prompt:
Chapter: 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.

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

completion: Margaret is confused and horrified by all of this. How could any of this have happened? All Leonard wanted was to experience the beauty in the world, and this is what he got. Helen is also terrified, and all she can do is try to be calm and pick flowers to lay in poor Leonard's arms. Miss Avery tries to soothe her by reminding that Leonard never even knew about the child. Margaret answers the policemen's questions, and tells them that, though Charles may have provoked Leonard's heart attack, it was bound to happen by some means. The doctor agrees that this is how Leonard died. Margaret and Helen decide to return to Germany; Margaret hasn't heard from Henry, but assumes that their relationship is over for good. She peers into his future, imagining that he will recover from this incident, continue to prosper, and keep living life as he has so far. At this moment, she's called back to meet with him - Crane comes to pick her up and take her to Charles's house. Margaret informs her husband that she intends to go to Germany, and cannot forgive him for what he's said or done. Mr. Wilcox is exhausted, and they sit on the grass to talk. Margaret coldly returns the keys to Howards End, and refuses to hear what he has to say - now, she thinks she can see through his facade of kindness, and knows that it's just a masculine trick to make her swoon. She tells Henry that her life is with Helen now, and they're going to Munich the next day, right after the inquest. Henry informs Margaret that the verdict at the inquest is not going to be heart disease - instead, it will be manslaughter. Charles is going to go to prison. Henry is totally heartbroken. Margaret is not suddenly moved to change her mind - but as the day goes on, and Charles is sentenced to three years in prison, Henry himself breaks down. He gives himself up to Margaret, and she, relenting, takes him to Howards End.


prompt:
Chapter: 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: Tom and Helen are discussing whether or not the baby is old enough to play in the freshly mown hay. Helen agrees, and the little boy runs off with the baby. Margaret and Helen agree that Tom and the baby will grow up to be lifelong friends, despite their difference in class. We find out that fourteen months have passed, and Margaret is still living at Howards End. It's summer now, and the fields and meadows are full of life. Helen speaks tenderly of Henry, and wishes he could be enjoying nature with them - unfortunately, his hay fever always keeps him inside. We learn that he's not doing so well; he's not ill, but he's exhausted and worried about the family, who's all there today for some reason. Helen admits to Margaret that she likes Henry now - things have clearly changed with all of them. Helen says that everything is peaceful now; she seems to have reached some new level of clarity. She says she will never get married. She feels terrible for the way she treated Leonard, and how she's forgetting him now. Margaret stops her sister from worrying and blaming herself, saying that we must all remember that we're all together in a bigger picture - humanity and the world - and she shouldn't be hung up on the individual. Helen tells Margaret that she has drawn everyone together by forgiving Henry and learning to understand each other. Margaret, it seems, has really become the new Mrs. Wilcox. The sisters look out over the fields and see London creeping towards them - suburbanization and its dangers is still a threat. Margaret is struck by the idea that everything is part of an evolving process; just because something is going strong now, it might not last. She feels hopeful, though, thinking that their home, Howards End, is both the past and the future. The Wilcoxes come out of their family meeting. Paul emerges first, and roughly tells Margaret to go in to Henry. He kicks the door on his way back in. Henry, Evie, and Dolly are inside. Some decisions have clearly been made: he wants to make sure that everyone is OK with the arrangements. The deal is, Margaret will get Howards End, and the children will get all of Mr. Wilcox's money when he dies; Margaret, in turn, will leave the house to Helen's son. Paul is feeling particularly insulted by the idea that the house will go to the illegitimate child, and Evie tries to calm him down before she leaves. As the children leave, Dolly mentions that Mrs. Wilcox had wanted Margaret to have Howards End all along - something nobody ever revealed to Margaret. Dolly, Evie, and Paul say goodbye and leave. Margaret asks Henry about Dolly's casual remark, and he tells her that his first wife had scribbled a note about Margaret and Howards End before she died. Margaret is chilled by this - it's too eerie. She reassures Henry that he hasn't done anything wrong. Henry, seeing Helen, Tom, and the baby, smiles for the first time and rushes out to them. Finally, we see a moment of joy and resolution. Helen cries out gleefully that the hay field has been mown, and there will be a bountiful crop that year.


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."

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.

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.

Helen and her aunt returned to Wickham Place in a state of collapse, and
for a little time Margaret had three invalids on her hands. Mrs. Munt
soon recovered. She possessed to a remarkable degree the power of
distorting the past, and before many days were over she had forgotten
the part played by her own imprudence in the catastrophe. Even at the
crisis she had cried, "Thank goodness, poor Margaret is saved this!"
which during the journey to London evolved into, "It had to be gone
through by some one," which in its turn ripened into the permanent form
of "The one time I really did help Emily's girls was over the Wilcox
business." But Helen was a more serious patient. New ideas had burst
upon her like a thunderclap, and by them and by their reverberations she
had been stunned.

The truth was that she had fallen in love, not with an individual, but
with a family.

Before Paul arrived she had, as it were, been tuned up into his key.
The energy of the Wilcoxes had fascinated her, had created new images of
beauty in her responsive mind. To be all day with them in the open air,
to sleep at night under their roof, had seemed the supreme joy of
life, and had led to that abandonment of personality that is a possible
prelude to love. She had liked giving in to Mr. Wilcox, or Evie,
or Charles; she had liked being told that her notions of life were
sheltered or academic; that Equality was nonsense, Votes for Women
nonsense, Socialism nonsense, Art and Literature, except when conducive
to strengthening the character, nonsense. One by one the Schlegel
fetiches had been overthrown, and, though professing to defend them, she
had rejoiced. When Mr. Wilcox said that one sound man of business did
more good to the world than a dozen of your social reformers, she had
swallowed the curious assertion without a gasp, and had leant back
luxuriously among the cushions of his motorcar. When Charles said, "Why
be so polite to servants? they don't understand it," she had not given
the Schlegel retort of, "If they don't understand it, I do." No; she
had vowed to be less polite to servants in the future. "I am swathed in
cant," she thought, "and it is good for me to be stripped of it." And
all that she thought or did or breathed was a quiet preparation for
Paul. Paul was inevitable. Charles was taken up with another girl, Mr.
Wilcox was so old, Evie so young, Mrs. Wilcox so different. Round the
absent brother she began to throw the halo of Romance, to irradiate
him with all the splendour of those happy days, to feel that in him she
should draw nearest to the robust ideal. He and she were about the same
age, Evie said. Most people thought Paul handsomer than his brother. He
was certainly a better shot, though not so good at golf. And when Paul
appeared, flushed with the triumph of getting through an examination,
and ready to flirt with any pretty girl, Helen met him halfway, or more
than halfway, and turned towards him on the Sunday evening.

He had been talking of his approaching exile in Nigeria, and he should
have continued to talk of it, and allowed their guest to recover. But
the heave of her bosom flattered him. Passion was possible, and he
became passionate. Deep down in him something whispered, "This girl
would let you kiss her; you might not have such a chance again."

That was "how it happened," or, rather, how Helen described it to her
sister, using words even more unsympathetic than my own. But the poetry
of that kiss, the wonder of it, the magic that there was in life for
hours after it--who can describe that? It is so easy for an Englishman
to sneer at these chance collisions of human beings. To the insular
cynic and the insular moralist they offer an equal opportunity. It is so
easy to talk of "passing emotion," and to forget how vivid the emotion
was ere it passed. Our impulse to sneer, to forget, is at root a good
one. We recognise that emotion is not enough, and that men and women are
personalities capable of sustained relations, not mere opportunities for
an electrical discharge. Yet we rate the impulse too highly. We do not
admit that by collisions of this trivial sort the doors of heaven may be
shaken open. To Helen, at all events, her life was to bring nothing more
intense than the embrace of this boy who played no part in it. He had
drawn her out of the house, where there was danger of surprise and
light; he had led her by a path he knew, until they stood under the
column of the vast wych-elm. A man in the darkness, he had whispered "I
love you" when she was desiring love. In time his slender personality
faded, the scene that he had evoked endured. In all the variable years
that followed she never saw the like of it again.

"I understand," said Margaret-- "at least, I understand as much as ever
is understood of these things. Tell me now what happened on the Monday
morning."

"It was over at once."

"How, Helen?"

"I was still happy while I dressed, but as I came downstairs I got
nervous, and when I went into the dining-room I knew it was no good.
There was Evie--I can't explain--managing the tea-urn, and Mr. Wilcox
reading the Times."

"Was Paul there?"

"Yes; and Charles was talking to him about stocks and shares, and he
looked frightened."

By slight indications the sisters could convey much to each other.
Margaret saw horror latent in the scene, and Helen's next remark did not
surprise her.

"Somehow, when that kind of man looks frightened it is too awful. It is
all right for us to be frightened, or for men of another sort--father,
for instance; but for men like that! When I saw all the others so
placid, and Paul mad with terror in case I said the wrong thing, I felt
for a moment that the whole Wilcox family was a fraud, just a wall of
newspapers and motor-cars and golf-clubs, and that if it fell I should
find nothing behind it but panic and emptiness."

"I don't think that. The Wilcoxes struck me as being genuine people,
particularly the wife."

"No, I don't really think that. But Paul was so broad-shouldered; all
kinds of extraordinary things made it worse, and I knew that it would
never do--never. I said to him after breakfast, when the others were
practising strokes, 'We rather lost our heads,' and he looked better
at once, though frightfully ashamed. He began a speech about having no
money to marry on, but it hurt him to make it, and I stopped him. Then
he said, 'I must beg your pardon over this, Miss Schlegel; I can't think
what came over me last night.' And I said, 'Nor what over me; never
mind.' And then we parted--at least, until I remembered that I had
written straight off to tell you the night before, and that frightened
him again. I asked him to send a telegram for me, for he knew you would
be coming or something; and he tried to get hold of the motor, but
Charles and Mr. Wilcox wanted it to go to the station; and Charles
offered to send the telegram for me, and then I had to say that the
telegram was of no consequence, for Paul said Charles might read it, and
though I wrote it out several times, he always said people would suspect
something. He took it himself at last, pretending that he must walk down
to get cartridges, and, what with one thing and the other, it was not
handed in at the post-office until too late. It was the most terrible
morning. Paul disliked me more and more, and Evie talked cricket
averages till I nearly screamed. I cannot think how I stood her all the
other days. At last Charles and his father started for the station, and
then came your telegram warning me that Aunt Juley was coming by that
train, and Paul--oh, rather horrible--said that I had muddled it. But
Mrs. Wilcox knew."

"Knew what?"

"Everything; though we neither of us told her a word, and she had known
all along, I think."

"Oh, she must have overheard you."

"I suppose so, but it seemed wonderful. When Charles and Aunt Juley
drove up, calling each other names, Mrs. Wilcox stepped in from the
garden and made everything less terrible. Ugh! but it has been a
disgusting business. To think that--" She sighed.

"To think that because you and a young man meet for a moment, there must
be all these telegrams and anger," supplied Margaret.

Helen nodded.

"I've often thought about it, Helen. It's one of the most interesting
things in the world. The truth is that there is a great outer life that
you and I have never touched--a life in which telegrams and anger count.
Personal relations, that we think supreme, are not supreme there. There
love means marriage settlements, death, death duties. So far I'm clear.
But here my difficulty. This outer life, though obviously horrid; often
seems the real one--there's grit in it. It does breed character. Do
personal relations lead to sloppiness in the end?"

"Oh, Meg--, that's what I felt, only not so clearly, when the Wilcoxes
were so competent, and seemed to have their hands on all the ropes."

"Don't you feel it now?"

"I remember Paul at breakfast," said Helen quietly. "I shall never
forget him. He had nothing to fall back upon. I know that personal
relations are the real life, for ever and ever."

"Amen!"

So the Wilcox episode fell into the background, leaving behind it
memories of sweetness and horror that mingled, and the sisters pursued
the life that Helen had commended. They talked to each other and to
other people, they filled the tall thin house at Wickham Place with
those whom they liked or could befriend. They even attended public
meetings. In their own fashion they cared deeply about politics, though
not as politicians would have us care; they desired that public
life should mirror whatever is good in the life within. Temperance,
tolerance, and sexual equality were intelligible cries to them; whereas
they did not follow our Forward Policy in Tibet with the keen attention
that it merits, and would at times dismiss the whole British Empire with
a puzzled, if reverent, sigh. Not out of them are the shows of history
erected: the world would be a grey, bloodless place were it composed
entirely of Miss Schlegels. But the world being what it is, perhaps they
shine out in it like stars.

A word on their origin. They were not "English to the back-bone," as
their aunt had piously asserted. But, on the other hand, they were not
"Germans of the dreadful sort." Their father had belonged to a type that
was more prominent in Germany fifty years ago than now. He was not the
aggressive German, so dear to the English journalist, nor the domestic
German, so dear to the English wit. If one classed him at all it would
be as the countryman of Hegel and Kant, as the idealist, inclined to be
dreamy, whose Imperialism was the Imperialism of the air. Not that
his life had been inactive. He had fought like blazes against Denmark,
Austria, France. But he had fought without visualising the results of
victory. A hint of the truth broke on him after Sedan, when he saw the
dyed moustaches of Napoleon going grey; another when he entered Paris,
and saw the smashed windows of the Tuileries. Peace came--it was all
very immense, one had turned into an Empire--but he knew that some
quality had vanished for which not all Alsace-Lorraine could compensate
him. Germany a commercial Power, Germany a naval Power, Germany with
colonies here and a Forward Policy there, and legitimate aspirations in
the other place, might appeal to others, and be fitly served by
them; for his own part, he abstained from the fruits of victory, and
naturalised himself in England. The more earnest members of his family
never forgave him, and knew that his children, though scarcely English
of the dreadful sort, would never be German to the back-bone. He had
obtained work in one of our provincial universities, and there married
Poor Emily (or Die Englanderin, as the case may be), and as she had
money, they proceeded to London, and came to know a good many people.
But his gaze was always fixed beyond the sea. It was his hope that the
clouds of materialism obscuring the Fatherland would part in time, and
the mild intellectual light re-emerge. "Do you imply that we Germans are
stupid, Uncle Ernst?" exclaimed a haughty and magnificent nephew. Uncle
Ernst replied, "To my mind. You use the intellect, but you no longer
care about it. That I call stupidity." As the haughty nephew did not
follow, he continued, "You only care about the things that you can use,
and therefore arrange them in the following order: Money, supremely
useful; intellect, rather useful; imagination, of no use at all.
No"--for the other had protested--"your Pan-Germanism is no more
imaginative than is our Imperialism over here. It is the vice of a
vulgar mind to be thrilled by bigness, to think that a thousand square
miles are a thousand times more wonderful than one square mile, and
that a million square miles are almost the same as heaven. That is
not imagination. No, it kills it. When their poets over here try to
celebrate bigness they are dead at once, and naturally. Your poets
too are dying, your philosophers, your musicians, to whom Europe has
listened for two hundred years. Gone. Gone with the little courts that
nurtured them--gone with Esterhazy and Weimar. What? What's that? Your
universities? Oh yes, you have learned men, who collect more facts
than do the learned men of England. They collect facts, and facts, and
empires of facts. But which of them will rekindle the light within?"

To all this Margaret listened, sitting on the haughty nephew's knee.

It was a unique education for the little girls. The haughty nephew would
be at Wickham Place one day, bringing with him an even haughtier wife,
both convinced that Germany was appointed by God to govern the world.
Aunt Juley would come the next day, convinced that Great Britain had
been appointed to the same post by the same authority. Were both these
loud-voiced parties right? On one occasion they had met and Margaret
with clasped hands had implored them to argue the subject out in her
presence. Whereat they blushed, and began to talk about the weather.
"Papa," she cried--she was a most offensive child--"why will they not
discuss this most clear question?" Her father, surveying the parties
grimly, replied that he did not know. Putting her head on one side,
Margaret then remarked, "To me one of two things is very clear; either
God does not know his own mind about England and Germany, or else these
do not know the mind of God." A hateful little girl, but at thirteen
she had grasped a dilemma that most people travel through life without
perceiving. Her brain darted up and down; it grew pliant and strong. Her
conclusion was, that any human being lies nearer to the unseen than any
organisation, and from this she never varied.

Helen advanced along the same lines, though with a more irresponsible
tread. In character she resembled her sister, but she was pretty, and so
apt to have a more amusing time. People gathered round her more readily,
especially when they were new acquaintances, and she did enjoy a little
homage very much. When their father died and they ruled alone at Wickham
Place, she often absorbed the whole of the company, while Margaret--both
were tremendous talkers--fell flat. Neither sister bothered about this.
Helen never apologised afterwards, Margaret did not feel the slightest
rancour. But looks have their influence upon character. The sisters
were alike as little girls, but at the time of the Wilcox episode their
methods were beginning to diverge; the younger was rather apt to entice
people, and, in enticing them, to be herself enticed; the elder went
straight ahead, and accepted an occasional failure as part of the game.

Little need be premised about Tibby. He was now an intelligent man of
sixteen, but dyspeptic and difficile.

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

completion: Young, pretty Helen Schlegel has left her London  home to visit the Wilcox family estate,  Howards End. Margaret was also invited to Howards End,  but stayed home to care for their 16-year-old  brother Tibby, who has hay fever. From Howards End, Helen sends Margaret several letters describing  the beautiful estate and the energetic, materialistic  Wilcoxes. Her last letter sends a shock through  Margaret when she reads it:  Helen has fallen in love  with Paul, the youngest Wilcox son. Margaret reads the letter to Aunt Juley, who has  come to help care for Tibby. Aunt Juley is  scandalized and thinks that the engagement will  likely have to be broken off. She convinces Margaret  to let her go to Howards End to look into  matters. Margaret takes her to the train station and  sees her on her way; however, when she returns home,  there is a telegram from Helen informing her that the  love affair is over, and asking her not to tell  anyone what has happened. As she travels to Howards End, Aunt Juley thinks  about her peculiar nieces, who value art, idealism,  and human relationships above all things. The  children of her sister Emily and a German professor  who moved to England, Margaret and Helen have lived alone  since their parents died, but their house is  constantly filled with writers, artists, thinkers,  and friends. The girls are interested in  forward-looking causes such as women's suffrage and  socialism. Despite their connection to  Germany and the increasing tension between  English Imperial powers and German Imperial powers,  Aunt Juley still thinks of the Schlegels as "English  through and through." After her train arrives, Aunt Juley meets Charles  Wilcox, Paul's older brother. Mistaking him for  Paul, Aunt Juley asks him about the engagement; this  is the first Charles has heard of any engagement. Furious, he announces that Paul does not have any  money, cannot marry, and must go to Nigeria to make  his fortune. As Charles drives Aunt Juley to Howards End, they argue the entire way about whether the  Schlegels are good enough for the Wilcoxes and vice  versa. At Howards End, Charles confronts Paul, but  the ethereal Mrs. Wilcox ends the dispute. Helen  returns home to London with Aunt Juley. Margaret and  Helen discuss what has happened--Helen and Paul  simply kissed, impetuously, one night, after Helen  had come to love the Wilcox family--and the  intensity of human emotions in general. Aunt Juley  selectively remembers her role in the incident, so  that in later years she thinks that the Wilcox affair  was the one time she really was able to help her  sister's children.