 CHAPTER 18 As they were seated at Aunt Julie's breakfast table at the bays, parrying her excessive hospitality and enjoying the view of the bay, a letter came from Margaret and threw her into perturbation. It was from Mr. Wilcox. It announced an important change in his plans. Owing to Evie's marriage, he had decided to give up his house in Deucey Street and was willing to let it on a yearly tenancy. It was a business-like letter, and stated frankly what he would do for them and what he would not do. Also, the rent. If they approved, Margaret was to come up at once—the words were underlined, as is necessary when dealing with women—and to go over the house with him. If they disapproved, a wire would oblige, as he should put it into the hands of an agent. The letter perturbed, because she was not sure what it meant. If he liked her, if he had maneuvered to get her to Simpson's, might this be a maneuver to get her to London and result in an offer of marriage? She put it to herself as indelicately as possible, in the hope that her brain would cry, Rubbish! You're a self-conscious fool! But her brain only tingled a little and was silent, and for a time she sat gazing at the mincing waves and wondering whether the news would seem strange to the others. As soon as she began speaking, the sound of her own voice reassured her. There could be nothing in it. The replies also were typical, and in the buff of conversation her fears vanished. You needn't go, though! began her hostess. I needn't, but hadn't I better. It's really getting rather serious. We let chance after chance slip, and the end of it is, that we shall be bundled out bag and baggage into the street. We don't know what we want—that's a mischief with us. No, we have no real ties," said Helen, helping herself to toast. Shant I go up to town to-day, take the house, if it's the least possible, and then come down by the afternoon train to-morrow and start enjoying myself? I shall be no fun to myself or others, until this business is off my mind. What, he won't do any thing rash, Margaret! There's nothing rash to do! Who are the Wilcoxes? said Tibby, a question that sounds silly, but was really extremely subtle, as his aunt found her cost when she tried to answer it. I don't manage the Wilcoxes. I don't see where they come in. No more do I, agreed Helen. It's funny that we just don't lose sight of them. Out of all our hotel acquaintances Mr. Wilcox is the only one who is stuck. It is now over three years, and we have drifted away from far more interesting people in that time. Interesting people don't get one houses. Meg, if you start in your honest English vein, I shall throw the treacle at you. It's a better vein than the cosmopolitan," said Margaret, getting up. Now, children, which is it to be? You know the Ducey Street House. Shall I say yes, or shall I say no? Be love, witch! I'm specially anxious to pin you down." It all depends on what meaning you attach to the word possible. It depends on nothing of the sort. Say yes. Say no. Then Margaret spoke rather seriously. I think, she said, that our race is degenerating. We cannot settle even this little thing. What will it be like when we have to settle a big one? It will be as easy as eating," returned Helen. I was thinking of father. How could he settle to leave Germany as he did when he had fought for it as a young man, and all his feelings and friends were prussian? How could he break loose with patriotism and begin aiming at something else? It would have killed me. When he was nearly forty he could change countries and ideals, and we, at our age, can't change houses. It's humiliating. Your father may have been able to change countries," said Mrs. Mont with asperity, and that may or may not be a good thing. But he could change houses no better than you can, in fact much worse. Never shall I forget what poor Emily suffered in the move from Manchester. I knew it! cried Helen. I told you so. It is the little things one bungles at. The big real ones are nothing when they come. Bungle, my dear! You are too little to recollect. In fact, you weren't there. But the furniture was actually in the vans and on the move before the lease for Wiccan Place was signed, and Emily took train with baby, who was Margaret then, and the smaller luggage for London without so much as knowing where her new home would be. Getting away from that house may be hard, but it is nothing to the misery that we all went through getting you into it. Helen, with her mouth full, cried, "'And that's the man who beat the Austrians, and the Danes, and the French, and who beat the Germans that were inside himself, and we're like him.' "'Speak for yourself,' said Tibby. "'Remember that I am cosmopolitan, please.' "'Helen may be right.' "'Of course she's right,' said Helen.' Helen might be right, but she did not go up to London. Margaret did that. An interrupted holiday is the worst of the minor worries, and one may be pardoned for feeling morbid when a business-letter snatches one away from the sea and friends. She cannot believe that her father had ever felt the same. Her eyes had been troubling her lately, so that she could not read in the train, and it bored her to look at the landscape which she had seen but yesterday. At Southampton she waved to Frida. Frida was on her way down to join them at Swanage, and Mrs. Mundt had calculated that their trains would cross. But Frida was looking the other way, and Margaret travelled on to town feeling solitary and old-made-ish. How like an old maid to fancy that Mr. Wilcox was courting her! She had once visited a spinster—poor, silly, and unattractive—whose mania it was that every man who approached her fell in love. How Margaret's heart had bled for the deluded thing! How she had lectured, reasoned, and in despair acquiesced! I may have been deceived by the curate, my dear, but the young fellow who brings the midday post really is fond of me, and has, as a matter of fact! It had always seemed to her the most hideous corner of old age, yet she might be driven into it herself by the mere pressure of virginity. Mr. Wilcox met her at Waterloo himself. She felt certain that he was not the same as usual, for one thing he took offence at everything she said. —This is awfully kind of you, she began. But I'm afraid it's not going to do. The house has not been built that suits the Schlagel family. —What! Have you come up determined not to deal? —Not exactly. —Not exactly. In that case, let's be starting. She lingered to admire the motor, which was new and a fairer creature than the Vermillion Giant that had borne Aunt Julie to her doom three years before. Presumably it's very beautiful, she said. How do you like it, Crane? —Come, let's be starting—repeated her host. How on earth did you know that my chauffeur was called Crane? —Why, I know Crane. I've been for a drive with Evie once. I know that you've got a parlour maid called Milton. I know all sorts of things. Evie—he echoed in injured tones—you won't see her. She's gone out with Carhill. —It's no fun, I can tell you, being left so much alone. I've got my work all day, indeed a great deal too much of it, but when I come home in the evening I tell you I can't stand the house. —In my absurd way, I'm lonely, too," Margaret replied. It's heartbreaking to leave one's old home. I scarcely remember anything before we can place, and Helen and Tibby were born there. Helen says— —You, too, feel lonely. —Horribly. —Hello, Parliament's back. Mr. Wilcox glanced at Parliament contemptuously. The more important ropes of life lay elsewhere. —Yes, they are talking again," said he. —But you were going to say— —Only some rubbish about furniture. Helen says it alone endures while men and houses perish, and that in the end the world be a desert of chairs and sofas. Just imagine it, rolling through infinity with no one to sit upon them. —Your sister always likes a little joke. —She says yes. My brother says no to Deucey Street. It's no fun helping us, Mr. Wilcox, I assure you. You are not as unpractical as you pretend. I shall never believe it. Margaret laughed. But she was, quite as unpractical. She could not concentrate on details. Parliament, the Thames, the irresponsible chauffeur, would flash into the field of house-hunting and all demand some comment or response. It is impossible to see modern life steadily and see it whole, and she had chosen to see it whole. Mr. Wilcox saw steadily. He never bothered over the mysterious or the private. The Thames might run inland from the sea, the chauffeur might conceal all passion and philosophy beneath his unhealthy skin. They knew their own business, and he knew his. Yet she liked being with him. He was not a rebuke but a stimulus, and banished morbidity. Some twenty years her senior he preserved a gift that she supposed herself to have already lost, not youth's creative power, but its self-confidence and optimism. He was so sure that it was a very pleasant world. His complexion was robust, his hair had receded but not thinned, the thick mustache and the eyes that Helen had compared to brandy-balls had an agreeable menace in them, whether they were turned towards the slums or towards the stars. Some day, in the millennium, there may be no need for his type. At present, armages due to it from those who think themselves superior and who possibly are. At all events, he responded to my telegram promptly. He remarked. Oh, even I know a good thing when I see it. I'm glad you don't despise the goods of this world. Heavens know! Only idiots and prigs do that. I am glad. Very glad," he repeated, suddenly softening and turning to her, as if the remark had pleased him. There is so much Kant talked in would-be intellectual circles. I am glad you don't share it. Self-denial is all very well as a means of strengthening the character. But I can't stand those people who run down comforts. They usually have some acts to grind. Can you? Comforts are of two kinds," said Margaret, who was keeping herself in hand. Those we can share with others—like fire, weather or music—and those we can't—food, for instance. It depends. I mean reasonable comforts, of course. I shouldn't like to think that you— He bent nearer, the sentence died unfinished. Margaret's head turned very stupid, and the inside of it seemed to revolve like the beacon in a lighthouse. He did not kiss her, for the hour was half past twelve, and the car was passing by the stables of Buckingham Palace. But the atmosphere was so charged with emotion that people only seemed to exist on her account, and she was surprised that Crane did not realize this and turn round. Idiot though she might be, surely Mr. Wilcox was more—how should one put it—more psychological than usual. Always a good judge of character for business purposes. He seemed this afternoon to enlarge his field, and to note qualities outside neatness, obedience, and decision. I want to go over the whole house," she announced when they arrived. As soon as I get back to Swanwich, which will be tomorrow afternoon, I'll talk it over once more with Helen and Tibby, and why you yes or no. Right. The dining-room. And they began their survey. The dining-room was big, but over furnished. Chelsea would have moaned aloud. Mr. Wilcox had eschewed those decorative schemes that wince, and relent, and refrain, and achieved beauty by sacrificing comfort and pluck. After so much self-color and self-denial, Margaret viewed with relief the sumptuous dado, the freeze, the gilded wallpaper, amid whose foliage Parrot sang. It would never do with her own furniture, but those heavy chairs that immense sideboard loaded with presentation-plate stood up against its pressure like men. The room suggested men, and Margaret, keen to derive the modern capitalist from the warriors and hunters of the past, saw it as an ancient guest-hall where the Lord sat at meet among his thanes. Even the Bible, the Dutch Bible that Charles had brought back from the Boer War, fell into position. Such a room admitted loot. Now the entrance-hole. The entrance-hall was paved. Here we fellow smoke. We fellow smoked in chairs of maroon leather. It was as if a motor-car had spawned. "'Oh, jolly,' said Margaret, sinking into one of them. "'You do like it,' he said, fixing his eyes on her upturned face, and surely betraying an almost intimate note. "'It's all rubbish, not making one self-comfortable. Isn't it?' "'Yes. Semi-rubbish. Are those cook-shanks?' "'Gill-rays. Shall we go on upstairs?' "'Does all this furniture come from Howard's End?' "'The Howard's End furniture has all gone to Onerton.' "'Does—however I am concerned with the house, not the furniture. How big is this smoking-room?' "'Thirty by fifteen.' "'No, wait a minute—fifteen and a half.' "'Oh, well—Mr. Wilcox, aren't you ever amused at the solemnity with which we middle-classes approach the subject of houses? They proceeded to the drawing-room. Chelsea managed better here. It was sallow and ineffective. One could visualize the ladies withdrawing to it, while their lords discussed life's realities below to the accompaniment of cigars. Had Mrs. Wilcox's drawing-room looked thus at Howard's End? Just as this thought entered Margaret's brain, Mr. Wilcox did ask her to be his wife, and the knowledge that she had been right so overcame her that she nearly fainted. But the proposal was not to rank among the world's great love-scenes. "'Michelagal,' his voice was firm. "'I have had you up on false pretenses. I wanted to speak about a much more serious matter than a house.' Margaret almost answered, "'I know.' "'Could you be induced to share my—' "'Is it probable?' "'Oh, Mr. Wilcox,' she interrupted, holding the piano and averting her eyes. "'I see—I see—I will write to you afterwards, if I may.' He began to stammer, "'Michelagal—Margaret, you don't understand.' "'Oh, yes—indeed, yes,' said Margaret. "'I am asking you to be my wife.' So deep already was her sympathy, that when he said, "'I am asking you to be my wife,' she made herself give a little start. She must show surprise if he expected it. An immense joy came over her. It was indescribable. It had nothing to do with humanity, and most resembled the all-pervading happiness of fine weather. Fine weather is due to the sun, but Margaret could think of no central radiance here. She stood in his drawing-room happy, and longing to give happiness. On leaving him, she realized that the central radiance had been love. "'You aren't offended, Michelleagal.' "'How could I be offended?' There was a moment's pause. He was anxious to get rid of her, and she knew it. She had too much intuition to look at him as he struggled for possessions that money cannot buy. He desired comradeship and affection, but he feared them. And she, who had taught herself only to desire, and could have clothed the struggle with beauty, held back, and hesitated with him. "'Good-bye,' she continued. "'You will have a letter from me. I am going back to Swanage to-morrow.' "'Thank you.' "'Good-bye, and it's you, I thank.' "'I may order the motor round, may I?' "'That would be most kind.' "'I wish I had written instead. Or I to have written. Not at all.' "'There's just one question.' She shook her head. He looked a little bewildered, and they parted. They parted without shaking hands. She had kept the interview for his sake, intense of the quietest gray. Yet she thrilled with happiness as she reached her own house. Others had loved her in the past, if one may apply to their brief desires so grave a word. But those others had been ninnies, young men who had nothing better to do, old men who could find nobody better. And she had often loved, too, but only so far as the facts of sex demanded, mere yearnings for the masculine, to be dismissed for what they were worth with a smile. Never before had her personality been touched. She was not young or very rich, and it amazed her that a man of any standing should take her seriously. As she sat trying to do accounts in her empty house, amidst beautiful pictures and noble books, waves of emotion broke as if a tide of passion was flowing through the night air. She shook her head, tried to concentrate her attention, and failed. In vain did she repeat, but I've been through this sort of thing before. She had never been through it. The big machinery, as opposed to the little, had been set in motion, and the idea that Mr. Wilcox loved, obsessed her before she came to love him in return. She would come to no decision yet. Oh, sir, this is so sudden! That prudish phrase exactly expressed her when her time came. Premonitions are not preparation. She must examine more closely her own nature and his. She must talk it over judicially with Helen. It had been a strange love scene, the central radiance unacknowledged from first to last. She, in his place, would have said, But perhaps it was not his habit to open the heart. He might have done it if she had pressed him. As a matter of duty, perhaps, England expects every man to open his heart once. But the effort would have jarred him. And never, if she could have voided, should he lose those defences that he had chosen to raise against the world. He must never be bothered with emotional talk or with a display of sympathy. He was an elderly man now, and it would be futile and impudent to correct him. Mrs. Wilcox strayed in and out, ever a welcome ghost. Surveying the scene, thought Margaret, without one hint of bitterness. End of Chapter 18 Chapter 19 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. Recording by Elizabeth Klett Howard's End by E. M. Forster Chapter 19 If one wanted to show a foreign or England, perhaps the wisest course would be to take him to the final section of the Purbeck Hills, and stand him on their summit, a few miles to the east of Corf. Then, system after system of our island would roll together under his feet. Beneath him is the valley of the Frome, and all the wild lands that come tossing down from Dorchester, black and gold, to mirror their gorse in the expanses of Poole. The valley of the store is beyond, unaccountable stream, dirty at Blandford, pure at Wimborn, the store sliding out of fat fields to marry the Avon beneath the tower of Christchurch. The valley of the Avon, invisible, but far to the north, the trained eye may see clearberry ring that guards it, and the imagination may leap beyond that onto Salisbury Plain itself, and beyond the plain to all the glorious downs of central England. Nor is Suburbia absent. Bournemouth's ignoble coast cowers to the right, heralding the pine trees that mean for all their beauty red houses, and the stock exchange, and extend to the gates of London itself. So tremendous is the city's trail. But the cliffs of freshwater it shall never touch, and the island will guard the island's purity till the end of time. Seen from the west, the white is beautiful beyond all laws of beauty. It is as if a fragment of England floated forward to greet the foreigner, chalk of our chalk, turf of our turf, epitome of what will follow. And behind the fragment lies Southampton, hostess to the nations, and Portsmouth, a latent fire, and all around it with double and treble collision of tides swirls the sea. How many villages appear in this view? How many castles? How many churches vanished or triumphant? How many ships, railways, and roads? What incredible variety of men working beneath that lucent sky to what final end? The reason fails, like a wave on the swanage beach. The imagination swells, spreads, and deepens, until it becomes geographic, and encircles England. So Frieda Mosbach, now Frau architect Lisik, and mother to her husband's baby, was brought up to these heights to be impressed, and after a prolonged gaze, she said that the hills were more swelling here than in Promerania, which was true, but did not seem to Mrs. Mundt's episode. Pool harbour was dry, which led her to praise the absence of muddy foreshore at the Friedrich Wilhelm's Bad, Rugen, where beech trees hang over the tideless Baltic, and cows may contemplate the brine. Rather unhealthy Mrs. Mundt thought this would be, water being safer when it moved about. And your English lakes, Windymia, Grasmia, Arzaisen, unhelsi? No, Frau Lisik, but that is because they are fresh water and different. Salt water, all to have tides, and go up and down a great deal, or else it smells. Look, for instance, at an aquarium. An aquarium? Oh, Mrs. Mundt, you mean to tell me that fresh aquariums stink less than salt? Why, when Victor, my brother-in-law, collected many tadpoles? You are not to say stink, interrupted Helen. At least you may say it, but you must pretend you are being funny while you say it. Then smell, and the muds of your pool down there, does it not smell, or may I say stink ha-ha? There always has been mud in pool harbour, said Mrs. Mundt with a slight frown. The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster fishery depends upon it. Yes, that is so, conceded Frida, and another international incident was closed. Bournemouth is, resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached. Bournemouth is, pool was, and swannage is to be the most important town of all, and biggest of the three. Now, frowlesick, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you pool, so let us walk backward a little, and look down again at swannage. Aunt Julie, wouldn't that be Meg's train? A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing southwards towards them over the black and the gold. Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won't be overtired. Oh, I do wonder—I do wonder whether she's taken the house. I hope she hasn't been hasty. So do I. Oh, so do I. Will it be as beautiful as you can place? Frida asked. I should think it would. Trust Mr. Wilcox for doing himself proud. All those deucey street houses are beautiful in their modern way, and I can't think why he doesn't keep on with it. But it's really for Evie that he went there, and now that Evie's going to be married. Ah! You've never seen, Miss Wilcox Frida, how absurdly matrimonial you are. But sister to that Paul? Yes. And to that Charles, said Mrs. Mundt with feeling. Oh, Helen! Helen, what a time that was! Helen laughed. Meg and I haven't got such tender hearts. If there's a chance of a cheap house, we go for it. Now look, Frau Lysik, at my niece's train. You see, it is coming towards us—coming, coming—and when it gets to Corf, it will actually go through the downs on which we are standing, so that, if we walk over, as I suggested, and look down on Swanage, we shall see it coming on the other side. Shall we? Frida assented, and in a few minutes they had crossed the ridge and exchanged the greater view for the lesser. Rather a dull valley lay below, backed by the slope of the coastward downs. They were looking across the isle of Purbeck and on to Swanage, soon to be the most important town of all, and the ugliest of the three. Margaret's train reappeared, as promised, and was greeted with approval by her aunt. It came to a standstill in the middle distance, and there it had been planned that Tibi should meet her, and drive her and a tea-basket up to join them. You see—continued Helen to her cousin. The Wilcox's collect houses as your victor collects tadpoles. They have one, Ducey Street, two, Howard's End, where my great rumpus was, three, a country seat in Shropshire, four, Charles has a house in Hilton, and five, another near Epsom, and six, Evie will have a house when she marries, and probably a Pied Artaire in the country, which makes seven. Oh yes, and Paul a hut in Africa makes eight. I wish we could get Howard's End. That was something like a dear little house. Didn't you think so, Aunt Julie? I had too much to do, dear, to look at it, said Mrs. Mundt, with a gracious dignity. I had everything to settle and explain, and Charles Wilcox to keep in his place besides. It isn't likely I should remember much. I just remember having lunch in your bedroom. Yes, so do I. But, oh dear, dear, how dead it all seems! And in the autumn there began this anti-Pauline movement—you and Frida, and Meg, and Mrs. Wilcox—all obsessed with the idea that I might yet marry Paul. You yet may, said Frida despondently. Helen shook her head. The great Wilcox peril will never return. If I'm certain of anything, it's of that. One is certain of nothing, but the truth of one's own emotions. The remark fell damply on the conversation. But Helen slipped her arm round her cousin, somehow liking her the better for making it. It was not an original remark. Nor had Frida appropriated it passionately, for she had a patriotic rather than a philosophic mind. Yet it betrayed that interest in the universal which the average tooton possesses, and the average Englishman does not. It was, however, illogically, the good, the beautiful, the true, as opposed to the respectable, the pretty, the adequate. It was a landscape of booklands, beside a landscape of ladders, strident and ill-considered, but quivering into supernatural life. It sharpened idealism, stirred the soul. It may have been a bad preparation for what followed. Look! cried Aunt Julie, hurrying away from generalities over the narrow summit of the down. Stand where I stand, and you will see the pony-cart coming. I see the pony-cart coming. They stood and saw the pony-cart coming. Margaret and Tibbie were presently seen coming in it. Leaving the outskirts of Swanwich, it drove for a little through the budding lanes, and then began the ascent. Have you got the house? they shouted, long before she could possibly hear. Helen ran down to meet her. The high road passed over a saddle, and a track went thence at right angles along the ridge of the down. Have you got the house? Margaret shook her head. Oh, what a nuisance! so we are as we were. Not exactly. She got out, looking tired. Some mystery, said Tibbie. We ought to be enlightened presently. Margaret came close up to her and whispered that she had had a proposal of marriage for Mr. Wilcox. Helen was amused. She opened the gate on to the down so that her brother might lead the pony through. It's just like a widower, she remarked. They've cheek enough for anything, and invariably select one of their first wife's friends. Margaret's face flashed a spare. That type—she broke off with a cry. Meg, not anything wrong with you. Wait one minute, said Margaret, whispering always. But you've never conceivably—you've never— she pulled herself together. Tibbie, hurry up through. I can't hold this gate indefinitely. Aunt Julie—I say, Aunt Julie, make the tea, will you, and Frida. We've got to talk houses, and I'll come on afterwards. And then, turning her face to her sisters, she burst into tears. Margaret was stupefied. She heard herself saying, Oh, really? She felt herself touched with a hand that trembled. Don't, sob-tellin. Don't, don't, Meg, don't! She seemed incapable of saying any other word. Margaret, trembling herself, led her forward up the road, till they strayed through another gate on to the down. Don't, don't do such a thing. I tell you not to. Don't—I know—don't! What do you know? Panic and emptiness, sob-tellin. Don't!—then Margaret thought. Helen is a little selfish. I have never behaved like this, when there has seemed a chance of her marrying. She said, But we would still see each other very often, and— It's not a thing like that, sob-tellin. And she broke right away, and wandered distractedly upwards, stretching her hands towards the view, and crying. What's happened to you? called Margaret, following through the wind that gathers its undown on the northern slopes of hills. But it's stupid! And suddenly stupidity seized her, and the immense landscape was blurred. But Helen turned back. Meg! I don't know what's happened to either of us, said Margaret, wiping her eyes. We must both have gone mad! Then Helen wiped hers, and they even laughed a little. Look here, sit down. All right, I'll sit down, if you'll sit down. There! One kiss. Now, whatever, whatever is the matter? I do mean what I said. Don't! It wouldn't do. Oh, Helen, stop saying don't! It's ignorant! It's as if your head wasn't out of the slime. Don't is probably what Mrs. Bass says all the day to Mr. Bass. Helen was silent. Well? Tell me about it first. And meanwhile, perhaps, I'll have got my head out of the slime. That's better? Well, where shall I begin? When I arrived at Waterloo— No, I'll go back before that, because I'm anxious you should know everything from the first. The first was about ten days ago. It was the day Mr. Bass came to tea and lost his temper. I was defending him, and Mr. Wilcox became jealous about me, however slightly. I thought it was the involuntary thing, which men can't help any more than we can. You know, at least I know, in my own case, when a man has said to me, So-and-so is a pretty girl. I am seized with a momentary sourness against so-and-so, and longed to tweak her ear. It's a tiresome feeling, but not an important one, and one easily manages it. But it wasn't only this in Mr. Wilcox's case—I gather now—then you love him." Margaret considered. It is wonderful knowing that a real man cares for you, she said. The mere fact of that grows more tremendous. Remember, I've known and liked him steadily for nearly three years. But loved him? Margaret peered into her past. It is pleasant to analyze feelings while they are still only feelings, and unembodied in the social fabric. With her arm round Helen, and her eyes shifting over the view, as if this county or that could reveal the secret of her own heart, she meditated honestly and said, No. But you will. Yes, said Margaret, of that I'm pretty sure. Indeed, I began the moment he spoke to me, and have settled to marry him. I had, but I'm wanting a long talk about it now. What is it against him, Helen? You must try and say. Helen, in her turn, looked outwards. It is ever since Paul, she said, finally. But what has Mr. Wilcox to do with Paul? But he was there. They were all there that morning when I came down to breakfast, and saw that Paul was frightened, the man who loved me frightened, and all his paraphernalia fallen, so that I knew it was impossible, because personal relations are the most important thing for ever and ever, and not this outer life of telegrams and anger. She poured the sentence forth in one breath, but her sister understood it, because it touched on thoughts that were familiar between them. That's foolish. In the first place, I disagree about the outer life. Well, we've often argued that. The real point is that there is the widest gulf between my love-making and yours. Yours was romance. Mine will be prose. I'm not running it down—a very good kind of prose, but well considered, well thought out. For instance, I know all Mr. Wilcox's faults. He's afraid of emotion. He cares too much about success, too little about the past. His sympathy lacks poetry, and so isn't sympathy, really. I'd even say—she looked at the shining lagoons— that spiritually he's not as honest as I am. Doesn't that satisfy you? No, it doesn't, said Helen. It makes me feel worse and worse. You must be mad! Margaret made a movement of irritation. I don't intend him, or any man, or any woman, to be all my life—good heavens know. There are heaps of things in me that he doesn't, and shall never understand. Thus she spoke before the wedding ceremony in the physical union, before the astonishing glass shade had fallen that interposes between married couples in the world. She was to keep her independence more than do most women as yet. Marriage was to alter her fortunes rather than her character, and she was not far wrong in boasting that she understood her future husband. Yet he did alter her character a little. There was an unforeseen surprise, a cessation of the winds and odours of life, a social pressure that would have her think conjugally. So with him, she continued, there are heaps of things in him, more especially things that he does, that will always be hidden from me. He has all those public qualities which he so despise and enable all this. She waved her hand at the landscape, which confirmed anything. If Wilcox's hadn't worked and died in England for thousands of years, you and I couldn't sit here without having our throats cut. There would be no trains, no ships to carry us literary people about him, no fields even—just savagery. No, perhaps not even that. Without their spirit, life might never have moved out of protoplasm. More and more do I refuse to draw my income and sneer at those who guarantee it. There are times when it seems to me, and to me, and to all women, so one kissed poor. That's brutal, said Margaret. Mine is an absolutely different case. I've thought things out. It makes no difference thinking things out. They come to the same. Rubbish! There was a long silence, during which the tide returned into pool-harbour. One would lose something, murmured Helen, apparently to herself. The water crept over the mud-flats towards the gorse and the blackened heather. Branxy Island lost its immense foreshores, and became a somber episode of trees. Frome was forced inward towards Dorchester, store against Wimborn, even towards Salisbury, and over the immense displacement the sun presided, leading it to triumph ere he sank to rest. England was alive, throbbing through all her estuaries, crying for joy through the mouths of all her gulls, and the north wind, with contrary motion, blew stronger against her rising seas. What did it mean? For what end are her fair complexities, her changes of soil, her sinuous coast? Does she belong to those who have molded her and made her feared by other lands, or to those who have added nothing to her power, but have somehow seen her, seen the whole island at once, lying as a jewel in a silver sea, sailing as a ship of souls, with all the brave world's fleet accompanying her towards eternity? End of chapter 19 Chapter 20 Margaret had often wondered at the disturbance that takes place in the world's waters, when love, who seems so tiny a pebble, slips in. Whom does love concern beyond the beloved and the lover? Yet his impact deluges a hundred shores. No doubt the disturbance is really the spirit of the generations, welcoming the new generation, and chafing against the ultimate fate, who holds all the seas in the palm of her hand. But love cannot understand this. He cannot comprehend another's infinity. He is conscious only of his own, flying sunbeam, falling rose, pebble that asks for one quiet plunge below the fretting interplay of space and time. He knows that he will survive at the end of things, and be gathered by fate as a jewel from the slime, and be handed with admiration round the assembly of the gods. Men did produce this, they will say, and saying they will give men immortality. But meanwhile, what agitations meanwhile? The foundations of property and propriety are laid bare, twin rocks, family pride flounders to the surface, puffing and blowing, and refusing to be comforted. Theology, vaguely ascetic, gets up a nasty groundswell. Then the lawyers are aroused, cold brood, and creep out of their holes. They do what they can. They tidy up property and propriety, reassure theology and family pride. Half guineas are poured on the troubled waters, the lawyers creep back. And if all has gone well, love joins one man and woman together in matrimony. Margaret had expected the disturbance, and was not irritated by it. For a sensitive woman she had steady nerves, and can bear with the incongruous and the grotesque, and besides there was nothing excessive about her love affair. Good humour was the dominant note of her relations with Mr. Wilcox, or, as I must now call him, Henry. Henry did not encourage romance, and she was no girl to fidget for it. An acquaintance had become a lover, might become a husband, but would retain all that she had noted in the acquaintance, and love must confirm an old relation, rather than reveal a new one. In this spirit she promised to marry him. He was in Swanage on the morrow, bearing the engagement ring. They greeted one another with a hearty cordiality that impressed Aunt Julie. Henry dined at the bays, but he had engaged a bedroom in the principal hotel. He was one of those men who knew the principal hotel by instinct. After dinner he asked Margaret if she wouldn't care for a turn on the parade. She accepted, and could not repress a little tremor. It would be her first real love scene. But as she put on her hat she burst out laughing. Love was so unlike the article served up in books. The joy, though genuine, was different. The mystery and unexpected mystery. For one thing Mr. Wilcox still seemed a stranger. For a time they talked about the ring. Then she said, Do you remember the embankment at Chelsea? It can't be ten days ago. Yes, he said, laughing. And you and your sister were head and ears deep in some quixotic scheme. Ah, Wil. I little thought then, certainly. Did you? I don't know about that. I shouldn't like to say. Why was it earlier? she cried. Did you think of me this way earlier? How extraordinarily interesting, Henry, tell me! But Henry had no intention of telling. Perhaps he could not have told, for his mental states became obscure as soon as he had passed through them. He misliked the very word interesting, connoting it with wasted energy and even with morbidity. Hard facts were enough for him. I didn't think of it, she pursued. No, when you spoke to me in the drawing-room that was practically the first. It was all so different from what it's supposed to be. On the stage, or in books, a proposal is—how shall I put it?—a full-blown affair, a kind of bouquet. It loses its literal meaning. But in life a proposal really is a proposal. By the way, a suggestion, a seed, she concluded, and the thought flew away into darkness. I was thinking, if you didn't mind, that we ought to spend this evening in a business talk. There will be so much to settle. I think so too. Tell me in the first place, how did you get on with Tibi? With your brother? Yes, during cigarettes. Oh, very well. I'm so glad," she answered, a little surprised. What did you talk about? A me, presumably. About Greece, too. Greece was a very good card, Henry. Tibi's only a boy still, and one has to pick and choose subjects a little. Well done! I was telling him I have shares in a current farm near Calamata. What a delightful thing to have shares in! Can't we go there for our honeymoon? What to do? To eat the currents. And isn't there marvellous scenery? Moderately, but it's not the kind of place one could possibly go to with a lady. Why not? No hotels. Some ladies do without hotels. Are you aware that Helen and I have walked alone over the Apennines with our luggage on our backs? I wasn't aware, and if I can manage it, you will never do such a thing again. She said more gravely. You haven't found time for a talk with Helen yet, I suppose? No. Do, before you go. I am so anxious you two should be friends. Your sister and I have always hit it off, he said negligently. But we're drifting away from our business. Let me begin at the beginning. You know that Tibi is going to marry Percy Carhill. A dolly's uncle. Exactly. The girls madly in love with him. A very good sort of fellow. But he demands—and rightly—a suitable provision with her. And in the second place you will naturally understand there is Charles. Before leaving town I wrote Charles a very careful letter. You see, he has an increasing family and increasing expenses, and the I and W.A. is nothing particular just now, though capable of development. Poor fellow! murmured Margaret, looking out to sea, and not understanding. Charles being the elder son, someday, Charles will have Howard's end. But I am anxious, and my own happiness, not to be unjust to others. Of course not! she began, and then gave a little cry. You mean money! How stupid I am! Of course not! Oddly enough, he winced a little at the word. Yes—money, since you put it so frankly—I am determined to be just to all—just to you, just to them—I am determined that my children shall have no case against me. Be generous to them, she said sharply, bother justice. I am determined, and have already written to Charles to that effect. But how much have you got? What? How much have you got a year? I have six hundred. My income? Yes—we must begin with how much you have, before we can settle on how much you can give Charles—justice and even generosity depend on that. I must say you're a downright young woman—he observed, patting her arm and laughing a little. What a question does bring on a fellow! Don't you know your income? Oh, don't you want to tell it to me? I— That's all right—now she padded him. Don't tell me. I don't want to know. I can do the sum just as well by proportion. Divide your income into ten parts. How many parts would you give to Evie? How many to Charles? How many to Paul? The fact is, my dear, I hadn't any intention of bothering you with details. I only wanted to let you know that—well—that something must be done for the others, and you've understood me perfectly. So let's pass on to the next point. Yes, we've settled that, said Margaret, undisturbed by his strategic blunderings. Go ahead. Give away all you can. Bearing in mind, I have a clear six hundred. What a mercy it is to have all this money about one. We've none too much, I assure you. You're marrying a poor man. Helen wouldn't agree with me here, she continued. Helen derent slang the rich being rich herself, but she would like to. There's an old notion that I haven't yet got hold of, running about at the back of her brain, that poverty is somehow real. She dislikes all organization, and probably confuses wealth with the technique of wealth. Sovereigns in a stocking wouldn't bother her. Checks do. Helen is too relentless. One can't deal in her high-handed manner with the world. There's this other point, and then I must go back to my hotel and write some letters. What's to be done now about the house and Doosie Street? Keep it on. At least, it depends. When do you want to marry me? She raised her voice, as too often, and some youths who were also taking the evening air, overheard her. Getting a bit hot, eh? said one. Mr. Wilcox turned on them and said sharply, I say! There was silence. Take care, I don't report you to the police. They moved away quietly enough, but were only biding their time, and the rest of the conversation was punctuated by peals of ungovernable laughter. Lowering his voice and infusing a hint of reproof into it, he said, Evie will probably be married in September. We could scarcely think of anything before then. The earlier the nicer, Henry. Females are not supposed to say such things, but the earlier the nicer. How about September for us, too? he asked, rather dryly. Right. Shall we go into Doosie Street ourselves in September? Or shall we try to bounce Helen and Tibbie into it? That's rather an idea. They are so unbusinesslike, we could make them do anything by judicious management. Look here! Yes! We'll do that! And we ourselves could live at Howard's End or Shropshire. He blew out his cheeks. Heavens, how you women do fly round! My heads in whirl! Point by point, Margaret! Howard's End's impossible! I let it to hammer Bryce on a three-year's agreement last March. Don't you remember? Onerton, well, that is much, much too far away to rely on entirely. You will be able to be down there entertaining a certain amount, but we must have a house with an easy reach of town. Only Doosie Street has huge drawbacks. There's a muse behind. Margaret could not help laughing. It was the first she had heard of the muse behind Doosie Street. When she was a possible tenant, it had suppressed itself, not consciously, but automatically. The breezy Wilcox Manor, though genuine, lacked the clearness of vision that is imperative for truth. When Henry lived in Doosie Street, he remembered the muse. When he tried to let, he forgot it. And if anyone had remarked that the muse must be either there or not, he would have felt annoyed, and afterwards have found some opportunity of stigmatizing the speaker as academic. So does my grocer stigmatize me when I complain of the quality of his sultanas, and he answers in one breath that they are the best sultanas, and how can I expect the best sultanas at that price? It is a flaw inherent in the business mind, and Margaret may do well to be tender to it, considering all the business mind has done for England. Yes, in summer especially, the muse is a serious nuisance. The smoking-room, too, is an abominable little den. The house opposite has been taken by operatic people. Doosie Street's going down—it's my private opinion. How sad! It's only a few years since they built those pretty houses. So's things are moving—good for trade. I hate this continual flux of London. It is an epitome of us at our worst—eternal formlessness—all the qualities—good, bad, and indifferent—streaming away—streaming, streaming, forever. That's why I dread it so. I mistrust rivers even in scenery. Now, the sea! High tide, yes. Hoy-toid, from the promenading youths. And these are the men to whom we give the vote, observed Mr. Wilcox, omitting to add that they were also the men to whom he gave work as clerks—work that scarcely encouraged them to grow into other men. However, they have their own lives and interests. Let's get on. He turned as he spoke, and prepared to see her back to the bays. The business was over. His hotel was in the opposite direction, and if he accompanied her, his letters would be late for the post. She implored him not to come, but he was obdurate. A nice beginning, if your aunt saw you slip in alone. But I always do go about alone. Considering I've walked over the Apennines, it's common sense. He will make me so angry. I don't the least take it as a compliment. He laughed and lit a cigar. It isn't meant as a compliment, my dear. I just won't have you going about in the dark. Such people about, too. It's dangerous. Can't I look after myself? I do wish. Come along, Margaret, no weedling. A younger woman might have resented his masterly ways, but Margaret had too firm a grip of life to make a fuss. She was, in her own way, as masterly. If he was a fortress, she was a mountain peak, whom all might tread, but whom the snows made nightly virginal. Distaining the heroic outfit, excitable in her methods, garrulous, episodical, shrill, she misled her lover much as she had misled her aunt. He mistook her fertility for weakness. He supposed her, as clever as they make them, but no more, not realizing that she was penetrating to the depths of his soul, and approving of what she found there. And if insight were sufficient, if the inner life were the whole of life, their happiness has been assured. They walked ahead briskly. The parade and the road after it were well-lighted, but it was darker in Aunt Julie's garden. As they were going up by the side-paths, through some road-edendrons, Mr. Wilcox, who was in front, said, Margaret, rather huskily, turned, dropped a cigar, and took her in his arms. She was startled and nearly screamed, but recovered herself at once, and kissed with genuine love the lips that were pressed against her own. It was their first kiss, and when it was over he saw her safely to the door and rang the bell for her, but disappeared into the night before the maid answered it. On looking back the incident displeased her. It was so isolated. Nothing in their previous conversation had heralded it. And, worse still, no tenderness had ensued. If a man cannot lead up to passion, he can, at all events, lead down from it, and she had hoped, after her complacence, for some interchange of gentle words. But he had hurried away as if ashamed, and for an instant she was reminded of Helen and Paul. CHAPTER XXI Charles had just been scolding his dolly. She deserved the scolding, and had bent before it, but her head, though bloody, was unsubdued, and her cheerupings began to mingle with his retreating thunder. You've woken the baby. I knew you would. Rumty-foo! Rackety-tackety-tompkin! I'm not responsible for what Uncle Percy does, nor for anybody else or anything, so there. Who asked him while I was away? Who asked my sister down to meet him? Who sent them out in the moat day after day? Charles, that reminds me of some poem. Does it, indeed? We shall all be dancing to a very different music presently. Miss Schlegel has fairly got us on toast. I could simply scratch that woman's eyes out, and to say it's my fault is most unfair. It's your fault, and five months ago you admitted it. I didn't! You did. Toodle! Toodle! Playing on the poodle! exclaimed Dali, suddenly devoting herself to the child. It's all very well to turn the conversation, but Father would never have dreamt of marrying as long as Evie was there to make him comfortable. But you must need start matchmaking. Besides, Charles too old. Of course, if you're going to be rude to Uncle Percy! Miss Schlegel always meant to get hold of Howard's end, and thanks to you she's got it. I call the way you twist things round and make them hang together most unfair. You couldn't have been nastier if you'd caught me flirting. Could he didoms? We're in a bad hole, and must make the best of it. I shall answer the painter's letter civilly. He's evidently anxious to do the decent thing. But I do not intend to forget these Schlegels in a hurry. As long as they're on their best behaviour. Dali, are you listening? We'll behave too. But if I find them giving themselves airs or monopolising my father, or at all ill-treating him, or worrying him with their artistic beatliness, I intend to put my foot down—yes, firmly—taking my mother's place. Heaven knows what poor old Paul will say when the news reaches him. The interlude closes. It has taken place in Charles's garden at Hilton. He and Dali are sitting in deck-chairs, and their motor is regarding them placidly from its garage across the lawn. A short frocked addition of Charles also regards them placidly. A perambulator addition is squeaking. A third addition is expected shortly. Nature is turning out Wilcox's in this peaceful abode, so that they may inherit the earth. CHAPTER XXII Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments—half monks, half beasts—unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the gray, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings, the roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy going. It was hard going in the roads of Mr. Wilcox's soul. From boyhood he had neglected them. I am not a fellow who both is about my own inside. Outwardly he was cheerful, reliable, and brave, but within. All had reverted to chaos. Ruled so far as it was ruled at all by an incomplete asceticism. Whether as boy, husband, or widower, he had always the sneaking belief that bodily passion is bad—a belief that is desirable only when held passionately. Religion had confirmed him. The words that were read aloud on Sunday to him, and to other respectable men, were the words that had once kindled the souls of St. Catherine and St. Francis into a white-hot hatred of the carnal. He could not be as the saints, and love the infinite with a seraphic ardor, but he could be a little ashamed of loving a wife. Amabot Amare Timabot And it was here that Margaret hoped to help him. It did not seem so difficult. She need trouble him with no gift of her own. She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man. Only connect. That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that his life to either, will die. Nor was the message difficult to give. It need not take the form of a good talking. By quiet indications the bridge would be built and span their lives with beauty. But she failed. For there was one quality in Henry for which she was never prepared, however much she reminded herself of it—his obtuseness. He simply did not notice things, and there was no more to be said. He never noticed that Helen and Frida were hostile, or that Tibi was not interested in current plantations. He never noticed the lights and shades that exist in the grayest conversation—the finger-posts, the milestones, the collisions, the illimitable views. Once, on another occasion, she scolded him about it. He was puzzled, but replied with a laugh, My motto is concentrate. I have no intention of frittering away my strength on that sort of thing. It isn't frittering away the strength, she protested. It's enlarging the space in which you may be strong. He answered, You're a clever little woman, but my motto is concentrate. And this morning he concentrated with the vengeance. They met in the road-edendrons of yesterday. In the daylight the bushes were inconsiderable, and the path was bright in the morning sun. She was with Helen, who had been ominously quiet since the affair was settled. Here we all are! she cried, and took him by one hand, retaining her sisters and the other. Here we are. Good morning, Helen! Helen replied. Good morning, Mr. Wilcox. Henry! she has had such a nice letter from the queer cross-boy. Do you remember him? He had a sad moustache, but the back of his head was young. I have had a letter too, not a nice one. I wanted to talk it over with you. For Leonard Bast was nothing to him now that she had given him her word. The triangle of sex was broken for ever. Thanks to your hint, he's clearing out of the Porphyrian. Not a bad business, that Porphyrian? He said absently, as he took his own letter out of his pocket. Not a bad? She exclaimed, dropping his hand. Surely, on Chelsea embankment. Here's our hostess. Good morning, Mrs. Munt. Fine, wrote a dendrons. Good morning, Frau Lisik. We managed to grow flowers in England, don't we? Not a bad business. No. My letter's about Howard's end. Bryce has been ordered abroad and wants to sublet it. I am far from sure that I shall give him permission. There is no clause in the agreement. In my opinion, subletting is a mistake. If he can find me another tenant whom I consider suitable, I may cancel the agreement. Morning, Schlegel. Don't you think that's better than subletting? Helen had dropped her hand now, and he had steered her past the whole party to the seaward side of the house. Beneath them was the bourgeois little bay, which must have yearned all through the centuries for just such a watering-place as swanage to be built on its margin. The waves were colourless, and the Bournemouth steamer gave a further touch of incipidity, drawn up against the pier and hooting wildly for excursionists. When there is a sublet, I find that damage—do excuse me, but about the porphyryan. I don't feel easy. Might I just bother you, Henry? Her manner was so serious that he starved, and asked her a little sharply what she wanted. You said, on Chelsea embankment, surely, that it was a bad concern, so he advised this clerk to clear out. He writes this morning that he's taken our advice, and now you say it's not a bad concern. A clerk who clears out of any concern, good or bad, without securing a birth somewhere else first is a fool, and I've no pity for him. He has not done that. He's going into a bank in Camden-town, he says. The salary's much lower, but he hopes to manage. A branch of Dempster's bank. Is that all right? Dempster? My goodness me, yes. More right than the porphyryan. Yes, yes, yes, safer's houses, safer. Very many thanks. I'm sorry, if you sublet. If he sublets, I shan't have the same control. In theory, there should be no more damage done at Howard's End. In practice, there will be. Things may be done for which no money can compensate. For instance, I shouldn't want that fine witch-elm spoilt. It hangs— Margaret, we must go and see the old place some time. It's pretty in its way. We'll motor down and have lunch with Charles. I should enjoy that, said Margaret bravely. What about next Wednesday? Wednesday? No, I couldn't well do that. Aunt Julie expects us to stop here another week at least. But you can give that up now. Uh, no—said Margaret after a moment's thought. Oh, that'll be all right. I'll speak to her. This visit is a high solemnity. My aunt counts on it year after year. She turns the house upside down for us. She invites our special friends. She scarcely knows Frieda, and we can't leave her on her hands. I missed one day, and she would be so hurt if I didn't stay the full ten. But I'll say a word to her, don't you bother. Henry, I won't go. Don't bully me. You want to see the house, though? Very much. I've heard so much about it one way or the other. Aren't there pigs' teeth in the witch-elm? Pigs' teeth? And you chew the bark for toothache? What a rum notion! Of course not. Perhaps I have it confused with some other tree. There are still a great number of sacred trees in England, it seems. But he left her to intercept Mrs. Mundt, whose voice could be heard in the distance, to be intercepted himself by Helen. Oh, Mr. Wilcox, about the Porphyrian. She began, and went scarlet all over her face. It's all right—Cald Margaret, catching them up—Demster's bank's better. But I think you told us that the Porphyrian was bad, and would smash before Christmas. Did I? It was still outside the tariff-ring, and had to take rotten policies. Lately it came in, safe as houses now. In other words, Mr. Bast need never have left it. No, the fellow needn't, and needn't have started life elsewhere to greatly reduced salary. He only says reduced—corrected Margaret, seeing trouble ahead. With a man so poor every reduction must be great, I consider it a deplorable misfortune. Mr. Wilcox, intent on his business with Mrs. Mundt, was going steadily on, but the last remark made him say— What? What's that? Do you mean that I'm responsible? You're ridiculous, Helen. You seem to think—he looked at his watch. Let me explain the point to you. It is like this. You seem to assume, when a business concern is conducting a delicate negotiation, it ought to keep the public informed, stage by stage. The Porphyrian, according to you, was bound to say, I am trying all I can to get into the tariff-ring. I am not sure that I shall succeed, but it is the only thing that will save me from insolvency, and I am trying. My dear Helen, is that your point? A man who had little money has less. That's mine. I am grieved for your clerk. But it is all in the day's work. It's part of the battle of life. A man who had little money, she repeated, has less owing to us. Under these circumstances, I do not consider the battle of life a happy expression. Oh, come, come! he protested pleasantly. You're not to blame. No one's to blame. Is no one to blame for anything? I wouldn't say that, but you're taking it far too seriously. Who is this fellow? We have told you about the fellow twice already, said Helen. You have even met the fellow. He is very poor, and his wife is an extravagant imbecile. He is capable of better things. We—we the upper classes—thought we would help him from the height of our superior knowledge, and here's the result. He raised his finger. Now a word of advice. I require no more advice. A word of advice. Don't take up that sentimental attitude over the poor. See that she doesn't, Margaret. The poor are poor, and one's sorry for them, but there it is. As civilisation moves forward, the shoe is bound to pinch in places, and it's absurd to pretend that anyone is responsible personally. Neither you, nor I, nor my informant, nor the man who informed him, nor the directors of the Porphyrian utter blame for this clerk's loss of salary. It's just the shoe pinching. No one can help it, and it might easily have been worse. Helen quivered with indignation. By all means, subscribe to charities. Subscribe to them largely. But don't get carried away by absurd schemes of social reform. I see a good deal behind the scenes, and you can take it from me that there is no social question, except for a few journalists who try to get a living out of the phrase. There are just rich and poor, as there always have been, and always will be. Point me out a time when men have been equal. I didn't say. Point me out a time when desire for equality has made them happier. No. No, you can't. There have always been rich and poor. I'm no fatalist. Heaven forbid. But our civilisation is moulded by great impersonal forces. His voice grew complacent. It always did when he eliminated the personal. And there will always be rich and poor. You can't deny it, and now it was a respectful voice. And you can't deny that in spite of all the tendency of civilisation has on the whole been upward. Owing to God, I suppose, flashed Helen. He stared at her. You grab the dollas. God does the rest. It was no good instructing the girl if she was going to talk about God in that neurotic modern way. Fraternal to the last he left her for the quieter company of Mrs. Munt. He thought, she rather reminds me of Dolly. Helen looked out at the sea. Don't even discuss political economy with Henry, advised her sister. It'll only end in a cry. But he must be one of those men who have reconciled science with religion, said Helen slowly. I don't like those men. They are scientific themselves, and talk of the survival of the fittest, and cut down the salaries of their clerks, and stunt the independence of all who may menace their comfort. But yet they believe that somehow good—and it is always that sloppy, somehow—will be the outcome, and that in some mystical way the Mr. Bast's of the future will benefit because the Mr. Bast's of today are in pain. He is such a man in theory. But oh, Helen, in theory! But oh, Meg, what a theory! Why should you put things so bitterly, Deary? Because I'm an old maid, said Helen, biting her lip. I can't think why I go on like this myself. She shook off her sister's hand and went into the house. Margaret, distressed at the day's beginning, followed the Bournemouth steamer with her eyes. She saw that Helen's nerves were exasperated by the unlucky Bast business beyond the bounds of politeness. There might at any minute be a real explosion, which even Henry would notice. Henry must be removed. Margaret! her aunt called. Magsy! It isn't true, surely, what Mr. Wilcox says, that you want to go away early next week. Not want, was Margaret's prompt reply. But there is so much to be settled, and I do want to see the Charles's. But going away without taking the Weymouth trip, or even the Lullworth, said Mrs. Munt, coming nearer, without going once more up nine barrows down. I'm afraid so. Mr. Wilcox rejoined her with. Good! I do the breaking of the ice. A wave of tenderness came over her. She put a hand on either shoulder, and looked deeply into the black, bright eyes. What was behind their competent stare? She knew, but was not disquieted. CHAPTER XXIII. Margaret had no intention of letting things slide, and the evening before she left Swanage she gave her sister a thorough scolding. She censured her, not for disapproving of the engagement, but for throwing over her disapproval a veil of mystery. Helen was equally frank. Yes, she said, with the air of one looking inwards. There is a mystery. I can't help it. It's not my fault. It's the way life has been made. Helen, in those days, was over-interested in the subconscious self. She exaggerated the punch-and-judy aspect of life, and spoke of mankind as puppets, whom an invisible showman twitches into love and war. Margaret pointed out that if she dwelt on this, she too would eliminate the personal. Helen was silent for a minute, and then burst into a queer speech which cleared the air. Go on and marry him. I think you're splendid, and if anyone can pull it off, you will. Margaret denied that there was anything to pull off, but she continued, yes, there is, and I wasn't up to it with Paul. I can only do what's easy. I can only entice and be enticed. I can't and won't attempt difficult relations. If I marry, it will either be a man who's strong enough to boss me, a whom I'm strong enough to boss. So I shan't ever marry, for there aren't such men. And heaven help any one whom I do marry, for I shall certainly run away from him before you can say Jack Robinson. There, because I'm uneducated. But you, you're different. You're a heroine. Oh, Helen, am I? Will it be as dreadful for poor Henry as all that? You mean to keep proportion, and that's heroic. It's Greek, and I don't see why it shouldn't succeed with you. Go on and fight with him and help him. Don't ask me for help, or even for sympathy. Henceforward, I'm going my own way. I mean to be thorough, because thoroughness is easy. I mean to dislike your husband, and to tell him so. I mean to make no concessions to Tibi. If Tibi wants to live with me, he must lump me. I mean to love you more than ever. Yes, I do. You and I have built up something real, because it is purely spiritual. There's no veil of mystery over us. Unreality and mystery begin as soon as one touches the body. The popular view is, as usual, exactly the wrong one. Our bothers are over tangible things—money, husbands, house-hunting—but heaven will work of itself. Margaret was grateful for this expression of affection, and answered, perhaps. All vistas close in the unseen. No one doubts it. But Helen closed them rather too quickly for her taste. At every turn of speech one was confronted with reality and the absolute. Perhaps Margaret grew too old for metaphysics. Perhaps Henry was weaning her from them, but she felt that there was something a little unbalanced in the mind that so readily shreds the visible. The businessman who assumes that this life is everything, and the mystic who asserts that it is nothing, fail, on this side and on that, to hit the truth. Yes, I see, dear. It's about half-way between. Aunt Julie had hazarded in earlier years. No. Truth, being alive, was not half-way between anything. It was only to be found by continuous excursions into either realm, and though proportion is the final secret, to espouse it at the outset is to ensure sterility. Helen, agreeing here, disagreeing there, would have talked till midnight. But Margaret, with her packing to-do, focused the conversation on Henry. She might abuse Henry behind his back, but please, would she always be civil to him in company? I definitely dislike him. But I'll do what I can, promised Helen. Do what you can with my friends in return. This conversation made Margaret easier. Their inner life was so safe that they could bargain over externals in a way that would have been incredible to Aunt Julie, and impossible for Tibby or Charles. There are moments when the inner life actually pays, when years of self-scrutiny, conducted for no ulterior motive, are suddenly of practical use. Such moments are still rare in the West, that they come at all promises of fairer future. Margaret, though unable to understand her sister, was assured against estrangement, and returned to London with a more peaceful mind. The following morning at eleven o'clock she presented herself at the offices of the Imperial and West African Rubber Company. She was glad to go there, for Henry had implied his business rather than described it, and the formlessness and vagueness that one associates with Africa had hitherto brooded over the main sources of his wealth. Not that a visit to the office cleared things up. There was just the ordinary surface scum of ledgers and polished counters, and brass bars that began and stopped for no possible reason, of electric light globes blossoming in triplets, of little rabbit hutches faced with glass or wire, of little rabbits. And even when she penetrated to the inner depths, she found only the ordinary table and turkey carpet, and though the map over the fireplace did depict a helping of West Africa, it was a very ordinary map. Another map hung opposite, on which the whole continent appeared, looking like a whale marked out for blubber, and by its side was a door, shut, but Henry's voice came through it dictating a strong letter. She might have been at the Porphyrian, or Dempster's Bank, or her own wine merchants. Everything seems just alike in these days. But perhaps she was seeing the Imperial side of the company, rather than its West African, and Imperialism always had been one of her difficulties. One minute, called Mr. Wilcox, unreceiving her name, he touched a bell, the effect of which was to produce Charles. Charles had written his father an adequate letter, more adequate than Evie's, through which a girlish indignation throbbed, and he greeted his future stepmother with propriety. "'I hope that my wife—how do you do? We'll give you a decent lunch,' was his opening. "'I left instructions, but we live in a rough and ready way. She expects you back to tea, too, after you have had a look at Howard's End. I wonder what you'll think of the place. I wouldn't touch it with tongs myself. Do sit down. It's a measly little place.' "'I shall enjoy seeing it,' said Margaret, feeling for the first time shy. "'You'll see it at its worst, for Bryce to camp to broad last Monday without even arranging for a charwoman to clear up after him. I never saw such a disgraceful mess. It's unbelievable. He wasn't in the house a month.' "'I've more than a little bone to pick with Bryce,' called Henry from the inner chamber. "'Why did he go so suddenly?' Invalid type. Couldn't sleep. "'Poor fellow!' "'Poor fiddle-sticks,' said Mr. Wilcox, joining them. He had the impudence to put up notice-boards without as much as saying with your leave or by your leave. Charles flung them down. "'Yes, I flung them down,' said Charles modestly. "'I've sent a telegram after him, and a pretty sharp one, too. He and he in person is responsible for the upkeep of that house for the next three years.' "'The keys are at the farm. We wouldn't have the keys.' "'Quite right. Dolly would have taken them, but I was in, fortunately.' "'What's Mr. Bryce like?' asked Margaret. But nobody cared. Mr. Bryce was the tenant, who had no right to sublet. To have defined him further was a waste of time. On his misdeeds they discounted profusely, until the girl who had been typing the strong letter came out with it. Mr. Wilcox added his signature. "'Now we'll be off,' said he. A motor-drive, a form of felicity detested by Margaret, awaited her. Charles saw them in, civil to the last, and in a moment the offices of the Imperial and West African rubber company faded away. But it was not an impressive drive. Perhaps the weather was to blame, being grey and banked high with weary clouds. Perhaps Hartfordshire is scarcely intended for motorists. Did not a gentleman once motor so quickly through Westmoreland that he missed it? And if Westmoreland can be missed, it will fare ill with a county whose delicate structure particularly needs the attentive eye. Hartfordshire is England at its quietest, with little emphasis of river and hill. It is England meditative. If Drayton were here with us again to write a new edition of his incomparable poem, he would sing the nymphs of Hartfordshire as indeterminate of feature, with hair obfuscated by the London smoke. Their eyes would be sad, and averted from their fate towards the northern flats, their leader not Isis or Sabrina, but the slowly flowing Lee. No glory of raiment would be theirs, no urgency of dance, but they would be real nymphs. The chauffeur could not travel as quickly as he had hoped, for the Great North Road was full of Easter traffic. But he went quite quick enough for Margaret, a poor spirited creature, who had chickens and children on the brain. They're all right, said Mr. Wilcox. They'll learn, like the swallows and the telegraph wires. Yes, but while they're learning. The boat has come to stay, he answered. One must get about. There's a pretty church. Though you aren't sharp enough. Well, look out, if the road worries you, right outward at the scenery. She looked at the scenery. It heaved and merged like porridge. Presently it congealed. They had arrived. Charles's house on the left, on the right, the swelling forms of the six hills. Their appearance in such a neighbourhood surprised her. They interrupted the stream of residences that was thickening up towards Hilton. Beyond them she saw meadows and a wood, and beneath them she settled that soldiers of the best kind lay buried. She hated war, and liked soldiers. It was one of her amiable inconsistencies. But here was Dolly, dressed up to the nines, standing at the door to greet them, and here were the first drops of the rain. They ran in gaily, and after a long wait in the drawing-room sat down to the rough and ready lunch, every dish in which concealed or exuded cream. Mr. Bryce was the chief topic of conversation. Dolly described his visit with the key, while her father-in-law gave satisfaction by chaffing her and contradicting all she said. It was evidently the custom to laugh at Dolly. He chaffed Margaret too, and Margaret, roused from a grave meditation, was pleased, and chaffed him back. Dolly seemed surprised, and eyed her curiously. After lunch the two children came down. Margaret disliked babies, but hit it off better with the two-year-old, and sent Dolly into fits of laughter by talking sense to him. Kiss them now and come away, said Mr. Wilcox. She came, but refused to kiss them. It was such hard luck on the little things, she said, and though Dolly proffered cheerly-warly and poorly woggles in turn, she was obdurate. By this time it was raining steadily. The car came round with the hood up, and again she lost all sense of space. In a few minutes they stopped, and Crane opened the door of the car. What's happened? asked Margaret. What do you suppose? said Henry. A little porch was close up against her face. Are we there already? We are. Well, I never—in years ago it seemed so far away. Smiling, but somehow disillusioned, she jumped out, and her impetus carried her to the front door. She was about to open it when Henry said, That's no good, it's locked. Who's got the key? As he had himself forgotten to call for the key at the farm, no one replied. He also wanted to know who had left the front gate open, since a cow had strayed in from the road and was spoiling the croquet lawn. Then he said rather crossly, Margaret, you wait in the dry, I'll go down for the key. It isn't a hundred yards. May I come too? No, I shall be back before I'm gone. Then the car turned away, and it was as if a curtain had risen. For the second time that day she saw the appearance of the earth. There were the green-gauge trees that Helen had once described. There the tennis lawn. There the hedge that would be glorious with dog roses in June. But the vision now was of black and palest green. Down by the dell-hole more vivid colors were awakening, and Lent Lily stood sentinel on its margin, or advanced in battalions over the grass. Tulips were a tray of jewels. She could not see the witch-elm tree, but a branch of the celebrated vine studded with velvet knobs had covered the porch. She was struck by the fertility of the soil. She had seldom been in a garden where the flowers looked so well, and even the weeds she was idly plucking out of the porch were intensely green. Why had poor Mr. Bryce fled from all this beauty? For she had already decided that the place was beautiful. Naughty cow! Go away! cried Margaret to the cow, but without indignation. Harder came the rain pouring out of a windless sky, and spattering up from the notice-boards of the house-agents, which lay in a row on the lawn where Charles had hurled them. She must have interviewed Charles in another world, where one did have interviews. How Helen would revel in such a notion! Charles dead, all people dead, nothing alive but houses and gardens, the obvious dead, the intangible alive, and no connection at all between them. Margaret smiled. Wood that her own fancies were as clear-cut, wood that she could deal as high-handedly with the world. Smiling and sighing, she laid her hand upon the door. It opened. The house was not locked up at all. She hesitated. Aught she to wait for Henry? He felt strongly about property, and might prefer to show her over himself. On the other hand, he had told her to keep in the dry, and the porch was beginning to drip. So she went in, and the draught from inside slammed the door behind. Desolation greeted her. Dirty fingerprints were on the hall-windows, flew and rubbish on its unwashed boards. The civilization of luggage had been here for a month, and then to camped. Dining-room and drawing-room, right and left, were guessed only by their wall-papers. They were just rooms where one could shelter from the rain. Across the ceiling of each ran a great beam. The dining-room and hall revealed theirs openly, but the drawing-rooms was match-boarded, because the facts of life must be concealed from ladies. Drawing-room, dining-room, and hall. How petty the names sounded. Here were simply three rooms where children could play, and friends shelter from the rain. Yes, and they were beautiful. Then she opened one of the doors opposite, there were two, and exchanged wall-papers for white-wash. It was the servant's part, though she scarcely realized that, just rooms again, where friends might shelter. The garden at the back was full of flowering cherries and plums. Far thereon were hints of the meadow, and a black cliff of pines. Yes, the meadow was beautiful. Pending by the desolate weather, she recaptured the sense of space which the motor had tried to rob from her. She remembered again that ten square miles are not ten times as wonderful as one square mile, that a thousand square miles are not practically the same as heaven. The phantom of bigness, which London encourages, was laid for ever when she paced from the hall at Howard's End to its kitchen, and heard the rains run this way and that, where the watershed of the roof divided them. Now Helen came to her mind, scrutinizing half-wessex from the ridge of the perbec downs and saying, You will have to lose something. She was not so sure. For instance, she would double her kingdom by opening the door that concealed the stairs. Now she thought of the map of Africa, of empires, of her father, of the two supreme nations, streams of whose life warmed her blood, but mingling had cooled her brain. She paced back into the hall, and as she did so, the house reverberated. Is that you, Henry? she called. There was no answer, but the house reverberated again. Henry, have you got in? But it was the heart of the house beating, faintly at first, then loudly, marshally, it dominated the rain. It is the starved imagination, not the well-nourished, that is afraid. Margaret flung open the door to the stairs. A noise as if drums seemed to deafen her. A woman, an old woman, was descending, with figure erect, with face impassive, with lips that parted and said dryly, Oh! well, I took you for Ruth Wilcox. Margaret stammered, Aye! Mrs. Wilcox, aye! In fancy, of course, in fancy. You had her way of walking. Good day! And the old woman passed out into the rain. End of Chapter 23 Chapter 24 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. Recording by Elizabeth Klett Howard's End by E. M. Forster Chapter 24 It gave her quite a turn, said Mr. Wilcox, when retelling the incident to Dolly at tea-time. None of you girls have any nerves, really. Of course, a word from me put it all right. But silly old Miss Avery. She frightened you, didn't she, Margaret? There you stood, clutching a bunch of weeds. She might have said something, instead of coming down the stairs with that alarming bonnet on. I passed her as I came in—enough to make the car shy. I believe Miss Avery goes in for being a character. Some old maids do. He led a cigarette. It is their last resource. Heaven knows what she was doing in the place. But that's Bryce's business, not mine. I wasn't as foolish as you suggest, said Margaret. She only startled me for the house had been silent so long. Did you take her for a spook? asked Dolly, for whom spooks and going to church summarized the unseen. Not exactly. She really did frighten you, said Henry, who was far from discouraging timidity in females. Poor Margaret! And very naturally, uneducated classes are so stupid. Is Miss Avery uneducated classes? Margaret asked, and found herself looking at the decoration scheme of Dolly's drawing-room. She's just one of the crew at the farm. People like that always assume things. She assumed you'd know who she was. She left all the hounds and keys in the front lobby, and assumed that you'd see them as you came in, and that you'd lock up the house when you'd done, and would bring them on down to her. And there was her niece hunting for them down at the farm. Lack of education makes people very casual. Hilton was full of women like Miss Avery once. I shouldn't have disliked it, perhaps. Or Miss Avery giving me a wedding present, said Dolly. Which was a logical, but interesting. Through Dolly Margaret was destined to learn a great deal. But Charles said I must try not to mind, because she had known his grandmother. As usual, you've got the story wrong, my good Dorothea. I mean great-grandmother, the one who left Mrs. Wilcox the house. Weren't both of them and Miss Avery friends when Howard's End II was a farm? Her father-in-law blew out a shaft of smoke. His attitude to his dead wife was curious. He would allude to her, and hear her discussed, but never mentioned her by name. Nor was he interested in the dim, bucolic past. Dolly was, for the following reason. Then hadn't Mrs. Wilcox a brother? Or was it an uncle? Anyhow, he popped the question, and Miss Avery, she said no. Just imagine if she'd said yes, she would have been Charles's aunt. Oh, I say, that's rather good, Charlie's aunt. I must chaff him about that this evening. And the man went out and was killed. Yes, I'm certain I've got it right now. Tom Howard, he was the last of them. I believe so, said Mr. Wilcox negligently. I say, Howard's End! Howard's Ended! cried Dolly. I'm rather on the spot this evening, eh? I wish you'd asked where the cranes ended. Oh, Mr. Wilcox, how can you? Because if he has had enough tea, we ought to go. Dolly's a good little woman, he continued, but a little of her goes a long way. I couldn't live near her if you paid me. Margaret smiled. Though presenting a firm front to outsiders, no Wilcox could live near, or near the possessions of, any other Wilcox. They had the colonial spirit and were always making for some spot where the white man might carry his burden unobserved. Of course Howard's End was impossible, so long as the younger couple were established in Hilton. His objections to the house were plain as daylight now. Crane had had enough tea and was sent to the garage where their car had been trickling muddy water over Charles's. The downpour had surely penetrated the six hills by now, bringing news of our restless civilization. A curious mounds, said Henry, but in with you now, another time. He had to be up in London by seven, if possible, by six thirty. Once more she lost the sense of space. Once more, trees, houses, people, animals, hills, merged and heaved into one dirtiness, and she was at Wiccan Place. Her evening was pleasant. The sense of flux which had haunted her all the year disappeared for a time. She forgot the luggage and the motor-cars, and the hurrying men who know so much and connect so little. She recaptured the sense of space, which is the basis of all earthly beauty, and starting from Howard's end she attempted to realize England. She failed. Visions do not come when we try, though they may come through trying. But an unexpected love of the island awoke in her, connecting on this side with the joys of the flesh, on that with the inconceivable. Helen and her father had known this love. Poor Leonard Bast was groping after it, but it had been hidden from Margaret till this afternoon. It had certainly come through the house, and old misavery. Through them, the notion of through persisted. Her mind trembled toward a conclusion which only the unwise have put into words. Then veering back into warmth, it dwelt on ruddy bricks, flowering plum trees, and all the tangible joys of spring. Henry, after allaying her agitation, had taken her over his property, and had explained to her the use and dimensions of the various rooms. He had sketched the history of the little estate. It is so unlucky, ran the monologue. That money wasn't put into it about fifty years ago. Then it had four—five—times the land—thirty acres at least. One could have made something out of it, then—a small park, or at all events, shopperies—and rebuilt the house farther away from the road. What's the good of taking it in hand now? Nothing but the meadow left, and even that was heavily mortgage when I first had to do with things—yes, and the house, too—oh, it was no joke. She saw two women as he spoke, one old, the other young, watching their inheritance melt away. She saw them greet him as a deliverer. Miss management did it. Besides, the days for small farms are over. It doesn't pay, except with intense cultivation. Small holdings, back to the land—ha! philanthropic bunkum. Take it as a rule that nothing pays on a small scale. Most of the land you see—they were standing at an upper window, the only one which faced west. Blongs to the people at the park. They made their pile over copper—good chaps. Avery's farm—Siches, what they call the common, where you see that ruined oak—one after the other fell in, and so did this, as near as is no matter. But Henry had saved it, without fine feelings or deep insight, but he had saved it, and she loved him for the deed. When I had more control, I did what I could. Sold off the two-and-a-half animals, and the mangy pony, and the superannuated tools, pulled down the outhouses, drained, thinned out I don't know how many gulder roses and elder trees, and inside the house I turned the old kitchen into a hall, and made a kitchen behind where the dairy was. Garrod, and so on, came later. But one could still tell it's been an old farm. And yet it isn't the place that would fetch one of your artistic crew. No, it wasn't. And if he did not quite understand it, the artistic crew would still less. It was English, and the witch-elm that she saw from the window was an English tree. No report had prepared her for its peculiar glory. It was neither warrior, nor lover, nor god. In none of these roles do the English excel. It was a comrade, bending over the house, strength and adventure in its roots, but in its utmost fingers tenderness, and the girth that a dozen men could not have spanned, became in the end evanescent till pale-bud clusters seemed to float in the air. It was a comrade. House and tree transcended any similes of sex. Margaret thought of them now, and was to think of them through many a windy night and London day, but to compare either to man to woman always dwarfed the vision. Yet they kept within limits of the human. Their message was not of eternity, but of hope on this side of the grave. As she stood in the one, gazing at the other, truer relationship had gleamed. Another touch and the account of her days finished. They entered the garden for a minute, and to Mr. Wilcox's surprise she was right. Teeth! Pig's teeth could be seen in the bark of the witch-elm tree, just the white tips of them showing. Extraordinary! he cried. Who told you? I heard of it one winter in London, was her answer, for she too avoided mentioning Mrs. Wilcox by name.