 CHAPTER VII Ohm Rager cried her aunt next morning. Such a most unfortunate thing has happened. I could not get you alone. The most unfortunate thing was not very serious. One of the flats in the ornate block opposite had been taken furnished by the Wilcox family, coming up no doubt in the hope of getting into London's society. That Mrs. Munt should be the first to discover the misfortune was not remarkable, for she was so interested in the flats that she watched their every mutation with unwarying care. In theory she despised them. They took away that old world look. They cut off the sun. Flats house a flashy type of person. But if the truth had been known she found her visits to Wickham Place, twice as amusing since Wickham Mansions had arisen, and would in a couple of days learn more about them than her nieces in a couple of months or her nephew in a couple of years. She would stroll across and make friends with the porters and inquire what the rents were, exclaiming for example, what, a hundred and twenty for a basement? You'll never get it. And they would answer, one can but try, madam. The passenger lifts, the provision lifts, the arrangement for coals, a great temptation for a dishonest porter, were all familiar matters to her. And perhaps a relief from the politico-economical aesthetic atmosphere that reigned at the schlegels. Margaret received the information calmly and did not agree that it would throw a cloud over poor Helen's life. Oh, but Helen isn't a girl with no interest, she explained. She has plenty of other things than other people to think about. She made a fault start with the Wilcoxes and she'll be as willing as we are to have nothing more to do with them. For a clever girl, dear, how very oddly you do talk. Helen'll have to have something more to do with them, now that they're all opposite. She may meet that Paul in the street. She cannot very well not bow. Of course she must bow, but look here. Let's do the flowers. I was going to say the will to be interested in him has died. And what else matters? I look on that disastrous episode, over which you were so kind, as the killing of a nerve in Helen. It's dead, and she'll never be troubled with it again. The only things that matter are the things that interest one, bowing, even calling and leaving cards, even a dinner party. We can do all those things to the Wilcoxes, if they find it agreeable. But the other thing, the one important thing, never again. Don't you see? Mrs. Munt did not see, and indeed Marker was making a most questionable statement, that any emotion, any interest once vividly aroused, can wholly die. I also have the honour to inform you that the Wilcoxes are bored with us. I didn't tell you at the time. It might have made you angry, and you had enough to worry you. But I wrote a letter to Mrs. W., and apologised for the trouble that Helen had given them. She didn't answer it. How very rude! I wonder, or was it sensible? No, Margaret, most rude. In either case, one can class it as reassuring. Mrs. Munt sighed. She was going back to Swanage on the morrow, just as her nieces were wanting her most. Other regrets crowded upon her. For instance, how magnificently she would have cut Charles, if she had met him face to face. She had already seen him, giving an order to the porter. And very common he looked in a tall hat. But unfortunately his back was turned to her. And though she had cut his back, she could not regard this as a telling snub. But you will be careful, won't you? She exhorted. Oh, certainly, fiendishly careful. And Helen must be careful, too. Careful over what? cried Helen, at that moment coming into the room with her cousin. Nothing said Margaret seized with a momentary awkwardness. Careful over what, Aunt Julie? Mrs. Munt assumed a cryptic heir. It is only that a certain family whom we know by name but do not mention, as you said yourself last night after the concert, have taken the flat opposite from the Mathesons, where the plants are in the balcony. Helen began some laughing reply, and then disconcerted them all by blushing. Mrs. Munt was so disconcerted that she exclaimed, What Helen, you don't mind them coming, do you? And deepened the blushed crimson. Of course I don't mind, said Helen a little crossly. It is that you and Magger both so absurdly grave about it, when there's nothing to be grave about it all. I'm not grave, protested Margaret, a little cross in her turn. Well, you look grave, doesn't she, Frida? I don't feel grave, that's all I can say. You're going quite on the wrong tack. No, she does not feel grave, echoed Mrs. Munt. I can bear witness to that. She disagrees. Hark! I hear Bruno entering the hall. For Herr Lisicki was due at Wickham Place to call for the two younger girls. He was not entering the hall, in fact he did not enter it for quite five minutes. But Frida detected a delicate situation, and said that she and Helen had much better wait for Bruno down below, and leave Margaret and Mrs. Munt to finish arranging the flowers. Helen acquiesced. But as if to prove that the situation was not delicate, really. She stopped in the doorway and said, Did you say the Matheson's flat, Aunt Julie? How wonderful you are! I never knew that the woman who laced too tightly's name was Matheson. Come, Helen, said her cousin. Go, Helen, said her aunt, and continued to Margaret almost in the same breath. Helen cannot deceive me, she does mind. Oh, hush, breathe, Margaret. Frida'll hear you, and she can be so tiresome. She minds persisted, Mrs. Munt, moving thoughtfully about the room and pulling the dead chrysanthemums out of the vases. I knew she'd mind, and I'm sure a girl ought to. Such an experience! Such awful coarse-grain people! I know more about them than you do, which you forget, and if Charles had taken you that motor-drive, well, you'd have reached the house a perfect wreck. Oh, Margaret, you don't know what you are in for. They're all bottled up against the drawing-room window. There's Mrs. Wilcox. I've seen her. There's Paul. There's Evie, who is a minx. There's Charles. I saw him to start with. And who would an elderly man with a mustache and a copper-colored face be? Mr. Wilcox, possibly. I knew it, and there's Mr. Wilcox. It's a shame to call his face copper-color, complained Margaret. He has a remarkably good complexion for a man of his age. Mrs. Munt, triumphant elsewhere, could afford to concede Mr. Wilcox his complexion. She passed on from it to the plan of campaign that her nieces should pursue in the future. Margaret tried to stop her. Helen did not take the news quite as I expected, but the Wilcox nerve is dead in her, really, so there's no need for plans. It's as well to be prepared. No, it's as well not to be prepared. Why? Because her thought drew being from the obscure borderland. She could not explain in so many words, but she felt that those who prepare for all the emergencies of life beforehand may equip themselves at the expense of joy. It is necessary to prepare for an examination or a dinner party or a possible fall in the price of stock. Those who attempt human relations must adopt another method, or fail, because I'd sooner risk it was her lame conclusion. But imagine the evenings exclaimed her aunt pointing to the mansions with the spout of the watering can. Then the electric light on here or there and it's almost the same room. One evening they may forget to draw their blinds down and you'll see them and the next you yours and they'll see you. Impossible to sit out on the balconies. Impossible to water the plants or even speak. Imagine going out of the front door and they come out opposite at the same moment and yet you tell me that plans are unnecessary and you'd rather risk it. I hope to risk things all my life. Oh, Margaret, most dangerous. But after all, she continued with a smile, there's never any great risk as long as you have money. Oh, shame! What a shocking speech! Money pads the edges of things, said Miss Schlegel. God help those who have none. But this is something quite new, said Mrs. Mundt, who collected new ideas as a squirrel collects nuts and was especially attracted by those that are portable. New for me sensible people have acknowledged it for years. You and I and the Wilcox's stand upon money as upon islands. It is so firm beneath our feet that we forget its very existence. It's only when we see someone near us tottering that we realize all that an independent income means. Last night, when we were talking up here around the fire, I began to think that the very soul of the world is economic and that the lowest abyss is not the absence of love but the absence of coin. I call that rather cynical. So do I. Helen and I, we ought to remember, when we are tempted to criticize others, that we are standing on these islands and that most of the others are down below the surface of the sea. The poor cannot always reach those whom they want to love and they can hardly ever escape from those whom they love no longer. We rich can. Imagine the tragedy last June if Helen and Paul Wilcox had been poor people and couldn't invoke railways and motorcars to part them. That's more like socialism, said Mrs. Munt suspiciously. Call it what you like. I call it going through life with one's hands spread open on the table. I'm tired of these rich people who pretend to be poor and think it shows a nice mind to ignore the piles of money that keep their feet above the waves. I stand each year upon six hundred pounds and Helen upon the same and Tibby will stand upon eight and as fast as our pounds crumble away into the sea they are renewed. From the sea, yes, from the sea. And all our thoughts are the thoughts of six hundred pounders and all our speeches. And because we don't want to steal umbrellas ourselves we forget that below the sea people do want to steal them and do steal them sometimes. And that what's a joke up here is down there reality. There they go. There goes Fraulein Mosbach. Really for a German she does dress charmingly. Oh, what is it? Helen was looking up at the Wilcox's flat. Why shouldn't she? I beg your pardon. I interrupted you. What was it you were saying about reality? I had worked round to myself as usual, answered Margaret, in tones that were suddenly preoccupied. Do tell me this at all events. Are you for the rich or for the poor? Too difficult. Ask me another. Am I for poverty or for riches? For riches. Hurrah for riches. For riches, echoed Mrs. Mundt having, as it were, at last secured her nut. Yes, for riches. Money for ever. So am I, and so I am afraid, are most of my acquaintances at Swanage. But I am surprised that you agree with us. Thank you so much, Aunt Julie. While I have talked theories you have done the flowers. Not at all, dear. I wish you would let me help you in more important things. Well, would you be very kind? Would you come round with me to the registry office? There's a housemaid who won't say yes, but doesn't say no. On their way thither they too looked up at the Wilcox's flat. Evie was in the balcony, staring most rudely, according to Mrs. Mundt. Oh, yes, it was a nuisance. There was no doubt of it. Helen was proof against passing encounter. But Margaret began to lose confidence. Might it reawake the dying nerve if the family were living close against her eyes? And Frieda Mosbach was stopping with them for another fortnight, and Frieda was sharp, abominably sharp, and quite capable of remarking, You love one of the young gentlemen opposite, yes? The remark would be untrue, but of the kind which, if stated often enough, may become true. Just as the remark, England and Germany are bound to fight. Renders war a little more likely each time that it is made. It is therefore made the more readily by the gutter-press of either nation. Have the private emotions also their gutter-press? Margaret thought so, and feared that good Aunt Julie and Frieda were typical specimens of it. They might, by continual chatter, lead Helen into a repetition of the desires of June. Into a repetition they could not do more. They could not lead her into lasting love. They were, she sought, clearly journalism. Her father, with all his defects and wrong-headedness, had been literature, and had he lived he would have persuaded his daughter rightly. The registry office was holding its morning reception. A string of carriages filled the street. Mishlakel waited her turn, and finally had to be content with an insidious temporary being rejected by genuine housemaids on the ground of her numerous stares. Her failure depressed her, and though she forgot the failure, the depression remained. On her way home she again glanced up at the Wilcox's flat, and took the rather maternally step of speaking about the matter to Helen. Helen, you must tell me whether this thing worries you. If what, said Helen, who was washing her hands for lunch. The W's coming. No, of course not. Really? Really. Then she admitted that she was a little worried on Mrs. Wilcox's account. She implied that Mrs. Wilcox might reach backward into deep feelings, and be pained by things that never touched the other members of that clan. I shan't mind if Paul points at her house and says, there lives the girl who tried to catch me. But she might. If even that worries you, we could arrange something. There's no reason we should be near people who displease us, or whom we displease thanks to our money. We might even go away for a little. Well I'm going away. Frida's just asked me to sateen, and I shan't be back till after New Year. Will that do? Or must I fly the country altogether? Really Meg, what has come over you to make such a fuss? No, I'm getting an old maid, I suppose. I thought I minded nothing, but really I should be bored if you fell in love with the same man twice, and she cleared her throat. You did go red, you know, when Aunt Julie attacked you this morning. I shouldn't have referred to it otherwise. But Helen's laugh rang true, as she raised a soapy hand to heaven, and swore that never know where and know how, would she again fall in love with any of the Wilcox family, down to its remotest collaterals. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Howard's End. By Edward Morgan Forster. Chapter 8. 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 spare in the spring. Perhaps the elder lady, as she gazed at the vulgar, ruddy cathedral, and listened to the talk of Helen and her husband, 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 Howard's 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 Wicomplace a fortnight later, the very day that Helen was going with her cousin to Stettin. Helen, cried Frauline Mosbeck in awestruck tones. She was now in her cousin's confidence. His mother has forgiven you. And then, remembering that in England the newcomer ought not to call before she has called upon, she changed her tone from awe to disapproval in a pine that Mrs. Wilcox was kind dame. Mother the whole family, snapped Margaret, Helen, stop giggling and paroetting 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 in 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 Frauline Mosbeck. Most certainly it has, Freida, but that will not prevent me from being bored with the Wilcoxes if I return the call. Then Helen simulated tears and Frauline Mosbeck 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, because why? Because I'm going to Germany. 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, oh lord, who's that coming down the stairs? I vowed, is my brother. Oh, crimony. A male, even such a male as Tibi, was enough to stop the foolery. The barrier of sex, though decreasing among the civilized, 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 Tibi 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 Mosvack 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 Tibi. No one told him, and he proceeded into the dining room to eat Elvis 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. Frida and Helen and all their luggage had gone. Tibi, 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 marshaled them all in review. The practical person, who knows what he wants at once, and generally knows nothing else, will excuse 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 hid 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 colors 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. As 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 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 a certainty that she had been rude to Mrs. Wilcox. Roudness 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've made the baddest blunder. I'm more, more shamed 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 around her hands, combined to create a strange atmosphere of disillusion. 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'm more sorry than I can say, and I hope that you will forgive me. It doesn't matter, Ms. Schlegel. It is good of you to 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 the 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 10, 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've 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 goodbye now, you will be getting up. No, please stop a little longer. I'm taking a day in bed, now and then I do. I thought of you as one of the early risers. At Howard's End, yes, there is nothing to get up for in London. Nothing to get up for, cried the scandalized Margaret, when there are all the autumn exhibitions and you say playing in the afternoon, not to mention people. The truth is, I'm 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. Fusel, the father is in the Indian army, retired, the brother is in the army, the mother is dead. So perhaps these were the chinless, sunburned men whom Helen had aspired 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 Fusel that was and was given it in even an emotional 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 Howard's end. Charles and Albert Fusel 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 Fusels 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 say 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 of his own for a wedding present which for the present is being stored at Howard's 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 Witch 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 Witch Elm, I remember Helen spoke of it as a very splendid tree. It is the finest Witch Elm in Hartfordshire. 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 a toothache if one believed in it? Of course it did, it would cure anything once. Certainly, I remember cases. You see, I lived at Howard's 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 Howard's End was her own property. She was bored when two minute an account was given of the Fusil family 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, apologized, 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 writing master. Then the curious note was struck again. Goodbye, Miss Schlegel, goodbye, thank you for coming. You have cheered me up. I'm so glad. I wonder whether you ever think about yourself. I think of nothing else, said Margaret, blushing but letting her hand remain in the hand 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 29, she remarked. That's not so wildly girlish. Mrs. Wilcox smiled. What makes you say that? Do you mean that I've been gauche and rude? A shake of the head. I only meant that I am 51 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 inexperienced. 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 lives very difficult and full of surprises. And all events have 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 do all those things at once, worst 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 in 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's just what I should have liked to say about them myself. End of chapter eight, recording by Sage Turtle of Quirkynomads.com. Chapter nine of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster. Chapter nine, 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 10 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 this little luncheon party that she gave in Mrs. Wilcox's honor 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 hair. The delightful people darted after it with cries of joy, Margaret leading them, and not till the meal was half over did they realize 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 criticized 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 Stetten. Did you ever know anyone living at Stetten? Never, said Mrs. Wilcox gravely, while her neighbor, a young man, Low, in the education office began to discuss what people lived at Stetten ought to look like. Was there such a thing as Stetten entity? Margaret swept on. People had set and dropped 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 Odair, which is truly something special. Oh, Mrs. Wilcox, you would love the Odair. The river, or rather rivers, there seem to be dozens of them, are intense blue and the plain they run through an intense 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 Odair 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 was 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 Odair 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 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 misinterpreted, 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 and verse to throw 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 Bochlin or my veterinary surgeon. Oh, Bochlin, they say. He strains after beauty. He peeples nature with gods too consciously. Of course, Bochlin 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 leaders do. I'm not sure that I agree. Do you? Said he, turning to Mrs. Wilcox. She replied, I think Miss Schlagel 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 did 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, as 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 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 you have another jelly? First, I was going to say that the continent for good or for evil is interested in ideas. It's 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 Russia. 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 Howard's end. Then you ought to, said Margaret. Discussion keeps the 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 of 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. Nevermind 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'm 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 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 roves. Oh, but come upstairs for a little. Miss Quested plays. Do you like McDowell? Do you mind him only having two noises? If you really must 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, Mrs. Slickle, dear. And I'm not pretending. And only wish I could have joined in more, for one thing I'm not particularly well, just today. For another, you younger people move so quickly, that it daises 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. End of Chapter 9, recording by Sage Turtle of Quirkynomads.com. Chapter 10 of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Howard's End by Edward Morgan Forster. Chapter 10. 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 behavior, flirting, and if carried far enough, it is punishable by law. But no law, not public opinion even, punishes those who co-cat 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 favorable. But the elder woman would not be hurried. She refused to fit in with the Wicomplace set or to reopen discussion of Helen and Paul, whom Margaret would have utilized as a shortcut. 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 behind hand with the presents. She had taken some more days in bed and must make up for lost time. Margaret accepted and at 11 o'clock, one cheerless morning, they started out in a brawl. First of all, began Margaret, we must make a list and take off people's names. My aunt always does and this fog may thicken up any moment. Have you any ideas? I thought we could go to Harris or the Haymarket stores, said Mrs. Wilcox rather hopelessly. Everything is sure to be right 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 too. She did not want to be fought a second Helen who would snatch presents since she could not snatch young men nor to be exposed like a second Aunt Julie to the insults of Charles. A certain austerity of demeanor was best and she added, I don't really want a Yuletide gift though. In fact, I'd rather not. Why? Because I've had 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 gray. Mrs. Wilcox's vitality was low that morning and it was Margaret who decided on a horse for this little girl, a golly-wog 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 scene 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, et cetera, or two according to the subscription. A poster of a woman in tights, Harold 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 realized that it was a divine event that drew them together? She realized 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 vigor. Carol's at the Abbey, clumsy midday meal, clumsy dinner for the mates 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, 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, Ms. Schlegel. Then are you leaving Wiccan 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 realize it yet. My father, she broke off for they had reached the stationary 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, oh wait, on second thoughts, oh 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, Ms. Schlagel. It isn't right. I had no idea 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 civilization be right if people may 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. Howard's end was nearly pulled down once. It would have killed me. Howard's end must be a very different house to ours. We are fond of ours, but there's nothing distinctive about it. As you saw, it is an ordinary London house. We shall easily find another. So you'd 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 backfish, quite the ingenue, very charming, wonderfully well-read for my age, but incapable, Mrs. Wilcox would not be deterred. Come down with me to Howard's 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, but 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 Wiccan 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 and her turn, Margaret, became annoyed. My husband and Evie will be back the day after tomorrow. That is why I dragged you out shopping today. 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 roadhogs. Why? Well, naturally, he isn't a roadhog. 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 it 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 figures 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 indefinable 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 soots descended. At lunch, her brother, seeing her inclined for silence, insisted on talking. Tippi 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 patronized. The account was interesting and she had often pressed him for it before but she could not attend now for her mind was focused 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 Howard's 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 witch-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 it was of no consequence, hurried downstairs and took a handsome to King's Cross. She was convinced that the escapade was important, though it would have puzzled her to say why. There was a question of imprisonment and escape and though she did not know the time of the train, she strained her eyes for the St. Pancras' 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 two. It is in the morning that my house is most beautiful. You are coming to stop. I cannot show you my meadow properly, except its sunrise. These fogs, she pointed at the station roof, never spread far. I daresay they are sitting in the sun at Hartfordshire 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, resting 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 cloakroom and seized Mrs. Wilcox by the arm. Evee, she gasped, Evee, my pet! The girl called, Father, I say, look who's here! Evee, dearest girl, why aren't you in Yorkshire? No, motor smashed, 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 your self, Ruth? Fit is a fiddle, she answered gaily. So are we, and so was our car, which ran A-1 as far as Rippon, but there are retchators and cart, which are full of a driver. Miss Schlegel, our little outing must be for another day. I was saying that this full of a driver is the policeman himself admits, another day, Miss Wilcox, of course. But as we've ensured against third-party risks, it won't so much matter. The cart and car are 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. End of chapter 10, recording by Sage Turtle of quirkynomads.com. Chapter 11 of Howard's End. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, and to find out how you can volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Shell. jshell1 at wi.rr.com. Howard's End. By Edward Morgan Forster. Chapter 11. The funeral was over. The carriages 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 woodcutter, was perched high above their heads, polluting 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 sun set beyond, scarlet and orange, winking at him beneath brows of gray. 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 cod, 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 exultation. The funeral of a rich person was to them what the funeral of Alcestus, or Ophelia, is to the educated. It was art. Though remote from life, it enhanced life's values, and they witnessed it avidly. The gravediggers, 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 gravediggers finished their work, and piled up the wreaths, and crosses above it. The sun set over Hilton. The gray brows of the evening flushed a little, and were cleft with one scarlet frown. Chattering sadly to each other, the mourners passed through the light gate, and traversed the chestnut avenues that led down to the village. The young woodcutter stayed a little longer, poised above the silence, and swaying rhythmically. At last the bow 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 colored flowers at bearings, 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-proud, steering with all its company towards infinity. Towards morning the air grew colder, the sky clearer, the surface of the earth hard was falling above the prostrate dead. The woodcutter, returning after a night of joy reflected, they lilies, they chrysanths. It's a pity I didn't take them all. Up at Howard's 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, breakfast-citted 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 known no more of worldly wickedness and wisdom. Then 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 would meet there would be no more wars. Her idea of religion. This had been a cloud, but a cloud that had passed. She came of Quakerstock and he and his family, formerly dissenters, were now members of the Church of England. The rector's sermons had at first repelled her. She had expressed the 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 but everyone 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, high and straight, brown and polished, merging abruptly into temples and skull. It was 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 posts come, father, said Evie awkwardly. Thanks. Put it down. Has the breakfast been all right? Yes, thanks. The girl glanced at him and added 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 have all I want. Having sorted the letters from the circulars, she went back to the door in the circulars. She went back to the dining-room. Father's Eden nothing, she announced, sitting down with wrinkled brows behind the tiern. 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 did not come, he said evasively. I daresay 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 who knew it. A telegram had dragged her from Naples to the deathbed 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 faded to die, could have died before her marriage, for then less would have been expected of her. At last, 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 polluting those alms yesterday, he said to his sister. No indeed. I must make a note of that, he continued. Perhaps it may not be the rector's affair. Who else could it be? The Lord of the Manor? Impossible. Butterdally? Thank you, Evie dear. Charles? Yes dear. I didn't know one could pollard alms. I thought one only pollarded Willows. Oh no, one can pollard alms. Then why the alms in the churchyard to be pollarded? Charles frowned a little and turned again to his sister. Another point. I must speak to Chocolate. Yes, rather. You must complain to Chocolate. It's no good 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 Chocolate 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 realized 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 into 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 to get his way with his very garage. With what difficulty had they persuaded her to yield them to 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 fathers grew from deeper roots. For a wife may be replaced. A mother never. Charles would go back to the office. There was little to do at Howard's End. The contents of his mother's will had been long known to them. There were no legacies. No annuities. None of the posthumous bustle with which some of the dead prolonged their activities. Trusting her husband gave 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 watercolors Mr. Wilcox intended to reserve for Paul, while Evie would take the jewelry 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 been in it as almost culpable indifference to earthly fame. Cynicism not the superficial cynicism that snarls and sneers, but the cynicism that goes 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 forever. 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, Hello, my new car has 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 to service 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 horse-brost, a dainty black column, her little face and elaborate morning 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 to 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 Howard's end. Howard's end Howard's 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 around 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 Howard's end. Miss Schlegel's got it. Got what? asked Charles, unclasping her. What the Dickens are you talking about? Now, Charles, you promised not to say those naughty look here. I'm in no mood for foolery. It's no mourning 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. Howard's end? Howard's end, she screamed, mimicking him. And as she did so, Evie came dashing out of the shrubbery. 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 just too awful. Charles began to run, but checked himself and stepped heavily across the gravel path. There the house was, the nine windows, the unprolific vine. He exclaimed, Schlegel's 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, and 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 to read it. The enclosed it was from his mother herself. She had written to my husband, I should like Miss Schlegel Margaret to have Howard's end. I suppose we're going to have a talk about this, he remarked. Ominously calm. Certainly. I was coming out to you and Dolly. Well, let's sit down. 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 study 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 Howard's 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 lawyers, Charles Shirley. Her husband worked his jaw severely. Little lumps appeared in front of either ear. A symptom that she had not yet learned to respect, and she asked whether she might see the note. Charles looked at his father for permission, who said abstractly, 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 at 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 is a case of undue influence. No, to my mind the question is 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 colored 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. Calligraphy was the item before them now, and on it they turned their well-trained brains. Charles, after a little demure, 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 minimized, 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 gray 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 coloring of life had been altered. Inside the clock struck ten with a rich and confident note. Other clocks confirmed it, and the discussion moved toward its close. To follow it is unnecessary. It is rather a moment when the commentator should step forward. Aught 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 Howard's 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 white-elm tree, a vine, a wisp of hay 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 onto 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. Today 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 scene, 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 Howard's 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 interested 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 un-business-like 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 of Howard's 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 waiting developments. What a horrid woman! And Dolly, who had recovered, cried, Why, she may be coming down to turn us out now! 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 been kind in undertaking the funeral arrangements and in telling him to eat his breakfast. 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 a part 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 chocolate. 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 worthwhile having a row. Charles and his father sometimes disagreed, but they always parted with an increased regard for one another, and each desired no daughter or 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. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 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 forever. 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 heretic, 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 could 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. A few women had tried more earnestly to pierce the accretions in which body and soul are enrapped. 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 Wilcoxs 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 today could protect her excelling where she was deficient. Once passed the rocks of emotion they knew so well what to do whom to send for. Their hands were on 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 led when Helen and Paul had touched in June and had detonated again the other week. To Margaret this life forced to remain a real force. She could not despise it as Helen and Tibbie affected to do. It fostered such virtues as neatness, decision and obedience. Virtues of the second rank no doubt but they have formed our civilization. They formed character too. Margaret could not doubt it. They keep the soul from becoming sloppy. How dare Schlegel despise Wilcox's 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 most box had gone tobogganing on the only hill that Pomerania boasted. It was fun but overcrowded 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 Odaberg only 300 feet high from which one slid all too quickly back into the Pomeranian plains. And yet Odaberg 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 realized the accessories of death which are in a sense more memorable to herself. 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 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 Freyland Moschbach who had conceived the large and patriotic notion of bringing back her cousins to the Fatherland by matrimony. England had played Paul Wilcox and lost. Germany played Herr Forstmeister someone. Helen could not remember his name. Herr Forstmeister lived in a wood and standing on the summit of the Oderburg he had pointed out his house to Helen or rather had pointed out it lay. She had exclaimed oh how lovely that's the place for me and in the evening Freyda 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 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 someone for Tibi concluded Helen there now Tibi think of that Freyda is saving up a little girl for you in pigtails 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 headaches now you talk Tibi 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 and haul Tibi 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 had served for a thousand years appealed at once to the boys 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 Tibi 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 over well as a rule in 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've 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 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's extraordinarily generous it has made me like him very much he hopes this will not be the end of our acquaintance but that you and I will go and stop with Evie sometime in the future I like Mr. Wilcox he's 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've gone off to a house of their own Helen after a decent pause continued her account of Steedon 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 realized the chaotic nature of our daily life and it's difference from the orderly sequence that has been fabricated by historians actual life is full of false clues and signposts 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 is 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 saved 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 end of chapter