Chapter: The friendship between Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox, which was to develop
so quickly and with such strange results, may perhaps have had its
beginnings at Speyer, in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she
gazed at the vulgar, ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of her
husband and Helen, may have detected in the other and less charming of
the sisters a deeper sympathy, a sounder judgment. She was capable
of detecting such things. Perhaps it was she who had desired the Miss
Schlegels to be invited to Howards End, and Margaret whose presence she
had particularly desired. All this is speculation; Mrs. Wilcox has left
few clear indications behind her. It is certain that she came to call at
Wickham Place a fortnight later, the very day that Helen was going with
her cousin to Stettin.

"Helen!" cried Fraulein Mosebach in awestruck tones (she was now in
her cousin's confidence)--"his mother has forgiven you!" And then,
remembering that in England the new-comer ought not to call before she
is called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disapproval, and opined
that Mrs. Wilcox was keine Dame.

"Bother the whole family!" snapped Margaret. "Helen, stop giggling and
pirouetting, and go and finish your packing. Why can't the woman leave
us alone?"

"I don't know what I shall do with Meg," Helen retorted, collapsing upon
the stairs. "She's got Wilcox and Box upon the brain. Meg, Meg, I don't
love the young gentleman; I don't love the young gentleman, Meg, Meg.
Can a body speak plainer?"

"Most certainly her love has died," asserted Fraulein Mosebach.

"Most certainly it has, Frieda, but that will not prevent me from being
bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call."

Then Helen simulated tears, and Fraulein Mosebach, who thought her
extremely amusing, did the same. "Oh, boo hoo! boo hoo hoo! Meg's
going to return the call, and I can't. 'Cos why? 'Cos I'm going to
German-eye."

"If you are going to Germany, go and pack; if you aren't, go and call on
the Wilcoxes instead of me."

"But, Meg, Meg, I don't love the young gentleman; I don't love the
young--O lud, who's that coming down the stairs? I vow 'tis my brother.
O crimini!"

A male--even such a male as Tibby--was enough to stop the foolery. The
barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilised, is still high,
and higher on the side of women. Helen could tell her sister all, and
her cousin much about Paul; she told her brother nothing. It was not
prudishness, for she now spoke of "the Wilcox ideal" with laughter, and
even with a growing brutality. Nor was it precaution, for Tibby seldom
repeated any news that did not concern himself. It was rather the
feeling that she betrayed a secret into the camp of men, and that,
however trivial it was on this side of the barrier, it would become
important on that. So she stopped, or rather began to fool on other
subjects, until her long-suffering relatives drove her upstairs.
Fraulein Mosebach followed her, but lingered to say heavily over the
banisters to Margaret, "It is all right--she does not love the young
man--he has not been worthy of her."

"Yes, I know; thanks very much."

"I thought I did right to tell you."

"Ever so many thanks."

"What's that?" asked Tibby. No one told him, and he proceeded into the
dining-room, to eat plums.

That evening Margaret took decisive action. The house was very quiet,
and the fog--we are in November now--pressed against the windows like an
excluded ghost. Frieda and Helen and all their luggages had gone. Tibby,
who was not feeling well, lay stretched on a sofa by the fire. Margaret
sat by him, thinking. Her mind darted from impulse to impulse, and
finally marshalled them all in review. The practical person, who knows
what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will accuse her
of indecision. But this was the way her mind worked. And when she did
act, no one could accuse her of indecision then. She hit out as lustily
as if she had not considered the matter at all. The letter that she
wrote Mrs. Wilcox glowed with the native hue of resolution. The pale
cast of thought was with her a breath rather than a tarnish, a breath
that leaves the colours all the more vivid when it has been wiped away.


"DEAR MRS. WILCOX,

"I have to write something discourteous. It would be better if we did
not meet. Both my sister and my aunt have given displeasure to your
family, and, in my sister's case, the grounds for displeasure might
recur. So far as I know she no longer occupies her thoughts with your
son. But it would not be fair, either to her or to you, if they met, and
it is therefore right that our acquaintance, which began so pleasantly,
should end.

"I fear that you will not agree with this; indeed, I know that you
will not, since you have been good enough to call on us. It is only
an instinct on my part, and no doubt the instinct is wrong. My sister
would, undoubtedly, say that it is wrong. I write without her knowledge,
and I hope that you will not associate her with my discourtesy.

"Believe me,

"Yours truly,

"M. J. SCHLEGEL."


Margaret sent this letter round by the post. Next morning she received
the following reply by hand:


"DEAR MISS SCHLEGEL,

"You should not have written me such a letter. I called to tell you that
Paul has gone abroad.

"RUTH WILCOX."


Margaret's cheeks burnt. She could not finish her breakfast. She was on
fire with shame. Helen had told her that the youth was leaving England,
but other things had seemed more important, and she had forgotten. All
her absurd anxieties fell to the ground, and in their place arose the
certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Rudeness affected
Margaret like a bitter taste in the mouth. It poisoned life. At times it
is necessary, but woe to those who employ it without due need. She flung
on a hat and shawl, just like a poor woman, and plunged into the fog,
which still continued. Her lips were compressed, the letter remained in
her hand, and in this state she crossed the street, entered the marble
vestibule of the flats, eluded the concierges, and ran up the stairs
till she reached the second floor. She sent in her name, and to her
surprise was shown straight into Mrs. Wilcox's bedroom.

"Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, I have made the baddest blunder. I am more, more
ashamed and sorry than I can say."

Mrs. Wilcox bowed gravely. She was offended, and did not pretend to the
contrary. She was sitting up in bed, writing letters on an invalid table
that spanned her knees. A breakfast tray was on another table beside
her. The light of the fire, the light from the window, and the light of
a candle-lamp, which threw a quivering halo round her hands combined to
create a strange atmosphere of dissolution.

"I knew he was going to India in November, but I forgot."

"He sailed on the 17th for Nigeria, in Africa."

"I knew--I know. I have been too absurd all through. I am very much
ashamed."

Mrs. Wilcox did not answer.

"I am more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me."

"It doesn't matter, Miss Schlegel. It is good of you to have come round
so promptly."

"It does matter," cried Margaret. "I have been rude to you; and my
sister is not even at home, so there was not even that excuse."

"Indeed?"

"She has just gone to Germany."

"She gone as well," murmured the other. "Yes, certainly, it is quite
safe--safe, absolutely, now."

"You've been worrying too!" exclaimed Margaret, getting more and
more excited, and taking a chair without invitation. "How perfectly
extraordinary! I can see that you have. You felt as I do; Helen mustn't
meet him again."

"I did think it best."

"Now why?"

"That's a most difficult question," said Mrs. Wilcox, smiling, and a
little losing her expression of annoyance. "I think you put it best in
your letter--it was an instinct, which may be wrong."

"It wasn't that your son still--"

"Oh no; he often--my Paul is very young, you see."

"Then what was it?"

She repeated: "An instinct which may be wrong."

"In other words, they belong to types that can fall in love, but
couldn't live together. That's dreadfully probable. I'm afraid that in
nine cases out of ten Nature pulls one way and human nature another."

"These are indeed 'other words,'" said Mrs. Wilcox. "I had nothing so
coherent in my head. I was merely alarmed when I knew that my boy cared
for your sister."

"Ah, I have always been wanting to ask you. How DID you know? Helen
was so surprised when our aunt drove up, and you stepped forward and
arranged things. Did Paul tell you?"

"There is nothing to be gained by discussing that," said Mrs. Wilcox
after a moment's pause.

"Mrs. Wilcox, were you very angry with us last June? I wrote you a
letter and you didn't answer it."

"I was certainly against taking Mrs. Matheson's flat. I knew it was
opposite your house."

"But it's all right now?"

"I think so."

"You only think? You aren't sure? I do love these little muddles tidied
up?"

"Oh yes, I'm sure," said Mrs. Wilcox, moving with uneasiness beneath
the clothes. "I always sound uncertain over things. It is my way of
speaking."

"That's all right, and I'm sure, too."

Here the maid came in to remove the breakfast-tray. They were
interrupted, and when they resumed conversation it was on more normal
lines.

"I must say good-bye now--you will be getting up."

"No--please stop a little longer--I am taking a day in bed. Now and then
I do."

"I thought of you as one of the early risers."

"At Howards End--yes; there is nothing to get up for in London."

"Nothing to get up for?" cried the scandalised Margaret. "When there are
all the autumn exhibitions, and Ysaye playing in the afternoon! Not to
mention people."

"The truth is, I am a little tired. First came the wedding, and then
Paul went off, and, instead of resting yesterday, I paid a round of
calls."

"A wedding?"

"Yes; Charles, my elder son, is married."

"Indeed!"

"We took the flat chiefly on that account, and also that Paul could get
his African outfit. The flat belongs to a cousin of my husband's, and
she most kindly offered it to us. So before the day came we were able to
make the acquaintance of Dolly's people, which we had not yet done."

Margaret asked who Dolly's people were.

"Fussell. The father is in the Indian army--retired; the brother is in
the army. The mother is dead."

So perhaps these were the "chinless sunburnt men" whom Helen had espied
one afternoon through the window. Margaret felt mildly interested in
the fortunes of the Wilcox family. She had acquired the habit on Helen's
account, and it still clung to her. She asked for more information
about Miss Dolly Fussell that was, and was given it in even, unemotional
tones. Mrs. Wilcox's voice, though sweet and compelling, had little
range of expression. It suggested that pictures, concerts, and people
are all of small and equal value. Only once had it quickened--when
speaking of Howards End.

"Charles and Albert Fussell have known one another some time. They
belong to the same club, and are both devoted to golf. Dolly plays
golf too, though I believe not so well; and they first met in a mixed
foursome. We all like her, and are very much pleased. They were married
on the 11th, a few days before Paul sailed. Charles was very anxious to
have his brother as best man, so he made a great point of having it on
the 11th. The Fussells would have preferred it after Christmas, but they
were very nice about it. There is Dolly's photograph--in that double
frame."

"Are you quite certain that I'm not interrupting, Mrs. Wilcox?"

"Yes, quite."

"Then I will stay. I'm enjoying this."

Dolly's photograph was now examined. It was signed "For dear Mims,"
which Mrs. Wilcox interpreted as "the name she and Charles had settled
that she should call me." Dolly looked silly, and had one of those
triangular faces that so often prove attractive to a robust man. She
was very pretty. From her Margaret passed to Charles, whose features
prevailed opposite. She speculated on the forces that had drawn the two
together till God parted them. She found time to hope that they would be
happy.

"They have gone to Naples for their honeymoon."

"Lucky people!"

"I can hardly imagine Charles in Italy."

"Doesn't he care for travelling?"

"He likes travel, but he does see through foreigners so. What he enjoys
most is a motor tour in England, and I think that would have carried the
day if the weather had not been so abominable. His father gave him a car
for a wedding present, which for the present is being stored at Howards
End."

"I suppose you have a garage there?"

"Yes. My husband built a little one only last month, to the west of the
house, not far from the wych-elm, in what used to be the paddock for the
pony."

The last words had an indescribable ring about them.

"Where's the pony gone?" asked Margaret after a pause.

"The pony? Oh, dead, ever so long ago."

"The wych-elm I remember. Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree."

"It is the finest wych-elm in Hertfordshire. Did your sister tell you
about the teeth?"

"No."

"Oh, it might interest you. There are pigs' teeth stuck into the trunk,
about four feet from the ground. The country people put them in long
ago, and they think that if they chew a piece of the bark, it will cure
the toothache. The teeth are almost grown over now, and no one comes to
the tree."

"I should. I love folklore and all festering superstitions."

"Do you think that the tree really did cure toothache, if one believed
in it?"

"Of course it did. It would cure anything--once."

"Certainly I remember cases--you see I lived at Howards End long, long
before Mr. Wilcox knew it. I was born there."

The conversation again shifted. At the time it seemed little more than
aimless chatter. She was interested when her hostess explained that
Howards End was her own property. She was bored when too minute an
account was given of the Fussell family, of the anxieties of Charles
concerning Naples, of the movements of Mr. Wilcox and Evie, who were
motoring in Yorkshire. Margaret could not bear being bored. She grew
inattentive, played with the photograph frame, dropped it, smashed
Dolly's glass, apologised, was pardoned, cut her finger thereon,
was pitied, and finally said she must be going--there was all the
housekeeping to do, and she had to interview Tibby's riding-master.

Then the curious note was struck again.

"Good-bye, Miss Schlegel, good-bye. Thank you for coming. You have
cheered me up."

"I'm so glad!"

"I--I wonder whether you ever think about yourself?"

"I think of nothing else," said Margaret, blushing, but letting her hand
remain in that of the invalid.

"I wonder. I wondered at Heidelberg."

"I'M sure!"

"I almost think--"

"Yes?" asked Margaret, for there was a long pause--a pause that was
somehow akin to the flicker of the fire, the quiver of the reading-lamp
upon their hands, the white blur from the window; a pause of shifting
and eternal shadows.

"I almost think you forget you're a girl."

Margaret was startled and a little annoyed. "I'm twenty-nine," she
remarked. "That's not so wildly girlish."

Mrs. Wilcox smiled.

"What makes you say that? Do you mean that I have been gauche and rude?"

A shake of the head. "I only meant that I am fifty-one, and that to
me both of you--Read it all in some book or other; I cannot put things
clearly."

"Oh, I've got it--inexperience. I'm no better than Helen, you mean, and
yet I presume to advise her."

"Yes. You have got it. Inexperience is the word."

"Inexperience," repeated Margaret, in serious yet buoyant tones.

"Of course, I have everything to learn--absolutely everything--just
as much as Helen. Life's very difficult and full of surprises. At all
events, I've got as far as that. To be humble and kind, to go
straight ahead, to love people rather than pity them, to remember the
submerged--well, one can't do all these things at once, worse luck,
because they're so contradictory. It's then that proportion comes in--to
live by proportion. Don't BEGIN with proportion. Only prigs do that.
Let proportion come in as a last resource, when the better things have
failed, and a deadlock--Gracious me, I've started preaching!"

"Indeed, you put the difficulties of life splendidly," said Mrs. Wilcox,
withdrawing her hand into the deeper shadows. "It is just what I should
have liked to say about them myself."



Mrs. Wilcox cannot be accused of giving Margaret much information about
life. And Margaret, on the other hand, has made a fair show of modesty,
and has pretended to an inexperience that she certainly did not feel.
She had kept house for over ten years; she had entertained, almost with
distinction; she had brought up a charming sister, and was bringing up
a brother. Surely, if experience is attainable, she had attained it. Yet
the little luncheon-party that she gave in Mrs. Wilcox's honour was not
a success. The new friend did not blend with the "one or two delightful
people" who had been asked to meet her, and the atmosphere was one of
polite bewilderment. Her tastes were simple, her knowledge of culture
slight, and she was not interested in the New English Art Club, nor in
the dividing-line between Journalism and Literature, which was started
as a conversational hare. The delightful people darted after it with
cries of joy, Margaret leading them, and not till the meal was half
over did they realise that the principal guest had taken no part in the
chase. There was no common topic. Mrs. Wilcox, whose life had been spent
in the service of husband and sons, had little to say to strangers who
had never shared it, and whose age was half her own. Clever talk alarmed
her, and withered her delicate imaginings; it was the social counterpart
of a motor-car, all jerks, and she was a wisp of hay, a flower. Twice
she deplored the weather, twice criticised the train service on the
Great Northern Railway. They vigorously assented, and rushed on, and
when she inquired whether there was any news of Helen, her hostess was
too much occupied in placing Rothenstein to answer. The question was
repeated: "I hope that your sister is safe in Germany by now." Margaret
checked herself and said, "Yes, thank you; I heard on Tuesday." But the
demon of vociferation was in her, and the next moment she was off again.

"Only on Tuesday, for they live right away at Stettin. Did you ever know
any one living at Stettin?"

"Never," said Mrs. Wilcox gravely, while her neighbour, a young man low
down in the Education Office, began to discuss what people who lived
at Stettin ought to look like. Was there such a thing as Stettininity?
Margaret swept on.

"People at Stettin drop things into boats out of overhanging warehouses.
At least, our cousins do, but aren't particularly rich. The town isn't
interesting, except for a clock that rolls its eyes, and the view of the
Oder, which truly is something special. Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, you would
love the Oder! The river, or rather rivers--there seem to be dozens
of them--are intense blue, and the plain they run through an intensest
green."

"Indeed! That sounds like a most beautiful view, Miss Schlegel."

"So I say, but Helen, who will muddle things, says no, it's like music.
The course of the Oder is to be like music. It's obliged to remind her
of a symphonic poem. The part by the landing-stage is in B minor, if I
remember rightly, but lower down things get extremely mixed. There is a
slodgy theme in several keys at once, meaning mud-banks, and another for
the navigable canal, and the exit into the Baltic is in C sharp major,
pianissimo."

"What do the overhanging warehouses make of that?" asked the man,
laughing.

"They make a great deal of it," replied Margaret, unexpectedly rushing
off on a new track. "I think it's affectation to compare the Oder to
music, and so do you, but the overhanging warehouses of Stettin take
beauty seriously, which we don't, and the average Englishman doesn't,
and despises all who do. Now don't say 'Germans have no taste,' or I
shall scream. They haven't. But--but--such a tremendous but!--they take
poetry seriously. They do take poetry seriously."

"Is anything gained by that?"

"Yes, yes. The German is always on the lookout for beauty. He may miss
it through stupidity, or misinterpret it, but he is always asking
beauty to enter his life, and I believe that in the end it will come. At
Heidelberg I met a fat veterinary surgeon whose voice broke with sobs as
he repeated some mawkish poetry. So easy for me to laugh--I, who never
repeat poetry, good or bad, and cannot remember one fragment of verse
to thrill myself with. My blood boils--well, I 'm half German, so put
it down to patriotism--when I listen to the tasteful contempt of the
average islander for things Teutonic, whether they're Bocklin or my
veterinary surgeon. 'Oh, Bocklin,' they say; 'he strains after beauty,
he peoples Nature with gods too consciously.' Of course Bocklin strains,
because he wants something--beauty and all the other intangible gifts
that are floating about the world. So his landscapes don't come off, and
Leader's do."

"I am not sure that I agree. Do you?" said he, turning to Mrs. Wilcox.

She replied: "I think Miss Schlegel puts everything splendidly;" and a
chill fell on the conversation.

"Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, say something nicer than that. It's such a snub to be
told you put things splendidly."

"I do not mean it as a snub. Your last speech interested me so much.
Generally people do not seem quite to like Germany. I have long wanted
to hear what is said on the other side."

"The other side? Then you do disagree. Oh, good! Give us your side."

"I have no side. But my husband"--her voice softened, the chill
increased--"has very little faith in the Continent, and our children
have all taken after him."

"On what grounds? Do they feel that the Continent is in bad form?"

Mrs. Wilcox had no idea; she paid little attention to grounds. She was
not intellectual, nor even alert, and it was odd that, all the same, she
should give the idea of greatness. Margaret, zigzagging with her friends
over Thought and Art, was conscious of a personality that transcended
their own and dwarfed their activities. There was no bitterness in Mrs.
Wilcox; there was not even criticism; she was lovable, and no ungracious
or uncharitable word had passed her lips. Yet she and daily life were
out of focus; one or the other must show blurred. And at lunch she
seemed more out of focus than usual, and nearer the line that divides
daily life from a life that may be of greater importance.

"You will admit, though, that the Continent--it seems silly to speak of
'the Continent,' but really it is all more like itself than any part of
it is like England. England is unique. Do have another jelly first. I
was going to say that the Continent, for good or for evil, is interested
in ideas. Its Literature and Art have what one might call the kink of
the unseen about them, and this persists even through decadence and
affectation. There is more liberty of action in England, but for liberty
of thought go to bureaucratic Prussia. People will there discuss with
humility vital questions that we here think ourselves too good to touch
with tongs."

"I do not want to go to Prussia," said Mrs. Wilcox "not even to see
that interesting view that you were describing. And for discussing with
humility I am too old. We never discuss anything at Howards End."

"Then you ought to!" said Margaret. "Discussion keeps a house alive. It
cannot stand by bricks and mortar alone."

"It cannot stand without them," said Mrs. Wilcox, unexpectedly catching
on to the thought, and rousing, for the first and last time, a faint
hope in the breasts of the delightful people. "It cannot stand without
them, and I sometimes think--But I cannot expect your generation to
agree, for even my daughter disagrees with me here."

"Never mind us or her. Do say!"

"I sometimes think that it is wiser to leave action and discussion to
men."

There was a little silence.

"One admits that the arguments against the suffrage ARE extraordinarily
strong," said a girl opposite, leaning forward and crumbling her bread.

"Are they? I never follow any arguments. I am only too thankful not to
have a vote myself."

"We didn't mean the vote, though, did we?" supplied Margaret. "Aren't
we differing on something much wider, Mrs. Wilcox? Whether women are to
remain what they have been since the dawn of history; or whether, since
men have moved forward so far, they too may move forward a little now. I
say they may. I would even admit a biological change."

"I don't know, I don't know."

"I must be getting back to my overhanging warehouse," said the man.
"They've turned disgracefully strict."

Mrs. Wilcox also rose.

"Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested plays. Do you like
MacDowell? Do you mind his only having two noises? If you must really
go, I'll see you out. Won't you even have coffee?"

They left the dining-room closing the door behind them, and as Mrs.
Wilcox buttoned up her jacket, she said: "What an interesting life you
all lead in London!"

"No, we don't," said Margaret, with a sudden revulsion. "We lead the
lives of gibbering monkeys. Mrs. Wilcox--really--We have something quiet
and stable at the bottom. We really have. All my friends have. Don't
pretend you enjoyed lunch, for you loathed it, but forgive me by coming
again, alone, or by asking me to you."

"I am used to young people," said Mrs. Wilcox, and with each word she
spoke the outlines of known things grew dim. "I hear a great deal of
chatter at home, for we, like you, entertain a great deal. With us it
is more sport and politics, but--I enjoyed my lunch very much, Miss
Schlegel, dear, and am not pretending, and only wish I could have joined
in more. For one thing, I'm not particularly well just to-day. For
another, you younger people move so quickly that it dazes me. Charles
is the same, Dolly the same. But we are all in the same boat, old and
young. I never forget that."

They were silent for a moment. Then, with a newborn emotion, they shook
hands. The conversation ceased suddenly when Margaret re-entered the
dining-room; her friends had been talking over her new friend, and had
dismissed her as uninteresting.



Several days passed.

Was Mrs. Wilcox one of the unsatisfactory people--there are many of
them--who dangle intimacy and then withdraw it? They evoke our interests
and affections, and keep the life of the spirit dawdling round them.
Then they withdraw. When physical passion is involved, there is a
definite name for such behaviour--flirting--and if carried far enough
it is punishable by law. But no law--not public opinion even--punishes
those who coquette with friendship, though the dull ache that they
inflict, the sense of misdirected effort and exhaustion, may be as
intolerable. Was she one of these?

Margaret feared so at first, for, with a Londoner's impatience, she
wanted everything to be settled up immediately. She mistrusted the
periods of quiet that are essential to true growth. Desiring to book
Mrs. Wilcox as a friend, she pressed on the ceremony, pencil, as it
were, in hand, pressing the more because the rest of the family were
away, and the opportunity seemed favourable. But the elder woman would
not be hurried. She refused to fit in with the Wickham Place set, or to
reopen discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret would have utilised
as a short-cut. She took her time, or perhaps let time take her, and
when the crisis did come all was ready.

The crisis opened with a message: Would Miss Schlegel come shopping?
Christmas was nearing, and Mrs. Wilcox felt behindhand with the
presents. She had taken some more days in bed, and must make up for lost
time. Margaret accepted, and at eleven o'clock one cheerless morning
they started out in a brougham.

"First of all," began Margaret, "we must make a list and tick off the
people's names. My aunt always does, and this fog may thicken up any
moment. Have you any ideas?"

"I thought we would go to Harrods or the Haymarket Stores," said Mrs.
Wilcox rather hopelessly. "Everything is sure to be there. I am not a
good shopper. The din is so confusing, and your aunt is quite right--one
ought to make a list. Take my notebook, then, and write your own name at
the top of the page.

"Oh, hooray!" said Margaret, writing it. "How very kind of you to start
with me!" But she did not want to receive anything expensive. Their
acquaintance was singular rather than intimate, and she divined that the
Wilcox clan would resent any expenditure on outsiders; the more compact
families do. She did not want to be thought a second Helen, who would
snatch presents since she could not snatch young men, nor to be exposed
like a second Aunt Juley, to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity
of demeanour was best, and she added: "I don't really want a Yuletide
gift, though. In fact, I'd rather not."

"Why?"

"Because I've odd ideas about Christmas. Because I have all that money
can buy. I want more people, but no more things."

"I should like to give you something worth your acquaintance, Miss
Schlegel, in memory of your kindness to me during my lonely fortnight.
It has so happened that I have been left alone, and you have stopped me
from brooding. I am too apt to brood."

"If that is so," said Margaret, "if I have happened to be of use to you,
which I didn't know, you cannot pay me back with anything tangible."

"I suppose not, but one would like to. Perhaps I shall think of
something as we go about."

Her name remained at the head of the list, but nothing was written
opposite it. They drove from shop to shop. The air was white, and when
they alighted it tasted like cold pennies. At times they passed through
a clot of grey. Mrs. Wilcox's vitality was low that morning, and it was
Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golliwog for
that, for the rector's wife a copper warming-tray. "We always give the
servants money." "Yes, do you, yes, much easier," replied Margaret but
felt the grotesque impact of the unseen upon the seen, and saw issuing
from a forgotten manger at Bethlehem this torrent of coins and toys.
Vulgarity reigned. Public-houses, besides their usual exhortation
against temperance reform, invited men to "Join our Christmas goose
club"--one bottle of gin, etc., or two, according to subscription. A
poster of a woman in tights heralded the Christmas pantomime, and little
red devils, who had come in again that year, were prevalent upon the
Christmas-cards. Margaret was no morbid idealist. She did not wish
this spate of business and self-advertisement checked. It was only the
occasion of it that struck her with amazement annually. How many of
these vacillating shoppers and tired shop-assistants realised that it
was a divine event that drew them together? She realised it, though
standing outside in the matter. She was not a Christian in the accepted
sense; she did not believe that God had ever worked among us as a young
artisan. These people, or most of them, believed it, and if pressed,
would affirm it in words. But the visible signs of their belief were
Regent Street or Drury Lane, a little mud displaced, a little money
spent, a little food cooked, eaten, and forgotten. Inadequate. But in
public who shall express the unseen adequately? It is private life that
holds out the mirror to infinity; personal intercourse, and that alone,
that ever hints at a personality beyond our daily vision.

"No, I do like Christmas on the whole," she announced. "In its clumsy
way, it does approach Peace and Goodwill. But oh, it is clumsier every
year."

"Is it? I am only used to country Christmases."

"We are usually in London, and play the game with vigour--carols at
the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the maids, followed by
Christmas-tree and dancing of poor children, with songs from Helen.
The drawing-room does very well for that. We put the tree in the
powder-closet, and draw a curtain when the candles are lighted, and with
the looking-glass behind it looks quite pretty. I wish we might have
a powder-closet in our next house. Of course, the tree has to be very
small, and the presents don't hang on it. No; the presents reside in a
sort of rocky landscape made of crumpled brown paper."

"You spoke of your 'next house,' Miss Schlegel. Then are you leaving
Wickham Place?"

"Yes, in two or three years, when the lease expires. We must."

"Have you been there long?"

"All our lives."

"You will be very sorry to leave it."

"I suppose so. We scarcely realise it yet. My father--" She broke off,
for they had reached the stationery department of the Haymarket Stores,
and Mrs. Wilcox wanted to order some private greeting cards.

"If possible, something distinctive," she sighed. At the counter
she found a friend, bent on the same errand, and conversed with
her insipidly, wasting much time. "My husband and our daughter are
motoring." "Bertha, too? Oh, fancy, what a coincidence!"

Margaret, though not practical, could shine in such company as this.
While they talked, she went through a volume of specimen cards,
and submitted one for Mrs. Wilcox's inspection. Mrs. Wilcox was
delighted--so original, words so sweet; she would order a hundred
like that, and could never be sufficiently grateful. Then, just as the
assistant was booking the order, she said: "Do you know, I'll wait. On
second thoughts, I'll wait. There's plenty of time still, isn't there,
and I shall be able to get Evie's opinion."

They returned to the carriage by devious paths; when they were in, she
said, "But couldn't you get it renewed?"

"I beg your pardon?" asked Margaret.

"The lease, I mean."

"Oh, the lease! Have you been thinking of that all the time? How very
kind of you!"

"Surely something could be done."

"No; values have risen too enormously. They mean to pull down Wickham
Place, and build flats like yours."

"But how horrible!"

"Landlords are horrible."

Then she said vehemently: "It is monstrous, Miss Schlegel; it isn't
right. I had no idea that this was hanging over you. I do pity you from
the bottom of my heart. To be parted from your house, your father's
house--it oughtn't to be allowed. It is worse than dying. I would rather
die than--Oh, poor girls! Can what they call civilisation be right, if
people mayn't die in the room where they were born? My dear, I am so
sorry."

Margaret did not know what to say. Mrs. Wilcox had been overtired by the
shopping, and was inclined to hysteria.

"Howards End was nearly pulled down once. It would have killed me."

"I--Howards End must be a very different house to ours. We are fond of
ours, but there is nothing distinctive about it. As you saw, it is an
ordinary London house. We shall easily find another."

"So you think."

"Again my lack of experience, I suppose!" said Margaret, easing away
from the subject. "I can't say anything when you take up that line, Mrs.
Wilcox. I wish I could see myself as you see me--foreshortened into a
backfisch. Quite the ingenue. Very charming--wonderfully well read for
my age, but incapable--"

Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. "Come down with me to Howards End
now," she said, more vehemently than ever. "I want you to see it. You
have never seen it. I want to hear what you say about it, for you do put
things so wonderfully."

Margaret glanced at the pitiless air and then at the tired face of her
companion. "Later on I should love it," she continued, "but it's hardly
the weather for such an expedition, and we ought to start when we're
fresh. Isn't the house shut up, too?"

She received no answer. Mrs. Wilcox appeared to be annoyed.

"Might I come some other day?"

Mrs. Wilcox bent forward and tapped the glass. "Back to Wickham Place,
please!" was her order to the coachman. Margaret had been snubbed.

"A thousand thanks, Miss Schlegel, for all your help."

"Not at all."

"It is such a comfort to get the presents off my mind--the
Christmas-cards especially. I do admire your choice."

It was her turn to receive no answer. In her turn Margaret became
annoyed.

"My husband and Evie will be back the day after to-morrow. That is why
I dragged you out shopping to-day. I stayed in town chiefly to shop,
but got through nothing, and now he writes that they must cut their
tour short, the weather is so bad, and the police-traps have been so
bad--nearly as bad as in Surrey. Ours is such a careful chauffeur, and
my husband feels it particularly hard that they should be treated like
road-hogs."

"Why?"

"Well, naturally he--he isn't a road-hog."

"He was exceeding the speed-limit, I conclude. He must expect to suffer
with the lower animals."

Mrs. Wilcox was silenced. In growing discomfort they drove homewards.
The city seemed Satanic, the narrower streets oppressing like the
galleries of a mine.

No harm was done by the fog to trade, for it lay high, and the lighted
windows of the shops were thronged with customers. It was rather a
darkening of the spirit which fell back upon itself, to find a more
grievous darkness within. Margaret nearly spoke a dozen times, but
something throttled her. She felt petty and awkward, and her meditations
on Christmas grew more cynical. Peace? It may bring other gifts, but is
there a single Londoner to whom Christmas is peaceful? The craving for
excitement and for elaboration has ruined that blessing. Goodwill? Had
she seen any example of it in the hordes of purchasers? Or in herself?
She had failed to respond to this invitation merely because it was a
little queer and imaginative--she, whose birthright it was to nourish
imagination! Better to have accepted, to have tired themselves a little
by the journey, than coldly to reply, "Might I come some other day?" Her
cynicism left her. There would be no other day. This shadowy woman would
never ask her again.

They parted at the Mansions. Mrs. Wilcox went in after due civilities,
and Margaret watched the tall, lonely figure sweep up the hall to
the lift. As the glass doors closed on it she had the sense of an
imprisonment The beautiful head disappeared first, still buried in the
muff; the long trailing skirt followed. A woman of undefinable rarity
was going up heavenward, like a specimen in a bottle. And into what a
heaven--a vault as of hell, sooty black, from which soot descended!

At lunch her brother, seeing her inclined for silence insisted on
talking. Tibby was not ill-natured, but from babyhood something drove
him to do the unwelcome and the unexpected. Now he gave her a long
account of the day-school that he sometimes patronised. The account was
interesting, and she had often pressed him for it before, but she
could not attend now, for her mind was focussed on the invisible. She
discerned that Mrs. Wilcox, though a loving wife and mother, had only
one passion in life--her house--and that the moment was solemn when she
invited a friend to share this passion with her. To answer "another day"
was to answer as a fool. "Another day" will do for brick and mortar, but
not for the Holy of Holies into which Howards End had been transfigured.
Her own curiosity was slight. She had heard more than enough about it in
the summer. The nine windows, the vine, and the wych-elm had no pleasant
connections for her, and she would have preferred to spend the afternoon
at a concert. But imagination triumphed. While her brother held forth
she determined to go, at whatever cost, and to compel Mrs. Wilcox to go,
too. When lunch was over she stepped over to the flats.

Mrs. Wilcox had just gone away for the night.

Margaret said that it was of no consequence, hurried downstairs, and
took a hansom to King's Cross. She was convinced that the escapade
was important, though it would have puzzled her to say why. There was
question of imprisonment and escape, and though she did not know the
time of the train, she strained her eyes for St. Pancras's clock.

Then the clock of King's Cross swung into sight, a second moon in that
infernal sky, and her cab drew up at the station. There was a train for
Hilton in five minutes. She took a ticket, asking in her agitation for
a single. As she did so, a grave and happy voice saluted her and thanked
her.

"I will come if I still may," said Margaret, laughing nervously.

"You are coming to sleep, dear, too. It is in the morning that my house
is most beautiful. You are coming to stop. I cannot show you my meadow
properly except at sunrise. These fogs"--she pointed at the station
roof--"never spread far. I dare say they are sitting in the sun in
Hertfordshire, and you will never repent joining them."

"I shall never repent joining you."

"It is the same."

They began the walk up the long platform. Far at its end stood the
train, breasting the darkness without. They never reached it. Before
imagination could triumph, there were cries of "Mother! mother!" and a
heavy-browed girl darted out of the cloak-room and seized Mrs. Wilcox by
the arm.

"Evie!" she gasped--"Evie, my pet--"

The girl called, "Father! I say! look who's here."

"Evie, dearest girl, why aren't you in Yorkshire?"

"No--motor smash--changed plans--father's coming."

"Why, Ruth!" cried Mr. Wilcox, joining them, "what in the name of all
that's wonderful are you doing here, Ruth?"

Mrs. Wilcox had recovered herself.

"Oh, Henry dear!--here's a lovely surprise--but let me introduce--but I
think you know Miss Schlegel."

"Oh yes," he replied, not greatly interested. "But how's yourself,
Ruth?"

"Fit as a fiddle," she answered gaily.

"So are we, and so was our car, which ran A1 as far as Ripon, but there
a wretched horse and cart which a fool of a driver--"

"Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another day."

"I was saying that this fool of a driver, as the policeman himself
admits."

"Another day, Mrs. Wilcox. Of course."

"--But as we've insured against third party risks, it won't so much
matter--"

"--Cart and car being practically at right angles--"

The voices of the happy family rose high. Margaret was left alone.
No one wanted her. Mrs. Wilcox walked out of King's Cross between her
husband and her daughter, listening to both of them.



The funeral was over. The carriages had rolled away through the soft
mud, and only the poor remained. They approached to the newly-dug shaft
and looked their last at the coffin, now almost hidden beneath the
spadefuls of clay. It was their moment. Most of them were women from the
dead woman's district, to whom black garments had been served out by Mr.
Wilcox's orders. Pure curiosity had brought others. They thrilled with
the excitement of a death, and of a rapid death, and stood in groups or
moved between the graves, like drops of ink. The son of one of them, a
wood-cutter, was perched high above their heads, pollarding one of the
churchyard elms. From where he sat he could see the village of Hilton,
strung upon the North Road, with its accreting suburbs; the sunset
beyond, scarlet and orange, winking at him beneath brows of grey; the
church; the plantations; and behind him an unspoilt country of fields
and farms. But he, too, was rolling the event luxuriously in his mouth.
He tried to tell his mother down below all that he had felt when he saw
the coffin approaching: how he could not leave his work, and yet did not
like to go on with it; how he had almost slipped out of the tree, he was
so upset; the rooks had cawed, and no wonder--it was as if rooks knew
too. His mother claimed the prophetic power herself--she had seen
a strange look about Mrs. Wilcox for some time. London had done the
mischief, said others. She had been a kind lady; her grandmother had
been kind, too--a plainer person, but very kind. Ah, the old sort was
dying out! Mr. Wilcox, he was a kind gentleman. They advanced to the
topic again and again, dully, but with exaltation. The funeral of a rich
person was to them what the funeral of Alcestis or Ophelia is to the
educated. It was Art; though remote from life, it enhanced life's
values, and they witnessed it avidly.

The grave-diggers, who had kept up an undercurrent of disapproval--they
disliked Charles; it was not a moment to speak of such things, but they
did not like Charles Wilcox--the grave-diggers finished their work and
piled up the wreaths and crosses above it. The sun set over Hilton;
the grey brows of the evening flushed a little, and were cleft with
one scarlet frown. Chattering sadly to each other, the mourners passed
through the lych-gate and traversed the chestnut avenues that led down
to the village. The young wood-cutter stayed a little longer, poised
above the silence and swaying rhythmically. At last the bough fell
beneath his saw. With a grunt, he descended, his thoughts dwelling no
longer on death, but on love, for he was mating. He stopped as he passed
the new grave; a sheaf of tawny chrysanthemums had caught his eye.
"They didn't ought to have coloured flowers at buryings," he reflected.
Trudging on a few steps, he stopped again, looked furtively at the dusk,
turned back, wrenched a chrysanthemum from the sheaf, and hid it in his
pocket.

After him came silence absolute. The cottage that abutted on the
churchyard was empty, and no other house stood near. Hour after hour
the scene of the interment remained without an eye to witness it. Clouds
drifted over it from the west; or the church may have been a ship,
high-prowed, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards
morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth
hard and sparkling above the prostrate dead. The wood-cutter, returning
after a night of joy, reflected: "They lilies, they chrysants; it's a
pity I didn't take them all."

Up at Howards End they were attempting breakfast. Charles and Evie sat
in the dining-room, with Mrs. Charles. Their father, who could not bear
to see a face, breakfasted upstairs. He suffered acutely. Pain came over
him in spasms, as if it was physical, and even while he was about to
eat, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would lay down the morsel
untasted.

He remembered his wife's even goodness during thirty years. Not anything
in detail--not courtship or early raptures--but just the unvarying
virtue, that seemed to him a woman's noblest quality. So many women are
capricious, breaking into odd flaws of passion or frivolity. Not so his
wife. Year after year, summer and winter, as bride and mother, she had
been the same, he had always trusted her. Her tenderness! Her innocence!
The wonderful innocence that was hers by the gift of God. Ruth knew
no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom than did the flowers in her
garden, or the grass in her field. Her idea of business--"Henry, why
do people who have enough money try to get more money?" Her idea of
politics--"I am sure that if the mothers of various nations could meet,
there would be no more wars," Her idea of religion--ah, this had been a
cloud, but a cloud that passed. She came of Quaker stock, and he and his
family, formerly Dissenters, were now members of the Church of England.
The rector's sermons had at first repelled her, and she had expressed a
desire for "a more inward light," adding, "not so much for myself as for
baby" (Charles). Inward light must have been granted, for he heard no
complaints in later years. They brought up their three children without
dispute. They had never disputed.

She lay under the earth now. She had gone, and as if to make her going
the more bitter, had gone with a touch of mystery that was all unlike
her. "Why didn't you tell me you knew of it?" he had moaned, and her
faint voice had answered: "I didn't want to, Henry--I might have been
wrong--and every one hates illnesses." He had been told of the horror by
a strange doctor, whom she had consulted during his absence from town.
Was this altogether just? Without fully explaining, she had died. It
was a fault on her part, and--tears rushed into his eyes--what a little
fault! It was the only time she had deceived him in those thirty years.

He rose to his feet and looked out of the window, for Evie had come in
with the letters, and he could meet no one's eye. Ah yes--she had been a
good woman--she had been steady. He chose the word deliberately. To him
steadiness included all praise. He himself, gazing at the wintry garden,
is in appearance a steady man. His face was not as square as his son's,
and, indeed, the chin, though firm enough in outline, retreated a
little, and the lips, ambiguous, were curtained by a moustache. But
there was no external hint of weakness. The eyes, if capable of kindness
and good-fellowship, if ruddy for the moment with tears, were the eyes
of one who could not be driven. The forehead, too, was like Charles's.
High and straight, brown and polished, merging abruptly into temples and
skull, it had the effect of a bastion that protected his head from the
world. At times it had the effect of a blank wall. He had dwelt behind
it, intact and happy, for fifty years. "The post's come, father," said
Evie awkwardly.

"Thanks. Put it down."

"Has the breakfast been all right?"

"Yes, thanks."

The girl glanced at him and at it with constraint. She did not know what
to do.

"Charles says do you want the Times?"

"No, I'll read it later."

"Ring if you want anything, father, won't you?"

"I've all I want."

Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the
dining-room.

"Father's eaten nothing," she announced, sitting down with wrinkled
brows behind the tea-urn.

Charles did not answer, but after a moment he ran quickly upstairs,
opened the door, and said "Look here father, you must eat, you know;"
and having paused for a reply that did not come, stole down again. "He's
going to read his letters first, I think," he said evasively; "I dare
say he will go on with his breakfast afterwards." Then he took up the
Times, and for some time there was no sound except the clink of cup
against saucer and of knife on plate.

Poor Mrs. Charles sat between her silent companions terrified at
the course of events, and a little bored. She was a rubbishy little
creature, and she knew it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to
the death-bed of a woman whom she had scarcely known. A word from her
husband had plunged her into mourning. She desired to mourn inwardly as
well, but she wished that Mrs. Wilcox, since fated to die, could have
died before the marriage, for then less would have been expected of her.
Crumbling her toast, and too nervous to ask for the butter, she remained
almost motionless, thankful only for this, that her father-in-law was
having his breakfast upstairs.

At last Charles spoke. "They had no business to be pollarding those elms
yesterday," he said to his sister.

"No, indeed."

"I must make a note of that," he continued. "I am surprised that the
rector allowed it."

"Perhaps it may not be the rector's affair."

"Whose else could it be?"

"The lord of the manor."

"Impossible."

"Butter, Dolly?"

"Thank you, Evie dear. Charles--"

"Yes, dear?"

"I didn't know one could pollard elms. I thought one only pollarded
willows."

"Oh no, one can pollard elms."

"Then why oughtn't the elms in the churchyard to be pollarded?" Charles
frowned a little, and turned again to his sister.

"Another point. I must speak to Chalkeley."

"Yes, rather; you must complain to Chalkeley."

"It's no good his saying he is not responsible for those men. He is
responsible."

"Yes, rather."

Brother and sister were not callous. They spoke thus, partly because
they desired to keep Chalkeley up to the mark--a healthy desire in its
way--partly because they avoided the personal note in life. All Wilcoxes
did. It did not seem to them of supreme importance. Or it may be as
Helen supposed: they realised its importance, but were afraid of it.
Panic and emptiness, could one glance behind. They were not callous, and
they left the breakfast-table with aching hearts. Their mother never had
come in to breakfast. It was in the other rooms, and especially in the
garden, that they felt her loss most. As Charles went out to the garage,
he was reminded at every step of the woman who had loved him and whom
he could never replace. What battles he had fought against her gentle
conservatism! How she had disliked improvements, yet how loyally she had
accepted them when made! He and his father--what trouble they had had
to get this very garage! With what difficulty had they persuaded her to
yield them the paddock for it--the paddock that she loved more dearly
than the garden itself! The vine--she had got her way about the vine. It
still encumbered the south wall with its unproductive branches. And so
with Evie, as she stood talking to the cook. Though she could take up
her mother's work inside the house, just as the man could take it up
without, she felt that something unique had fallen out of her life.
Their grief, though less poignant than their father's, grew from deeper
roots, for a wife may be replaced; a mother never. Charles would go
back to the office. There was little at Howards End. The contents of his
mother's will had long been known to them. There were no legacies, no
annuities, none of the posthumous bustle with which some of the dead
prolong their activities. Trusting her husband, she had left him
everything without reserve. She was quite a poor woman--the house had
been all her dowry, and the house would come to Charles in time. Her
watercolours Mr. Wilcox intended to reserve for Paul, while Evie would
take the jewellery and lace. How easily she slipped out of life!
Charles thought the habit laudable, though he did not intend to adopt
it himself, whereas Margaret would have seen in it an almost culpable
indifference to earthly fame. Cynicism--not the superficial cynicism
that snarls and sneers, but the cynicism that can go with courtesy and
tenderness--that was the note of Mrs. Wilcox's will. She wanted not to
vex people. That accomplished, the earth might freeze over her for ever.

No, there was nothing for Charles to wait for. He could not go on
with his honeymoon, so he would go up to London and work--he felt too
miserable hanging about. He and Dolly would have the furnished flat
while his father rested quietly in the country with Evie. He could
also keep an eye on his own little house, which was being painted and
decorated for him in one of the Surrey suburbs, and in which he hoped to
install himself soon after Christmas. Yes, he would go up after lunch in
his new motor, and the town servants, who had come down for the funeral,
would go up by train.

He found his father's chauffeur in the garage, said "Morning" without
looking at the man's face, and bending over the car, continued: "Hullo!
my new car's been driven!"

"Has it, sir?"

"Yes," said Charles, getting rather red; "and whoever's driven it hasn't
cleaned it properly, for there's mud on the axle. Take it off."

The man went for the cloths without a word. He was a chauffeur as ugly
as sin--not that this did him disservice with Charles, who thought charm
in a man rather rot, and had soon got rid of the little Italian beast
with whom they had started.

"Charles--" His bride was tripping after him over the hoar-frost, a
dainty black column, her little face and elaborate mourning hat forming
the capital thereof.

"One minute, I'm busy. Well, Crane, who's been driving it, do you
suppose?"

"Don't know, I'm sure, sir. No one's driven it since I've been back,
but, of course, there's the fortnight I've been away with the other car
in Yorkshire."

The mud came off easily.

"Charles, your father's down. Something's happened. He wants you in the
house at once. Oh, Charles!"

"Wait, dear, wait a minute. Who had the key of the garage while you were
away, Crane?"

"The gardener, sir."

"Do you mean to tell me that old Penny can drive a motor?"

"No, sir; no one's had the motor out, sir."

"Then how do you account for the mud on the axle?"

"I can't, of course, say for the time I've been in Yorkshire. No more
mud now, sir."

Charles was vexed. The man was treating him as a fool, and if his heart
had not been so heavy he would have reported him to his father. But it
was not a morning for complaints. Ordering the motor to be round after
lunch, he joined his wife, who had all the while been pouring out some
incoherent story about a letter and a Miss Schlegel.

"Now, Dolly, I can attend to you. Miss Schlegel? What does she want?"

When people wrote a letter Charles always asked what they wanted. Want
was to him the only cause of action. And the question in this case was
correct, for his wife replied, "She wants Howards End."

"Howards End? Now, Crane, just don't forget to put on the Stepney
wheel."

"No, sir."

"Now, mind you don't forget, for I--Come, little woman." When they were
out of the chauffeur's sight he put his arm round her waist and pressed
her against him. All his affection and half his attention--it was what
he granted her throughout their happy married life.

"But you haven't listened, Charles."

"What's wrong?"

"I keep on telling you--Howards End. Miss Schlegel's got it."

"Got what?" said Charles, unclasping her. "What the dickens are you
talking about?"

"Now, Charles, you promised not so say those naughty--"

"Look here, I'm in no mood for foolery. It's no morning for it either."

"I tell you--I keep on telling you--Miss Schlegel--she's got it--your
mother's left it to her--and you've all got to move out!"

"HOWARDS END?"

"HOWARDS END!" she screamed, mimicking him, and as she did so Evie came
dashing out of the shubbery.

"Dolly, go back at once! My father's much annoyed with you.
Charles"--she hit herself wildly--"come in at once to father. He's had a
letter that's too awful."

Charles began to run, but checked himself, and stepped heavily across
the gravel path. There the house was with the nine windows, the
unprolific vine. He exclaimed, "Schlegels again!" and as if to complete
chaos, Dolly said, "Oh no, the matron of the nursing home has written
instead of her."

"Come in, all three of you!" cried his father, no longer inert.

"Dolly, why have you disobeyed me?"

"Oh, Mr. Wilcox--"

"I told you not to go out to the garage. I've heard you all shouting in
the garden. I won't have it. Come in."

He stood in the porch, transformed, letters in his hand.

"Into the dining-room, every one of you. We can't discuss private
matters in the middle of all the servants. Here, Charles, here; read
these. See what you make."

Charles took two letters, and read them as he followed the procession.
The first was a covering note from the matron. Mrs. Wilcox had desired
her, when the funeral should be over, to forward the enclosed. The
enclosed--it was from his mother herself. She had written: "To my
husband: I should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End."

"I suppose we're going to have a talk about this?" he remarked,
ominously calm.

"Certainly. I was coming out to you when Dolly--"

"Well, let's sit down."

"Come, Evie, don't waste time, sit--down."

In silence they drew up to the breakfast-table. The events of
yesterday--indeed, of this morning suddenly receded into a past so
remote that they seemed scarcely to have lived in it. Heavy breathings
were heard. They were calming themselves. Charles, to steady
them further, read the enclosure out loud: "A note in my mother's
handwriting, in an envelope addressed to my father, sealed. Inside: 'I
should like Miss Schlegel (Margaret) to have Howards End.' No date, no
signature. Forwarded through the matron of that nursing home. Now, the
question is--"

Dolly interrupted him. "But I say that note isn't legal. Houses ought to
be done by a lawyer, Charles, surely."

Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of
either ear--a symptom that she had not yet learnt to respect, and she
asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for
permission, who said abstractedly, "Give it her." She seized it, and
at once exclaimed: "Why, it's only in pencil! I said so. Pencil never
counts."

"We know that it is not legally binding, Dolly," said Mr. Wilcox,
speaking from out of his fortress. "We are aware of that. Legally, I
should be justified in tearing it up and throwing it into the fire. Of
course, my dear, we consider you as one of the family, but it will be
better if you do not interfere with what you do not understand."

Charles, vexed both with his father and his wife, then repeated: "The
question is--" He had cleared a space of the breakfast-table from plates
and knives, so that he could draw patterns on the tablecloth. "The
question is whether Miss Schlegel, during the fortnight we were all
away, whether she unduly--" He stopped.

"I don't think that," said his father, whose nature was nobler than his
son's.

"Don't think what?"

"That she would have--that it is a case of undue influence. No, to
my mind the question is the--the invalid's condition at the time she
wrote."

"My dear father, consult an expert if you like, but I don't admit it is
my mother's writing."

"Why, you just said it was!" cried Dolly.

"Never mind if I did," he blazed out; "and hold your tongue."

The poor little wife coloured at this, and, drawing her handkerchief
from her pocket, shed a few tears. No one noticed her. Evie was scowling
like an angry boy. The two men were gradually assuming the manner of the
committee-room. They were both at their best when serving on committees.
They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but
disposed of them item by item, sharply. Caligraphy was the item before
them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles,
after a little demur, accepted the writing as genuine, and they passed
on to the next point. It is the best--perhaps the only--way of dodging
emotion. They were the average human article, and had they considered
the note as a whole it would have driven them miserable or mad.
Considered item by item, the emotional content was minimised, and all
went forward smoothly. The clock ticked, the coals blazed higher, and
contended with the white radiance that poured in through the windows.
Unnoticed, the sun occupied his sky, and the shadows of the tree stems,
extraordinarily solid, fell like trenches of purple across the frosted
lawn. It was a glorious winter morning. Evie's fox terrier, who had
passed for white, was only a dirty grey dog now, so intense was the
purity that surrounded him. He was discredited, but the blackbirds that
he was chasing glowed with Arabian darkness, for all the conventional
colouring of life had been altered. Inside, the clock struck ten with a
rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion
moved towards its close.

To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator
should step forward. Ought the Wilcoxes to have offered their home to
Margaret? I think not. The appeal was too flimsy. It was not legal; it
had been written in illness, and under the spell of a sudden friendship;
it was contrary to the dead woman's intentions in the past, contrary to
her very nature, so far as that nature was understood by them. To them
Howards End was a house: they could not know that to her it had been
a spirit, for which she sought a spiritual heir. And--pushing one step
farther in these mists--may they not have decided even better than
they supposed? Is it credible that the possessions of the spirit can be
bequeathed at all? Has the soul offspring? A wych-elm tree, a vine, a
wisp of hay with dew on it--can passion for such things be transmitted
where there is no bond of blood? No; the Wilcoxes are not to be blamed.
The problem is too terrific, and they could not even perceive a problem.
No; it is natural and fitting that after due debate they should tear
the note up and throw it on to their dining-room fire. The practical
moralist may acquit them absolutely. He who strives to look deeper
may acquit them--almost. For one hard fact remains. They did neglect a
personal appeal. The woman who had died did say to them, "Do this," and
they answered, "We will not."

The incident made a most painful impression on them. Grief mounted into
the brain and worked there disquietingly. Yesterday they had lamented:
"She was a dear mother, a true wife; in our absence she neglected her
health and died." To-day they thought: "She was not as true, as dear, as
we supposed." The desire for a more inward light had found expression at
last, the unseen had impacted on the seen, and all that they could say
was "Treachery." Mrs. Wilcox had been treacherous to the family, to the
laws of property, to her own written word. How did she expect Howards
End to be conveyed to Miss Schlegel? Was her husband, to whom it legally
belonged, to make it over to her as a free gift? Was the said Miss
Schlegel to have a life interest in it, or to own it absolutely? Was
there to be no compensation for the garage and other improvements that
they had made under the assumption that all would be theirs some
day? Treacherous! treacherous and absurd! When we think the dead both
treacherous and absurd, we have gone far towards reconciling ourselves
to their departure. That note, scribbled in pencil, sent through the
matron, was unbusinesslike as well as cruel, and decreased at once the
value of the woman who had written it.

"Ah, well!" said Mr. Wilcox, rising from the table. "I shouldn't have
thought it possible."

"Mother couldn't have meant it," said Evie, still frowning.

"No, my girl, of course not."

"Mother believed so in ancestors too--it isn't like her to leave
anything to an outsider, who'd never appreciate."

"The whole thing is unlike her," he announced. "If Miss Schlegel had
been poor, if she had wanted a house, I could understand it a little.
But she has a house of her own. Why should she want another? She
wouldn't have any use for Howards End."

"That time may prove," murmured Charles.

"How?" asked his sister.

"Presumably she knows--mother will have told her. She got twice or three
times into the nursing home. Presumably she is awaiting developments."

"What a horrid woman!" And Dolly, who had recovered, cried, "Why, she
may be coming down to turn us out now!"

Charles put her right. "I wish she would," he said ominously. "I could
then deal with her."

"So could I," echoed his father, who was feeling rather in the cold.
Charles had been kind in undertaking the funeral arrangements and in
telling him to eat his breakfast, but the boy as he grew up was a little
dictatorial, and assumed the post of chairman too readily. "I could deal
with her, if she comes, but she won't come. You're all a bit hard on
Miss Schlegel."

"That Paul business was pretty scandalous, though."

"I want no more of the Paul business, Charles, as I said at the time,
and besides, it is quite apart from this business. Margaret Schlegel has
been officious and tiresome during this terrible week, and we have
all suffered under her, but upon my soul she's honest. She's NOT in
collusion with the matron. I'm absolutely certain of it. Nor was she
with the doctor, I'm equally certain of that. She did not hide anything
from us, for up to that very afternoon she was as ignorant as we are.
She, like ourselves, was a dupe--" He stopped for a moment. "You see,
Charles, in her terrible pain your mother put us all in false positions.
Paul would not have left England, you would not have gone to Italy, nor
Evie and I into Yorkshire, if only we had known. Well, Miss Schlegel's
position has been equally false. Take all in all, she has not come out
of it badly."

Evie said: "But those chrysanthemums--"

"Or coming down to the funeral at all--" echoed Dolly.

"Why shouldn't she come down? She had the right to, and she stood far
back among the Hilton women. The flowers--certainly we should not have
sent such flowers, but they may have seemed the right thing to her,
Evie, and for all you know they may be the custom in Germany."

"Oh, I forget she isn't really English," cried Evie. "That would explain
a lot."

"She's a cosmopolitan," said Charles, looking at his watch. "I admit I'm
rather down on cosmopolitans. My fault, doubtless. I cannot stand them,
and a German cosmopolitan is the limit. I think that's about all, isn't
it? I want to run down and see Chalkeley. A bicycle will do. And, by the
way, I wish you'd speak to Crane some time. I'm certain he's had my new
car out."

"Has he done it any harm?"

"No."

"In that case I shall let it pass. It's not worth while having a row."

Charles and his father sometimes disagreed. But they always parted
with an increased regard for one another, and each desired no doughtier
comrade when it was necessary to voyage for a little past the emotions.
So the sailors of Ulysses voyaged past the Sirens, having first stopped
one another's ears with wool.

 On the day that Helen and Frieda are departing for Germany, Mrs. Wilcox calls on the Schlegels, who are not there to receive her. Helen seems unaffected by the situation, but Margaret sends Mrs. Wilcox a note suggesting that it would be better that they not maintain a friendship, as she wants to avoid any potential awkwardness between Helen and Paul. Mrs. Wilcox's response indicates that Margaret's letter offended her, for the only reason that she initiated contact was to inform her that Paul had departed for Nigeria. Margaret is mortified and immediately pays Mrs. Wilcox a visit in order to make amends. After words of apology, they are able to put the misunderstanding behind them, and Mrs. Wilcox asks Margaret to keep her company for a while, as she is spending the day resting. Margaret is happy to stay, and Mrs. Wilcox tells her of developments in her family. Charles has married a woman named Dolly Fussell and they will be living in Hilton at a house near Howards End. Mr. Wilcox and the youngest Wilcox child, Evie, are driving through the countryside for pleasure. Thus, Mrs. Wilcox is staying in London alone. Margaret's interest is peaked when the conversation moves to Howards End. Mrs. Wilcox reveals that she was born there and that she finds it far superior to the city life that London offers. She has a true connection to the land and to the history of the area, as she relates to Margaret the legend that pigs' teeth stuck into the wych-elm have given the bark the power to cure toothaches. Margaret is delighted by the tale and is disappointed when the conversation turns back to less interesting matters. Mrs. Wilcox's description of Howards End strikes a chord in Margaret, as the older woman knows so much and is so fond of the place. Margaret is delighted by her relationship with Mrs. Wilcox, and vice versa. They both have a genuine interest in each other - Mrs. Wilcox respects Margaret's honest eloquence, and Margaret respects Mrs. Wilcox's combination of selflessness and individuality. Margaret decides to have a lunch at Wickham Place, where she will introduce Mrs. Wilcox to some of her younger friends. The event does not go as smoothly as she would have liked, however, for the guest of honor does not fit in very well. While most of the guests are interested in discussing politics and culture, and Mrs. Wilcox has little to say regarding these subjects. She admits that in her family, such discussions are rare. The lunch causes Margaret embarrassment, for she feels that she has displeased her guest. However, Mrs. Wilcox maintains that she had a fine time, and that her only regret is that she could not contribute more to the conversation. Margaret's friends are less forgiving, deciding that Mrs. Wilcox has little to offer their circle. In the days following the lunch Margaret anxiously waits for Mrs. Wilcox to contact her again. She is relieved when she finally hears from her, and the two women plan to do Christmas shopping together. As they discuss Christmas while navigating the streets of London, Margaret reveals to Mrs. Wilcox that in a matter of two or three years, her family's lease on Wickham Place will expire. They cannot renew the lease, as the house is scheduled to be torn down in order to build flats. Mrs. Wilcox is horrified by this, for she cannot imagine having to lose her childhood home. She invites Margaret to come immediately to Howards End, sensing that she might appreciate it. To Mrs. Wilcox's surprise, Margaret suggests they wait for another day to make the visit. Mrs. Wilcox immediately grows cold and they head back to their respective homes, the liveliness between them having been lessened considerably. After this frosty end to the shopping trip, Margaret realizes her faux pas. She understands how inappropriate it was for her to turn down Mrs. Wilcox's kind offer, and she immediately goes to the Wilcox house in order to make amends. She is informed by a maid that Mrs. Wilcox has left, thus she makes her way to Kings Cross station, where Mrs. Wilcox is waiting for a train to Hilton. Margaret says that she will join her, and they plan to spend the night there in order to enjoy the morning that Howards End offers. However, before they can depart, Evie and Mr. Wilcox appear, having just returned from their motoring trip. Mrs. Wilcox was not expecting them so early, but they explain that they had some car trouble. She defers to her family without hesitation, telling Margaret that they will have to postpone the trip after all. The two women never do make it to Howards End together, for Mrs. Wilcox's health declines and she passes away. Having kept her illness quiet, her family is incredibly saddened by their matriarch's untimely death. She is buried near Howards End, and residents of Hilton observe her funeral. After her burial, Mr. Wilcox sits upstairs refusing food or company, much to the dismay of his children and new daughter-in-law, Dolly, who feels out of place and uncomfortable, having just entered the family. Mr. Wilcox's grief turns to anger when he receives a note that Mrs. Wilcox wrote on her deathbed. In the handwritten message, she asks that Howards End be given to Margaret. The Wilcoxes are both confused and outraged, suspecting Margaret of foul play, and after a family discussion of the matter, they decide to ignore her wishes, as it is impossible for them to understand the circumstances of Mrs. Wilcox's decision.

