I could understand it a little. But she has a house -of her own. Why should she want another? She wouldn’t have any use of Howards -End.” -</p> - -<p> -“That time may prove,” murmured Charles. -</p> - -<p> -“How?” asked his sister. -</p> - -<p> -“Presumably she knows—mother will have told her. She got twice or three times -into the nursing home. Presumably she is awaiting developments.” -</p> - -<p> -“What a horrid woman!” And Dolly, who had recovered, cried, “Why, she may be -coming down to turn us out now!” -</p> - -<p> -Charles put her right. “I wish she would,” he said ominously. “I could then -deal with her.” -</p> - -<p> -“So could I,” echoed his father, who was feeling rather in the cold. Charles -had been kind in undertaking the funeral arrangements and in telling him to eat -his breakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a little dictatorial, and assumed -the post of chairman too readily. “I could deal with her, if she comes, but she -won’t come. You’re all a bit hard on Miss Schlegel.” -</p> - -<p> -“That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though.” -</p> - -<p> -“I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I said at the time, and -besides, it is quite apart from this business. Margaret Schlegel has been -officious and tiresome during this terrible week, and we have all suffered -under her, but upon my soul she’s honest. She’s not in collusion with the -matron. I’m absolutely certain of it. Nor was she with the doctor. I’m equally -certain of that. She did not hide anything from us, for up to that very -afternoon she was as ignorant as we are. She, like ourselves, was a dupe—” He -stopped for a moment. “You see, Charles, in her terrible pain your 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.” -</p> - -<p> -Evie said: “But those chrysanthemums—” -</p> - -<p> -“Or coming down to the funeral at all—” echoed Dolly. -</p> - -<p> -“Why shouldn’t she come down? She had the right to, and she stood far back -among the Hilton women. The flowers—certainly we should not have sent such -flowers, but they may have seemed the right thing to her, Evie, and for all you -know they may be the custom in Germany.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I forget she isn’t really English,” cried Evie. “That would explain a -lot.” -</p> - -<p> -“She’s a cosmopolitan,” said Charles, looking at his watch. “I admit I’m rather -down on cosmopolitans. My fault, doubtless. I cannot stand them, and a German -cosmopolitan is the limit. I think that’s about all, isn’t it? I want to run -down and see Chalkeley. A bicycle will do. And, by the way, I wish you’d speak -to Crane some time. I’m certain he’s had my new car out.” -</p> - -<p> -“Has he done it any harm?” -</p> - -<p> -“No.” -</p> - -<p> -“In that case I shall let it pass. It’s not worth while having a row.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they always parted with an -increased regard for one another, and each desired no doughtier comrade when it -was necessary to voyage for a little past the emotions. So the sailors of -Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first stopped one another’s ears with -wool. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 12</h2> - -<p> -Charles need not have been anxious. Miss Schlegel had never heard of his -mother’s strange request. She was to hear of it in after years, when she had -built up her life differently, and it was to fit into position as the headstone -of the corner. Her mind was bent on other questions now, and by her also it -would have been rejected as the fantasy of an invalid. -</p> - -<p> -She was parting from these Wilcoxes for the second time. Paul and his mother, -ripple and great wave, had flowed into her life and ebbed out of it for ever. -The ripple had left no traces behind: the wave had strewn at her feet fragments -torn from the unknown. A curious seeker, she stood for a while at the verge of -the sea that tells so little, but tells a little, and watched the outgoing of -this last tremendous tide. Her friend had vanished in agony, but not, she -believed, in degradation. Her withdrawal had hinted at other things besides -disease and pain. Some leave our life with tears, others with an insane -frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox had taken the middle course, which only rarer natures -can pursue. She had kept proportion. She had told a little of her grim secret -to her friends, but not too much; she had shut up her heart—almost, but not -entirely. It is thus, if there is any rule, that we ought to die—neither as -victim nor as fanatic, but as the seafarer who can greet with an equal eye the -deep that he is entering, and the shore that he must leave. -</p> - -<p> -The last word—whatever it would be—had certainly not been said in Hilton -churchyard. She had not died there. A funeral is not death, any more than -baptism is birth or marriage union. All three are the clumsy devices, coming -now too late, now too early, by which Society would register the quick motions -of man. In Margaret’s eyes Mrs. Wilcox had escaped registration. She had gone -out of life vividly, her own way, and no dust was so truly dust as the contents -of that heavy coffin, lowered with ceremonial until it rested on the dust of -the earth, no flowers so utterly wasted as the chrysanthemums that the frost -must have withered before morning. Margaret had once said she “loved -superstition.” It was not true. Few women had tried more earnestly to pierce -the accretions in which body and soul are enwrapped. The death of Mrs. Wilcox -had helped her in her work. She saw a little more clearly than hitherto what a -human being is, and to what he may aspire. Truer relationships gleamed. Perhaps -the last word would be hope—hope even on this side of the grave. -</p> - -<p> -Meanwhile, she could take an interest in the survivors. In spite of her -Christmas duties, in spite of her brother, the Wilcoxes continued to play a -considerable part in her thoughts. She had seen so much of them in the final -week. They were not “her sort,” they were often suspicious and stupid, and -deficient where she excelled; but collision with them stimulated her, and she -felt an interest that verged into liking, even for Charles. She desired to -protect them, and often felt that they could protect her, excelling where she -was deficient. Once past the rocks of emotion, they knew so well what to do, -whom to send for; their hands were on all the ropes, they had grit as well as -grittiness, and she valued grit enormously. They led a life that she could not -attain to—the outer life of “telegrams and anger,” which had detonated when -Helen and Paul had touched in June, and had detonated again the other week. To -Margaret this life was to remain a real force. She could not despise it, as -Helen and Tibby affected to do. It fostered such virtues as neatness, decision, -and obedience, virtues of the second rank, no doubt, but they have formed our -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? -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t brood too much,” she wrote to Helen, “on the superiority of the unseen -to the seen. It’s true, but to brood on it is mediaeval. Our business is not to -contrast the two, but to reconcile them.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen replied that she had no intention of brooding on such a dull subject. -What did her sister take her for? The weather was magnificent. She and the -Mosebachs had gone tobogganing on the only hill that Pomerania boasted. It was -fun, but 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -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.” -</p> - -<p> -Tibby consented to talk. He too was full of his own affairs, for he had just -been up to try for a scholarship at Oxford. The men were down, and the -candidates had been housed in various colleges, and had dined in hall. Tibby -was sensitive to beauty, the experience was new, and he gave a description of -his visit that was almost glowing. The august and mellow University, soaked -with the richness of the western counties that it has served for a thousand -years, appealed at once to the boy’s taste: it was the kind of thing he could -understand, and he understood it all the better because it was empty. Oxford -is—Oxford: not a mere receptacle for youth, like Cambridge. Perhaps it wants -its inmates to love it rather than to love one another: such at all events was -to be its effect on Tibby. His sisters sent him there that he might make -friends, for they knew that his education had been cranky, and had severed him -from other boys and men. He made no friends. His Oxford remained Oxford empty, -and he took into life with him, not the memory of a radiance, but the memory of -a colour scheme. -</p> - -<p> -It pleased Margaret to hear her brother and sister talking. They did not get on -overwell as a rule. For a few moments she listened to them, feeling elderly and -benign. Then something occurred to her, and she interrupted: -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, I told you about poor Mrs. Wilcox; that sad business?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have had a correspondence with her son. He was winding up the estate, and -wrote to ask me whether his mother had wanted me to have anything. I thought it -good of him, considering I knew her so little. I said that she had once spoken -of giving me a Christmas present, but we both forgot about it afterwards.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hope Charles took the hint.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes—that is to say, her husband wrote later on, and thanked me for being a -little kind to her, and actually gave me her silver vinaigrette. Don’t you -think that is extraordinarily generous? It has made me like him very much. He -hopes that this will not be the end of our acquaintance, but that you and I -will go and stop with Evie some time in the future. I like Mr. Wilcox. He is -taking up his work—rubber—it is a big business. I gather he is launching out -rather. Charles is in it, too. Charles is married—a pretty little creature, but -she doesn’t seem wise. They took on the flat, but now they have gone off to a -house of their own.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen, after a decent pause, continued her account of Stettin. How quickly a -situation changes! In June she had been in a crisis; even in November she could -blush and be unnatural; now it was January, and the whole affair lay forgotten. -Looking back on the past six months, Margaret 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. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret hoped that for the future she would be less cautious, not more -cautious, than she had been in the past. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 13</h2> - -<p> -Over two years passed, and the Schlegel household continued to lead its life of -cultured but not ignoble ease, still swimming gracefully on the grey tides of -London. Concerts and plays swept past them, money had been spent and renewed, -reputations won and lost, and the city herself, emblematic of their lives, rose -and fell in a continual flux, while her shallows washed more widely against the -hills of Surrey and over the fields of Hertfordshire. This famous building had -arisen, that was doomed. 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. -</p> - -<p> -To speak against London is no longer fashionable. The Earth as an artistic cult -has had its day, and the literature of the near future will probably ignore the -country and seek inspiration from the town. One can understand the reaction. Of -Pan and the elemental forces, the public has heard a little too much—they seem -Victorian, while London is Georgian—and those who care for the earth with -sincerity may wait long ere the pendulum swings back to her again. Certainly -London fascinates. One 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. -</p> - -<p> -The Londoner seldom understands his city until it sweeps him, too, away from -his moorings, and Margaret’s eyes were not opened until the lease of Wickham -Place expired. She had always known that it must expire, but the knowledge only -became vivid about nine months before the event. Then the house was suddenly -ringed with pathos. It had seen so much happiness. Why had it to be swept away? -In the streets of the city she noted for the first time the architecture of -hurry, and heard the language of hurry on the mouths of its inhabitants—clipped -words, formless sentences, potted expressions of approval or disgust. Month by -month things were stepping livelier, but to what goal? The population still -rose, but what was the quality of the men born? The particular millionaire who -owned the freehold of Wickham Place, and desired to erect Babylonian flats upon -it—what right had he to stir so large a portion of the quivering jelly? He was -not a fool—she had heard him expose Socialism—but true insight began just where -his intelligence ended, and one gathered that this was the case with most -millionaires. What right had such men—But Margaret checked herself. That way -lies madness. Thank goodness she, too, had some money, and could purchase a new -home. -</p> - -<p> -Tibby, now in his second year at Oxford, was down for the Easter vacation, and -Margaret took the opportunity of having a serious talk with him. Did he at all -know where he wanted to live? Tibby didn’t know that he did know. Did he at all -know what he wanted to do? He was equally uncertain, but when pressed remarked -that he should prefer to be quite free of any profession. Margaret was not -shocked, but went on sewing for a few minutes before she replied: -</p> - -<p> -“I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me as particularly happy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ye-es,” said Tibby, and then held his mouth open in a curious quiver, as if -he, too, had 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. -</p> - -<p> -“But Mr. Vyse is rather a wretched, weedy man, don’t you think? Then there’s -Guy. That was a pitiful business. Besides”—shifting to the general—” every one -is the better for some regular work.” -</p> - -<p> -Groans. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall stick to it,” she continued, smiling. “I am not saying it to educate -you; it is what I really think. I believe that in the last century men have -developed the desire for work, and they must not starve it. It’s a new desire. -It goes with a great deal that’s bad, but in itself it’s good, and I hope that -for women, too, ‘not to work’ will soon become as shocking as ‘not to be -married’ was a hundred years ago.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have no experience of this profound desire to which you allude,” enunciated -Tibby. -</p> - -<p> -“Then we’ll leave the subject till you do. I’m not going to rattle you round. -Take your time. Only do think over the lives of the men you like most, and see -how they’ve arranged them.” -</p> - -<p> -“I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most,” said Tibby faintly, and leant so far back in -his chair that he extended in a horizontal line from knees to throat. -</p> - -<p> -“And don’t think I’m not serious because I don’t use the traditional -arguments—making money, a sphere awaiting you, and so on—all of which are, for -various reasons, cant.” She sewed on. “I’m only your sister. I haven’t any -authority over you, and I don’t want to have any. Just to put before you what I -think the truth. You see”—she shook off the pince-nez to which she had recently -taken—“in a few years we shall be the same age practically, and I shall want -you to help me. Men are so much nicer than women.” -</p> - -<p> -“Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not marry?” -</p> - -<p> -“I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance.” -</p> - -<p> -“Has nobody arst you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Only ninnies.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do people ask Helen?” -</p> - -<p> -“Plentifully.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me about them.” -</p> - -<p> -“No.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me about your ninnies, then.” -</p> - -<p> -“They were men who had nothing better to do,” said his sister, feeling that she -was entitled to score this point. “So take warning: you must work, or else you -must pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work, work if you’d save your -soul and your body. It is honestly a necessity, dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes, -look at Mr. Pembroke. With all their defects of temper and understanding, such -men give me more pleasure than many who are better equipped and I think it is -because they have worked regularly and honestly. -</p> - -<p> -“Spare me the Wilcoxes,” he moaned. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall not. They are the right sort.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, goodness me, Meg!” he protested, suddenly sitting up, alert and angry. -Tibby, for all his defects, had a genuine personality. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, they’re as near the right sort as you can imagine.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, no—oh, no!” -</p> - -<p> -“I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once classed as a ninny, but who -came back so ill from Nigeria. He’s gone out there again, Evie Wilcox tells -me—out to his duty.” -</p> - -<p> -“Duty” always elicited a groan. -</p> - -<p> -“He doesn’t want the money, it is work he wants, though it is beastly work—dull -country, dishonest natives, an eternal fidget over fresh water and food. A -nation who can produce men of that sort may well be proud. No wonder England -has become an Empire.” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Empire!</i>” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t bother over results,” said Margaret, a little sadly. “They are too -difficult for me. I can only look at the men. An Empire bores me, so far, but I -can appreciate the heroism that builds it up. London bores me, but what -thousands of splendid people are labouring to make London—” -</p> - -<p> -“What it is,” he sneered. -</p> - -<p> -“What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civilization. How paradoxical! -Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven.” -</p> - -<p> -“And I,” said Tibby, “want civilization without activity, which, I expect, is -what we shall find in the other place.” -</p> - -<p> -“You needn’t go as far as the other place, Tibbi-kins, if you want that. You -can find it at Oxford.” -</p> - -<p> -“Stupid—” -</p> - -<p> -“If I’m stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I’ll even live in Oxford if -you like—North Oxford. I’ll live anywhere except Bournemouth, Torquay, and -Cheltenham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tunbridge Wells and Surbiton -and Bedford. There on no account.” -</p> - -<p> -“London, then.” -</p> - -<p> -“I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from London. However, there’s no -reason we shouldn’t have a house in the country and also a flat in town, -provided we all stick together and contribute. Though of course—Oh, how one -does maunder on, and to think, to think of the people who are really poor. How -do they live? Not to move about the world would kill me.” -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burst in in a state of extreme -excitement. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, my dears, what do you think? You’ll never guess. A woman’s been here -asking me for her husband. Her <i>what?</i>” (Helen was fond of supplying her -own surprise.) “Yes, for her husband, and it really is so.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not anything to do with Bracknell?” cried Margaret, who had lately taken on an -unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots. -</p> - -<p> -“I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was Tibby. (Cheer up, Tibby!) -It’s no one we know. I said, ‘Hunt, my good woman; have a good look round, hunt -under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the antimacassars. Husband? -husband?’ Oh, and she so magnificently dressed and tinkling like a chandelier.” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Helen, what did happen really?” -</p> - -<p> -“What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door like a -fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open. Then we -began—very civilly. ‘I want my husband, what I have reason to believe is here.’ -No—how unjust one is. She said ‘whom,’ not ‘what.’ She got it perfectly. So I -said, ‘Name, please?’ and she said, ‘Lan, Miss,’ and there we were. -</p> - -<p> -“Lan?” -</p> - -<p> -“Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline.” -</p> - -<p> -“But what an extraordinary—” -</p> - -<p> -“I said, ‘My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding here. -Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my beauty, and -never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine.’” -</p> - -<p> -“I hope you were pleased,” said Tibby. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course,” Helen squeaked. “A perfectly delightful experience. Oh, Mrs. -Lanoline’s a dear—she asked for a husband as if he 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“But how on earth—” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t begin how on earthing. ‘I know what I know,’ she kept repeating, not -uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did know. Some -knew what others knew, and others didn’t, and 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Bag it by all means,” murmured Margaret, putting down her work. “I’m not sure -that this is so funny, Helen. It means some horrible volcano smoking somewhere, -doesn’t it?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t think so—she doesn’t really mind. The admirable creature isn’t capable -of tragedy.” -</p> - -<p> -“Her husband may be, though,” said Margaret, moving to the window. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could have married Mrs. -Lanoline.” -</p> - -<p> -“Was she pretty?” -</p> - -<p> -“Her figure may have been good once.” -</p> - -<p> -The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate curtain between Margaret and -the welter of London. Her thoughts turned sadly to house-hunting. Wickham Place -had been so safe. She feared, fantastically, that her own little flock might be -moving into turmoil and squalor, into nearer contact with such episodes as -these. -</p> - -<p> -“Tibby and I have again been wondering where we’ll live next September,” she -said at last. -</p> - -<p> -“Tibby had better first wonder what he’ll do,” retorted Helen; and that topic -was resumed, but with acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen went on -preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one, too, for they were going out -to a discussion society on the morrow. But her thoughts were poisoned. Mrs. -Lanoline had risen out of the abyss, like a faint smell, a goblin football, -telling of a life where love and hatred had both decayed. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 14</h2> - -<p> -The mystery, like so many mysteries, was explained. Next day, just as they were -dressed to go out to dinner, a Mr. Bast called. He was a clerk in the -employment of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company. Thus much from his card. -He had come “about the lady yesterday.” Thus much from Annie, who had shown him -into the dining-room. -</p> - -<p> -“Cheers, children!” cried Helen. “It’s Mrs. Lanoline.” -</p> - -<p> -Tibby was interested. The three hurried downstairs, to find, not the gay dog -they expected, but a young man, colourless, toneless, who had already the -mournful eyes above a drooping moustache that are so common in London, and that -haunt some streets of the city like accusing presences. One guessed him as the -third generation, grandson to the shepherd or ploughboy whom 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. -</p> - -<p> -“You wouldn’t remember giving me this, Miss Schlegel?” said he, uneasily -familiar. -</p> - -<p> -“No; I can’t say I do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, that was how it happened, you see.” -</p> - -<p> -“Where did we meet, Mr. Bast? For the minute I don’t remember.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was a concert at the Queen’s Hall. I think you will recollect,” he added -pretentiously, “when I tell you that it included a performance of the Fifth -Symphony of Beethoven.” -</p> - -<p> -“We hear the Fifth practically every time it’s done, so I’m not sure—do you -remember, Helen?” -</p> - -<p> -“Was it the time the sandy cat walked round the balustrade?” -</p> - -<p> -He thought not. -</p> - -<p> -“Then I don’t remember. That’s the only Beethoven I ever remember specially.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you, if I may say so, took away my umbrella, inadvertently of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“Likely enough,” Helen laughed, “for I steal umbrellas even oftener than I hear -Beethoven. Did you get it back?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, thank you, Miss Schlegel.” -</p> - -<p> -“The mistake arose out of my card, did it?” interposed Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, the mistake arose—it was a mistake.” -</p> - -<p> -“The lady who called here yesterday thought that you were calling too, and that -she could find you?” she continued, pushing him forward, for, though he had -promised an explanation, he seemed unable to give one. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s so, calling too—a mistake.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then why—?” began Helen, but Margaret laid a hand on her arm. -</p> - -<p> -“I said to my wife,” he continued more rapidly—“I said to Mrs. Bast, ‘I have to -pay a call on some friends,’ and Mrs. Bast said to me, ‘Do go.’ While I was -gone, however, she wanted me on important business, and thought I had come -here, owing to the card, and so came after me, and I beg to tender my -apologies, and hers as well, for any inconvenience we may have inadvertently -caused you.” -</p> - -<p> -“No inconvenience,” said Helen; “but I still don’t understand.” -</p> - -<p> -An air of evasion 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?” -</p> - -<p> -“Call? What call?” said he, staring as if her question had been a foolish one, -a favourite device of those in mid-stream. -</p> - -<p> -“This afternoon call.” -</p> - -<p> -“In the afternoon, of course!” he replied, and looked at Tibby to see how the -repartee went. But Tibby, himself a repartee, was unsympathetic, and said, -“Saturday afternoon or Sunday afternoon?” -</p> - -<p> -“S-Saturday.” -</p> - -<p> -“Really!” said Helen; “and you were still calling on Sunday, when your wife -came here. A long visit.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t call that fair,” said Mr. Bast, going scarlet and handsome. There was -fight in his eyes.” I know what you mean, and it isn’t so.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, don’t let us mind,” said Margaret, distressed again by odours from the -abyss. -</p> - -<p> -“It was something else,” he asserted, his elaborate manner breaking down. “I -was somewhere else to what you think, so there!” -</p> - -<p> -“It was good of you to come and explain,” she said. “The rest is naturally no -concern of ours.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but I want—I wanted—have you ever read <i>The Ordeal of Richard -Feverel?</i>” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret nodded. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s a beautiful book. I wanted to get back to the Earth, don’t you see, like -Richard does in the end. Or have you ever read Stevenson’s <i>Prince Otto?</i>” -</p> - -<p> -Helen and Tibby groaned gently. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s another beautiful book. You get back to the Earth in that. I wanted—” -He mouthed affectedly. Then through the mists of his culture came a hard fact, -hard as a pebble. “I walked all the Saturday night,” said Leonard. “I walked.” -A thrill of approval ran through the sisters. But culture closed in again. He -asked whether they had ever read E. V. Lucas’s <i>Open Road</i>. -</p> - -<p> -Said Helen, “No doubt it’s another beautiful book, but I’d rather hear about -your road.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I walked.” -</p> - -<p> -“How far?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know, nor for how long. It got too dark to see my watch.” -</p> - -<p> -“Were you walking alone, may I ask?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” he said, straightening himself; “but we’d been talking it over at the -office. There’s been a lot of talk at the office lately about these things. The -fellows there said one steers by the Pole Star, and I looked it up in the -celestial atlas, but once out of doors everything gets so mixed—” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t talk to me about the Pole Star,” interrupted Helen, who was becoming -interested. “I know its little ways. It goes round and round, and you go round -after it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I lost it entirely. First of all the street lamps, then the trees, and -towards morning it got cloudy.” -</p> - -<p> -Tibby, who preferred his comedy undiluted, slipped from the room. He knew that -this fellow would never attain to poetry, and did not want to hear him trying. -Margaret and Helen remained. Their brother influenced them more than they knew: -in his absence they were stirred to enthusiasm more easily. -</p> - -<p> -“Where did you start from?” cried Margaret. “Do tell us more.” -</p> - -<p> -“I took the Underground to Wimbledon. As I came out of the office I said to -myself, ‘I must have a walk once in a way. If I don’t take this walk now, I -shall never take it.’ I had a bit of dinner at Wimbledon, and then—” -</p> - -<p> -“But not good country there, is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“It was gas-lamps for hours. Still, I had all the night, and being out was the -great thing. I did get into woods, too, presently.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, go on,” said Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve no idea how difficult uneven ground is when it’s dark.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did you actually go off the roads?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes. I always meant to go off the roads, but the worst of it is that it’s -more difficult to find one’s way.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Bast, you’re a born adventurer,” laughed Margaret. “No professional -athlete would have attempted what you’ve done. It’s a wonder your walk didn’t -end in a broken neck. Whatever did your wife say?” -</p> - -<p> -“Professional athletes never move without lanterns and compasses,” said Helen. -“Besides, they can’t walk. It tires them. Go on.” -</p> - -<p> -“I felt like R. L. S. You probably remember how in <i>Virginibus</i>—” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but the wood. This ’ere wood. How did you get out of it?” -</p> - -<p> -“I managed one wood, and found a road the other side which went a good bit -uphill. I rather fancy it was those North Downs, for the road went off into -grass, and I got into another wood. That was awful, with gorse bushes. I did -wish I’d never come, but suddenly it got light—just while I seemed going under -one tree. Then I found a road down to a station, and took the first train I -could back to London.” -</p> - -<p> -“But was the dawn wonderful?” asked Helen. -</p> - -<p> -With unforgettable sincerity he replied, “No.” The word flew again like a -pebble from the sling. Down toppled all that had seemed ignoble or literary in -his talk, down toppled tiresome R. L. S. and the “love of the earth” and his -silk top-hat. In the presence of these women Leonard had arrived, and he spoke -with a flow, an exultation, that he had seldom known. -</p> - -<p> -“The dawn was only grey, it was nothing to mention—” -</p> - -<p> -“Just a grey evening turned upside down. I know.” -</p> - -<p> -“—and I was too tired to lift up my head to look at it, and so cold too. I’m -glad I did it, and yet at the time it bored me more than I can say. And -besides—you can believe me or not as you choose—I was very hungry. That dinner -at Wimbledon—I meant it to last me all night like other dinners. I never -thought that walking would make such a difference. Why, when you’re walking you -want, as it were, a breakfast and luncheon and tea during the night as well, -and I’d nothing but a packet of Woodbines. Lord, I did feel bad! Looking back, -it wasn’t what you may call enjoyment. It was more a case of sticking to it. I -did stick. I—I was determined. Oh, hang it all! what’s the good—I mean, the -good of living in a room for ever? There one goes on day after day, same old -game, same up and down to town, until you forget there is any other game. You -ought to see once in a way what’s going on outside, if it’s only nothing -particular after all.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should just think you ought,” said Helen, sitting on the edge of the table. -</p> - -<p> -The sound of a lady’s voice recalled him from sincerity, and he said: “Curious -it should all come about from reading something of Richard Jefferies.” -</p> - -<p> -“Excuse me, Mr. Bast, but you’re wrong there. It didn’t. It came from something -far greater.” -</p> - -<p> -But she could not stop him. Borrow was imminent after Jefferies—Borrow, -Thoreau, and sorrow. R. L. S. brought up the rear, and the outburst ended in a -swamp of books. No disrespect to these great names. The fault is ours, not -theirs. They mean us to use them for sign-posts, and are not to blame if, in -our weakness, we mistake the sign-post for the destination. And Leonard had -reached the destination. He had visited the county of Surrey when darkness -covered its amenities, and its cosy villas had re-entered ancient night. Every -twelve hours this miracle happens, but he had troubled to go and see for -himself. Within his cramped little mind dwelt something that was greater than -Jefferies’ books—the spirit that led Jefferies to write them; and his dawn, -though revealing nothing but monotones, was part of the eternal sunrise that -shows George Borrow Stonehenge. -</p> - -<p> -“Then you don’t think I was foolish?” he asked, becoming again the naïve -and sweet-tempered boy for whom Nature had intended him. -</p> - -<p> -“Heavens, no!” replied Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Heaven help us if we do!” replied Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m very glad you say that. Now, my wife would never understand—not if I -explained for days.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, it wasn’t foolish!” cried Helen, her eyes aflame. “You’ve pushed back the -boundaries; I think it splendid of you.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve not been content to dream as we have—” -</p> - -<p> -“Though we have walked, too—” -</p> - -<p> -“I must show you a picture upstairs—” -</p> - -<p> -Here the door-bell rang. The hansom had come to take them to their evening -party. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, bother, not to say dash—I had forgotten we were dining out; but do, do, -come round again and have a talk.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, you must—do,” echoed Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -Leonard, with extreme sentiment, replied: “No, I shall not. It’s better like -this.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why better?” asked Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“No, it is better not to risk a second interview. I shall always look back on -this talk with you as one of the finest things in my life. Really. I mean this. -We can never repeat. It has done me real good, and there we had better leave -it.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s rather a sad view of life, surely.” -</p> - -<p> -“Things so often get spoiled.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know,” flashed Helen, “but people don’t.” -</p> - -<p> -He could not understand this. He continued in a vein which mingled true -imagination and false. What he said wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t right, and a -false note jarred. One little twist, they felt, and the instrument might be in -tune. One little strain, and it might be silent for ever. He thanked the ladies -very much, but he would not call again. There was a moment’s awkwardness, and -then Helen said: “Go, then; perhaps you know best; but never forget you’re -better than Jefferies.” And he went. Their hansom caught him up at the corner, -passed with a waving of hands, and vanished with its accomplished load into the -evening. -</p> - -<p> -London was beginning to illuminate herself against the night. Electric lights -sizzled and jagged in the main thoroughfares, gas-lamps in the side streets -glimmered a canary gold or green. The sky was a crimson battlefield of spring, -but London was not afraid. Her smoke mitigated the splendour, and the clouds -down Oxford Street were a delicately painted ceiling, which adorned while it -did not distract. She 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. -</p> - -<p> -His behaviour over Margaret’s visiting-card had been typical. His had scarcely -been a tragic marriage. Where there is no money and no inclination to violence -tragedy cannot be generated. He could not leave his wife, and he did not want -to hit her. Petulance and squalor were enough. Here “that card” had come in. -Leonard, though furtive, was untidy, and left it lying about. Jacky found it, -and then began, “What’s that card, eh?” “Yes, don’t you wish you knew what that -card was?” “Len, who’s Miss Schlegel?” etc. Months passed, and the card, now as -a joke, now as a grievance, was handed about, getting dirtier and dirtier. It -followed them when they moved from 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!” -</p> - -<p> -Poor Jacky! she was not a bad sort, and had a great deal to bear. She drew her -own conclusion—she was only capable of drawing one conclusion—and in the -fulness of time she acted upon it. All the Friday Leonard had refused to speak -to her, and had spent the evening observing the stars. On the Saturday he went -up, as usual, to town, but he came not back Saturday night nor Sunday morning, -nor Sunday afternoon. The inconvenience grew intolerable, and though she was -now of a retiring habit, and shy of women, she went up to Wickham Place. -Leonard returned in her absence. The card, the fatal card, was gone from the -pages of Ruskin, and he guessed what had happened. -</p> - -<p> -“Well?” he had exclaimed, greeting her with peals of laughter. “I know where -you’ve been, but you don’t know where I’ve been.” -</p> - -<p> -Jacky sighed, said, “Len, I do think you might explain,” and resumed -domesticity. -</p> - -<p> -Explanations were difficult at this stage, and Leonard was too silly—or it is -tempting to write, too sound a chap to attempt them. His reticence was not -entirely the shoddy article that a business life promotes, the reticence that -pretends that nothing is something, and hides behind the <i>Daily -Telegraph</i>. 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. -</p> - -<p> -That the Schlegels had not thought him foolish became a permanent joy. He was -at his best when he thought of them. It buoyed him as he journeyed home beneath -fading heavens. Somehow the barriers of wealth had fallen, and there had -been—he could not phrase it—a general assertion of the wonder of the world. “My -conviction,” says the mystic, “gains infinitely the moment another soul will -believe in it,” and they had agreed that there was something beyond life’s -daily grey. He took off his top-hat and smoothed it thoughtfully. He had -hitherto supposed the unknown to be books, literature, clever conversation, -culture. One raised oneself by study, and got upsides with the world. But in -that quick interchange a new light dawned. Was that something” walking in the -dark among the surburban hills? -</p> - -<p> -He discovered that he was going bareheaded down Regent Street. London came back -with a rush. Few were about at this hour, but all whom he passed looked at him -with a hostility that was the more impressive because it was unconscious. He -put his hat on. It was too big; his head disappeared like a pudding into a -basin, the ears bending outwards at the touch of the curly brim. He wore it a -little backwards, and its effect was greatly to elongate the face and to bring -out the distance between the eyes and the moustache. Thus equipped, he escaped -criticism. No one felt uneasy as he titupped along the pavements, the heart of -a man ticking fast in his chest. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 15</h2> - -<p> -The sisters went out to dinner full of their adventure, and when they were both -full of the same subject, there were few dinner-parties that could stand up -against them. This particular one, which was all ladies, had more kick in it -than most, but succumbed after a struggle. Helen at one part of the table, -Margaret at the other, would talk of Mr. Bast and of no one else, and somewhere -about the entree their monologues collided, fell ruining, and became common -property. Nor was this all. The dinner-party was really an informal discussion -club; there was a paper after it, read amid coffee-cups and laughter in the -drawing-room, but dealing more or less thoughtfully with some topic of general -interest. After the paper came a debate, and in this debate Mr. Bast also -figured, appearing now as a bright spot in 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. -</p> - -<p> -And here Margaret interrupted. -</p> - -<p> -“Order, order, Miss Schlegel!” said the reader of the paper. “You are here, I -understand, to advise me in the interests of the Society for the Preservation -of Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty. I cannot have you speaking -out of your role. It makes my poor head go round, and I think you forget that I -am very ill.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your head won’t go round if only you’ll listen to my argument,” said Margaret. -“Why not give him the money itself. You’re supposed to have about thirty -thousand a year.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have I? I thought I had a million.” -</p> - -<p> -“Wasn’t a million your capital? Dear me! we ought to have settled that. Still, -it doesn’t matter. Whatever you’ve got, I order you to give as many poor men as -you can three hundred a year each.” -</p> - -<p> -“But that would be pauperizing them,” said an earnest girl, who liked the -Schlegels, but thought them a little unspiritual at times. -</p> - -<p> -“Not if you gave them so much. A big windfall would not 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?” -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly what your Mr. Basts won’t do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Give them a chance. Give them money. Don’t dole them out poetry-books and -railway-tickets like babies. Give them the wherewithal to buy these things. -When your Socialism comes it may be different, and we may think in terms of -commodities instead of cash. Till it comes give people cash, for it is the warp -of 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.” -</p> - -<p> -She leant back while the more earnest members of the club began to misconstrue -her. The female mind, though cruelly practical in daily life, cannot bear to -hear ideals belittled in conversation, and Miss Schlegel was asked however she -could say such dreadful things, and what it would profit Mr. Bast if he gained -the whole world and lost his own soul. She answered, “Nothing, but he would not -gain his soul until he had gained a little of the world.” Then they said, “No -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. -</p> - -<p> -Between the idealists, and the political economists, Margaret had a bad time. -Disagreeing elsewhere, they agreed in disowning her, and in keeping the -administration of the millionaire’s money in their own hands. The earnest girl -brought forward a scheme of “personal supervision and mutual help,” the effect -of which was to alter poor people until they became exactly like people who -were not so poor. The hostess pertinently remarked that she, as eldest son, -might surely rank among the millionaire’s legatees. Margaret weakly admitted -the claim, and another claim was at once set up by Helen, who declared that she -had been the millionaire’s housemaid for over forty years, overfed and -underpaid; was nothing to be done for her, so corpulent and poor? The -millionaire then read out her last will and testament, in which she left the -whole of her fortune to the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Then she died. The -serious parts of the discussion had been of higher merit than the playful—in a -men’s debate is the reverse more general?—but the meeting broke up hilariously -enough, and a dozen happy ladies dispersed to their homes. -</p> - -<p> -Helen and Margaret walked the earnest girl as far as Battersea Bridge Station, -arguing copiously all the way. When she had gone they were conscious of an -alleviation, and of the great beauty of the evening. They turned back towards -Oakley Street. The lamps and the plane-trees, following the line of the -embankment, struck a note of dignity that is rare in English cities. The seats, -almost deserted, were here and there occupied by gentlefolk in evening dress, -who had strolled out from the houses behind to enjoy fresh air and the whisper -of the rising tide. There is something continental about Chelsea Embankment. It -is an open space used rightly, a blessing more frequent in Germany than here. -As Margaret and Helen sat down, the city behind them seemed to be a vast -theatre, an opera-house in which some endless trilogy was performing, and they -themselves a pair of satisfied subscribers, who did not mind losing a little of -the second act. -</p> - -<p> -“Cold?” -</p> - -<p> -“No.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tired?” -</p> - -<p> -“Doesn’t matter.” -</p> - -<p> -The earnest girl’s train rumbled away over the bridge. -</p> - -<p> -“I say, Helen—” -</p> - -<p> -“Well?” -</p> - -<p> -“Are we really going to follow up Mr. Bast?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think we won’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“As you like.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s no good, I think, unless you really mean to know people. The discussion -brought that home to me. We got on well enough with him in a spirit of -excitement, but think of rational intercourse. We mustn’t play at friendship. -No, it’s no good.” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s Mrs. Lanoline, too,” Helen yawned. “So dull.” -</p> - -<p> -“Just so, and possibly worse than dull.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should like to know how he got hold of your card.” -</p> - -<p> -“But he said—something about a concert and an umbrella—” -</p> - -<p> -“Then did the card see the wife—” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, come to bed.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, just a little longer, it is so beautiful. Tell me; oh yes; did you say -money is the warp of the world?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then what’s the woof?” -</p> - -<p> -“Very much what one chooses,” said Margaret. “It’s something that isn’t -money—one can’t say more.” -</p> - -<p> -“Walking at night?” -</p> - -<p> -“Probably.” -</p> - -<p> -“For Tibby, Oxford?” -</p> - -<p> -“It seems so.” -</p> - -<p> -“For you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Now that we have to leave Wickham Place, I begin to think it’s that. For Mrs. -Wilcox it was certainly Howards End.” -</p> - -<p> -One’s own name will carry immense distances. Mr. Wilcox, who was sitting with -friends many seats away, heard his, rose to his feet, and strolled along -towards the speakers. -</p> - -<p> -“It is sad to suppose that places may ever be more important than people,” -continued Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, Meg? They’re so much nicer generally. I’d rather think of that forester’s -house in Pomerania than of the fat Herr Förstmeister who lived in it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I believe we shall come to care about people less and less, Helen. The more -people one knows the easier it becomes to replace them. It’s one of the curses -of London. I quite expect to end my life caring most for a place.” -</p> - -<p> -Here Mr. Wilcox reached them. It was several weeks since they had met. -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do?” he cried. “I thought I recognized your voices. Whatever are -you both doing down here?” -</p> - -<p> -His tones were protective. He implied that one ought not to sit out on Chelsea -Embankment without a male escort. Helen resented this, but Margaret accepted it -as part of the good man’s equipment. -</p> - -<p> -“What an age it is since I’ve seen you, Mr. Wilcox. I met Evie in the Tube, -though, lately. I hope you have good news of your son.” -</p> - -<p> -“Paul?” said Mr. Wilcox, extinguishing his cigarette, and sitting down between -them. “Oh, Paul’s all right. We had a line from Madeira. He’ll be at work again -by now.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ugh—” said Helen, shuddering from complex causes. -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon?” -</p> - -<p> -“Isn’t the climate of Nigeria too horrible?” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, we’ve had a splendid evening,” cried Helen, who always woke up at the -advent of a visitor. “We belong to a kind of club that reads papers, Margaret -and I—all women, but there is a discussion after. This evening it was on how -one ought to leave one’s money—whether to one’s family, or to the poor, and if -so how—oh, most interesting.” -</p> - -<p> -The man of business smiled. Since his wife’s death he had almost doubled his -income. He was an important figure at last, a reassuring name on company -prospectuses, and life had treated him very well. The world seemed in his grasp -as he listened to the River Thames, which still flowed inland from the sea. So -wonderful to the girls, it held no mysteries for him. He had helped to shorten -its long tidal trough by taking shares in the lock at Teddington, and if he and -other capitalists thought good, some day it could be shortened again. With a -good dinner inside him and an amiable but academic woman on either flank, he -felt that his hands were on all the ropes of life, and that what he did not -know could not be worth knowing. -</p> - -<p> -“Sounds a most original entertainment!” he exclaimed, and laughed in his -pleasant way. “I wish Evie would go to that sort of thing. But she hasn’t the -time. She’s taken to breed Aberdeen terriers—jolly little dogs. -</p> - -<p> -“I expect we’d better be doing the same, really.” -</p> - -<p> -“We pretend we’re improving ourselves, you see,” said Helen a little sharply, -for the Wilcox glamour is not of the kind that returns, and she had bitter -memories of the days when a speech such as he had just made would have -impressed her favourably. “We suppose it 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all. I don’t agree with your sister. There’s nothing like a debate to -teach one quickness. I often wish I had gone in for them when I was a -youngster. It would have helped me no end.” -</p> - -<p> -“Quickness—?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. Quickness in argument. Time after time I’ve missed scoring a point -because the other man has had the gift of the gab and I haven’t. Oh, I believe -in these discussions.” -</p> - -<p> -The 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 <i>their</i> -debates she implied was Truth. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, it doesn’t much matter what subject you take,” said he. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret laughed and said, “But this is going to be far better than the debate -itself.” Helen recovered herself and laughed too. “No, I won’t go on,” she -declared. “I’ll just put our special case to Mr. Wilcox.” -</p> - -<p> -“About Mr. Bast? Yes, do. He’ll be more lenient to a special case. -</p> - -<p> -“But, Mr. Wilcox, do first light another cigarette. It’s this. We’ve just come -across a young fellow, who’s evidently very poor, and who seems interest—” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s his profession?” -</p> - -<p> -“Clerk.” -</p> - -<p> -“What in?” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you remember, Margaret?” -</p> - -<p> -“Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes; the nice people who gave Aunt Juley a new hearth-rug. He seems -interesting, in some ways very, and one wishes one could help him. He is -married to a wife whom he doesn’t seem to care for much. He likes books, and -what one may roughly call adventure, and if he had a chance—But he is so poor. -He lives a life where all the money is apt to go on nonsense and clothes. One -is so afraid that circumstances will be too strong for him and that he will -sink. Well, he got mixed up in our debate. He wasn’t the subject of it, but it -seemed to bear on his point. Suppose a millionaire died, and desired to leave -money to help such a man. How should he be helped? Should he be given three -hundred pounds a year direct, which was Margaret’s plan? Most of them thought -this would 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?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox, whose fortune was not so very far below the standard indicated, -laughed exuberantly. “My dear Miss Schlegel, I will not rush in where your sex -has been unable to tread. I will not add another plan to the numerous excellent -ones that have been already suggested. My only contribution is this: let your -young friend clear out of the Porphyrion Fire Insurance Company with all -possible speed.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why?” said Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -He lowered his voice. “This is between friends. It’ll be in the Receiver’s -hands before Christmas. It’ll smash,” he added, thinking that she had not -understood. -</p> - -<p> -“Dear me, Helen, listen to that. And he’ll have to get another place!” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Will</i> have? Let him leave the ship before it sinks. Let him get one -now.” -</p> - -<p> -“Rather than wait, to make sure?” -</p> - -<p> -“Decidedly.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why’s that?” -</p> - -<p> -Again the Olympian laugh, and the lowered voice. “Naturally the man who’s in a -situation when he applies stands a better chance, is in a stronger position, -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.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hadn’t thought of that,” murmured Margaret, while Helen said, “Our human -nature appears to be the other way round. We employ people because they’re -unemployed. The boot man, for instance.” -</p> - -<p> -“And how does he clean the boots?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not well,” confessed Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“There you are!” -</p> - -<p> -“Then do you really advise us to tell this youth—” -</p> - -<p> -“I advise nothing,” he interrupted, glancing up and down the Embankment, in -case his indiscretion had been overheard. “I oughtn’t to have spoken—but I -happen to know, being more or less behind the scenes. The Porphyrion’s a bad, -bad concern—Now, don’t say I said so. It’s outside the Tariff Ring.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly I won’t say. In fact, I don’t know what that means.” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought an insurance company never smashed,” was Helen’s contribution. -“Don’t the others always run in and save them?” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re thinking of reinsurance,” said Mr. Wilcox mildly. “It is exactly there -that the Porphyrion is weak. It has tried to undercut, has been badly hit by a -long series of small fires, and it hasn’t been able to reinsure. I’m afraid -that public companies don’t save one another for love.” -</p> - -<p> -“‘Human nature,’ I suppose,” quoted Helen, and he laughed and agreed that it -was. When Margaret said that she supposed that clerks, like every one else, -found it extremely difficult to get situations in these days, he replied, “Yes, -extremely,” and rose to rejoin his friends. He knew by his own office—seldom a -vacant post, and hundreds of applicants for it; at present no vacant post. -</p> - -<p> -“And how’s Howards End looking?” said Margaret, wishing to change the subject -before they parted. Mr. Wilcox was a little apt to think one wanted to get -something out of him. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s let.” -</p> - -<p> -“Really. And you wandering homeless in long-haired Chelsea? How strange are the -ways of Fate!” -</p> - -<p> -“No; it’s let unfurnished. We’ve moved.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, I thought of you both as anchored there for ever. Evie never told me.” -</p> - -<p> -“I dare say when you met Evie the thing wasn’t settled. We only moved a week -ago. Paul has rather a feeling for the old place, and we held on for him to -have his holiday there; but, really, it is impossibly small. Endless drawbacks. -I forget whether you’ve been up to it?” -</p> - -<p> -“As far as the house, never.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, Howards End is one of those converted farms. They don’t really do, spend -what you will on them. We messed away with a garage all among the wych-elm -roots, and last year we enclosed a bit of the meadow and attempted a 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“What a change!” said Margaret. But the change was in her own voice, which had -become most sad. “I can’t imagine Howards End or Hilton without you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Hilton isn’t without us,” he replied. “Charles is there still.” -</p> - -<p> -“Still?” said Margaret, who had not kept up with the Charles’. “But I thought -he was still at Epsom. They were furnishing that Christmas—one Christmas. How -everything alters! I used to admire Mrs. Charles from our windows very often. -Wasn’t it Epsom?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but they moved eighteen months ago. Charles, the good chap”—his voice -dropped—“thought I should be lonely. I didn’t want him to move, but he would, -and took a house at the other end of Hilton, down by the Six Hills. He had a -motor, too. There they all are, a very jolly party—he and she and the two -grandchildren.” -</p> - -<p> -“I manage other people’s affairs so much better than they manage them -themselves,” said Margaret as they shook hands. “When you moved out of Howards -End, I should have moved Mr. Charles Wilcox into it. I should have kept so -remarkable a place in the family.” -</p> - -<p> -“So it is,” he replied. “I haven’t sold it, and don’t mean to.” -</p> - -<p> -“No; but none of you are there.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, we’ve got a splendid tenant—Hamar Bryce, an invalid. If Charles ever -wanted it—but he won’t. Dolly is so dependent on modern conveniences. No, we -have all decided against Howards End. We like it in a way, but now we feel that -it is neither one thing nor the other. One must have one thing or the other.” -</p> - -<p> -“And some people are lucky enough to have both. You’re doing yourself proud, -Mr. Wilcox. My congratulations.” -</p> - -<p> -“And mine,” said Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“Do remind Evie to come and see us—two, Wickham Place. We shan’t be there very -long, either.” -</p> - -<p> -“You, too, on the move?” -</p> - -<p> -“Next September,” Margaret sighed. -</p> - -<p> -“Every one moving! Good-bye.” -</p> - -<p> -The tide had begun to ebb. Margaret leant over the parapet and watched it -sadly. Mr. Wilcox had forgotten his wife, Helen her lover; she herself was -probably forgetting. Every one moving. Is it worth while attempting the past -when there is this continual flux even in the hearts of men? -</p> - -<p> -Helen roused her by saying: “What a prosperous vulgarian Mr. Wilcox has grown! -I have very little use for him in these days. However, he did tell us about the -Porphyrion. Let us write to Mr. Bast as soon as ever we get home, and tell him -to clear out of it at once.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do; yes, that’s worth doing. Let us.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let’s ask him to tea.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 16</h2> - -<p> -Leonard accepted the invitation to tea next Saturday. But he was right; the -visit proved a conspicuous failure. -</p> - -<p> -“Sugar?” said Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Cake?” said Helen. “The big cake or the little deadlies? I’m afraid you -thought my letter rather odd, but we’ll explain—we aren’t odd, really—not -affected, really. We’re over-expressive: that’s all.” -</p> - -<p> -As a lady’s lap-dog Leonard did not excel. He was not an Italian, still less a -Frenchman, in whose blood there runs the very spirit of persiflage and of -gracious repartee. His wit was the Cockney’s; it opened no doors into -imagination, and Helen was drawn up short by “The more a lady has to say, the -better,” administered waggishly. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, yes,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“Ladies brighten—” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I know. The darlings are regular sunbeams. Let me give you a plate.” -</p> - -<p> -“How do you like your work?” interposed Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -He, too, was drawn up short. He would not have these women prying into his -work. They were Romance, and so was the room to which he had at last -penetrated, with the queer sketches of people bathing upon its walls, and so -were the very tea-cups, with their delicate borders of wild strawberries. But -he would not let Romance interfere with his life. There is the devil to pay -then. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, well enough,” he answered. -</p> - -<p> -“Your company is the Porphyrion, isn’t it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, that’s so”—becoming rather offended. “It’s funny how things get round.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why funny?” asked Helen, who did not follow the workings of his mind. “It was -written as large as life on your card, and considering we wrote to you there, -and that you replied on the stamped paper—” -</p> - -<p> -“Would you call the Porphyrion one of the big Insurance Companies?” pursued -Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“It depends what you call big.” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean by big, a solid, well-established concern, that offers a reasonably -good career to its employés.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -He drank, and wiped his moustache, which was going to be one of those -moustaches that always droop into tea-cups—more bother than they’re worth, -surely, and not fashionable either. -</p> - -<p> -“I quite agree, and that’s why I was curious to know: is it a solid, -well-established concern?” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard had no idea. He understood his own corner of the machine, but nothing -beyond it. He desired to confess neither knowledge nor ignorance, and under -these circumstances, another motion of the head seemed safest. To him, as to -the British public, the Porphyrion was the Porphyrion of the advertisement—a -giant, in the classical style, but draped sufficiently, who held in one hand a -burning torch, and pointed with the other to St. Paul’s and Windsor Castle. A -large sum of money was inscribed below, and you drew your own conclusions. This -giant caused Leonard to do arithmetic and write letters, to explain the -regulations to new clients, and re-explain them to old ones. A giant was of an -impulsive morality—one knew that much. He would pay for Mrs. Munt’s 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. -</p> - -<p> -“We were told the Porphyrion’s no go,” blurted Helen. “We wanted to tell you; -that’s why we wrote.” -</p> - -<p> -“A friend of ours did think that it is unsufficiently reinsured,” said -Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -Now Leonard had his clue. He must praise the Porphyrion. “You can tell your -friend,” he said, “that he’s quite wrong.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, good!” -</p> - -<p> -The young man coloured a little. In his circle to be wrong was fatal. The Miss -Schlegels did not mind being wrong. They were genuinely glad that they had been -misinformed. To them nothing was fatal but evil. -</p> - -<p> -“Wrong, so to speak,” he added. -</p> - -<p> -“How ‘so to speak’?” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean I wouldn’t say he’s right altogether.” -</p> - -<p> -But this was a blunder. “Then he is right partly,” said the elder woman, quick -as lightning. -</p> - -<p> -Leonard replied that every one was right partly, if it came to that. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Bast, I don’t understand business, and I dare say my questions are stupid, -but can you tell me what makes a concern ‘right’ or ‘wrong’?” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard sat back with a sigh. -</p> - -<p> -“Our friend, who is also a business man, was so positive. He said before -Christmas—” -</p> - -<p> -“And advised you to clear out of it,” concluded Helen. “But I don’t see why he -should know better than you do.” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard rubbed his hands. He was tempted to say that he knew nothing about the -thing at all. But a commercial training was too strong for him. Nor could he -say it was a bad thing, for this would be giving it away; nor yet that it was -good, for this would be giving it away equally. He attempted to suggest that it -was something between the two, with vast possibilities in either direction, but -broke down under the gaze of four sincere eyes. 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. -</p> - -<p> -“One can but see,” he remarked, adding, “as Ibsen says, ‘things happen.’” He -was itching to talk about books and make the most of his romantic hour. Minute -after minute slipped away, while the ladies, with imperfect skill, discussed -the subject of reinsurance or praised their anonymous friend. Leonard grew -annoyed—perhaps rightly. He made vague remarks about not being one of those who -minded their affairs being talked over by others, but they did not take the -hint. Men might have shown more tact. Women, however tactful elsewhere, are -heavy-handed here. They cannot see why we should shroud our incomes and our -prospects in a veil. “How much exactly have you, and how much do you expect to -have next June?” And these were women with a theory, who held that reticence -about money matters is absurd, and that life would be truer if each would state -the exact size of the golden island upon which he stands, the exact stretch of -warp over which he throws the woof that is not money. How can we do justice to -the pattern otherwise? -</p> - -<p> -And the precious minutes slipped away, and Jacky and squalor came nearer. At -last he could bear it no longer, and broke in, reciting the names of books -feverishly. There was a moment of piercing joy when Margaret said, “So -<i>you</i> like Carlyle,” and then the door opened, and “Mr. Wilcox, Miss -Wilcox” entered, preceded by two prancing puppies. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, the dears! Oh, Evie, how too impossibly sweet!” screamed Helen, falling on -her hands and knees. -</p> - -<p> -“We brought the little fellows round,” said Mr. Wilcox. -</p> - -<p> -“I bred ’em myself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, really! Mr. Bast, come and play with puppies.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve got to be going now,” said Leonard sourly. -</p> - -<p> -“But play with puppies a little first.” -</p> - -<p> -“This is Ahab, that’s Jezebel,” said Evie, who was one of those who name -animals after the less successful characters of Old Testament history. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve got to be going.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen was too much occupied with puppies to notice him. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Wilcox, Mr. Ba—Must you be really? Good-bye!” -</p> - -<p> -“Come again,” said Helen from the floor. -</p> - -<p> -Then Leonard’s gorge arose. Why should he come again? What was the good of it? -He said roundly: “No, I shan’t; I knew it would be a failure.” -</p> - -<p> -Most people would have let him go. “A little mistake. We tried knowing another -class—impossible.” But the Schlegels had never played with life. They had -attempted friendship, and they would take the consequences. Helen retorted, “I -call that a very rude remark. What do you want to turn on me like that for?” -and suddenly the drawing-room re-echoed to a vulgar row. -</p> - -<p> -“You ask me why I turn on you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you want to have me here for?” -</p> - -<p> -“To help you, you silly boy!” cried Helen. “And don’t shout.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t want your patronage. I don’t want your tea. I was quite happy. What do -you want to unsettle me for?” He turned to Mr. Wilcox. “I put it to this -gentleman. I ask you, sir, am I to have my brain picked?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox turned to Margaret with the air of humorous strength that he could -so well command. “Are we intruding, Miss Schlegel? Can we be of any use or -shall we go?” -</p> - -<p> -But Margaret ignored him. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m connected with a leading insurance company, sir. I receive what I take to -be an invitation from these—ladies” (he drawled the word). “I come, and it’s to -have my brain picked. I ask you, is it fair?” -</p> - -<p> -“Highly unfair,” said Mr. Wilcox, drawing a gasp from Evie, who knew that her -father was becoming dangerous. -</p> - -<p> -“There, you hear that? Most unfair, the gentleman says. There! Not content -with”—pointing at Margaret—“you can’t deny it.” His voice rose: he was falling -into the rhythm of a scene with Jacky. “But as soon as I’m useful it’s a very -different thing. ‘Oh yes, send for him. Cross-question him. Pick his brains.’ -Oh yes. Now, take me on the whole, I’m a quiet fellow: I’m law-abiding, I don’t -wish any unpleasantness; but I—I—” -</p> - -<p> -“You,” said Margaret—“you—you—” -</p> - -<p> -Laughter from Evie, as at a repartee. -</p> - -<p> -“You are the man who tried to walk by the Pole Star.” -</p> - -<p> -More laughter. -</p> - -<p> -“You saw the sunrise.” -</p> - -<p> -Laughter. -</p> - -<p> -“You tried to get away from the fogs that are stifling us all—away past books -and houses to the truth. You were looking for a real home.” -</p> - -<p> -“I fail to see the connection,” said Leonard, hot with stupid anger. -</p> - -<p> -“So do I.” There was a pause. “You were that last Sunday—you are this 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course, if there’s been any misunderstanding,” mumbled Leonard, “all I can -do is to go. But I beg to state—” He paused. Ahab and Jezebel danced at his -boots and made him look ridiculous. “You were picking my brain for official -information—I can prove it—I—He blew his nose and left them. -</p> - -<p> -“Can I help you now?” said Mr. Wilcox, turning to Margaret. “May I have one -quiet word with him in the hall?” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, go after him—do anything—<i>anything</i>—to make the noodle -understand.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen hesitated. -</p> - -<p> -“But really—” said their visitor. “Ought she to?” -</p> - -<p> -At once she went. -</p> - -<p> -He resumed. “I would have chimed in, but I felt that you could polish him off -for yourselves—I didn’t interfere. You were splendid, Miss Schlegel—absolutely -splendid. You can take my word for it, but there are very few women who could -have managed him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes,” said Margaret distractedly. -</p> - -<p> -“Bowling him over with those long sentences was what fetched me,” cried Evie. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, indeed,” chuckled her father; “all that part about ‘mechanical -cheerfulness’—oh, fine!” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m very sorry,” said Margaret, collecting herself. “He’s a nice creature -really. I cannot think what set him off. It has been most unpleasant for you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, <i>I</i> didn’t mind.” Then he changed his mood. He asked if he might -speak as an old friend, and, permission given, said: “Oughtn’t you really to be -more careful?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret laughed, though her thoughts still strayed after Helen. “Do you -realize that it’s all your fault?” she said. “You’re responsible.” -</p> - -<p> -“I?” -</p> - -<p> -“This is the young man whom we were to warn against the Porphyrion. We warn -him, and—look!” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox was annoyed. “I hardly consider that a fair deduction,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“Obviously unfair,” said Margaret. “I was only thinking how tangled things are. -It’s our fault mostly—neither yours nor his.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not his?” -</p> - -<p> -“No.” -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Schlegel, you are too kind.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, indeed,” nodded Evie, a little contemptuously. -</p> - -<p> -“You behave much too well to people, and then they impose on you. I know the -world and that type of man, and as soon as I entered the room I saw you had not -been treating him properly. You must keep that type at a distance. Otherwise -they forget themselves. Sad, but true. They aren’t our sort, and one must face -the fact.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ye-es.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do admit that we should never have had the outburst if he was a gentleman.” -</p> - -<p> -“I admit it willingly,” said Margaret, who was pacing up and down the room. “A -gentleman would have kept his suspicions to himself.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox watched her with a vague uneasiness. -</p> - -<p> -“What did he suspect you of?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of wanting to make money out of him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Intolerable brute! But how were you to benefit?” -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly. How indeed! Just horrible, corroding suspicion. One touch of thought -or of goodwill would have brushed it away. Just the senseless fear that does -make men intolerable brutes.” -</p> - -<p> -“I come back to my original point. You ought to be more careful, Miss Schlegel. -Your servants ought to have orders not to let such people in.” -</p> - -<p> -She turned to him frankly. “Let me explain exactly why we like this man, and -want to see him again.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s your clever way of thinking. I shall never believe you like him.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do. Firstly, because he cares for physical adventure, just as you do. Yes, -you go motoring and shooting; he would like to go camping out. Secondly, he -cares for something special <i>in</i> adventure. It is quickest to call that -special something poetry—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, he’s one of that writer sort.” -</p> - -<p> -“No—oh no! I mean he may be, but it would be loathsome 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.” -</p> - -<p> -Some of her words ran past Mr. Wilcox. He let them run past. Others he caught -and criticized with admirable lucidity. -</p> - -<p> -“Your mistake is this, and it is a very common mistake. This young bounder has -a life of his own. What right have you to conclude it is an unsuccessful life, -or, as you call it, ‘grey’?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because—” -</p> - -<p> -“One minute. You know nothing about him. He probably has his own joys and -interests—wife, children, snug little home. That’s where we practical -fellows”—he smiled—“are more tolerant than you intellectuals. We live and let -live, and assume that things are jogging on fairly well elsewhere, and that the -ordinary plain man may be trusted to look after his own affairs. I quite -grant—I look at the faces of the clerks in my own office, and observe them to -be dull, but I don’t know what’s going on beneath. So, by the way, with London. -I have heard you rail against London, Miss Schlegel, and it seems a funny thing -to say but I was very angry with you. What do you know about London? You only -see civilization from the outside. I don’t say in your case, but in too many -cases that attitude leads to morbidity, discontent, and Socialism.” -</p> - -<p> -She admitted the strength of his position, though it undermined imagination. As -he spoke, some outposts of poetry and perhaps of sympathy fell ruining, and she -retreated to what she called her “second line”—to the special facts of the -case. -</p> - -<p> -“His wife is an old bore,” she said simply. “He never came home last Saturday -night because he wanted to be alone, and she thought he was with us.” -</p> - -<p> -“With <i>you?</i>” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” Evie tittered. “He hasn’t got the cosy home that you assumed. He needs -outside interests.” -</p> - -<p> -“Naughty young man!” cried the girl. -</p> - -<p> -“Naughty?” said Margaret, who hated naughtiness more than sin. “When you’re -married, Miss Wilcox, won’t you want outside interests?” -</p> - -<p> -“He has apparently got them,” put in Mr. Wilcox slyly. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, indeed, Father.” -</p> - -<p> -“He was tramping in Surrey, if you mean that,” said Margaret, pacing away -rather crossly. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I dare say!” -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Wilcox, he was!” -</p> - -<p> -“M-m-m-m!” from Mr. Wilcox, who thought the episode amusing, if risqué. -With most ladies he would not have discussed it, but he was trading on -Margaret’s reputation as an emanicipated woman. -</p> - -<p> -“He said so, and about such a thing he wouldn’t lie.” -</p> - -<p> -They both began to laugh. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s where I differ from you. Men lie about their positions and prospects, -but not about a thing of that sort.” -</p> - -<p> -He shook his head. “Miss Schlegel, excuse me, but I know the type.” -</p> - -<p> -“I said before—he isn’t a type. He cares about adventures rightly. He’s certain -that our smug existence isn’t all. He’s vulgar and hysterical and bookish, but -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.” -</p> - -<p> -As she spoke their eyes met, and it was as if Mr. Wilcox’s defences fell. She -saw back to the real man in him. Unwittingly she had touched his emotions. 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Schlegel, you’re a pair of dear creatures, but you really <i>must</i> be -careful in this uncharitable world. What does your brother say?” -</p> - -<p> -“I forget.” -</p> - -<p> -“Surely he has some opinion?” -</p> - -<p> -“He laughs, if I remember correctly.” -</p> - -<p> -“He’s very clever, isn’t he?” said Evie, who had met and detested Tibby at -Oxford. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, pretty well—but I wonder what Helen’s doing.” -</p> - -<p> -“She is very young to undertake this sort of thing,” said Mr. Wilcox. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret went out into the landing. She heard no sound, and Mr. Bast’s topper -was missing from the hall. -</p> - -<p> -“Helen!” she called. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes!” replied a voice from the library. -</p> - -<p> -“You in there?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes—he’s gone some time.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret went to her. “Why, you’re all alone,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes—it’s all right, Meg—Poor, poor creature—” -</p> - -<p> -“Come back to the Wilcoxes and tell me later—Mr. W. much concerned, and -slightly titillated.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I’ve no patience with him. I hate him. Poor dear Mr. Bast! he wanted to -talk literature, and we would talk business. Such a muddle of a man, and yet so -worth pulling through. I like him extraordinarily.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well done,” said Margaret, kissing her, “but come into the drawing-room now, -and don’t talk about him to the Wilcoxes. Make light of the whole thing.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen came and behaved with a cheerfulness that reassured their visitor—this -hen at all events was fancy-free. -</p> - -<p> -“He’s gone with my blessing,” she cried, “and now for puppies.” -</p> - -<p> -As they drove away, Mr. Wilcox said to his daughter: -</p> - -<p> -“I am really concerned at the way those girls go on. They are as clever as you -make ’em, but unpractical—God bless me! One of these days they’ll go too far. -Girls like that oughtn’t to live alone in London. Until they marry, they ought -to have someone to look after them. We must look in more often—we’re better -than no one. You like them, don’t you, Evie?” -</p> - -<p> -Evie replied: “Helen’s right enough, but I can’t stand the toothy one. And I -shouldn’t have called either of them girls.” -</p> - -<p> -Evie had grown up handsome. Dark-eyed, with the glow of youth under sunburn, -built firmly and firm-lipped, she was the best the Wilcoxes could do in the way -of feminine beauty. For the present, puppies and her father were the only -things she loved, but the net of matrimony was being prepared for her, and a -few days later she was attracted to a Mr. Percy Cahill, an uncle of Mrs. -Charles, and he was attracted to her. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 17</h2> - -<p> -The Age of Property holds bitter moments even for a proprietor. When a move is -imminent, furniture becomes ridiculous, and Margaret now lay awake at nights -wondering where, where on earth they and all their belongings would be -deposited in September next. Chairs, tables, pictures, books, that had rumbled -down to them through the generations, must rumble forward again like a slide of -rubbish to which she longed to give the final push, and send toppling into the -sea. But there were all their father’s books—they never read them, but they -were their father’s, and must be kept. There was the marble-topped -chiffonier—their mother had set store by it, they could not remember why. Round -every knob and cushion in the house 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. -</p> - -<p> -It was absurd, if you came to think of it; Helen and Tibby came to think of it: -Margaret was too busy with the house-agents. The feudal ownership of land did -bring dignity, whereas the modern ownership of movables is reducing us again to -a nomadic horde. We are reverting to the 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. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret grew depressed; she was anxious to settle on a house before they left -town to pay their annual visit to Mrs. Munt. She enjoyed this visit, and wanted -to have her mind at ease for it. Swanage, though dull, was stable, and this -year she longed more than usual for its fresh air and for the magnificent downs -that guard it on the north. But London thwarted her; in its atmosphere she -could not concentrate. London only stimulates, it cannot sustain; and Margaret, -hurrying over its surface for a house without knowing what sort of a house she -wanted, was paying for many a thrilling sensation in the past. She could not -even break loose from culture, and her time was wasted by concerts which it -would be a sin to miss, and invitations which it would never do to refuse. At -last she grew desperate; she resolved that she would go nowhere and be at home -to no one until she found a house, and broke the resolution in half an hour. -</p> - -<p> -Once she had humorously lamented that she had never been to Simpson’s -restaurant in the Strand. Now a note arrived from Miss Wilcox, asking her to -lunch there. Mr. Cahill was coming, and the three would have such a jolly chat, -and perhaps end up at the Hippodrome. Margaret had no strong regard for Evie, -and no desire to meet her 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. -</p> - -<p> -But when she saw Evie at the entrance of the restaurant, staring fiercely at -nothing after the fashion of athletic women, her heart failed her anew. Miss -Wilcox had changed perceptibly since her engagement. Her voice was gruffer, her -manner more downright, and she was inclined to 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. -</p> - -<p> -There are moments when virtue and wisdom fail us, and one of them came to her -at Simpson’s in the Strand. As she trod the staircase, narrow, but carpeted -thickly, as she entered the eating-room, where saddles of mutton were being -trundled up to expectant clergymen, she had a strong, if erroneous, conviction -of her own futility, and wished she had never come out of her backwater, where -nothing happened except art and literature, and where no one ever got married -or succeeded in remaining engaged. Then came a little surprise. “Father might -be of the party—yes, Father was.” With a smile of pleasure she moved forward to -greet him, and her feeling of loneliness vanished. -</p> - -<p> -“I thought I’d get round if I could,” said he. “Evie told me of her little -plan, so I just slipped in and secured a table. Always secure a table first. -Evie, don’t pretend you want to sit by your old father, because you don’t. Miss -Schlegel, come in my side, out of pity. My goodness, but you look tired! Been -worrying round after your young clerks?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, after houses,” said Margaret, edging past him into the box. “I’m hungry, -not tired; I want to eat heaps.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s good. What’ll you have?” -</p> - -<p> -“Fish pie,” said she, with a glance at the menu. -</p> - -<p> -“Fish pie! Fancy coming for fish pie to Simpson’s. It’s not a bit the thing to -go for here.” -</p> - -<p> -“Go for something for me, then,” said Margaret, pulling off her gloves. Her -spirits were rising, and his reference to Leonard Bast had warmed her -curiously. -</p> - -<p> -“Saddle of mutton,” said he after profound reflection: “and cider to drink. -That’s the type of thing. I like this place, for a joke, once in a way. It is -so thoroughly Old English. Don’t you agree?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said Margaret, who didn’t. The order was given, the joint rolled up, and -the carver, under Mr. Wilcox’s direction, cut the meat where it was succulent, -and piled their plates high. Mr. Cahill insisted on sirloin, but admitted that -he had made a mistake later on. He and Evie soon fell into a conversation of -the “No, I didn’t; yes, you did” type—conversation which, though fascinating to -those who are engaged in it, neither desires nor deserves the attention of -others. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s a golden rule to tip the carver. Tip everywhere’s my motto.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps it does make life more human.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then the fellows know one again. Especially in the East, if you tip, they -remember you from year’s end to year’s end. -</p> - -<p> -“Have you been in the East?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Greece and the Levant. I used to go out for sport and business to Cyprus; -some military society of a sort there. A few piastres, properly distributed, -help to keep one’s memory green. But you, of course, think this shockingly -cynical. How’s your discussion society getting on? Any new Utopias lately?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I’m house-hunting, Mr. Wilcox, as I’ve already told you once. Do you know -of any houses?” -</p> - -<p> -“Afraid I don’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, what’s the point of being practical if you can’t find two distressed -females a house? We merely want a small house with large rooms, and plenty of -them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Evie, I like that! Miss Schlegel expects me to turn house agent for her!” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s that, Father? -</p> - -<p> -“I want a new home in September, and someone must find it. I can’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“Percy, do you know of anything?” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t say I do,” said Mr. Cahill. -</p> - -<p> -“How like you! You’re never any good.” -</p> - -<p> -“Never any good. Just listen to her! Never any good. Oh, come!” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you aren’t. Miss Schlegel, is he?” -</p> - -<p> -The torrent of their love, having splashed these drops at Margaret, swept away -on its habitual course. She 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“With pleasure.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, you’d hate it,” she said, pushing her glass towards him for some more -cider. “It’s all proteids and body-buildings, and people come up to you and beg -your pardon, but you have such a beautiful aura.” -</p> - -<p> -“A what?” -</p> - -<p> -“Never heard of an aura? Oh, happy, happy man! I scrub at mine for hours. Nor -of an astral plane?” -</p> - -<p> -He had heard of astral planes, and censured them. -</p> - -<p> -“Just so. Luckily it was Helen’s aura, not mine, and she had to chaperone it -and do the politenesses. I just sat with my handkerchief in my mouth till the -man went.” -</p> - -<p> -“Funny experiences seem to come to you two girls. No one’s ever asked me about -my—what d’ye call it? Perhaps I’ve not got one.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re bound to have one, but it may be such a terrible colour that no one -dares mention it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me, though, Miss Schlegel, do you really believe in the supernatural and -all that?” -</p> - -<p> -“Too difficult a question.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why’s that? Gruyère or Stilton?” -</p> - -<p> -“Gruyère, please.” -</p> - -<p> -“Better have Stilton.” -</p> - -<p> -“Stilton. Because, though I don’t believe in auras, and think Theosophy’s only -a halfway-house—” -</p> - -<p> -“—Yet there may be something in it all the same,” he concluded, with a frown. -</p> - -<p> -“Not even that. It may be halfway in the wrong direction. I can’t explain. I -don’t believe in all these fads, and yet I don’t like saying that I don’t -believe in them.” -</p> - -<p> -He seemed unsatisfied, and said: “So you wouldn’t give me your word that you -<i>don’t</i> hold with astral bodies and all the rest of it?” -</p> - -<p> -“I could,” said Margaret, surprised that the point was of any importance to -him. “Indeed, I will. When I talked about scrubbing my aura, I was only trying -to be funny. But why do you want this settled?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Mr. Wilcox, you do know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I am,” “No, you’re not,” burst from the lovers opposite. Margaret was -silent for a moment, and then changed the subject. -</p> - -<p> -“How’s your house?” -</p> - -<p> -“Much the same as when you honoured it last week.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t mean Ducie Street. Howards End, of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why ‘of course’?” -</p> - -<p> -“Can’t you turn out your tenant and let it to us? We’re nearly demented.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let me think. I wish I could help you. But I thought you wanted to be in town. -One bit of advice: fix your district, then fix your price, and then don’t -budge. That’s how I got both Ducie Street and Oniton. I said to myself, ‘I mean -to be exactly here,’ and I was, and Oniton’s a place in a thousand.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I do budge. Gentlemen seem to 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?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m out of my depth,” he said, and added: “Didn’t you talk rather like that to -your office boy?” -</p> - -<p> -“Did I?—I mean I did, more or less. I talk the same way to every one—or try -to.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I know. And how much do you suppose that he understood of it?” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s his lookout. I don’t believe in suiting my conversation to my company. -One can doubtless hit upon some medium of exchange that seems to do well -enough, but it’s no more like the real thing than money is like food. There’s -no nourishment in it. You pass it to the lower classes, and they pass it back -to you, and this you call ‘social intercourse’ or ‘mutual endeavour,’ when it’s -mutual priggishness if it’s anything. Our friends at Chelsea don’t see this. -They say one ought to be at all costs intelligible, and sacrifice—” -</p> - -<p> -“Lower classes,” interrupted Mr. Wilcox, as it were thrusting his hand into her -speech. “Well, you do admit that there are rich and poor. That’s something.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret could not reply. Was he incredibly stupid, or did he understand her -better than she understood herself? -</p> - -<p> -“You do admit that, if wealth was divided up equally, in a few years there -would be rich and poor again just the same. The hard-working man would come to -the top, the wastrel sink to the bottom.” -</p> - -<p> -“Every one admits that.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your Socialists don’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“My Socialists do. Yours mayn’t; but I strongly suspect yours of being not -Socialists, but ninepins, which you have constructed for your own amusement. I -can’t imagine any living creature who would bowl over quite so easily.” -</p> - -<p> -He would have resented this had she not been a woman. But women may say -anything—it was one of his holiest beliefs—and he only retorted, with a gay -smile: “I don’t care. You’ve made two damaging admissions, and I’m heartily -with you in both.” -</p> - -<p> -In time they finished lunch, and Margaret, who had excused herself from the -Hippodrome, took her leave. Evie had scarcely addressed her, and she suspected -that the entertainment had been planned by the father. He and she were -advancing out of their respective families towards a more intimate -acquaintance. It had begun long ago. She had been his wife’s friend, and, as -such, he had given her that silver vinaigrette as a memento. It was pretty of -him to have given that vinaigrette, and he had always preferred her to -Helen—unlike most men. But the advance had been astonishing lately. They had -done more in a week than in two years, and were really beginning to know each -other. -</p> - -<p> -She did not forget his promise to sample Eustace Miles, and asked him as soon -as she could secure Tibby as his chaperon. He came, and partook of -body-building dishes with humility. -</p> - -<p> -Next morning the Schlegels left for Swanage. They had not succeeded in finding -a new home. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 18</h2> - -<p> -As they were seated at Aunt Juley’s breakfast-table at The Bays, parrying her -excessive hospitality and enjoying the view of the bay, a letter came for -Margaret and threw her into perturbation. It was from Mr. Wilcox. It announced -an “important change” in his plans. Owing to Evie’s marriage, he had decided to -give up his house in Ducie Street, and was willing to let it on a yearly -tenancy. It was a businesslike letter, and stated frankly what he would do for -them and what he would not do. Also the rent. If they approved, Margaret was to -come up <i>at once</i>—the words were underlined, as is necessary when dealing -with women—and to go over the house with him. If they disapproved, a wire would -oblige, as he should put it into the hands of an agent. -</p> - -<p> -The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it meant. If he liked her, -if he had manoeuvred to get her to Simpson’s, might this be a manoeuvre to get -her to London, and result in an offer of marriage? She put it to herself as -indelicately as possible, in the hope that her brain would cry, “Rubbish, -you’re a self-conscious fool!” But her brain only tingled a little and was -silent, and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves, and wondering -whether the news would seem strange to the others. -</p> - -<p> -As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. There -could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the buff of -conversation her fears vanished. -</p> - -<p> -“You needn’t go though—” began her hostess. -</p> - -<p> -“I needn’t, but hadn’t I better? It’s really getting rather serious. We let -chance after chance slip, and the end of it is we shall be bundled out bag and -baggage into the street. We don’t know what we <i>want</i>, that’s the mischief -with us—” -</p> - -<p> -“No, we have no real ties,” said Helen, helping herself to toast. -</p> - -<p> -“Shan’t I go up to town 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“But you won’t do anything rash, Margaret?” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s nothing rash to do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who <i>are</i> 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 <i>manage</i> the Wilcoxes; I don’t see where they come -<i>in</i>.” -</p> - -<p> -“No more do I,” agreed Helen. “It’s funny that we just don’t lose sight of -them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances, Mr. Wilcox is the only one who has -stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more -interesting people in that time. -</p> - -<p> -“Interesting people don’t get one houses.” -</p> - -<p> -“Meg, if you start in your honest-English vein, I shall throw the treacle at -you.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s a better vein than the cosmopolitan,” said Margaret, getting up. “Now, -children, which is it to be? You know the Ducie Street house. Shall I say yes -or shall I say no? Tibby love—which? I’m specially anxious to pin you both.” -</p> - -<p> -“It all depends what meaning you attach to the word ‘possi—’” -</p> - -<p> -“It depends on nothing of the sort. Say ‘yes.’” -</p> - -<p> -“Say ‘no.’” -</p> - -<p> -Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. “I think,” she said, “that our race is -degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing; what will it be like -when we have to settle a big one?” -</p> - -<p> -“It will be as easy as eating,” returned Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“I was thinking of Father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did, when -he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were -Prussian? How could he break loose with Patriotism and begin aiming at -something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could -change countries and ideals—and we, at our age, can’t change houses. It’s -humiliating.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your father may have been able to change countries,” said Mrs. Munt with -asperity, “and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses -no better than you can, in fact, much worse. Never shall I forget what poor -Emily suffered in the move from Manchester.” -</p> - -<p> -“I knew it,” cried Helen. “I told you so. It is the little things one bungles -at. The big, real ones are nothing when they come.” -</p> - -<p> -“Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect—in fact, you weren’t there. -But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for -Wickham Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby—who was Margaret -then—and the smaller luggage for London, without so much as knowing where her -new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing -to the misery that we all went through getting you into it.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen, with her mouth full, cried: “And that’s the man who beat the Austrians, -and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside -himself. And we’re like him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Speak for yourself,” said Tibby. “Remember that I am cosmopolitan, please.” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen may be right.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course she’s right,” said Helen. -</p> - -<p> -Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. An -interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned -for feeling morbid when a business letter snatches one away from the sea and -friends. She could not believe that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes -had been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train, and it -bored her to look at the landscape, which she had seen but yesterday. At -Southampton she “waved” to Frieda: Frieda was on her way down to join them at -Swanage, and Mrs. Munt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frieda -was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary -and old-maidish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting -her! She had once visited a spinster—poor, silly, and unattractive—whose mania -it was that every man who approached her fell in love. How Margaret’s heart had -bled for the deluded thing! How she had lectured, reasoned, and in despair -acquiesced! “I may have been deceived by the curate, my dear, but the young -fellow who brings the midday post really is fond of me, and has, as a matter -fact—” It had always seemed to her the most hideous corner of old age, yet she -might be driven into it herself by the mere pressure of virginity. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself. She felt certain that he was not the -same as usual; for one thing, he took offence at everything she said. -</p> - -<p> -“This is awfully kind of you,” she began, “but I’m afraid it’s not going to do. -The house has not been built that suits the Schlegel family.” -</p> - -<p> -“What! Have you come up determined not to deal?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not exactly.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not exactly? In that case let’s be starting.” -</p> - -<p> -She lingered to admire the motor, which was new and a fairer creature than the -vermilion giant that had borne Aunt Juley to her doom three years before. -</p> - -<p> -“Presumably it’s very beautiful,” she said. “How do you like it, Crane?” -</p> - -<p> -“Come, let’s be starting,” repeated her host. “How on earth did you know that -my chauffeur was called Crane?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, I know Crane: I’ve been for a drive with Evie once. I know that you’ve -got a parlourmaid called Milton. I know all sorts of things.” -</p> - -<p> -“Evie!” he echoed in injured tones. “You won’t see her. She’s gone out with -Cahill. It’s no fun, I can tell you, being left so much alone. I’ve got my work -all day—indeed, a great deal too much of it—but when I come home in the -evening, I tell you, I can’t stand the house.” -</p> - -<p> -“In my absurd way, I’m lonely too,” Margaret replied. “It’s heart-breaking to -leave one’s old home. I scarcely remember anything before Wickham Place, and -Helen and Tibby were born there. Helen says—” -</p> - -<p> -“You, too, feel lonely?” -</p> - -<p> -“Horribly. Hullo, Parliament’s back!” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox glanced at Parliament contemptuously. The more important ropes of -life lay elsewhere. “Yes, they are talking again.” said he. “But you were going -to say—” -</p> - -<p> -“Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it alone endures while men and -houses perish, and that in the end the world will be a desert of chairs and -sofas—just imagine it!—rolling through infinity with no one to sit upon them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your sister always likes her little joke. -</p> - -<p> -“She says ‘Yes,’ my brother says ‘No,’ to Ducie Street. It’s no fun helping us, -Mr. Wilcox, I assure you.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are not as unpractical as you pretend. I shall never believe it.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret laughed. But she was—quite as unpractical. She could not concentrate -on details. Parliament, the Thames, the irresponsive chauffeur, would flash -into the field of house-hunting, and all demand some comment or response. It is -impossible to see modern life steadily and see it whole, and she had chosen to -see it whole. Mr. Wilcox saw steadily. He never bothered over the mysterious or -the private. The Thames might run inland from the sea, the chauffeur might -conceal all passion and philosophy beneath his unhealthy skin. They knew their -own business, and he knew his. -</p> - -<p> -Yet she liked being with him. He was not a rebuke, but a stimulus, and banished -morbidity. Some twenty years her senior, he preserved a gift that she supposed -herself to have already lost—not youth’s creative power, but its -self-confidence and optimism. He was so sure that it was a very pleasant world. -His complexion was robust, his hair had receded but not thinned, the thick -moustache and the eyes that Helen had compared to brandy-balls had an agreeable -menace in them, whether they were turned towards the slums or towards the -stars. Some day—in the millennium—there may be no need for his type. At -present, homage is due to it from those who think themselves superior, and who -possibly are.” -</p> - -<p> -“At all events you responded to my telegram promptly,” he remarked. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m glad you don’t despise the goods of this world.” -</p> - -<p> -“Heavens, no! Only idiots and prigs do that.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am glad, very glad,” he repeated, suddenly softening and turning to her, as -if the remark had pleased him. “There is so much cant talked in would-be -intellectual circles. I am glad you don’t share it. Self-denial is all very -well as a means of strengthening the character. But I can’t stand those people -who run down comforts. They have usually some axe to grind. Can you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Comforts are of two kinds,” said Margaret, who was keeping herself in -hand—“those we can share with others, like fire, weather, or music; and those -we can’t—food, for instance. It depends.” -</p> - -<p> -“I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn’t like to think that you—” He -bent nearer; the sentence died unfinished. Margaret’s head turned very stupid, -and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a lighthouse. He did -not kiss her, for the hour was half-past twelve, and the car was passing by the -stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged with emotion -that people only seemed to exist on her account, and she was surprised that -Crane did not 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. -</p> - -<p> -“I want to go over the whole house,” she announced when they arrived. “As soon -as I get back to Swanage, which will be tomorrow afternoon, I’ll talk it over -once more with Helen and Tibby, and wire you ‘yes’ or ‘no.’” -</p> - -<p> -“Right. The dining-room.” And they began their survey. -</p> - -<p> -The dining-room was big, but over-furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. -Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and -refrain, and achieve beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much -self-colour and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, -the frieze, the gilded wall-paper, amid whose foliage parrots sang. It would -never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs, that immense -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Now the entrance-hall.” -</p> - -<p> -The entrance-hall was paved. -</p> - -<p> -“Here we fellows smoke.” -</p> - -<p> -We fellows smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had -spawned. “Oh, jolly!” said Margaret, sinking into one of them. -</p> - -<p> -“You do like it?” he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely -betraying an almost intimate note. “It’s all rubbish not making oneself -comfortable. Isn’t it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ye-es. Semi-rubbish. Are those Cruikshanks?” -</p> - -<p> -“Gillrays. Shall we go on upstairs?” -</p> - -<p> -“Does all this furniture come from Howards End?” -</p> - -<p> -“The Howards End furniture has all gone to Oniton.” -</p> - -<p> -“Does—However, I’m concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this -smoking-room?” -</p> - -<p> -“Thirty by fifteen. No, wait a minute. Fifteen and a half?.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, well. Mr. Wilcox, aren’t you ever amused at the solemnity with which we -middle classes approach the subject of houses?” -</p> - -<p> -They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow -and ineffective. One could 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. -</p> - -<p> -But the proposal was not to rank among the world’s great love scenes. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Schlegel”—his voice was firm—“I have had you up on false pretences. I -want to speak about a much more serious matter than a house.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret almost answered: “I know—” -</p> - -<p> -“Could you be induced to share my—is it probable—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Mr. Wilcox!” she interrupted, holding the piano and averting her eyes. “I -see, I see. I will write to you afterwards if I may.” -</p> - -<p> -He began to stammer. “Miss Schlegel—Margaret—you don’t understand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes! Indeed, yes!” said Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“I am asking you to be my wife.” -</p> - -<p> -So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, “I am asking you to be my -wife,” she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he -expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing -to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine -weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central -radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give -happiness. On leaving him she realized that the central radiance had been love. -</p> - -<p> -“You aren’t offended, Miss Schlegel?” -</p> - -<p> -“How could I be offended?” -</p> - -<p> -There was a moment’s pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. -She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that -money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them, and -she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle -with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye,” she continued. “You will have a letter from me—I am going back to -Swanage tomorrow. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye, and it’s you I thank.” -</p> - -<p> -“I may order the motor round, mayn’t I?” -</p> - -<p> -“That would be most kind.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wish I had written instead. Ought I to have written?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s just one question—” -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered, and they parted. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -She would come to no decision yet. “Oh, sir, this is so sudden”—that prudish -phrase exactly expressed her when her time came. Premonitions are not -preparation. She must examine more closely her own nature and his; she must -talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been a strange love-scene—the -central radiance unacknowledged from first to last. She, in his place, would -have said “Ich liebe dich,” but perhaps it was not his habit to open the heart. -He might have done it if she had pressed him—as a matter of duty, perhaps; -England expects every man to open his heart once; but the effort would have -jarred him, and never, if she could avoid it, should he lose those defences -that he had chosen to raise against the world. He must never be bothered with -emotional talk, or with a display of sympathy. He was an elderly man now, and -it would be futile and impudent to correct him. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost; surveying the scene, -thought Margaret, without one hint of bitterness. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 19</h2> - -<p> -If one wanted to show a foreigner England, perhaps the wisest course would be -to take him to the final section of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their -summit, a few miles to the east of Corfe. Then system after system of our -island would roll together under his feet. Beneath him is the valley of the -Frome, and all the wild lands that come tossing down from Dorchester, black and -gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of Poole. The valley of the Stour -is beyond, unaccountable stream, dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimborne—the -Stour, sliding out of fat fields, to marry the Avon beneath the tower of -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. -</p> - -<p> -So Frieda Mosebach, now Frau Architect Liesecke, and mother to her husband’s -baby, was brought up to these heights to be impressed, and, after a prolonged -gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here than in Pomerania, which -was true, but did not seem to Mrs. Munt apposite. Poole Harbour was dry, which -led her to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at Friedrich Wilhelms Bad, -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. -</p> - -<p> -“And your English lakes—Vindermere, Grasmere—are they, then, unhealthy?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, Frau Liesecke; but that is because they are fresh water, and different. -Salt water ought to have tides, and go up and down a great deal, or else it -smells. Look, for instance, at an aquarium.” -</p> - -<p> -“An aquarium! Oh, <i>Meesis</i> Munt, you mean to tell me that fresh aquariums -stink less than salt? Why, when Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many -tadpoles—” -</p> - -<p> -“You are not to say ‘stink,’” interrupted Helen; “at least, you may say it, but -you must pretend you are being funny while you say it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then ‘smell.’ And the mud of your Pool down there—does it not smell, or may I -say ‘stink, ha, ha’?” -</p> - -<p> -“There always has been mud in Poole Harbour,” said Mrs. Munt, with a slight -frown. “The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends -upon it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, that is so,” conceded Frieda; and another international incident was -closed. -</p> - -<p> -“‘Bournemouth is,’” resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she -was much attached—” ‘Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the most -important town of all and biggest of the three.’ Now, Frau Liesecke, I have -shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward a -little, and look down again at Swanage.” -</p> - -<p> -“Aunt Juley, wouldn’t that be Meg’s train?” -</p> - -<p> -A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing -southwards towards them over the black and the gold. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won’t be overtired.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I do wonder—I do wonder whether she’s taken the house.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hope she hasn’t been hasty.” -</p> - -<p> -“So do I—oh, so do I.” -</p> - -<p> -“Will it be as beautiful as Wickham Place?” Frieda asked. -</p> - -<p> -“I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those -Ducie Street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can’t think why he -doesn’t keep on with it. But it’s really for Evie that he went there, and now -that Evie’s going to be married—” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah!” -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve never seen Miss Wilcox, Frieda. How absurdly matrimonial you are!” -</p> - -<p> -“But sister to that Paul?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“And to that Charles,” said Mrs. Munt with feeling. “Oh, Helen, Helen, what a -time that was!” -</p> - -<p> -Helen laughed. “Meg and I haven’t got such tender hearts. If there’s a chance -of a cheap house, we go for it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Now look, Frau Liesecke, at my niece’s train. You see, it is coming towards -us—coming, coming; and, when it gets to Corfe, it will actually go -<i>through</i> the downs, on which we are standing, so that, if we walk over, -as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it coming on the other -side. Shall we?” -</p> - -<p> -Frieda assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged -the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the -slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the Isle of Purbeck and -on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and ugliest of the -three. Margaret’s train reappeared as promised, and was greeted with approval -by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had -been planned that Tibby should meet her, and drive her, and a tea-basket, up to -join them. -</p> - -<p> -“You see,” continued Helen to her cousin, “the Wilcoxes collect houses as your -Victor collects tadpoles. They have, one, Ducie Street; two, Howards End, where -my great rumpus was; three, a country seat in Shropshire; four, Charles has a -house in Hilton; and five, another near Epsom; and six, Evie will have a house -when she marries, and probably a pied-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?” -</p> - -<p> -“ I had too much to do, dear, to look at it,” said Mrs. Munt, with a gracious -dignity. “I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in -his place besides. It isn’t likely I should remember much. I just remember -having lunch in your bedroom.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“You yet may,” said Frieda despondently. -</p> - -<p> -Helen shook her head. “The Great Wilcox Peril will never return. If I’m certain -of anything it’s of that.” -</p> - -<p> -“One is certain of nothing but the truth of one’s own emotions.” -</p> - -<p> -The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her -cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original -remark, nor had Frieda appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic -rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal -which the average Teuton possesses and the average Englishman does not. It was, -however illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the -respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Look!” cried Aunt Juley, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow -summit of the down. “Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart -coming. I see the pony-cart coming.” -</p> - -<p> -They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibby were presently seen -coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanage, it drove for a little through -the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. -</p> - -<p> -“Have you got the house?” they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. -</p> - -<p> -Helen ran down to meet her. The highroad passed over a saddle, and a track went -thence at right angles along the ridge of the down. -</p> - -<p> -“Have you got the house?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret shook her head. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, what a nuisance! So we’re as we were?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not exactly.” -</p> - -<p> -She got out, looking tired. -</p> - -<p> -“Some mystery,” said Tibby. “We are to be enlightened presently.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of -marriage from Mr. Wilcox. -</p> - -<p> -Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the downs so that her brother might -lead the pony through. “It’s just like a widower,” she remarked. “They’ve cheek -enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife’s friends.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret’s face flashed despair. -</p> - -<p> -“That type—” She broke off with a cry. “Meg, not anything wrong with you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Wait one minute,” said Margaret, whispering always. -</p> - -<p> -“But you’ve never conceivably—you’ve never—” She pulled herself together. -“Tibby, hurry up through; I can’t hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Juley! I -say, Aunt Juley, make the tea, will you, and Frieda; we’ve got to talk houses, -and I’ll come on afterwards.” And then, turning her face to her sister’s, she -burst into tears. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, “Oh, really—” She felt -herself touched with a hand that trembled. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t,” sobbed Helen, “don’t, don’t, Meg, don’t!” She seemed incapable of -saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the -road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t, don’t do such a thing! I tell you not to—don’t! I know—don’t!” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you know?” -</p> - -<p> -“Panic and emptiness,” sobbed Helen. “Don’t!” -</p> - -<p> -Then Margaret thought, “Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like -this when there has seemed a chance of her marrying. She said: “But we would -still see each other very often, and—” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s not a thing like that,” sobbed Helen. And she broke right away and -wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view and -crying. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s happened to you?” called Margaret, following through the wind that -gathers at sundown on the northern slopes of hills. “But it’s stupid!” And -suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But Helen -turned back. -</p> - -<p> -“ Meg—” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know what’s happened to either of us,” said Margaret, wiping her eyes. -“We must both have gone mad.” Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a -little. -</p> - -<p> -“Look here, sit down.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right; I’ll sit down if you’ll sit down.” -</p> - -<p> -“There. (One kiss.) Now, whatever, whatever is the matter?” -</p> - -<p> -“I do mean what I said. Don’t; it wouldn’t do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Helen, stop saying ‘don’t’! It’s ignorant. It’s as if your head wasn’t out -of the slime. ‘Don’t’ is probably what Mrs. Bast says all the day to Mr. Bast.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen was silent. -</p> - -<p> -“Well?” -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me about it first, and meanwhile perhaps I’ll have got my head out of the -slime.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s better. Well, where shall I begin? When I arrived at Waterloo—no, I’ll -go back before that, because I’m anxious you should know everything from the -first. The ‘first’ was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. Bast came to tea -and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about -me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which men can’t -help any more than we can. You know—at least, I know in my own case—when a man -has said to me, ‘So-and-so’s a pretty girl,’ I am seized with a momentary -sourness against So-and-so, and long to tweak her ear. It’s a tiresome feeling, -but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn’t only this in -Mr. Wilcox’s case, I gather now.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you love him?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret considered. “It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you,” -she said. “The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I’ve known -and liked him steadily for nearly three years. -</p> - -<p> -“But loved him?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“But you will?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” said Margaret, “of that I’m pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he -spoke to me.” -</p> - -<p> -“And have settled to marry him?” -</p> - -<p> -“I had, but am wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? -You must try and say.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. “It is ever since Paul,” she said finally. -</p> - -<p> -“But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul?” -</p> - -<p> -“But he was there, they were all there that morning when I came down to -breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened—the man who loved me frightened and -all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because -personal relations are the important thing for ever and ever, and not this -outer life of telegrams and anger.” -</p> - -<p> -She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, -because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, -we’ve often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest gulf -between my love-making and yours. Yours—was romance; mine will be prose. I’m -not running it down—a very good kind of prose, but well considered, well -thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox’s faults. He’s afraid of -emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His -sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn’t sympathy really. I’d even say”—she looked -at the shining lagoons—“that, spiritually, he’s not as honest as I am. Doesn’t -that satisfy you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, it doesn’t,” said Helen. “It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be -mad.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret made a movement of irritation. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t intend him, or any man or any woman, to be all my life—good heavens, -no! There are heaps of things in me that he doesn’t, and shall never, -understand.” -</p> - -<p> -Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony and the physical union, before the -astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married couples and -the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. -Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not -far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter -her character—a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the -winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think -conjugally. -</p> - -<p> -“So with him,” she continued. “There are heaps of things in him—more especially -things that he does—that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public -qualities which you so despise and enable all this—” She waved her hand at the -landscape, which confirmed anything. “If Wilcoxes hadn’t worked and died in -England for thousands of years, you and I couldn’t sit here without having our -throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people -about in, no fields even. Just savagery. No—perhaps not even that. Without -their spirit life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I -refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times -when it seems to me—” -</p> - -<p> -“And to me, and to all women. So one kissed Paul.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s brutal,” said Margaret. “Mine is an absolutely different case. I’ve -thought things out.” -</p> - -<p> -“It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same.” -</p> - -<p> -“ Rubbish!” -</p> - -<p> -There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into Poole Harbour. -“One would lose something,” murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water -crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branksea -Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a sombre episode of trees. Frome -was forced inward towards Dorchester, Stour against Wimborne, Avon towards -Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to -triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her -estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north -wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it -mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous -coast? Does she belong to those who have moulded her and made her feared by -other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow -seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, -sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world’s fleet accompanying her -towards eternity? -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 20</h2> - -<p> -Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world’s -waters, when Love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does Love concern -beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No -doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the -new generation, and chafing against the ultimate Fate, who holds all the seas -in the palm of her hand. But Love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend -another’s infinity; he is conscious only of his own—flying sunbeam, falling -rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of -space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be -gathered by Fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round -the assembly of the gods. “Men did produce this,” they will say, and, saying, -they will give men immortality. But meanwhile—what agitations meanwhile! The -foundations of Property and Propriety are laid bare, twin rocks; Family Pride -flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing, and refusing to be comforted; -Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty ground swell. Then the lawyers are -aroused—cold brood—and creep out of their holes. They do what they can; they -tidy up Property and Propriety, reassure Theology and Family Pride. -Half-guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back, and, if -all has gone well, Love joins one man and woman together in Matrimony. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a -sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and could bear with the incongruous and -the grotesque; and, besides, there was nothing excessive about her love-affair. -Good-humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I -must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl -to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, -but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance; and love must -confirm an old relation rather than reveal a new one. -</p> - -<p> -In this spirit she promised to marry him. -</p> - -<p> -He was in Swanage on the morrow, bearing the engagement-ring. 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. -</p> - -<p> -For a time they talked about the ring; then she said: -</p> - -<p> -“Do you remember the Embankment at Chelsea? It can’t be ten days ago.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” he said, laughing. “And you and your sister were head and ears deep in -some Quixotic scheme. Ah well!” -</p> - -<p> -“I little thought then, certainly. Did you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know about that; I shouldn’t like to say.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, was it earlier?” she cried. “Did you think of me this way earlier! How -extraordinarily interesting, Henry! Tell me.” -</p> - -<p> -But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his -mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked -the very word “interesting,” connoting it with wasted energy and even with -morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him. -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t think of it,” she pursued. “No; when you spoke to me in the -drawing-room, that was practically the first. It was all so different from what -it’s supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is—how shall I put -it?—a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet; it loses its literal meaning. But -in life a proposal really is a proposal—” -</p> - -<p> -“By the way—” -</p> - -<p> -“—a suggestion, a seed,” she concluded; and the thought flew away into -darkness. -</p> - -<p> -“I was thinking, if you didn’t mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a -business talk; there will be so much to settle.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think so too. Tell me, in the first place, how did you get on with Tibby?” -</p> - -<p> -“With your brother?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, during cigarettes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, very well.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am so glad,” she answered, a little surprised. “What did you talk about? Me, -presumably.” -</p> - -<p> -“About Greece too.” -</p> - -<p> -“Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibby’s only a boy still, and one has to -pick and choose subjects a little. Well done.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was telling him I have shares in a currant-farm near Calamata. -</p> - -<p> -“What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can’t we go there for our -honeymoon?” -</p> - -<p> -“What to do?” -</p> - -<p> -“To eat the currants. And isn’t there marvellous scenery?” -</p> - -<p> -“Moderately, but it’s not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a -lady.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why not?” -</p> - -<p> -“No hotels.” -</p> - -<p> -“Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked -alone over the Apennines, with our luggage on our backs?” -</p> - -<p> -“I wasn’t aware, and, if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing -again.” -</p> - -<p> -She said more gravely: “You haven’t found time for a talk with Helen yet, I -suppose?” -</p> - -<p> -“No.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends.” -</p> - -<p> -“Your sister and I have always hit it off,” he said negligently. “But we’re -drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that -Evie is going to marry Percy Cahill.” -</p> - -<p> -“Dolly’s uncle.” -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly. The girl’s madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow, but he -demands—and rightly—a suitable provision with her. And in the second place, you -will naturally understand, there is Charles. Before leaving town, I wrote -Charles a very careful letter. You see, he has an increasing family and -increasing expenses, and the I. and W. A. is nothing particular just now, -though capable of development. -</p> - -<p> -“Poor fellow!” murmured Margaret, looking out to sea, and not understanding. -</p> - -<p> -“Charles being the elder son, some day Charles will have Howards End; but I am -anxious, in my own happiness, not to be unjust to others.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course not,” she began, and then gave a little cry. “You mean money. How -stupid I am! Of course not!” -</p> - -<p> -Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. “Yes. Money, since you put it so -frankly. I am determined to be just to all—just to you, just to them. I am -determined that my children shall have no case against me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Be generous to them,” she said sharply. “Bother justice!” -</p> - -<p> -“I am determined—and have already written to Charles to that effect—” -</p> - -<p> -“But how much have you got?” -</p> - -<p> -“What?” -</p> - -<p> -“How much have you a year? I’ve six hundred.” -</p> - -<p> -“My income?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. We must begin with how much you have, before we can settle how much you -can give Charles. Justice, and even generosity, depend on that.” -</p> - -<p> -“I must say you’re a downright young woman,” he observed, patting her arm and -laughing a little. “What a question to spring on a fellow!” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you know your income? Or don’t you want to tell it me?” -</p> - -<p> -“I—” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s all right”—now she patted him—“don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I -can do the sum just as well by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts. -How many parts would you give to Evie, how many to Charles, how many to Paul?” -</p> - -<p> -“The fact is, my dear, I hadn’t any intention of bothering you with details. I -only wanted to let you know that—well, that something must be done for the -others, and you’ve understood me perfectly, so let’s pass on to the next -point.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, we’ve settled that,” said Margaret, undisturbed by his strategic -blunderings. “Go ahead; give away all you can, bearing in mind I’ve a clear six -hundred. What a mercy it is to have all this money about one!” -</p> - -<p> -“We’ve none too much, I assure you; you’re marrying a poor man. -</p> - -<p> -“Helen wouldn’t agree with me here,” she continued. “Helen daren’t slang the -rich, being rich herself, but she would like to. There’s an odd notion, that I -haven’t yet got hold of, running about at the back of her brain, that poverty -is somehow ‘real.’ She dislikes all 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s this other point, and then I must go back to my hotel and write some -letters. What’s to be done now about the house in Ducie Street?” -</p> - -<p> -“Keep it on—at least, it depends. When do you want to marry me?” -</p> - -<p> -She raised her voice, as too often, and some youths, who were also taking the -evening air, overheard her. “Getting a bit hot, eh?” said one. Mr. Wilcox -turned on them, and said sharply, “I say!” There was silence. “Take care I -don’t report you to the police.” They moved away quietly enough, but were only -biding their time, and the rest of the conversation was punctuated by peals of -ungovernable laughter. -</p> - -<p> -Lowering his voice and infusing a hint of reproof into it, he said: “Evie will -probably be married in September. We could scarcely think of anything before -then.” -</p> - -<p> -“The earlier the nicer, Henry. Females are not supposed to say such things, but -the earlier the nicer.” -</p> - -<p> -“How about September for us too?” he asked, rather dryly. -</p> - -<p> -“Right. Shall we go into Ducie Street ourselves in September? Or shall we try -to bounce Helen and Tibby into it? That’s rather an idea. They are so -unbusinesslike, we could make them do anything by judicious management. Look -here—yes. We’ll do that. And we ourselves could live at Howards End or -Shropshire.” -</p> - -<p> -He blew out his cheeks. “Heavens! how you women do fly round! My head’s in a -whirl. Point by point, Margaret. Howards End’s impossible. I let it to Hamar -Bryce on a three years’ agreement last March. Don’t you remember? Oniton. Well, -that is much, much too far away to rely on entirely. You will be able to be -down there entertaining a certain amount, but we must have a house within easy -reach of Town. Only Ducie Street has huge drawbacks. There’s a mews behind.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first she had heard of the mews -behind Ducie Street. When she was a possible tenant it had suppressed itself, -not consciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox manner, though genuine, -lacked the clearness of vision that is imperative for truth. When Henry lived -in Ducie Street he remembered the mews; when he tried to let he forgot it; and -if 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, in summer especially, the mews is a serious nuisance. The smoking room, -too, is an abominable little den. The house opposite has been taken by operatic -people. Ducie Street’s going down, it’s my private opinion.” -</p> - -<p> -“How sad! It’s only a few years since they built those pretty houses.” -</p> - -<p> -“Shows things are moving. Good for trade.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome of us at our -worst—eternal formlessness; all the qualities, good, bad, and indifferent, -streaming away—streaming, streaming for ever. That’s why I dread it so. I -mistrust rivers, even in scenery. Now, the sea—” -</p> - -<p> -“High tide, yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Hoy toid”—from the promenading youths. -</p> - -<p> -“And these are the men to whom we give the vote,” observed Mr. Wilcox, omitting -to add that they were also the men to whom he gave work as clerks—work that -scarcely encouraged them to grow into other men. “However, they have their own -lives and interests. Let’s get on.” -</p> - -<p> -He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back to The Bays. The business -was over. His hotel was in the opposite direction, and if he accompanied her -his letters would be late for the post. She implored him not to come, but he -was obdurate. -</p> - -<p> -“A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in alone!” -</p> - -<p> -“But I always do go about alone. Considering I’ve walked over the Apennines, -it’s common sense. You will make me so angry. I don’t the least take it as a -compliment.” -</p> - -<p> -He laughed, and lit a cigar. “It isn’t meant as a compliment, my dear. I just -won’t have you going about in the dark. Such people about too! It’s dangerous.” -</p> - -<p> -“Can’t I look after myself? I do wish—” -</p> - -<p> -“Come along, Margaret; no wheedling.” -</p> - -<p> -A younger woman might have resented his masterly ways, but Margaret had too -firm a grip of life to make a fuss. She was, in her own way, as masterly. If he -was a fortress she was a mountain peak, whom all might tread, but whom the -snows made nightly virginal. Disdaining the heroic outfit, excitable in her -methods, garrulous, episodical, shrill, she misled her lover much as she had -misled her aunt. He mistook her fertility for weakness. He supposed her “as -clever as they make ’em,” but no more, not realizing that she was penetrating -to the depths of his soul, and approving of what she found there. -</p> - -<p> -And if insight were sufficient, if the inner life were the whole of life, their -happiness has been assured. -</p> - -<p> -They walked ahead briskly. The parade and the road after it were well lighted, -but it was darker in Aunt Juley’s garden. As they were going up by the -side-paths, through some rhododendrons, Mr. Wilcox, who was in front, said -“Margaret” rather huskily, turned, dropped his cigar, and took her in his arms. -</p> - -<p> -She was startled, and nearly screamed, but recovered herself at once, and -kissed with genuine love the lips that were pressed against her own. It was -their first kiss, and when it was over he saw her safely to the door and rang -the bell for her, but disappeared into the night before the maid answered it. -On looking back, the incident displeased her. It was so isolated. Nothing in -their previous conversation had heralded it, and, worse still, no tenderness -had ensued. If a man cannot lead up to passion he can at all events lead down -from it, and she had hoped, after her complaisance, for some interchange of -gentle words. But he had hurried away as if ashamed, and for an instant she was -reminded of Helen and Paul. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 21</h2> - -<p> -Charles had just been scolding his Dolly. She deserved the scolding, and had -bent before it, but her head, though bloody, was unsubdued, and her chirrupings -began to mingle with his retreating thunder. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ve 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!” -</p> - -<p> -“Who asked him while I was away? Who asked my sister down to meet him? Who sent -them out in the motor day after day?” -</p> - -<p> -“Charles, that reminds me of some poem.” -</p> - -<p> -“Does it indeed? We shall all be dancing to a very different music presently. -Miss Schlegel has fairly got us on toast.” -</p> - -<p> -“I could simply scratch that woman’s eyes out, and to say it’s my fault is most -unfair.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s your fault, and five months ago you admitted it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“You did.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tootle, tootle, playing on the pootle!” exclaimed Dolly, suddenly devoting -herself to the child. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all very well to turn the conversation, but Father would never have -dreamt of marrying as long as Evie was there to make him comfortable. But you -must needs start match-making. Besides, Cahill’s too old.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course, if you’re going to be rude to Uncle Percy—” -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howards End, and, thanks to you, -she’s got it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I call the way you twist things round and make them hang together most unfair. -You couldn’t have been nastier if you’d caught me flirting. Could he, diddums?” -</p> - -<p> -“We’re in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. I shall answer the pater’s -letter civilly. He’s evidently anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not -intend to forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they’re on their best -behaviour—Dolly, are you listening?—we’ll behave, too. But if I find them -giving themselves airs, or 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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 22</h2> - -<p> -Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he -was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge -that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are -meaningless fragments, half monks, half beasts, unconnected arches that have -never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest -curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees -from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul -lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going. -</p> - -<p> -It was hard-going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox’s soul. From boyhood he had -neglected them. “I am not a fellow who bothers about my own inside.” Outwardly -he was cheerful, reliable, and brave; but within, all had reverted to chaos, -ruled, so far as it was ruled at all, by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as -boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion -is bad, a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had -confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him and to other -respectable men were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. 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. -</p> - -<p> -It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She -would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the -soul of every man. Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect -the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be -seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast -and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die. -</p> - -<p> -Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good -“talking.” By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives -with beauty. -</p> - -<p> -But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never -prepared, however much she reminded herself of it: his obtuseness. He simply -did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that -Helen and Frieda were hostile, or that Tibby was not interested in currant -plantations; he never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the 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. -</p> - -<p> -They met in the rhododendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were -inconsiderable and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, -who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. “Here we all are!” -she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sister’s in the other. -</p> - -<p> -“Here we are. Good-morning, Helen.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen replied, “Good-morning, Mr. Wilcox.” -</p> - -<p> -“Henry, she has had such a nice letter from the queer, cross boy—Do you -remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have had a letter too. Not a nice one—I want to talk it over with you:” for -Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word; the -triangle of sex was broken for ever. -</p> - -<p> -“Thanks to your hint, he’s clearing out of the Porphyrion.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not a bad business that Porphyrion,” he said absently, as he took his own -letter out of his pocket. -</p> - -<p> -“Not a <i>bad</i>—” she exclaimed, dropping his hand. “Surely, on Chelsea -Embankment—” -</p> - -<p> -“Here’s our hostess. Good-morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine rhododendrons. Good morning, -Frau Liesecke; we manage to grow flowers in England, don’t we?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not a <i>bad</i> business?” -</p> - -<p> -“No. My letter’s about Howards End. Bryce has been ordered abroad, and wants to -sublet it. I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There was no -clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find -me another tenant, whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. -Morning, Schlegel. Don’t you think that’s better than subletting?” -</p> - -<p> -Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to -the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which -must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as -Swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the -Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of insipidity, drawn up against the -pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. -</p> - -<p> -“When there is a sublet I find that damage—” -</p> - -<p> -“Do excuse me, but about the Porphyrion. I don’t feel easy—might I just bother -you, Henry?” -</p> - -<p> -Her manner was so serious that he stopped, and asked her a little sharply what -she wanted. -</p> - -<p> -“You said on Chelsea Embankment, surely, that it was a bad concern, so we -advised this clerk to clear out. He writes this morning that he’s taken our -advice, and now you say it’s not a bad concern.” -</p> - -<p> -“A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, without securing a berth -somewhere else first, is a fool, and I’ve no pity for him.” -</p> - -<p> -“He has not done that. He’s going into a bank in Camden Town, he says. The -salary’s much lower, but he hopes to manage—a branch of Dempster’s Bank. Is -that all right?” -</p> - -<p> -“Dempster! My goodness me, yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“More right than the Porphyrion?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes, yes; safe as houses—safer.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very many thanks. I’m sorry—if you sublet—?” -</p> - -<p> -“If he sublets, I shan’t have the same control. In theory there should be no -more damage done at Howards End; in practice there will be. Things may be done -for which no money can compensate. For instance, I shouldn’t want that fine -wych-elm spoilt. It hangs—Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time. -It’s pretty in its way. We’ll motor down and have lunch with Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -“I should enjoy that,” said Margaret bravely. -</p> - -<p> -“What about next Wednesday?” -</p> - -<p> -“Wednesday? No, I couldn’t well do that. Aunt Juley expects us to stop here -another week at least.” -</p> - -<p> -“But you can give that up now.” -</p> - -<p> -“Er—no,” said Margaret, after a moment’s thought. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, that’ll be all right. I’ll speak to her.” -</p> - -<p> -“This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on it year after year. She -turns the house upside down for us; she invites our special friends—she -scarcely knows Frieda, and we can’t leave her on her hands. I missed one day, -and she would be so hurt if I didn’t stay the full ten.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I’ll say a word to her. Don’t you bother.” -</p> - -<p> -“Henry, I won’t go. Don’t bully me.” -</p> - -<p> -“You want to see the house, though?” -</p> - -<p> -“Very much—I’ve heard so much about it, one way or the other. Aren’t there -pigs’ teeth in the wych-elm?” -</p> - -<p> -“<i>Pigs’ teeth?</i>” -</p> - -<p> -“And you chew the bark for toothache.” -</p> - -<p> -“What a rum notion! Of course not!” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps I have confused it with some other tree. There are still a great -number of sacred trees in England, it seems.” -</p> - -<p> -But he left her to intercept Mrs. Munt, whose voice could be heard in the -distance: to be intercepted himself by Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrion—” she began, and went scarlet all over -her face. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all right,” called Margaret, catching them up. “Dempster’s Bank’s -better.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I think you told us the Porphyrion was bad, and would smash before -Christmas.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did I? It was still outside the Tariff Ring, and had to take rotten policies. -Lately it came in—safe as houses now.” -</p> - -<p> -“In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, the fellow needn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“—and needn’t have started life elsewhere at a greatly reduced salary.” -</p> - -<p> -“He only says ‘reduced,’” corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. -</p> - -<p> -“With a man so poor, every reduction must be great. I consider it a deplorable -misfortune.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Munt, was going steadily on, but -the last remark made him say: “What? What’s that? Do you mean that I’m -responsible?” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re ridiculous, Helen.” -</p> - -<p> -“You seem to think—” He looked at his watch. “Let me explain the point to you. -It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a -delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed stage by stage. The -Porphyrion, according to you, was bound to say, ‘I am trying all I can to get -into the Tariff Ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only -thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying.’ My dear Helen—” -</p> - -<p> -“Is that your point? A man who had little money has less—that’s mine.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day’s work. It’s part of the -battle of life.” -</p> - -<p> -“A man who had little money,” she repeated, “has less, owing to us. Under these -circumstances I do not consider ‘the battle of life’ a happy expression.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh come, come!” he protested pleasantly. “You’re not to blame. No one’s to -blame.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is no one to blame for anything?” -</p> - -<p> -“I wouldn’t say that, but you’re taking it far too seriously. Who is this -fellow?” -</p> - -<p> -“We have told you about the fellow twice already,” said Helen. “You have even -met the fellow. He is very poor and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is -capable of better things. We—we, the upper classes—thought we would help him -from the height of our superior knowledge—and here’s the result!” -</p> - -<p> -He raised his finger. “Now, a word of advice.” -</p> - -<p> -“I require no more advice.” -</p> - -<p> -“A word of advice. Don’t take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See -that she doesn’t, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one’s sorry for them, but -there it is. As 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.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen quivered with indignation. -</p> - -<p> -“By all means subscribe to charities—subscribe to them largely—but don’t get -carried away by absurd schemes of Social Reform. I see a good deal behind the -scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no Social Question—except for -a few journalists who try to get a living out of the phrase. There are just -rich and poor, as there always have been and always will be. Point me out a -time when men have been equal—” -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t say—” -</p> - -<p> -“Point me out a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No, no. -You can’t. There always have been rich and poor. I’m no fatalist. Heaven -forbid! But our 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Owing to God, I suppose,” flashed Helen. -</p> - -<p> -He stared at her. -</p> - -<p> -“You grab the dollars. God does the rest.” -</p> - -<p> -It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to talk about God in that -neurotic modern way. Fraternal to the last, he left her for the quieter company -of Mrs. Munt. He thought, “She rather reminds me of Dolly.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen looked out at the sea. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t even discuss political economy with Henry,” advised her sister. “It’ll -only end in a cry.” -</p> - -<p> -“But he must be one of those men who have reconciled science with religion,” -said Helen slowly. “I don’t like those men. They are scientific themselves, and -talk of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the salaries of their clerks, -and stunt the independence of all who may menace their comfort, but yet they -believe that somehow good—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.” -</p> - -<p> -“He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in theory!” -</p> - -<p> -“But oh, Meg, what a theory!” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should you put things so bitterly, dearie?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because I’m an old maid,” said Helen, biting her lip. “I can’t think why I go -on like this myself.” She shook off her sister’s hand and went into the house. -Margaret, distressed at the day’s beginning, followed the Bournemouth steamer -with her eyes. She saw that Helen’s nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Bast -business beyond the bounds of politeness. There might at any minute be a real -explosion, which even Henry would notice. Henry must be removed. -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret!” her aunt called. “Magsy! It isn’t true, surely, what Mr. Wilcox -says, that you want to go away early next week?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not ‘want,’” was Margaret’s prompt reply; “but there is so much to be settled, -and I do want to see the Charles’.” -</p> - -<p> -“But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, or even the Lulworth?” said -Mrs. Munt, coming nearer. “Without going once more up Nine Barrows Down?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m afraid so.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with, “Good! I did the breaking of the ice.” -</p> - -<p> -A wave of tenderness came over her. She put a hand on either shoulder, and -looked deeply into the black, bright eyes. What was behind their competent -stare? She knew, but was not disquieted. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 23</h2> - -<p> -Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and the evening before she -left Swanage she gave her sister a thorough scolding. She censured her, not for -disapproving of the engagement, but for throwing over her disapproval a veil of -mystery. Helen was equally frank. “Yes,” she said, with the air of one looking -inwards, “there is a mystery. I can’t help it. It’s not my fault. It’s the way -life has been made.” Helen in those days was over-interested in the -subconscious self. She exaggerated the Punch and Judy aspect of life, and spoke -of mankind as puppets, whom an invisible showman twitches into love and war. -Margaret pointed out that if she dwelt on this she, too, would eliminate the -personal. Helen was silent for a minute, and then burst into a queer speech, -which cleared the air. “Go on and marry him. I think you’re splendid; and if -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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Helen! Am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor Henry as all that?” -</p> - -<p> -“You mean to keep proportion, and that’s heroic, it’s Greek, and I don’t see -why it shouldn’t succeed with you. Go on and fight with him and help him. Don’t -ask <i>me</i> 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 <i>you</i> more -than ever. Yes, I do. You and I have built up something real, because it is -purely spiritual. There’s no veil of mystery over us. Unreality and mystery -begin as soon as one touches the body. The popular view is, as usual, exactly -the wrong one. Our bothers are over tangible things—money, husbands, -house-hunting. But Heaven will work of itself.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection, and answered, -“Perhaps.” All vistas close in the unseen—no one doubts it—but Helen closed -them rather too quickly for her taste. At every turn of speech one was -confronted with reality and the absolute. Perhaps Margaret grew too old for -metaphysics, perhaps Henry was weaning her from them, but she felt that there -was something a little unbalanced in the mind that so readily shreds the -visible. The business man who assumes that this life is everything, and the -mystic who asserts that it is nothing, fail, on this side and on that, to hit -the truth. “Yes, I see, dear; it’s about 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. -</p> - -<p> -Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have talked till midnight, but -Margaret, with her packing to do, focussed the conversation on Henry. She might -abuse Henry behind his back, but please would she always, be civil to him in -company? “I definitely dislike him, but I’ll do what I can,” promised Helen. -“Do what you can with my friends in return.” -</p> - -<p> -This conversation made Margaret easier. Their inner life was so safe that they -could bargain over externals in a way that would have been incredible to Aunt -Juley, and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There are moments when the inner -life actually “pays,” when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior -motive, are suddenly of practical use. Such moments are still rare in the West; -that they come at all promises a fairer future. Margaret, though unable to -understand her sister, was assured against estrangement, and returned to London -with a more peaceful mind. -</p> - -<p> -The following morning, at eleven o’clock, she presented herself at the offices -of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company. She was glad to go there, for -Henry had implied his business rather than described it, and the formlessness -and vagueness that one associates with Africa 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. -</p> - -<p> -“One minute!” called Mr. Wilcox on receiving her name. He touched a bell, the -effect of which was to produce Charles. -</p> - -<p> -Charles had written his father an adequate letter—more adequate than Evie’s, -through which a girlish indignation throbbed. And he greeted his future -stepmother with propriety. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope that my wife—how do you do?—will give you a decent lunch,” was his -opening. “I left instructions, but we live in a rough-and-ready way. She -expects you back to tea, too, after you have had a look at Howards End. I -wonder what you’ll think of the place. I wouldn’t touch it with tongs myself. -Do sit down! It’s a measly little place.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shall enjoy seeing it,” said Margaret, feeling, for the first time, shy. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll see it at its worst, for Bryce decamped abroad last Monday without even -arranging for a charwoman to clear up after him. I never saw such a disgraceful -mess. It’s unbelievable. He wasn’t in the house a month.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve more than a little bone to pick with Bryce,” called Henry from the inner -chamber. -</p> - -<p> -“Why did he go so suddenly?” -</p> - -<p> -“Invalid type; couldn’t sleep.” -</p> - -<p> -“Poor fellow!” -</p> - -<p> -“Poor fiddlesticks!” said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. “He had the impudence to -put up notice-boards without as much as saying with your leave or by your -leave. Charles flung them down.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I flung them down,” said Charles modestly. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ve sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp one, too. He, and he in -person is responsible for the upkeep of that house for the next three years.” -</p> - -<p> -“The keys are at the farm; we wouldn’t have the keys.” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite right.” -</p> - -<p> -“Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortunately.” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s Mr. Bryce like?” asked Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who had no right to sublet; to have -defined him further was a waste of time. On his misdeeds they descanted -profusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong letter came out with -it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature. “Now we’ll be off,” said he. -</p> - -<p> -A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret, awaited her. Charles -saw them in, civil to the last, and in a moment the offices of the Imperial and -West African Rubber Company faded away. But it was not an impressive drive. -Perhaps the weather was to blame, being grey and banked high with weary clouds. -Perhaps Hertfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists. Did not a gentleman -once motor so quickly through Westmoreland that he missed it? and if -Westmoreland can be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose delicate -structure particularly needs the attentive eye. Hertfordshire is England at its -quietest, with little emphasis of river and hill; it is England meditative. If -Drayton were with us again to write a new edition of his incomparable poem, he -would sing the nymphs of Hertfordshire as indeterminate of feature, with hair -obfuscated by the London smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and averted from their -fate towards the Northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the -slowly flowing Lea. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance; -but they would be real nymphs. -</p> - -<p> -The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, for the Great North -Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, a -poor-spirited creature, who had chickens and children on the brain. -</p> - -<p> -“They’re all right,” said Mr. Wilcox. “They’ll learn—like the swallows and the -telegraph-wires.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but, while they’re learning—” -</p> - -<p> -“The motor’s come to stay,” he answered. “One must get about. There’s a pretty -church—oh, you aren’t sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road worries -you—right outward at the scenery.” -</p> - -<p> -She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently it -congealed. They had arrived. -</p> - -<p> -Charles’s house on the left; on the right the swelling forms of the Six Hills. -Their appearance in such a neighbourhood surprised her. They interrupted the -stream of residences that was thickening up towards Hilton. Beyond them she saw -meadows and a wood, and beneath them she settled that soldiers of the best kind -lay buried. She hated war and liked soldiers—it was one of her amiable -inconsistencies. -</p> - -<p> -But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing at the door to greet -them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a -long wait in the drawing-room sat down to the rough-and-ready lunch, every dish -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. -</p> - -<p> -By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, and -again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane -opened the door of the car. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s happened?” asked Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“What do you suppose?” said Henry. -</p> - -<p> -A little porch was close up against her face. -</p> - -<p> -“Are we there already?” -</p> - -<p> -“We are.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I never! In years ago it seemed so far away.” -</p> - -<p> -Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus carried her -to the front-door. She was about to open it, when Henry said: “That’s no good; -it’s locked. Who’s got the key?” -</p> - -<p> -As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one replied. He -also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed -in from the road, and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he said rather -crossly: “Margaret, you wait in the dry. I’ll go down for the key. It isn’t a -hundred yards. -</p> - -<p> -“Mayn’t I come too?” -</p> - -<p> -“No; I shall be back before I’m gone.” -</p> - -<p> -Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the second -time that day she saw the appearance of the earth. -</p> - -<p> -There were the greengage-trees that Helen had once described, there the tennis -lawn, there the hedge that would be glorious with dog-roses in June, but the -vision now was of black and palest green. Down by the dell-hole more vivid -colours were awakening, and Lent Lilies stood sentinel on its margin, or -advanced in battalions over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She could -not see the wych-elm tree, but a branch of the celebrated vine, studded with -velvet knobs, had covered the 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Naughty cow! Go away!” cried Margaret to the cow, but without indignation. -</p> - -<p> -Harder came the rain, pouring out of a windless sky, and spattering up from the -notice-boards of the house-agents, which lay in a row on the lawn where Charles -had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles in another world—where one -did have interviews. How Helen would revel in such a notion! Charles dead, all -people dead, nothing alive but houses and gardens. The obvious dead, the -intangible alive, and—no connection at all between them! Margaret smiled. Would -that her own fancies were as clear-cut! Would that she could deal as -high-handedly with the world! Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon the -door. It opened. The house was not locked up at all. -</p> - -<p> -She hesitated. Ought she to wait for Henry? He felt strongly about property, -and might prefer to show her over himself. On the other hand, he had told her -to keep in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip. So she went in, and -the drought from inside slammed the door behind. -</p> - -<p> -Desolation greeted her. Dirty finger-prints were on the hall-windows, flue and -rubbish on its unwashed boards. The 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. -</p> - -<p> -Then she opened one of the doors opposite—there were two—and exchanged -wall-papers for whitewash. It was the servants’ part, though she scarcely -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. -</p> - -<p> -Penned in by the desolate weather, she recaptured the sense of space which the -motor had tried to rob from her. She remembered again that ten square miles are -not ten times as wonderful as one square mile, that a thousand square miles are -not practically the same as heaven. The phantom of bigness, which London -encourages, was laid for ever when she paced from the hall at Howards End to -its kitchen and heard the rains run this way and that where the watershed of -the roof divided them. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -Now she thought of the map of Africa; of empires; of her father; of the two -supreme nations, streams of whose life warmed her blood, but, mingling, had -cooled her brain. She paced back into the hall, and as she did so the house -reverberated. -</p> - -<p> -“Is that you, Henry?” she called. -</p> - -<p> -There was no answer, but the house reverberated again. -</p> - -<p> -“Henry, have you got in?” -</p> - -<p> -But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at first, then loudly, -martially. It dominated the rain. -</p> - -<p> -It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished, that is afraid. Margaret -flung open the door to the stairs. A noise as of drums seemed to deafen her. A -woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure erect, with face impassive, -with lips that parted and said dryly: -</p> - -<p> -“Oh! Well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret stammered: “I—Mrs. Wilcox—I?” -</p> - -<p> -“In fancy, of course—in fancy. You had her way of walking. Good-day.” And the -old woman passed out into the rain. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 24</h2> - -<p> -“It gave her quite a turn,” said Mr. Wilcox, when retailing the incident to -Dolly at tea-time. “None of you girls have any nerves, really. Of course, a -word from me put it all right, but silly old Miss Avery—she frightened you, -didn’t she, Margaret? There you stood clutching a bunch of weeds. She might -have said something, instead of coming down the stairs with that alarming -bonnet on. I passed her as I came in. Enough to make the car shy. I believe -Miss Avery goes in for being a character; some old maids do.” He lit a -cigarette. “It is their last resource. Heaven knows what she was doing in the -place; but that’s Bryce’s business, not mine.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wasn’t as foolish as you suggest,” said Margaret. “She only startled me, for -the house had been silent so long.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did you take her for a spook?” asked Dolly, for whom “spooks” and “going to -church” summarized the unseen. -</p> - -<p> -“Not exactly.” -</p> - -<p> -“She really did frighten you,” said Henry, who was far from discouraging -timidity in females. “Poor Margaret! And very naturally. Uneducated classes are -so stupid.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is Miss Avery uneducated classes?” Margaret asked, and found herself looking -at the decoration scheme of Dolly’s drawing-room. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s just one of the crew at the farm. People like that always assume things. -She assumed you’d know who she was. She left all the Howards End keys in the -front lobby, and assumed that you’d seen them as you came in, that you’d lock -up the house when you’d done, and would bring them on down to her. And there -was her niece hunting for them down at the farm. Lack of education makes people -very casual. Hilton was full of women like Miss Avery once.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shouldn’t have disliked it, perhaps.” -</p> - -<p> -“Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present,” said Dolly. -</p> - -<p> -Which was illogical but interesting. Through Dolly, Margaret was destined to -learn a good deal. -</p> - -<p> -“But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she had known his -grandmother.” -</p> - -<p> -“As usual, you’ve got the story wrong, my good Dorothea.” -</p> - -<p> -“I 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?” -</p> - -<p> -Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His attitude to his dead wife was -curious. He would allude to her, and hear her discussed, but never mentioned -her by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic past. Dolly was—for the -following reason. -</p> - -<p> -“Then hadn’t Mrs. Wilcox a brother—or was it an uncle? Anyhow, he popped the -question, and Miss Avery, she said ‘No.’ Just imagine, if she’d said ‘Yes,’ she -would have been Charles’s aunt. (Oh, I say,—that’s rather good! ‘Charlie’s -Aunt’! I must chaff him about that this evening.) And the man went out and was -killed. Yes, I’m certain I’ve got it right now. Tom Howard—he was the last of -them.” -</p> - -<p> -“I believe so,” said Mr. Wilcox negligently. -</p> - -<p> -“I say! Howards End—Howard’s Ended!” cried Dolly. “I’m rather on the spot this -evening, eh?” -</p> - -<p> -“I wish you’d ask whether Crane’s ended.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how <i>can</i> you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Because, if he has had enough tea, we ought to go.—Dolly’s a good little -woman,” he continued, “but a little of her goes a long way. I couldn’t live -near her if you paid me.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to outsiders, no Wilcox could -live near, or near the possessions of, any other Wilcox. They had the colonial -spirit, and were always making for some spot where the white man might carry -his burden unobserved. Of course, Howards End was impossible, so long as the -younger couple were established in Hilton. His objections to the house were -plain as daylight now. -</p> - -<p> -Crane had had enough tea, and was sent to the garage, where their car had been -trickling muddy water over Charles’s. The downpour had surely penetrated the -Six Hills by now, bringing news of our restless 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. -</p> - -<p> -Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her all the year -disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, and the -hurrying men who know so much and connect so little. She recaptured the sense -of space, which is the basis of all earthly beauty, and, starting from Howards -End, she attempted to 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. -</p> - -<p> -Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her over his property, and had -explained to her the use and dimensions of the various rooms. He had sketched -the history of the little estate. “It is so unlucky,” ran the monologue, “that -money wasn’t put into it about fifty years ago. Then it had four—five-times the -land—thirty acres at least. One could have made something out of it then—a -small park, or at all events shrubberies, and rebuilt the house farther away -from the road. What’s the good of taking it in hand now? Nothing but the meadow -left, and even that was heavily mortgaged when I first had to do with -things—yes, and the house too. Oh, it was no joke.” She saw two women as he -spoke, one old, the other young, watching their inheritance melt away. She saw -them greet him as a deliverer. “Mismanagement did it—besides, the days for -small farms are over. It doesn’t pay—except with intensive cultivation. Small -holdings, back to the land—ah! philanthropic bunkum. Take it as a rule that -nothing pays on a small scale. Most of the land you see (they were standing at -an upper window, the only one which faced west) belongs to the people at the -Park—they made their pile over copper—good chaps. Avery’s Farm, Sishe’s—what -they call the Common, where you see that ruined oak—one after the other fell -in, and so did this, as near as is no matter. “But Henry had saved it; without -fine feelings or deep insight, but he had saved it, and she loved him for the -deed. “When I had more control I did what I could: sold off the two and a half -animals, and the mangy pony, and the superannuated tools; pulled down the -outhouses; drained; thinned out I don’t know how many guelder-roses and -elder-trees; and inside the house I turned the old kitchen into a hall, and -made a kitchen behind where the dairy was. Garage and so on came later. But one -could still tell it’s been an old farm. And yet it isn’t the place that would -fetch one of your artistic crew.” No, it wasn’t; and if he did not quite -understand it, the artistic crew would still less: it was English, and the -wych-elm that she saw from the window was an English tree. No report had -prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor -god; in none of these roles do the English excel. It was a comrade, bending -over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers -tenderness, and the girth, that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in -the end evanescent, till pale bud clusters seemed to float in the air. It was a -comrade. House and tree transcended any similes of sex. Margaret thought of -them now, and was to think of them through many a windy night and London day, -but to compare either to man, to woman, always dwarfed the vision. Yet they -kept within limits of the human. Their message was not of eternity, but of hope -on this side of the grave. As she stood in the one, gazing at the other, truer -relationship had gleamed. -</p> - -<p> -Another touch, and the account of her day is finished. They entered the garden -for a minute, and to Mr. Wilcox’s surprise she was right. Teeth, pigs’ teeth, -could be seen in the bark of the wych-elm tree—just the white tips of them -showing. “Extraordinary!” he cried. “Who told you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I heard of it one winter in London,” was her answer, for she, too, avoided -mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by name. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 25</h2> - -<p> -Evie heard of her father’s engagement when she was in for a tennis tournament, -and her play went simply to pot. That she should marry and leave him had seemed -natural enough; that he, left alone, should do the same was deceitful; and now -Charles and Dolly said that it was all her fault. “But I never dreamt of such a -thing,” she grumbled. “Dad took me to call now and then, and made me ask her to -Simpson’s. Well, I’m altogether off Dad.” It was also an insult to their -mother’s memory; there they were agreed, and Evie had the idea of returning -Mrs. Wilcox’s lace and jewellery “as a protest.” Against what it would protest -she was not clear; but being only eighteen, the idea of renunciation appealed -to her, the more as she did not care for jewellery or lace. Dolly then -suggested that she and Uncle Percy should pretend to break off their -engagement, and then perhaps Mr. Wilcox would quarrel with Miss Schlegel, and -break off his; or Paul might be cabled for. But at this point Charles told them -not to talk nonsense. So Evie settled to marry as soon as possible; it was no -good hanging about with these Schlegels eyeing her. The date of her wedding was -consequently put forward from September to August, and in the intoxication of -presents she recovered much of her good-humour. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret found that she was expected to figure at this function, and to figure -largely; it would be such an opportunity, said Henry, for her to get to know -his set. Sir James Bidder would be there, and all the Cahills and the Fussells, -and his sister-in-law, Mrs. Warrington Wilcox, had fortunately got back from -her tour round the world. Henry she loved, but his set promised to be another -matter. He had not the knack of surrounding himself with nice people—indeed, -for a man of ability and virtue his choice had been singularly unfortunate; he -had no guiding principle beyond a certain preference for mediocrity; he was -content to settle one of the greatest things in life haphazard, and so, while -his investments went right, his friends generally went wrong. She would be -told, “Oh, So-and-so’s a good sort—a thundering good sort,” and find, on -meeting him, that he was a brute or a bore. If Henry had shown real affection, -she would have understood, for affection explains everything. But he seemed -without sentiment. The “thundering good sort” might at any moment become “a -fellow for whom I never did have much use, and have less now,” and be shaken -off cheerily into oblivion. Margaret had done the same as a schoolgirl. Now she -never forgot 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. -</p> - -<p> -Evie was not to be married from Ducie Street. She had a fancy for something -rural, and, besides, no one would be in London then, so she left her boxes for -a few weeks at Oniton Grange, and her banns were duly published in the parish -church, and for a couple of days the little town, dreaming between the ruddy -hills, was roused by the clang of our 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. -</p> - -<p> -But on Margaret Oniton was destined to make a lasting impression. She regarded -it as her future home, and was anxious to start straight with the clergy, etc., -and, if possible, to see something of the local life. It was a market-town—as -tiny a one as England possesses—and had for ages served that lonely valley, and -guarded our marches against the 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. -</p> - -<p> -The London party only numbered eight—the Fussells, father and son, two -Anglo-Indian ladies named Mrs. Plynlimmon and Lady Edser, Mrs. Warrington -Wilcox and her daughter, and lastly, the little girl, very smart and quiet, who -figures at so many weddings, and who kept a watchful eye on Margaret, the -bride-elect, Dolly was absent—a domestic event detained her at Hilton; Paul had -cabled a humorous message; Charles was to meet them with a trio of motors at -Shrewsbury. Helen had refused her invitation; Tibby had never answered his. The -management was excellent, as was to be expected with anything that Henry -undertook; one was conscious of his sensible and generous brain in the -background. They were his guests as soon as they reached the train; a special -label for their luggage; a courier; a special lunch; they had only to look -pleasant and, where possible, pretty. Margaret thought with dismay of her own -nuptials—presumably under the management of Tibby. “Mr. Theobald Schlegel and -Miss Helen Schlegel request the pleasure of Mrs. Plynlimmon’s company on the -occasion of the marriage of their sister Margaret.” The formula was incredible, -but it must soon be printed and sent, and though Wickham Place need not compete -with Oniton, it must feed its guests properly, and provide them with sufficient -chairs. Her wedding would either be ramshackly or bourgeois—she hoped the -latter. Such an affair as the present, staged with a deftness that was almost -beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those of her friends. -</p> - -<p> -The low rich purr of a Great Western express is not the worst background for -conversation, and the journey passed pleasantly enough. Nothing could have -exceeded the kindness of the two men. They raised windows for some ladies, and -lowered them for others, they rang the bell for the servant, they identified -the colleges as the train slipped past Oxford, they caught books or bag-purses -in the act of tumbling on to the floor. Yet there was nothing 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. -</p> - -<p> -At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for sight-seeing, and while the -others were finishing their tea at the Raven, she annexed a motor and hurried -over the astonishing city. Her chauffeur was not the faithful Crane, but an -Italian, who dearly loved making her late. Charles, watch in hand, though with -a level brow, was standing in front of the hotel when they returned. It was -perfectly all right, he told her; she was by no means the last. And then he -dived into the coffee-room, and she heard him say, “For God’s sake, hurry the -women up; we shall never be off,” and Albert Fussell reply, “Not I; I’ve done -my share,” and Colonel Fussell opine that the ladies were getting themselves up -to kill. Presently Myra (Mrs. Warrington’s daughter) appeared, and as she was -his cousin, Charles blew her up a little: she had been changing her smart -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. -</p> - -<p> -Shropshire had not the reticence of Hertfordshire. Though robbed of half its -magic by swift movement, it still conveyed the sense of hills. They were -nearing the buttresses that force the Severn 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. -</p> - -<p> -They spoke of Tariff Reform. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Warrington was just back from the Colonies. Like many other critics of -Empire, her mouth had been stopped with food, and she could only exclaim at the -hospitality with which she had been received, and warn the Mother Country -against trifling with young Titans. “They threaten to cut the painter,” she -cried, “and where shall we be then? Miss Schlegel, you’ll undertake to keep -Henry sound about Tariff Reform? It is our last hope.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret playfully confessed herself on the other side, and they began to quote -from their respective 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!” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s happened?” asked Mrs. Warrington. -</p> - -<p> -Then the car behind them drew up, and the voice of Charles was heard saying: -“Get 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. -</p> - -<p> -“What is it?” the ladies cried. -</p> - -<p> -Charles drove them a hundred yards without speaking. Then he said: “It’s all -right. Your car just touched a dog.” -</p> - -<p> -“But stop!” cried Margaret, horrified. -</p> - -<p> -“It didn’t hurt him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Didn’t really hurt him?” asked Myra. -</p> - -<p> -“No.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do <i>please</i> stop!” said Margaret, leaning forward. She was standing up in -the car, the other occupants holding her knees to steady her. “I want to go -back, please.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles took no notice. -</p> - -<p> -“We’ve left Mr. Fussell behind,” said another; “and Angelo, and Crane.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but no woman.” -</p> - -<p> -“I expect a little of”—Mrs. Warrington scratched her palm—” will be more to the -point than one of us!” -</p> - -<p> -“The insurance company sees to that,” remarked Charles, “and Albert will do the -talking.” -</p> - -<p> -“I want to go back, though, I say!” repeated Margaret, getting angry. -</p> - -<p> -Charles took no notice. The motor, loaded with refugees, continued to travel -very slowly down the hill. “The men are there,” chorused the others. “Men will -see to it.” -</p> - -<p> -“The men <i>can’t</i> see to it. Oh, this is ridiculous! Charles, I ask you to -stop.” -</p> - -<p> -“Stopping’s no good,” drawled Charles. -</p> - -<p> -“Isn’t it?” said Margaret, and jumped straight out of the car. -</p> - -<p> -She fell on her knees, cut her gloves, shook her hat over her ear. Cries of -alarm followed her. “You’ve hurt yourself,” exclaimed Charles, jumping after -her. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course I’ve hurt myself!” she retorted. -</p> - -<p> -“May I ask what—” -</p> - -<p> -“There’s nothing to ask,” said Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Your hand’s bleeding.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m in for a frightful row from the pater.” -</p> - -<p> -“You should have thought of that sooner, Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles had never been in such a position before. It was a woman in revolt who -was hobbling away from him, and the sight was too strange to leave any room for -anger. He recovered himself when the others caught them up: their sort he -understood. He commanded them to go back. -</p> - -<p> -Albert Fussell was seen walking towards them. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s all right!” he called. “It wasn’t a dog, it was a cat.” -</p> - -<p> -“There!” exclaimed Charles triumphantly. “It’s only a rotten cat. -</p> - -<p> -“Got room in your car for a little un? I cut as soon as I saw it wasn’t a dog; -the chauffeurs are tackling the girl.” But Margaret walked forward steadily. -Why should the chauffeurs tackle the girl? Ladies sheltering behind men, men -sheltering behind servants—the whole system’s wrong, and she must challenge it. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Schlegel! ’Pon my word, you’ve hurt your hand.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m just going to see,” said Margaret. “Don’t you wait, Mr. Fussell.” -</p> - -<p> -The second motor came round the corner. “lt is all right, madam,” said Crane in -his turn. He had taken to calling her madam. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s all right? The cat?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, madam. The girl will receive compensation for it.” -</p> - -<p> -“She was a very ruda girla,” said Angelo from the third motor thoughtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“Wouldn’t you have been rude?” -</p> - -<p> -The Italian spread out his hands, implying that he had not thought of rudeness, -but would produce it if it pleased her. The situation became absurd. The -gentlemen were again buzzing round Miss Schlegel with offers of assistance, and -Lady Edser began to bind up her hand. She yielded, 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Henry,” she exclaimed, “I have been so naughty,” for she had decided to -take up this line. “We ran over a cat. Charles told me not to jump out, but I -would, and look!” She held out her bandaged hand. “Your poor Meg went such a -flop.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox looked bewildered. In evening dress, he was standing to welcome his -guests in the hall. -</p> - -<p> -“Thinking it was a dog,” added Mrs. Warrington. -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, a dog’s a companion!” said Colonel Fussell. “A dog’ll remember you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you hurt yourself, Margaret?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not to speak about; and it’s my left hand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, hurry up and change.” -</p> - -<p> -She obeyed, as did the others. Mr. Wilcox then turned to his son. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Charles, what’s happened?” -</p> - -<p> -Charles was absolutely honest. He described what he believed to have happened. -Albert had flattened out a cat, and Miss Schlegel had lost her nerve, as any -woman might. She had been got safely into the other car, but when it was in -motion had leapt out—again, in spite of all that they could say. After walking -a little on the road, she had calmed down and had said that she was sorry. His -father accepted this explanation, and neither knew that Margaret had artfully -prepared the way for it. It fitted in too well with their view of feminine -nature. In the smoking-room, after dinner, the Colonel put forward the view -that Miss Schlegel had jumped it out of devilry. Well he remembered as a young -man, in the harbour of Gibraltar once, how a girl—a handsome girl, too—had -jumped overboard for a bet. He could see her now, and all the lads overboard -after her. But Charles and Mr. Wilcox agreed it was much more probably nerves -in Miss Schlegel’s case. Charles was depressed. That woman had a tongue. She -would bring worse disgrace on his father before she had done with them. He -strolled out on to the castle mound to think the matter over. The evening was -exquisite. On three sides of him a little river whispered, full of messages -from the west; above his head the ruins made patterns against the sky. He -carefully reviewed their dealings with this family, until he fitted Helen, and -Margaret, and Aunt Juley into an orderly conspiracy. Paternity had made him -suspicious. He had two children to look after, and more coming, and day by day -they seemed less likely to grow up rich men. “It is all very well,” he -reflected, “the pater saying that he will be just to all, but one can’t be just -indefinitely. Money isn’t elastic. What’s to happen if Evie has a family? And, -come to that, so may the pater. There’ll not be enough to go round, for there’s -none coming in, either through Dolly or Percy. It’s damnable!” He looked -enviously at the Grange, whose windows poured light and laughter. First and -last, this wedding would cost a pretty penny. Two ladies were strolling up and -down the garden terrace, and as the syllables “Imperialism” were wafted to his -ears, he guessed that one of them was his aunt. She might have helped him, if -she too had not had a family to provide for. “Every one for himself,” he -repeated—a maxim which had cheered him in the past, but which rang grimly -enough among the ruins of Oniton. He lacked his father’s ability in business, -and so had an ever higher regard for money; unless he could inherit plenty, he -feared to leave his children poor. -</p> - -<p> -As he sat thinking, one of the ladies left the terrace and walked into the -meadow; he 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?” -</p> - -<p> -Charles made no answer. -</p> - -<p> -“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!” -</p> - -<p> -“That woman means mischief,” thought Charles, and compressed his lips. In a few -minutes he followed her indoors, as the ground was getting damp. Mists were -rising from the river, and presently it became invisible, though it whispered -more loudly. There had been a heavy downpour in the Welsh hills. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 26</h2> - -<p> -Next morning a fine mist covered the peninsula. The weather promised well, and -the outline of the castle mound grew clearer each moment that Margaret watched -it. Presently she saw the keep, and the sun painted the rubble gold, and -charged the white sky with blue. The shadow of the house gathered itself -together and fell over the garden. A cat looked up at her window and mewed. -Lastly the river appeared, still holding the mists between its banks and its -overhanging alders, and only visible as far as a hill, which cut off its upper -reaches. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was fascinated by Oniton. She had said that she loved it, but it was -rather its romantic tension that held her. The rounded Druids of whom she had -caught glimpses in her drive, the rivers hurrying down from them to England, -the carelessly modelled masses of the lower hills, thrilled her with poetry. -The house was insignificant, but the prospect from it would be an eternal joy, -and she thought of all the friends she would have to stop in it, and of the -conversion of Henry himself to a rural life. Society, too, promised favourably. -The rector of the parish had dined with them last night, and she found that he -was a friend of her father’s, and so knew what to find in her. She liked him. -He would introduce her to the town. While, on her other side, Sir James Bidder -sat, repeating that she only had to give the word, and he would whip up the -county families for twenty miles round. Whether Sir James, who was Garden -Seeds, had promised what he could perform, she doubted, but so long as Henry -mistook them for the county families when they did call, she was content. -</p> - -<p> -Charles 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? -</p> - -<p> -She thought of the bathing arrangements as they should be in her day—no -worrying of servants, no appliances, beyond good sense. Her reflections were -disturbed by the quiet child, who had come out to speak to the cat, but was now -watching her watch the men. She called, “Good-morning, dear,” a little sharply. -Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked round, and though completely -attired in indigo blue, vanished into the shed, and was seen no more. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Wilcox is up—” the child whispered, and then became unintelligible. -</p> - -<p> -“What’s that?” -</p> - -<p> -It sounded like, “—cut-yoke—sack back—” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t hear.” -</p> - -<p> -“—On the bed—tissue-paper—” -</p> - -<p> -Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would be seemly, -she went to Evie’s room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a petticoat, was -dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the other was adoring yards -of white satin. They screamed, they laughed, they sang, and the dog barked. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not feel that -a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her equipment. -</p> - -<p> -Evie gasped: “Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just then!” -Then Margaret went down to breakfast. -</p> - -<p> -Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was, in -Margaret’s eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion -successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss of his -daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt intact, only -issuing orders occasionally—orders that promoted the comfort of his guests. He -inquired after her hand; he set her to pour out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington -to pour out the tea. When Evie came down there was a moment’s awkwardness, and -both ladies rose to vacate their places. “Burton,” called Henry, “serve tea and -coffee from the 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, dear,” said he. “Of course, I have the time. What do you want?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was afraid something had gone wrong.” -</p> - -<p> -“No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk.” -</p> - -<p> -Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate. She heard -him with interest. Her surface could always respond to his without contempt, -though all her deeper being might be yearning to help him. She had abandoned -any plan of action. Love is the best, and the more she let herself love him, -the more chance was there that he would set his soul in order. Such a moment as -this, when they sat under fair weather by the walks of their future home, was -so sweet to her that its sweetness would surely pierce to him. Each lift of his -eyes, each parting of the thatched lip from the clean-shaven, must prelude the -tenderness that kills the Monk and the Beast at a single blow. Disappointed a -hundred times, she still hoped. She loved him with too clear a vision to fear -his cloudiness. Whether he droned trivialities, as today, or sprang kisses on -her in the twilight, she could pardon him, she could respond. -</p> - -<p> -“If there is this nasty curve,” she suggested, “couldn’t we walk to the church? -Not, of course, you and Evie; but the rest of us might very well go on first, -and that would mean fewer carriages.” -</p> - -<p> -“One can’t have ladies walking through the Market Square. The Fussells wouldn’t -like it; they were awfully particular at Charles’s wedding. My—she—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.” -</p> - -<p> -“You men shouldn’t be so chivalrous,” said Margaret thoughtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“Why not?” -</p> - -<p> -She knew why not, but said that she did not know. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -Certainly Oniton would take some digesting. It would be no small business to -remain herself, and yet to assimilate such an establishment. She must remain -herself, for his sake as well as her own, since a shadowy wife degrades the -husband whom she accompanies; and she must assimilate for reasons of common -honesty, since she had no right to marry a man and make him uncomfortable. Her -only ally was the power of Home. The loss of Wickham Place had taught her more -than its possession. Howards End had repeated the lesson. She was determined to -create new sanctities among these hills. -</p> - -<p> -After visiting the wine-cellar, she dressed, and then came the wedding, which -seemed a small affair when compared with the preparations for it. Everything -went like one o’clock. Mr. Cahill 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. -</p> - -<p> -There were more documents to sign at the house, and the breakfast to eat, and -then a few more people dropped in for the garden party. There had been a great -many refusals, and after all it was not a very big affair—not as big as -Margaret’s would be. She noted the dishes and the strips of red carpet, that -outwardly she might give Henry what was proper. But inwardly she hoped for -something better than this blend of Sunday church and fox-hunting. If only -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. -</p> - -<p> -So the wasted day lumbered forward, the bride and bridegroom drove off, yelling -with laughter, and for the second time the sun retreated towards the hills of -Wales. Henry, who was more tired than he owned, came up to her in the castle -meadow, and, in tones of unusual softness, said that he was pleased. Everything -had gone off so well. She felt that he was praising her, too, and blushed; -certainly she had done all she could with his intractable friends, and had made -a special point of 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“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.” -</p> - -<p> -“You desire a hotel?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, because—well, I mustn’t interfere with you. No doubt you want to be -married from your old home.” -</p> - -<p> -“My old home’s falling into pieces, Henry. I only want my new. Isn’t it a -perfect evening—” -</p> - -<p> -“The Alexandrina isn’t bad—” -</p> - -<p> -“The Alexandrina,” she echoed, more occupied with the threads of smoke that -were issuing from their chimneys, and ruling the sunlit slopes with parallels -of grey. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s off Curzon Street.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is it? Let’s be married from off Curzon Street.” -</p> - -<p> -Then she turned westward, to gaze at the swirling gold. Just where the river -rounded the hill the sun caught it. Fairyland must lie above the bend, and its -precious liquid was pouring towards them past Charles’s bathing-shed. She gazed -so long that her eyes were dazzled, and when they moved back to the house, she -could not recognize the faces of people who were coming out of it. A -parlour-maid was preceding them. -</p> - -<p> -“Who are those people?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“They’re callers!” exclaimed Henry. “It’s too late for callers.” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps they’re town people who want to see the wedding presents.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m not at home yet to townees.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, hide among the ruins, and if I can stop them, I will.” -</p> - -<p> -He thanked her. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret went forward, smiling socially. She supposed that these were -unpunctual guests, who would have to be content with vicarious civility, since -Evie and Charles were gone, Henry tired, and the others in their rooms. She -assumed the airs of a hostess; not for long. For one of the group was -Helen—Helen in her oldest clothes, and dominated by that tense, wounding -excitement that had made her a terror in their nursery days. -</p> - -<p> -“What is it?” she called. “Oh, what’s wrong? Is Tibby ill?” -</p> - -<p> -Helen spoke to her two companions, who fell back. Then she bore forward -furiously. -</p> - -<p> -“They’re starving!” she shouted. “I found them starving!” -</p> - -<p> -“Who? Why have you come?” -</p> - -<p> -“The Basts.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Helen!” moaned Margaret. “Whatever have you done now?” -</p> - -<p> -“He has lost his place. He has been turned out of his bank. Yes, he’s done for. -We upper classes have ruined him, and I suppose you’ll tell me it’s the battle -of life. Starving. His wife is ill. Starving. She fainted in the train.” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, are you mad?” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps. Yes. If you like, I’m mad. But I’ve brought them. I’ll stand -injustice no longer. I’ll show up the wretchedness that lies under this luxury, -this talk of impersonal forces, this cant about God doing what we’re too slack -to do ourselves.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you actually brought two starving people from London to Shropshire, -Helen?” -</p> - -<p> -Helen was checked. She had not thought of this, and her hysteria abated. “There -was a restaurant car on the train,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t be absurd. They aren’t starving, and you know it. Now, begin from the -beginning. I won’t have such theatrical nonsense. How dare you! Yes, how dare -you!” she repeated, as anger filled her, “bursting in to Evie’s wedding in this -heartless way. My goodness! but you’ve a perverted notion of philanthropy. -Look”—she indicated the house—“servants, people out of the windows. They think -it’s some vulgar scandal, and I must explain, ‘Oh no, it’s only my sister -screaming, and only two hangers-on of ours, whom she has brought here for no -conceivable reason.’” -</p> - -<p> -“Kindly take back that word ‘hangers-on,’” said Helen, ominously calm. -</p> - -<p> -“Very well,” conceded Margaret, who for all her wrath was determined to avoid a -real quarrel. “I, too, am sorry about them, but it beats me why you’ve brought -them here, or why you’re here yourself. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s our last chance of seeing Mr. Wilcox.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret moved towards the house at this. She was determined not to worry -Henry. -</p> - -<p> -“He’s going to Scotland. I know he is. I insist on seeing him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, tomorrow.” -</p> - -<p> -“I knew it was our last chance.” -</p> - -<p> -“How do you do, Mr. Bast?” said Margaret, trying to control her voice. “This is -an odd business. What view do you take of it?” -</p> - -<p> -“There is Mrs. Bast, too,” prompted Helen. -</p> - -<p> -Jacky also shook hands. She, like her husband, was shy, and, furthermore, ill, -and furthermore, so bestially stupid that she could not grasp what was -happening. She only knew that the lady had swept down like a whirlwind last -night, had paid the rent, redeemed the furniture, provided them with a dinner -and 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. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m sure I don’t want to intrude,” began Leonard, in answer to Margaret’s -question. “But you have been so kind to me in the past in warning me about the -Porphyrion that I wondered—why, I wondered whether—” -</p> - -<p> -“Whether we could get him back into the Porphyrion again,” supplied Helen. -“Meg, this has been a cheerful business. A bright evening’s work that was on -Chelsea Embankment.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret shook her head and returned to Mr. Bast. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t understand. You left the Porphyrion because we suggested it was a bad -concern, didn’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s right.” -</p> - -<p> -“And went into a bank instead?” -</p> - -<p> -“I told you all that,” said Helen; “and they reduced their staff after he had -been in a month, and now he’s penniless, and I consider that we and our -informant are directly to blame.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hate all this,” Leonard muttered. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope you do, Mr. Bast. But it’s no good mincing matters. You have done -yourself no good by coming here. If you intend to confront Mr. Wilcox, and to -call him to account for a chance remark, you will make a very great mistake.” -</p> - -<p> -“I brought them. I did it all,” cried Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“I can only advise you to go at once. My sister has put you in a false -position, and it is kindest to tell you so. It’s too late to get to town, but -you’ll find a comfortable hotel in Oniton, where Mrs. Bast can rest, and I hope -you’ll be my guests there.” -</p> - -<p> -“That isn’t what I want, Miss Schlegel,” said Leonard. “You’re very kind, and -no doubt it’s a false position, but you make me miserable. I seem no good at -all.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s work he wants,” interpreted Helen. “Can’t you see?” -</p> - -<p> -Then he said: “Jacky, let’s go. We’re more bother than we’re worth. We’re -costing these ladies pounds and pounds already to get work for us, and they -never will. There’s nothing we’re good enough to do.” -</p> - -<p> -“We would like to find you work,” said Margaret rather conventionally. “We want -to—I, like my sister. You’re only down in your luck. Go to the hotel, have a -good night’s rest, and some day you shall pay me back the bill, if you prefer -it.” -</p> - -<p> -But Leonard was near the abyss, and at such moments men see clearly. “You don’t -know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I shall never get work now. If rich -people fail at one profession, they can try another. Not I. I had my groove, -and I’ve got out of it. I could do one particular branch of insurance in one -particular office well enough to command a salary, but that’s all. Poetry’s -nothing, Miss Schlegel. One’s thoughts about this and that are nothing. Your -money, too, is nothing, if you’ll understand me. I mean if a man over twenty -once loses his own particular job, it’s all over with him. I have seen it -happen to others. Their friends gave them money for a little, but in the end -they fall over the edge. It’s no good. It’s the whole world pulling. There -always will be rich and poor.” -</p> - -<p> -He ceased. -</p> - -<p> -“Won’t you have something to eat?” said Margaret. “I don’t know what to do. It -isn’t my house, and though Mr. Wilcox would have been glad to see you at any -other time—as I say, I don’t know what to do, but I undertake to do what I can -for you. Helen, offer them something. Do try a sandwich, Mrs. Bast.” -</p> - -<p> -They moved to a long table behind which a servant was still standing. Iced -cakes, sandwiches innumerable, coffee, claret-cup, champagne, remained almost -intact: their overfed guests could do no more. Leonard refused. Jacky thought -she could manage a little. Margaret left them whispering together and had a few -more words with Helen. -</p> - -<p> -She said: “Helen, I like Mr. Bast. I agree that he’s worth helping. I agree -that we are directly responsible.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, indirectly. Via Mr. Wilcox.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let me tell you once for all that if you take up that attitude, I’ll do -nothing. No doubt you’re right logically, and are entitled to say a great many -scathing things about Henry. Only, I won’t have it. So choose. -</p> - -<p> -Helen looked at the sunset. -</p> - -<p> -“If you promise to take them quietly to the George, I will speak to Henry about -them—in my own way, mind; there is to be none of this absurd screaming about -justice. I have no use for justice. If it was only a question of money, we -could do it ourselves. But he wants work, and that we can’t give him, but -possibly Henry can.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s his duty to,” grumbled Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“Nor am I concerned with duty. I’m concerned with the characters of various -people whom we know, and how, things being as they are, things may be made a -little better. Mr. Wilcox hates being asked favours: all business men do. But I -am going to ask him, at the risk of a rebuff, because I want to make things a -little better.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well. I promise. You take it very calmly.” -</p> - -<p> -“Take them off to the George, then, and I’ll try. Poor creatures! but they look -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.” -</p> - -<p> -She rejoined Henry. Fortunately he had been sitting down: these physical -matters were important. “Was it townees?” he asked, greeting her with a -pleasant smile. -</p> - -<p> -“You’ll never believe me,” said Margaret, sitting down beside him. “It’s all -right now, but it was my sister.” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen here?” he cried, preparing to rise. “But she refused the invitation. I -thought she despised weddings.” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t get up. She has not come to the wedding. I’ve bundled her off to the -George.” -</p> - -<p> -Inherently hospitable, he protested. -</p> - -<p> -“No; she has two of her protégés with her, and must keep with -them.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let ’em all come.” -</p> - -<p> -“My dear Henry, did you see them?” -</p> - -<p> -“I did catch sight of a brown bunch of a woman, certainly. -</p> - -<p> -“The brown bunch was Helen, but did you catch sight of a sea-green and salmon -bunch?” -</p> - -<p> -“What! are they out beanfeasting?” -</p> - -<p> -“No; business. They wanted to see me, and later on I want to talk to you about -them.” -</p> - -<p> -She was ashamed of her own diplomacy. In dealing with a Wilcox, how tempting it -was to lapse from comradeship, and to give him the kind of woman that he -desired! Henry took the hint at once, and said: “Why later on? Tell me now. No -time like the present.” -</p> - -<p> -“Shall I?” -</p> - -<p> -“If it isn’t a long story.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, not five minutes; but there’s a sting at the end of it, for I want you to -find the man some work in your office.” -</p> - -<p> -“What are his qualifications?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know. He’s a clerk.” -</p> - -<p> -“How old?” -</p> - -<p> -“Twenty-five, perhaps.” -</p> - -<p> -“What’s his name?” -</p> - -<p> -“Bast,” said Margaret, and was about to remind him that they had met at Wickham -Place, but stopped herself. It had not been a successful meeting. -</p> - -<p> -“Where was he before?” -</p> - -<p> -“Dempster’s Bank.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why did he leave?” he asked, still remembering nothing. -</p> - -<p> -“They reduced their staff.” -</p> - -<p> -“All right; I’ll see him.” -</p> - -<p> -It was the reward of her tact and devotion through the day. Now she understood -why some women prefer influence to rights. Mrs. Plynlimmon, when condemning -suffragettes, had said: “The woman who can’t influence her husband to vote the -way she wants ought to be ashamed of herself.” Margaret had winced, but she was -influencing Henry now, and though pleased at her little victory, she knew that -she had won it by the methods of the harem. -</p> - -<p> -“I should be glad if you took him,” she said, “but I don’t know whether he’s -qualified.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll do what I can. But, Margaret, this mustn’t be taken as a precedent.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, of course—of course—” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t fit in your protégés every day. Business would suffer.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can promise you he’s the last. He—he’s rather a special case.” -</p> - -<p> -“Protégés always are.” -</p> - -<p> -She let it stand at that. He rose with a little extra touch of complacency, and -held out his hand to help her up. How wide the gulf between Henry as he was and -Henry as Helen thought he ought to be! And she herself—hovering as usual -between the two, now accepting men as they are, now yearning with her sister -for Truth. Love and Truth—their warfare seems eternal. Perhaps the whole -visible world rests on it, and if they were one, life itself, like the spirits -when Prospero was reconciled to his brother, might vanish into air, into thin -air. -</p> - -<p> -“Your protégé has made us late,” said he. “The Fussells will just -be starting.” -</p> - -<p> -On the whole she sided with men as they are. Henry would save the Basts as he -had saved Howards End, while Helen and her friends were discussing the ethics -of salvation. His was a slap-dash method, but the world has been built -slap-dash, and the beauty of mountain and river and sunset may be but the -varnish with which the unskilled artificer hides his joins. Oniton, like -herself, was imperfect. Its apple-trees were stunted, its castle ruinous. It, -too, had suffered in the border warfare between the Anglo Saxon and the 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. -</p> - -<p> -To her annoyance, Mrs. Bast was still in the garden; the husband and Helen had -left her there to finish her meal while they went to engage rooms. Margaret -found this woman repellent. She had felt, when shaking her hand, an -overpowering shame. She remembered the motive of her call at Wickham Place, and -smelt again odours from the abyss—odours the more disturbing because they were -involuntary. For there was no malice in Jacky. There she sat, a piece of cake -in one hand, an empty champagne glass in the other, doing no harm to anybody. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s overtired,” Margaret whispered. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s something else,” said Henry. “This won’t do. I can’t have her in my -garden in this state.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is she—” Margaret hesitated to add “drunk.” Now that she was going to marry -him, he had grown particular. He discountenanced risqué conversations -now. -</p> - -<p> -Henry went up to the woman. She raised her face, which gleamed in the twilight -like a puff-ball. -</p> - -<p> -“Madam, you will be more comfortable at the hotel,” he said sharply. -</p> - -<p> -Jacky replied: “If it isn’t Hen!” -</p> - -<p> -“Ne crois pas que le mari lui ressemble,” apologized Margaret. “Il est tout -à fait différent.” -</p> - -<p> -“Henry!” she repeated, quite distinctly. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox was much annoyed. “I can’t congratulate you on your -protégés,” he remarked. -</p> - -<p> -“Hen, don’t go. You do love me, dear, don’t you?” -</p> - -<p> -“Bless us, what a person!” sighed Margaret, gathering up her skirts. -</p> - -<p> -Jacky pointed with her cake. “You’re a nice boy, you are.” She yawned. “There -now, I love you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Henry, I am awfully sorry.” -</p> - -<p> -“And pray why?” he asked, and looked at her so sternly that she feared he was -ill. He seemed more scandalized than the facts demanded. -</p> - -<p> -“To have brought this down on you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Pray don’t apologize.” -</p> - -<p> -The voice continued. -</p> - -<p> -“Why does she call you ‘Hen’?” said Margaret innocently. “Has she ever seen you -before?” -</p> - -<p> -“Seen Hen before!” said Jacky. “Who hasn’t seen Hen? He’s serving you like me, -my dear. These boys! You wait—Still we love ’em.” -</p> - -<p> -“Are you now satisfied?” Henry asked. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret began to grow frightened. “I don’t know what it is all about,” she -said. “Let’s come in.” -</p> - -<p> -But he thought she was acting. He thought he was trapped. He saw his whole life -crumbling. “Don’t you indeed?” he said bitingly. “I do. Allow me to -congratulate you on the success of your plan.” -</p> - -<p> -“This is Helen’s plan, not mine.” -</p> - -<p> -“I now understand your interest in the Basts. Very well thought out. I am -amused at your caution, Margaret. You are quite right—it was necessary. I am a -man, and have lived a man’s past. I have the honour to release you from your -engagement.” -</p> - -<p> -Still she could not understand. She knew of life’s seamy side as a theory; she -could not grasp it as a fact. More words from Jacky were necessary—words -unequivocal, undenied. -</p> - -<p> -“So that—” burst from her, and she went indoors. She stopped herself from -saying more. -</p> - -<p> -“So what?” asked Colonel Fussell, who was getting ready to start in the hall. -</p> - -<p> -“We were saying—Henry and I were just having the fiercest argument, my point -being—” Seizing his fur coat from a footman, she offered to help him on. He -protested, and there was a playful little scene. -</p> - -<p> -“No, let me do that,” said Henry, following. -</p> - -<p> -“Thanks so much! You see—he has forgiven me!” -</p> - -<p> -The Colonel said gallantly: “I don’t expect there’s much to forgive. -</p> - -<p> -He got into the car. The ladies followed him after an interval. Maids, courier, -and heavier luggage had been sent on earlier by the branch—line. Still -chattering, still thanking their host and patronizing their future hostess, the -guests were home away. -</p> - -<p> -Then Margaret continued: “So that woman has been your mistress?” -</p> - -<p> -“You put it with your usual delicacy,” he replied. -</p> - -<p> -“When, please?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why?” -</p> - -<p> -“When, please?” -</p> - -<p> -“Ten years ago.” -</p> - -<p> -She left him without a word. For it was not her tragedy: it was Mrs. Wilcox’s. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 27</h2> - -<p> -Helen began to wonder why she had spent a matter of eight pounds in making some -people ill and others angry. Now that the wave of excitement was ebbing, and -had left her, Mr. Bast, and Mrs. Bast stranded for the night in a Shropshire -hotel, she asked herself what forces had made the wave flow. At all events, no -harm was done. Margaret would play the game properly now, and though Helen -disapproved of her sister’s methods, she knew that the Basts would benefit by -them in the long run. -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Wilcox is so illogical,” she explained to Leonard, who had put his wife to -bed, and was sitting with her in the empty coffee-room. “If we told him it was -his duty to take you on, he might refuse to do it. The fact is, he isn’t -properly educated. I don’t want to set you against him, but you’ll find him a -trial.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can never thank you sufficiently, Miss Schlegel,” was all that Leonard felt -equal to. -</p> - -<p> -“I believe in personal responsibility. Don’t you? And in personal everything. I -hate—I suppose I oughtn’t to say that—but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong tack -surely. Or perhaps it isn’t their fault. Perhaps the little thing that says ‘I’ -is missing out of the middle of their heads, and then it’s a waste of time to -blame them. There’s a nightmare of a theory that says a special race is being -born which will rule the rest of us in the future just because it lacks the -little thing that says ‘I.’ Had you heard that?” -</p> - -<p> -“I get no time for reading.” -</p> - -<p> -“Had you thought it, then? That there are two kinds of people—our kind, who -live straight from the middle of their heads, and the other kind who can’t, -because their heads have no middle? They can’t say ‘I.’ They <i>aren’t</i> in -fact, and so they’re supermen. Pierpont Morgan has never said ‘I’ in his life.” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard roused himself. If his benefactress wanted intellectual conversation, -she must have it. She was more important than his ruined past. “I never got on -to Nietzsche,” he said. “But I always understood that those supermen were -rather what you may call egoists.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, no, that’s wrong,” replied Helen. “No superman ever said ‘I want,’ because -‘I want’ must lead to the question, ‘Who am I?’ and so to Pity and to Justice. -He only says ‘want.’ ‘Want Europe,’ if he’s Napoleon; ‘want wives,’ if he’s -Bluebeard; ‘want Botticelli,’ if he’s Pierpont Morgan. Never the ‘I’; and if -you could pierce through him, you’d find panic and emptiness in the middle.” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard was silent for a moment. Then he said: “May I take it, Miss Schlegel, -that you and I are both the sort that say ‘I’?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course.” -</p> - -<p> -“And your sister too?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course,” repeated Helen, a little sharply. She was annoyed with Margaret, -but did not want her discussed. “All presentable people say ‘I.’” -</p> - -<p> -“But Mr. Wilcox—he is not perhaps—” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know that it’s any good discussing Mr. Wilcox either.” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite so, quite so,” he agreed. Helen asked herself why she had snubbed him. -Once or twice during the day she had encouraged him to criticize, and then had -pulled him up short. Was she afraid of him presuming? If so, it was disgusting -of her. -</p> - -<p> -But he was thinking the snub quite natural. Everything she did was natural, and -incapable of causing offence. While the Miss Schlegels were together he had -felt them scarcely human—a sort of admonitory whirligig. But a Miss Schlegel -alone was different. She was in Helen’s case unmarried, in Margaret’s about to -be married, in neither case an echo of her sister. A light had fallen at last -into this rich upper world, and he saw that it was full of men and women, some -of whom were more friendly to him than others. Helen had become “his” Miss -Schlegel, who scolded him and corresponded with him, and had swept down -yesterday with grateful vehemence. Margaret, though not unkind, was severe and -remote. He would not presume to help her, for instance. He had never liked her, -and began to think that his original impression was true, and that her sister -did not like her either. Helen was certainly lonely. She, who gave away so -much, was receiving too little. Leonard was pleased to think that he could -spare her vexation by holding his tongue and concealing what he knew about Mr. -Wilcox. Jacky had announced her discovery when he fetched her from the lawn. -After the first shock, he did not mind for himself. By now he had no illusions -about his wife, and this was only one new stain on the face of a love that had -never been pure. To keep perfection perfect, that should be his ideal, if the -future gave him time to have ideals. Helen, and Margaret for Helen’s sake, must -not know. -</p> - -<p> -Helen disconcerted him by fuming the conversation to his wife. “Mrs. Bast—does -she ever say ‘I’?” she asked, half mischievously, and then, “Is she very -tired?” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s better she stops in her room,” said Leonard. -</p> - -<p> -“Shall I sit up with her?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, thank you; she does not need company.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Bast, what kind of woman is your wife?” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard blushed up to his eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“You ought to know my ways by now. Does that question offend you?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, oh no, Miss Schlegel, no.” -</p> - -<p> -“Because I love honesty. Don’t pretend your marriage has been a happy one. You -and she can have nothing in common.” -</p> - -<p> -He did not deny it, but said shyly: “I suppose that’s pretty obvious; but Jacky -never meant to do anybody any harm. When things went wrong, or I heard things, -I used to think it was her fault, but, looking back, it’s more mine. I needn’t -have married her, but as I have I must stick to her and keep her.” -</p> - -<p> -“How long have you been married?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nearly three years.” -</p> - -<p> -“What did your people say?” -</p> - -<p> -“They will not have anything to do with us. They had a sort of family council -when they heard I was married, and cut us off altogether.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen began to pace up and down the room. “My good boy, what a mess!” she said -gently. “Who are your people?” -</p> - -<p> -He could answer this. His parents, who were dead, had been in trade; his -sisters had married commercial travellers; his brother was a lay-reader. -</p> - -<p> -“And your grandparents?” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard told her a secret that he had held shameful up to now. “They were just -nothing at all,” he said, “—agricultural labourers and that sort.” -</p> - -<p> -“So! From which part?” -</p> - -<p> -“Lincolnshire mostly, but my mother’s father—he, oddly enough, came from these -parts round here.” -</p> - -<p> -“From this very Shropshire. Yes, that is odd. My mother’s people were -Lancashire. But why do your brother and your sisters object to Mrs. Bast?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, I don’t know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Excuse me, you do know. I am not a baby. I can bear anything you tell me, and -the more you tell the more I shall be able to help. Have they heard anything -against her?” -</p> - -<p> -He was silent. -</p> - -<p> -“I think I have guessed now,” said Helen very gravely. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t think so, Miss Schlegel; I hope not.” -</p> - -<p> -“We must be honest, even over these things. I have guessed. I am frightfully, -dreadfully sorry, but it does not make the least difference to me. I shall feel -just the same to both of you. I blame, not your wife for these things, but -men.” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard left it at that—so long as she did not guess the man. She stood at the -window and slowly pulled up the blinds. The hotel looked over a dark square. -The mists had begun. When she turned back to him her eyes were shining. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you worry,” he pleaded. “I can’t bear that. We shall be all right if I -get work. If I could only get work—something regular to do. Then it wouldn’t be -so bad again. I don’t trouble after books as I used. I can imagine that with -regular work we should settle down again. It stops one thinking.” -</p> - -<p> -“Settle down to what?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, just settle down.” -</p> - -<p> -“And that’s to be life!” said Helen, with a catch in her throat. “How can you, -with all the beautiful things to see and do—with music—with walking at night—” -</p> - -<p> -“Walking is well enough when a man’s in work,” he answered. “Oh, I did talk a -lot of nonsense once, but there’s nothing like a bailiff in the house to drive -it out of you. When I saw him fingering my Ruskins and Stevensons, I seemed to -see life straight real, and it isn’t a pretty sight. My books are back again, -thanks to you, but they’ll never be the same to me again, and I shan’t ever -again think night in the woods is wonderful.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why not?” asked Helen, throwing up the window. -</p> - -<p> -“Because I see one must have money.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, you’re wrong.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wish I was wrong, but—the clergyman—he has money of his own, or else he’s -paid; the poet or the musician—just the same; the tramp—he’s no different. The -tramp goes to the workhouse in the end, and is paid for with other people’s -money. Miss Schlegel, the real thing’s money and all the rest is a dream.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re still wrong. You’ve forgotten Death.” -</p> - -<p> -Leonard could not understand. -</p> - -<p> -“If we lived 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.’” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder.” -</p> - -<p> -“We are all in a mist—I know but I can help you this far—men like the Wilcoxes -are deeper in the mist than any. Sane, sound Englishmen! building up empires, -levelling all the world into what they call common sense. But mention Death to -them and they’re offended, because Death’s really Imperial, and He cries out -against them for ever.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am as afraid of Death as any one.” -</p> - -<p> -“But not of the idea of Death.” -</p> - -<p> -“But what is the difference?” -</p> - -<p> -“Infinite difference,” said Helen, more gravely than before. -</p> - -<p> -Leonard looked at her wondering, and had the sense of great things sweeping out -of the shrouded night. But he could not receive them, because his heart was -still full of little things. As the lost umbrella had spoilt the concert at -Queen’s Hall, so the lost situation was obscuring the diviner harmonies now. -Death, Life and Materialism were fine words, but would Mr. Wilcox take him on -as a clerk? Talk as one would, Mr. Wilcox was king of this world, the superman, -with his own morality, whose head remained in the clouds. -</p> - -<p> -“I must be stupid,” he said apologetically. -</p> - -<p> -While to Helen the paradox became clearer and clearer. “Death destroys a man: -the idea of Death saves him.” Behind the coffins and the skeletons that stay -the vulgar mind lies something so immense that all that is great in us responds -to it. Men of the world may recoil from the charnel-house that they will one -day enter, but Love knows better. Death is his foe, but his peer, and in their -age-long struggle the thews of Love have been strengthened, and his vision -cleared, until there is no one who can stand against him. -</p> - -<p> -“So never give in,” continued the girl, and restated again and again the vague -yet convincing plea that the Invisible lodges against the Visible. Her -excitement grew as she tried to cut the rope that fastened Leonard to the -earth. Woven of bitter experience, it resisted her. Presently the waitress -entered and gave her a letter from Margaret. Another note, addressed to -Leonard, was inside. They read them, listening to the murmurings of the river. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 28</h2> - -<p> -For many hours Margaret did nothing; then she controlled herself, and wrote -some letters. She was too bruised to speak to Henry; she could pity him, and -even determine to marry him, but as yet all lay too deep in her heart for -speech. On the surface the sense of his degradation was too strong. She could -not command voice or look, and the gentle words that she forced out through her -pen seemed to proceed from some other person. -</p> - -<p> -“My dearest boy,” she began, “this is not to part us. It is everything or -nothing, and I mean it to be nothing. It happened long before we ever met, and -even if it had happened since, I should be writing the same, I hope. I do -understand.” -</p> - -<p> -But she crossed out “I do understand”; it struck a false note. Henry could not -bear to be understood. She also crossed out, “It is everything or nothing. -“Henry would resent so strong a grasp of the situation. She must not comment; -comment is unfeminine. -</p> - -<p> -“I think that’ll about do,” she thought. -</p> - -<p> -Then the sense of his degradation choked her. Was he worth all this bother? To -have yielded to a woman of that sort was everything, yes, it was, and she could -not be his wife. She tried to translate his temptation into her own language, -and her brain reeled. Men must be different, even to want to yield to such a -temptation. Her belief in comradeship was stifled, and she saw life as from -that glass saloon on the Great Western, which sheltered male and female alike -from the fresh air. Are the sexes really races, each with its own code of -morality, and their mutual love a mere device of Nature to keep things going? -Strip human intercourse of the proprieties, and is it reduced to this? Her -judgment told her no. She knew that out of Nature’s device we have built a -magic that will win us immortality. Far more mysterious than the call of sex to -sex is the tenderness that we throw into that call; far wider is the gulf -between us and the farmyard than between the 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: -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p> -Dear Mr. Bast, -</p> - -<p> -I have spoken to Mr. Wilcox about you, as I promised, and am sorry to say that -he has no vacancy for you. -</p> -</div> - -<p class="right"> -Yours truly,<br/> -M. J. Schlegel -</p> - -<p> -She enclosed this in a note to Helen, over which she took less trouble than she -might have done; but her head was aching, and she could not stop to pick her -words: -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p> -Dear Helen, -</p> - -<p> -Give him this. The Basts are no good. Henry found the woman drunk on the lawn. -I am having a room got ready for you here, and will you please come round at -once on getting this? The Basts are not at all the type we should trouble -about. I may go round to them myself in the morning, and do anything that is -fair. -</p> -</div> - -<p class="right"> -M -</p> - -<p> -In writing this, Margaret felt that she was being practical. Something might be -arranged for the Basts later on, but they must be silenced for the moment. She -hoped to avoid a conversation between the woman and Helen. She rang the bell -for a servant, but no one answered it; Mr. Wilcox and the Warringtons were gone -to bed, and the kitchen was abandoned to Saturnalia. Consequently she went over -to the George herself. She did not enter the hotel, for discussion would have -been perilous, and, saying that the letter was important, she gave it to the -waitress. As she recrossed the square she saw Helen and Mr. Bast looking out of -the window of the coffee-room, and feared she was already too late. Her task -was not yet over; she ought to tell Henry what she had done. -</p> - -<p> -This came easily, for she saw him in the hall. The night wind had been rattling -the pictures against the wall, and the noise had disturbed him. -</p> - -<p> -“Who’s there?” he called, quite the householder. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret walked in and past him. -</p> - -<p> -“I have asked Helen to sleep,” she said. “She is best here; so don’t lock the -front-door.” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought someone had got in,” said Henry. -</p> - -<p> -“At the same time I told the man that we could do nothing for him. I don’t know -about later, but now the Basts must clearly go.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did you say that your sister is sleeping here, after all?” -</p> - -<p> -“Probably.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is she to be shown up to your room?” -</p> - -<p> -“I have naturally nothing to say to her; I am going to bed. Will you tell the -servants about Helen? Could someone go to carry her bag?” -</p> - -<p> -He tapped a little gong, which had been bought to summon the servants. -</p> - -<p> -“You must make more noise than that if you want them to hear.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry opened a door, and down the corridor came shouts of laughter. “Far too -much screaming there,” he said, and strode towards it. Margaret went upstairs, -uncertain whether to be glad that they had met, or sorry. They had behaved as -if nothing had happened, and her deepest instincts told her that this was -wrong. For his own sake, some explanation was due. -</p> - -<p> -And yet—what could an explanation tell her? A date, a place, a few details, -which she could imagine all too clearly. Now that the first shock was over, she -saw that there was every reason to premise a Mrs. Bast. Henry’s inner life had -long laid open to her—his intellectual confusion, his obtuseness to personal -influence, his strong but furtive passions. Should she refuse him because his -outer life corresponded? Perhaps. Perhaps, if the dishonour had been done to -her, but it was done long before her day. She struggled against the feeling. -She told herself that Mrs. Wilcox’s wrong was her own. But she was not a -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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -Here was the core of the question. Henry must be forgiven, and made better by -love; nothing else mattered. Mrs. Wilcox, that unquiet yet kindly ghost, must -be left to her own wrong. To her everything was in proportion now, and she, -too, would pity the man who was blundering up and down their lives. Had Mrs. -Wilcox known of his trespass? An interesting question, but Margaret fell -asleep, tethered by affection, and lulled by the murmurs of the river that -descended all the night from Wales. She felt herself at one with her future -home, colouring it and coloured by it, and awoke to see, for the second time, -Oniton Castle conquering the morning mists. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 29</h2> - -<p> -“Henry dear—” was her greeting. -</p> - -<p> -He had finished his breakfast, and was beginning the <i>Times</i>. 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Henry dear, look at me. No, I won’t have you shirking. Look at me. There. -That’s all.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’re referring to last evening,” he said huskily. “I have released you from -your engagement. I could find excuses, but I won’t. No, I won’t. A thousand -times no. I’m a bad lot, and must be left at that.” -</p> - -<p> -Expelled from his old fortress, Mr. Wilcox was building a new one. He could no -longer appear respectable to her, so he defended himself instead in a lurid -past. It was not true repentance. -</p> - -<p> -“Leave it where you will, boy. It’s not going to trouble us: I know what I’m -talking about, and it will make no difference.” -</p> - -<p> -“No difference?” he inquired. “No difference, when you find that I am not the -fellow you thought?” He was annoyed with Miss Schlegel here. He would have -preferred her to be prostrated by the blow, or even to rage. Against the tide -of his sin flowed the feeling that she was not altogether womanly. Her eyes -gazed too straight; they had read books that are suitable for men only. And -though he had dreaded a scene, and though she had determined against one, there -was a scene, all the same. It was somehow imperative. -</p> - -<p> -“I am unworthy of you,” he began. “Had I been worthy, I should not have -released you from your engagement. I know what I am talking about. I can’t bear -to talk of such things. We had better leave it.” -</p> - -<p> -She kissed his hand. He jerked it from her, and, rising to his feet, went on: -“You, with your sheltered life, and refined pursuits, and friends, and books, -you and your sister, and women like you—I say, how can you guess the -temptations that lie round a man?” -</p> - -<p> -“It is difficult for us,” said Margaret; “but if we are worth marrying, we do -guess.” -</p> - -<p> -“Cut off from decent society and family ties, what do you suppose happens to -thousands of young fellows overseas? Isolated. No one near. I know by bitter -experience, and yet you say it makes ‘no difference.’” -</p> - -<p> -“Not to me.” -</p> - -<p> -He laughed bitterly. Margaret went to the 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Did Helen come?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -He shook his head. -</p> - -<p> -“But that won’t do at all, at all! We don’t want her gossiping with Mrs. Bast.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good God! no!” he exclaimed, suddenly natural. Then he caught himself up. “Let -them gossip. My game’s up, though I thank you for your unselfishness—little as -my thanks are worth.” -</p> - -<p> -“Didn’t she send me a message or anything?” -</p> - -<p> -“I heard of none.” -</p> - -<p> -“Would you ring the bell, please?” -</p> - -<p> -“What to do?” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, to inquire.” -</p> - -<p> -He swaggered up to it tragically, and sounded a peal. Margaret poured herself -out some coffee. The butler came, and said that Miss Schlegel had slept at the -George, so far as he had heard. Should he go round to the George? -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll go, thank you,” said Margaret, and dismissed him. -</p> - -<p> -“It is no good,” said Henry. “Those things leak out; you cannot stop a story -once it has started. I have known cases of other men—I despised them once, I -thought that <i>I’m</i> different, I shall never be tempted. Oh, Margaret—” He -came and sat down near her, improvising emotion. She could not bear to listen -to him. “We fellows all come to grief once in our time. Will you believe that? -There are moments when the strongest man—‘Let him who standeth, take heed lest -he fall.’ That’s true, isn’t it? If you knew all, you would excuse me. I was -far from good influences—far even from England. I was very, very lonely, and -longed for a woman’s voice. That’s enough. I have told you too much already for -you to forgive me now.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, that’s enough, dear.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have”—he lowered his voice—“I have been through hell.” -</p> - -<p> -Gravely she considered this claim. Had he? Had he suffered tortures of remorse, -or had it been, “There! that’s over. Now for respectable life again”? The -latter, if she read him rightly. A man who has been through hell does not boast -of his virility. He is humble and hides it, if, indeed, it still exists. Only -in legend does the sinner come forth penitent, but terrible, to conquer pure -woman by his resistless power. Henry was anxious to be terrible, but had not -got it in him. He was a good average Englishman, who had slipped. The really -culpable point—his faithlessness to Mrs. Wilcox—never seemed to strike him. She -longed to mention Mrs. Wilcox. -</p> - -<p> -And bit by bit the story was told her. It was a very simple story. Ten years -ago was the time, a garrison town in Cyprus the place. Now and then he asked -her whether she could possibly forgive him, and she answered, “I have already -forgiven you, Henry.” She chose her words carefully, and so saved him from -panic. She played the girl, until he could rebuild his fortress and hide his -soul from the world. When the butler came to clear away, Henry was in a very -different mood—asked the fellow what he was in such a hurry for, complained of -the noise last night in the servants’ hall. Margaret looked intently at the -butler. He, as a handsome young man, was faintly attractive to her as a -woman—an attraction so faint as scarcely to be perceptible, yet the skies would -have fallen if she had mentioned it to Henry. -</p> - -<p> -On her return from the George the building operations were complete, and the -old Henry fronted her, competent, cynical, and kind. He had made a clean -breast, had been forgiven, and the great thing now was to forget his failure, -and to send it the way of other unsuccessful investments. Jacky rejoined -Howards End and 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, let them go—the man and his wife, I mean, for the more we see of your -sister the better.” -</p> - -<p> -“But they have gone separately—Helen very early, the Basts just before I -arrived. They have left no message. They have answered neither of my notes. I -don’t like to think what it all means.” -</p> - -<p> -“What did you say in the notes?” -</p> - -<p> -“I told you last night.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh—ah—yes! Dear, would you like one turn in the garden?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret took his arm. The beautiful weather soothed her. But the wheels of -Evie’s wedding were still at work, tossing the guests outwards as deftly as -they had drawn them in, and she could not be with him long. It had been -arranged that they should motor to Shrewsbury, whence he would go north, and -she back to London with the Warringtons. For a fraction of time she was happy. -Then her brain recommenced. -</p> - -<p> -“I am afraid there has been gossiping of some kind at the George. Helen would -not have left unless she had heard something. I mismanaged that. It is -wretched. I ought to—have parted her from that woman at once. -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret!” he exclaimed, loosing her arm impressively. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes—yes, Henry?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am far from a saint—in fact, the reverse—but you have taken me, for better -or worse. Bygones must be bygones. You have promised to forgive me. Margaret, a -promise is a promise. Never mention that woman again.” -</p> - -<p> -“Except for some practical reason—never.” -</p> - -<p> -“Practical! You practical!” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I’m practical,” she murmured, stooping over the mowing-machine and -playing with the grass which trickled through her fingers like sand. -</p> - -<p> -He had silenced her, but her fears made him uneasy. Not for the first time, he -was threatened with blackmail. He was rich and supposed to be moral; the Basts -knew that he was not, and might find it profitable to hint as much. -</p> - -<p> -“At all events, you mustn’t worry,” he said. “This is a man’s business.” He -thought intently. “On no account mention it to anybody.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret flushed at advice so elementary, but he was really paving the way for -a lie. If necessary he would deny that he had ever known Mrs. Bast, and -prosecute her for libel. Perhaps he never had known her. Here was Margaret, who -behaved as if he had not. There the house. Round them were half a dozen -gardeners, clearing up after his daughter’s wedding. All was so solid and -spruce, that the past flew up out of sight like a spring-blind, leaving only -the last five minutes unrolled. -</p> - -<p> -Glancing at these, he saw that the car would be round during the next five, and -plunged into action. Gongs were tapped, orders issued, Margaret was sent to -dress, and the housemaid to sweep up the long trickle of grass that she had -left across the hall. As is Man to the Universe, so was the mind of Mr. Wilcox -to the minds of some men—a concentrated light upon a tiny spot, a little Ten -Minutes moving self-contained through its appointed years. No Pagan he, who -lives for the Now, and may be wiser than all philosophers. He lived for the -five minutes that have past, and the five to come; he had the business mind. -</p> - -<p> -How did he stand now, as his motor slipped out of Oniton and breasted the great -round hills? Margaret had heard a certain rumour, but was all right. She had -forgiven him, God bless her, and he felt the manlier for it. Charles and Evie -had not heard it, and never must hear. No more must Paul. Over his children he -felt great tenderness, which he did not try to track to a cause: Mrs. Wilcox -was too far back in his life. He did not connect her with the sudden aching -love that he felt for Evie. Poor little Evie! he trusted that Cahill would make -her a decent husband. -</p> - -<p> -And Margaret? How did she stand? -</p> - -<p> -She had several minor worries. Clearly her sister had heard something. She -dreaded meeting her in town. And she was anxious about Leonard, for whom they -certainly were responsible. Nor ought Mrs. Bast to starve. But the main -situation had not altered. She still loved Henry. His actions, not his -disposition, had disappointed her, and she could bear that. And she loved her -future home. Standing up in the car, just where she had leapt from it two days -before, she gazed back with deep emotion upon Oniton. Besides the Grange and -the Castle keep, she could now pick out the church and the black-and-white -gables of the George. There was the bridge, and the river nibbling its green -peninsula. She could even see the bathing-shed, but while she was looking for -Charles’s new springboard, the forehead of the hill rose up and hid the whole -scene. -</p> - -<p> -She never saw it again. Day and night the river flows down into England, day -after day the sun retreats into the Welsh mountains, and the tower chimes, “See -the Conquering Hero.” But the Wilcoxes have no part in the place, nor in any -place. It is not their names that recur in the parish register. It is not their -ghosts that sigh among the alders at evening. They have swept into the valley -and swept out of it, leaving a little dust and a little money behind. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 30</h2> - -<p> -Tibby was now approaching his last year at Oxford. He had moved out of college, -and was contemplating the Universe, or such portions of it as concerned him, -from his comfortable lodgings in Long Wall. He was not concerned with much. -When a young man is untroubled by passions and sincerely indifferent to public -opinion, his outlook is necessarily limited. Tibby 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. -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“I have come from Oniton,” she began. “There has been a great deal of trouble -there.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who’s for lunch?” said Tibby, picking up the claret, which was warming in the -hearth. Helen sat down submissively at the table. “Why such an early start?” he -asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Sunrise or something—when I could get away.” -</p> - -<p> -“So I surmise. Why?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know what’s to be done, Tibby. I am very much upset at a piece of news -that concerns Meg, and do not want to face her, and I am not going back to -Wickham Place. I stopped here to tell you this.” -</p> - -<p> -The landlady came in with the cutlets. Tibby put a marker in the leaves of his -Chinese Grammar and helped them. Oxford—the Oxford of the vacation—dreamed and -rustled outside, and indoors the little fire was coated with grey where the -sunshine touched it. Helen continued her odd story. -</p> - -<p> -“Give Meg my love and say that I want to be alone. I mean to go to Munich or -else Bonn.” -</p> - -<p> -“Such a message is easily given,” said her brother. -</p> - -<p> -“As regards Wickham Place and my share of the furniture, you and she are to do -exactly as you like. My own feeling is that everything may just as well be -sold. What does one want with dusty economic, books, which have made the world -no better, or with mother’s hideous chiffoniers? I have also another commission -for you. I want you to deliver a letter.” She got up. “I haven’t written it -yet. Why shouldn’t I post it, though?” She sat down again. “My head is rather -wretched. I hope that none of your friends are likely to come in.” -</p> - -<p> -Tibby locked the door. His friends often found it in this condition. Then he -asked whether anything had gone wrong at Evie’s wedding. -</p> - -<p> -“Not there,” said Helen, and burst into tears. -</p> - -<p> -He had known her hysterical—it was one of her aspects with which he had no -concern—and yet these tears touched him as something unusual. They were nearer -the things that did concern him, such as music. He laid down his knife and -looked at her curiously. Then, as she continued to sob, he went on with his -lunch. -</p> - -<p> -The time came for the second course, and she was still crying. Apple Charlotte -was to follow, which spoils by waiting. “Do you mind Mrs. Martlett coming in?” -he asked, “or shall I take it from her at the door?” -</p> - -<p> -“Could I bathe my eyes, Tibby?” -</p> - -<p> -He took her to his bedroom, and introduced the pudding in her absence. Having -helped himself, he put it down to warm in the hearth. His hand stretched -towards the Grammar, and soon he was turning over the pages, raising his -eyebrows scornfully, perhaps at human nature, perhaps at Chinese. To him thus -employed Helen returned. She had pulled herself together, but the grave appeal -had not vanished from her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Now for the explanation,” she said. “Why didn’t I begin with it? I have found -out something about Mr. Wilcox. He has behaved very wrongly indeed, and ruined -two people’s lives. It all came on me very suddenly last night; I am very much -upset, and I do not know what to do. Mrs. Bast—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, those people!” -</p> - -<p> -Helen seemed silenced. -</p> - -<p> -“Shall I lock the door again?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, thanks, Tibbikins. You’re being very good to me. I want to tell you the -story before I go abroad. You must do exactly what you like—treat it as part of -the furniture. Meg cannot have heard it yet, I think. But I cannot face her and -tell her that the man she is going to marry has misconducted himself. I don’t -even know whether she ought to be told. Knowing as she does that I dislike him, -she will suspect me, and think that I want to ruin her match. I simply don’t -know what to make of such a thing. I trust your judgment. What would you do?” -</p> - -<p> -“I gather he has had a mistress,” said Tibby. -</p> - -<p> -Helen flushed with shame and anger. “And ruined two people’s lives. And goes -about saying that personal actions count for nothing, and there always will be -rich and poor. He met her when he was trying to get rich out in Cyprus—I don’t -wish to make him worse than he is, and no doubt she was ready enough to meet -him. But there it is. They met. He goes his way and she goes hers. What do you -suppose is the end of such women?” -</p> - -<p> -He conceded that it was a bad business. -</p> - -<p> -“They end in two ways: Either they sink till the lunatic asylums and the -workhouses are full of them, and cause Mr. Wilcox to write letters to the -papers complaining of our national degeneracy, or else they entrap a boy into -marriage before it is too late. She—I can’t blame her. -</p> - -<p> -“But this isn’t all,” she continued after a long pause, during which the -landlady served them with coffee. “I come now to the business that took us to -Oniton. We went all three. Acting on Mr. Wilcox’s advice, the man throws up a -secure situation and takes an insecure one, from which he is dismissed. There -are certain excuses, but in the main Mr. Wilcox is to blame, as Meg herself -admitted. It is only common justice that he should employ the man himself. But -he meets the woman, and, like the cur that he is, he refuses, and tries to get -rid of them. He makes Meg write. Two notes came from her late that evening—one -for me, one for Leonard, dismissing him with barely a reason. I couldn’t -understand. Then it comes out that Mrs. Bast had spoken to Mr. Wilcox on the -lawn while we left her to get rooms, and was still speaking about him when -Leonard came back to her. This Leonard knew all along. He thought it natural he -should be ruined twice. Natural! Could you have contained yourself?. -</p> - -<p> -“It is certainly a very bad business,” said Tibby. -</p> - -<p> -His reply seemed to calm his sister. “I was afraid that I saw it out of -proportion. But you are right outside it, and you must know. In a day or two—or -perhaps a week—take whatever steps you think fit. I leave it in your hands.” -</p> - -<p> -She concluded her charge. -</p> - -<p> -“The facts as they touch Meg are all before you,” she added; and Tibby sighed -and felt it rather hard that, because of his open mind, he should be empanelled -to serve as a juror. He had never been interested in human beings, for which -one must blame him, but he had had rather too much of them at Wickham Place. -Just as some people cease to attend when books are mentioned, so Tibby’s -attention wandered when “personal relations” came under discussion. Ought -Margaret to know what Helen knew the Basts to know? Similar questions had vexed -him from infancy, and at Oxford he had learned to say that the importance of -human beings has been vastly overrated by specialists. The epigram, with its -faint whiff of the eighties, meant nothing. But he might have let it off now if -his sister had not been ceaselessly beautiful. -</p> - -<p> -“You see, Helen—have a cigarette—I don’t see what I’m to do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then there’s nothing to be done. I dare say you are right. Let them marry. -There remains the question of compensation.” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you want me to adjudicate that too? Had you not better consult an expert?” -</p> - -<p> -“This part is in confidence,” said Helen. “It has nothing to do with Meg, and -do not mention it to her. The compensation—I do not see who is to pay it if I -don’t, and I have already decided on the minimum sum. As soon as possible I am -placing it to your account, and when I am in Germany you will pay it over for -me. I shall never forget your kindness, Tibbikins, if you do this.” -</p> - -<p> -“What is the sum?” -</p> - -<p> -“Five thousand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good God alive!” said Tibby, and went crimson. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, what is the good of driblets? To go through life having done one thing—to -have raised one person from the abyss: not these puny gifts of shillings and -blankets—making the grey more grey. No doubt people will think me -extraordinary.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t care a damn what people think!” cried he, heated to unusual manliness -of diction. “But it’s half what you have.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not nearly half.” She spread out her hands over her soiled skirt. “I have far -too much, and we settled at Chelsea last spring that three hundred a year is -necessary to set a man on his feet. What I give will bring in a hundred and -fifty between two. It isn’t enough.” -</p> - -<p> -He could not recover. He was not angry or even shocked, and he saw that Helen -would still have plenty to live on. But it amazed him to think what haycocks -people can make of their lives. His delicate intonations would not work, and he -could only blurt out that the five thousand pounds would mean a great deal of -bother for him personally. -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t expect you to understand me.” -</p> - -<p> -“I? I understand nobody.” -</p> - -<p> -“But you’ll do it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Apparently.” -</p> - -<p> -“I leave you two commissions, then. The first concerns Mr. Wilcox, and you are -to use your discretion. The second concerns the money, and is to be mentioned -to no one, and carried out literally. You will send a hundred pounds on account -tomorrow.” -</p> - -<p> -He walked with her to the station, passing through those streets whose serried -beauty never bewildered him and never fatigued. The lovely creature raised -domes and spires into the cloudless blue, and only the ganglion of vulgarity -round Carfax showed how evanescent was the phantom, how faint its claim to -represent England. Helen, rehearsing her commission, noticed nothing: the Basts -were in her brain, and she retold the crisis in a meditative way, which might -have made other men curious. She was seeing whether it would hold. He asked her -once why she had taken the Basts right into the heart of Evie’s wedding. She -stopped like a frightened animal and said, “Does that seem to you so odd?” Her -eyes, the hand laid on the mouth, quite haunted him, until they were absorbed -into the figure of St. Mary the Virgin, before whom he paused for a moment on -the walk home. -</p> - -<p> -It is convenient to follow him in the discharge of his duties. Margaret -summoned him the next day. She was terrified at Helen’s flight, and he had to -say that she had called in at Oxford. Then she said: “Did she seem worried at -any rumour about Henry?” He answered, “Yes.” “I knew it was that!” she -exclaimed. “I’ll write to her.” Tibby was relieved. -</p> - -<p> -He then sent the cheque to the address that Helen gave him, and stated that -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. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 31</h2> - -<p> -Houses have their own ways of dying, falling as variously as the generations of -men, some with a tragic roar, some quietly, but to an after-life in the city of -ghosts, while from others—and thus was the death of Wickham Place—the spirit -slips before the body perishes. It had decayed in the spring, disintegrating -the girls more than they knew, and causing either to accost unfamiliar regions. -By September it was a corpse, void of emotion, and scarcely hallowed by the -memories of thirty years of happiness. Through its round-topped doorway passed -furniture, and pictures, and books, until the last room was gutted and the last -van had rumbled away. It stood for a week or two longer, open-eyed, as if -astonished at its own emptiness. Then it fell. Navvies came, and spilt it back -into the grey. With their muscles and their beery good temper, they were not -the worst of undertakers for a house which had always been human, and had not -mistaken culture for an end. -</p> - -<p> -The furniture, with a few exceptions, went down into Hertfordshire, Mr. Wilcox -having most kindly offered Howards End as a warehouse. Mr. Bryce had died -abroad—an unsatisfactory affair—and as there seemed little guarantee that the -rent would be paid regularly, he cancelled the agreement, and resumed -possession himself. Until he relet the house, the Schlegels were welcome to -stack their furniture in the garage and lower rooms. Margaret demurred, but -Tibby accepted the offer gladly; it saved him from coming to any decision about -the future. The plate and the more valuable pictures found a safer home in -London, but the bulk of the things went country-ways, and were entrusted to the -guardianship of Miss Avery. -</p> - -<p> -Shortly before the move, our hero and heroine were married. They have weathered -the storm, and may reasonably expect peace. To have no illusions and yet to -love—what stronger surety can a woman find? She had seen her husband’s past as -well as his heart. She knew her own heart with a thoroughness that commonplace -people believe impossible. The heart of Mrs. Wilcox was alone hidden, and -perhaps it is superstitious to speculate on the feelings of the dead. They were -married quietly—really quietly, for as the day approached she refused to go -through another Oniton. Her brother gave her away, her aunt, who was out of -health, presided over a few colourless refreshments. The Wilcoxes were -represented by Charles, who witnessed the marriage settlement, and by Mr. -Cahill. Paul did send a cablegram. In a few minutes, and without the aid of -music, the clergyman made them man and wife, and soon the glass shade had -fallen that cuts off married couples from the world. She, a monogamist, -regretted the cessation of some of life’s innocent odours; he, whose instincts -were polygamous, felt morally braced by the change, and less liable to the -temptations that had assailed him in the past. -</p> - -<p> -They spent their honeymoon near Innsbruck. Henry knew of a reliable hotel -there, and Margaret hoped for a meeting with her sister. In this she was -disappointed. As they came south, Helen retreated over the Brenner, and wrote -an unsatisfactory 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. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox was not sorry that the meeting failed. Helen left him time to grow -skin over his wound. There were still moments when it pained him. Had he only -known that Margaret was awaiting him—Margaret, so lively and intelligent, and -yet so submissive—he would have kept himself worthier of her. Incapable of -grouping the past, he confused the episode of Jacky with another episode that -had taken place in the days of his bachelorhood. The two made one crop of wild -oats, for which he was heartily sorry, and he could not see that those oats are -of a darker stock which are rooted in another’s dishonour. Unchastity and -infidelity were as confused to him as to the Middle Ages, his only moral -teacher. Ruth (poor old Ruth!) did not enter into his calculations at all, for -poor old Ruth had never found him out. -</p> - -<p> -His affection for his present wife grew steadily. Her cleverness gave him no -trouble, and, indeed, he liked to see her reading poetry or something about -social questions; it distinguished her from the wives of other men. He had only -to call, and she clapped the book up and was ready to do what he wished. Then -they would argue so jollily, and once or twice she had him in quite a tight -corner, but as soon as he grew really serious, she gave in. Man is for war, -woman for the recreation of the warrior, but he does not dislike it if she -makes a show of fight. She cannot win in a real battle, having no muscles, only -nerves. Nerves make her jump out of a moving motor-car, or refuse to be married -fashionably. The warrior may well allow her to triumph on such occasions; they -move not the imperishable plinth of things that touch his peace. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret had a bad attack of these nerves during the honeymoon. He told -her—casually, as was his habit—that Oniton Grange was let. She showed her -annoyance, and asked rather crossly why she had not been consulted. -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t want to bother you,” he replied. “Besides, I have only heard for -certain this morning.” -</p> - -<p> -“Where are we to live?” said Margaret, trying to laugh. “I loved the place -extraordinarily. Don’t you believe in having a permanent home, Henry?” -</p> - -<p> -He assured her that she misunderstood him. It is home life that distinguishes -us from the foreigner. But he did not believe in a damp home. -</p> - -<p> -“This is news. I never heard till this minute that Oniton was damp.” -</p> - -<p> -“My dear girl!”—he flung out his hand—“have you eyes? have you a skin? How -could it be anything but damp in such a situation? In the first place, the -Grange is on clay, and built where the castle moat must have been; then there’s -that 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.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret could not resist saying, “Why did you go there, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“I—because—” He drew his head back and grew rather angry. “Why have we come to -the Tyrol, if it comes to that? One might go on asking such questions -indefinitely.” -</p> - -<p> -One might; but he was only gaining time for a plausible answer. Out it came, -and he believed it as soon as it was spoken. -</p> - -<p> -“The truth is, I took Oniton on account of Evie. Don’t let this go any -further.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly not.” -</p> - -<p> -“I shouldn’t like her to know that she nearly let me in for a very bad bargain. -No sooner did I sign the agreement than she got engaged. Poor little girl! She -was so keen on it all, and wouldn’t even wait to make proper inquiries about -the shooting. Afraid it would get snapped up—just like all of your sex. Well, -no harm’s done. She has had her country wedding, and I’ve got rid of my house -to some fellows who are starting a preparatory school.” -</p> - -<p> -“Where shall we live, then, Henry? I should enjoy living somewhere.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have not yet decided. What about Norfolk?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was silent. Marriage had not saved her from the sense of flux. London -was but a foretaste of this nomadic 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! -</p> - -<p> -“It is now what?” continued Henry. “Nearly October. Let us camp for the winter -at Ducie Street, and look out for something in the spring. -</p> - -<p> -“If possible, something permanent. I can’t be as young as I was, for these -alterations don’t suit me.” -</p> - -<p> -“But, my dear, which would you rather have—alterations or rheumatism?” -</p> - -<p> -“I see your point,” said Margaret, getting up. “If Oniton is really damp, it is -impossible, and must be inhabited by little boys. Only, in the spring, let us -look before we leap. I will take warning by Evie, and not hurry you. Remember -that you have a free hand this time. These endless moves must be bad for the -furniture, and are certainly expensive.” -</p> - -<p> -“What a practical little woman it is! What’s it been reading? Theo—theo—how -much?” -</p> - -<p> -“Theosophy.” -</p> - -<p> -So Ducie Street was her first fate—a pleasant enough fate. The house, being -only a little larger than Wickham Place, trained her for the immense -establishment that was promised in the spring. They were frequently away, but -at home life ran fairly regularly. In the morning Henry went to 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. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 32</h2> - -<p> -She was looking at plans one day in the following spring—they had finally -decided to go down into Sussex and build—when Mrs. Charles Wilcox was -announced. -</p> - -<p> -“Have you heard the news?” Dolly cried, as soon as she entered the room. -“Charles is so ang—I mean he is sure you know about it, or rather, that you -don’t know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why, Dolly!” said Margaret, placidly kissing her. “Here’s a surprise! How are -the boys and the baby?” -</p> - -<p> -Boys and the baby were well, and in describing a great row that there had been -at Hilton Tennis Club, Dolly forgot her news. The wrong people had tried to get -in. The rector, as representing the older inhabitants, had said—Charles had -said—the tax-collector had said—Charles had regretted not saying—and she closed -the description with, “But lucky you, with four courts of your own at -Midhurst.” -</p> - -<p> -“It will be very jolly,” replied Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Are those the plans? Does it matter me seeing them?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course not.” -</p> - -<p> -“Charles has never seen the plans.” -</p> - -<p> -“They have only just arrived. Here is the ground floor—no, that’s rather -difficult. Try the elevation. We are to have a good many gables and a -picturesque sky-line.” -</p> - -<p> -“What makes it smell so funny?” said Dolly, after a moment’s inspection. She -was incapable of understanding plans or maps. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose the paper.” -</p> - -<p> -“And <i>which</i> way up is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Just the ordinary way up. That’s the sky-line, and the part that smells -strongest is the sky.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, ask me another. Margaret—oh—what was I going to say? How’s Helen?” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite well.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is she never coming back to England? Every one thinks it’s awfully odd she -doesn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“So it is,” said Margaret, trying to conceal her vexation. She was getting -rather sore on this point. “Helen is odd, awfully. She has now been away eight -months. -</p> - -<p> -“But hasn’t she any address?” -</p> - -<p> -“A poste restante somewhere in Bavaria is her address. Do write her a line. I -will look it up for you.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, don’t bother. That’s eight months she has been away, surely?” -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly. She left just after Evie’s wedding. It would be eight months.” -</p> - -<p> -“Just when baby was born, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“Just so.” -</p> - -<p> -Dolly sighed, and stared enviously round the drawing-room. She was beginning to -lose her brightness and good looks. The Charles’ 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why has she done that? How unnecessary!” -</p> - -<p> -“Ask another. I suppose you ordered her to.” -</p> - -<p> -“I gave no such orders. Perhaps she was airing the things. She did undertake to -light an occasional fire.” -</p> - -<p> -“It was far more than an air,” said Dolly solemnly. “The floor sounds covered -with books. Charles sent me to know what is to be done, for he feels certain -you don’t know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Books!” cried Margaret, moved by the holy word. “Dolly, are you serious? Has -she been touching our books?” -</p> - -<p> -“Hasn’t she, though! What used to be the hall’s full of them. Charles thought -for certain you knew of it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am very much obliged to you, Dolly. What can have come over Miss Avery? I -must go down about it at once. Some of the books are my brother’s, and are -quite valuable. She had no right to open any of the cases.” -</p> - -<p> -“I say she’s dotty. She was the one that never got married, you know. Oh, I -say, perhaps she thinks your books are wedding-presents to herself. Old maids -are taken that way sometimes. Miss Avery hates us all like poison ever since -her frightful dust-up with Evie.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hadn’t heard of that,” said Margaret. A visit from Dolly had its -compensations. -</p> - -<p> -“Didn’t you know she gave Evie a present last August, and Evie returned it, and -then—oh, goloshes! You never read such a letter as Miss Avery wrote.” -</p> - -<p> -“But it was wrong of Evie to return it. It wasn’t like her to do such a -heartless thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“But the present was so expensive.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why does that make any difference, Dolly?” -</p> - -<p> -“Still, when it costs over five pounds—I didn’t see it, but it was a lovely -enamel pendant from a Bond Street shop. You can’t very well accept that kind of -thing from a farm woman. Now, can you?” -</p> - -<p> -“You accepted a present from Miss Avery when you were married. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, mine was old earthenware stuff—not worth a halfpenny. Evie’s was quite -different. You’d have to ask 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“But Miss Avery said—” -</p> - -<p> -Dolly’s eyes grew round. “It was a perfectly awful letter. Charles said it was -the letter of a madman. In the end she had the pendant back again from the shop -and threw it into the duckpond. -</p> - -<p> -“Did she give any reasons?” -</p> - -<p> -“We think she meant to be invited to Oniton, and so climb into society.” -</p> - -<p> -“She’s rather old for that,” said Margaret pensively. “May not she have given -the present to Evie in remembrance of her mother?” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s a notion. Give every one their due, eh? Well, I suppose I ought to be -toddling. Come along, Mr. Muff—you want a new coat, but I don’t know who’ll -give it you, I’m sure;” and addressing her apparel with mournful humour, Dolly -moved from the room. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret followed her to ask whether Henry knew about Miss Avery’s rudeness. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“I wonder, then, why he let me ask her to look after the house.” -</p> - -<p> -“But she’s only a farm woman,” said Dolly, and her explanation proved correct. -Henry only censured the lower classes when it suited him. He bore with Miss -Avery as with Crane—because he could get good value out of them. “I have -patience with a man who knows his job,” he would say, really having patience -with the job, and not the man. Paradoxical as it may sound, he had something of -the artist about him; he would pass over an insult to his daughter sooner than -lose a good charwoman for his wife. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret judged it better to settle the little trouble herself. Parties were -evidently ruffled. With Henry’s permission, she wrote a pleasant note to Miss -Avery, asking her to leave the cases untouched. Then, at the first convenient -opportunity, she went down herself, intending to repack her belongings and -store them properly in the local warehouse: the plan had been amateurish and a -failure. Tibby promised to accompany her, but at the last moment begged to be -excused. So, for the second time in her life, she entered the house alone. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 33</h2> - -<p> -The day of her visit was exquisite, and the last of unclouded happiness that -she was to have for many months. Her anxiety about Helen’s extraordinary -absence was still dormant, and as for a possible brush with Miss Avery—that -only gave zest to the expedition. She had also eluded Dolly’s invitation to -luncheon. Walking straight up from the station, she crossed the village green -and entered the long chestnut avenue that connects it with the church. The -church itself stood in the village once. But it there attracted so many -worshippers that the devil, in a pet, snatched it from its foundations, and -poised it on an inconvenient knoll, three-quarters of a mile away. If this -story is true, the chestnut avenue must have been planted by the angels. No -more tempting approach could be imagined for the 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. -</p> - -<p> -Up the avenue Margaret strolled slowly, stopping to watch the sky that gleamed -through the upper branches of the chestnuts, or to finger the little horseshoes -on the lower branches. Why has not England a great mythology? Our folklore has -never advanced beyond daintiness, and the greater melodies about our -country-side have all issued through the pipes of Greece. Deep and true as the -native imagination can be, it seems to have failed here. It has stopped with -the witches and the fairies. It cannot vivify one fraction of a summer field, -or give names to half a dozen stars. England still waits for the supreme moment -of her literature—for the great poet who shall voice her, or, better still, for -the thousand little poets whose voices shall pass into our common talk. -</p> - -<p> -At the church the scenery changed. The chestnut avenue opened into a road, -smooth but narrow, which led into the untouched country. She followed it for -over a mile. Its little hesitations pleased her. Having no urgent destiny, it -strolled downhill or up as it wished, taking no trouble about the gradients, -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. -</p> - -<p> -But the inside of the farm was disappointing. A most finished young person -received her. “Yes, Mrs. Wilcox; no, Mrs. Wilcox; oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, auntie -received your letter quite duly. Auntie has gone up to your little place at the -present moment. Shall I send the servant to direct you?” Followed by: “Of -course, auntie does not generally look after your place; she only does it to -oblige a neighbour as something exceptional. It gives her something to do. She -spends quite a lot of her time there. My husband says to me sometimes, ‘Where’s -auntie?’ I say, ‘Need you ask? She’s at Howards End.’ Yes, Mrs. Wilcox. Mrs. -Wilcox, could I prevail upon you to accept a piece of cake? Not if I cut it for -you?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret refused the cake, but unfortunately this acquired her gentility in the -eyes of Miss Avery’s niece. -</p> - -<p> -“I cannot let you go on alone. Now don’t. You really mustn’t. I will direct you -myself if it comes to that. I must get my hat. Now”—roguishly—“Mrs. Wilcox, -don’t you move while I’m gone.” -</p> - -<p> -Stunned, Margaret did not move from the best parlour, over which the touch of -art nouveau had fallen. But the other rooms looked in keeping, though they -conveyed the peculiar sadness of a rural interior. Here had lived an elder -race, to which we look back with disquietude. The country which we visit at -week-ends was really a home to it, and the graver sides of life, the deaths, -the partings, the yearnings for love, have their deepest expression in the -heart of the fields. All was not sadness. The sun was shining without. The -thrush sang his two syllables on the budding guelder-rose. Some children were -playing uproariously in heaps of golden straw. It was the presence of sadness -at all that surprised Margaret, and ended by giving her a feeling of -completeness. In these English farms, if anywhere, one might see life steadily -and see it whole, group in one vision its transitoriness and its eternal youth, -connect—connect without bitterness until all men are brothers. But her thoughts -were interrupted by the return of Miss Avery’s niece, and were so -tranquillizing that she suffered the interruption gladly. -</p> - -<p> -It was quicker to go out by the back door, and, after due explanations, they -went out by it. The niece was now mortified by 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. -</p> - -<p> -The two women walked up the lane full of outward civility. But Margaret was -thinking how difficult it was to be earnest about furniture on such a day, and -the niece was thinking about hats. Thus engaged, they reached Howards End. -Petulant cries of “Auntie!” severed the air. There was no reply, and the front -door was locked. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you sure that Miss Avery is up here?” asked Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, Mrs. Wilcox, quite sure. She is here daily.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret tried to look in through the dining-room window, but the curtain -inside was drawn tightly. So with the drawing-room and the hall. The appearance -of these curtains was familiar, yet she did not remember 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, well!” replied someone inside the house. “If it isn’t Mrs. Wilcox come -at last!” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you got the key, auntie?” -</p> - -<p> -“Madge, go away,” said Miss Avery, still invisible. -</p> - -<p> -“Auntie, it’s Mrs. Wilcox—” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret supported her. “Your niece and I have come together—” -</p> - -<p> -“Madge, go away. This is no moment for your hat.” -</p> - -<p> -The poor woman went red. “Auntie gets more eccentric lately,” she said -nervously. -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Avery!” called Margaret. “I have come about the furniture. Could you -kindly let me in?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox,” said the voice, “of course.” But after that came silence. -They called again without response. They walked round the house disconsolately. -</p> - -<p> -“I hope Miss Avery is not ill,” hazarded Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” said Madge, “perhaps I ought to be leaving you -now. The servants need seeing to at the farm. Auntie is so odd at times.” -Gathering up her elegancies, she retired defeated, and, as if her departure had -loosed a spring, the front door opened at once. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Avery said, “Well, come right in, Mrs. Wilcox!” quite pleasantly and -calmly. -</p> - -<p> -“Thank you so much,” began Margaret, but broke off at the sight of an -umbrella-stand. It was her own. -</p> - -<p> -“Come right into the hall first,” said Miss Avery. She drew the curtain, and -Margaret uttered a cry of despair. For an appalling thing had happened. The -hall was fitted up with the contents of the library from Wickham Place. The -carpet had been laid, the big work-table drawn up near the window; the -bookcases filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and her father’s sword—this -is what bewildered her particularly—had been drawn from its scabbard and hung -naked amongst the sober volumes. Miss Avery must have worked for days. -</p> - -<p> -“I’m afraid this isn’t what we meant,” she began. “Mr. Wilcox and I never -intended the cases to be touched. For instance, these books are my brother’s. -We are storing them for him and for my sister, who is abroad. When you kindly -undertook to look after things, we never expected you to do so much.” -</p> - -<p> -“The house has been empty long enough,” said the old woman. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret refused to argue. “I dare say we didn’t explain,” she said civilly. -“It has been a mistake, and very likely our mistake.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Wilcox, it has been mistake upon mistake for fifty years. The house is -Mrs. Wilcox’s, and she would not desire it to stand empty any longer.” -</p> - -<p> -To help the poor decaying brain, Margaret said: -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mrs. Wilcox’s house, the mother of Mr. Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mistake upon mistake,” said Miss Avery. “Mistake upon mistake.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, I don’t know,” said Margaret, sitting down in one of her own chairs. “I -really don’t know what’s to be done.” She could not help laughing. -</p> - -<p> -The other said: “Yes, it should be a merry house enough.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know—I dare say. Well, thank you very much, Miss Avery. Yes, that’s -all right. Delightful.” -</p> - -<p> -“There is still the parlour.” She went through the door opposite and drew a -curtain. Light flooded the drawing-room 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is all a mistake,” repeated Margaret, feeling that she must put her foot -down. “A misunderstanding. Mr. Wilcox and I are not going to live at Howards -End.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, indeed. On account of his hay fever?” -</p> - -<p> -“We have settled to build a new home for ourselves in Sussex, and part of this -furniture—my part—will go down there presently.” She looked at Miss Avery -intently, trying to understand the kink in her brain. 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. -</p> - -<p> -“You think that you won’t come back to live here, Mrs. Wilcox, but you will.” -</p> - -<p> -“That remains to be seen,” said Margaret, smiling. “We have no intention of -doing so for the present. We happen to need a much larger house. Circumstances -oblige us to give big parties. Of course, some day—one never knows, does one?” -</p> - -<p> -Miss Avery retorted: “Some day! Tcha! tcha! Don’t talk about some day. You are -living here now.” -</p> - -<p> -“Am I?” -</p> - -<p> -“You are living here, and have been for the last ten minutes, if you ask me.” -</p> - -<p> -It was a senseless remark, but with a queer feeling of disloyalty Margaret rose -from her chair. She felt that Henry had been obscurely censured. They went into -the dining-room, where the sunlight poured in upon her mother’s chiffonier, and -upstairs, where many an old god peeped from a new niche. The furniture fitted -extraordinarily well. In the central room—over the hall, the room that Helen -had slept in four years ago—Miss Avery had placed Tibby’s old bassinette. -</p> - -<p> -“The nursery,” she said. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret turned away without speaking. -</p> - -<p> -At last everything was seen. The kitchen and lobby were still stacked with -furniture and straw, but, as far as she could make out, nothing had been broken -or scratched. A pathetic display of ingenuity! Then they took a friendly stroll -in the garden. It had gone wild since her last visit. The gravel sweep was -weedy, and grass had sprung up at the very jaws of the garage. And Evie’s -rockery was only bumps. Perhaps Evie was responsible for Miss Avery’s oddness. -But Margaret suspected that the cause lay deeper, and that the girl’s silly -letter had but loosed the irritation of years. -</p> - -<p> -“It’s a beautiful meadow,” she remarked. It was one of those open-air -drawing-rooms that have been formed, hundreds of years ago, out of the smaller -fields. So the boundary hedge zigzagged down the hill at right angles, and at -the bottom there was a little green annex—a sort of powder-closet for the cows. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, the maidy’s well enough,” said Miss Avery, “for those that is, who don’t -suffer from sneezing.” And she cackled maliciously. “I’ve seen Charlie Wilcox -go out to my lads in hay time—oh, they ought to do this—they mustn’t do -that—he’d learn them to be lads. And just then the tickling took him. He has it -from his father, with other things. There’s not one Wilcox that can stand up -against a field in June—I laughed fit to burst while he was courting Ruth.” -</p> - -<p> -“My brother gets hay fever too,” said Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“This house lies too much on the land for them. Naturally, they were glad -enough to slip in at first. But Wilcoxes are better than nothing, as I see -you’ve found.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret laughed. -</p> - -<p> -“They keep a place going, don’t they? Yes, it is just that.” -</p> - -<p> -“They keep England going, it is my opinion.” -</p> - -<p> -But Miss Avery upset her by replying: “Ay, they breed like rabbits. Well, well, -it’s a funny world. But He who made it knows what He wants in it, I suppose. If -Mrs. Charlie is expecting her fourth, it isn’t for us to repine.” -</p> - -<p> -“They breed and they also work,” said Margaret, conscious of some invitation to -disloyalty, which was echoed by the very breeze and by the songs of the birds. -“It certainly is a funny world, but so long as men like my husband and his sons -govern it, I think it’ll never be a bad one—never really bad.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, better’n nothing,” said Miss Avery, and turned to the wych-elm. -</p> - -<p> -On their way back to the farm she spoke of her old friend much more clearly -than before. In the house Margaret had wondered whether she quite distinguished -the first wife from the second. Now she said: “I never saw much of Ruth after -her grandmother died, but we stayed civil. It was a very civil family. Old Mrs. -Howard never spoke against anybody, nor let 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Had they no men to help them?” Margaret asked. -</p> - -<p> -Miss Avery replied: “Things went on until there were no men.” -</p> - -<p> -“Until Mr. Wilcox came along,” corrected Margaret, anxious that her husband -should receive his dues. -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose so; but Ruth should have married a—no disrespect to you to say this, -for I take it you were intended to get Wilcox any way, whether she got him -first or no.” -</p> - -<p> -“Whom should she have married?” -</p> - -<p> -“A soldier!” exclaimed the old woman. “Some real soldier.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was silent. It was a criticism of Henry’s character far more trenchant -than any of her own. She felt dissatisfied. -</p> - -<p> -“But that’s all over,” she went on. “A better time is coming now, though you’ve -kept me long enough waiting. In a couple of weeks I’ll see your lights shining -through the hedge of an evening. Have you ordered in coals?” -</p> - -<p> -“We are not coming,” said Margaret firmly. She respected Miss Avery too much to -humour her. “No. Not coming. Never coming. It has all been a mistake. The -furniture must be repacked at once, and I am very sorry but I am making other -arrangements, and must ask you to give me the keys.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, Mrs. Wilcox,” said Miss Avery, and resigned her duties with a -smile. -</p> - -<p> -Relieved at this conclusion, and having sent her compliments to Madge, Margaret -walked back to the station. She had intended to go to the furniture warehouse -and give directions for removal, but the muddle had turned out more extensive -than she expected, so she decided to consult Henry. It was as well that she did -this. He was strongly against employing the local man whom he had previously -recommended, and advised her to store in London after all. -</p> - -<p> -But before this could be done an unexpected trouble fell upon her. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 34</h2> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Important—Margaret dear, take the Lulworth when Helen comes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen won’t be able to stop, Aunt Juley. She has telegraphed that she can only -get away just to see you. She must go back to Germany as soon as you are well.” -</p> - -<p> -“How very odd of Helen! Mr. Wilcox—” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, dear?” -</p> - -<p> -“Can he spare you?” -</p> - -<p> -Henry wished her to come, and had been very kind. Yet again Margaret said so. -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Munt did not die. Quite outside her will, a more dignified power took hold -of her and checked her on the downward slope. She returned, without emotion, as -fidgety as ever. On the fourth day she was out of danger. -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret—important,” it went on: “I should like you to have some companion to -take walks with. Do try Miss Conder.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have been a little walk with Miss Conder.” -</p> - -<p> -“But she is not really interesting. If only you had Helen.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have Tibby, Aunt Juley.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, but he has to do his Chinese. Some real companion is what you need. -Really, Helen is odd.” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen is odd, very,” agreed Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Not content with going abroad, why does she want to go back there at once?” -</p> - -<p> -“No doubt she will change her mind when she sees us. She has not the least -balance.” -</p> - -<p> -That was the stock criticism about Helen, but Margaret’s voice trembled as she -made it. By now she was deeply pained at her sister’s behaviour. It may be -unbalanced to fly out of England, but to 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? -</p> - -<p> -The more Margaret thought about it the more alarmed she became. For many months -she had put the subject away, but it was too big to be slighted now. There was -almost a taint of madness. Were all Helen’s actions to be governed by a tiny -mishap, such as may happen to any young man or woman? Can human nature be -constructed on lines so insignificant? The blundering little encounter at -Howards End was vital. It propagated itself where graver intercourse lay -barren; it was stronger than sisterly intimacy, stronger than reason or books. -In one of her moods Helen had confessed that she still “enjoyed” it in a -certain sense. Paul had faded, but the magic of his caress endured. And where -there is enjoyment of the past there may also be reaction—propagation at both -ends. -</p> - -<p> -Well, it is odd and sad that our minds should be such seed-beds, and we without -power to choose the seed. But man is an odd, sad creature as yet, intent on -pilfering the earth, and heedless of the growths within himself. He cannot be -bored about psychology. He leaves it to the specialist, which is as if he -should leave his dinner to be eaten by a steam-engine. He cannot be bothered to -digest his own soul. Margaret and Helen have been more patient, and it is -suggested that Margaret has succeeded—so far as success is yet possible. She -does understand herself, she has some rudimentary control over her own growth. -Whether Helen has succeeded one cannot say. -</p> - -<p> -The day that Mrs. Munt rallied Helen’s letter arrived. She had posted it at -Munich, and would be in London herself on the morrow. It was a disquieting -letter, though the opening was affectionate and sane. -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p> -Dearest Meg, -</p> - -<p> -Give Helen’s love to Aunt Juley. Tell her that I love, and have loved, her ever -since I can remember. I shall be in London Thursday. -</p> - -<p> -My address will be care of the bankers. I have not yet settled on a hotel, so -write or wire to me there and give me detailed news. If Aunt Juley is much -better, or if, for a terrible reason, it would be no good my coming down to -Swanage, you must not think it odd if I do not come. I have all sorts of plans -in my head. I am living abroad at present, and want to get back as quickly as -possible. Will you please tell me where our furniture is. I should like to take -out one or two books; the rest are for you. -</p> - -<p> -Forgive me, dearest Meg. This must read like rather a tiresome letter, but all -letters are from your loving -</p> -</div> - -<p class="right"> -Helen -</p> - -<p> -It was a tiresome letter, for it tempted Margaret to tell a lie. If she wrote -that Aunt Juley was still in danger her sister would come. Unhealthiness is -contagious. We cannot be in contact with those who are in a morbid state -without ourselves deteriorating. To “act for the best” might do Helen good, but -would do herself harm, and, at the risk of disaster, she kept her colours -flying a little longer. She replied that their aunt was much better, and -awaited developments. -</p> - -<p> -Tibby approved of her reply. Mellowing rapidly, he was a pleasanter companion -than before. Oxford had done much for him. He had lost his peevishness, and -could hide his indifference to people and his interest in food. But he had not -grown more human. The years between eighteen and twenty-two, so magical for -most, were leading him gently from boyhood to middle age. He had never known -young-manliness, that quality which warms the heart till death, and gives Mr. -Wilcox an imperishable charm. He was frigid, through no fault of his own, and -without cruelty. He thought Helen wrong and Margaret right, but the family -trouble was for him what a scene behind footlights is for most people. He had -only one suggestion to make, and that was characteristic. -</p> - -<p> -“Why don’t you tell Mr. Wilcox?” -</p> - -<p> -“About Helen?” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps he has come across that sort of thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“He would do all he could, but—” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, you know best. But he is practical.” -</p> - -<p> -It was the student’s belief in experts. Margaret demurred for one or two -reasons. Presently Helen’s answer came. She sent a telegram requesting the -address of the furniture, as she would now return at once. Margaret replied, -“Certainly not; meet me at the bankers at four.” She and Tibby went up to -London. Helen was not at the bankers, and they were refused her address. Helen -had passed into chaos. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret put her arm round her brother. He was all that she had left, and never -had he seemed more unsubstantial. -</p> - -<p> -“Tibby love, what next?” -</p> - -<p> -He replied: “It is extraordinary.” -</p> - -<p> -“Dear, your judgment’s often clearer than mine. Have you any notion what’s at -the back?” -</p> - -<p> -“None, unless it’s something mental.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh—that!” said Margaret. “Quite impossible.” But the suggestion had been -uttered, and in a few minutes she took it up herself. Nothing else explained. -And London agreed with Tibby. The mask fell off the city, and she saw it for -what it really is—a caricature of infinity. The familiar barriers, the streets -along which she moved, the houses between which she had made her little -journeys for so many years, became negligible suddenly. Helen seemed one with -grimy trees and the traffic and the slowly-flowing slabs of mud. She had -accomplished a hideous act of renunciation and returned to the One. Margaret’s -own faith held firm. She knew the human soul will be merged, if it be merged at -all, with the stars and the sea. Yet she felt that her sister had been going -amiss for many years. It was symbolic the catastrophe should come now, on a -London afternoon, while rain fell slowly. -</p> - -<p> -Henry was the only hope. Henry was definite. He might know of some paths in the -chaos that were hidden from them, and she determined to take Tibby’s advice and -lay the whole matter in his hands. They must call at his office. He could not -well make it worse. She went for a few moments into St. Paul’s, whose dome -stands out of the welter so bravely, as if preaching the gospel of form. But -within, St. Paul’s is as its surroundings—echoes and whispers, inaudible songs, -invisible mosaics, wet footmarks crossing and recrossing the floor. Si -monumentum requiris, circumspice: it points us back to London. There was no -hope of Helen here. -</p> - -<p> -Henry was unsatisfactory at first. That she had expected. He was overjoyed to -see her back from Swanage, and slow to admit the growth of a new trouble. When -they told him of their search, he only chaffed Tibby and the Schlegels -generally, and declared that it was “just like Helen” to lead her relatives a -dance. -</p> - -<p> -“That is what we all say,” replied Margaret. “But why should it be just like -Helen? Why should she be allowed to be so queer, and to grow queerer?” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t ask me. I’m a plain man of business. I live and let live. My advice to -you both is, don’t worry. Margaret, you’ve got black marks again under your -eyes. You know that’s strictly forbidden. First your aunt—then your sister. No, -we aren’t going to have it. Are we, Theobald?” He rang the bell. “I’ll give you -some tea, and then you go straight to Ducie Street. I can’t have my girl -looking as old as her husband.” -</p> - -<p> -“All the same, you have not quite seen our point,” said Tibby. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox, who was in good spirits, retorted, “I don’t suppose I ever shall.” -He leant back, laughing at the gifted but ridiculous family, while the fire -flickered over the map of Africa. Margaret motioned to her brother to go on. -Rather diffident, he obeyed her. -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret’s point is this,” he said. “Our sister may be mad.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles, who was working in the inner room, looked round. -</p> - -<p> -“Come in, Charles,” said Margaret kindly. “Could you help us at all? We are -again in trouble.” -</p> - -<p> -“I’m afraid I cannot. What are the facts? We are all mad more or less, you -know, in these days.” -</p> - -<p> -“The facts are as follows,” replied Tibby, who had at times a pedantic -lucidity. “The facts are that she has been in England for three days and will -not see us. She has forbidden the bankers to give us her address. She refuses -to answer questions. Margaret finds her letters colourless. There are other -facts, but these are the most striking.” -</p> - -<p> -“She has never behaved like this before, then?” asked Henry. -</p> - -<p> -“Of course not!” said his wife, with a frown. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, my dear, how am I to know?” -</p> - -<p> -A senseless spasm of annoyance came over her. “You know quite well that Helen -never sins against affection,” she said. “You must have noticed that much in -her, surely.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes; she and I have always hit it off together.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, Henry—can’t you see?—I don’t mean that.” -</p> - -<p> -She recovered herself, but not before Charles had observed her. Stupid and -attentive, he was watching the scene. -</p> - -<p> -“I was meaning that when she was eccentric in the past, one could trace it back -to the heart in the long run. She behaved oddly because she cared for 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.” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“You want to get hold of her?” he said. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? She has -got to see a doctor.” -</p> - -<p> -“For all I know she has seen one already.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes; don’t interrupt.” He rose to his feet and thought intently. The -genial, tentative host disappeared, and they saw instead the man who had carved -money out of Greece and Africa, and bought forests from the natives for a few -bottles of gin. “I’ve got it,” he said at last. “It’s perfectly easy. Leave it -to me. We’ll send her down to Howards End.” -</p> - -<p> -“How will you do that?” -</p> - -<p> -“After her books. Tell her that she must unpack them herself. Then you can meet -her there.” -</p> - -<p> -“But, Henry, that’s just what she won’t let me do. It’s part of her—whatever it -is—never to see me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course you won’t tell her you’re going. When she is there, looking at the -cases, you’ll just stroll in. If nothing is wrong with her, so much the better. -But there’ll be the motor round the corner, and we can run her up to a -specialist in no time.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret shook her head. “It’s quite impossible.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why?” -</p> - -<p> -“It doesn’t seem impossible to me,” said Tibby; “it is surely a very tippy -plan.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is impossible, because—” She looked at her husband sadly. “It’s not the -particular language that Helen and I talk if you see my meaning. It would do -splendidly for other people, whom I don’t blame.” -</p> - -<p> -“But Helen doesn’t talk,” said Tibby. “That’s our whole difficulty. She won’t -talk your particular language, and on that account you think she’s ill.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, Henry; it’s sweet of you, but I couldn’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“I see,” he said; “you have scruples.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose so.” -</p> - -<p> -“And sooner than go against them you would have your sister suffer. You could -have got her down to Swanage by a word, but you had scruples. And scruples are -all very well. I am as scrupulous as any man alive, I hope; but when it is a -case like this, when there is a question of madness—” -</p> - -<p> -“I deny it’s madness.” -</p> - -<p> -“You said just now—” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s madness when I say it, but not when you say it.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Margaret! Margaret!” he groaned. “No education -can teach a woman logic. Now, my dear, my time is valuable. Do you want me to -help you or not?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not in that way.” -</p> - -<p> -“Answer my question. Plain question, plain answer. Do—” -</p> - -<p> -Charles surprised them by interrupting. “Pater, we may as well keep Howards End -out of it,” he said. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, Charles?” -</p> - -<p> -Charles could give no reason; but Margaret felt as if, over tremendous -distance, a salutation had passed between them. -</p> - -<p> -“The whole house is at sixes and sevens,” he said crossly. “We don’t want any -more mess.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who’s ‘we’?” asked his father. “My boy, pray, who’s ‘we’?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am sure I beg your pardon,” said Charles. “I appear always to be intruding.” -</p> - -<p> -By now Margaret wished she had never mentioned her trouble to her husband. -Retreat was impossible. He was determined to push the matter to a satisfactory -conclusion, and Helen faded as he talked. Her fair, flying hair and eager eyes -counted for nothing, for she was ill, without rights, and any of her friends -might hunt her. Sick at heart, Margaret joined in the chase. She wrote her -sister a lying letter, at her husband’s dictation; she said the furniture was -all at Howards End, but could be seen on Monday next at 3 p.m., when a -charwoman would be in attendance. It was a cold letter, and the more plausible -for that. Helen would think she was offended. And on Monday next she and Henry -were to lunch with Dolly, and then ambush themselves in the garden. -</p> - -<p> -After they had gone, Mr. Wilcox said to his son: “I can’t have this sort of -behaviour, my boy. Margaret’s too sweet-natured to mind, but I mind for her.” -</p> - -<p> -Charles made no answer. -</p> - -<p> -“Is anything wrong with you, Charles, this afternoon?” -</p> - -<p> -“No, pater; but you may be taking on a bigger business than you reckon.” -</p> - -<p> -“How?” -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t ask me.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 35</h2> - -<p> -One speaks of the moods of spring, but the days that are her true children have -only one mood; they are all full of the rising and dropping of winds, and the -whistling of birds. New flowers may come out, the green embroidery of the -hedges increase, but the same heaven broods overhead, soft, thick, and blue, -the same figures, seen and unseen, are wandering by coppice and meadow. The -morning that Margaret had spent with Miss Avery, and the afternoon she set out -to entrap Helen, were the scales of a single balance. Time might never have -moved, rain never have fallen, and man alone, with his schemes and ailments, -was troubling Nature until he saw her through a veil of tears. -</p> - -<p> -She protested no more. Whether Henry was right or wrong, he was most kind, and -she knew of no other standard by which to judge him. She must trust him -absolutely. As soon as he had taken up a business, his obtuseness vanished. He -profited by the slightest indications, and the capture of Helen promised to be -staged as deftly as the marriage of Evie. -</p> - -<p> -They went down in the morning as arranged, and he discovered that their victim -was actually in Hilton. On his arrival he called at all the livery-stables in -the village, and had a few minutes’ serious conversation with the proprietors. -What he said, Margaret did not know—perhaps not the truth; but news arrived -after lunch that a lady had come by the London train, and had taken a fly to -Howards End. -</p> - -<p> -“She was bound to drive,” said Henry. “There will be her books. -</p> - -<p> -“I cannot make it out,” said Margaret for the hundredth time. -</p> - -<p> -“Finish your coffee, dear. We must be off.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Margaret, you know you must take plenty,” said Dolly. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret tried, but suddenly lifted her hand to her eyes. Dolly stole glances -at her father-in-law which he did not answer. In the silence the motor came -round to the door. -</p> - -<p> -“You’re not fit for it,” he said anxiously. “Let me go alone. I know exactly -what to do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, I am fit,” said Margaret, uncovering her face. “Only most frightfully -worried. I cannot feel that Helen is really alive. Her letters and telegrams -seem to have come from 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.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry had been looking at her closely. He did not like this breakdown. -</p> - -<p> -“Don’t you want to tidy yourself?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Have I time?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, plenty.” -</p> - -<p> -She went to the lavatory by the front door, and as soon as the bolt slipped, -Mr. Wilcox said quietly: -</p> - -<p> -“Dolly, I’m going without her.” -</p> - -<p> -Dolly’s eyes lit up with vulgar excitement. She followed him on tip-toe out to -the car. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell her I thought it best.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, Mr. Wilcox, I see.” -</p> - -<p> -“Say anything you like. All right.” -</p> - -<p> -The car started well, and with ordinary luck would have got away. But -Porgly-woggles, who was playing in the garden, chose this moment to sit down in -the middle of the path. Crane, in trying to pass him, ran one wheel over a bed -of wallflowers. Dolly screamed. Margaret, hearing the noise, rushed out -hatless, and was in time to jump on the footboard. She said not a single word: -he was only treating her as she had treated Helen, and her rage at his -dishonesty only helped to indicate what Helen would feel against them. She -thought, “I deserve it: I am punished for lowering my colours.” And she -accepted his apologies with a calmness that astonished him. -</p> - -<p> -“I still consider you are not fit for it,” he kept saying. -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps I was not at lunch. But the whole thing is spread clearly before me -now.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was meaning to act for the best.” -</p> - -<p> -“Just lend me your scarf, will you? This wind takes one’s hair so.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, dear girl. Are you all right now?” -</p> - -<p> -“Look! My hands have stopped trembling.” -</p> - -<p> -“And have quite forgiven me? Then listen. Her cab should already have arrived -at Howards End. (We’re a little late, but no matter.) Our first move will be to -send it down to wait at the farm, as, if possible, one doesn’t want a scene -before servants. A certain gentleman”—he pointed at Crane’s back—“won’t drive -in, but will wait a little short of the front gate, behind the laurels. Have -you still the keys of the house?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, they aren’t wanted. Do you remember how the house stands?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“If we don’t find her in the porch, we can stroll round into the garden. Our -object—” -</p> - -<p> -Here they stopped to pick up the doctor. -</p> - -<p> -“I was just saying to my wife, Mansbridge, that our main object is not to -frighten Miss Schlegel. The house, as you know, is my property, so it should -seem quite natural for us to be there. The trouble is evidently -nervous—wouldn’t you say so, Margaret?” -</p> - -<p> -The doctor, a very young man, began to ask questions about Helen. Was she -normal? Was there anything congenital or hereditary? Had anything occurred that -was likely to alienate her from her family? -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing,” answered Margaret, wondering what would have happened if she had -added: “Though she did resent my husband’s immorality.” -</p> - -<p> -“She always was highly strung,” pursued Henry, leaning back in the car as it -shot past the church. “A tendency to spiritualism and those things, though -nothing serious. Musical, literary, artistic, but I should say normal—a very -charming girl.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret’s anger and terror increased every moment. How dare these men label -her sister! What horrors lay ahead! What impertinences that shelter under the -name of science! The pack was turning on Helen, to deny her human rights, and -it seemed to Margaret that all Schlegels were threatened with her. “Were they -normal?” What a question to ask! And it is always those who know nothing about -human nature, who are bored by psychology and shocked by physiology, who ask -it. However piteous her sister’s state, she knew that she must be on her side. -They would be mad together if the world chose to consider them so. -</p> - -<p> -It was now five minutes past three. The car slowed down by the farm, in the -yard of which Miss Avery was standing. Henry asked her whether a cab had gone -past. She nodded, and the next moment they caught sight of it, at the end of -the lane. The car ran silently like a beast of prey. So unsuspicious was Helen -that she was sitting 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. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was seated next to the door. Before her husband could prevent her, she -slipped out. She ran to the garden gate, which was shut, passed through it, and -deliberately pushed it in his face. The noise alarmed Helen. Margaret saw her -rise with an unfamiliar movement, and, rushing into the porch, learnt the -simple explanation of all their fears—her sister was with child. -</p> - -<p> -“Is the truant all right?” called Henry. -</p> - -<p> -She had time to whisper: “Oh, my darling—” The keys of the house were in her -hand. She unlocked Howards End and thrust Helen into it. “Yes, all right,” she -said, and stood with her back to the door. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 36</h2> - -<p> -“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?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, dearest, do go away, and I will manage it all.” -</p> - -<p> -“Manage what?” -</p> - -<p> -He stretched out his hand for the keys. She might have obeyed if it had not -been for the doctor. -</p> - -<p> -“Stop that at least,” she said piteously; the doctor had turned back, and was -questioning the driver of Helen’s cab. A new feeling came over her; she was -fighting for women against men. She did not care about rights, but if men came -into Howards End, it should be over her body. -</p> - -<p> -“Come, this is an odd beginning,” said her husband. -</p> - -<p> -The doctor came forward now, and whispered two words to Mr. Wilcox—the scandal -was out. Sincerely horrified, Henry stood gazing at the earth. -</p> - -<p> -“I cannot help it,” said Margaret. “Do wait. It’s not my fault. Please all four -of you to go away now.” -</p> - -<p> -Now the flyman was whispering to Crane. -</p> - -<p> -“We are relying on you to help us, Mrs. Wilcox,” said the young doctor. “Could -you go in and persuade your sister to come out?” -</p> - -<p> -“On what grounds?” said Margaret, suddenly looking him straight in the eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Thinking it professional to prevaricate, he murmured something about a nervous -breakdown. -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon, but it is nothing of the sort. You are not qualified to -attend my sister, Mr. Mansbridge. If we require your services, we will let you -know.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can diagnose the case more bluntly if you wish,” he retorted. -</p> - -<p> -“You could, but you have not. You are, therefore, not qualified to attend my -sister.” -</p> - -<p> -“Come, come, Margaret!” said Henry, never raising his eyes. “This is a terrible -business, an appalling business. It’s doctor’s orders. Open the door.” -</p> - -<p> -“Forgive me, but I will not.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t agree.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was silent. -</p> - -<p> -“This business is as broad as it’s long,” contributed the doctor. “We had -better all work together. You need us, Mrs. Wilcox, and we need you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Quite so,” said Henry. -</p> - -<p> -“I do not need you in the least,” said Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -The two men looked at each other anxiously. -</p> - -<p> -“No more does my sister, who is still many weeks from her confinement.” -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret, Margaret!” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, Henry, send your doctor away. What possible use is he now?” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox ran his eye over the house. He had a vague feeling that he must -stand firm and support the doctor. He himself might need support, for there was -trouble ahead. -</p> - -<p> -“It all turns on affection now,” said Margaret. “Affection. Don’t you see?” -Resuming her usual methods, she wrote the word on the house with her finger. -“Surely you see. I like Helen very much, you not so much. Mr. Mansbridge -doesn’t know her. That’s all. And affection, when reciprocated, gives rights. -Put that down in your notebook, Mr. Mansbridge. It’s a useful formula.” -</p> - -<p> -Henry told her to be calm. -</p> - -<p> -“You don’t know what you want yourselves,” said Margaret, folding her arms. -“For one sensible remark I will let you in. But you cannot make it. You would -trouble my sister for no reason. I will not permit it. I’ll stand here all the -day sooner.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mansbridge,” said Henry in a low voice, “perhaps not now.” -</p> - -<p> -The pack was breaking up. At a sign from his master, Crane also went back into -the car. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Henry, you,” she said gently. None of her bitterness had been directed at -him. “Go away now, dear. I shall want your advice later, no doubt. Forgive me -if I have been cross. But, seriously, you must go.” -</p> - -<p> -He was too stupid to leave her. Now it was Mr. Mansbridge who called in a low -voice to him. -</p> - -<p> -“I shall soon find you down at Dolly’s,” she called, as the gate at last -clanged between them. The fly moved out of the way, the motor backed, turned a -little, backed again, and turned in the narrow road. A string of farm carts -came up in the middle; but she waited through all, for there was no hurry. When -all was over and the car had started, she opened the door. “Oh, my darling!” -she said. “My darling, forgive me.” Helen was standing in the hall. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 37</h2> - -<p> -Margaret bolted the door on the inside. Then she would have kissed her sister, -but Helen, in a dignified voice, that came strangely from her, said: -</p> - -<p> -“Convenient! You did not tell me that the books were unpacked. I have found -nearly everything that I want. -</p> - -<p> -“I told you nothing that was true.” -</p> - -<p> -“It has been a great surprise, certainly. Has Aunt Juley been ill?” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, you wouldn’t think I’d invent that?” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose not,” said Helen, turning away, and crying a very little. “But one -loses faith in everything after this.” -</p> - -<p> -“We thought it was illness, but even then—I haven’t behaved worthily.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen selected another book. -</p> - -<p> -“I ought not to have consulted anyone. What would our father have thought of -me?” -</p> - -<p> -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. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I am annoyed,” replied Helen. “My wishes should have been respected. I -would have gone through this meeting if it was necessary, but after Aunt Juley -recovered, it was not necessary. Planning my life, as I now have to do—” -</p> - -<p> -“Come away from those books,” called Margaret. “Helen, do talk to me.” -</p> - -<p> -“I was just saying that I have stopped living haphazard. One can’t go through a -great deal of”—she 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“But why didn’t you tell me, dearest?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” replied Helen judicially. “I might have, but decided to wait.” -</p> - -<p> -“ I believe you would never have told me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh yes, I should. We have taken a flat in Munich.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret glanced out of window. -</p> - -<p> -“By ‘we’ I mean myself and Monica. But for her, I am and have been and always -wish to be alone.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have not heard of Monica.” -</p> - -<p> -“You wouldn’t have. She’s an Italian—by birth at least. She makes her living by -journalism. I met her originally on Garda. Monica is much the best person to -see me through.” -</p> - -<p> -“You are very fond of her, then.” -</p> - -<p> -“She has been extraordinarily sensible with me.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret guessed at Monica’s type—“Italiano Inglesiato” they had named it: the -crude feminist of the South, whom one respects but avoids. And Helen had turned -to it in her need! -</p> - -<p> -“You must not think that we shall never meet,” said Helen, with a measured -kindness. “I shall always have a room for you when you can be spared, and the -longer you can be with me the better. But you haven’t understood yet, Meg, and -of course it is very difficult for you. This is a shock to you. It isn’t to me, -who have been thinking over our futures for many months, and they won’t be -changed by a slight contretemps, such as this. I cannot live in England.” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, you’ve not forgiven me for my treachery. You <i>couldn’t</i> talk like -this to me if you had.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, Meg dear, why do we talk at all?” She dropped a book and sighed wearily. -Then, recovering herself, she said: “Tell me, how is it that all the books are -down here?” -</p> - -<p> -“Series of mistakes.” -</p> - -<p> -“And a great deal of the furniture has been unpacked.” -</p> - -<p> -“All.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who lives here, then?” -</p> - -<p> -“No one.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose you are letting it though—” -</p> - -<p> -“The house is dead,” said Margaret with a frown. “Why worry on about it?” -</p> - -<p> -“But I am interested. You talk as if I had lost all my interest in life. I am -still Helen, I hope. Now this hasn’t the feel of a dead house. The hall seems -more alive even than in the old days, when it held the Wilcoxes’ own things.” -</p> - -<p> -“Interested, are you? Very well, I must tell you, I suppose. My husband lent it -on condition we—but by a mistake all our things were unpacked, and Miss Avery, -instead of—” She stopped. “Look here, I can’t go on like this. I warn you I -won’t. Helen, why should you be so miserably unkind to me, simply because you -hate Henry?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t hate him now,” said Helen. “I have stopped being a schoolgirl, and, -Meg, once again, I’m not being unkind. But as for fitting in with your English -life—no, put it out of your head at once. Imagine a visit from me at Ducie -Street! It’s unthinkable.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret could not contradict her. It was appalling to see her quietly moving -forward with her plans, not bitter or excitable, neither asserting innocence -nor confessing guilt, merely desiring freedom and the company of those who -would not blame her. She had been through—how much? Margaret did not know. But -it was enough to part her from old habits as well as old friends. -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me about yourself,” said Helen, who had chosen her books, and was -lingering over the furniture. -</p> - -<p> -“There’s nothing to tell.” -</p> - -<p> -“But your marriage has been happy, Meg?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but I don’t feel inclined to talk.” -</p> - -<p> -“You feel as I do.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not that, but I can’t.” -</p> - -<p> -“No more can I. It is a nuisance, but no good trying.” -</p> - -<p> -Something had come between them. Perhaps it was Society, which henceforward -would exclude Helen. Perhaps it was a third life, already potent as a spirit. -They could find no meeting-place. Both suffered acutely, and were not comforted -by the knowledge that affection survived. -</p> - -<p> -“Look here, Meg, is the coast clear?” -</p> - -<p> -“You mean that you want to go away from me?” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose so—dear old lady! it isn’t any use. I knew we should have nothing to -say. Give my love to Aunt Juley and Tibby, and take more yourself than I can -say. Promise to come and see me in Munich later.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, dearest.” -</p> - -<p> -“For that is all we can do.” -</p> - -<p> -It seemed so. Most ghastly of all was Helen’s common sense: Monica had been -extraordinarily good for her. -</p> - -<p> -“I am glad to have seen you and the things.” She looked at the bookcase -lovingly, as if she was saying farewell to the past. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret unbolted the door. She remarked: “The car has gone, and here’s your -cab.” -</p> - -<p> -She led the way to it, glancing at the leaves and the sky. The spring had never -seemed more beautiful. The driver, who was leaning on the gate, called out, -“Please, lady, a message,” and handed her Henry’s visiting-card through the -bars. -</p> - -<p> -“How did this come?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -Crane had returned with it almost at once. -</p> - -<p> -She read the card with annoyance. It was covered with instructions in domestic -French. When she and her sister had talked she was to come back for the night -to Dolly’s. “Il faut dormir sur ce sujet.” While Helen was to be found “une -comfortable chambre 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Henry would have done what he could,” she interpreted. -</p> - -<p> -Helen had not followed her into the garden. The door once open, she lost her -inclination to fly. She remained in the hall, going from bookcase to table. She -grew more like the old Helen, irresponsible and charming. -</p> - -<p> -“This is Mr. Wilcox’s house?” she inquired. -</p> - -<p> -“Surely you remember Howards End?” -</p> - -<p> -“Remember? I who remember everything! But it looks to be ours now.” -</p> - -<p> -“Miss Avery was extraordinary,” said Margaret, her own spirits lightening a -little. Again she was invaded by a slight feeling of disloyalty. But it brought -her relief, and she yielded to it. “She loved Mrs. Wilcox, and would rather -furnish her house with our things than think of it empty. In consequence here -are all the library books.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not all the books. She hasn’t unpacked the Art Books, in which she may show -her sense. And we never used to have the sword here.” -</p> - -<p> -“The sword looks well, though.” -</p> - -<p> -“Magnificent.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, doesn’t it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Where’s the piano, Meg?” -</p> - -<p> -“I warehoused that in London. Why?” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing.” -</p> - -<p> -“Curious, too, that the carpet fits.” -</p> - -<p> -“The carpet’s a mistake,” announced Helen. “I know that we had it in London, -but this floor ought to be bare. It is far too beautiful.” -</p> - -<p> -“You still have a mania for under-furnishing. Would you care to come into the -dining-room before you start? There’s no carpet there. -</p> - -<p> -They went in, and each minute their talk became more natural. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, <i>what</i> a place for mother’s chiffonier!” cried Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“Look at the chairs, though.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, look at them! Wickham Place faced north, didn’t it?” -</p> - -<p> -“North-west.” -</p> - -<p> -“Anyhow, it is thirty years since any of those chairs have felt the sun. Feel. -Their little backs are quite warm.” -</p> - -<p> -“But why has Miss Avery made them set to partners? I shall just—” -</p> - -<p> -“Over here, Meg. Put it so that any one sitting will see the lawn.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret moved a chair. Helen sat down in it. -</p> - -<p> -“Ye-es. The window’s too high.” -</p> - -<p> -“Try a drawing-room chair.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, I don’t like the drawing-room so much. The beam has been match-boarded. It -would have been so beautiful otherwise.” -</p> - -<p> -“Helen, what a memory you have for some things! You’re perfectly right. It’s a -room that men have spoilt through trying to make it nice for women. Men don’t -know what we want—” -</p> - -<p> -“And never will.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t agree. In two thousand years they’ll know.” -</p> - -<p> -“But the chairs show up wonderfully. Look where Tibby spilt the soup.” -</p> - -<p> -“Coffee. It was coffee surely.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen shook her head. “Impossible. Tibby was far too young to be given coffee -at that time.” -</p> - -<p> -“Was Father alive?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then you’re right and it must have been soup. I was thinking of much -later—that unsuccessful visit of Aunt Juley’s, when she didn’t 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?” -</p> - -<p> -“I know—no, I don’t. What a detestable boy Tibby was!” -</p> - -<p> -“But the rhyme was simply awful. No decent person could have put up with it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ah, that greengage tree,” cried Helen, as if the garden was also part of their -childhood. “Why do I connect it with dumbbells? And there come the chickens. -The grass wants cutting. I love yellow-hammers—” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret interrupted her. “I have got it,” she announced. -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -‘Tea, tea, coffee, tea,<br/> -Or chocolaritee.’ -</p> - -<p> -“That every morning for three weeks. No wonder Tibby was wild.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tibby is moderately a dear now,” said Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“There! I knew you’d say that in the end. Of course he’s a dear.” -</p> - -<p> -A bell rang. -</p> - -<p> -“Listen! what’s that?” -</p> - -<p> -Helen said, “Perhaps the Wilcoxes are beginning the siege.” -</p> - -<p> -“What nonsense—listen!” -</p> - -<p> -And the triviality faded from their faces, though it left something behind—the -knowledge that they never could be parted because their love was rooted in -common things. Explanations and appeals had failed; they had tried for a common -meeting-ground, and had only made each other unhappy. And all the time their -salvation was lying round them—the past sanctifying the present; the present, -with wild heart-throb, declaring that there would after all be a future, with -laughter and the voices of children. Helen, still smiling, came up to her -sister. She said, “It is always Meg.” They looked into each other’s eyes. The -inner life had paid. -</p> - -<p> -Solemnly the clapper tolled. No one was in the front. Margaret went to the -kitchen, and struggled between packing-cases to the window. Their visitor was -only a little boy with a tin can. And triviality returned. -</p> - -<p> -“Little boy, what do you want?” -</p> - -<p> -“Please, I am the milk.” -</p> - -<p> -“Did Miss Avery send you?” said Margaret, rather sharply. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, please.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then take it back and say we require no milk.” While she called to Helen, “No, -it’s not the siege, but possibly an attempt to provision us against one.” -</p> - -<p> -“But I like milk,” cried Helen. “Why send it away?” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you? Oh, very well. But we’ve nothing to put it in, and he wants the can.” -</p> - -<p> -“Please, I’m to call in the morning for the can,” said the boy. -</p> - -<p> -“The house will be locked up then.” -</p> - -<p> -“In the morning would I bring eggs, too?” -</p> - -<p> -“Are you the boy whom I saw playing in the stacks last week?” -</p> - -<p> -The child hung his head. -</p> - -<p> -“Well, run away and do it again.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nice little boy,” whispered Helen. “I say, what’s your name? Mine’s Helen.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tom.” -</p> - -<p> -That was Helen all over. The Wilcoxes, too, would ask a child its name, but -they never told their names in return. -</p> - -<p> -“Tom, this one here is Margaret. And at home we’ve another called Tibby.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mine are lop-eared,” replied Tom, supposing Tibby to be a rabbit. -</p> - -<p> -“You’re a very good and rather a clever little boy. Mind you come again.—Isn’t -he charming?” -</p> - -<p> -“Undoubtedly,” said Margaret. “He is probably the son of Madge, and Madge is -dreadful. But this place has wonderful powers.” -</p> - -<p> -“What do you mean?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know.” -</p> - -<p> -“Because I probably agree with you.” -</p> - -<p> -“It kills what is dreadful and makes what is beautiful live.” -</p> - -<p> -“I do agree,” said Helen, as she sipped the milk. “But you said that the house -was dead not half an hour ago.” -</p> - -<p> -“Meaning that I was dead. I felt it.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, the house has a surer life than we, even if it was empty, and, as it is, -I can’t get over that for thirty years the sun has never shone full on our -furniture. After all, Wickham Place was a grave. Meg, I’ve a startling idea.” -</p> - -<p> -“What is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Drink some milk to steady you.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret obeyed. -</p> - -<p> -“No, I won’t tell you yet,” said Helen, “because you may laugh or be angry. -Let’s go upstairs first and give the rooms an airing.” -</p> - -<p> -They opened window after window, till the inside, too, was rustling to the -spring. Curtains blew, picture-frames tapped cheerfully. Helen uttered cries of -excitement as she found this bed obviously in its right place, that in its -wrong one. She was angry with Miss Avery for not having moved the wardrobes up. -“Then one would see really.” She admired the view. She was the Helen who had -written the memorable letters four years ago. As they leant out, looking -westward, she said: “About my idea. Couldn’t you and I camp out in this house -for the night?” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t think we could well do that,” said Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Here are beds, tables, towels—” -</p> - -<p> -“I know; but the house isn’t supposed to be slept in, and Henry’s suggestion -was—” -</p> - -<p> -“I require no suggestions. I shall not alter anything in my plans. But it would -give me so much pleasure to have one night here with you. It will be something -to look back on. Oh, Meg lovey, do let’s!” -</p> - -<p> -“But, Helen, my pet,” said Margaret, “we can’t without getting Henry’s leave. -Of course, he would give it, but you said yourself that you couldn’t visit at -Ducie Street now, and this is equally intimate.” -</p> - -<p> -“Ducie Street is his house. This is ours. Our furniture, our sort of people -coming to the door. Do let us camp out, just one night, and Tom shall feed us -on eggs and milk. Why not? It’s a moon.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret hesitated. “I feel Charles wouldn’t like it,” she said at last. “Even -our furniture annoyed him, and I was going to clear it out when Aunt Juley’s -illness prevented me. I 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“I know he won’t like it,” said Helen. “But I am going to pass out of their -lives. What difference will it make in the long run if they say, ‘And she even -spent the night at Howards End’?” -</p> - -<p> -“How do you know you’ll pass out of their lives? We have thought that twice -before.” -</p> - -<p> -“Because my plans—” -</p> - -<p> -“—which you change in a moment.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then because my life is great and theirs are little,” said Helen, taking fire. -“I know of things they can’t know of, and so do you. We know that there’s -poetry. We know that there’s death. They can only take them on hearsay. We know -this is our house, because it feels ours. Oh, they may take the title-deeds and -the doorkeys, but for this one night we are at home.” -</p> - -<p> -“It would be lovely to have you once more alone,” said Margaret. “It may be a -chance in a thousand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, and we could talk.” She dropped her voice. “It won’t be a very glorious -story. But under that wych-elm—honestly, I see little happiness ahead. Cannot I -have this one night with you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I needn’t say how much it would mean to me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then let us.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is no good hesitating. Shall I drive down to Hilton now and get leave?” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, we don’t want leave.” -</p> - -<p> -But Margaret was a loyal wife. In spite of imagination and poetry—perhaps on -account of them—she could 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Charles may say no,” grumbled Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“We shan’t consult him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Go if you like; I should have stopped without leave.” -</p> - -<p> -It was the touch of selfishness, which was not enough to mar Helen’s character, -and even added to its beauty. She would have stopped without leave, and escaped -to Germany the next morning. Margaret kissed her. -</p> - -<p> -“Expect me back before dark. I am looking forward to it so much. It is like you -to have thought of such a beautiful thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not a thing, only an ending,” said Helen rather sadly; and the sense of -tragedy closed in on Margaret again as soon as she left the house. -</p> - -<p> -She was afraid of Miss Avery. It is disquieting to fulfil a prophecy, however -superficially. She was glad to see no watching figure as she drove past the -farm, but only little Tom, turning somersaults in the straw. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 38</h2> - -<p> -The tragedy began quietly enough, and like many another talk, by the man’s deft -assertion of his superiority. Henry heard her arguing with the driver, stepped -out and settled the fellow, who was inclined to be rude, and then led the way -to some chairs on the lawn. Dolly, who had not been “told,” ran out with offers -of tea. He refused them, and ordered her to wheel baby’s perambulator away, as -they desired to be alone. -</p> - -<p> -“But the diddums can’t listen; he isn’t nine months old,” she pleaded. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s not what I was saying,” retorted her father-in-law. -</p> - -<p> -Baby was wheeled out of earshot, and did not hear about the crisis till later -years. It was now the turn of Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it what we feared?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“It is.” -</p> - -<p> -“Dear girl,” he began, “there is a troublesome business ahead of us, and -nothing but the most absolute honesty and plain speech will see us through.” -Margaret bent her head. “I am obliged to question you on subjects we’d both -prefer to leave untouched. As you know, I am not one of your Bernard Shaws who -consider nothing sacred. To speak as I must will pain me, but there are -occasions—We are husband and wife, not children. I am a man of the world, and -you are a most exceptional woman.” -</p> - -<p> -All Margaret’s senses forsook her. She blushed, and looked past him at the Six -Hills, covered with spring herbage. Noting her colour, he grew still more kind. -</p> - -<p> -“I see that you feel as I felt when—My poor little wife! Oh, be brave! Just one -or two questions, and I have done with you. Was your sister wearing a -wedding-ring?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret stammered a “No.” -</p> - -<p> -There was an appalling silence. -</p> - -<p> -“Henry, I really came to ask a favour about Howards End.” -</p> - -<p> -“One point at a time. I am now obliged to ask for the name of her seducer.” -</p> - -<p> -She rose to her feet and held the chair between them. Her colour had ebbed, and -she was grey. It did not displease him that she should receive his question -thus. -</p> - -<p> -“Take your time,” he counselled her. “Remember that this is far worse for me -than for you.” -</p> - -<p> -She swayed; he feared she was going to faint. Then speech came, and she said -slowly: “Seducer? No; I do not know her seducer’s name.” -</p> - -<p> -“Would she not tell you?” -</p> - -<p> -“I never even asked her who seduced her,” said Margaret, dwelling on the -hateful word thoughtfully. -</p> - -<p> -“That is singular.” Then he changed his mind. “Natural perhaps, dear girl, that -you shouldn’t ask. But until his name is known, nothing can be done. Sit down. -How terrible it is to see you so upset! I knew you weren’t fit for it. I wish I -hadn’t taken you.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret answered, “I like to stand, if you don’t mind, for it gives me a -pleasant view of the Six Hills.” -</p> - -<p> -“As you like.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you anything else to ask me, Henry?” -</p> - -<p> -“Next you must tell me whether you have gathered anything. I have often noticed -your insight, dear. I only wish my own was as good. You may have guessed -something, even though your sister said nothing. The slightest hint would help -us.” -</p> - -<p> -“Who is ‘we’?” -</p> - -<p> -“I thought it best to ring up Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -“That was unnecessary,” said Margaret, growing warmer. “This news will give -Charles disproportionate pain.” -</p> - -<p> -“He has at once gone to call on your brother.” -</p> - -<p> -“That too was unnecessary.” -</p> - -<p> -“Let me explain, dear, how the matter stands. You don’t think that I and my son -are other than gentlemen? It is in Helen’s interests that we are acting. It is -still not too late to save her name.” -</p> - -<p> -Then Margaret hit out for the first time. “Are we to make her seducer marry -her?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“If possible. Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“But, Henry, suppose he turned out to be married already? One has heard of such -cases.” -</p> - -<p> -“In that case he must pay heavily for his misconduct, and be thrashed within an -inch of his life.” -</p> - -<p> -So her first blow missed. She was thankful of it. What had tempted her to -imperil both of their lives? Henry’s obtuseness had saved her as well as -himself. Exhausted with anger, she sat down again, blinking at him as he told -her as much as he thought fit. At last she said: “May I ask you my question -now?” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, my dear.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tomorrow Helen goes to Munich—” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, possibly she is right.” -</p> - -<p> -“Henry, let a lady finish. Tomorrow she goes; tonight, with your permission, -she would like to sleep at Howards End.” -</p> - -<p> -It was the crisis of his life. Again she would have recalled the words as soon -as they were uttered. She had not led up to them with sufficient care. She -longed to warn him that they were far more important than he supposed. She saw -him weighing them, as if they were a business proposition. -</p> - -<p> -“Why Howards End?” he said at last. “Would she not be more comfortable, as I -suggested, at the hotel?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret hastened to give him reasons. “It is an odd request, but you know what -Helen is and what women in her state are.” He frowned, and moved irritably. -“She has the idea that one night in your house would give her pleasure and do -her good. I think she’s right. Being one of those imaginative girls, the -presence of all our books and furniture soothes her. This is a fact. It is the -end of her girlhood. Her last words to me were, ‘A beautiful ending.’” -</p> - -<p> -“She values the old furniture for sentimental reasons, in fact.” -</p> - -<p> -“Exactly. You have quite understood. It is her last hope of being with it.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t agree there, my dear! Helen will have her share of the goods wherever -she goes—possibly more than her share, for you are so fond of her that you’d -give her anything of yours that she fancies, wouldn’t you? and I’d raise no -objection. I could understand it if it was her old home, because a home, or a -house”—he changed the word, designedly; he had thought of a telling -point—“because a house in which one has once lived becomes in a sort of way -sacred, I don’t know why. Associations and so on. Now Helen has no associations -with Howards End, though I and Charles and Evie have. I do not see why she -wants to stay the night there. She will only catch cold.” -</p> - -<p> -“Leave it that you don’t see,” cried Margaret. “Call it fancy. But realize that -fancy is a scientific fact. Helen is fanciful, and wants to.” -</p> - -<p> -Then he surprised her—a rare occurrence. He shot an unexpected bolt. “If she -wants to sleep one night, she may want to sleep two. We shall never get her out -of the house, perhaps.” -</p> - -<p> -“Well?” said Margaret, with the precipice in sight. “And suppose we don’t get -her out of the house? Would it matter? She would do no one any harm.” -</p> - -<p> -Again the irritated gesture. -</p> - -<p> -“No, Henry,” she panted, receding. “I didn’t mean that. We will only trouble -Howards End for this one night. I take her to London tomorrow—” -</p> - -<p> -“Do you intend to sleep in a damp house, too?” -</p> - -<p> -“She cannot be left alone.” -</p> - -<p> -“That’s quite impossible! Madness. You must be here to meet Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -“I have already told you that your message to Charles was unnecessary, and I -have no desire to meet him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Margaret—my Margaret—” -</p> - -<p> -“What has this business to do with Charles? If it concerns me little, it -concerns you less, and Charles not at all.” -</p> - -<p> -“As the future owner of Howards End,” said Mr. Wilcox, arching his fingers, “I -should say that it did concern Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -“In what way? Will Helen’s condition depreciate the property?” -</p> - -<p> -“My dear, you are forgetting yourself.” -</p> - -<p> -“I think you yourself recommended plain speaking.” -</p> - -<p> -They looked at each other in amazement. The precipice was at their feet now. -</p> - -<p> -“Helen commands my sympathy,” said Henry. “As your husband, I shall do all for -her that I can, and I have no doubt that she will prove more sinned against -than sinning. But I cannot treat her as if nothing has happened. I should be -false to my position in society if I did.” -</p> - -<p> -She controlled herself for the last time. “No, let us go back to Helen’s -request,” she said. “It is unreasonable, but the request of an unhappy girl. -Tomorrow she will go to Germany, and trouble society no longer. 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“As I have actually been forgiven—?” -</p> - -<p> -“Never mind for the moment what I mean by that,” said Margaret. “Answer my -question.” -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps some hint of her meaning did dawn on him. If so, he blotted it out. -Straight from his fortress he answered: “I seem rather unaccommodating, but I -have some experience of life, and know how one thing leads to another. I am -afraid that your sister had better sleep at the hotel. I have my children and -the memory of my dear wife to consider. I am sorry, but see that she leaves my -house at once.” -</p> - -<p> -“You mentioned Mrs. Wilcox.” -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon?” -</p> - -<p> -“A rare occurrence. In reply, may I mention Mrs. Bast?” -</p> - -<p> -“You have not been yourself all day,” said Henry, and rose from his seat with -face unmoved. Margaret rushed at him and seized both his hands. She was -transfigured. -</p> - -<p> -“Not any more of this!” she cried. “You shall see the connection if it kills -you, Henry! You have had a mistress—I forgave you. My sister has a lover—you -drive her from the house. Do you see the connection? Stupid, hypocritical, -cruel—oh, contemptible!—a man who insults his wife when she’s alive and cants -with her memory when she’s dead. A man who ruins a woman for his pleasure, and -casts her off to ruin other men. And gives bad financial advice, and then says -he is not responsible. These, 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.’” -</p> - -<p> -“The two cases are different,” Henry stammered. His real retort was not quite -ready. His brain was still in a whirl, and he wanted a little longer. -</p> - -<p> -“In what way different? You have betrayed Mrs. Wilcox, Helen only herself. You -remain in society, Helen can’t. You have had only pleasure, she may die. You -have the insolence to talk to me of differences, Henry?” -</p> - -<p> -Oh, the uselessness of it! Henry’s retort came. -</p> - -<p> -“I perceive you are attempting blackmail. It is scarcely a pretty weapon for a -wife to use against her husband. My rule through life has been never to pay the -least attention to threats, and I can only repeat what I said before: I do not -give you and your sister leave to sleep at Howards End.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret loosed his hands. He went into the house, wiping first one and then -the other on his handkerchief. For a little she stood looking at the Six Hills, -tombs of warriors, breasts of the spring. Then she passed out into what was now -the evening. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 39</h2> - -<p> -Charles and Tibby met at Ducie Street, where the latter was staying. Their -interview was short and absurd. They had nothing in common but the English -language, and tried by its help to express what neither of them understood. -Charles saw in Helen the family foe. He had singled her out as the most -dangerous of the Schlegels, and, angry as he was, looked forward to telling his -wife how right he had been. His mind was made up at once: the girl must be got -out of the way before she disgraced them farther. If occasion offered she might -be married to a villain or, possibly, to a fool. But this was a concession to -morality, it formed no part of his main scheme. Honest and hearty was Charles’s -dislike, and the past spread itself out very clearly before him; hatred is a -skilful compositor. As if they were heads in a note-book, he ran through all -the incidents of the Schlegels’ campaign: the attempt to compromise his -brother, his mother’s legacy, his father’s marriage, the introduction of the -furniture, the unpacking of the same. He had not yet heard of the request to -sleep at Howards End; that was to be their master-stroke and the opportunity -for his. But he already felt that Howards End was the objective, and, though he -disliked the house, was determined to defend it. -</p> - -<p> -Tibby, on the other hand, had no opinions. He stood above the conventions: his -sister had a right to do what she thought right. It is not difficult to stand -above the conventions when we leave no hostages among them; men can always be -more unconventional than women, and a bachelor of independent means need -encounter no difficulties at all. Unlike Charles, Tibby had money enough; his -ancestors had earned it for him, and if he shocked the people in one set of -lodgings he had only to move into another. His was the leisure without -sympathy—an attitude as fatal as the strenuous: a little cold culture may be -raised on it, but no art. His sisters had seen the family danger, and had never -forgotten to discount the gold islets that raised them from the sea. Tibby gave -all the praise to himself, and so despised the struggling and the submerged. -</p> - -<p> -Hence the absurdity of the interview; the gulf between them was economic as -well as spiritual. But several facts passed: Charles pressed for them with an -impertinence that the undergraduate could not withstand. On what date had Helen -gone abroad? To whom? (Charles was anxious to fasten the scandal on Germany.) -Then, changing his tactics, he said roughly: “I suppose you realize that you -are your sister’s protector?” -</p> - -<p> -“In what sense?” -</p> - -<p> -“If a man played about with my sister, I’d send a bullet through him, but -perhaps you don’t mind.” -</p> - -<p> -“I mind very much,” protested Tibby. -</p> - -<p> -“Who d’ye suspect, then? Speak out, man. One always suspects someone.” -</p> - -<p> -“No one. I don’t think so.” Involuntarily he blushed. He had remembered the -scene in his Oxford rooms. -</p> - -<p> -“You are hiding something,” said Charles. As interviews go, he got the best of -this one. “When you saw her last, did she mention anyone’s name? Yes, or no!” -he thundered, so that Tibby started. -</p> - -<p> -“In my rooms she mentioned some friends, called the Basts—” -</p> - -<p> -“Who are the Basts?” -</p> - -<p> -“People—friends of hers at Evie’s wedding.” -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t remember. But, by great Scott! I do. My aunt told me about some -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?” -</p> - -<p> -Tibby was silent. Without intending it, he had betrayed his sister’s -confidence; he was not enough interested in human life to see where things will -lead to. He had a strong regard for honesty, and his word, once given, had -always been kept up to now. He was deeply vexed, not only for the harm he had -done Helen, but for the flaw he had discovered in his own equipment. -</p> - -<p> -“I see—you are in his confidence. They met at your rooms. Oh, what a family, -what a family! God help the poor pater—” -</p> - -<p> -And Tibby found himself alone. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 40</h2> - -<p> -Leonard—he would figure at length in a newspaper report, but that evening he -did not count for much. The foot of the tree was in shadow, since the moon was -still hidden behind the house. But above, to right, to left, down the long -meadow the moonlight was streaming. Leonard seemed not a man, but a cause. -</p> - -<p> -Perhaps it was Helen’s way of falling in love—a curious way to Margaret, whose -agony and whose contempt of Henry were yet imprinted with his image. Helen -forgot people. They were husks that had enclosed her emotion. She could pity, -or sacrifice herself, or have instincts, but had she ever loved in the noblest -way, where man and woman, having lost themselves in sex, desire to lose sex -itself in comradeship? -</p> - -<p> -Margaret wondered, but said no word of blame. This was Helen’s evening. -Troubles enough lay ahead of her—the loss of friends and of social advantages, -the agony, the supreme agony, of motherhood, which is 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. -</p> - -<p> -This was Helen’s evening—won at what cost, and not to be marred by the sorrows -of others. Of her own tragedy Margaret never uttered a word. -</p> - -<p> -“One isolates,” said Helen slowly. “I isolated Mr. Wilcox from the other forces -that were pulling Leonard downhill. Consequently, I was full of pity, and -almost of revenge. For weeks I had blamed Mr. Wilcox only, and so, when your -letters came—” -</p> - -<p> -“I need never have written them,” sighed Margaret. “They never shielded Henry. -How hopeless it is to tidy away the past, even for others!” -</p> - -<p> -“I did not know that it was your own idea to dismiss the Basts.” -</p> - -<p> -“Looking back, that was wrong of me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Looking back, darling, I know that it was right. It is right to save the man -whom one loves. I am less enthusiastic about justice now. But we both thought -you wrote at his dictation. It seemed the last touch of his callousness. Being -very much wrought up by this time—and Mrs. Bast was upstairs. I had not seen -her, and had talked for a long time to Leonard—I had snubbed him for no reason, -and that should have warned me I was in danger. So when the notes came I wanted -us to go to you for an explanation. He said that he guessed the explanation—he -knew of it, and you mustn’t know. I pressed him to tell me. He said no one must -know; it was something to do with his wife. Right up to the end we were Mr. -Bast and Miss Schlegel. I was going to tell him that he must be frank with me -when I saw his eyes, and guessed that Mr. Wilcox had ruined him in two ways, -not one. I drew him to me. I made him tell me. I felt very lonely myself. He is -not to blame. He would have gone on worshipping me. I want never to see him -again, though it sounds appalling. I wanted to give him money and feel -finished. Oh, Meg, the little that is known about these things!” -</p> - -<p> -She laid her face against the tree. -</p> - -<p> -“The little, too, that is known about growth! Both times it was loneliness, and -the night, and panic afterwards. Did Leonard grow out of Paul?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret did not speak for a moment. So tired was she that her attention had -actually wandered to the teeth—the teeth that had been thrust into the tree’s -bark to medicate it. From where she sat she could see them gleam. She had been -trying to count them. “Leonard is a better growth than madness,” she said. “I -was afraid that you would react against Paul until you went over the verge.” -</p> - -<p> -“I did react until I found poor Leonard. I am steady now. I shan’t ever like -your Henry, dearest Meg, or even speak kindly about him, but all that blinding -hate is over. I shall never rave against Wilcoxes any more. I understand how -you married him, and you will now be very happy.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret did not reply. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes,” repeated Helen, her voice growing more tender, “I do at last -understand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Except Mrs. Wilcox, dearest, no one understands our little movements.” -</p> - -<p> -“Because in death—I agree.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not quite. I feel that you and I and Henry are only fragments of that woman’s -mind. She knows everything. She is everything. She is the house, and the tree -that leans over it. People have their own deaths as well as their own lives, -and even if there is nothing beyond death, we shall differ in our nothingness. -I cannot believe that knowledge such as hers will perish with knowledge such as -mine. She knew about realities. She knew when people were in love, though she -was not in the room. I don’t doubt that she knew when Henry deceived her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-night, Mrs. Wilcox,” called a voice. -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, good-night, Miss Avery.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why should Miss Avery work for us?” Helen murmured. -</p> - -<p> -“Why, indeed?” -</p> - -<p> -Miss Avery crossed the lawn and merged into the hedge that divided it from the -farm. An old gap, which Mr. Wilcox had filled up, had reappeared, and her track -through the dew followed the path that he had turfed over, when he improved the -garden and made it possible for games. -</p> - -<p> -“This is not quite our house yet,” said Helen. “When Miss Avery called, I felt -we are only a couple of tourists.” -</p> - -<p> -“We shall be that everywhere, and for ever.” -</p> - -<p> -“But affectionate tourists—” -</p> - -<p> -“But tourists who pretend each hotel is their home.” -</p> - -<p> -“I can’t pretend very long,” said Helen. “Sitting under this tree one forgets, -but I know that 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.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret thought for a moment. In the past year she had grown so fond of -England that to leave it was a real grief. Yet what detained her? No doubt -Henry would pardon her outburst, and go on blustering and muddling into a ripe -old age. But what was the good? She had just as soon vanish from his mind. -</p> - -<p> -“Are you serious in asking me, Helen? Should I get on with your Monica?” -</p> - -<p> -“You would not, but I am serious in asking you.” -</p> - -<p> -“Still, no more plans now. And no more reminiscences.” -</p> - -<p> -They were silent for a little. It was Helen’s evening. -</p> - -<p> -The present flowed by them like a stream. The tree rustled. It had made music -before they were born, and would continue after their deaths, but its song was -of the moment. The moment had passed. The tree rustled again. Their senses were -sharpened, and they seemed to apprehend life. Life passed. The tree nestled -again. -</p> - -<p> -“Sleep now,” said Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -The peace of the country was entering into her. It has no commerce with memory, -and little with hope. Least of all is it concerned with the hopes of the next -five minutes. It is the peace of the present, which passes understanding. Its -murmur came “now,” and “now” once more as they trod the gravel, and “now,” as -the moonlight fell upon their father’s sword. They passed upstairs, kissed, and -amidst the endless iterations fell asleep. The house had enshadowed the tree at -first, but as the moon rose higher the two disentangled, and were clear for a -few moments at midnight. Margaret awoke and looked into the garden. How -incomprehensible that Leonard Bast should have won her this night of peace! Was -he also part of Mrs. Wilcox’s mind? -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 41</h2> - -<p> -Far different was Leonard’s development. The months after Oniton, whatever -minor troubles they might bring him, were all overshadowed by Remorse. When -Helen looked back she could 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 <i>shall</i> I do, -whatever <i>shall</i> I do?” Nothing brought ease. He could put distance -between him and the trespass, but it grew in his soul. -</p> - -<p> -Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The Greeks were right to dethrone -her. Her action is too capricious, as though the Erinyes selected for -punishment only certain men and certain sins. And of all means to regeneration -Remorse is surely the most wasteful. It cuts away healthy tissues with the -poisoned. It is a knife that probes far deeper than the evil. Leonard was -driven straight through its torments and emerged pure, but enfeebled—a better -man, who would never lose control of himself again, but also a smaller, who had -less to control. Nor did purity mean peace. The use of the knife can become a -habit as hard to shake off as passion itself, and Leonard continued to start -with a cry out of dreams. -</p> - -<p> -He built up a situation that was far enough from the truth. It never occurred -to him that Helen was to blame. He forgot the intensity of their talk, the -charm that had been lent him by sincerity, the magic of Oniton under darkness -and of the whispering river. Helen loved the absolute. Leonard had been ruined -absolutely, and had appeared to her as a man apart, isolated from the world. A -real man, who cared for adventure and beauty, who desired to live decently and -pay his way, who could have travelled more gloriously through life than the -Juggernaut car that was crushing him. Memories of Evie’s wedding had warped -her, the starched servants, the yards of uneaten food, the rustle of -overdressed women, motor-cars oozing grease on the gravel, 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. -</p> - -<p> -In the morning she was gone. The note that she left, tender and hysterical in -tone, and intended to be most kind, hurt her lover terribly. It was as if some -work of art had been broken by him, some picture in the National Gallery -slashed out of its frame. When he recalled her talents and her social position, -he felt that the first 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.” -</p> - -<p> -The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Basts permanently. Helen in her -flight forgot to settle the hotel bill, and took their return tickets away with -her; they had to pawn Jacky’s bangles to get home, and the smash came a few -days afterwards. It is true that Helen offered him five 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. -</p> - -<p> -“A letter from Leonard,” thought Blanche, his sister; “and after all this -time.” She hid it, so that her husband should not see, and when he had gone to -his work read it with some emotion, and sent the prodigal a little money out of -her dress allowance. -</p> - -<p> -“A letter from Leonard!” said the other sister, Laura, a few days later. She -showed it to her husband. He wrote a cruel insolent reply, but sent more money -than Blanche, so Leonard soon wrote to him again. -</p> - -<p> -And during the winter the system was developed. 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. -</p> - -<p> -In the horror there are two bright spots. He never confused the past. He -remained alive, and blessed are those who live, if it is only to a sense of -sinfulness. The anodyne of muddledom, by which most men blur and blend their -mistakes, never passed Leonard’s lips— -</p> - -<p class="poem"> -And if I drink oblivion of a day,<br/> -So shorten I the stature of my soul. -</p> - -<p> -It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it lies at the foot of all -character. -</p> - -<p> -And the other bright spot was his tenderness for Jacky. He pitied her with -nobility now—not the contemptuous pity of a man who sticks to a woman through -thick and thin. He tried to be less irritable. He wondered what her hungry eyes -desired—nothing that she could express, or that he or any man could give her. -Would she ever receive the justice that is mercy—the justice for by-products -that the world is too busy to bestow? She was fond of flowers, generous with -money, and not revengeful. If she had borne him a child he might have cared for -her. Unmarried, Leonard would never have begged; he would have flickered out -and died. But the whole of life is mixed. He had to provide for Jacky, and went -down dirty paths that she might have a few feathers and dishes of food that -suited her. -</p> - -<p> -One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother. He was in St. Paul’s. He -had entered the cathedral partly to avoid the rain and partly to see a picture -that had educated him in former years. But the light was bad, the picture ill -placed, and Time and Judgment were inside him now. Death alone still charmed -him, with her lap of poppies, on which all men shall sleep. He took one glance, -and turned aimlessly away towards a chair. Then down the nave he saw Miss -Schlegel and her brother. They stood in the fairway of passengers, and their -faces were extremely grave. He was perfectly certain that they were in trouble -about their sister. -</p> - -<p> -Once outside—and he fled immediately—he wished that he had spoken to them. What -was his life? What were a few angry words, or even imprisonment? He had done -wrong—that was the true terror. Whatever they might know, he would tell them -everything he knew. He re-entered St. Paul’s. But they had moved in his -absence, and had gone to lay their difficulties before Mr. Wilcox and Charles. -</p> - -<p> -The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new channels. He desired to confess, -and though the desire is proof of a weakened nature, which is about to lose the -essence of human intercourse, it did not take an ignoble form. He did not -suppose that confession would bring him happiness. It was rather that he -yearned to get clear of the tangle. So does the suicide yearn. The impulses are -akin, and the crime of suicide lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of -those whom we leave behind. Confession need harm no one—it can satisfy that -test—and though it was un-English, and ignored by our Anglican cathedral, -Leonard had a right to decide upon it. -</p> - -<p> -Moreover, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her hardness now. That cold, -intellectual nature of hers would be just, if unkind. He would do whatever she -told him, even if he had to see Helen. That was the supreme punishment she -would exact. And perhaps she would tell him how Helen was. That was the supreme -reward. -</p> - -<p> -He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether she was married to Mr. Wilcox, -and tracking her out took several days. That evening he toiled through the wet -to Wickham Place, where the new flats were now appearing. Was he also the cause -of their move? Were they expelled from society on his account? Thence to a -public library, but could find no satisfactory Schlegel in the directory. On -the morrow he searched again. He hung about outside Mr. Wilcox’s office at -lunch time, and, as the clerks came out said: “Excuse me, sir, but is your boss -married?” Most of them stared, some said, “What’s that to you?” but one, who -had not yet acquired reticence, told him what he wished. Leonard could not -learn the private address. That necessitated more trouble with directories and -tubes. Ducie Street was not discovered till the Monday, the day that Margaret -and her husband went down on their hunting expedition to Howards End. -</p> - -<p> -He called at about four o’clock. The weather had changed, and the sun shone -gaily on the ornamental steps—black and white marble in triangles. Leonard -lowered his eyes to them after ringing the bell. He felt in curious health: -doors seemed to be opening and shutting inside his body, and he had been -obliged to 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. -</p> - -<p> -“Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?” he asked. -</p> - -<p> -“She’s out,” was the answer. -</p> - -<p> -“When will she be back?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll ask,” said the parlourmaid. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret had given instructions that no one who mentioned her name should ever -be rebuffed. Putting the door on the chain—for Leonard’s appearance demanded -this—she went through to the smoking-room, which was occupied by Tibby. Tibby -was asleep. He had had a good lunch. Charles Wilcox had not yet rung him up for -the distracting interview. He said drowsily: “I don’t know. Hilton. Howards -End. Who is it?” -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll ask, sir.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, don’t bother.” -</p> - -<p> -“They have taken the car to Howards End,” said the parlourmaid to Leonard. -</p> - -<p> -He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was. -</p> - -<p> -“You appear to want to know a good deal,” she remarked. But Margaret had -forbidden her to be mysterious. She told him against her better judgment that -Howards End was in Hertfordshire. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it a village, please?” -</p> - -<p> -“Village! It’s Mr. Wilcox’s private house—at least, it’s one of them. Mrs. -Wilcox keeps her furniture there. Hilton is the village.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes. And when will they be back?” -</p> - -<p> -“Mr. Schlegel doesn’t know. We can’t know everything, can we?” She shut him -out, and went to attend to the telephone, which was ringing furiously. -</p> - -<p> -He loitered away another night of agony. Confession grew more difficult. As -soon as possible he went to bed. He watched a patch of moonlight cross the -floor of their lodging, and, as sometimes happens when the mind is overtaxed, -he fell asleep for the rest of the room, but kept awake for the patch of -moonlight. Horrible! Then began one of those disintegrating dialogues. Part of -him said: “Why horrible? It’s ordinary light from the 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. -</p> - -<p> -“I say, Jacky, I’m going out for a bit.” -</p> - -<p> -She was breathing regularly. The patch of light fell clear of the striped -blanket, and began to cover the shawl that lay over her feet. Why had he been -afraid? He went to the window, and saw that the moon was descending through a -clear sky. He saw her volcanoes, and the bright expanses that a gracious error -has named seas. They paled, for the sun, who had lit them up, was coming to -light the earth. Sea of Serenity, Sea of Tranquillity, Ocean of the Lunar -Storms, merged into one lucent drop, itself to slip into the sempiternal dawn. -And he had been afraid of the moon! -</p> - -<p> -He dressed among the contending lights, and went through his money. It was -running low again, but enough for a return ticket to Hilton. As it clinked -Jacky opened her eyes. -</p> - -<p> -“Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!” -</p> - -<p> -“What ho, Jacky! see you again later.” -</p> - -<p> -She turned over and slept. -</p> - -<p> -The house was unlocked, their landlord being a salesman at 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. -</p> - -<p> -Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. Leonard noticed the -contrast when he stepped out of it into the country. Here men had been up since -dawn. Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by the movements of -the crops and the sun. That they were men of the finest type only the -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. -</p> - -<p> -At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was another type, whom Nature -favours—the Imperial. Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit the earth. -It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; strong is the temptation to -acclaim it as a super-yeoman, who carries his country’s virtue overseas. But -the Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He is a destroyer. He prepares -the way for cosmopolitanism, and though his ambitions may be fulfilled, the -earth that he inherits will be grey. -</p> - -<p> -To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction of innate -goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he had been taught at school. -Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins stalk over the universe -before joy can be purged of the superficial. It was rather paradoxical, and -arose from his sorrow. Death destroys a man, but the idea of death saves -him—that is the best account of it that has yet been given. Squalor and tragedy -can beckon to all that is great in us, and strengthen the wings of love. They -can beckon; it is not certain that they will, for they are not love’s servants. -But they can beckon, and the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him. -</p> - -<p> -As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory notions stood -side by side in his mind. He was terrified but happy, ashamed, but had done no -sin. He knew the confession: “Mrs. Wilcox, I have done wrong,” but sunrise had -robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on a supreme adventure. -</p> - -<p> -He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found in it, -found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very easy. From a room -to the left he heard voices, Margaret’s amongst them. His own name was called -aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said, “Oh, is he there? I am not -surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of his life.” -</p> - -<p> -“Mrs. Wilcox,” said Leonard, “I have done wrong.” -</p> - -<p> -The man took him by the collar and cried, “Bring me a stick.” Women were -screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it -descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing had -sense. -</p> - -<p> -“Get some water,” commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm. “He’s -shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out into the air.” -</p> - -<p> -Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid -Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him. -</p> - -<p> -“That’s enough,” said Charles. -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, murder’s enough,” said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with the -sword. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 42</h2> - -<p> -When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but had no -inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then his father, who had -dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones inquired for Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t know where she is, pater,” said Charles. “Dolly kept back dinner -nearly an hour for her.” -</p> - -<p> -“Tell me when she comes in—.” -</p> - -<p> -Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his father -again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not returned. -</p> - -<p> -“I’ll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming. Isn’t -she stopping with her sister at the hotel?” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps,” said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully—“perhaps.” -</p> - -<p> -“Can I do anything for you, sir?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not tonight, my boy.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes and gave his son more -open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles as little -boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable his children -were left to him. -</p> - -<p> -After midnight he tapped on Charles’s door. “I can’t sleep,” he said. “I had -better have a talk with you and get it over.” -</p> - -<p> -He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and they paced -up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very quiet as the story -unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as bad as her sister. -</p> - -<p> -“She will feel differently in the morning,” said Mr. Wilcox, who had of course -said nothing about Mrs. Bast. “But I cannot let this kind of thing continue -without comment. I am morally certain that she is with her sister at Howards -End. The house is mine—and, Charles, it will be yours—and when I say that no -one is to live there, I mean that no one is to live there. I won’t have it.” He -looked angrily at the moon. “To my mind this question is connected with -something far greater, the rights of property itself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Undoubtedly,” said Charles. -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son’s, but somehow liked him less as he told -him more. “I don’t want you to conclude that my wife and I had anything of the -nature of a quarrel. She was only 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then at eight tomorrow I may go up in the car?” -</p> - -<p> -“Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of -course, use no violence, Charles.” -</p> - -<p> -On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the gravel, it -did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was due to heart disease. -His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss Avery had acknowledged that -he only used the flat of the sword. On his way through the village he informed -the police, who thanked him, and said there must be an inquest. He found his -father in the garden shading his eyes from the sun. -</p> - -<p> -“It has been pretty horrible,” said Charles gravely. “They were there, and they -had the man up there with them too.” -</p> - -<p> -“What—what man?” -</p> - -<p> -“I told you last night. His name was Bast.” -</p> - -<p> -“My God, is it possible?” said Mr. Wilcox. “In your mother’s house! Charles, in -your mother’s house!” -</p> - -<p> -“I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is no need to -trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart disease, and just -before I could show him what I thought of him he went off. The police are -seeing about it at this moment.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox listened attentively. -</p> - -<p> -“I got up there—oh, it couldn’t have been more than half-past seven. The Avery -woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs. I waited in the -drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and collected, though I had my -suspicions. I gave them your message, and Mrs. Wilcox said, ‘Oh yes, I see; -yes,’ in that way of hers.” -</p> - -<p> -“Nothing else?” -</p> - -<p> -“I promised to tell you, ‘with her love,’ that she was going to Germany with -her sister this evening. That was all we had time for.” -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved. -</p> - -<p> -“Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for suddenly Mrs. -Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognized it, and I went for him in the hall. -Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little too far.” -</p> - -<p> -“Right, my dear boy? I don’t know. But you would have been no son of mine if -you hadn’t. Then did he just—just—crumple up as you said?” He shrunk from the -simple word. -</p> - -<p> -“He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down over him. So I merely put the -sword down and carried him into the garden. We all thought he was shamming. -However, he’s dead right enough. Awful business!” -</p> - -<p> -“Sword?” cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. “What sword? Whose -sword?” -</p> - -<p> -“A sword of theirs.” -</p> - -<p> -“What were you doing with it?” -</p> - -<p> -“Well, didn’t you see, pater, I had to snatch up the first thing handy I hadn’t -a riding-whip or stick. I caught him once or twice over the shoulders with the -flat of their old German sword.” -</p> - -<p> -“Then what?” -</p> - -<p> -“He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell,” said Charles, with a sigh. -It was no fun doing errands for his father, who was never quite satisfied. -</p> - -<p> -“But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you’re sure?” -</p> - -<p> -“That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest on such -unsavoury topics.” -</p> - -<p> -They went 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. -</p> - -<p> -“I think I’ll go round to the police-station,” said his father when breakfast -was over. -</p> - -<p> -“What for?” cried Dolly, who had still not been “told.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well, sir. Which car will you have?” -</p> - -<p> -“I think I’ll walk.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s a good half-mile,” said Charles, stepping into the garden. “The sun’s -very hot for April. Shan’t I take you up, and then, perhaps, a little spin -round by Tewin?” -</p> - -<p> -“You go on as if I didn’t know my own mind,” said Mr. Wilcox fretfully. Charles -hardened his mouth. “You young fellows’ one idea is to get into a motor. I tell -you, I want to walk: I’m very fond of walking.” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, all right; I’m about the house if you want me for anything. I thought of -not going up to the office today, if that is your wish.” -</p> - -<p> -“It is, indeed, my boy,” said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a hand on his sleeve. -</p> - -<p> -Charles did not like it; he was uneasy about his father, who did not seem -himself this morning. There was a petulant touch about him—more like a woman. -Could it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not lacking in -affection; they had it royally, but they did not know how to use it. It was the -talent in the napkin, and, for a warm-hearted man, Charles had conveyed very -little joy. As he watched his father shuffling up the road, he had a vague -regret—a wish that something had been different somewhere—a wish (though he did -not express it thus) that he had been taught to say “I” in his youth. He meant -to make up for Margaret’s defection, but knew that his father had been very -happy with her until yesterday. How had she done it? By some dishonest trick, -no doubt—but how? -</p> - -<p> -Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. There was to be an inquest -on Leonard’s’ body tomorrow, and the police required his son to attend. -</p> - -<p> -“I expected that,” said Charles. “I shall naturally be the most important -witness there.” -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 43</h2> - -<p> -Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with Aunt Juley’s illness and was -not even to end with Leonard’s death, it seemed impossible to Margaret that -healthy life should re-emerge. Events succeeded in a logical, yet senseless, -train. People lost their humanity, and took values as arbitrary as those in a -pack of playing-cards. It was natural that Henry should do this and cause Helen -to do that, and then think her wrong for doing it; natural that she herself -should think him wrong; natural that Leonard should want to know how Helen was, -and come, and Charles be angry with him for coming—natural, but unreal. In this -jangle of causes and effects what had become of their true selves? Here Leonard -lay dead in the garden, from natural causes; yet life was a deep, deep river, -death a blue sky, life was a house, death a wisp of hay, a flower, a tower, -life and death were anything and everything, except this ordered insanity, -where the king takes the queen, and the ace the king. Ah, no; there was beauty -and adventure behind, such as the man at her feet had yearned for; there was -hope this side of the grave; there were truer relationships beyond the limits -that fetter us now. As a prisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning, so she, -from the turmoil and horror of those days, caught glimpses of the diviner -wheels. -</p> - -<p> -And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm for the child’s sake, and -Miss Avery, calm, but murmuring tenderly, “No one ever told the lad he’ll have -a child”—they also reminded her that horror is not the end. To what ultimate -harmony we tend she did not know, but there seemed great chance that a child -would be born into the world, to take the great chances of beauty and adventure -that the world offers. She moved through the sunlit garden, gathering narcissi, -crimson-eyed and white. There was nothing else to be done; the time for -telegrams and anger was over, and it seemed wisest that the hands of Leonard -should be folded on his breast and be filled with flowers. Here was the father; -leave it at that. Let Squalor be turned into Tragedy, whose eyes are the stars, -and whose hands hold the sunset and the dawn. -</p> - -<p> -And even the influx of officials, even the return of the doctor, vulgar and -acute, could not shake her belief in the eternity of beauty. Science explained -people, but could not understand them. After long centuries among the bones and -muscles it might be advancing to knowledge of the nerves, but this would never -give understanding. One could open the heart to Mr. Mansbridge and his sort -without discovering its secrets to them, for they wanted everything down in -black and white, and black and white was exactly what they were left with. -</p> - -<p> -They questioned her closely about Charles. She never suspected why. Death had -come, and the doctor agreed that it was due to heart disease. They asked to see -her father’s sword. She explained that Charles’s anger was natural, but -mistaken. Miserable questions about Leonard followed, all of which she answered -unfalteringly. Then back to Charles again. “No doubt Mr. Wilcox may have -induced death,” she said; “but if it wasn’t one thing it would have been -another, as you 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. -</p> - -<p> -Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place for her, since she had to -wait for the inquest. Though, as if things were not hard enough, Madge and her -husband had raised trouble; they did not see why they should receive the -offscourings of Howards End. And, of course, they were right. The whole world -was going to be right, and amply avenge any brave talk against the conventions. -“Nothing matters,” the Schlegels had said in the past, “except one’s -self-respect and that of one’s friends.” When the time came, other things -mattered terribly. However, Madge had yielded, and Helen was assured of peace -for one day and night, and tomorrow she would return to Germany. -</p> - -<p> -As for herself, she determined to go too. No message came from Henry; perhaps -he expected her to 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. -</p> - -<p> -No, there was nothing more to be done. They had tried not to go over the -precipice but perhaps the fall was inevitable. And it comforted her to think -that the future was certainly inevitable: cause and effect would go jangling -forward to some goal doubtless, but to none that she could imagine. At such -moments the soul retires within, to float upon the bosom of a deeper stream, -and has communion with the dead, and sees the world’s glory not diminished, but -different in kind to what she has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial -things are blurred. Margaret had been tending this way all the winter. -Leonard’s death brought her to the goal. Alas! that Henry should fade, away as -reality emerged, and only her love for him should remain clear, stamped with -his image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams. -</p> - -<p> -With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would soon present a healthy -mind to the world again, and what did he or the world care if he was rotten at -the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man, at times a little -sentimental about women, but emptying his glass with anyone. Tenacious of -power, he would keep Charles and the rest dependent, and retire from business -reluctantly and at an advanced age. He would settle down—though she could not -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. -</p> - -<p> -Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortality for herself. An eternal -future had always seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in it for himself. -Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless levels beyond the -grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches? And his level, whether -higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as hers? -</p> - -<p> -Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He sent up Crane in the -motor. Other servants passed like water, but the chauffeur remained, though -impertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew it. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?” she asked. -</p> - -<p> -“He didn’t say, madam.” -</p> - -<p> -“You haven’t any note for me?” -</p> - -<p> -“He didn’t say, madam.” -</p> - -<p> -After a moment’s thought she locked up Howards End. It was pitiable to see in -it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She raked out the -fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals in the gravelled -yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains. Henry would probably sell -the place now. -</p> - -<p> -She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far as -they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday evening. -He was standing a little outside Charles’s gate, and motioned the car to stop. -When his wife got out he said hoarsely: “I prefer to discuss things with you -outside.” -</p> - -<p> -“It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid,” said Margaret. “Did you -get my message?” -</p> - -<p> -“What about?” -</p> - -<p> -“I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall make it -my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than you have -realized. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you.” -</p> - -<p> -“I am extremely tired,” said Henry, in injured tones. “I have been walking -about all the morning, and wish to sit down.” -</p> - -<p> -“Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass.” -</p> - -<p> -The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. -Henry’s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein -were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not -be seen by Charles or Dolly. -</p> - -<p> -“Here are your keys,” said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on -the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up. -</p> - -<p> -“I have something to tell you,” he said gently. -</p> - -<p> -She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was -only intended to enhance her admiration of the male. -</p> - -<p> -“I don’t want to hear it,” she replied. “My sister is going to be ill. My life -is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I -and her child.” -</p> - -<p> -“Where are you going?” -</p> - -<p> -“Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill.” -</p> - -<p> -“After the inquest?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes.” -</p> - -<p> -“Have you realized what the verdict at the inquest will be?” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, heart disease.” -</p> - -<p> -“No, my dear; manslaughter.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved as if -it was alive. -</p> - -<p> -“Manslaughter,” repeated Mr. Wilcox. “Charles may go to prison. I dare not tell -him. I don’t know what to do—what to do. I’m broken—I’m ended.” -</p> - -<p> -No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her only -hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through that day and -the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought in. Charles was -committed for trial. It was against all reason that he should be punished, but -the law, 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. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<h2>Chapter 44</h2> - -<p> -Tom’s father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid -whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing circles -the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen. -</p> - -<p> -“I haven’t any idea,” she replied. “Do you suppose baby may, Meg?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. “What was that?” she -asked. -</p> - -<p> -“Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?” -</p> - -<p> -“I haven’t the least notion,” answered Margaret, and took up her work again. -</p> - -<p> -“Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not to lie -so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he is not to be -cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as careful as all that?” -</p> - -<p> -Tom held out his arms. -</p> - -<p> -“That child is a wonderful nursemaid,” remarked Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“He is fond of baby. That’s why he does it!” was Helen’s answer. They’re going -to be lifelong friends.” -</p> - -<p> -“Starting at the ages of six and one?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom.” -</p> - -<p> -“It may be a greater thing for baby.” -</p> - -<p> -Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End. No -better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the great red -poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with the little red -poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the wheat. These little -events would become part of her year after year. Every summer she would fear -lest the well should give out, every winter lest the pipes should freeze; every -westerly gale might blow the wych-elm down and bring the end of all things, and -so she could not read or talk during a westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. -She and her sister were sitting on the remains of Evie’s mockery, where the -lawn merged into the field. -</p> - -<p> -“What a time they all are!” said Helen. “What can they be doing inside?” -Margaret, who was growing less talkative, made no answer. The noise of the -cutter came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by them a man was -preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes. -</p> - -<p> -“I wish Henry was out to enjoy this,” said Helen. “This lovely weather and to -be shut up in the house! It’s very hard.” -</p> - -<p> -“It has to be,” said Margaret. “The hay-fever is his chief objection against -living here, but he thinks it worth while.” -</p> - -<p> -“Meg, is or isn’t he ill? I can’t make out.” -</p> - -<p> -“Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all his life, and noticed -nothing. Those are the people who collapse when they do notice a thing.” -</p> - -<p> -“I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle.” -</p> - -<p> -“Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, today. Still, he -wanted them all to come. It has to be.” -</p> - -<p> -“Why does he want them?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret did not answer. -</p> - -<p> -“Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry.” -</p> - -<p> -“You’d be odd if you didn’t,” said Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“I usen’t to.” -</p> - -<p> -“Usen’t!” She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past. They -had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. They were building up a -new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard was dead; Charles had -two years more in prison. One usen’t always to see clearly before that time. It -was different now. -</p> - -<p> -“I like Henry because he does worry.” -</p> - -<p> -“And he likes you because you don’t.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her face in her hands. After a -time she said: “Above love,” a transition less abrupt than it appeared. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret never stopped working. -</p> - -<p> -“I mean a woman’s love for a man. I supposed I should hang my life on to that -once, and was driven up and down and about as if something was worrying through -me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem cured. That Herr 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?” -</p> - -<p> -“I do not agree. I do not.” -</p> - -<p> -“I ought to remember Leonard as my lover,” said Helen, stepping down into the -field. “I tempted him, and killed him and it is surely the least I can do. I -would like to throw out all my heart to Leonard on such an afternoon as this. -But I cannot. It is no good pretending. I am forgetting him.” Her eyes filled -with tears. “How nothing seems to match—how, my darling, my precious—” She -broke off. “Tommy!” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, please?” -</p> - -<p> -“Baby’s not to try and stand.—There’s something wanting in me. I see you loving -Henry, and understanding him better daily, and I know that death wouldn’t part -you in the least. But I—Is it some awful appalling, criminal defect?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret silenced her. She said: “It is only that people are far more different -than is pretended. All over the world men and women are worrying because they -cannot develop as they are supposed to develop. Here and there they have the -matter out, and it comforts them. Don’t fret yourself, Helen. Develop what you -have; love your child. I do not love children. I am thankful to have none. I -can play with their beauty and charm, but that is all—nothing real, not one -scrap of what there ought to be. And others—others go farther still, and move -outside humanity altogether. A place, as well as a person, may catch the glow. -Don’t you see that all this leads to comfort in the end? It is part of the -battle against sameness. Differences—eternal differences, planted by God in a -single family, so that there may always be colour; sorrow perhaps, but colour -in the daily grey. Then I can’t have you worrying about Leonard. Don’t drag in -the personal when it will not come. Forget him.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?” -</p> - -<p> -“Perhaps an adventure.” -</p> - -<p> -“Is that enough?” -</p> - -<p> -“Not for us. But for him.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the sorrel, and the red and white -and yellow clover, and the quaker grass, and the daisies, and the bents that -composed it. She raised it to her face. -</p> - -<p> -“Is it sweetening yet?” asked Margaret. -</p> - -<p> -“No, only withered.” -</p> - -<p> -“It will sweeten tomorrow.” -</p> - -<p> -Helen smiled. “Oh, Meg, you are a person,” she said. “Think of the racket and -torture this time last year. But now I couldn’t stop unhappy if I tried. What a -change—and all through you!” -</p> - -<p> -“Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry learnt to understand one another and -to forgive, all through the autumn and the winter.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, but who settled us down?” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and she took off her pince-nez -to watch it. -</p> - -<p> -“You!” cried Helen. “You did it all, sweetest, though you’re too stupid to see. -Living here was your plan—I wanted you; he wanted you; and 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?” -</p> - -<p> -“You were both ill at the time,” said Margaret. “I did the obvious things. I -had two invalids to nurse. Here was a house, ready furnished and empty. It was -obvious. I didn’t know myself it would turn into a permanent home. No doubt I -have done a little towards straightening the tangle, but things that I can’t -phrase have helped me.” -</p> - -<p> -“I hope it will be permanent,” said Helen, drifting away to other thoughts. -</p> - -<p> -“I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards End peculiarly our own.” -</p> - -<p> -“All the same, London’s creeping.” -</p> - -<p> -She pointed over the meadow—over eight or nine meadows, but at the end of them -was a red rust. -</p> - -<p> -“You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now,” she continued. “I can see it -from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something else, I’m afraid. -Life’s going to be melted down, all over the world.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the Purbeck -Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot was being -prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive. One’s hope was in -the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth beating time? -</p> - -<p> -“Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go strong for ever,” she -said. “This craze for motion has only set in during the last hundred years. It -may be followed by a 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.” -</p> - -<p> -They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now, for Helen’s -child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then Margaret said, “Oh, -take care—!” for something moved behind the window of the hall, and the door -opened. -</p> - -<p> -“The conclave’s breaking at last. I’ll go.” -</p> - -<p> -It was Paul. -</p> - -<p> -Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices greeted -her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black moustache. -</p> - -<p> -“My father has asked for you,” he said with hostility. She took her work and -followed him. -</p> - -<p> -“We have been talking business,” he continued, “but I dare say you knew all -about it beforehand.” -</p> - -<p> -“Yes, I did.” -</p> - -<p> -Clumsy of movement—for he had spent all his life in the saddle—Paul drove his -foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave a little cry of -annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she stopped in the hall to take -Dolly’s boa and gloves out of a vase. -</p> - -<p> -Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and by his -side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly, dressed in -purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and airless; they were -obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the hay. Margaret joined the -family without speaking; the five of them had met already at tea, and she knew -quite well what was going to be said. Averse to wasting her time, she went on -sewing. The clock struck six. -</p> - -<p> -“Is this going to suit 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.” -</p> - -<p> -“It’s apparently got to suit us,” said Paul. -</p> - -<p> -“I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the house -to you instead.” -</p> - -<p> -Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. “As I’ve given up -the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look after the -business, it’s no good my settling down here,” he said at last. “It’s not -really the country, and it’s not the town.” -</p> - -<p> -“Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?” -</p> - -<p> -“Of course, Father.” -</p> - -<p> -“And you, Dolly?” -</p> - -<p> -Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not steady. -“Perfectly splendidly,” she said. “I thought Charles wanted it for the boys, -but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot possibly live in this -part of England again. Charles says we ought to change our name, but I cannot -think what to, for Wilcox just suits Charles and me, and I can’t think of any -other name.” -</p> - -<p> -There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that she had -been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm. -</p> - -<p> -“Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely,” said Henry. “And let every -one understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy and no -surprise.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph. She, who -had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight through these -Wilcoxes and broken up their lives. -</p> - -<p> -“In consequence, I leave my wife no money,” said Henry. “That is her own wish. -All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also giving you a -great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent of me. That is her -wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of money. She intends to -diminish her income by half during the next ten years; she intends when she -dies to leave the house to her—to her nephew, down in the field. Is all that -clear? Does every one understand?” -</p> - -<p> -Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little shook -him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said: “Down in the -field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole establishment, -piccaninnies included.” -</p> - -<p> -Mrs. Cahill whispered: “Don’t, Paul. You promised you’d take care.” Feeling a -woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave. -</p> - -<p> -Her father kissed her. “Good-bye, old girl,” he said; “don’t you worry about -me.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye, Dad.” -</p> - -<p> -Then it was Dolly’s turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously, and -said: “Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox should have -left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all.” -</p> - -<p> -From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. “Good-bye,” she said to Margaret, and -kissed her. -</p> - -<p> -And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea. -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye, Dolly.” -</p> - -<p> -“So long, Father.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox.” -</p> - -<p> -“Good-bye. -</p> - -<p> -Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her husband and -laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But Dolly’s remark had -interested her. At last she said: “Could you tell me, Henry, what was that -about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?” -</p> - -<p> -Tranquilly he replied: “Yes, she did. But that is a very old story. When she -was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some return, and, -not being herself at the time, scribbled ‘Howards End’ on a piece of paper. I -went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearly fanciful, I set it aside, -little knowing what my Margaret would be to me in the future.” -</p> - -<p> -Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses, and she -shivered. -</p> - -<p> -“I didn’t do wrong, did I?” he asked, bending down. -</p> - -<p> -“You didn’t, darling. Nothing has been done wrong.” -</p> - -<p> -From the garden came laughter. “Here they are at last!” exclaimed Henry, -disengaging himself with a smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding Tom by -one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were shouts of infectious -joy. -</p> - -<p> -“The field’s cut!” Helen cried excitedly—“the big meadow! We’ve seen to the -very end, and it’ll be such a crop of hay as never!” -</p> - -<p class="letter"> -Weybridge, 1908-1910. -</p> - -</div><!--end chapter--> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOWARDS END ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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