prompt:
Chapter: Far different was Leonard's development. The months after Oniton,
whatever minor troubles they might bring him, were all overshadowed by
Remorse. When Helen looked back she could philosophise, or she could
look into the future and plan for her child. But the father saw nothing
beyond his own sin. Weeks afterwards, in the midst of other occupations,
he would suddenly cry out, "Brute--you brute, I couldn't have--" and be
rent into two people who held dialogues. Or brown rain would descend,
blotting out faces and the sky. Even Jacky noticed the change in him.
Most terrible were his sufferings when he awoke from sleep. Sometimes
he was happy at first, but grew conscious of a burden hanging to him
and weighing down his thoughts when they would move. Or little irons
scorched his body. Or a sword stabbed him. He would sit at the edge of
his bed, holding his heart and moaning, "Oh what SHALL I do, whatever
SHALL I do?" Nothing brought ease. He could put distance between him and
the trespass, but it grew in his soul.

Remorse is not among the eternal verities. The Greeks were right to
dethrone her. Her action is too capricious, as though the Erinyes
selected for punishment only certain men and certain sins. And of all
means to regeneration Remorse is surely the most wasteful. It cuts away
healthy tissues with the poisoned. It is a knife that probes far deeper
than the evil. Leonard was driven straight through its torments and
emerged pure, but enfeebled--a better man, who would never lose control
of himself again, but also a smaller man, who had less to control. Nor
did purity mean peace. The use of the knife can become a habit as hard
to shake off as passion itself, and Leonard continued to start with a
cry out of dreams.

He built up a situation that was far enough from the truth. It never
occurred to him that Helen was to blame. He forgot the intensity of
their talk, the charm that had been lent him by sincerity, the magic
of Oniton under darkness and of the whispering river. Helen loved the
absolute. Leonard had been ruined absolutely, and had appeared to her
as a man apart, isolated from the world. A real man, who cared for
adventure and beauty, who desired to live decently and pay his way, who
could have travelled more gloriously through life than the juggernaut
car that was crushing him. Memories of Evie's wedding had warped
her, the starched servants, the yards of uneaten food, the rustle of
overdressed women, motor-cars oozing grease on the gravel, a pretentious
band. She had tasted the lees of this on her arrival; in the darkness,
after failure, they intoxicated her. She and the victim seemed alone in
a world of unreality, and she loved him absolutely, perhaps for half an
hour.

In the morning she was gone. The note that she left, tender and
hysterical in tone, and intended to be most kind, hurt her lover
terribly. It was as if some work of art had been broken by him, some
picture in the National Gallery slashed out of its frame. When he
recalled her talents and her social position, he felt that the first
passer-by had a right to shoot him down. He was afraid of the waitress
and the porters at the railway-station. He was afraid at first of his
wife, though later he was to regard her with a strange new tenderness,
and to think, "There is nothing to choose between us, after all."

The expedition to Shropshire crippled the Basts permanently. Helen
in her flight forgot to settle the hotel bill, and took their return
tickets away with her; they had to pawn Jacky's bangles to get home, and
the smash came a few days afterwards. It is true that Helen offered him
five thousand pounds, but such a sum meant nothing to him. He could not
see that the girl was desperately righting herself, and trying to save
something out of the disaster, if it was only five thousand pounds. But
he had to live somehow. He turned to his family, and degraded himself to
a professional beggar. There was nothing else for him to do.

"A letter from Leonard," thought Blanche, his sister; "and after all
this time." She hid it, so that her husband should not see, and when he
had gone to his work read it with some emotion, and sent the prodigal a
little money out of her dress allowance.

"A letter from Leonard!" said the other sister, Laura, a few days later.
She showed it to her husband. He wrote a cruel, insolent reply, but sent
more money than Blanche, so Leonard soon wrote to him again.

And during the winter the system was developed.

Leonard realised that they need never starve, because it would be too
painful for his relatives. Society is based on the family, and the
clever wastrel can exploit this indefinitely. Without a generous thought
on either side, pounds and pounds passed. The donors disliked Leonard,
and he grew to hate them intensely. When Laura censured his immoral
marriage, he thought bitterly, "She minds that! What would she say if
she knew the truth?" When Blanche's husband offered him work, he found
some pretext for avoiding it. He had wanted work keenly at Oniton, but
too much anxiety had shattered him, he was joining the unemployable.
When his brother, the lay-reader, did not reply to a letter, he wrote
again, saying that he and Jacky would come down to his village on foot.
He did not intend this as blackmail. Still the brother sent a postal
order, and it became part of the system. And so passed his winter and
his spring.

In the horror there are two bright spots. He never confused the past. He
remained alive, and blessed are those who live, if it is only to a sense
of sinfulness. The anodyne of muddledom, by which most men blur and
blend their mistakes, never passed Leonard's lips--

        "And if I drink oblivion of a day,
         So shorten I the stature of my soul."

It is a hard saying, and a hard man wrote it, but it lies at the root of
all character.

And the other bright spot was his tenderness for Jacky. He pitied her
with nobility now--not the contemptuous pity of a man who sticks to a
woman through thick and thin. He tried to be less irritable. He wondered
what her hungry eyes desired--nothing that she could express, or that
he or any man could give her. Would she ever receive the justice that is
mercy--the justice for by-products that the world is too busy to bestow?
She was fond of flowers, generous with money, and not revengeful. If she
had borne him a child he might have cared for her. Unmarried, Leonard
would never have begged; he would have flickered out and died. But the
whole of life is mixed. He had to provide for Jacky, and went down dirty
paths that she might have a few feathers and the dishes of food that
suited her.

One day he caught sight of Margaret and her brother. He was in St.
Paul's. He had entered the cathedral partly to avoid the rain and partly
to see a picture that had educated him in former years. But the light
was bad, the picture ill placed, and Time and judgment were inside him
now. Death alone still charmed him, with her lap of poppies, on which
all men shall sleep. He took one glance, and turned aimlessly away
towards a chair. Then down the nave he saw Miss Schlegel and her
brother. They stood in the fairway of passengers, and their faces were
extremely grave. He was perfectly certain that they were in trouble
about their sister.

Once outside--and he fled immediately--he wished that he had spoken
to them. What was his life? What were a few angry words, or even
imprisonment? He had done wrong--that was the true terror. Whatever they
might know, he would tell them everything he knew. He re-entered St.
Paul's. But they had moved in his absence, and had gone to lay their
difficulties before Mr. Wilcox and Charles.

The sight of Margaret turned remorse into new channels. He desired to
confess, and though the desire is proof of a weakened nature, which
is about to lose the essence of human intercourse, it did not take
an ignoble form. He did not suppose that confession would bring him
happiness. It was rather that he yearned to get clear of the tangle. So
does the suicide yearn. The impulses are akin, and the crime of suicide
lies rather in its disregard for the feelings of those whom we leave
behind. Confession need harm no one--it can satisfy that test--and
though it was un-English, and ignored by our Anglican cathedral, Leonard
had a right to decide upon it.

Moreover, he trusted Margaret. He wanted her hardness now. That cold,
intellectual nature of hers would be just, if unkind. He would do
whatever she told him, even if he had to see Helen. That was the supreme
punishment she would exact. And perhaps she would tell him how Helen
was. That was the supreme reward.

He knew nothing about Margaret, not even whether she was married to Mr.
Wilcox, and tracking her out took several days. That evening he
toiled through the wet to Wickham Place, where the new flats were now
appearing. Was he also the cause of their move? Were they expelled from
society on his account? Thence to a public library, but could find no
satisfactory Schlegel in the directory. On the morrow he searched again.
He hung about outside Mr. Wilcox's office at lunch time, and, as the
clerks came out said, "Excuse me, sir, but is your boss married?" Most
of them stared, some said, "What's that to you?" but one, who had not
yet acquired reticence, told him what he wished. Leonard could not learn
the private address. That necessitated more trouble with directories
and tubes. Ducie Street was not discovered till the Monday, the day
that Margaret and her husband went down on their hunting expedition to
Howards End.

He called at about four o'clock. The weather had changed, and the
sun shone gaily on the ornamental steps--black and white marble in
triangles. Leonard lowered his eyes to them after ringing the bell. He
felt in curious health; doors seemed to be opening and shutting inside
his body, and he had been obliged to sleep sitting up in bed, with his
back propped against the wall. When the parlourmaid came he could not
see her face; the brown rain had descended suddenly.

"Does Mrs. Wilcox live here?" he asked.

"She's out," was the answer.

"When will she be back?"

"I'll ask," said the parlourmaid.

Margaret had given instructions that no one who mentioned her name
should ever be rebuffed. Putting the door on the chain--for Leonard's
appearance demanded this--she went through to the smoking-room, which
was occupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He had had a good lunch.
Charles Wilcox had not yet rung him up for the distracting interview. He
said drowsily: "I don't know. Hilton. Howards End. Who is it?"

"I'll ask, sir."

"No, don't bother."

"They have taken the car to Howards End," said the parlourmaid to
Leonard.

He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was.

"You appear to want to know a good deal," she remarked. But Margaret had
forbidden her to be mysterious. She told him against her better judgment
that Howards End was in Hertfordshire.

"Is it a village, please?"

"Village! It's Mr. Wilcox's private house--at least, it's one of them.
Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture there. Hilton is the village."

"Yes. And when will they be back?"

"Mr. Schlegel doesn't know. We can't know everything, can we?" She
shut him out, and went to attend to the telephone, which was ringing
furiously.

He loitered away another night of agony. Confession grew more difficult.
As soon as possible he went to bed. He watched a patch of moonlight
cross the floor of their lodging, and, as sometimes happens when the
mind is overtaxed, he fell asleep for the rest of the room, but kept
awake for the patch of moonlight. Horrible! Then began one of those
disintegrating dialogues. Part of him said: "Why horrible? It's ordinary
light from the moon." "But it moves." "So does the moon." "But it is a
clenched fist." "Why not?" "But it is going to touch me." "Let it." And,
seeming to gather motion, the patch ran up his blanket. Presently a
blue snake appeared; then another parallel to it. "Is there life in the
moon?" "Of course." "But I thought it was uninhabited." "Not by Time,
Death, Judgment, and the smaller snakes." "Smaller snakes!" said Leonard
indignantly and aloud. "What a notion!" By a rending effort of the
will he woke the rest of the room up. Jacky, the bed, their food, their
clothes on the chair, gradually entered his consciousness, and the
horror vanished outwards, like a ring that is spreading through water.

"I say, Jacky, I'm going out for a bit."

She was breathing regularly. The patch of light fell clear of the
striped blanket, and began to cover the shawl that lay over her feet.
Why had he been afraid? He went to the window, and saw that the moon
was descending through a clear sky. He saw her volcanoes, and the bright
expanses that a gracious error has named seas. They paled, for the sun,
who had lit them up, was coming to light the earth. Sea of Serenity, Sea
of Tranquillity, Ocean of the Lunar Storms, merged into one lucent drop,
itself to slip into the sempiternal dawn. And he had been afraid of the
moon!

He dressed among the contending lights, and went through his money. It
was running low again, but enough for a return ticket to Hilton. As it
clinked, Jacky opened her eyes.

"Hullo, Len! What ho, Len!"

"What ho, Jacky! see you again later."

She turned over and slept.

The house was unlocked, their landlord being a salesman at Covent
Garden. Leonard passed out and made his way down to the station. The
train, though it did not start for an hour, was already drawn up at the
end of the platform, and he lay down in it and slept. With the first
jolt he was in daylight; they had left the gateways of King's Cross,
and were under blue sky. Tunnels followed, and after each the sky grew
bluer, and from the embankment at Finsbury Park he had his first sight
of the sun. It rolled along behind the eastern smokes--a wheel, whose
fellow was the descending moon--and as yet it seemed the servant of the
blue sky, not its lord. He dozed again. Over Tewin Water it was day. To
the left fell the shadow of the embankment and its arches; to the right
Leonard saw up into the Tewin Woods and towards the church, with its
wild legend of immortality. Six forest trees--that is a fact--grow out
of one of the graves in Tewin churchyard. The grave's occupant--that is
the legend--is an atheist, who declared that if God existed, six forest
trees would grow out of her grave. These things in Hertfordshire; and
farther afield lay the house of a hermit--Mrs. Wilcox had known him--who
barred himself up, and wrote prophecies, and gave all he had to the
poor. While, powdered in between, were the villas of business men, who
saw life more steadily, though with the steadiness of the half-closed
eye. Over all the sun was streaming, to all the birds were singing, to
all the primroses were yellow, and the speedwell blue, and the country,
however they interpreted her, was uttering her cry of "now." She did
not free Leonard yet, and the knife plunged deeper into his heart as the
train drew up at Hilton. But remorse had become beautiful.

Hilton was asleep, or at the earliest, breakfasting. Leonard noticed the
contrast when he stepped out of it into the country. Here men had been
up since dawn. Their hours were ruled, not by a London office, but by
the movements of the crops and the sun. That they were men of the finest
type only the sentimentalists can declare. But they kept to the life of
daylight. They are England's hope. Clumsily they carry forward the torch
of the sun, until such time as the nation sees fit to take it up. Half
clodhopper, half board-school prig, they can still throw back to a
nobler stock, and breed yeomen.

At the chalk pit a motor passed him. In it was another type, whom Nature
favours--the Imperial. Healthy, ever in motion, it hopes to inherit the
earth. It breeds as quickly as the yeoman, and as soundly; strong is the
temptation to acclaim it as a super-yeoman, who carries his country's
virtue overseas. But the Imperialist is not what he thinks or seems. He
is a destroyer. He prepares the way for cosmopolitanism, and though his
ambitions may be fulfilled, the earth that he inherits will be grey.

To Leonard, intent on his private sin, there came the conviction of
innate goodness elsewhere. It was not the optimism which he had been
taught at school. Again and again must the drums tap, and the goblins
stalk over the universe before joy can be purged of the superficial. It
was rather paradoxical, and arose from his sorrow. Death destroys a man,
but the idea of death saves him--that is the best account of it that has
yet been given. Squalor and tragedy can beckon to all that is great in
us, and strengthen the wings of love. They can beckon; it is not certain
that they will, for they are not love's servants. But they can beckon,
and the knowledge of this incredible truth comforted him.

As he approached the house all thought stopped. Contradictory notions
stood side by side in his mind. He was terrified but happy, ashamed,
but had done no sin. He knew the confession: "Mrs. Wilcox, I have done
wrong," but sunrise had robbed its meaning, and he felt rather on a
supreme adventure.

He entered a garden, steadied himself against a motor-car that he found
in it, found a door open and entered a house. Yes, it would be very
easy. From a room to the left he heard voices, Margaret's amongst them.
His own name was called aloud, and a man whom he had never seen said,
"Oh, is he there? I am not surprised. I now thrash him within an inch of
his life."

"Mrs. Wilcox," said Leonard, "I have done wrong."

The man took him by the collar and cried, "Bring me a stick." Women were
screaming. A stick, very bright, descended. It hurt him, not where it
descended, but in the heart. Books fell over him in a shower. Nothing
had sense.

"Get some water," commanded Charles, who had all through kept very calm.
"He's shamming. Of course I only used the blade. Here, carry him out
into the air."

Thinking that he understood these things, Margaret obeyed him. They laid
Leonard, who was dead, on the gravel; Helen poured water over him.

"That's enough," said Charles.

"Yes, murder's enough," said Miss Avery, coming out of the house with
the sword.

When Charles left Ducie Street he had caught the first train home, but
had no inkling of the newest development until late at night. Then
his father, who had dined alone, sent for him, and in very grave tones
inquired for Margaret.

"I don't know where she is, pater" said Charles. "Dolly kept back dinner
nearly an hour for her."

"Tell me when she comes in."

Another hour passed. The servants went to bed, and Charles visited his
father again, to receive further instructions. Mrs. Wilcox had still not
returned.

"I'll sit up for her as late as you like, but she can hardly be coming.
Isn't she stopping with her sister at the hotel?"

"Perhaps," said Mr. Wilcox thoughtfully--"perhaps."

"Can I do anything for you, sir?"

"Not to-night, my boy."

Mr. Wilcox liked being called sir. He raised his eyes, and gave his son
more open a look of tenderness than he usually ventured. He saw Charles
as little boy and strong man in one. Though his wife had proved unstable
his children were left to him.

After midnight he tapped on Charles's door. "I can't sleep," he said. "I
had better have a talk with you and get it over."

He complained of the heat. Charles took him out into the garden, and
they paced up and down in their dressing-gowns. Charles became very
quiet as the story unrolled; he had known all along that Margaret was as
bad as her sister.

"She will feel differently in the morning," said Mr. Wilcox, who had
of course said nothing about Mrs. Bast. "But I cannot let this kind of
thing continue without comment. I am morally certain that she is with
her sister at Howards End. The house is mine--and, Charles, it will be
yours--and when I say that no one is to live there, I mean that no one
is to live there. I won't have it." He looked angrily at the moon.
"To my mind this question is connected with something far greater, the
rights of property itself."

"Undoubtedly," said Charles.

Mr. Wilcox linked his arm in his son's, but somehow liked him less as
he told him more. "I don't want you to conclude that my wife and I had
anything of the nature of a quarrel. She was only overwrought, as who
would not be? I shall do what I can for Helen, but on the understanding
that they clear out of the house at once. Do you see? That is a sine qua
non."

"Then at eight to-morrow I may go up in the car?"

"Eight or earlier. Say that you are acting as my representative, and, of
course, use no violence, Charles."

On the morrow, as Charles returned, leaving Leonard dead upon the
gravel, it did not seem to him that he had used violence. Death was
due to heart disease. His stepmother herself had said so, and even Miss
Avery had acknowledged that he only used the flat of the sword. On his
way through the village he informed the police, who thanked him, and
said there must be an inquest. He found his father in the garden shading
his eyes from the sun.

"It has been pretty horrible," said Charles gravely. "They were there,
and they had the man up there with them too."

"What--what man?"

"I told you last night. His name was Bast."

"My God! is it possible?" said Mr. Wilcox. "In your mother's house!
Charles, in your mother's house!"

"I know, pater. That was what I felt. As a matter of fact, there is
no need to trouble about the man. He was in the last stages of heart
disease, and just before I could show him what I thought of him he went
off. The police are seeing about it at this moment."

Mr. Wilcox listened attentively.

"I got up there--oh, it couldn't have been more than half-past seven.
The Avery woman was lighting a fire for them. They were still upstairs.
I waited in the drawing-room. We were all moderately civil and
collected, though I had my suspicions. I gave them your message, and
Mrs. Wilcox said, 'Oh yes, I see; yes,' in that way of hers."

"Nothing else?"

"I promised to tell you, 'with her love,' that she was going to Germany
with her sister this evening. That was all we had time for."

Mr. Wilcox seemed relieved.

"Because by then I suppose the man got tired of hiding, for suddenly
Mrs. Wilcox screamed out his name. I recognised it, and I went for him
in the hall. Was I right, pater? I thought things were going a little
too far."

"Right, my dear boy? I don't know. But you would have been no son of
mine if you hadn't. Then did he just--just--crumple up as you said?" He
shrunk from the simple word.

"He caught hold of the bookcase, which came down over him. So I merely
put the sword down and carried him into the garden. We all thought he
was shamming. However, he's dead right enough. Awful business!"

"Sword?" cried his father, with anxiety in his voice. "What sword? Whose
sword?"

"A sword of theirs."

"What were you doing with it?"

"Well, didn't you see, pater, I had to snatch up the first thing handy.
I hadn't a riding-whip or stick. I caught him once or twice over the
shoulders with the flat of their old German sword."

"Then what?"

"He pulled over the bookcase, as I said, and fell," aid Charles, with
a sigh. It was no fun doing errands for his father, who was never quite
satisfied.

"But the real cause was heart disease? Of that you're sure?"

"That or a fit. However, we shall hear more than enough at the inquest
on such unsavoury topics."

They went in to breakfast. Charles had a racking headache, consequent on
motoring before food. He was also anxious about the future, reflecting
that the police must detain Helen and Margaret for the inquest and
ferret the whole thing out. He saw himself obliged to leave Hilton. One
could not afford to live near the scene of a scandal--it was not fair on
one's wife. His comfort was that the pater's eyes were opened at last.
There would be a horrible smash-up, and probably a separation from
Margaret; then they would all start again, more as they had been in his
mother's time.

"I think I'll go round to the police-station," said his father when
breakfast was over.

"What for?" cried Dolly, who had still not been "told."

"Very well, sir. Which car will you have?"

"I think I'll walk."

"It's a good half-mile," said Charles, stepping into the garden. "The
sun's very hot for April. Shan't I take you up, and then, perhaps, a
little spin round by Tewin?"

"You go on as if I didn't know my own mind," said Mr. Wilcox fretfully.
Charles hardened his mouth. "You young fellows' one idea is to get into
a motor. I tell you, I want to walk; I'm very fond of walking."

"Oh, all right; I'm about the house if you want me for anything. I
thought of not going up to the office to-day, if that is your wish."

"It is, indeed, my boy," said Mr. Wilcox, and laid a hand on his sleeve.

Charles did not like it; he was uneasy about his father, who did not
seem himself this morning. There was a petulant touch about him--more
like a woman. Could it be that he was growing old? The Wilcoxes were not
lacking in affection; they had it royally, but they did not know how to
use it. It was the talent in the napkin, and, for a warm-hearted man,
Charles had conveyed very little joy. As he watched his father shuffling
up the road, he had a vague regret--a wish that something had been
different somewhere--a wish (though he did not express it thus) that
he had been taught to say "I" in his youth. He meant to make up for
Margaret's defection, but knew that his father had been very happy with
her until yesterday. How had she done it? By some dishonest trick, no
doubt--but how?

Mr. Wilcox reappeared at eleven, looking very tired. There was to be an
inquest on Leonard's body to-morrow, and the police required his son to
attend.

"I expected that," said Charles. "I shall naturally be the most
important witness there."

Out of the turmoil and horror that had begun with Aunt Juley's illness
and was not even to end with Leonard's death, it seemed impossible
to Margaret that healthy life should re-emerge. Events succeeded in
a logical, yet senseless, train. People lost their humanity, and took
values as arbitrary as those in a pack of playing-cards. It was natural
that Henry should do this and cause Helen to do that, and then think
her wrong for doing it; natural that she herself should think him wrong;
natural that Leonard should want to know how Helen was, and come, and
Charles be angry with him for coming--natural, but unreal. In this
jangle of causes and effects what had become of their true selves? Here
Leonard lay dead in the garden, from natural causes; yet life was a
deep, deep river, death a blue sky, life was a house, death a wisp of
hay, a flower, a tower, life and death were anything and everything,
except this ordered insanity, where the king takes the queen, and the
ace the king. Ah, no; there was beauty and adventure behind, such as the
man at her feet had yearned for; there was hope this side of the grave;
there were truer relationships beyond the limits that fetter us now. As
a prisoner looks up and sees stars beckoning, so she, from the turmoil
and horror of those days, caught glimpses of the diviner wheels.

And Helen, dumb with fright, but trying to keep calm for the child's
sake, and Miss Avery, calm, but murmuring tenderly, "No one ever told
the lad he'll have a child"--they also reminded her that horror is not
the end. To what ultimate harmony we tend she did not know, but there
seemed great chance that a child would be born into the world, to take
the great chances of beauty and adventure that the world offers. She
moved through the sunlit garden, gathering narcissi, crimson-eyed and
white. There was nothing else to be done; the time for telegrams and
anger was over and it seemed wisest that the hands of Leonard should be
folded on his breast and be filled with flowers. Here was the father;
leave it at that. Let Squalor be turned into Tragedy, whose eyes are the
stars, and whose hands hold the sunset and the dawn.

And even the influx of officials, even the return of the doctor, vulgar
and acute, could not shake her belief in the eternity of beauty. Science
explained people, but could not understand them. After long centuries
among the bones and muscles it might be advancing to knowledge of the
nerves, but this would never give understanding. One could open the
heart to Mr. Mansbridge and his sort without discovering its secrets to
them, for they wanted everything down in black and white, and black and
white was exactly what they were left with.

They questioned her closely about Charles. She never suspected why.
Death had come, and the doctor agreed that it was due to heart disease.
They asked to see her father's sword. She explained that Charles's anger
was natural, but mistaken. Miserable questions about Leonard followed,
all of which she answered unfalteringly. Then back to Charles again. "No
doubt Mr. Wilcox may have induced death," she said; "but if it wasn't
one thing it would have been another as you know." At last they thanked
her and took the sword and the body down to Hilton. She began to pick up
the books from the floor.

Helen had gone to the farm. It was the best place for her, since she
had to wait for the inquest. Though, as if things were not hard enough,
Madge and her husband had raised trouble; they did not see why they
should receive the offscourings of Howards End. And, of course, they
were right. The whole world was going to be right, and amply avenge any
brave talk against the conventions. "Nothing matters," the Schlegels had
said in the past, "except one's self-respect and that of one's friends."
When the time came, other things mattered terribly. However, Madge
had yielded, and Helen was assured of peace for one day and night, and
to-morrow she would return to Germany.

As for herself, she determined to go too. No message came from Henry;
perhaps he expected her to apologise. Now that she had time to think
over her own tragedy, she was unrepentant. She neither forgave him
for his behaviour nor wished to forgive him. Her speech to him seemed
perfect. She would not have altered a word. It had to be uttered once in
a life, to adjust the lopsidedness of the world. It was spoken not only
to her husband, but to thousands of men like him--a protest against the
inner darkness in high places that comes with a commercial age. Though
he would build up his life without hers, she could not apologise. He had
refused to connect, on the clearest issue that can be laid before a man,
and their love must take the consequences.

No, there was nothing more to be done. They had tried not to go over the
precipice, but perhaps the fall was inevitable. And it comforted her to
think that the future was certainly inevitable; cause and effect would
go jangling forward to some goal doubtless, but to none that she could
imagine. At such moments the soul retires within, to float upon the
bosom of a deeper stream, and has communion with the dead, and sees
the world's glory not diminished, but different in kind to what she
has supposed. She alters her focus until trivial things are blurred.
Margaret had been tending this way all the winter. Leonard's death
brought her to the goal. Alas! that Henry should fade away as reality
emerged, and only her love for him should remain clear, stamped with his
image like the cameos we rescue out of dreams.

With unfaltering eye she traced his future. He would soon present a
healthy mind to the world again, and what did he or the world care if
he was rotten at the core? He would grow into a rich, jolly old man,
at times a little sentimental about women, but emptying his glass
with anyone. Tenacious of power, he would keep Charles and the rest
dependent, and retire from business reluctantly and at an advanced age.
He would settle down--though she could not realise this. In her eyes
Henry was always moving and causing others to move, until the ends of
the earth met. But in time he must get too tired to move, and settle
down. What next? The inevitable word. The release of the soul to its
appropriate Heaven.

Would they meet in it? Margaret believed in immortality for herself. An
eternal future had always seemed natural to her. And Henry believed in
it for himself. Yet, would they meet again? Are there not rather endless
levels beyond the grave, as the theory that he had censured teaches?
And his level, whether higher or lower, could it possibly be the same as
hers?

Thus gravely meditating, she was summoned by him. He sent up Crane in
the motor. Other servants passed like water, but the chauffeur remained,
though impertinent and disloyal. Margaret disliked Crane, and he knew
it.

"Is it the keys that Mr. Wilcox wants?" she asked.

"He didn't say, madam."

"You haven't any note for me?"

"He didn't say, madam."

After a moment's thought she locked up Howards End. It was pitiable to
see in it the stirrings of warmth that would be quenched for ever. She
raked out the fire that was blazing in the kitchen, and spread the coals
in the gravelled yard. She closed the windows and drew the curtains.
Henry would probably sell the place now.

She was determined not to spare him, for nothing new had happened as far
as they were concerned. Her mood might never have altered from yesterday
evening. He was standing a little outside Charles's gate, and motioned
the car to stop. When his wife got out he said hoarsely: "I prefer to
discuss things with you outside."

"It will be more appropriate in the road, I am afraid," said Margaret.
"Did you get my message?"

"What about?"

"I am going to Germany with my sister. I must tell you now that I shall
make it my permanent home. Our talk last night was more important than
you have realised. I am unable to forgive you and am leaving you."

"I am extremely tired," said Henry, in injured tones. "I have been
walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down."

"Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass."

The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with
glebe. Henry's kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap
opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side,
so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly.

"Here are your keys," said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They
fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up.

"I have something to tell you," he said gently.

She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that
was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.

"I don't want to hear it," she replied. "My sister is going to be
ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up
something, she and I and her child."

"Where are you going?"

"Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill."

"After the inquest?"

"Yes."

"Have you realised what the verdict at the inquest will be?"

"Yes, heart disease."

"No, my dear; manslaughter."

Margaret drove her fingers through the grass. The hill beneath her moved
as if it were alive.

"Manslaughter," repeated Mr. Wilcox. "Charles may go to prison. I dare
not tell him. I don't know what to do--what to do. I'm broken--I'm
ended."

No sudden warmth arose in her. She did not see that to break him was her
only hope. She did not enfold the sufferer in her arms. But all through
that day and the next a new life began to move. The verdict was brought
in. Charles was committed for trial. It was against all reason that he
should be punished, but the law, notwithstanding, sentenced him to three
years' imprisonment. Then Henry's fortress gave way. He could bear no
one but his wife; he shambled up to Margaret afterwards and asked her
to do what she could with him. She did what seemed easiest--she took him
down to recruit at Howards End.

Tom's father was cutting the big meadow. He passed again and again amid
whirring blades and sweet odours of grass, encompassing with narrowing
circles the sacred centre of the field. Tom was negotiating with Helen.
"I haven't any idea," she replied. "Do you suppose baby may, Meg?"

Margaret put down her work and regarded them absently. "What was that?"
she asked.

"Tom wants to know whether baby is old enough to play with hay?"

"I haven't the least notion," answered Margaret, and took up her work
again.

"Now, Tom, baby is not to stand; he is not to lie on his face; he is not
to lie so that his head wags; he is not to be teased or tickled; and he
is not to be cut into two or more pieces by the cutter. Will you be as
careful as all that?"

Tom held out his arms.

"That child is a wonderful nursemaid," remarked Margaret.

"He is fond of baby. That's why he does it!" was Helen's answer.
"They're going to be lifelong friends."

"Starting at the ages of six and one?"

"Of course. It will be a great thing for Tom."

"It may be a greater thing for baby."

Fourteen months had passed, but Margaret still stopped at Howards End.
No better plan had occurred to her. The meadow was being recut, the
great red poppies were reopening in the garden. July would follow with
the little red poppies among the wheat, August with the cutting of the
wheat. These little events would become part of her year after year.
Every summer she would fear lest the well should give out, every
winter lest the pipes should freeze; every westerly gale might blow the
wych-elm down and bring the end of all things, and so she could not read
or talk during a westerly gale. The air was tranquil now. She and her
sister were sitting on the remains of Evie's rockery, where the lawn
merged into the field.

"What a time they all are!" said Helen. "What can they be doing inside?"
Margaret, who was growing less talkative, made no answer. The noise of
the cutter came intermittently, like the breaking of waves. Close by
them a man was preparing to scythe out one of the dell-holes.

"I wish Henry was out to enjoy this," said Helen. "This lovely weather
and to be shut up in the house! It's very hard."

"It has to be," said Margaret. "The hay fever is his chief objection
against living here, but he thinks it worth while."

"Meg, is or isn't he ill? I can't make out."

"Not ill. Eternally tired. He has worked very hard all his life, and
noticed nothing. Those are the people who collapse when they do notice a
thing."

"I suppose he worries dreadfully about his part of the tangle."

"Dreadfully. That is why I wish Dolly had not come, too, to-day. Still,
he wanted them all to come. It has to be."

"Why does he want them?"

Margaret did not answer.

"Meg, may I tell you something? I like Henry."

"You'd be odd if you didn't," said Margaret.

"I usen't to."

"Usen't!" She lowered her eyes a moment to the black abyss of the past.
They had crossed it, always excepting Leonard and Charles. They were
building up a new life, obscure, yet gilded with tranquillity. Leonard
was dead; Charles had two years more in prison. One usen't always to see
clearly before that time. It was different now.

"I like Henry because he does worry."

"And he likes you because you don't."

Helen sighed. She seemed humiliated, and buried her face in her hands.
After a time she said: "About love," a transition less abrupt than it
appeared.

Margaret never stopped working.

"I mean a woman's love for a man. I supposed I should hang my life on
to that once, and was driven up and down and about as if something was
worrying through me. But everything is peaceful now; I seem cured. That
Herr Forstmeister, whom Frieda keeps writing about, must be a noble
character, but he doesn't see that I shall never marry him or anyone. It
isn't shame or mistrust of myself. I simply couldn't. I'm ended. I used
to be so dreamy about a man's love as a girl, and think that for good
or evil love must be the great thing. But it hasn't been; it has been
itself a dream. Do you agree?"

"I do not agree. I do not."

"I ought to remember Leonard as my lover," said Helen, stepping down
into the field. "I tempted him, and killed him, and it is surely the
least I can do. I would like to throw out all my heart to Leonard on
such an afternoon as this. But I cannot. It is no good pretending. I
am forgetting him." Her eyes filled with tears. "How nothing seems to
match--how, my darling, my precious--" She broke off. "Tommy!"

"Yes, please?"

"Baby's not to try and stand.--There's something wanting in me. I see
you loving Henry, and understanding him better daily, and I know
that death wouldn't part you in the least. But I--Is it some awful,
appalling, criminal defect?"

Margaret silenced her. She said: "It is only that people are far more
different than is pretended. All over the world men and women are
worrying because they cannot develop as they are supposed to develop.
Here and there they have the matter out, and it comforts them. Don't
fret yourself, Helen. Develop what you have; love your child. I do not
love children. I am thankful to have none. I can play with their beauty
and charm, but that is all--nothing real, not one scrap of what there
ought to be. And others--others go farther still, and move outside
humanity altogether. A place, as well as a person, may catch the glow.
Don't you see that all this leads to comfort in the end? It is part of
the battle against sameness. Differences, eternal differences, planted
by God in a single family, so that there may always be colour; sorrow
perhaps, but colour in the daily grey. Then I can't have you worrying
about Leonard. Don't drag in the personal when it will not come. Forget
him."

"Yes, yes, but what has Leonard got out of life?"

"Perhaps an adventure."

"Is that enough?"

"Not for us. But for him."

Helen took up a bunch of grass. She looked at the sorrel, and the red
and white and yellow clover, and the quaker grass, and the daisies, and
the bents that composed it. She raised it to her face.

"Is it sweetening yet?" asked Margaret.

"No, only withered."

"It will sweeten to-morrow."

Helen smiled. "Oh, Meg, you are a person," she said. "Think of the
racket and torture this time last year. But now I couldn't stop unhappy
if I tried. What a change--and all through you!"

"Oh, we merely settled down. You and Henry learnt to understand one
another and to forgive, all through the autumn and the winter."

"Yes, but who settled us down?"

Margaret did not reply. The scything had begun, and she took off her
pince-nez to watch it.

"You!" cried Helen. "You did it all, sweetest, though you're too stupid
to see. Living here was your plan--I wanted you; he wanted you; and
everyone said it was impossible, but you knew. Just think of our lives
without you, Meg--I and baby with Monica, revolting by theory, he handed
about from Dolly to Evie. But you picked up the pieces, and made us a
home. Can't it strike you--even for a moment--that your life has been
heroic? Can't you remember the two months after Charles's arrest, when
you began to act, and did all?"

"You were both ill at the time," said Margaret. "I did the obvious
things. I had two invalids to nurse. Here was a house, ready furnished
and empty. It was obvious. I didn't know myself it would turn into a
permanent home. No doubt I have done a little towards straightening the
tangle, but things that I can't phrase have helped me."

"I hope it will be permanent," said Helen, drifting away to other
thoughts.

"I think so. There are moments when I feel Howards End peculiarly our
own."

"All the same, London's creeping."

She pointed over the meadow--over eight or nine meadows, but at the end
of them was a red rust.

"You see that in Surrey and even Hampshire now," she continued. "I can
see it from the Purbeck Downs. And London is only part of something
else, I'm afraid. Life's going to be melted down, all over the world."

Margaret knew that her sister spoke truly. Howards End, Oniton, the
Purbeck Downs, the Oderberge, were all survivals, and the melting-pot
was being prepared for them. Logically, they had no right to be alive.
One's hope was in the weakness of logic. Were they possibly the earth
beating time?

"Because a thing is going strong now, it need not go strong for ever,"
she said. "This craze for motion has only set in during the last hundred
years. It may be followed by a civilisation that won't be a movement,
because it will rest on the earth. All the signs are against it now, but
I can't help hoping, and very early in the morning in the garden I feel
that our house is the future as well as the past."

They turned and looked at it. Their own memories coloured it now,
for Helen's child had been born in the central room of the nine. Then
Margaret said, "Oh, take care--!" for something moved behind the window
of the hall, and the door opened.

"The conclave's breaking at last. I'll go."

It was Paul.

Helen retreated with the children far into the field. Friendly voices
greeted her. Margaret rose, to encounter a man with a heavy black
moustache.

"My father has asked for you," he said with hostility.

She took her work and followed him.

"We have been talking business," he continued, "but I dare say you knew
all about it beforehand."

"Yes, I did."

Clumsy of movement--for he had spent all his life in the saddle--Paul
drove his foot against the paint of the front door. Mrs. Wilcox gave
a little cry of annoyance. She did not like anything scratched; she
stopped in the hall to take Dolly's boa and gloves out of a vase.

Her husband was lying in a great leather chair in the dining-room, and
by his side, holding his hand rather ostentatiously, was Evie. Dolly,
dressed in purple, sat near the window. The room was a little dark and
airless; they were obliged to keep it like this until the carting of the
hay. Margaret joined the family without speaking; the five of them had
met already at tea, and she knew quite well what was going to be said.
Averse to wasting her time, she went on sewing. The clock struck six.

"Is this going to suit everyone?" said Henry in a weary voice. He used
the old phrases, but their effect was unexpected and shadowy. "Because I
don't want you all coming here later on and complaining that I have been
unfair."

"It's apparently got to suit us," said Paul.

"I beg your pardon, my boy. You have only to speak, and I will leave the
house to you instead."

Paul frowned ill-temperedly, and began scratching at his arm. "As I've
given up the outdoor life that suited me, and I have come home to look
after the business, it's no good my settling down here," he said at
last. "It's not really the country, and it's not the town."

"Very well. Does my arrangement suit you, Evie?"

"Of course, father."

"And you, Dolly?"

Dolly raised her faded little face, which sorrow could wither but not
steady. "Perfectly splendidly," she said. "I thought Charles wanted
it for the boys, but last time I saw him he said no, because we cannot
possibly live in this part of England again. Charles says we ought
to change our name, but I cannot think what to, for Wilcox just suits
Charles and me, and I can't think of any other name."

There was a general silence. Dolly looked nervously round, fearing that
she had been inappropriate. Paul continued to scratch his arm.

"Then I leave Howards End to my wife absolutely," said Henry. "And let
everyone understand that; and after I am dead let there be no jealousy
and no surprise."

Margaret did not answer. There was something uncanny in her triumph.
She, who had never expected to conquer anyone, had charged straight
through these Wilcoxes and broken up their lives.

"In consequence, I leave my wife no money," said Henry. "That is her own
wish. All that she would have had will be divided among you. I am also
giving you a great deal in my lifetime, so that you may be independent
of me. That is her wish, too. She also is giving away a great deal of
money. She intends to diminish her income by half during the next ten
years; she intends when she dies to leave the house to her nephew, down
in the field. Is all that clear? Does everyone understand?"

Paul rose to his feet. He was accustomed to natives, and a very little
shook him out of the Englishman. Feeling manly and cynical, he said:
"Down in the field? Oh, come! I think we might have had the whole
establishment, piccaninnies included."

Mrs. Cahill whispered: "Don't, Paul. You promised you'd take care."
Feeling a woman of the world, she rose and prepared to take her leave.

Her father kissed her. "Good-bye, old girl," he said; "don't you worry
about me."

"Good-bye, dad."

Then it was Dolly's turn. Anxious to contribute, she laughed nervously,
and said: "Good-bye, Mr. Wilcox. It does seem curious that Mrs. Wilcox
should have left Margaret Howards End, and yet she get it, after all."

From Evie came a sharply-drawn breath. "Goodbye," she said to Margaret,
and kissed her.

And again and again fell the word, like the ebb of a dying sea.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye, Dolly."

"So long, father."

"Good-bye, my boy; always take care of yourself."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Wilcox."

"Good-bye."

Margaret saw their visitors to the gate. Then she returned to her
husband and laid her head in his hands. He was pitiably tired. But
Dolly's remark had interested her. At last she said: "Could you tell me,
Henry, what was that about Mrs. Wilcox having left me Howards End?"

Tranquilly he replied: "Yes, she did. But that is a very old story.
When she was ill and you were so kind to her she wanted to make you some
return, and, not being herself at the time, scribbled 'Howards End' on
a piece of paper. I went into it thoroughly, and, as it was clearly
fanciful, I set it aside, little knowing what my Margaret would be to me
in the future."

Margaret was silent. Something shook her life in its inmost recesses,
and she shivered.

"I didn't do wrong, did I?" he asked, bending down.

"You didn't, darling. Nothing has been done wrong."

From the garden came laughter. "Here they are at last!" exclaimed Henry,
disengaging himself with a smile. Helen rushed into the gloom, holding
Tom by one hand and carrying her baby on the other. There were shouts of
infectious joy.

"The field's cut!" Helen cried excitedly--"the big meadow! We've seen to
the very end, and it'll be such a crop of hay as never!"

WEYBRIDGE, 1908-1910.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Since his intimate meeting with Helen at Oniton, Leonard Bast has been living in misery. He blames himself for the entire situation, although more likely than not, she was the one who initiated their relationship. Leonard thinks he has ruined Helen, likening her to a work of art, and he constantly feels anxiety about what has become of her. He is also in grave trouble financially. Helen forgot to pay the hotel bill when she ran off, which left him and Jacky to figure out a way to settle it and get back to London. After their brief tryst, Helen left him a note and was gone. One of the only thinks keeping Leonard alive is his need to provide for Jacky. He considers himself unemployable and ruined, and relies on handouts from his family for support. He knows that they would rather give him money than have him show up on their doorstep. One day, when he happens to see Margaret from afar, he decides he must confess his sin to her and, if possible, find out how Helen is. He tracks Margaret down at Ducie Street and, once he is informed she has gone to Howards End, decides to go there as well. Leonard leaves in the middle of the night, and arrives at Hilton very early in the morning. He, too, is taken with how different the country is from city life. For Leonard, it is a welcome change. He walks to Howards End from the station, and by the time he arrives has barely mustered up the courage to confess to Margaret. However, as soon as he gets to the house, Charles intercepts him. He can hardly get his words of confession out before Charles strikes him with the blunt end of a sword that belonged to Mr. Schlegel. Upon being struck, Leonard feels a terrible pain, not on the impact point of the blow, but in his heart. He falls to the floor, taking a bookshelf with him, and dies in a shower of books, not from the sword, but from a heart attack. Even though Charles' blow did not directly cause Leonard's death, Miss Avery makes a comment about Charles having committed murder. Back at Dolly's, Mr. Wilcox is quite worried because Margaret has not come home. He discusses the situation with Charles, for he knows that he will have to explain himself at some point. Charles says he will go to Howards End first thing in the morning, which is when he encounters Leonard Bast and strikes him. Upon returning to his father, Charles announces what happened at Howards End. He assumes that Leonard was there for sinful reasons, thinking that the Schlegels allowed him to stay the night. He acknowledges the scandal of the situation that resulted in his violence, admitting he and Dolly will likely have to relocate. Despite Leonard's death, Charles does not seem sorry, and is pleased that Margaret will be out of his father's life. Following Leonard Bast's death, everyone feels overwhelmed. An inquest is held, where it is agreed upon that heart disease was the main cause of death. After this traumatic experience, Helen is ready to depart for Germany once again. Margaret plans to go with her. Before departing, Mr. Wilcox summons her. She assumes that he wants to collect the keys to Howards End, and she goes to see him under that assumption. Mr. Wilcox tells Margaret that Charles will be charged with manslaughter against Leonard Bast. He is genuinely upset by this development, but Margaret is still bitter over the recent events and shows no mercy. She is firm with him, even when he admits that he is broken. However, things quickly turn around. Charles is found guilty of manslaughter and is sentenced to three years in jail, which breaks Mr. Wilcox's spirit. He turns to Margaret as his sole source of comfort, and since Helen, too, is in need of support, Margaret looks after both her husband and her sister. She finds that her only option is to take them to Howards End. One year later, Helen has had a boy whom Tom, the milk boy, loves to play with. Helen and Mr. Wilcox have learned to get along, and the three adults live together in peace. Mr. Wilcox gathers his children to inform them that he is going to leave Howards End to Margaret, who will in turn leave it to her nephew, Helen's illegitimate son. Margaret is called in to be present for this announcement, and Dolly, there in Charles's stead, foolishly makes a comment about Ruth Wilcox's wishes having been fulfilled. When Margaret asks her husband about the meaning of this remark, he is honest with her. She tells him that she is not upset, for all has come together, and Helen's child will grow up in the wonderful countryside.


prompt:
Chapter: One may as well begin with Helen's letters to her sister.

"Howards End,

"Tuesday.

"Dearest Meg,

"It isn't going to be what we expected. It is old and little, and
altogether delightful--red brick. We can scarcely pack in as it is,
and the dear knows what will happen when Paul (younger son) arrives
to-morrow. From hall you go right or left into dining-room or
drawing-room. Hall itself is practically a room. You open another door
in it, and there are the stairs going up in a sort of tunnel to the
first-floor. Three bed-rooms in a row there, and three attics in a
row above. That isn't all the house really, but it's all that one
notices--nine windows as you look up from the front garden.

"Then there's a very big wych-elm--to the left as you look up--leaning
a little over the house, and standing on the boundary between the garden
and meadow. I quite love that tree already. Also ordinary elms, oaks--no
nastier than ordinary oaks--pear-trees, apple-trees, and a vine. No
silver birches, though. However, I must get on to my host and hostess. I
only wanted to show that it isn't the least what we expected. Why did
we settle that their house would be all gables and wiggles, and their
garden all gamboge-coloured paths? I believe simply because we associate
them with expensive hotels--Mrs. Wilcox trailing in beautiful dresses
down long corridors, Mr. Wilcox bullying porters, etc. We females are
that unjust.

"I shall be back Saturday; will let you know train later. They are as
angry as I am that you did not come too; really Tibby is too tiresome,
he starts a new mortal disease every month. How could he have got hay
fever in London? and even if he could, it seems hard that you should
give up a visit to hear a schoolboy sneeze. Tell him that Charles Wilcox
(the son who is here) has hay fever too, but he's brave, and gets quite
cross when we inquire after it. Men like the Wilcoxes would do Tibby a
power of good. But you won't agree, and I'd better change the subject.

"This long letter is because I'm writing before breakfast. Oh, the
beautiful vine leaves! The house is covered with a vine. I looked out
earlier, and Mrs. Wilcox was already in the garden. She evidently loves
it. No wonder she sometimes looks tired. She was watching the large
red poppies come out. Then she walked off the lawn to the meadow, whose
corner to the right I can just see. Trail, trail, went her long dress
over the sopping grass, and she came back with her hands full of the hay
that was cut yesterday--I suppose for rabbits or something, as she kept
on smelling it. The air here is delicious. Later on I heard the noise
of croquet balls, and looked out again, and it was Charles Wilcox
practising; they are keen on all games. Presently he started sneezing
and had to stop. Then I hear more clicketing, and it is Mr. Wilcox
practising, and then, 'a-tissue, a-tissue': he has to stop too. Then
Evie comes out, and does some calisthenic exercises on a machine that is
tacked on to a green-gage-tree--they put everything to use--and then
she says 'a-tissue,' and in she goes. And finally Mrs. Wilcox reappears,
trail, trail, still smelling hay and looking at the flowers. I inflict
all this on you because once you said that life is sometimes life and
sometimes only a drama, and one must learn to distinguish tother from
which, and up to now I have always put that down as 'Meg's clever
nonsense.' But this morning, it really does seem not life but a play,
and it did amuse me enormously to watch the W's. Now Mrs. Wilcox has
come in.

"I am going to wear [omission]. Last night Mrs. Wilcox wore an
[omission], and Evie [omission]. So it isn't exactly a go-as-you-please
place, and if you shut your eyes it still seems the wiggly hotel that we
expected. Not if you open them. The dog-roses are too sweet. There is a
great hedge of them over the lawn--magnificently tall, so that they fall
down in garlands, and nice and thin at the bottom, so that you can see
ducks through it and a cow. These belong to the farm, which is the only
house near us. There goes the breakfast gong. Much love. Modified love
to Tibby. Love to Aunt Juley; how good of her to come and keep you
company, but what a bore. Burn this. Will write again Thursday.

"HELEN."

"Howards End

"Friday

"Dearest Meg,

"I am having a glorious time. I like them all. Mrs. Wilcox, if quieter
than in Germany, is sweeter than ever, and I never saw anything like her
steady unselfishness, and the best of it is that the others do not take
advantage of her. They are the very happiest, jolliest family that you
can imagine. I do really feel that we are making friends. The fun of
it is that they think me a noodle, and say so--at least, Mr. Wilcox
does--and when that happens, and one doesn't mind, it's a pretty sure
test, isn't it? He says the most horrid things about woman's suffrage so
nicely, and when I said I believed in equality he just folded his arms
and gave me such a setting down as I've never had. Meg, shall we ever
learn to talk less? I never felt so ashamed of myself in my life. I
couldn't point to a time when men had been equal, nor even to a time
when the wish to be equal had made them happier in other ways. I
couldn't say a word. I had just picked up the notion that equality is
good from some book--probably from poetry, or you. Anyhow, it's been
knocked into pieces, and, like all people who are really strong, Mr.
Wilcox did it without hurting me. On the other hand, I laugh at them for
catching hay fever. We live like fighting-cocks, and Charles takes us
out every day in the motor--a tomb with trees in it, a hermit's house,
a wonderful road that was made by the Kings of Mercia--tennis--a cricket
match--bridge and at night we squeeze up in this lovely house. The whole
clan's here now--it's like a rabbit warren. Evie is a dear. They want
me to stop over Sunday--I suppose it won't matter if I do. Marvellous
weather and the views marvellous--views westward to the high ground.
Thank you for your letter. Burn this.

"Your affectionate

"HELEN."

"Howards End,

"Sunday.

"Dearest, dearest Meg,--I do not know what you will say: Paul and I are
in love--the younger son who only came here Wednesday."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The narrator informs us that we're starting with Helen's letters to her sister, Meg. The first letter describes a house - a nice, homey place surrounded by trees. Sounds pretty good to us. Helen's apparently there, visiting some wealthy friends: Mr. and Mrs. Wilcox and their children. She plans to return to London that Saturday, where Margaret is detained at home with their feeble brother, Tibby. Helen claims that vigorous men like Mr. Wilcox and his son, Charles, would be a good influence on Tibby. Helen describes the Wilcoxes, who sound like a nice family, albeit somewhat batty. They all love the outdoors, and occupy themselves there, despite their hay fever. The family is composed of Mrs. Wilcox, Mr. Wilcox, and three children, Charles, Evie, and the yet-to-arrive Paul. Helen's second letter reveals that she's been won over completely by the Wilcoxes - they're apparently totally different from the liberal, wacky Schlegels, and she's intrigued by this glimpse into their lifestyle. For once, Helen is "knocked into pieces" in conversation by Mr. Wilcox, and she enjoys it. Helen's third letter is short and dramatic - she is in love with Paul Wilcox.


prompt:
Chapter: Margaret glanced at her sister's note and pushed it over the
breakfast-table to her aunt. There was a moment's hush, and then the
flood-gates opened.

"I can tell you nothing, Aunt Juley. I know no more than you do. We
met--we only met the father and mother abroad last spring. I know so
little that I didn't even know their son's name. It's all so--" She
waved her hand and laughed a little.

"In that case it is far too sudden."

"Who knows, Aunt Juley, who knows?"

"But, Margaret, dear, I mean, we mustn't be unpractical now that we've
come to facts. It is too sudden, surely."

"Who knows!"

"But, Margaret, dear--"

"I'll go for her other letters," said Margaret. "No, I won't, I'll
finish my breakfast. In fact, I haven't them. We met the Wilcoxes on an
awful expedition that we made from Heidelberg to Speyer. Helen and I
had got it into our heads that there was a grand old cathedral at
Speyer--the Archbishop of Speyer was one of the seven electors--you
know--'Speyer, Maintz, and Koln.' Those three sees once commanded the
Rhine Valley and got it the name of Priest Street."

"I still feel quite uneasy about this business, Margaret."

"The train crossed by a bridge of boats, and at first sight it looked
quite fine. But oh, in five minutes we had seen the whole thing. The
cathedral had been ruined, absolutely ruined, by restoration; not an
inch left of the original structure. We wasted a whole day, and came
across the Wilcoxes as we were eating our sandwiches in the public
gardens. They too, poor things, had been taken in--they were actually
stopping at Speyer--and they rather liked Helen's insisting that they
must fly with us to Heidelberg. As a matter of fact, they did come on
next day. We all took some drives together. They knew us well enough to
ask Helen to come and see them--at least, I was asked too, but Tibby's
illness prevented me, so last Monday she went alone. That's all. You
know as much as I do now. It's a young man out of the unknown. She was
to have come back Saturday, but put off till Monday, perhaps on account
of--I don't know."

She broke off, and listened to the sounds of a London morning. Their
house was in Wickham Place, and fairly quiet, for a lofty promontory of
buildings separated it from the main thoroughfare. One had the sense of
a backwater, or rather of an estuary, whose waters flowed in from the
invisible sea, and ebbed into a profound silence while the waves without
were still beating. Though the promontory consisted of flats--expensive,
with cavernous entrance halls, full of concierges and palms--it
fulfilled its purpose, and gained for the older houses opposite a
certain measure of peace.

These, too, would be swept away in time, and another promontory would
arise upon their site, as humanity piled itself higher and higher on the
precious soil of London.

Mrs. Munt had her own method of interpreting her nieces. She decided
that Margaret was a little hysterical, and was trying to gain time by
a torrent of talk. Feeling very diplomatic, she lamented the fate of
Speyer, and declared that never, never should she be so misguided as to
visit it, and added of her own accord that the principles of restoration
were ill understood in Germany. "The Germans," she said, "are too
thorough, and this is all very well sometimes, but at other times it
does not do."

"Exactly," said Margaret; "Germans are too thorough." And her eyes began
to shine.

"Of course I regard you Schlegels as English," said Mrs. Munt
hastily--"English to the backbone."

Margaret leaned forward and stroked her hand.

"And that reminds me--Helen's letter."

"Oh yes, Aunt Juley, I am thinking all right about Helen's letter. I
know--I must go down and see her. I am thinking about her all right. I
am meaning to go down."

"But go with some plan," said Mrs. Munt, admitting into her kindly voice
a note of exasperation. "Margaret, if I may interfere, don't be taken by
surprise. What do you think of the Wilcoxes? Are they our sort? Are they
likely people? Could they appreciate Helen, who is to my mind a very
special sort of person? Do they care about Literature and Art? That is
most important when you come to think of it. Literature and Art. Most
important. How old would the son be? She says 'younger son.' Would he
be in a position to marry? Is he likely to make Helen happy? Did you
gather--"

"I gathered nothing."

They began to talk at once.

"Then in that case--"

"In that case I can make no plans, don't you see."

"On the contrary--"

"I hate plans. I hate lines of action. Helen isn't a baby."

"Then in that case, my dear, why go down?"

Margaret was silent. If her aunt could not see why she must go down,
she was not going to tell her. She was not going to say, "I love my dear
sister; I must be near her at this crisis of her life." The affections
are more reticent than the passions, and their expression more subtle.
If she herself should ever fall in love with a man, she, like Helen,
would proclaim it from the housetops, but as she loved only a sister she
used the voiceless language of sympathy.

"I consider you odd girls," continued Mrs. Munt, "and very wonderful
girls, and in many ways far older than your years. But--you won't be
offended? frankly, I feel you are not up to this business. It requires
an older person. Dear, I have nothing to call me back to Swanage." She
spread out her plump arms. "I am all at your disposal. Let me go down to
this house whose name I forget instead of you."

"Aunt Juley"--she jumped up and kissed her--"I must, must go to Howards
End myself. You don't exactly understand, though I can never thank you
properly for offering."

"I do understand," retorted Mrs. Munt, with immense confidence. "I go
down in no spirit of interference, but to make inquiries. Inquiries are
necessary. Now, I am going to be rude. You would say the wrong thing; to
a certainty you would. In your anxiety for Helen's happiness you would
offend the whole of these Wilcoxes by asking one of your impetuous
questions--not that one minds offending them."

"I shall ask no questions. I have it in Helen's writing that she and
a man are in love. There is no question to ask as long as she keeps to
that. All the rest isn't worth a straw. A long engagement if you like,
but inquiries, questions, plans, lines of action--no, Aunt Juley, no."

Away she hurried, not beautiful, not supremely brilliant, but filled
with something that took the place of both qualities--something best
described as a profound vivacity, a continual and sincere response to
all that she encountered in her path through life.

"If Helen had written the same to me about a shop assistant or a
penniless clerk--"

"Dear Margaret, do come into the library and shut the door. Your good
maids are dusting the banisters."

"--or if she had wanted to marry the man who calls for Carter Paterson,
I should have said the same." Then, with one of those turns that
convinced her aunt that she was not mad really, and convinced observers
of another type that she was not a barren theorist, she added: "Though
in the case of Carter Paterson I should want it to be a very long
engagement indeed, I must say."

"I should think so," said Mrs. Munt; "and, indeed, I can scarcely
follow you. Now, just imagine if you said anything of that sort to the
Wilcoxes. I understand it, but most good people would think you mad.
Imagine how disconcerting for Helen! What is wanted is a person who will
go slowly, slowly in this business, and see how things are and where
they are likely to lead to."

Margaret was down on this.

"But you implied just now that the engagement must be broken off."

"I think probably it must; but slowly."

"Can you break an engagement off slowly?" Her eyes lit up. "What's an
engagement made of, do you suppose? I think it's made of some hard stuff
that may snap, but can't break. It is different to the other ties of
life. They stretch or bend. They admit of degree. They're different."

"Exactly so. But won't you let me just run down to Howards House, and
save you all the discomfort? I will really not interfere, but I do so
thoroughly understand the kind of thing you Schlegels want that one
quiet look round will be enough for me."

Margaret again thanked her, again kissed her, and then ran upstairs to
see her brother.

He was not so well.

The hay fever had worried him a good deal all night. His head ached,
his eyes were wet, his mucous membrane, he informed her, in a most
unsatisfactory condition. The only thing that made life worth living was
the thought of Walter Savage Landor, from whose Imaginary Conversations
she had promised to read at frequent intervals during the day.

It was rather difficult. Something must be done about Helen. She must
be assured that it is not a criminal offence to love at first sight.
A telegram to this effect would be cold and cryptic, a personal visit
seemed each moment more impossible. Now the doctor arrived, and said
that Tibby was quite bad. Might it really be best to accept Aunt Juley's
kind offer, and to send her down to Howards End with a note?

Certainly Margaret was impulsive. She did swing rapidly from one
decision to another. Running downstairs into the library, she cried:
"Yes, I have changed my mind; I do wish that you would go."

There was a train from King's Cross at eleven. At half-past ten Tibby,
with rare self-effacement, fell asleep, and Margaret was able to drive
her aunt to the station.

"You will remember, Aunt Juley, not to be drawn into discussing the
engagement. Give my letter to Helen, and say whatever you feel yourself,
but do keep clear of the relatives. We have scarcely got their names
straight yet, and, besides, that sort of thing is so uncivilised and
wrong."

"So uncivilised?" queried Mrs. Munt, fearing that she was losing the
point of some brilliant remark.

"Oh, I used an affected word. I only meant would you please talk the
thing over only with Helen."

"Only with Helen."

"Because--" But it was no moment to expound the personal nature of love.
Even Margaret shrank from it, and contented herself with stroking
her good aunt's hand, and with meditating, half sensibly and half
poetically, on the journey that was about to begin from King's Cross.

Like many others who have lived long in a great capital, she had strong
feelings about the various railway termini. They are our gates to the
glorious and the unknown. Through them we pass out into adventure and
sunshine, to them, alas! we return. In Paddington all Cornwall is latent
and the remoter west; down the inclines of Liverpool Street lie fenlands
and the illimitable Broads; Scotland is through the pylons of Euston;
Wessex behind the poised chaos of Waterloo. Italians realise this, as is
natural; those of them who are so unfortunate as to serve as waiters in
Berlin call the Anhalt Bahnhof the Stazione d'Italia, because by it they
must return to their homes. And he is a chilly Londoner who does not
endow his stations with some personality, and extend to them, however
shyly, the emotions of fear and love.

To Margaret--I hope that it will not set the reader against her--the
station of King's Cross had always suggested Infinity. Its very
situation--withdrawn a little behind the facile splendours of St.
Pancras--implied a comment on the materialism of life. Those two great
arches, colourless, indifferent, shouldering between them an unlovely
clock, were fit portals for some eternal adventure, whose issue might
be prosperous, but would certainly not be expressed in the ordinary
language of prosperity. If you think this ridiculous, remember that it
is not Margaret who is telling you about it; and let me hasten to add
that they were in plenty of time for the train; that Mrs. Munt, though
she took a second-class ticket, was put by the guard into a first (only
two "seconds" on the train, one smoking and the other babies--one cannot
be expected to travel with babies); and that Margaret, on her return to
Wickham Place, was confronted with the following telegram:

"All over. Wish I had never written. Tell no one--, HELEN."

But Aunt Juley was gone--gone irrevocably, and no power on earth could
stop her.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Upon reading her sister's last letter, Margaret is understandably freaked out, and expresses her concern to her Aunt Juley. After all, the sisters don't even know the Wilcoxes that well - they'd met them traveling in Germany, and were both invited to come visit the family. Margaret, as we already know, couldn't go because of Tibby's illness. Margaret pauses to think and Aunt Juley takes over. She puts in her two cents about the encounter with the Wilcoxes in Germany . She then pushes Meg gently about the Wilcoxes. Are they the right family for Helen? Do they care about the arts? Is marriage to Paul even possible? Both women start talking, trying to figure out what should happen. Aunt Juley suggests that Margaret go to the Wilcoxes' house and work things out herself. Then, Aunt Juley has another idea - why doesn't she go to see about this business herself instead of Margaret? Margaret refuses, saying that she will go to Howards End , and promises Aunt Juley that she won't offend anyone by asking too many questions. Aunt Juley says that the engagement must be broken off - slowly. We're not sure what that means, exactly, and neither is Margaret. She tries to convince her niece once more that she should go instead. Margaret thanks her aunt, then goes to check on Tibby, who's not at all well. Margaret feels obliged to stay with her brother, and changes her mind - Aunt Juley will go to Howards End after all, under strict instructions not to bring up the engagement to anyone but Helen. Margaret and Aunt Juley set off for the train station at King's Cross, and Margaret ponders the sense of infinity and possibility that the station gives off. Aunt Juley departs, but when Margaret gets home, she discovers an urgent telegram from Helen, saying that everything is over with Paul - and that she shouldn't tell anyone anything. Well, it's too late for that.


prompt:
Chapter: Most complacently did Mrs. Munt rehearse her mission. Her nieces were
independent young women, and it was not often that she was able to help
them. Emily's daughters had never been quite like other girls. They
had been left motherless when Tibby was born, when Helen was five and
Margaret herself but thirteen. It was before the passing of the Deceased
Wife's Sister Bill, so Mrs. Munt could without impropriety offer to
go and keep house at Wickham Place. But her brother-in-law, who was
peculiar and a German, had referred the question to Margaret, who with
the crudity of youth had answered, "No, they could manage much better
alone." Five years later Mr. Schlegel had died too, and Mrs. Munt had
repeated her offer. Margaret, crude no longer, had been grateful and
extremely nice, but the substance of her answer had been the same. "I
must not interfere a third time," thought Mrs. Munt. However, of course
she did. She learnt, to her horror, that Margaret, now of age, was
taking her money out of the old safe investments and putting it into
Foreign Things, which always smash. Silence would have been criminal.
Her own fortune was invested in Home Rails, and most ardently did
she beg her niece to imitate her. "Then we should be together, dear."
Margaret, out of politeness, invested a few hundreds in the Nottingham
and Derby Railway, and though the Foreign Things did admirably and the
Nottingham and Derby declined with the steady dignity of which only Home
Rails are capable, Mrs. Munt never ceased to rejoice, and to say, "I did
manage that, at all events. When the smash comes poor Margaret will have
a nest-egg to fall back upon." This year Helen came of age, and exactly
the same thing happened in Helen's case; she also would shift her money
out of Consols, but she, too, almost without being pressed, consecrated
a fraction of it to the Nottingham and Derby Railway. So far so good,
but in social matters their aunt had accomplished nothing. Sooner or
later the girls would enter on the process known as throwing themselves
away, and if they had delayed hitherto, it was only that they might
throw themselves more vehemently in the future. They saw too many people
at Wickham Place--unshaven musicians, an actress even, German cousins
(one knows what foreigners are), acquaintances picked up at Continental
hotels (one knows what they are too). It was interesting, and down
at Swanage no one appreciated culture more than Mrs. Munt; but it was
dangerous, and disaster was bound to come. How right she was, and how
lucky to be on the spot when the disaster came!

The train sped northward, under innumerable tunnels. It was only an
hour's journey, but Mrs. Munt had to raise and lower the window again
and again. She passed through the South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light for
a moment, and entered the North Welwyn Tunnel, of tragic fame. She
traversed the immense viaduct, whose arches span untroubled meadows and
the dreamy flow of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks of politicians. At
times the Great North Road accompanied her, more suggestive of infinity
than any railway, awakening, after a nap of a hundred years, to such
life as is conferred by the stench of motor-cars, and to such culture
as is implied by the advertisements of antibilious pills. To history,
to tragedy, to the past, to the future, Mrs. Munt remained equally
indifferent; hers but to concentrate on the end of her journey, and to
rescue poor Helen from this dreadful mess.

The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of the large villages
that are strung so frequently along the North Road, and that owe their
size to the traffic of coaching and pre-coaching days. Being near
London, it had not shared in the rural decay, and its long High Street
had budded out right and left into residential estates. For about a
mile a series of tiled and slated houses passed before Mrs. Munt's
inattentive eyes, a series broken at one point by six Danish tumuli that
stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad, tombs of soldiers. Beyond
these tumuli, habitations thickened, and the train came to a standstill
in a tangle that was almost a town.

The station, like the scenery, like Helen's letters, struck an
indeterminate note. Into which country will it lead, England or
Suburbia? It was new, it had island platforms and a subway, and the
superficial comfort exacted by business men. But it held hints of local
life, personal intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to discover.

"I want a house," she confided to the ticket boy. "Its name is Howards
Lodge. Do you know where it is?"

"Mr. Wilcox!" the boy called.

A young man in front of them turned around.

"She's wanting Howards End."

There was nothing for it but to go forward, though Mrs. Munt was too
much agitated even to stare at the stranger. But remembering that there
were two brothers, she had the sense to say to him, "Excuse me asking,
but are you the younger Mr. Wilcox or the elder?"

"The younger. Can I do anything for you?"

"Oh, well"--she controlled herself with difficulty. "Really. Are you?
I--" She moved; away from the ticket boy and lowered her voice. "I am
Miss Schlegel's aunt. I ought to introduce myself, oughtn't I? My name
is Mrs. Munt."

She was conscious that he raised his cap and said quite coolly, "Oh,
rather; Miss Schlegel is stopping with us. Did you want to see her?"

"Possibly."

"I'll call you a cab. No; wait a mo--" He thought. "Our motor's here.
I'll run you up in it."

"That is very kind."

"Not at all, if you'll just wait till they bring out a parcel from the
office. This way."

"My niece is not with you by any chance?"

"No; I came over with my father. He has gone on north in your train.
You'll see Miss Schlegel at lunch. You're coming up to lunch, I hope?"

"I should like to come UP," said Mrs. Munt, not committing herself to
nourishment until she had studied Helen's lover a little more. He seemed
a gentleman, but had so rattled her round that her powers of observation
were numbed. She glanced at him stealthily.

To a feminine eye there was nothing amiss in the sharp depressions at
the corners of his mouth, or in the rather box-like construction of his
forehead. He was dark, clean-shaven, and seemed accustomed to command.

"In front or behind? Which do you prefer? It may be windy in front."

"In front if I may; then we can talk."

"But excuse me one moment--I can't think what they're doing with that
parcel." He strode into the booking-office, and called with a new voice:
"Hi! hi, you there! Are you going to keep me waiting all day? Parcel for
Wilcox, Howards End. Just look sharp!"

Emerging, he said in quieter tones: "This station's abominably
organised; if I had my way, the whole lot of 'em should get the sack.
May I help you in?"

"This is very good of you," said Mrs. Munt, as she settled herself into
a luxurious cavern of red leather, and suffered her person to be padded
with rugs and shawls. She was more civil than she had intended, but
really this young man was very kind. Moreover, she was a little afraid
of him; his self-possession was extraordinary. "Very good indeed," she
repeated, adding: "It is just what I should have wished."

"Very good of you to say so," he replied, with a slight look of
surprise, which, like most slight looks, escaped Mrs. Munt's attention.
"I was just tooling my father over to catch the down train."

"You see, we heard from Helen this morning."

Young Wilcox was pouring in petrol, starting his engine, and performing
other actions with which this story has no concern. The great car began
to rock, and the form of Mrs. Munt, trying to explain things, sprang
agreeably up and down among the red cushions. "The mater will be very
glad to see you," he mumbled. "Hi! I say. Parcel. Parcel for Howards
End. Bring it out. Hi!"

A bearded porter emerged with the parcel in one hand and an entry book
in the other. With the gathering whir of the motor these ejaculations
mingled: "Sign, must I? Why the--should I sign after all this bother?
Not even got a pencil on you? Remember next time I report you to the
station-master. My time's of value, though yours mayn't be. Here"--here
being a tip.

"Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt."

"Not at all, Mr. Wilcox."

"And do you object to going through the village? It is rather a longer
spin, but I have one or two commissions."

"I should love going through the village. Naturally I am very anxious to
talk things over with you."

As she said this she felt ashamed, for she was disobeying Margaret's
instructions. Only disobeying them in the letter, surely. Margaret had
only warned her against discussing the incident with outsiders. Surely
it was not "uncivilised or wrong" to discuss it with the young man
himself, since chance had thrown them together.

A reticent fellow, he made no reply. Mounting by her side, he put on
gloves and spectacles, and off they drove, the bearded porter--life is a
mysterious business--looking after them with admiration.

The wind was in their faces down the station road, blowing the dust into
Mrs. Munt's eyes. But as soon as they turned into the Great North Road
she opened fire. "You can well imagine," she said, "that the news was a
great shock to us."

"What news?"

"Mr. Wilcox," she said frankly, "Margaret has told me
everything--everything. I have seen Helen's letter."

He could not look her in the face, as his eyes were fixed on his work;
he was travelling as quickly as he dared down the High Street. But he
inclined his head in her direction, and said: "I beg your pardon; I
didn't catch."

"About Helen. Helen, of course. Helen is a very exceptional person--I
am sure you will let me say this, feeling towards her as you do--indeed,
all the Schlegels are exceptional. I come in no spirit of interference,
but it was a great shock."

They drew up opposite a draper's. Without replying, he turned round in
his seat, and contemplated the cloud of dust that they had raised in
their passage through the village. It was settling again, but not all
into the road from which he had taken it. Some of it had percolated
through the open windows, some had whitened the roses and gooseberries
of the wayside gardens, while a certain proportion had entered the
lungs of the villagers. "I wonder when they'll learn wisdom and tar the
roads," was his comment. Then a man ran out of the draper's with a roll
of oilcloth, and off they went again.

"Margaret could not come herself, on account of poor Tibby, so I am here
to represent her and to have a good talk."

"I'm sorry to be so dense," said the young man, again drawing up outside
a shop. "But I still haven't quite understood."

"Helen, Mr. Wilcox--my niece and you."

He pushed up his goggles and gazed at her, absolutely bewildered. Horror
smote her to the heart, for even she began to suspect that they were at
cross-purposes, and that she had commenced her mission by some hideous
blunder.

"Miss Schlegel and myself?" he asked, compressing his lips.

"I trust there has been no misunderstanding," quavered Mrs. Munt. "Her
letter certainly read that way."

"What way?"

"That you and she--" She paused, then drooped her eyelids.

"I think I catch your meaning," he said stickily. "What an extraordinary
mistake!"

"Then you didn't the least--" she stammered, getting blood-red in the
face, and wishing she had never been born.

"Scarcely, as I am already engaged to another lady." There was a
moment's silence, and then he caught his breath and exploded with, "Oh,
good God! Don't tell me it 's some silliness of Paul's."

"But you are Paul."

"I'm not."

"Then why did you say so at the station?"

"I said nothing of the sort."

"I beg your pardon, you did."

"I beg your pardon, I did not. My name is Charles."

"Younger" may mean son as opposed to father, or second brother as
opposed to first. There is much to be said for either view, and later on
they said it. But they had other questions before them now.

"Do you mean to tell me that Paul--"

But she did not like his voice. He sounded as if he was talking to a
porter, and, certain that he had deceived her at the station, she too
grew angry.

"Do you mean to tell me that Paul and your niece--"

Mrs. Munt--such is human nature--determined that she would champion the
lovers. She was not going to be bullied by a severe young man. "Yes,
they care for one another very much indeed," she said. "I dare say they
will tell you about it by-and-by. We heard this morning."

And Charles clenched his fist and cried, "The idiot, the idiot, the
little fool!"

Mrs. Munt tried to divest herself of her rugs. "If that is your
attitude, Mr. Wilcox, I prefer to walk."

"I beg you will do no such thing. I take you up this moment to the
house. Let me tell you the thing's impossible, and must be stopped."

Mrs. Munt did not often lose her temper, and when she did it was only to
protect those whom she loved. On this occasion she blazed out. "I quite
agree, sir. The thing is impossible, and I will come up and stop it. My
niece is a very exceptional person, and I am not inclined to sit still
while she throws herself away on those who will not appreciate her."

Charles worked his jaws.

"Considering she has only known your brother since Wednesday, and only
met your father and mother at a stray hotel--"

"Could you possibly lower your voice? The shopman will overhear."

Esprit de classe--if one may coin the phrase--was strong in Mrs. Munt.
She sat quivering while a member of the lower orders deposited a metal
funnel, a saucepan, and a garden squirt beside the roll of oilcloth.

"Right behind?"

"Yes, sir." And the lower orders vanished in a cloud of dust.

"I warn you: Paul hasn't a penny; it's useless."

"No need to warn us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. The warning is all the
other way. My niece has been very foolish, and I shall give her a good
scolding and take her back to London with me."

"He has to make his way out in Nigeria. He couldn't think of marrying
for years, and when he does it must be a woman who can stand the
climate, and is in other ways--Why hasn't he told us? Of course he's
ashamed. He knows he's been a fool. And so he has--a downright fool."

She grew furious.

"Whereas Miss Schlegel has lost no time in publishing the news."

"If I were a man, Mr. Wilcox, for that last remark I'd box your ears.
You're not fit to clean my niece's boots, to sit in the same room with
her, and you dare--you actually dare--I decline to argue with such a
person."

"All I know is, she's spread the thing and he hasn't, and my father's
away and I--"

"And all that I know is--"

"Might I finish my sentence, please?"

"No."

Charles clenched his teeth and sent the motor swerving all over the
lane.

She screamed.

So they played the game of Capping Families, a round of which is always
played when love would unite two members of our race. But they played it
with unusual vigour, stating in so many words that Schlegels were better
than Wilcoxes, Wilcoxes better than Schlegels. They flung decency
aside. The man was young, the woman deeply stirred; in both a vein of
coarseness was latent. Their quarrel was no more surprising than are
most quarrels--inevitable at the time, incredible afterwards. But it was
more than usually futile. A few minutes, and they were enlightened. The
motor drew up at Howards End, and Helen, looking very pale, ran out to
meet her aunt.

"Aunt Juley, I have just had a telegram from Margaret; I--I meant to
stop your coming. It isn't--it's over."

The climax was too much for Mrs. Munt. She burst into tears.

"Aunt Juley dear, don't. Don't let them know I've been so silly. It
wasn't anything. Do bear up for my sake."

"Paul," cried Charles Wilcox, pulling his gloves off.

"Don't let them know. They are never to know."

"Oh, my darling Helen--"

"Paul! Paul!"

A very young man came out of the house.

"Paul, is there any truth in this?"

"I didn't--I don't--"

"Yes or no, man; plain question, plain answer. Did or didn't Miss
Schlegel--"

"Charles, dear," said a voice from the garden. "Charles, dear Charles,
one doesn't ask plain questions. There aren't such things."

They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox.

She approached just as Helen's letter had described her, trailing
noiselessly over the lawn, and there was actually a wisp of hay in her
hands. She seemed to belong not to the young people and their motor, but
to the house, and to the tree that overshadowed it. One knew that she
worshipped the past, and that the instinctive wisdom the past can alone
bestow had descended upon her--that wisdom to which we give the clumsy
name of aristocracy. High born she might not be. But assuredly she cared
about her ancestors, and let them help her. When she saw Charles angry,
Paul frightened, and Mrs. Munt in tears, she heard her ancestors say,
"Separate those human beings who will hurt each other most. The rest
can wait." So she did not ask questions. Still less did she pretend that
nothing had happened, as a competent society hostess would have done.
She said: "Miss Schlegel, would you take your aunt up to your room or
to my room, whichever you think best. Paul, do find Evie, and tell her
lunch for six, but I'm not sure whether we shall all be downstairs for
it." And when they had obeyed her, she turned to her elder son, who
still stood in the throbbing, stinking car, and smiled at him with
tenderness, and without saying a word, turned away from him towards her
flowers.

"Mother," he called, "are you aware that Paul has been playing the fool
again?"

"It is all right, dear. They have broken off the engagement."

"Engagement--!"

"They do not love any longer, if you prefer it put that way," said Mrs.
Wilcox, stooping down to smell a rose.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Aunt Juley thinks over her mission, and over her nieces' history as she travels. We learn that the three Schlegel children lost their mother when Tibby was born, when the girls were both pretty young. They were raised by their German father, who died five years later. Margaret has been in charge of the family ever since, and handles everything, including their financial matters. Helen and Margaret are both very independent women; they're friends with all kinds of interesting artistic types and foreigners, which rather alarms their aunt. The train travels north through the countryside, and deposits Mrs. Munt at the village of Hilton, where Howards End is located. In the station, an employee hooks Aunt Juley up with a certain Mr. Wilcox, who's on his way to Howards End. She asks if he's the older or younger Mr. Wilcox; when he replies the younger, she assumes that he's Paul . The young man offers to drive her to Howards End, and she accepts. In the car, she goes against Margaret's command and brings up the engagement. This is a BIG mistake, seeing as this isn't actually Paul, but is instead his older brother, Charles . He's confused - then enraged. Charles goes into a fit, saying that the marriage is impossible. Mrs. Munt responds by being equally indignant. They fight the whole way back to Howards End, arguing about whose family is better than whose. At the house, Helen rushes up to tell her aunt that it's all over . Paul comes out of the house, and Charles demands to know what's going on. Everyone is confused. Mrs. Wilcox shows up and stops the fighting. The narrator offers a fascinating description of her: she somehow knows exactly what to do to put everyone out of their misery. She soothes Charles, telling everyone that the engagement is off.