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

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Wilcox!" the boy called.

A young man in front of them turned around.

"She's wanting Howards End."

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

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

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

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

"Possibly."

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

"That is very kind."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Extremely sorry, Mrs. Munt."

"Not at all, Mr. Wilcox."

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

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

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

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

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

"What news?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What way?"

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

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

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

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

"But you are Paul."

"I'm not."

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

"I said nothing of the sort."

"I beg your pardon, you did."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles worked his jaws.

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

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

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

"Right behind?"

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

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

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

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

She grew furious.

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

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

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

"And all that I know is--"

"Might I finish my sentence, please?"

"No."

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

She screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, my darling Helen--"

"Paul! Paul!"

A very young man came out of the house.

"Paul, is there any truth in this?"

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

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

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

They were all silent. It was Mrs. Wilcox.

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

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

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

"Engagement--!"

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

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

