Chapter: 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.



Charles need not have been anxious. Miss Schlegel had never heard of his
mother's strange request. She was to hear of it in after years, when she
had built up her life differently, and it was to fit into position as
the headstone of the corner. Her mind was bent on other questions
now, and by her also it would have been rejected as the fantasy of an
invalid.

She was parting from these Wilcoxes for the second time. Paul and his
mother, ripple and great wave, had flowed into her life and ebbed out of
it for ever. The ripple had left no traces behind; the wave had strewn
at her feet fragments torn from the unknown. A curious seeker, she stood
for a while at the verge of the sea that tells so little, but tells
a little, and watched the outgoing of this last tremendous tide. Her
friend had vanished in agony, but not, she believed, in degradation.
Her withdrawal had hinted at other things besides disease and pain. Some
leave our life with tears, others with an insane frigidity; Mrs. Wilcox
had taken the middle course, which only rarer natures can pursue. She
had kept proportion. She had told a little of her grim secret to her
friends, but not too much; she had shut up her heart--almost, but
not entirely. It is thus, if there is any rule, that we ought to
die--neither as victim nor as fanatic, but as the seafarer who can greet
with an equal eye the deep that he is entering, and the shore that he
must leave.

The last word--whatever it would be--had certainly not been said in
Hilton churchyard. She had not died there. A funeral is not death, any
more than baptism is birth or marriage union. All three are the clumsy
devices, coming now too late, now too early, by which Society would
register the quick motions of man. In Margaret's eyes Mrs. Wilcox had
escaped registration. She had gone out of life vividly, her own way, and
no dust was so truly dust as the contents of that heavy coffin, lowered
with ceremonial until it rested on the dust of the earth, no flowers so
utterly wasted as the chrysanthemums that the frost must have withered
before morning. Margaret had once said she "loved superstition." It was
not true. Few women had tried more earnestly to pierce the accretions in
which body and soul are enwrapped. The death of Mrs. Wilcox had helped
her in her work. She saw a little more clearly than hitherto what a
human being is, and to what he may aspire. Truer relationships gleamed.
Perhaps the last word would be hope--hope even on this side of the
grave.

Meanwhile, she could take an interest in the survivors. In spite of her
Christmas duties, in spite of her brother, the Wilcoxes continued to
play a considerable part in her thoughts. She had seen so much of them
in the final week. They were not "her sort," they were often suspicious
and stupid, and deficient where she excelled; but collision with them
stimulated her, and she felt an interest that verged into liking, even
for Charles. She desired to protect them, and often felt that they could
protect her, excelling where she was deficient. Once past the rocks of
emotion, they knew so well what to do, whom to send for; their hands
were on all the ropes, they had grit as well as grittiness and she
valued grit enormously. They led a life that she could not attain
to--the outer life of "telegrams and anger," which had detonated when
Helen and Paul had touched in June, and had detonated again the other
week. To Margaret this life was to remain a real force. She could not
despise it, as Helen and Tibby affected to do. It fostered such virtues
as neatness, decision, and obedience, virtues of the second rank, no
doubt, but they have formed our civilisation. They form character, too;
Margaret could not doubt it; they keep the soul from becoming sloppy.
How dare Schlegels despise Wilcoxes, when it takes all sorts to make a
world?

"Don't brood too much," she wrote to Helen, "on the superiority of
the unseen to the seen. It's true, but to brood on it is medieval. Our
business is not to contrast the two, but to reconcile them."

Helen replied that she had no intention of brooding on such a dull
subject. What did her sister take her for? The weather was magnificent.
She and the Mosebachs had gone tobogganing on the only hill that
Pomerania boasted. It was fun, but over-crowded, for the rest of
Pomerania had gone there too. Helen loved the country, and her letter
glowed with physical exercise and poetry. She spoke of the scenery,
quiet, yet august; of the snow-clad fields, with their scampering herds
of deer; of the river and its quaint entrance into the Baltic Sea; of
the Oderberge, only three hundred feet high, from which one slid all too
quickly back into the Pomeranian plains, and yet these Oderberge were
real mountains, with pine-forests, streams, and views complete. "It
isn't size that counts so much as the way things are arranged." In
another paragraph she referred to Mrs. Wilcox sympathetically, but the
news had not bitten into her. She had not realised the accessories
of death, which are in a sense more memorable than death itself. The
atmosphere of precautions and recriminations, and in the midst a human
body growing more vivid because it was in pain; the end of that body in
Hilton churchyard; the survival of something that suggested hope, vivid
in its turn against life's workaday cheerfulness;--all these were lost
to Helen, who only felt that a pleasant lady could now be pleasant no
longer. She returned to Wickham Place full of her own affairs--she had
had another proposal--and Margaret, after a moment's hesitation, was
content that this should be so.

The proposal had not been a serious matter. It was the work of Fraulein
Mosebach, who had conceived the large and patriotic notion of winning
back her cousins to the Fatherland by matrimony. England had played Paul
Wilcox, and lost; Germany played Herr Forstmeister some one--Helen could
not remember his name. Herr Forstmeister lived in a wood, and, standing
on the summit of the Oderberge, he had pointed out his house to Helen,
or rather, had pointed out the wedge of pines in which it lay. She had
exclaimed, "Oh, how lovely! That's the place for me!" and in the evening
Frieda appeared in her bedroom. "I have a message, dear Helen," etc.,
and so she had, but had been very nice when Helen laughed; quite
understood--a forest too solitary and damp--quite agreed, but Herr
Forstmeister believed he had assurance to the contrary. Germany had
lost, but with good-humour; holding the manhood of the world, she felt
bound to win. "And there will even be some one for Tibby," concluded
Helen. "There now, Tibby, think of that; Frieda is saving up a little
girl for you, in pig-tails and white worsted stockings but the feet
of the stockings are pink as if the little girl had trodden in
strawberries. I've talked too much. My head aches. Now you talk."

Tibby consented to talk. He too was full of his own affairs, for he had
just been up to try for a scholarship at Oxford. The men were down, and
the candidates had been housed in various colleges, and had dined in
hall. Tibby was sensitive to beauty, the experience was new, and he
gave a description of his visit that was almost glowing. The august and
mellow University, soaked with the richness of the western counties that
it has served for a thousand years, appealed at once to the boy's taste;
it was the kind of thing he could understand, and he understood it
all the better because it was empty. Oxford is--Oxford; not a mere
receptacle for youth, like Cambridge. Perhaps it wants its inmates to
love it rather than to love one another; such at all events was to
be its effect on Tibby. His sisters sent him there that he might make
friends, for they knew that his education had been cranky, and had
severed him from other boys and men. He made no friends. His Oxford
remained Oxford empty, and he took into life with him, not the memory of
a radiance, but the memory of a colour scheme.

It pleased Margaret to hear her brother and sister talking. They did
not get on overwell as a rule. For a few moments she listened to them,
feeling elderly and benign.

Then something occurred to her, and she interrupted.

"Helen, I told you about poor Mrs. Wilcox; that sad business?"

"Yes."

"I have had a correspondence with her son. He was winding up the estate,
and wrote to ask me whether his mother had wanted me to have anything.
I thought it good of him, considering I knew her so little. I said that
she had once spoken of giving me a Christmas present, but we both forgot
about it afterwards."

"I hope Charles took the hint."

"Yes--that is to say, her husband wrote later on, and thanked me for
being a little kind to her, and actually gave me her silver vinaigrette.
Don't you think that is extraordinarily generous? It has made me
like him very much. He hopes that this will not be the end of our
acquaintance, but that you and I will go and stop with Evie some time in
the future. I like Mr. Wilcox. He is taking up his work--rubber--it is
a big business. I gather he is launching out rather. Charles is in it,
too. Charles is married--a pretty little creature, but she doesn't seem
wise. They took on the flat, but now they have gone off to a house of
their own."

Helen, after a decent pause, continued her account of Stettin. How
quickly a situation changes! In June she had been in a crisis; even in
November she could blush and be unnatural; now it was January and
the whole affair lay forgotten. Looking back on the past six months,
Margaret realised the chaotic nature of our daily life, and its
difference from the orderly sequence that has been fabricated by
historians. Actual life is full of false clues and sign-posts that lead
nowhere. With infinite effort we nerve ourselves for a crisis that never
comes. The most successful career must show a waste of strength that
might have removed mountains, and the most unsuccessful is not that
of the man who is taken unprepared, but of him who has prepared and is
never taken. On a tragedy of that kind our national morality is duly
silent. It assumes that preparation against danger is in itself a good,
and that men, like nations, are the better for staggering through life
fully armed. The tragedy of preparedness has scarcely been handled, save
by the Greeks. Life is indeed dangerous, but not in the way morality
would have us believe. It is indeed unmanageable, but the essence of
it is not a battle. It is unmanageable because it is a romance, and its
essence is romantic beauty. Margaret hoped that for the future she would
be less cautious, not more cautious, than she had been in the past.



Over two years passed, and the Schlegel household continued to lead its
life of cultured, but not ignoble, ease, still swimming gracefully on
the grey tides of London. Concerts and plays swept past them, money had
been spent and renewed, reputations won and lost, and the city herself,
emblematic of their lives, rose and fell in a continual flux, while her
shallows washed more widely against the hills of Surrey and over the
fields of Hertfordshire. This famous building had arisen, that was
doomed. To-day Whitehall had been transformed; it would be the turn
of Regent Street to-morrow. And month by month the roads smelt more
strongly of petrol, and were more difficult to cross, and human beings
heard each other speak with greater difficulty, breathed less of the
air, and saw less of the sky. Nature withdrew; the leaves were falling
by midsummer; the sun shone through dirt with an admired obscurity.

To speak against London is no longer fashionable. The Earth as an
artistic cult has had its day, and the literature of the near future
will probably ignore the country and seek inspiration from the town. One
can understand the reaction. Of Pan and the elemental forces, the public
has heard a 'little too much--they seem Victorian, while London is
Georgian--and those who care for the earth with sincerity may wait long
ere the pendulum swings back to her again. Certainly London fascinates.
One visualises it as a tract of quivering grey, intelligent without
purpose, and excitable without love; as a spirit that has altered before
it can be chronicled; as a heart that certainly beats, but with no
pulsation of humanity. It lies beyond everything; Nature, with all
her cruelty, comes nearer to us than do these crowds of men. A friend
explains himself; the earth is explicable--from her we came, and we must
return to her. But who can explain Westminster Bridge Road or Liverpool
Street in the morning--the city inhaling--or the same thoroughfares
in the evening--the city exhaling her exhausted air? We reach in
desperation beyond the fog, beyond the very stars, the voids of the
universe are ransacked to justify the monster, and stamped with a human
face. London is religion's opportunity--not the decorous religion of
theologians, but anthropomorphic, crude. Yes, the continuous flow
would be tolerable if a man of our own sort--not any one pompous or
tearful--were caring for us up in the sky.

The Londoner seldom understands his city until it sweeps him, too, away
from his moorings, and Margaret's eyes were not opened until the lease
of Wickham Place expired. She had always known that it must expire, but
the knowledge only became vivid about nine months before the event.
Then the house was suddenly ringed with pathos. It had seen so much
happiness. Why had it to be swept away? In the streets of the city
she noted for the first time the architecture of hurry and heard the
language of hurry on the mouths of its inhabitants--clipped words,
formless sentences, potted expressions of approval or disgust. Month by
month things were stepping livelier, but to what goal? The population
still rose, but what was the quality of the men born? The particular
millionaire who owned the freehold of Wickham Place, and desired to
erect Babylonian flats upon it--what right had he to stir so large a
portion of the quivering jelly? He was not a fool--she had heard him
expose Socialism--but true insight began just where his intelligence
ended, and one gathered that this was the case with most millionaires.
What right had such men--But Margaret checked herself. That way lies
madness. Thank goodness, she, too, had some money, and could purchase a
new home.

Tibby, now in his second year at Oxford, was down for the Easter
vacation, and Margaret took the opportunity of having a serious talk
with him. Did he at all know where he wanted to live? Tibby didn't
know that he did know. Did he at all know what he wanted to do? He was
equally uncertain, but when pressed remarked that he should prefer to
be quite free of any profession. Margaret was not shocked, but went on
sewing for a few minutes before she replied:

"I was thinking of Mr. Vyse. He never strikes me as particularly happy.

"Ye--es." said Tibby, and then held his mouth open in a curious quiver,
as if he, too, had thought of Mr. Vyse, had seen round, through, over,
and beyond Mr. Vyse, had weighed Mr. Vyse, grouped him, and finally
dismissed him as having no possible bearing on the Subject under
discussion. That bleat of Tibby's infuriated Helen. But Helen was now
down in the dining room preparing a speech about political economy. At
times her voice could be heard declaiming through the floor.

"But Mr. Vyse is rather a wretched, weedy man, don't you think? Then
there's Guy. That was a pitiful business. Besides"--shifting to the
general--"every one is the better for some regular work."

Groans.

"I shall stick to it," she continued, smiling. "I am not saying it
to educate you; it is what I really think. I believe that in the last
century men have developed the desire for work, and they must not starve
it. It's a new desire. It goes with a great deal that's bad, but in
itself it's good, and I hope that for women, too, 'not to work' will
soon become as shocking as 'not to be married' was a hundred years ago."

"I have no experience of this profound desire to which you allude,"
enunciated Tibby.

"Then we'll leave the subject till you do. I'm not going to rattle you
round. Take your time. Only do think over the lives of the men you like
most, and see how they've arranged them."

"I like Guy and Mr. Vyse most," said Tibby faintly, and leant so far
back in his chair that he extended in a horizontal line from knees to
throat.

"And don't think I'm not serious because I don't use the traditional
arguments--making money, a sphere awaiting you, and so on--all of which
are, for various reasons, cant." She sewed on. "I'm only your sister.
I haven't any authority over you, and I don't want to have any. Just
to put before you what I think the Truth. You see"--she shook off the
pince-nez to which she had recently taken--"in a few years we shall be
the same age practically, and I shall want you to help me. Men are so
much nicer than women."

"Labouring under such a delusion, why do you not marry?"

"I sometimes jolly well think I would if I got the chance."

"Has nobody arst you?"

"Only ninnies."

"Do people ask Helen?"

"Plentifully."

"Tell me about them."

"No."

"Tell me about your ninnies, then."

"They were men who had nothing better to do," said his sister, feeling
that she was entitled to score this point. "So take warning; you must
work, or else you must pretend to work, which is what I do. Work, work,
work if you'd save your soul and your body. It is honestly a necessity,
dear boy. Look at the Wilcoxes, look at Mr. Pembroke. With all their
defects of temper and understanding, such men give me more pleasure than
many who are better equipped, and I think it is because they have worked
regularly and honestly."

"Spare me the Wilcoxes," he moaned.

"I shall not. They are the right sort."

"Oh, goodness me, Meg--!" he protested, suddenly sitting up, alert and
angry. Tibby, for all his defects, had a genuine personality.

"Well, they're as near the right sort as you can imagine."

"No, no--oh, no!"

"I was thinking of the younger son, whom I once classed as a ninny,
but who came back so ill from Nigeria. He's gone out there again, Evie
Wilcox tells me--out to his duty."

"Duty" always elicited a groan.

"He doesn't want the money, it is work he wants, though it is beastly
work--dull country, dishonest natives, an eternal fidget over fresh
water and food... A nation that can produce men of that sort may well be
proud. No wonder England has become an Empire.

"EMPIRE!"

"I can't bother over results," said Margaret, a little sadly. "They are
too difficult for me. I can only look at the men. An Empire bores me,
so far, but I can appreciate the heroism that builds it up. London
bores me, but what thousands of splendid people are labouring to make
London--"

"What it is," he sneered.

"What it is, worse luck. I want activity without civilisation. How
paradoxical! Yet I expect that is what we shall find in heaven."

"And I," said Tibby, "want civilisation without activity, which, I
expect, is what we shall find in the other place."

"You needn't go as far as the other place, Tibbikins, if you want that.
You can find it at Oxford."

"Stupid--"

"If I'm stupid, get me back to the house-hunting. I'll even live in
Oxford if you like--North Oxford. I'll live anywhere except Bournemouth,
Torquay, and Cheltenham. Oh yes, or Ilfracombe and Swanage and Tunbridge
Wells and Surbiton and Bedford. There on no account."

"London, then."

"I agree, but Helen rather wants to get away from London. However,
there's no reason we shouldn't have a house in the country and also a
flat in town, provided we all stick together and contribute. Though of
course--Oh, how one does maunder on and to think, to think of the people
who are really poor. How do they live? Not to move about the world would
kill me."

As she spoke, the door was flung open, and Helen burst in in a state of
extreme excitement.

"Oh, my dears, what do you think? You'll never guess. A woman's been
here asking me for her husband. Her WHAT?" (Helen was fond of supplying
her own surprise.) "Yes, for her husband, and it really is so."

"Not anything to do with Bracknell?" cried Margaret, who had lately
taken on an unemployed of that name to clean the knives and boots.

"I offered Bracknell, and he was rejected. So was Tibby. (Cheer up,
Tibby!) It's no one we know. I said, 'Hunt, my good woman; have a good
look round, hunt under the tables, poke up the chimney, shake out the
antimacassars. Husband? husband?' Oh, and she so magnificently dressed
and tinkling like a chandelier."

"Now, Helen, what did really happen?"

"What I say. I was, as it were, orating my speech. Annie opens the door
like a fool, and shows a female straight in on me, with my mouth open.
Then we began--very civilly. 'I want my husband, what I have reason to
believe is here.' No--how unjust one is. She said 'whom,' not 'what.'
She got it perfectly. So I said, 'Name, please?' and she said, 'Lan,
Miss,' and there we were.

"Lan?"

"Lan or Len. We were not nice about our vowels. Lanoline."

"But what an extraordinary--"

"I said, 'My good Mrs. Lanoline, we have some grave misunderstanding
here. Beautiful as I am, my modesty is even more remarkable than my
beauty, and never, never has Mr. Lanoline rested his eyes on mine.'"

"I hope you were pleased," said Tibby.

"Of course," Helen squeaked. "A perfectly delightful experience.
Oh, Mrs. Lanoline's a dear--she asked for a husband as if he were
an umbrella. She mislaid him Saturday afternoon--and for a long time
suffered no inconvenience. But all night, and all this morning her
apprehensions grew. Breakfast didn't seem the same--no, no more did
lunch, and so she strolled up to 2 Wickham Place as being the most
likely place for the missing article."

"But how on earth--"

"Don't begin how on earthing. 'I know what I know,' she kept repeating,
not uncivilly, but with extreme gloom. In vain I asked her what she did
know. Some knew what others knew, and others didn't, and then others
again had better be careful. Oh dear, she was incompetent! She had
a face like a silkworm, and the dining-room reeks of orris-root. We
chatted pleasantly a little about husbands, and I wondered where hers
was too, and advised her to go to the police. She thanked me. We agreed
that Mr. Lanoline's a notty, notty man, and hasn't no business to go
on the lardy-da. But I think she suspected me up to the last. Bags I
writing to Aunt Juley about this. Now, Meg, remember--bags I."

"Bag it by all means," murmured Margaret, putting down her work. "I'm
not sure that this is so funny, Helen. It means some horrible volcano
smoking somewhere, doesn't it?"

"I don't think so--she doesn't really mind. The admirable creature isn't
capable of tragedy."

"Her husband may be, though," said Margaret, moving to the window.

"Oh no, not likely. No one capable of tragedy could have married Mrs.
Lanoline."

"Was she pretty?"

"Her figure may have been good once."

The flats, their only outlook, hung like an ornate curtain between
Margaret and the welter of London. Her thoughts turned sadly
to house-hunting. Wickham Place had been so safe. She feared,
fantastically, that her own little flock might be moving into turmoil
and squalor, into nearer contact with such episodes as these.

"Tibby and I have again been wondering where we'll live next September,"
she said at last.

"Tibby had better first wonder what he'll do," retorted Helen; and that
topic was resumed, but with acrimony. Then tea came, and after tea Helen
went on preparing her speech, and Margaret prepared one, too, for they
were going out to a discussion society on the morrow. But her thoughts
were poisoned. Mrs. Lanoline had risen out of the abyss, like a faint
smell, a goblin football, telling of a life where love and hatred had
both decayed.

 Margaret and Mrs. Wilcox go Christmas  shopping together, and Margaret reflects on the  muddiness and clumsiness of the Christmas holiday,  thinking that it does a poor job of reflecting "the  unseen." In conversation, she reveals to Mrs.  Wilcox that the Schlegels will be forced to move away  from Wickham Place in two or three years. When the  lease expires, the house will be torn down and replaced  with flats. Mrs. Wilcox is appalled, and invites  Margaret to come to Howards End with her right then. Margaret, to Mrs. Wilcox's evident annoyance,  declines. After being dropped off at home, Margaret  regrets her decision, and hurries to the train  station. She meets Mrs. Wilcox, who is thrilled that  Margaret has changed her mind. But just then, Mr.  Wilcox and Evie arrive back from a drive in  their car, having crashed the car and taken the  train into London. Mrs. Wilcox returns with them to  their flat, leaving Margaret alone. Not long after, Mrs. Wilcox dies, and is buried near  Howards End, in a service observed by many of the  poor local villagers. While the other Wilcoxes try  to eat breakfast, Mr. Wilcox sits in his room  remembering his wife's steady, unwavering goodness  during their 30 years of marriage. The others sit  downstairs, the Wilcox children in a repressed state  of mourning, and Charles' scatterbrained wife,  Dolly, in a state of awkward boredom. As Charles  stomps about the garage, Dolly rushes out with a  shocking piece of news: Mrs. Wilcox has left Howards  End to Margaret. Charles and his father  confer, and ultimately decide that Mrs. Wilcox  cannot have meant it; they decide not to take any  action based on the flimsy, handwritten note they  were left. Charles is quite critical of Margaret,  saying that she is more German than  English, but Mr. Wilcox, though admitting that he  finds her tiresome, says that he is certain she is  honest. Margaret, unbeknownst to the Wilcoxes, not only had  nothing to do with Mrs. Wilcox's note, she did not  even know about it. She has grown very fond of the  Wilcoxes, and actually feels quite protective of  them. When Mr. Wilcox sends her a trinket of Mrs.  Wilcox's, she thinks that he is very generous. Helen returns from Stettin, having rejected a  marriage proposal, and Tibby applies for a  scholarship at Oxford. Two years pass. Tibby enters Oxford, where he  thrives--he does not make friends, but he loves the  atmosphere. Soon, Margaret realizes that the Wickham  Place lease will expire in only nine months, and that  they will have to find a new house. She and Tibby  discuss this when he is home on holiday, and also  discuss what he plans to do with his life. She thinks  he should work, but he says that he does not want a  career. Helen runs in excitedly, saying that a  bizarre woman has just called demanding to see her  husband. This gaudily dressed creature  refused to believe that her  husband was not in the house. The family tries to  put the subject aside, but it lingers underneath  their conversation.

